I pushed through the dense fog, leaving the looming silhouette of Blackwood Point manor behind me. Julian’s cold threat still echoed in my ears, but I wouldn’t sign that deed. Not now. Not ever.
The path to Silas Finch’s cottage was familiar, even after two years away. I’d walked it a thousand times as a kid, seeking refuge from my brother’s cruel games. The salt-laden air still smelled the same, heavy with the scent of pine and decay.
A faint light glowed from the small, weathered cottage, a beacon in the gathering gloom. Silas, the estate’s groundskeeper since before I was born, would be in there, probably nursing a cup of black tea and listening to the crackle of a radio.
I knocked firmly on the heavy oak door. The sound felt oddly loud in the quiet night.
A moment later, the door creaked open. Silas stood there, a thin, stooped figure with a face like worn leather and eyes that seemed to hold all the secrets of the Maine coast. His gaze, usually kind, now held a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place – concern, maybe fear.
“Sean?” he rasped, his voice raspy with age and disuse. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were with Julian.”
“I am out here because of Julian,” I said, stepping inside before he could fully react. The cottage was small, neat, filled with the scent of woodsmoke and old books. A radio murmured softly in the corner. “He wants me to sign over my share of the estate. Threatened me with Sheriff Grady, said he’d frame me for a probation violation.”
Silas closed the door slowly, the latch clicking with a finality that made me uneasy. He turned, his gaze settling on me, unwavering.
“He does that,” Silas said, his voice barely a whisper now. “Julian has a way of getting people to do what he wants.”
“He said he has leverage over Grady,” I pressed, watching his face. “Do you know what it is?”
Silas shook his head, moving towards a worn armchair by the fireplace. He sat down heavily, his joints creaking. He picked up a chipped porcelain mug, cradling it in his gnarled hands.
“I don’t know the specifics of the Sheriff, no,” he said, staring into the weak flames. “But Julian knows things. About everyone. Always has.”
I paced the small room, the scent of burning peat thick in the air. “Silas, what Julian is doing… it’s beyond just being a controlling older brother. Something feels wrong. The manor itself. Did you hear those whispers when I arrived?”
Silas’s eyes flickered up to mine. A tremor seemed to pass through him.
“Whispers?” he repeated, his voice even lower now, almost a groan. “You heard them too, then.”
“What do you mean, ‘too’?” I stopped pacing, my heart beginning to thump an uneven rhythm against my ribs. “Are they… are they real? I thought it was just stress, maybe the drugs still messing with my head.”
Silas put his mug down, the clink echoing in the silence. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on me.
“They are real, Sean,” he said, his voice flat but firm. “As real as the fog outside, as real as the stones of this house. They always have been.”
A chill, colder than the Maine night, prickled my skin. “What are they? What do they want?”
Silas hesitated, his gaze drifting to the window, obscured by the heavy mist. He drew a deep, shuddering breath.
“It’s tied to this place,” he finally said, his voice strained. “To the Delaney bloodline. An old thing, restless beneath the foundations. Been there for generations. The whispers… they’re part of it. A call. A demand.”
I stood there, frozen. This wasn’t just a controlling brother anymore. This was something ancient, something that spoke to the deepest, darkest fears I’d tried to bury. My family’s secrets ran deeper than I ever imagined.
“A demand?” I managed, my voice hoarse. “What kind of demand?”
Silas looked at me then, his eyes wide and haunted. “It’s better not to know some things, Sean. Better not to go looking for what sleeps under the earth. But Julian… he knows. He always has. And he’s trying to keep you away for a reason.”
+ There are no comments
Add yours