The Empty beds
1419 Words
Chapter 9
Nobody left the square for a long time.
The messenger from Stonebrook sat on the edge of the well with a blanket around her shoulders while villagers stood beneath the lantern light, staring at nothing. Some whispered prayers. Others stared toward Blackwood as though they expected the mountain to split open before their eyes.
No one wanted to return home.
Home meant beds.
And beds meant sleep.
And sleep meant dreams.
After what they had heard, nobody trusted their dreams.
The crowd eventually broke apart, though it happened slowly. Small groups drifted into the darkness. Doors shut. Bolts slid into place.
Grey Hollow disappeared behind closed windows.
The village looked dead.
Elara followed Rowan back to the cottage.
Nobody spoke.
Not Mara.
Not Tomas.
Not Rowan.
The silence wasn't peaceful. It felt crowded. Too many things lived inside it.
The cottage seemed smaller than usual.
The fire burned low.
Shadows filled the corners.
Mara poured stew into bowls and placed them on the table.
Nobody touched theirs.
After several minutes she shoved Rowan's bowl closer.
"Eat."
Rowan looked up.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care."
Her voice wasn't angry.
That made it worse.
"You haven't eaten all day."
Neither moved.
The tension stretched between them.
Years old.
Still bleeding.
Finally Rowan picked up the spoon.
Nobody spoke again.
The meal ended quickly.
Tomas disappeared upstairs first.
Mara cleaned the bowls.
Rowan remained by the fire.
Staring into it.
The orange glow painted his face.
For a second it reminded Elara of the flame beneath the mountain.
The thought made her stomach turn.
She stood abruptly.
"I'm going to bed."
Rowan looked up.
Something flickered behind his eyes.
A warning.
A plea.
Fear.
"Leave the candle burning," he said.
Elara frowned.
"Why?"
His answer took too long.
"Just do it."
She didn't argue.
Not because she agreed.
Because she already knew he wouldn't explain.
Some secrets had become part of him.
Like scars.
Like old wounds.
They followed him everywhere.
Upstairs, the room felt cold despite the blanket folded across the bed.
The candle flickered beside the window.
Outside, darkness covered the valley.
Blackwood Mountain sat on the horizon.
A darker shape against the night sky.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
Elara lay down and closed her eyes.
Sleep never came.
The voice had ruined sleep.
Every time her thoughts began to drift, those words returned.
I know your name.
Ask your father what he buried beneath the mountain.
The question refused to leave her alone.
What had Rowan buried?
And why hadn't he told her?
The floorboards creaked somewhere below.
The fire shifted.
Wind brushed the walls.
Hours crawled past.
Then something changed.
At first it was so faint she almost missed it.
A vibration.
Tiny.
Barely noticeable.
Her eyes opened.
The room remained unchanged.
The candle burned quietly.
Moonlight spilled through the window.
Yet the vibration continued.
Steady.
Rhythmic.
Like a pulse.
A heartbeat.
Her throat tightened.
No.
Not again.
The pulse traveled through the floorboards.
Through the walls.
Through the bed itself.
A slow thump.
Then another.
Then another.
Elara sat upright.
The sound wasn't coming from outside.
It wasn't beneath the house.
It was inside her head.
The realization hit hard enough to steal her breath.
The heartbeat continued.
Patient.
Deliberate.
Waiting for her attention.
Then the voice returned.
Not loud.
Not soft.
Just there.
As though it had always been there.
You are awake.
Her hands gripped the blanket.
The room remained perfectly still.
Nobody else stirred.
Nobody else heard it.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
The answer arrived immediately.
Not in words.
Images.
A rush of them.
Cold stone.
Dark tunnels.
Roots glowing beneath the earth.
A child's wooden toy.
A woman's wedding ring.
A lantern crushed beneath soil.
Fragments.
Pieces.
Memories that didn't belong to her.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
The images kept coming.
Faces.
Dozens of faces.
Men.
Women.
Children.
Terrified.
Lost.
Then one face remained.
A young man.
Dark hair.
A crooked nose.
A scar beneath his left eye.
The image sharpened.
Holding.
Insisting.
Remember this.
Remember him.
A name followed.
Jonah.
The heartbeat stopped.
The voice vanished.
Silence crashed back into the room.
Elara sat frozen.
Breathing hard.
Sweat dampened her skin.
The candle still burned.
The mountain still stood beyond the window.
Nothing had changed.
Except something clearly had.
Because she knew that face.
And she knew that name.
Jonah.
She had never met him.
Yet she knew him now.
The certainty settled deep inside her bones.
The rest of the night passed without sleep.
Dawn arrived gray and cold.
By breakfast, Elara could barely keep her eyes open.
Mara noticed immediately.
"You look awful."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Tomas snorted into his cup.
The brief moment of normality vanished when a knock sounded at the door.
Three sharp raps.
Rowan stood instantly.
Too quickly.
His hand had already moved toward the knife on his belt before he reached the entrance.
The door opened.
Darius stood outside.
The soldier looked exhausted.
Mud covered his boots.
"There you are."
Rowan stepped aside.
"What happened?"
Darius entered.
His expression answered before his words did.
Something else had gone wrong.
"We found another road blocked."
Mara stopped moving.
"What do you mean blocked?"
"The roots."
Silence settled over the room.
Darius rubbed his jaw.
"They've spread farther north."
"How far?"
"Far enough."
Nobody liked that answer.
He looked toward Rowan.
"The Lady wants everyone in the square."
Of course she did.
Nobody ever used her actual name.
Not even Darius.
Just the Lady.
As though names no longer applied to her.
The square was already crowded when they arrived.
Villagers stood in tight groups.
Faces pale.
Voices low.
The black-armored woman waited beside the well.
Her riders stood behind her like shadows.
Motionless.
Watching.
She began speaking the moment Rowan approached.
"Three more disappearances."
The words rolled through the crowd.
Fear followed.
"During the night."
Someone cursed.
A woman started crying.
The Lady ignored both.
"The roots are moving faster."
Her gaze swept across the villagers.
Calculating.
Measuring.
"We leave tomorrow."
A murmur spread instantly.
"Leave?"
"Go where?"
"What about our homes?"
Questions crashed together.
The Lady raised one hand.
The crowd fell silent.
Not because they respected her.
Because they feared her.
"The valley is no longer safe."
An old farmer stepped forward.
"This is our home."
"And it'll be your grave."
The words landed like stones.
Nobody answered.
Nobody could.
The truth didn't care about pride.
Elara's attention drifted beyond the crowd.
Toward the orchard.
Toward the line of trees standing in the distance.
Something caught her eye.
A shape.
Movement.
Brief.
Gone almost immediately.
Her pulse quickened.
Someone was standing among the trees.
Watching.
She blinked.
The figure disappeared.
Nothing remained except branches swaying in the wind.
A chill crawled across her skin.
The Lady was still speaking.
The villagers were still arguing.
Yet Elara barely heard any of it.
Her attention remained fixed on the orchard.
On the feeling that someone had been there.
Someone who shouldn't have been.
The meeting finally ended.
People scattered.
Nobody looked reassured.
The fear remained.
Perhaps it always would.
As the crowd dispersed, the messenger from Stonebrook appeared near the well.
Her eyes were swollen from crying.
She looked exhausted.
Lost.
Elara hesitated before approaching.
The girl looked up.
"What?"
Elara swallowed.
The question sounded ridiculous.
Still.
She asked it.
"Did you know someone named Jonah?"
The color drained from the girl's face.
For a moment she simply stared.
Then her mouth opened slightly.
"Jonah?"
Elara nodded.
The girl's hands began to shake.
"He was my brother."
The world seemed to tilt.
Around them, the square continued moving.
People talking.
Soldiers walking.
Life carrying on.
Yet everything felt suddenly distant.
"When did he disappear?"
The girl's voice cracked.
"The night Stonebrook fell."
A cold knot tightened inside Elara's chest.
"Why?"
Elara couldn't answer.
Because she didn't know how.
She only knew that somewhere beneath Blackwood Mountain, a voice older than kingdoms had whispered a dead stranger's name into her mind.
And now that stranger had a face.
A family.
An empty bed waiting for him at home.
That night, when darkness gathered over Grey Hollow once again, Elara stood alone at her window.
Far away, beyond the valley, Blackwood Mountain watched in silence.
The same silence as before.
The same ancient patience.
But the question was different now.
Not what lives beneath the mountain.
Not anymore.
Who was still alive down there?
And why was it making sure she knew?
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