The last voice

The town that never speaks

The first rays of sunlight slipped through the towering pine trees as Amara, Lena, and Father Gabriel emerged from the hidden passage beneath Blackwood Manor. After hours underground, the cool morning air felt strangely comforting. Birds sang in the distance, and a light mist drifted across the empty road leading back to Ashridge. It was difficult to believe that only a few hundred meters behind them lay a labyrinth of ancient tunnels and deadly secrets.

Father Gabriel brushed the dirt from his coat and looked toward the town.

"We shouldn't arrive together," he said quietly. "Too many eyes are watching."

Lena nodded in agreement.

"They'll notice if three strangers walk in from the forest at sunrise."

Amara looked from one to the other.

"When will I see you again?"

Father Gabriel reached into his pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper.

"Tonight. Eight o'clock. Don't open this until you're alone."

Before Amara could ask another question, the old priest disappeared down a narrow woodland path. Lena offered Amara a reassuring smile before taking a different road toward the center of town.

Within moments, Amara found herself alone.

She adjusted the strap of her backpack and began walking toward Ashridge.

As the town came into view, it looked nothing like the haunted place she had imagined. Shopkeepers swept the fronts of their stores. A florist arranged colorful bouquets outside her shop. Children laughed as they chased one another along the sidewalk on their way to school. The smell of fresh bread drifted through the crisp morning air.

For the first time since arriving, Ashridge felt... ordinary.

Yet something about it didn't feel right.

As Amara passed a small café, she noticed two elderly men talking over steaming cups of coffee. The moment they saw her, their conversation stopped. One quietly folded his newspaper while the other lowered his eyes.

A young mother pulling a stroller glanced at Amara, then hurried across the street without a word.

Even the cheerful sound of laughter seemed to fade wherever she walked.

It was as though the entire town knew exactly who she was.

She reached the town square, where a stone clock tower stood overlooking a small fountain. Several market stalls had begun opening for the day. Farmers arranged baskets of oranges, tomatoes, peppers, and fresh vegetables while customers greeted one another with warm smiles.

Amara paused to take it all in.

This was the Ashridge hidden beneath the fear—a town where people still lived, worked, and hoped.

But beneath every smile, she sensed hesitation.

Near the fountain, a little boy accidentally dropped a wooden toy bird. It rolled toward Amara's feet.

She bent down, picked it up, and handed it back.

"Thank you," the boy said with a bright grin.

Before he could say anything else, his mother rushed over, pulled him gently behind her, and forced a nervous smile.

"Come on, Daniel."

She hurried away without another word.

Amara watched them disappear into the crowd.

Why were they afraid?

Was it her?

Or was it the name Blackwood Manor that had already become attached to her?

As the church bell rang across the square, she unfolded the town map she had picked up at the guesthouse.

There was one place she needed to visit before nightfall.

The Ashridge Public Library.

If the journal held answers, the town's history might reveal the questions no one had dared to ask.Amara folded the map and slipped it back into her backpack before making her way across the town square. The streets of Ashridge were now alive with activity. A delivery truck stopped outside the grocery store, bicycles rolled past, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted from a nearby café. For a brief moment, everything felt wonderfully ordinary.

Yet the feeling didn't last.

As she walked, she noticed the same dark-colored pickup truck pass her for the second time.

She slowed her pace.

The truck slowed too.

When she stopped to look into the window of an antique shop, the truck continued down the street before turning the corner.

"Maybe I'm imagining things," she whispered to herself.

A loud voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Fresh apples! Sweet oranges! Come and have a look!"

The cheerful call came from an elderly fruit seller arranging baskets beneath a striped umbrella. He smiled warmly at every passerby.

Amara returned the smile and bought a bottle of water and an apple.

"You must be new here," the old man said as he handed her the change.

"Is it that obvious?"

He chuckled.

"In Ashridge, strangers are noticed before they introduce themselves."

Before Amara could reply, another customer stepped closer and quietly whispered something into the fruit seller's ear.

The old man's smile faded.

He looked at Amara with concern.

"If you're staying in town..." he said softly, "...don't stay out after dark."

"Why?"

He hesitated.

"Because some roads are safer in daylight."

Before she could ask another question, he turned to serve another customer.

The conversation was over.

Amara continued toward the library.

The building stood on a quiet street lined with old oak trees. Its red-brick walls and tall windows gave it a welcoming appearance, and a brass sign above the entrance read:

Ashridge Public Library – Established 1898

She stepped inside.

The familiar scent of old books and polished wood filled the air.

Rows of shelves stretched across the room, and only a handful of people were reading quietly.

Behind the front desk stood Lena.

She looked up from a stack of books and smiled.

"I was hoping you'd come."

Amara walked over.

"You work here?"

Lena nodded.

"Every mystery has to begin somewhere."

She lowered her voice.

"And in Ashridge, every answer eventually finds its way into a book."

Before Amara could respond, the library doors creaked open.

A tall man in a dark coat entered.

He removed his hat politely and greeted everyone with a friendly smile.

The readers nodded back as though they knew him well.

Lena's smile disappeared instantly.

She leaned closer to Amara.

"Don't look at him for too long."

"Why?"

Lena kept her eyes on the books in front of her.

"Because he's one of the Keepers."

The man slowly turned his head.

For a brief second, his eyes met Amara.

He smiled.

Not because he recognized her...

But because he already knew exactly who she was.The smile on the man's face lingered for only a moment.

Then he tipped his hat politely to the librarian and walked deeper into the building, disappearing between two towering bookshelves.

Amara let out a slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Who is he?" she whispered.

Lena kept arranging the books on the counter as if nothing unusual had happened.

"His name changes depending on who tells the story," she replied quietly. "Some people call him Mr. Ashcroft. Others simply call him the Collector."

"The Collector?"

Lena nodded.

"Nobody knows where he lives. Nobody knows when he arrived in Ashridge. But every time someone disappears, someone remembers seeing him a few days earlier."

Amara glanced toward the aisle where the stranger had vanished.

"If he's one of the Keepers, why does everyone treat him like an ordinary man?"

"Because fear teaches people to pretend."

Before Amara could ask another question, the library clock chimed eleven times.

The sound echoed through the quiet building.

Lena picked up a small brass key from beneath the desk.

"Come with me."

They walked past shelves filled with history books until they reached a narrow wooden door marked Archives – Staff Only.

Lena unlocked it and led Amara down a short staircase into a cool basement.

Unlike the public library upstairs, this room was filled with dusty newspapers, handwritten records, faded photographs, and leather-bound town registers.

"This," Lena said, "is where Ashridge hides its real history."

Amara's eyes widened as she examined the shelves.

"There must be hundreds of records."

"More than a century's worth."

Lena pulled out a large newspaper bound in cracked leather and carefully laid it on a reading table.

"Look at the date."

Amara read the faded headline.

October 18, 1998.

Her heart skipped.

It was only weeks before her father had first come to Ashridge.

She slowly turned the brittle pages.

Most of the articles reported ordinary events—a harvest fair, a school competition, the opening of a new bridge.

Then one headline caught her attention.

LOCAL HISTORIAN VANISHES AFTER BLACKWOOD VISIT

The accompanying photograph showed a smiling middle-aged man standing outside Blackwood Manor.

Someone had drawn a black line across his face.

Just like the damaged portraits inside the mansion.

"How many people disappeared?" Amara asked.

Lena looked away.

"We stopped counting years ago."

A sudden knock echoed from the basement door.

Both women froze.

Three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Amara and Lena exchanged a glance.

It was the same pattern from the mysterious recording.

No one spoke.

Another three knocks followed, louder this time.

Lena's voice was barely a whisper.

"I never told anyone about this room."

The handle began to turn.

The handle turned slowly.

Amara held her breath as Lena instinctively stepped backward, clutching the old newspaper against her chest.

The basement door creaked open.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

A folded envelope slid quietly across the wooden floor.

Then the door closed again.

Silence returned.

Amara hurried forward and picked up the envelope. There was no name on the front, only a single symbol—the same mark engraved on the iron key Father Gabriel had given her.

She carefully opened it.

Inside was a small piece of paper with one sentence written in dark ink.

"The river remembers what the town has forgotten."

Nothing else.

No signature.

No explanation.

Lena's face turned pale.

"That message..." she whispered. "Only the oldest Keepers know those words."

Before Amara could respond, her phone vibrated.

A single text message appeared from an unknown number.

Meet me at the old stone bridge. Come alone. Midnight. If you want the truth about your father, trust no one.

Amara looked at the message, then at the mysterious note in her hand.

Someone was guiding her.

Someone else was watching her.

And for the first time since arriving in Ashridge, she realized the game had already begun long before she stepped into Blackwood Manor.The message remained on Amara's phone long after the screen had begun to dim.

She read it again.

Meet me at the old stone bridge. Come alone. Midnight. If you want the truth about your father, trust no one.

A cold silence settled over the archive room.

Lena looked over Amara's shoulder, her face growing pale with every word.

"Don't go," she said quietly. "Whoever sent that message already knows where you are. That's not an invitation... it's a trap."

Amara slipped the phone into her pocket and unfolded the handwritten note once more.

The river remembers what the town has forgotten.

The two messages couldn't be a coincidence.

Somehow, they were connected.

Father Gabriel had mentioned a place "where the river disappears." Now another clue pointed toward the old stone bridge.

Someone wanted her to follow the trail.

The question was whether that someone was trying to help her... or lead her to the same fate as her father.

Outside, thunder rumbled across the sky.

The bright afternoon slowly faded beneath gathering clouds, and the library windows darkened as rain began tapping softly against the glass.

Amara closed the journal and looked at Lena with quiet determination.

"At midnight," she said, "I'm going to the bridge."

Lena sighed, knowing she would never be able to change her mind.

Somewhere beyond the library walls, hidden among the ordinary streets of Ashridge, unseen eyes were already watching.

The next move had already been made.