Elias Thorn locked the journal inside his desk drawer, his fingers trembling as he turned the key. The words etched on its pages felt like a curse, heavy with the weight of knowledge he never asked for. The flickering light of the oil lamp cast long shadows across the shed’s walls, making him feel as though he wasn’t alone.
But the silence persisted, broken only by the occasional groan of the wind through the cemetery trees.
Elias sat back, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Abel’s death wasn’t just a mystery—it was a warning. If the journal was right, whoever killed Abel was still out there, and now they might be watching him.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
Elias froze. Visitors were rare in his world, and late-night visitors rarer still. Grabbing a rusted spade from the corner, he approached the door cautiously.
“Who’s there?” he called, his voice steady despite the unease prickling his skin.
“It’s Marla,” came the reply.
He hesitated before unlocking the door. Marla stepped inside, her expression hard, her gaze immediately scanning the room.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, pulling her coat tighter against the cold.
Elias set the spade aside but didn’t move from the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing about that shovel I saw you using earlier,” she shot back.
Elias stiffened. “Were you watching me?”
“Let’s call it ‘keeping an eye out.’ You’re stirring things up, Elias, and this town doesn’t like that.” She glanced at the locked drawer, as though she could sense what lay within. “I came to warn you. Whatever you’re digging into, stop before it’s too late.”
He crossed his arms, the tension between them crackling like a storm. “Why do you care?”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Because Abel wasn’t the first,” she said quietly.
Elias’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”
Marla leaned against the wall, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Years ago, a man named Victor Lang went missing. He was another troublemaker, like Abel, always poking his nose where it didn’t belong. One day, he vanished. They found his boat downstream, but not him. Folks said it was an accident, but…” She trailed off, her jaw tightening.
“But you don’t believe it.”
“No. And if you keep pushing, you might end up just like him.”
Elias studied her, searching for cracks in her calm exterior. “Why tell me this now?”
Marla’s gaze hardened. “Because Abel trusted you enough to leave you his secrets. If you’re going to see this through, you’d better know what you’re up against.”
She turned to leave, but Elias grabbed her arm. “Wait. Do you know who’s behind this?”
Marla hesitated, then shook her head. “I have my suspicions, but I’m not about to put a target on my back. Just… be careful.”
Before Elias could press further, she slipped out into the night, the door creaking shut behind her.
Sleep was a fleeting notion that night. Elias lay in his narrow cot, staring at the ceiling as the shadows played tricks on his mind. He thought of Victor Lang, of Abel Carter, and of the journal locked away mere feet from where he lay.
By dawn, he was no closer to answers, but the urgency in his chest was undeniable.
The town was quieter than usual when he ventured out, the streets cloaked in an uneasy calm. Elias kept his head low as he made his way to the riverfront, where Abel’s boat had been found.
The river flowed dark and sluggish, its surface glinting dully under the overcast sky. The banks were littered with reeds and debris, and the smell of damp earth hung heavy in the air.
Elias crouched by the water’s edge, his eyes scanning the shoreline for anything unusual. After a few minutes, something caught his attention a scrap of fabric caught on a jagged rock. It was dark and waterlogged, but as he pulled it free, he noticed a faint pattern of embroidery along the edge.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
As he stood, footsteps crunched behind him. Elias turned quickly, his pulse spiking, but it was only Jonas, the fisherman from the tavern.
“You’re poking around in dangerous waters, gravedigger,” Jonas said, his voice gruff.
“I’m just trying to make sense of things,” Elias replied, slipping the fabric into his pocket.
Jonas narrowed his eyes. “Some things ain’t meant to make sense. You’d do well to remember that.”
Elias met his gaze, unflinching. “And some things don’t stay buried.”
The tension between them lingered, but Jonas eventually spat on the ground and walked away, muttering under his breath.
Elias watched him go, unease coiling in his stomach. Jonas’s sudden appearance wasn’t a coincidence.
Back at the cemetery, Elias spread the fabric on his workbench, letting it dry under the weak afternoon light. The embroidery was clearer now a small, intricate pattern that looked like a sigil or crest.
It wasn’t one he recognized, but the detail suggested it belonged to someone of importance.
His thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound outside a low, rhythmic tapping.
Elias froze, his hand hovering over the fabric. The tapping grew louder, more insistent. It was coming from the direction of the graves.
Grabbing the spade once more, Elias stepped outside. The air was thick with mist, the gravestones half-obscured by the shifting fog.
“Who’s there?” he called, his voice cutting through the silence.
The tapping stopped.
Elias strained his ears, his eyes darting between the shadows. Then, from the far end of the cemetery, a figure emerged—a cloaked silhouette moving slowly toward him.
Elias gripped the spade tighter, his heart hammering in his chest.
The figure stopped a few yards away, just beyond the reach of the faint light spilling from his shed.
“You shouldn’t have opened the grave,” a deep voice rasped.
Elias took a step back. “Who are you?”
The figure didn’t answer. Instead, it raised an arm, pointing toward Abel’s grave.
“Leave it buried,” the voice said. “Or join him.”
Before Elias could respond, the figure turned and melted into the mist, leaving him standing alone in the silence.