Chapter 4: The Unwelcomed Guest
590 Words
The moon was a sliver of bone in the sky, casting long, skeletal shadows across Elara’s bedroom floor. She had fallen asleep with her clothes on, the 2004 newspaper clippings scattered across the duvet like autumn leaves.
A sharp crack—the sound of wood splintering—snapped her awake.
She froze, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. It had come from downstairs. A window? The back door? The house was old and full of groans, but this had been deliberate.
She reached for the heavy brass lamp on her bedside table, her fingers trembling as she gripped the base. Slipping out of bed, she moved toward the door, her breath shallow. The air in the hallway felt different—colder, and carrying a cloying, heavy scent that didn't belong in the dusty house.
Lavender.
It was the same scent she’d found on the sprig in her grandmother’s desk.
She reached the top of the stairs and peered into the darkness of the foyer. Below, a beam of light from a narrow flashlight danced across the walls. A figure in a dark hooded jacket was standing at her grandmother’s roll-top desk, systematically tossing drawers onto the floor.
They’re looking for the letter, she realized.
Elara had two choices: retreat to her room and lock the door, or use the element of surprise. The memory of Julian’s warning—“Some ghosts don't want to be brought into the light”—flashed in her mind.
She didn't call the police. She didn't call Julian. Her investigative instincts, honed in the alleys of Chicago, took over.
She started down the stairs, but the third step groaned under her weight. The figure froze. The flashlight beam snapped upward, blinding her.
"Who are you?" Elara shouted, raising the lamp like a club. "I've already called the sheriff!"
The intruder didn't speak. They lunged toward the front door, but Elara was faster. She swung the lamp, catching the person's shoulder with a dull thud. The figure grunted—a deep, masculine sound—and shoved her back against the banister.
As they scrambled out the front door and into the night, Elara managed to grab the edge of their sleeve. A piece of fabric tore away in her hand.
She stood on the porch, gasping for air, watching a black SUV speed away with its headlights off. Her hands were shaking so violently she nearly dropped the brass lamp. She looked down at the scrap of fabric in her palm. It wasn't just flannel; it was a patch from a local uniform.
Sterling Timber.
Fear finally overtook her adrenaline. She retreated inside, locking every bolt, but the house no longer felt like a sanctuary. It felt like a trap.
She reached for her phone. She knew she should call the sheriff, but the sheriff’s name was Miller—Julian’s uncle, and a man who had worked for the Sterlings for thirty years.
Instead, she dialed the only number she had: the garage.
"Julian?" she whispered when the line clicked open. "Someone was here. They... they were looking for the letter."
There was a long silence on the other end, followed by the sound of a heavy engine turning over. "Stay inside," Julian said, his voice hard as flint. "And lock the door. I'm coming."
In Chapter 5, a massive storm rolls in, trapping Elara and Julian together in the cottage. Should they spend the night searching for more hidden rooms, or will the tension lead to a confession about their past?
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