Chapter 7: Fractured Reflections
Elias barely slept that night. The shadows of the mill, that oppressive darkness, clung to him long after he’d left the building, seeping into the corners of his mind, settling beneath his skin. Every creak of the house, every shift in the wind outside, set his nerves on edge. He could still hear the whisper—It’s too late for you. The words had dug themselves into his brain like a splinter, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pull them free.
The drive back to the station had been a blur, the world outside the car window a mix of dim streetlights and endless trees. Carter had remained silent, his eyes flicking nervously to the rearview mirror every few minutes, but neither of them said a word about what they’d seen. The weight of the silence between them felt like a ticking clock—each second dragging them closer to something neither of them wanted to face.
Elias had only one thought that kept gnawing at him: his family. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. What had begun as a case of missing townsfolk had evolved into something much darker, something that smelled of old secrets and buried sins. Someone had wanted him to find the bodies in the mill—Mark Wheeler’s body was just the beginning. But why? And why now?
The answer felt just out of reach, like a distant voice calling through a fog.
At dawn, Elias couldn’t shake the urge to visit his father’s old house—their old house. It was a place full of memories, good and bad, and more than once Elias had come close to selling it, to leaving behind the last shred of his past. But today it felt like the only place where answers might be waiting.
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel as he drove through the quiet town. Alder Creek looked peaceful in the early morning light, almost serene. The small businesses were just beginning to open, the streets empty save for a few early risers, and the town’s old brick buildings stood like silent witnesses to the history they held. Everything looked normal. Too normal.
But Elias knew better than to be fooled by appearances.
The house was on the outskirts of town, near the edge of the woods, far enough away from the main street to feel isolated but close enough to be a part of the town’s slow heartbeat. It had been his father’s pride and joy—well, that and the bottle. Elias had spent years trying to outrun the ghosts of that house, but something about it still held him in its grip. He parked the car in the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as he stepped out.
The air was thick with the scent of pine trees and damp earth, the morning mist still hanging low in the hollows. The house loomed ahead, its weathered wooden frame still standing strong despite the years. The windows were dark, but he knew the place too well—every creak, every groan of the floorboards, every patch of peeling paint had its own memory.
He walked up the front steps, each one echoing in the stillness, and reached for the door. His hand hesitated just before touching the knob. The feeling of being watched had returned, a cold prickle running up his spine. But when he turned the handle, the door opened without resistance.
The house was just as he remembered—dark, quiet, filled with the weight of forgotten days. The air felt stale, like it hadn’t been breathed in years, and the silence was almost suffocating. Elias stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for—maybe a clue, maybe a sign that whatever evil had been brewing in Alder Creek had started here, in this very place.
He moved through the house, each room more suffocating than the last. The living room was still furnished with his father’s old leather chair, worn down by years of use. The kitchen still smelled faintly of the meals his mother used to cook—before she had left, before his father’s alcoholism had driven everything into ruin. It felt like stepping into a time capsule, a frozen moment in history that refused to let go.
But then, in the hallway, something caught his eye.
There, lying on the floor just outside the study, was a book—a thick, leather-bound volume. It wasn’t something Elias had ever seen before. He knelt down, reaching for it, and felt a strange jolt of recognition as his fingers brushed against the cover. It was as if the book had been waiting for him.
Opening it, he immediately recognized the handwriting. His father’s.
But it wasn’t a journal. It was a list. A list of names.
Elias’s heart skipped a beat. The names were familiar—some of them he recognized from the missing persons reports. The rest were a mix of faces he had seen in town over the years, people who had disappeared without a trace, people who had lived in Alder Creek, people whose fates were a mystery. And each name was followed by a single, cryptic line.
They know. It’s too late to stop them.
Elias’s blood ran cold. The words weren’t just a warning; they were a confession. His father had known something. Known about the disappearances, about the darkness that had been festering in Alder Creek for far too long. But he hadn’t been able—or willing—to do anything about it.
Elias slammed the book shut, his mind racing. His father had been a drunk, a man who had never fully recovered from the demons of his past. But this? This wasn’t just ramblings of a broken mind. This was something else—something far more sinister. And now, it seemed, it was up to Elias to finish what his father had started.
The door creaked open behind him.
Elias spun around, his hand reaching for his gun. But it wasn’t Carter. It wasn’t anyone he knew.
The figure that stood in the doorway was a silhouette, its features obscured by the shadows. The only thing Elias could see clearly were the eyes—wide, cold, and unblinking.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” the figure whispered, its voice a hollow echo in the stillness of the room.
Elias’s breath caught in his throat. The voice was familiar, too familiar, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. His eyes narrowed as he took a step forward.
“Who are you?” Elias demanded, trying to mask the tremor in his voice.
The figure didn’t answer. Instead, it stepped forward, just enough to let the light fall on its face. Elias’s blood ran cold as recognition hit him like a punch to the gut.
It was Mark Wheeler. The bartender. The man who had disappeared.
But Mark Wheeler was dead. Elias had seen his body.
Something is very wrong.
The figure smiled, and Elias could feel the weight of the smile—it wasn’t a smile of warmth, of familiarity. It was a smile of something far darker.
“Too late,” the figure whispered. “It’s already started.”
