Chapter 1: Tiếng Thì Thầm Của Rivertown

Part 1

💸 **My former boss ruined my life and drove me out of town—but the price for his betrayal was about to be paid.**

I had just submitted the internal audit report I’d spent six months preparing. Three weeks later, I was run out of town, rumors of my stealing money spreading like an unstoppable plague.

I couldn’t find shelter or work, my shattered suitcase dragging across the wet streets. The townspeople looked at me as if I were something filthy.

My name is Eliza Beaumont, and I had just exposed Arthur Croft’s financial fraud. He was my boss, and now I was homeless.

First, the landlady at the boarding house, usually so warm, blocked the door.

“We heard things, Eliza,” she said, her eyes refusing to meet mine.

“Things about what you did.”

Then, I tried the general store for bread. Mildred Finch, usually so chatty, turned her back, her voice dripping disgust.

“We don’t serve thieves here, Eliza.”

Jebediah Stone, the carpenter, stared, his usual silent nods replaced by an unsettling, cold disdain.

Every face I passed in Rivertown mirrored the same unusual revulsion.

I’d always prided myself on integrity, on delivering truth. But the cost was higher than I’d imagined.

Children stopped their games, their gazes hardening. A woman dropped laundry, watching me walk by.

Their expressions weren’t just judgment for a supposed crime; it was a visceral, involuntary loathing. Deep disgust twisted their features.

Their eyes held an irrational hatred, as if they saw not me, Eliza Beaumont, but something utterly vile.

It was as if an invisible force had wormed its way into their minds, manipulating their perception. They couldn’t bear to look at me, flinching away.

What had Arthur Croft truly unleashed upon this town, and upon me?

Part 2

The question hung in the air, unanswered, as I trudged out of Rivertown, the road turning to mud beneath my worn boots. Every fiber of my being screamed for respite, but the town had cast me out. The last few coins in my pocket were meant for a bus ticket, but no one would sell me one.

I walked until the paved road turned to gravel, then dirt, the last few scattered houses fading behind me. My lungs ached with each breath in the cold, damp air. My tattered suitcase felt like a lead weight, tearing at my hand.

I collapsed by a gnarled oak tree at the edge of a vast, unkempt field, the chill seeping into my bones. Despair, cold and sharp, began to truly set in. I had nowhere left to go, no one left to turn to.

Just as the last light began to fade, a shadow fell over me. I looked up, flinching, expecting another face twisted with revulsion. Instead, an old man stood there, his face weathered but his eyes calm. He wore practical work clothes and a worn hat.

“You look lost, young lady,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He did not flinch, did not look away. His gaze seemed to see right through the layers of dirt and exhaustion, past the invisible veil of hatred.

“I’m Eliza,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “I have nowhere.”

He nodded slowly, as if he already knew. His name was Silas Boone. He owned a place, Hawthorne Farm, a little ways off.

“I could use an accountant for my records,” he offered, his expression steady. “Someone honest.”

My heart gave a painful lurch. After weeks of being branded a thief, the word “honest” felt like a foreign language. He then added that he could also offer a roof over my head for a while.

I stared at him, unable to comprehend the simple kindness. He wasn’t like the others. There was no disgust in his eyes, only a quiet understanding.

Silas Boone led me along a winding path, deeper into the countryside. As we approached Hawthorne Farm, the air itself seemed to shift. The buildings were old, sturdy, and covered in ivy, exuding an ancient, almost watchful presence.

He spoke briefly of the farm’s history, of “the whispers” people sometimes heard, and of the protective spirits said to guard its grounds. He mentioned these things so casually, as if they were everyday facts of life. It was known as a place where the old stories lived.

Silas saw my disbelief but didn’t push. He simply gave me a key to a small, tidy cottage near the main house. The warmth of the hearth and the simple meal he provided were a comfort I hadn’t realized I craved so deeply.

Yet, a subtle intensity lingered in Silas’s eyes, a quiet wisdom that hinted at something more. He didn’t just offer me refuge out of simple charity. I felt it, though I couldn’t name it.

He understood something about the unnatural force that had gripped Rivertown. He seemed to sense that I was not just a victim of gossip, but of something far older and more sinister. Silas not only offered shelter, but a shield against whatever unseen darkness now clung to me.