The modest community of Maplewood was the sort of spot where everybody knew everybody's name, where mysteries were murmured in secret, and where the past had an approach to waiting like a phantom. Settled between moving slopes and thick backwoods, the town had a quality of calm straightforwardness. Yet, underneath curious outside stories lay everything except normal.
Emma Harris had grown up here, in a town where little at any point was different. At 28, she was all around familiar with Maplewood's beat: similar countenances at the nearby burger joint each day, similar week after week social occasions at the town square, and the very feeling of commonality that both supported and choked her out. Life in Maplewood was unsurprising, and that is the manner by which a great many people loved it. Be that as it may, Emma.
Emma has forever been unique. She was interested, still up in the air, in becoming famous as a columnist—a task that frequently took her a long way past the drowsy town she called home. However, in spite of her movements, something generally pulled her back to Maplewood, as though the actual town had a hangover on her that she couldn't exactly shake. Maybe it was the secret that appeared to stick to its roads—the accounts that nobody needed to discuss except for everybody knew existed.
It was a late-October evening, the sort that sneaked in leisurely, the sun sinking behind the slopes in a wash of ruby and gold. The trees, their leaves an uproar of fall-like tones, stirred delicately in the cool wind. The days were getting more limited, and the evenings conveyed with them a chill that indicated a colder time of year to come.
Emma sat at her work area by the window, her look floating from the half-composed article on her PC to the obscuring sky outside. She'd been dealing with a piece about the town's set of experiences, a subject she saw as both entrancing and baffling. Such a large amount of Maplewood's past was covered in secret, with holes in the records and stories that didn't exactly add up. In any case, that was essential for what drove her—the need to uncover reality, to expose the accounts that had been neglected or purposely covered.
As she tasted her now tepid espresso, Emma's considerations meandered to the Blackwood house, a subject she had fallen flat to dive into a few times previously. The Chateau, once the most fantastic home in Maplewood, had stood deserted for quite a long time, a rotting landmark to a family that had evaporated as though they'd never existed. The Blackwoods had been well off, strong, and profoundly weaved with the town's set of experiences. Be that as it may, one evening, almost quite a while back, they had vanished suddenly, abandoning just inquiries and tales.
A few said they had escaped the country, others murmured of treachery, and a couple guaranteed the chateau was revealed. In any case, nobody realized without a doubt what had occurred, and the rare sorts of people who could have known have taken their mysteries to the grave.
The actual chateau was a sorry excuse for its previous brilliance, its windows barricaded, its nurseries congested, and its lobbies quiet. However, it held a powerful charm for Emma—a secret she was unable to relinquish, regardless of how frequently she attempted to push it to the rear of her psyche.
As she watched the sky become obscure, the telephone directly in front of her hummed, pulling her from her dream. She looked at the screen, glaring when she saw the number. No guest ID. Odd. It was strange for anyone to call her at this hour, let alone from an obscure number. Her most memorable sense was to overlook it, yet something — interest, maybe, or a smidgen of disquiet — made her span for the telephone.
"Hi?" She replied, her voice consistent, however wary.
There was a short delay, then, at that point, a voice, low and new, snapped through the line.
"Emma Harris?"
"Indeed, this is Emma. Who's calling?"
The voice faltered, then, at that point, proceeded, "You really want to come to the Blackwood Chateau. Presently."
Emma's heart skirted a thump. "What? Who is this? For what reason do you believe that I should go there?
"You have thirty minutes," the voice said, overlooking her inquiries. "Come alone, and don't tell anybody. "In the event that you esteem your life, you'll be there."
The line went dead, leaving Emma gazing at her telephone, her brain hustling. The voice had been chilly and disconnected, but there was something unsettlingly recognizable about it. She shook her head, attempting to figure out what had simply occurred. The Blackwood House? How could anybody believe that she should go there, and why now, after so long?
Each judicious piece of her advised her to call the police, disregard the enigmatic message, and remain far away from that spot. However, something more profound—some kind of nature she couldn't exactly make sense of—told her that she needed to go. That this was her opportunity to at last reveal reality that had escaped her for such a long time.
Without one more thought, Emma got her jacket and keys. As she ventured outside, the breeze got in, whirling the fallen leaves around her feet. The night was more obscure than expected, the moon taking cover behind a thick layer of mist. She delayed the slightest bit, looking back at the warm shine of her home, a place of refuge in the developing haziness.
However, at that point, she turned and strolled toward her vehicle, her determination solidifying with each step. She didn't have the foggiest idea what was looking for her at the Blackwood Manor; however, it was still up in the air to find out. Anything that insider facts the night held, she was prepared to confront them.
What's more, as she drove down the twisting street toward the manor, the town of Maplewood blurred out of the spotlight, abandoning just the murmur of the breeze and the far-off reverberations of a night she could always remember.