Chizzy needed answers. The journal, the whispering house, the voice beneath the floor—everything pointed to something older than her family, rooted deep in the village.
She made her way to the abandoned chapel on the hill, where her mother had once gone every Sunday—until she suddenly stopped.
The chapel was crumbling, its bell tower silent. Ivy wrapped around the stone walls like veins, and the wooden door hung crooked on its hinges.
Inside, she found him.
A man, seated in the front pew. Tall. Pale. His coat was long and dark, and though his back was to her, he spoke first.
"You've seen him, haven't you?"
Chizzy froze. "Who are you?"
He turned slowly. His eyes were a startling shade of gray—storm-colored. "A friend. Or an enemy, depending on what you decide."
"I don't have time for riddles," she said.
"Then stop chasing shadows and start listening to the land," he said, standing. "This village remembers everything, Chizzy. Even what it shouldn't. Especially what it shouldn't."
Before she could ask more, he slipped past her, vanishing into the mist beyond the chapel's doors.
She was left alone. And now more certain than ever—there were things in this village watching her. Waiting for her to remember what had been buried.