Years went by with Whispering Pines as a town of peace, a small community cut off from the noise and commotion of city life. But that night, the stillness was oppressive or felt wrong-sinister-as Ray drove down the narrow streets.
Chloe's words and the note from Eleanor echoed in his head.
"Silence is the darkest prison."
That's all that kept looping through his mind as he drove towards the library. Something in his gut was telling him he had glossed over some key detail about Eleanor's life. Maybe if he went to the last place she'd spent so much time, he could find a trail, a sliver of the mystery Eleanor had left behind.
The library had long since shut, the lights extinguished. Still, Martha had let him into Eleanor's office, now anticipating his needs. It was a quiet corner near the back, located between massive, worn-toothed shelves of aged volumes. It seemed untouched; Eleanor might walk in at any moment, sit down, and resume her life as though nothing at all had occurred.
Ray breathed deep, letting the faint trace of old paper evaporate. He started at her desk, pushing open drawers and sweeping papers back with a flow. Mostly routine stuff: lists and sticky notes and half a crossword. But when he closed the last drawer he reached out for the slip of paper jammed into the corner.
He unfolded the paper with a great deal of care and pulled out of it a postcard, attached to which was a photograph of a mountain and a bank of fog that shrouded the bottom of it. The back was blank, except for a short, handwritten line in the same hasty scrawl as the one on Chloe's note.
"It watches from the mountain's edge."
Ray's pulse began to thump with increasing speed. Eleanor hadn't been obscure; she'd been frightened, leaving crumbs on the trail in an effort to convey something she was afraid to say aloud.
Just as he jammed the postcard into his pocket, the overhead lights went out, and the shadows streamed across the shelves like dark, clawing fingers. The silence was alive, as if it too were holding its breath, waiting. Ray glanced around; all of his senses suddenly sprang into operation. There was an oppressive feeling of being watched, shoving in from the shadows.
He closed the drawer and reached for the door, his footsteps echoing through the empty aisles. As he reached the entrance, a voice stopped him.
"Detective Collins," a low voice murmured out of the darkness.
Ray froze his hand above his flashlight. He was afraid of what he would see, so he slowly turned around. From the shadows stepped an insubstantial tall man, features only half-seen in the faint light. His dark hair, chiseled features matched Chloe's description to the letter.
The eyes flared with something cold, an unsettling calm that made Ray scream caution at his instincts. "You're looking for Eleanor," he said in a tone as casual as discussing the weather.
Ray clamped his flashlight in his fingers and sized up the stranger. "And who are you?"
He smiled with his left side. "A friend, I suppose. Someone who. understood her."
"Understood her?" Ray asked, his tone half-skeptical, half-intelligent. "You left her notes, did you?"
The man nodded, a ghost of a smile lingering. "She was quite curious. Into things most people don't want to know. Shadows, silence. But maybe she looked too close."
Ray's jaw bunched tight. "You're saying she was in danger?"
The man shrugged, his voice without heat. "Eleanor had this habit of wandering where she shouldn't. She found secrets … secrets that come with consequences.
Ray's heart pounded within him as he searched the man's face for some clue, some crack in his unflappable exterior. "If you know something about what happened to her, you need to tell me now."
The man's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Detective, the truth isn't a gift; it's a burden. If you're set on this path, be prepared to bear it. Eleanor… she wasn't the first, and she won't be the last."
Ray leaned in, his voice even but with an edge. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The stranger gazed at him for a long moment, his eyes powerfully intense. "It means Whispering Pines has its shadows, Detective. Some truths are hidden in silence, and once you pull them into the light, they don't go back. Eleanor learned that too late."
The man disappeared into the dark before Ray could say anything. His steps were almost inaudible; silence closed over the library like a curtain.
Ray stood there, the weight of that encounter settling over him. He sensed it, that layer of tension beneath the other's calm mask. Perhaps he knew more than he allowed them to think he did about Eleanor's fate.
The night air seemed colder, silence sharper, as he exited the library. Ray replayed the man's words, each a warning.
Ray put the car in gear again, then tugged out the postcard and reread the message it contained: "It watches from the mountain's edge." Such powerful words. He felt that they were loaded with meaning. He knew the man hadn't just happened here. He had been waiting for Ray, coming out for him as if drawn from some darkness by Ray's searching.
Ray gazed out the window as the dark silhouette of mountains rose in the distance, brooding over Whispering Pines as silent sentinels. It was a frightening thought: did Eleanor discover something so depraved, so utterly mad, that death couldn't possibly be worse?
He clutched the steering wheel, a shiver running up his spine. Whatever took Eleanor didn't leave-it's watching and waiting.
What lies in the shadow of Whispering Pines, and how deep is the darkness?