Echoes of the Vanished.
715 Words
Morning came grudgingly to Elmridge, the storm clouds still heavy above the hills. A pale, colorless dawn bled through the mist as Lucas stepped out of the Raven’s Rest. The streets were near empty, the cobblestones slick with rain. The village seemed to shrink beneath the looming silhouette of Ravenwood, as though even the houses leaned away from it.
Lucas lit a cigarette and strolled toward the market square. He had long since learned that villages liked to hide their secrets in plain sight — in muttered words at stalls, in the sidelong glances of children, in the silences that lasted just a second too long.
The market was sparse: a handful of stalls selling bread, salted meats, and root vegetables. No one hawked their goods loudly. No one laughed. The only sound was the slow shuffle of boots on stone.
Lucas approached an elderly man stacking firewood by a cart. The man’s hands trembled, but his eyes — pale and clouded with age — watched Lucas keenly.
“You’re not from here,” the man rasped.
“Sharp eye,” Lucas said, exhaling smoke. He flicked ash onto the cobblestones. “I’m looking for Anna Fletcher. Historian. Stayed in your village not long ago.”
The man’s shoulders stiffened. He lowered his voice, glancing at the others nearby. “Best not say her name too loud, stranger.”
“Why not?” Lucas pressed.
“Because names have weight,” the old man said. “And here, weight can sink you faster than stone in a river.” He shoved another log into the cart with unnecessary force. “She went to the palace. That’s all anyone needs to know.”
Lucas studied him. “And what do you know?”
The man’s jaw tightened, his silence heavier than words. Finally, he muttered, “Ask Martha, the baker’s widow. She saw more than most.” He turned away, signaling the conversation was over.
Lucas left him to his wood and crossed the square to a narrow shop where the smell of bread lingered faintly against the damp air. Inside, the shelves were near bare, a single tray of loaves cooling by the hearth. Behind the counter stood Martha — a thin woman with hollow cheeks and deep lines etched into her face.
She eyed Lucas as he entered, her hands dusted with flour. “You’ll want bread, I suppose.”
“Answers,” Lucas said evenly. “But bread will do for a start.”
She wrapped a loaf in cloth, then leaned closer, her voice dropping. “I saw her. The historian. Miss Fletcher. She came here two weeks past. Spoke kindly, asked after the old records — church ledgers, graveyard maps. She was looking for something. Something she shouldn’t have been looking for.”
Lucas raised an eyebrow. “What was it?”
Martha’s gaze darted to the window, toward the palace’s jagged silhouette through the mist. “A name,” she whispered. “Over and over, she asked about it. Eveline Ravenwood. The last mistress of the palace before the fire. They say she burned alive in the east wing… but the villagers will tell you different.”
Lucas leaned an elbow on the counter, his tone calm. “Then tell me.”
The woman’s hands twisted in the cloth. Her eyes glistened. “Some say Eveline never died. Some say the fire set her free. And some… some swear she walks the halls still, her shadow stretched too long for any living woman. When Miss Fletcher spoke her name, the church bells tolled on their own. No one was near the tower. No wind to stir them. Just… tolling.”
A silence thickened between them, the air heavy with unsaid things.
Finally, Martha shoved the bread toward him, almost as if eager to be rid of him. “Take it, detective. And leave. Before the palace notices you.”
Lucas accepted the loaf, slipping a coin onto the counter. “Stone doesn’t notice,” he said quietly.
But as he stepped back into the mist-choked square, he wasn’t certain he believed his own words. Because even then, even in the daylight, he could feel it — the weight of eyes, patient and ancient, watching from the palace on the hill
- Writer
