1
PENELOPE
There are men whose only purpose is to kill.
Not the body—at least not always. Instead, they seek the softer frailties of life, the things unseen by others. They kill the soul. They strangle dreams. They grind down that fragile sense of worth a mother sculpts as though it were her finest piece of art.
Barnaby Adams was such a man. At least, for Penelope Adams.
Whether she knew it or not.
The old town square clock ticked its slow descent towards curfew, each chime swallowed by the thick fog that rolled low over the cobblestone thoroughfares like a living veil.
A man dragged a heavy iron bell behind him, its rusty clang echoing through the nearly deserted lanes as he announced the start of curfew for the women. The few husbands still lingering took no rush in their pace as they walked past, collars turned up against the cold, their footsteps slow and at ease. Shadows reached out from the gnarled, broken branches of the oak and willow trees stretching long and twisted across the streets.
Inside one of the shuttered homes—its white paint peeling in wide curls to reveal the timeworn brown bones beneath—Penelope stood at the window. Her fingers hovered at the edge of the curtain, leaving it parted by an inch—an act that felt both reckless and necessary, a small rebellion against a town swallowed by fear.
It had been a year since Eleanor vanished, stolen by the Headless Horseman. A year since the monsters began walking their streets, no longer bound by the wards that once kept them lurking beyond the town’s fragile borders. Now, they walked freely after sunset, stealing the night from the town’s women.
Not that it had truly belonged to them in some time. Her father, Mayor Adams, had seen to that. The curfew grew stricter. No women were to leave their homes unless accompanied by their husband or father. The warnings became doctrine. And through it all, he spoke the name of the Horseman with an enraged sorrow, as if mourning was power. As if fear was policy.
Still, when Eleanor was taken, when her uncle had left his mansion to rot, something had shifted in their town. The whispers of the Headless Horseman were heard less and less as the leaves changed color as if his name would be carried on the wind, summoning him.
And worse things had begun to stir.
“Penelope,” her father called from behind her, drawing her attention away from that slight part in her burgundy billowing curtains.
“Yes, Father?” she replied, glancing over her shoulder, letting the fabric fall closed with a flick of her wrist.
He stood in the doorway, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with slow precision. His white hair was trimmed short and slicked back, his movements crisp, deliberate. His dark eyes, half-lidded beneath well-kept brows, regarded her with something that was not quite warmth—and certainly notaffection. They cast deep shadows on his face, which never seemed to age, only tighten.
“The town will be holding one last meeting before Hallows Eve is upon us. As such, I will be absent for a few hours. Remember to lock the house and—”
“To not open it under any circumstances. Yes, Father. I understand.”
A pause. He offered a small nod, the closest thing he gave to praise. “Do not worry, my dear. Soon enough, we shall find a suitable husband for you, and these long nights alone will be behind you. I know the solitude has weighed heavily since… well.”
He did not say her name. Eleanor.
Penelope’s lips parted. “Has there been word from the border towns? Has anyone seen her?”
His jaw tightened, a flicker of something—annoyance? sorrow? —crossing his face.
“No,” he said simply. “That family was… troubled. Her disappearance marked the beginning of our town’s decline. But I promise you, Penelope, we will end this plague. We will restore order.”
“Yes, Father,” she said, her voice soft. Perfectly proper. Just as it should be.
“Perhaps you might compose something,” he offered. “Your music always brought comfort to your mother. And tomorrow, perhaps we’ll take a stroll. A bit of air would do you good.”
“That would be lovely,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth lifting. A ghost of what, in all honesty, should have been there in truth. Yet even as her father made his attempts at quelling her recent down turned mood, something foreign still lingered in the depths of her heart.
He held her gaze for a moment longer before leaving, closing the door softly behind him.
It is alright.
Do not be upset… a woman is to respect her father just as she would her future husband.
Penelope reminded herself of this, repeating the teachings of Mrs. Pencrook as she crossed the room and sat on the piano bench.
