Your bridegroom is six feet under in the frozen timber, Clara, and crying won't buy your fare back to Missouri.
The first hint of dawn, a bruised purple light, barely touched the grimy windowpane. My breath still hitched in my throat.
I scrambled from the bed, my bare feet hitting the rough pine floorboards. Every fiber in me screamed to find the proof.
My eyes scanned the exact spot where the dark crimson bloom had seeped upward against gravity, defying all logic.
But there was nothing.
Not a single trace. The planks were bone-dry, scrubbed clean as if by an invisible hand. The scent of pine resin, faint and sharp, was the only thing hanging in the air.
My fingers traced the grain, convinced I had imagined it all. Yet the memory of that sluggish, black-red trickle was burned behind my eyelids.
The rhythmic scraping had stopped, too. The house was utterly silent now, except for the distant bleating of a sheep from the barn.
A knot tightened in my stomach. Someone had been here. Someone had cleaned it.
I dressed quickly, pulling on my travel-worn dress, the fabric stiff with dust from the long journey. Descending the creaking stairs, the smell of brewing coffee and bacon drifted from the kitchen. It was an ordinary morning.
Too ordinary.
Elijah sat at the small pine table, his back straight, calmly stirring a cup of black tea. He didn’t look up as I entered. Thomas was nowhere to be seen.
“Good morning, Clara,” Elijah said, his voice level, without a hint of the previous night’s cruelty. He poured a cup of tea for me, the steam curling placidly into the cold air. “Slept well?”
I gripped the back of a chair. “I heard noises last night.”
His eyes, dark and unblinking, finally met mine. “Noises?”
“Under the floorboards,” I pressed, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. “And blood. There was blood seeping up through the floor in my room.”
Elijah slowly lifted his teacup to his lips. He took a long, measured sip, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Ah, yes,” he finally said, setting the cup down with a soft click. “The trail-fever delirium. I should have expected it.”
My knuckles went white as I gripped the chair. “Delirium? I saw it.”
He leaned forward slightly, his expression almost sympathetic. “Twelve days on that coach, Clara. The exhaustion, the grief of Silas’s passing… it plays tricks on the mind.”
He pushed the plate of bacon towards me. “You’re seeing things that aren’t there, my dear. Hallucinations are common after such an ordeal.”
A cold dread spread through me, colder than the morning air. He was doing it again. Making me question my own eyes.
“There was blood,” I insisted, my voice rising.
Elijah sighed, a subtle shake of his head. “Look around you, Clara. Is there blood now? In a house I keep clean? Be reasonable.”
He picked up a small, perfectly pressed linen napkin from the table. “You must understand, Muddy Creek is not Missouri. People here are… practical.”
He folded the napkin precisely. “Should you continue to invent these… fantastical stories… about this homestead, the territorial authorities might assume you’re not fit to manage your own affairs.”
He met my gaze, his voice dropping to a low, silken threat. “Helena has a fine asylum, Clara. A place where women suffering from such ‘hysterical delusions’ can rest.”
My mouth went dry. He wouldn’t. He knew I was alone.
The scent of bacon suddenly turned foul in my stomach. He wasn’t just dismissing me; he was cornering me, stripping away my grip on reality.
I pushed the plate away, my appetite vanished. The floorboards were dry. The house was silent. He wanted me to believe I was losing my mind.
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