Chapter 6: Unraveling the Threads

The days that followed became a depressing blur after I confronted Nathaniel, sleepless nights, and countless cups of coffee. One obsession: his diaries became portals to the world I was increasingly desperate to understand. Every free minute found me going over those pages for any clues and answers. This diary was full of raw emotions felt when love was in the air by a young woman. The words of Eleanor were simply haunting with a melody that I just could not shake to carry me away to her world. Then there were the dark undertones that something terrible was about to be revealed. I started to make out some patterns, recurring symbols, and strange phrases in them. That was like code, a puzzle waiting for cracking; hours flowed attainable while trying to decode, and my mind was racing. Sleep was taking its due from me. Dark circles started appearing under my eyes. Soon, irritability and bad temper had formed an army. Liv was getting more and more concerned about me, though I kept pushing it off. I had to find the answers, whatever the cost. One afternoon, having gone to the city for no particular reason, I met an old lady seated on her porch. In the dim depth of her wrinkled eyes, one could realize the wisdom of years. Her name was Margaret Wainwright, and—so the town said—she was supposed to be the very oldest inhabitant alive in Eldridge Falls. There was something about her that used to tug me from the inside. I sat on the porch stairs; we started talking. She started narrating to me history: about the town, about people who came and went over the years. She spoke softly, yet her words carried such weight, that you could almost touch them physically. First, it was casual; then urgent it became during my ranting. Her eyes widened in surprise. "The diary," she was whispering, her voice filled with awe. "I remember Eleanor. Oh, what a beautiful soul with a spirit as wild as the wind." It struck me dumb. She knew of Eleanor. All that I had learned, I tried to convey, opening my heart to her. She listened patiently, her eyes filled with sorrow and something equating to—well, empathy. When I had finished, she said, "You've knocked open a door, dear, one that was best left closed." I knew she was right, but now I couldn't back out. The truth was too near. "I need your help, Mrs. Wainwright," I said, my voice coated in desperation. "You know more than you're telling." She hesitated, and in her eyes, I saw what might be fear mixed with determination. "I can help you, Emma," was her final reply. "But you must promise me one thing. You have to swear to be careful." Heart pounding, I nodded. "I swear." Walking away, I came out hopeful. But with it, I knew Margaret Wainwright might provide the key to unlock everything about Eldridge Falls. I also knew that I was playing a very dangerous game. That night, lying supine and pretending to sleep in bed, I heard a noise from outside; it was a soft scratching, in the way someone would make trying to get in. Sneaking to the window gave me shivers. There in the moonlight reflected the shadowy outline of a tall, dark man with his face buried in the shadow. He was staring at my house. I could feel it thudding in my chest like a drum. I could hardly believe my eyes. Who was this guy, and why was he here? Cold fear shivered down my veins. Exposed under surveillance, I was alone. And I turned back slowly, and walked back, facing the figure outside. They sat, calm and threatening. I need to call someone. But my hands were so shaky I couldn't make out the dialling numbers. Just as I gave up, I heard a car outside. The headlamps blinded me and the figure was gone in the dark again. The relief was crushing, but it quickly gave way. It was Jameson. He must also have felt something was wrong and came to check on me. I dashed for the door and wrenched it open. "Thank God you are here," I said in relief, panting. He pulled me into a tight hug. "Are you okay?" he asked with concern, thumbing at my ears. I nodded but had to say. He stood there for long with his arms just like that, his hold a comfort against the world. "I saw someone outside," I finally managed to say, close to tears. He pulled me tighter. "Let's go inside," repeats Jameson as he leads me inside the house. He and I sat in the living room, beneath the yellow dimness casting reflections on everything, while I told him everything from the story of the figure outside to how my fear had grown. He just sat in patient silence, his expression almost worried. "This is serious, Emma. Find out who this is, and what they want with us." Before I even realized it, I found myself nodding my head out of desperation because I felt like I had fallen into some horrible nightmare, with no waking up. So the next day or so passed in a blind of paranoia and fear; I was constantly looking over my shoulder, expecting, at any moment, for that shadow to appear and start following me. I stopped doing things by myself, making sure Jameson went with me everywhere. Liv was losing her mind, trying to keep close to me as best she could, and trying to keep it all sane, maybe, but fear hung thick in the air just like fog. Afternoons in the library brought me to an old newspaper article. It was something about the series of disappearances of some subjects in Eldridge Falls some decades ago. All of them were young ladies, and their bodies had not been found. That made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. All of this goes back to the disappearances. I continued deeper in, trying to find the information that would allow me to connect the dots. Afterwards, it seemed days blended into weeks of fear and paranoia about myself. I was like an animal in a cage, always watching since my mind never turned off from preparing—for preparing for the worst to be around every corner, literally. What had been a beautiful hub at Eldridge Falls now meant less than nothing more than a house of shadows and secrets. Liv was always there, unwaveringly there—unwavering in her belief in me. '˜'We're going to get through this, Em,'' she would say, squeezing my hand. The terror in her eyes was undeniable. It wasn't until one afternoon while I was going through some old newspapers that something in particular caught my eye: very many of those missing women had worked at the same mill. And it was that very mill in which the first encounter happened with the creature. I headed along to the mill. It was abandoned now, the gran' factory was in ruins, and so was its tremendous slanting shadow. I shivered to get in there, and the echo of my steps was reflected in the humongous walls of the construction. I pushed through the wheel into the mill to see it through. Far down in one small, dust-ridden nook; one window letting in very little light, I found upon the floor a strange symbol; the one from that old map. I approached the figure. It was inlaid into the rock floor so finely that it seemed to almost glow gently in the not-quite light of the corridor. It was almost like I could feel it there. There was a weirdness of energy—a power coming off it that seemed threatening and enticing at the same time. I heard footsteps just as I reached out to make contact with the symbol. Someone was coming. My heart almost seized up in my chest. I was crouching behind some old machinery, gasping short, shallow breaths. The feet were closer now, and then I heard a voice. That of a man. Low, cold, and rather threatening. "It isn't here yet," the voice passes, "but soon it will be." My blood ran cold. I knew they talked about me, about the diary that was. I then realized the seriousness of my danger. They would stop at nothing to lay their hands on the diary—they were after this diary. I'm not a wimp. I fired up all the determination to get out of this place; however, I should also know what was going on. I found myself making my way closer to the door, my heart beating wildly in my chest. As I reached my hand to the door handle, a voice sounded from me behind. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." Slowly, I turned through the shadows to face him, though there in the dim light was Nathaniel Blackwood. His face had twisted to a mask of fury, his eyes gleamed like coals. In his hand was a gun.