Eleanor stood in the village square, her breath curling in the morning air, dissolving into the mist that clung to the cobblestones. The square was smaller than she remembered, hemmed in by warped, lopsided buildings that leaned into each other as if whispering secrets. The old well stood at its center, its stones worn smooth by centuries of weather and whispered prayers. She could almost hear the voices—faint murmurs drifting up from the darkness below.
She turned away, the cold prickling at her skin. The fog pressed close, swirling around her ankles, carrying the scent of damp earth and mildew. Her eyes traced the crooked rooftops, the way the smoke curled from crumbling chimneys before disappearing into the overcast sky. The village was a ghost of itself, hollow and gray, as if time had seeped from its walls, leaving behind only shadows.
A whisper caught her ear. She turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the narrow alleys that spidered off the square. There—beneath a sagging awning, a pair of eyes glinted before vanishing into the gloom. Another whisper, low and hurried, followed by the soft scrape of a door closing.
Her shoulders tensed. They were watching her. She could feel their eyes, hidden behind shutters and curtains, peering through cracks in the wood. The villagers had always been wary of strangers, but she was no stranger. This was her home—or it had been, once.
"Eleanor?"
She turned, her heart stuttering. A woman stood behind her, bundled in a threadbare shawl, her hair streaked with silver. Her face was familiar, lined and weary, eyes sharp and dark as polished stone.
"Martha," Eleanor breathed, relief washing over her. "I didn't think… I didn't know if you'd still be here."
Martha's gaze flicked over her, lingering on her travel-worn coat and muddied boots. Her mouth tightened. "Where else would I go?" she replied, her voice rough as gravel. "Ashbourne is all I've ever known."
Eleanor swallowed, the air between them growing heavy. Martha had been her mother's closest friend, a constant presence in her childhood. Eleanor remembered her laughter, bright and bold, echoing through the house as she and her mother shared stories and secrets. But that brightness was gone now, hollowed out by something Eleanor couldn't name.
Martha's eyes softened, just a fraction. "You shouldn't have come back."
Eleanor's chest tightened. "I had to. After… after Mother…" Her voice caught, the words sticking in her throat. "I couldn't leave everything behind. I had to see it for myself."
Martha's jaw clenched, her hands twisting in her shawl. "There's nothing left to see," she said flatly. "The dead don't wait for the living."
The words struck like a blow, cold and sharp. Eleanor looked away, her eyes stinging. "I keep hearing her," she whispered. "In the house. It's like she's still there."
Martha's face went pale, her eyes flicking to the distant treeline, where the fog clung to the gnarled branches like cobwebs. "Don't speak of such things," she hissed, her voice low and fierce. "Not here. Not where they can hear."
A chill ran through Eleanor. "Who?"
Martha's lips pressed into a thin line. She reached out, her fingers curling around Eleanor's wrist, her grip firm and cold. "You need to leave, Eleanor. Go back to the city. Forget this place." Her eyes gleamed, dark and haunted. "There's nothing for you here but shadows."
Eleanor's stomach twisted. "I can't. I need answers. I need to understand."
Martha's face crumpled, grief flashing across her features before hardening into resolve. "Some things are better left buried," she murmured. She released Eleanor's wrist, stepping back. "Go to Thomas. He'll tell you what you need to know."
Before Eleanor could ask more, Martha turned and hurried down the narrow alley, her footsteps fading into the mist.
Eleanor stood alone in the square, her heart pounding. The fog seemed to press closer, the shadows deepening between the crooked buildings. She shivered, pulling her coat tighter.
A creak echoed behind her. She spun around, her eyes locking on the well at the center of the square. The wooden cover was ajar, rocking slowly on its hinges. The sound was rhythmic, a slow, mournful groan that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat.
She took a step closer, the cobblestones slick beneath her boots. The well loomed before her, its stones ancient and weathered, worn smooth by countless hands. She leaned over the edge, peering into the darkness below.
A cold wind rushed up from the depths, carrying with it a whisper—soft and echoing, a voice warped by distance and stone. Eleanor's breath caught, her pulse quickening. It was faint, but she could just make out the words.
"Come home, Eleanor… come home…"
Her blood turned to ice. She stumbled back, her foot slipping on the wet stone. She caught herself against the edge of the well, her fingers brushing the cold, moss-covered rock. The whisper echoed again, fading into the depths.
Her heart thundered in her chest. She backed away, her eyes locked on the well as the cover creaked, rocking back and forth. The whisper had sounded so familiar, so achingly close.
It had sounded like her mother.
A chill settled over the square, the air heavy and still. Eleanor turned and fled, her footsteps echoing through the fog as she ran toward Thomas's house, the whisper following her, soft and mournful, drifting through the mist.