Your bridegroom is six feet under in the frozen timber, Clara, and crying won't buy your fare back to Missouri.
The cellar. A grave. The words echoed in my mind. Silas had vanished into the earth, and Elijah had sealed him there.
My mind raced. I had to see it. I had to find that cellar hatch and see the oak beams Thomas described.
“Where is the cellar hatch?” I asked Thomas, my voice hushed.
He pointed, a shiver running through him. “Under the rug in the main parlor. Right in the middle.”
I nodded, my resolve hardening. “Go back to your chores, Thomas. Don’t say a word. I’ll handle this.”
I left him trembling in the barn and strode purposefully towards the house. Every floorboard creaked under my weight as I entered the parlor.
My gaze immediately went to the threadbare rug in the center of the room. It looked innocuous, but beneath it, I knew, lay the truth.
I reached for the edge of the rug, my fingers brushing against the coarse wool.
“And what exactly are you doing, Clara?”
The voice sliced through the silence like a knife. I froze.
Elijah stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed against the fading afternoon light. He hadn’t gone to the fences at all. He had been watching.
His calm, gaslighting demeanor had vanished. His eyes were cold, hard, and utterly furious.
“Just… admiring the rug,” I stammered, my heart leaping into my throat.
He took a slow step into the room. “Admiring the rug, are we? Or perhaps you were discussing my ‘delusions’ with Thomas?”
His lip curled. “He’s a weak boy. Easily led. But you, Clara, you are persistent.”
He moved with chilling speed, crossing the room in three strides. Before I could react, his hand clamped around my arm, his grip like iron.
“Let go of me!” I cried, trying to pull away.
He didn’t answer. He simply dragged me, roughly, across the parlor floor, past the very spot where the cellar hatch lay hidden. My feet scuffed against the boards.
He hauled me up the stairs, my arm screaming in protest. My head snapped back, hitting the banister hard enough to make me see stars.
He didn’t stop until he reached my bedroom door. He threw it open, shoving me inside. I stumbled, catching myself on the bedpost.
The heavy door slammed shut behind me with a resounding thud. The lock clicked, a final, metallic sound.
“You want to play the detective, Clara?” Elijah’s voice, muffled through the thick wood, was laced with menace. “Then you can do it from inside your room.”
I heard heavy footsteps descend the stairs, then the distinct sound of wood being dragged. A new dread gripped me.
Moments later, a series of sharp, rhythmic blows began. Hammering. Heavy, deliberate blows, one after another.
He was nailing thick wooden shutters over my windows. From the outside.
With each deafening strike, the last slivers of afternoon light vanished from my room. Darkness swallowed me whole, absolute and suffocating. I was trapped.
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