The grand front door clicked shut, sealing them in a cavernous silence. Elara stood frozen in the entryway, her suitcase a forgotten weight in her hand. Vanished.
“What do you mean, vanished?” Her voice echoed in the vast, shadowed space of the great room.
Liam was already moving with a practical familiarity, checking the thermostat and heading towards a large stone fireplace.“Just what I said. A writer, like you. Came up here for solitude. Two days before Christmas, his car was still here, but he was gone. No note. No signs of a struggle. Nothing.” He knelt, stacking logs from a neat pile beside the hearth.“The police called it a voluntary disappearance. Too much pressure, maybe. Or…” He struck a match, the flare of light illuminating the sharp planes of his face.“Or he found something up here he wasn’t supposed to.”
The fire caught, tongues of flame licking hungrily at the dry wood. The growing light pushed back the shadows, revealing a room that was both luxurious and eerily still. High, beamed ceilings, worn Persian rugs, shelves lined with leather-bound books. A writer’s perfect retreat. A perfect place to disappear.
“You’re trying to scare me,” Elara said, crossing her arms. It was a defense mechanism, one she gave to her own characters.
Liam stood, dusting his hands on his jeans. His gaze was direct, unnervingly calm.“I’m trying to prepare you. This isn’t the city.Things happen up on this mountain that don’t make the news. Cell service is spotty. The landline is dead—storm probably took the line down. You’re cut off.” He gestured to the fire.“That, the generator, and the food you brought are all you’ve got until the plows can get up here after the storm. Could be days.”
He showed her the rest of the main floor—a sprawling kitchen with a giant AGA cooker, a dusty library, and a study with a large oak desk that looked out over the darkening forest. His tour was efficient, his instructions for the generator and the well pump clear. But his eyes kept drifting to the windows, to the woods now swallowed by the blizzard’s advance.
“You seem very… concerned about a stranger,” Elara remarked as he demonstrated the tricky latch on the back door.
“My family has lived in the shadow of this hill for generations,” he said, not looking at her.“We look out for each other. And for anyone foolish enough to rent Havenwood.” He finally met her eyes.“It has a reputation.”
“For people vanishing?”
“For being… unlucky.”
He finished his tour at the foot of a grand, curving staircase.“I’ll be next door if you need anything. My place is about a half-mile through the woods. You can see the lights from the upstairs window when the weather’s clear.” He handed her a walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket.“Charger’s in the kitchen. It’s on a private channel. I’ll be listening.”
He was leaving. The thought sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her. She was about to be truly alone in this unlucky house on a hill, with a storm raging and the ghost of a missing writer haunting the silence.
“Liam,” she said, stopping him as he pulled on his gloves.“Thank you. For the gate. The fire. All of it.”
He gave a curt nod.“Lock the door behind me. And, Elara?” His blue eyes were serious.“Don’t go poking around. Some histories are better left buried.”
Then he was gone, the door closing firmly behind him. The thud of the heavy bolt sliding into place was the loudest sound in the house.
Elara stood there for a long moment, listening to the wind howl around the eaves. She was a crime writer. Poking around was what she did. It was how she constructed lies for a living. But here, the lies felt dangerously close to the truth.
She turned and looked up the dark staircase. The previous tenant was a writer. He vanished.
What did you find up there? she thought.
A sudden, sharp crack echoed from upstairs.
It wasn't the wind. It was the distinct, unmistakable sound of a footstep on a loose floorboard.
Her blood ran cold. She wasn't alone after all.
Chapter 3:
The Writer's Study
The sound froze Elara in place, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but there was nowhere to go. The storm had sealed her in this gothic cage.
It's the house, she told herself, the writer rationalizing. An old house settling. The wind.
But the sound had been too precise, too localized. A single, sharp crack from directly above.
Gripping the heavy iron poker from the fireplace, she forced herself to climb the stairs. Each creak of the ancient wood made her flinch. The upper hallway was a tunnel of darkness, doors standing ajar like open mouths. The sound had come from the end of the hall—the room with the boarded-up window.
The study.
She pushed the door open slowly, the poker raised. The room was steeped in deep shadow, the only light a faint grey glow seeping around the edges of the boarded window. It was a writer's den, much like her own at home, but frozen in time. A large, partners desk was strewn with papers. A vintage typewriter sat under a dusty cover. A half-empty bottle of bourbon and a single, clean glass stood on a side table.
