Das sanfte Licht des Laptop-Bildschirms erhellt Emmas Gesicht, während sie durch das digitale Archiv ihrer Großmutter scrollt. Regentropfen prasseln gegen das Fenster ihrer Wohnung und erzeugen einen beruhigenden Rhythmus, der im Kontrast zu der Anspannung in ihren Schultern steht.

 Seit Stunden katalogisiert sie Familienfotos für ein Erinnerungsprojekt, das seit dem Tod ihrer Großmutter vor drei Wochen entstanden ist. „Nur noch ein paar Ordner“, murmelt sie vor sich hin und reibt sich die müden Augen. Die Uhr auf ihrem Schreibtisch zeigt 2:17 Uhr. Emma weiß, dass sie schlafen sollte, aber irgendetwas lässt sie nicht los. Vielleicht ist es die Trauer. Oder vielleicht ist es der seltsame Trost, den sie in diesen Fragmenten der Familiengeschichte findet. Ihr Cursor schwebt über einem Ordner mit der schlichten Aufschrift „1892“. Ihre Neugier ist geweckt.

 Sie klickt. Eine Reihe gescannter Fotos erscheint. Sepiafarbene Einblicke in eine längst vergangene Welt. Männer mit imposanten Schnurrbärten und Frauen in aufwendigen Kleidern blicken ernst in die Kamera, doch ein Miniaturbild fällt ihr ins Auge. Ein Hochzeitsfoto.

 Anders als die anderen scheint die Braut zu lächeln – ein seltener Anblick in der viktorianischen Fotografie, da lange Belichtungszeiten es schwierig machten, Gesichtsausdrücke einzufangen. Emma klickt, um das Bild zu vergrößern. Die Braut steht stolz in einem prächtigen weißen Kleid da, ein stattlicher Bräutigam an ihrer Seite. Ihr Lächeln wirkt aufrichtig und freudig, ihre Augen strahlen selbst unter den fotografischen Bedingungen jener Zeit.

 In ihren Händen hält sie einen prächtigen Blumenstrauß. „Wer warst du?“, flüstert Emma und beugt sich näher zum Bildschirm. Sie sieht sich den Dateinamen an. „Elizabeth und Thomas Blackwood, Hochzeit, 1892, JPG.“ Die Namen kommen ihr irgendwie bekannt vor. Emma durchsucht ihre Notizen und findet die Verbindung. Elizabeth war die Schwester ihrer Ururgroßmutter, eine entfernte Verwandte, aber dennoch Familie. Emma betrachtet das Foto genauer.

Irgendwie wirkt es etwas seltsam, obwohl sie nicht genau sagen kann, was. Vielleicht ist es einfach das unheimliche Gefühl, jemanden aus der eigenen Familie zu betrachten, der vor über einem Jahrhundert gelebt hat. Besonders der Brautstrauß zieht ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf sich. Ein kunstvolles Arrangement, das an manchen Stellen ungewöhnlich dunkel wirkt.

 Emma, ​​die selbst gerne fotografiert, überlegt, ob sie das Bild verbessern könnte, um die Details deutlicher zu erkennen. Sie öffnet das Foto in ihrer Bildbearbeitungssoftware und beginnt zu arbeiten, indem sie den Kontrast erhöht und die Tonwerte anpasst. Als sich die Bildqualität verbessert, zoomt Emma auf den Blumenstrauß.

 Was sie zunächst für bloße Schatten zwischen den Blumen gehalten hatte, nimmt nun eine andere Form an. „Was ist das?“, murmelt sie und beugt sich näher. Sie justiert die Vergrößerung weiter und konzentriert sich dabei besonders auf den Brautstrauß. Die Formen werden deutlicher, und Emma stockt der Atem. Dort, eingebettet zwischen Rosen und Lilien, befindet sich etwas, das unverkennbar wie eine kleine, verwelkte menschliche Hand aussieht.

 Emma zuckt vom Bildschirm zurück, ihr Herz rast. Sie blinzelt heftig und schaut erneut hin, überzeugt, sich zu irren, doch das vergrößerte Bild ist nun klar. Teilweise in dem kunstvollen Blumenarrangement verborgen, sieht sie eine winzige, ausgetrocknete Hand. Ihre Finger sind wie vertrocknete Zweige nach innen gekrümmt. „Das kann nicht wahr sein“, flüstert Emma mit zitternder Stimme.

 Sie zoomt heraus, um das Foto noch einmal ganz zu betrachten. Das Lächeln der Braut wirkt nun weniger fröhlich, eher wissend. Der Gesichtsausdruck des Bräutigams, den sie zunächst als stolz gedeutet hatte, erscheint nun angespannt; seine Augen huschen leicht zur Seite, anstatt direkt in die Kamera zu schauen. Emma lehnt sich in ihrem Stuhl zurück, ihre Gedanken rasen.

 Könnte es sich um ein seltsames viktorianisches Morgenritual handeln, von dem sie noch nie gehört hat? Ein fotografischer Fehler, eine Beschädigung des Originals oder etwas viel Unheimlicheres? Sie greift nach ihrem Handy, zögert dann aber. Es ist mitten in der Nacht. Wen sollte sie überhaupt anrufen? Stattdessen öffnet sie den Browser ihres Laptops und beginnt, nach Informationen über viktorianische Hochzeitsbräuche, Fototechniken aus den 1890er-Jahren und alles, was mit der Familie Blackwood zu tun hat, zu suchen.

 Stunden vergehen, während Emma sich in ihren Recherchen verliert. Sie erfährt, dass die Blackwoods einst eine angesehene Familie in der kleinen Stadt Ravenscraftoft waren, wo ihre Großmutter aufgewachsen ist. Thomas Blackwood war ein erfolgreicher Geschäftsmann im Textilhandel, und seine Braut Elizabeth stammte aus einer alteingesessenen Familie. Ihre Hochzeit war offenbar ein bedeutendes gesellschaftliches Ereignis.

Im Morgengrauen stößt Emma endlich auf etwas Nützliches: ein Online-Archiv der Ravenscraftoft Chronicle, der damaligen Lokalzeitung. Sie sucht nach Erwähnungen der Hochzeit von Herrn Blackwood und findet eine kurze Anzeige vom 7. Juni 1892. Die Hochzeit von Herrn …

 Die Hochzeit von Thomas Blackwood und Miss Elizabeth Montgomery fand gestern in der St. Paul’s Church statt. Die Braut trug ein Kleid aus weißer Seide und Brüsseler Spitze. Das glückliche Paar reiste anschließend direkt zu einer Hochzeitsreise durch Europa. Nichts Ungewöhnliches also. Emma recherchiert weiter und findet drei Wochen später eine weitere Erwähnung. Herr und Frau

 Thomas Blackwood ist von seiner Kontinentalreise zurückgekehrt und hat sich auf Blackwood Manor niedergelassen. Sie blättert weiter durch die nachfolgenden Ausgaben der Zeitung und bemerkt etwas Merkwürdiges. Trotz des gesellschaftlichen Ansehens der Blackwoods wird nach ihrer Hochzeit erstaunlich wenig über sie berichtet. Es ist, als wären sie allmählich aus dem öffentlichen Leben verschwunden.

 Fast zwei Jahre später entdeckt Emma einen kleinen Eintrag auf Seite 6 der Ravenscroft Chronicle vom 12. April 1894. Dort steht: „Mrs. Elizabeth Blackwood, Ehefrau von Thomas Blackwood, wurde gestern nach kurzer Krankheit beigesetzt. Sie hinterlässt ihren Mann und keine Kinder. Sie starb weniger als zwei Jahre nach der Hochzeit.“ Emma murmelt etwas.

 Trotz des warmen Morgenlichts, das nun durch ihr Fenster strömt, fröstelt sie. Weitere Nachforschungen bringen kaum Informationen darüber zutage, was nach dem Tod seiner Frau mit Thomas geschah, außer der kurzen Erwähnung, dass er Blackwood Manor 1895 verkaufte und vermutlich nach Boston zog. Emma wendet sich wieder dem Hochzeitsfoto zu und starrt auf das vergrößerte Bild des Brautstraußes. Die winzige Hand scheint sie mit ihrer unmöglichen Präsenz zu verspotten.

 Sie braucht mehr Informationen und erinnert sich plötzlich, dass ihre Großmutter alte Familientagebücher und Dokumente in einer Truhe auf dem Dachboden ihres Hauses aufbewahrt hatte, das Emmas Eltern gerade verkaufen wollen. Sie ruft kurz ihre Mutter an. „Mama, ich muss Omas Unterlagen auf dem Dachboden durchsehen.“

 „Es ist für das Gedenkprojekt“, erklärt sie und verschweigt den beunruhigenden Fund. „Natürlich, Liebes, wir haben noch nicht angefangen, die Sachen zu sortieren. Komm einfach vorbei.“ Drei Stunden später kniet Emma vor einer alten Zedernholztruhe auf dem staubigen Dachboden ihrer Großmutter. Ohne die Anwesenheit ihrer Großmutter herrscht eine unheimliche Stille im Haus. Emma hebt den schweren Deckel der Truhe an und der Duft von altem Papier und Lavendelsäckchen strömt ihr entgegen.

Im Inneren befinden sich Stapel von Tagebüchern, Briefen und Dokumenten, einige davon aus der Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts. Emma beginnt, sie sorgfältig zu sortieren und sucht nach allem, was mit Elizabeth oder Thomas Blackwood zu tun hat. Nach einer Stunde findet sie ein kleines, ledergebundenes Tagebuch mit dem Namen Margaret Montgomery auf dem Einband. Montgomery. Das war Elizabeths Mädchenname, erinnert sich Emma.

 Vorsichtig öffnet sie das Tagebuch; der Einband knistert vor Alter. Die Handschrift ist zart und fließend, typisch für gebildete Frauen jener Zeit. Emma erkennt schnell, dass Margaret Elizabeths jüngere Schwester war. Die Tagebucheinträge beginnen 1891 und reichen bis 1894. Emma schlägt die Einträge um die Zeit von Elizabeths Hochzeit im Juni 1892 auf.

 Margaret beschreibt die Vorbereitungen mit erwarteter Aufregung, doch in ihren Worten schwingt eine unterschwellige Unruhe mit. 1. Juni 1892. Elizabeths Hochzeit ist nur noch fünf Tage entfernt. Ihre Mutter ist außer sich vor Sorge und sorgt dafür, dass jedes Detail perfekt ist. Elizabeth wirkte für eine Braut ungewöhnlich gelassen. Als ich sie fragte, ob sie nervös sei, lächelte sie nur und sagte: „Alles ist genau so vorbereitet, wie es sein muss.“

 „Irgendwas liegt in ihren Augen in letzter Zeit, das ich nicht deuten kann, eine Härte, die vor ihrer Begegnung mit Thomas nie da war.“ Emma liest weiter und findet in der Beschreibung der Hochzeit selbst nichts Ungewöhnliches. Doch ein Eintrag von zwei Wochen nach der Zeremonie erregt ihre Aufmerksamkeit. 23. Juni 1892. Elizabeth und Thomas sind aus Europa zurückgekehrt.

I called upon them at Blackwood Manor today and was struck by how altered the place has become. Thomas has had the entire east wing closed off with no explanation offered. Elizabeth received me in the drawing room, but would not permit me to see the rest of the house. She seems changed somehow, thinner, paler, yet there is an intensity about her that is most unsettling.

When I inquired after her health, she laughed in a manner I have never heard from her before and said, “I have never been better, dear sister. Marriage has opened doors I never knew existed.” Before I departed, she pressed a peculiar charm into my hand, a tiny silver thing shaped like a hand. She insisted I keep it with me always for protection. Protection from what she would not say.

Emma’s skin prickles as she reads about the hand-shaped charm. She continues turning pages, finding increasingly disturbing entries. September 8th, 1892. Elizabeth has not been seen in town for nearly a month. Thomas claims she is indisposed with female complaints, but I suspect something else entirely.

When I called today, I heard weeping from upstairs, though Thomas insisted it was just a servant girl. The house smelled of strange herbs and something metallic, like blood. I left a note for Elizabeth, but have received no reply. December 12th, 1892. Christmas approaches, but there is little joy in it for me. Elizabeth finally agreed to see me yesterday. I scarcely recognized my own sister.

She has grown so thin, and her eyes, her eyes seem almost colorless now. The drawing room was filled with peculiar items, dried flowers and herbs hanging from the ceiling, strange symbols drawn on scraps of paper. When I asked about them, she said they were insurance. She would not elaborate. As I was leaving, I glimpsed a small wooden box on the mantle.

It appeared to be moving slightly, as if something inside was shifting about. Elizabeth saw me looking and rushed to cover it with a cloth. “Some things are not for sisterly eyes,” she said, and her voice was cold as January frost. “The entries grow more sporadic after that, as if Margaret visited less frequently.

” Then a lengthy entry from April 1894 catches Emma’s eye. April 11th, 1894. Elizabeth is gone. They say it was fever that took her, but I know better. What fever leaves such marks upon the wrists and throat? What fever causes one’s hair to turn white overnight? Thomas allowed no one to view her body before burial, claiming risk of contagion. I managed only a brief glimpse as they closed the casket enough to see that her hands were bound with silver wire.

For protection, Thomas claimed when I confronted him. Protection for whom, I demanded. He would not meet my eyes. After the burial, I returned to Blackwood Manor to collect Elizabeth’s personal effects. Thomas was surprisingly accommodating, though he insisted certain items had been buried with her.

In her writing desk, I found a hidden compartment containing a journal. I have taken it, though I fear what secrets it may hold. Thomas must never know I have it. Emma’s heart races as she reads these words. She frantically searches through the chest, looking for any sign of Elizabeth’s journal that Margaret mentioned.

After nearly an hour of careful sorting, she finds a smaller, more worn journal wrapped in cloth at the very bottom of the chest. The name Elizabeth is barely visible on the damaged cover. With trembling hands, Emma opens it. Many pages have been damaged by water or deliberately obscured with ink, but enough remains legible to piece together a disturbing narrative.

The early entries are what one might expect from a young woman anticipating marriage, hopes and plans for the future, observations about her fianceé. But shortly before the wedding, the tone changes dramatically. May 12th, 1892. I have made my decision. The old woman in the woods confirmed what I suspected. The Montgomery bloodline carries the gift, though it has diminished with each generation.

In me, she says, it flows stronger than it has in a century. But to fully awaken it requires sacrifice. She has told me what must be done and provided the necessary items. Thomas suspects nothing. He sees only the obedient bride he believes he has purchased with his fortune. May 30, 1892. It is prepared.

The charm is complete. I have woven it carefully into the design for my bouquet. No one will notice among the flowers and ribbons. The old woman warned it must be kept close during the ceremony for the binding to take hold. After that, it can be safely stored away until needed. Thomas continues to make arrangements for our future.

Unaware that I have made arrangements of my own. Several pages are missing or damaged beyond readability. Emma skips ahead to what appears to be an entry from shortly after the honeymoon. July 3rd, 1892. We have returned to Ravenscraftoft. Thomas is already asserting his authority over the household, but he will soon learn. The ritual was successful. I felt the power surge through me at the moment of our vows.

The sacrifice has begun its transformation. Soon it will be ready for the next stage. I keep it in a box of rosewood lined with silver. It stirs sometimes, seeking what it has lost. Emma feels nauseous as she reads, her mind struggling to make sense of Elizabeth’s cryptic writings. The entries become increasingly erratic and disturbing. August 18th, 1892.

Thomas found the box today. I should have been more careful. He tried to destroy it, throwing it into the fire, but I retrieved it. The flames had no effect. Another sign that the charm is growing in power, but Thomas has seen too much. I had to use the sleeping draft on him. When he wakes, he will remember nothing.

The old woman taught me how to ensure his silence. October 31st, 1892. Samhine. The veil is thin tonight. I performed the second ritual in the east wing. The charm has grown considerably. What began as merely essence has taken form. I can feel its hunger. It requires sustenance that common food cannot provide. Thomas is growing suspicious again. He has threatened to send for a doctor to examine my mental state.

He does not understand that I have never been more lucid. The entries grow more fragmented and incoherent after this point. Emma struggles to follow Elizabeth’s increasingly disturbed narrative. There are references to feedings and growth and the entity in the east wing. One of the final legible entries chills Emma to the bone. March 15th, 1894. It is nearly complete.

The charm has grown beyond the confines of the box. It now resembles a child of perhaps 4 years, though no human child ever had such features. It speaks to me in the voice of all my ancestors. It has promised me eternal life once the final ritual is complete. Thomas tried to interfere again. He discovered us during the midnight feeding and became violent. I had no choice but to let my creation defend itself.

The wound on his arm fers. He raves with fever. Soon I will be free of him entirely. Then nothing will prevent the completion of what I have begun. The final entry dated April 9th, 1894, just 2 days before Elizabeth’s reported death, is barely legible. The handwriting erratic and sprawling across the page. It has turned against me. I don’t understand. Everything was done according to the instructions.

The sacrifices were made in proper order, but it grows too quickly now, and its hunger is insatiable. It is no longer content with what I provide. Last night it tried to feed on me as I slept. I have locked it in the east wing, but the doors will not hold it for long. Thomas is gone. Whether dead or fled, I do not know. I am alone with my creation. I hear it scratching at the walls, coming closer.

I have written to Margaret, but I fear help will arrive too late. If anyone finds this journal, burn it. Then burn Blackwood Manor to the ground. Let nothing survive. Emma closes the journal, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

She returns to her laptop and opens the wedding photograph again, staring at the enhanced image of the bride’s bouquet. The small withered hand visible among the flowers takes on a horrifying new significance. She used it as a charm. Emma whispers to the empty attic. But what exactly was it? She returns to the journal, carefully examining the damaged and missing pages for any additional clues.

On the inside back cover, she discovers a small pocket containing a folded piece of paper. It appears to be a page torn from a much older book. The text written in a language she doesn’t recognize, but at the bottom is a crude drawing of what appears to be a bouquet with something hidden inside it along with English annotations in what she recognizes as Elizabeth’s handwriting. The sacrifice must be fresh. Infant preferred. Preserve the hand only.

Bind with silver and herbs. Keep close during sacred vows. The life essence will transfer through matrimonial bonds, creating the vessel for rebirth. Emma drops the paper as if burned, a wave of revulsion washing over her. The implications are too horrible to contemplate.

Had Elizabeth Montgomery Blackwood actually murdered a child and used its hand as some sort of occult charm in her wedding bouquet? She forces herself to think rationally. This could all be the deranged writings of a mentally ill woman from the 1890s. People back then had little understanding of psychiatric disorders.

Perhaps Elizabeth had suffered from some form of psychosis that manifested in these disturbing delusions. But then how to explain the hand clearly visible in the photograph. Photography in that era was primitive but honest. There were no digital manipulations or Photoshop. Emma gathers the journals and returns downstairs. Her mother is in the kitchen preparing lunch.

“Did you find what you needed, honey?” she asks. Emma hesitates. “Mom, did grandma ever mention anyone named Elizabeth Blackwood?” “She would have been a distant relative.” Her mother thinks for a moment. “Not that I recall specifically, though she did used to tell stories about a wicked bride from the family history.

I always thought they were just scary stories to keep us kids in line.” She laughs lightly. “Why, do you ask?” Just curious about some old photographs I found, Emma says, not wanting to alarm her mother with the disturbing discovery. Do you know if Blackwood Manor still exists? Oh, that old place burned down decades ago, her mother replies casually.

Grandma used to point out where it had stood when we drove past. Nothing there now, but an empty lot. The town considers it cursed or something equally silly. No one has built on it in over a century. Emma nods, trying to appear only mildly interested, while her mind races.

I think I’ll drive out to Ravenscraftoft tomorrow, visit some of the places grandma mentioned for the memorial project. That night, Emma can barely sleep. The image of the withered hand in the bridal bouquet haunts her along with fragments of Elizabeth’s disturbing journal entries. When she does drift off, her dreams are filled with white gowned brides with hollow eyes and bouquets that squirm and move of their own accord.

The next morning, Emma drives the two hours to Ravenscraftoft, a small town that appears to have changed little in the past century. Her first stop is the local historical society housed in a Victorian building on the main street. Inside, she finds an elderly man arranging displays in a glass case. He looks up as she enters, offering a friendly smile. Good morning. Welcome to the Ravenscraftoft Historical Society.

I’m Walter Jenkins, the curator. What brings you to our little museum today? I’m researching my family history, Emma explains. Specifically, I’m interested in the Blackwood family who lived here in the 1890s. Walter smile fades slightly. The Blackwoods? That’s an unusual request. Not many people ask about them specifically. They’re distant relatives, Emma says.

I found some old photographs and became curious. Walter nods slowly. Well, we don’t have much on the Blackwoods. They weren’t in Ravencoft very long. Just a few years in the 1890s. Thomas Blackwood was a businessman from Boston who moved here, married a local girl, and then left again after she died.

Elizabeth Montgomery, Emma supplies. That’s right, Walter confirms, looking slightly impressed. The Montgomery family was much more established here. Old money. Their estate, Montgomery Hill, still stands on the north side of town, though it’s been converted into a bed and breakfast. And Blackwood Manor, Emma asks. Walter’s expression grows serious. burned to the ground in 1895.

Thomas Blackwood had already left town by then. The place had stood empty for months. Do you know anything else about Elizabeth and Thomas? Or what happened to them? Walter studies her for a moment, then gestures for her to follow him to a back room filled with filing cabinets and shelves of books and boxes.

We keep our more sensitive local history materials back here, he explains, pulling out a drawer and rifling through folders. The Blackwoods aren’t something we highlight in our main exhibits. Too many unsavory rumors. He extracts a thin file and places it on a reading table. Here’s what we have. It’s not much.

Some newspaper clippings, a few photographs, bits and pieces of information gathered over the years. Emma opens the file eagerly. Inside are several yellowed newspaper clippings, mostly the same ones she had already found online, but there are also a few photographs she hasn’t seen before.

Exterior shots of what must have been Blackwood Manor, an imposing stonehouse with a distinctive east wing, and a portrait of Thomas Blackwood, a stern-looking man with a thick mustache and cold eyes. There’s something else, Walter says hesitantly. Something not in the official records. Local stories passed down through generations. Emma looks up at him. I’d like to hear them. Walter sits down across from her.

According to local legend, the Blackwood’s marriage was troubled from the start. Some said Thomas was abusive. Others claimed Elizabeth was involved in unnatural practices. Witchcraft, some whispered, though such accusations were already considered backward even then. He leans forward, lowering his voice. The most disturbing rumor concerned a child that went missing from a neighboring farm just days before the Blackwood wedding.

The child was never found, but some claim to have heard infant cries coming from the east wing of Blackwood Manor months later. Emma feels a chill run down her spine, but keeps her expression neutral. And Elizabeth’s death, the newspaper just mentioned a brief illness. Walter’s expression darkens.

The official cause was fever, but there were whispers of suicide or even murder. Thomas Blackwood left town immediately after the funeral, which many found suspicious. And then there’s the matter of the exumation. Exumation? Emma repeats startled. Walter nods grimly. In 1896, a year after Blackwood Manor burned, the Montgomery family had Elizabeth’s body exumed and moved to the family plot. The workers reported that the casket was unusually light. Some claimed it was entirely empty.

He pauses, then adds, “And there’s one more thing.” When Blackwood Manor burned, the fire department managed to salvage very little, but they did recover one item intact from the ashes of the east wing, a small rosewood box bound with silver. According to reports, the box was empty when found, but the inside was lined with what appeared to be tiny scratch marks, as if something had been trying to claw its way out. Emma struggles to maintain her composure.

What happened to the box? It was given to the Montgomery family. After that, its whereabouts are unknown. Walter studies her closely. You seem very interested in these old stories. May I ask why? Emma hesitates, then decides to take a chance.

She opens her laptop and shows Walter the enhanced wedding photograph, zooming in on the bride’s bouquet. I found this while going through old family photos. I enhanced it to see the bouquet better and discovered this. Walter puts on his glasses and leans forward to examine the screen. His face pales visibly. Good God, he whispers.

Is that what I think it is? It appears to be a small hand, Emma confirms. Hidden in the bouquet, Walter sits back, removing his glasses with a shaking hand. There were rumors, old folk superstitions about brides carrying tokens for fertility or protection. But this, he shakes his head. This suggests something far more sinister. I also found Elizabeth’s journal.

Emma admits it contains some disturbing entries about rituals and sacrifices. She mentions creating some kind of charm and hiding it in her bouquet. Walter is silent for a long moment. Miss Lawson, Emma Lawson. Miss Lawson, I’ve been curator here for 30 years. In that time, I’ve heard all manner of stories about the Blackwoods and other local families.

Most I dismiss as superstition or gossip, but there are some local legends that persist because they contain kernels of truth. He leans forward again. The Montgomery women were rumored for generations to possess certain abilities. Nothing dramatic. second sight, prophetic dreams, unusual luck.

But there were stories of one branch of the family delving into darker practices, seeking to amplify these natural gifts through unnatural means, and Elizabeth belonged to this branch, Emma asks. Walter nods slowly. The Montgomery’s tried to suppress these rumors, of course. Respectable families didn’t associate themselves with folk magic and superstition, but the old-timers in town still remember the stories.

He rises and goes to another shelf. Returning with a dusty book. This is a privately published history of Ravenscraftoft from 1920. It contains some information most official histories omit. He opens it to a marked page and points to a passage. The tragic case of E M later B in the closing years of the last century serves as a cautionary tale.

Raised with every advantage, this young woman nevertheless fell prey to the dangerous allure of forbidden knowledge. reportedly consulting with a notorious practitioner of dark arts who dwelt in the woods beyond town. Following her untimely death in 1894, strange phenomena were reported in the vicinity of Be Manor, including unexplained lights, unearly sounds, and sightings of what some described as a childlike figure with features not entirely human.

These disturbances ceased only when the manor was destroyed by fire in 1895, an event many towns folk privately considered providential rather than tragic. Emma reads the passage twice, her unease growing. Do you know anything about this practitioner of dark arts mentioned here? The old woman in the woods. Walter hesitates. There are stories of a woman who lived alone in a cottage near Black Pond about 3 mi from town.

Some called her a witch, others a healer. The cottage was abandoned sometime in the 1890s. Nothing remains of it now except foundation stones. He closes the book carefully. Miss Lawson, may I ask what you intend to do with this information? These are disturbing matters best left in the past. Emma considers the question. Honestly, I’m not sure.

I started this research for a family memorial project, but now I feel like I need to understand what really happened for my own peace of mind if nothing else. Walter studies her for a moment, then sigh. I understand curiosity is a powerful force, but be careful. Some doors once opened are difficult to close again.

He hesitates, then adds, “If you’re determined to pursue this, you might want to visit Montgomery Hill. The current owners have preserved much of the original house, including some family papers and artifacts.” And he pauses. There’s someone you should meet. Margaret Montgomery’s granddaughter, Elellanar Harding, still lives in town.

She’s in her 90s now, but her mind is sharp. If anyone knows the family secrets, it would be her. Emma thanks Walter for his help and obtains Ellaner Harding’s address. Before leaving the historical society, she asks one final question. The cemetery where Elizabeth was buried, is it still there? Walter nods. St.

Paul’s Churchyard, the Montgomery family plot, is on the eastern side. You’ll find Elizabeth’s stone there, though according to records, the grave may not contain her remains. Emma’s next stop is St. Paul’s Church, a Gothic revival structure at the edge of town. The churchyard behind it is well-maintained, but clearly ancient with weathered headstones dating back to the early 1800s.

She finds the Montgomery family plot easily, a large area enclosed by a low row iron fence. Several impressive monuments bear the Montgomery name. Off to one side, slightly separate from the others, Emma finds a smaller stone marked Elizabeth Montgomery Blackwood, 1868 1894. May she find peace. Unlike the other family graves, Elizabeth’s has no fresh flowers or signs of regular visitation.

The stone itself seems weathered beyond its years, as if it had aged more rapidly than those around it. Emma notices something odd, a small silver charm placed at the base of the headstone. It’s tarnished with age, but clearly shaped like a tiny hand. A chill runs through her.

She takes out her phone and photographs the grave and the charm, then carefully picks up the silver object. It’s heavier than it looks and unnaturally cold to the touch. Without quite knowing why, Emma slips it into her pocket. As she turns to leave, she notices an elderly woman watching her from nearby, leaning on a cane. The woman approaches slowly.

“You’re interested in Elizabeth Blackwood?” She says it’s not a question. Yes, Emma admits. I’m researching family history. Are you Mrs. Harding? Walter Jenkins from the historical society mentioned you might have information. The woman shakes her head. I’m Agnes Miller. Elellanar Harding is my cousin. And yes, we both know the stories about Elizabeth. They’ve been passed down through the family for generations.

She gestures to the silver charm now hidden in Emma’s pocket. I see you found one of the wards. Wards? Agnes nods. After Elizabeth’s death, Margaret Montgomery placed silver hand charms at various locations associated with her sister. The grave, the ruins of Blackwood Manor, the old cottage by Black Pond. For protection, she claimed.

Protection from what? Emma asks, though she’s not sure she wants to know the answer. Agnes meets her eyes steadily. From whatever Elizabeth created, whatever might have survived the fire. She studies Emma’s face. You’re family, aren’t you? I can see the Montgomery look about you. The eyes especially distant family.

Emma acknowledges. Elizabeth would have been my great great grandmother’s sister. Agnes nods slowly. Then you have a right to know. But not here, not in the open. Come to Eleanor’s house this evening. 7:00. She has things you should see. Before Emma can respond, Agnes turns and walks away with surprising speed for a woman of her age.

Emma stands alone by Elizabeth’s grave, the silver charm a cold weight in her pocket. She spends the afternoon at Montgomery Hill, now an elegant bed and breakfast. The current owners are happy to show her around, pointing out original features, and sharing what they know of the house’s history.

They have a small collection of Montgomery family items, photographs, letters, and momentos displayed in glass cases in what was once the library. In one case, Emma spots a familiar face. Elizabeth Montgomery as a young woman, perhaps 16 or 17, standing with who must be her sister Margaret. Elizabeth is beautiful with striking eyes that seem to look directly at the viewer. There’s nothing in her expression to suggest the darkness that would later consume her.

At precisely 7:00, Emma knocks on the door of a well-maintained Victorian house on a quiet street. Agnes Miller opens the door and ushers her into a parlor where an elderly woman sits in a wing back chair. Despite her advanced age, Eleanor Harding has an alert, penetrating gaze that fixes on Emma immediately.

“So, you’re the one who’s been asking about Elizabeth,” she says, her voice surprisingly strong. “Agnes tells me you found one of the silver hands.” Emma takes the charm from her pocket and places it on a small table between them. “It was at her grave.” “What exactly is it?” Eleanor exchanges a glance with Agnes. “A protective charm. My grandmother Margaret had seven of them made after Elizabeth’s death.

They were meant to contain whatever power might remain of Elizabeth’s creation. And what exactly was this creation? Emma asks. Elellanar is silent for a moment. Then size. I suppose you should see for yourself. Agnes, bring me the box from the cabinet. Agnes retrieves a small wooden box from a glass fronted cabinet and places it carefully on Elanor’s lap.

The old woman opens it with a key she wears around her neck. Inside is a small leatherbound book. This is Margaret Montgomery’s second journal. the one she kept after Elizabeth’s death, documenting what she discovered at Blackwood Manor and what she did afterward. She hands the journal to Emma. Read it, then we’ll talk. Emma opens the journal carefully.

The first entry is dated April 15th, 1894. It is done. Elizabeth is in the ground, though God knows if she will rest there. Thomas has fled to Boston, claiming grief, but actually seized by terror. He told me things before he left, horrible things about what Elizabeth had become in those final weeks, how her eyes had changed color completely, how her voice sometimes seemed to come from elsewhere in the room, how she would speak in languages no human throat should produce. I have taken it upon myself to examine Blackwood Manor, particularly

the East Wing that Elizabeth had claimed as her domain. What I found there defies description, but I must record it while my mind is still my own. The rooms are arranged in a pattern that corresponds to no architectural necessity. Symbols are carved into the door frames and window sills.

Symbols I recognize from the old books our grandmother kept hidden in the attic at Montgomery Hill. Books that disappeared shortly after Elizabeth announced her engagement to Thomas. In what must have been Elizabeth’s private chamber, I found evidence of rituals too terrible to describe in detail. Blood had soaked into the floorboards. Not all of it was fresh.

Some dated back many months, suggesting these practices began long before her death. Most disturbing was a circular room at the center of the east wing. It contained a cradle of all things, an ornate cradle carved with the same arcane symbols found throughout the wing. Beside it stood a rosewood box bound with silver.

The box was empty, but its interior was scratched and scored as if by small sharp claws. On the wall above the cradle hung a portrait, Elizabeth in her wedding gown holding her bridal bouquet. The artist had captured something in her expression that the wedding photograph had not. A look of triumph and terrible anticipation. But it was what I found beneath the floorboards of this room that confirmed my worst fears.

A small leatherbound book, its pages filled with Elizabeth’s increasingly deranged handwriting. It details the ritual she performed, beginning with the sacrifice of an infant child taken from a nearby farm, whose hand she preserved through some unholy method and concealed within her bridal bouquet.

The purpose of this abomination was to create what she called a vessel, a being that would carry the combined power of the Montgomery bloodline, amplified through sacrifice and bound through matrimonial rights. According to her writings, this entity began as little more than essence, but gradually grew and took physical form, nourished by further sacrifices that Elizabeth provided.

The final entries suggest this creation turned against her, as such abominations inevitably must. But, and this is the true horror, there is no indication that it perished with her. Indeed, Elizabeth’s last coherent entry suggests it had grown strong enough to exist independently of its creator.

I believe this entity still lurks somewhere within Blackwood Manor. I have neither the courage nor the knowledge to confront it directly, but I have consulted with those who understand such matters. They have provided me with protective charms, silver hands that mock the original sacrifice and may help contain whatever power remains.

Tomorrow I will place these charms at strategic locations. It is a temporary measure at best. A more permanent solution must be found. Emma looks up, her hands shaking. This is incredible and horrifying. Eleanor nods grimly. Continue. It gets worse. Emma turns the page. April 20th, 1894. I have placed the silver hands as directed.

One at Elizabeth’s grave. One at the threshold of Blackwood Manor. One at the edge of the property. One at the old woman’s cottage by Black Pond. One at Montgomery Hill. One in the church. and one I keep with me always.

After placing the last charm, I returned to Blackwood Manor one final time to retrieve what personal items of Elizabeth’s I could find. As I was leaving, I heard a child’s voice from the east wing, a sweet, innocent sound that froze my blood. Auntie, it called. Won’t you come play with me? I fled the house and have not returned since. I have written to a scholar in Boston who specializes in occult matters.

Until I receive his guidance, I can only pray the charms will hold.” The entries continue, detailing Margaret’s correspondence with various experts on the occult and her growing fear that the entity created by Elizabeth was growing stronger despite the containment measures. Then a frantic entry dated January 10th, 1895.

It has escaped. I know not how it bypassed the wards, but last night it came to Montgomery Hill. Mother found a child standing in the hallway outside my bedroom. a beautiful child of about 5 years with Elizabeth’s eyes. When she approached it, the child smiled and said, “I’ve come for Auntie Margaret.” Mother screamed and the thing vanished.

I have strengthened the protective measures around Montgomery Hill, but I fear they will not hold indefinitely. The entity seems able to take different forms now. The scholars call this a shape- shifter or changing. It appears as a perfect beautiful child to lure its victims close. Most troubling is its apparent connection to me.

Elizabeth’s ritual used our shared blood to help create this thing. It seems to sense that connection and seeks me out specifically. Perhaps it needs me for some further transformation or ritual left incomplete by Elizabeth’s death. The next entry dated February 3rd, 1895, contains a single line. Blackwood Manor burned to the ground last night. I confess I feel no remorse for my actions.

Emma looks up sharply at Ellaner. She burned it down deliberately. Ellaner nods. It was the only way she could think of to destroy what Elizabeth had created. Fire purifies. Or so the old wisdom says. Emma returns to the journal. February 4th, 1895. The fire should have ended it. Everything within those walls was consumed.

Everything except the silverbound box which the firemen found intact among the ashes. I have taken possession of it and secured it with additional protective measures. I had hoped to feel some sense of relief after the fire. some certainty that the abomination was destroyed. Instead, I feel only dread. Last night, I dreamed of Elizabeth.

She stood in her wedding gown, holding her bouquet of death, and laughed at my efforts. “It’s too late, sister,” she said. “What I began cannot be undone so easily. It merely sleeps now, gathering strength. One day, it will awaken and seek the blood it needs.” The journal continues with similar entries for several more months, then abruptly changes tone in September 1895.

I have not seen or sensed the entity for over 6 months. Perhaps the fire did destroy it after all. Or perhaps it has gone dormant, as some of the scholars suggested it might if deprived of the energies that sustained it. Thomas Blackwood died in Boston last week. Suicide according to reports. Before his death, he sent me a letter confessing his role in Elizabeth’s dark practices.

He claimed ignorance at first, believing her interest in the occult to be mere feminine superstition. By the time he understood the true nature of what she was attempting, he was already bound to her through their marriage vows. Bound not just legally, but mystically, his life force being slowly drained to feed her creation.

He tried to destroy the entity multiple times, but found himself physically incapable of harming it. In his final days, he claimed to see it standing at the foot of his bed each night, growing steadily larger and more defined in form. I don’t know whether to believe his claims or dismiss them as the ravings of a guilty conscience, but I have taken precautions nonetheless, reinforcing the seals on the box and the protective charms throughout Ravenscraftoft.

The final entry, dated December 31st, 1899, is written in a shakier hand. The century ends tonight. I have lived with this burden of knowledge for nearly 6 years, and it has aged me beyond my years. I have no children of my own. Could not bear to risk passing on whatever taint might exist in the Montgomery blood after what Elizabeth did.

But I have instructed my niece Catherine in all that has occurred and all that must be remembered. The silver hands must be maintained. The box must remain sealed. And most importantly, the memory must be preserved so that future generations will recognize the signs. If Elizabeth’s creation should ever return, I do not know if it is truly gone or merely waiting.

I know only that such power, once unleashed, rarely dissipates entirely. It may sleep for years, decades, even centuries, but blood calls to blood, and what Elizabeth created was bound to our family line. Catherine will continue my vigil after I am gone, and her daughter after her, and so on, for as long as the Montgomery line endures.

This is our burden and our penance for Elizabeth’s sins. Emma closes the journal, feeling physically ill. This is I don’t even have words. Ellaner takes the journal back, her ancient hands surprisingly steady. Now you understand why we maintain the silver hands, why we keep watch. But surely you don’t believe this entity still exists, Emma asks.

After all this time, Elellanar and Agnes exchange glances. We believe in taking precautions, Agnes says carefully. The silver hands have been maintained for over a century, replaced when necessary. And the box, Emma asks. The one that survived the fire. Ellaner points to a small cabinet in the corner of the room. It’s in there, sealed with silver and surrounded by protective symbols.

Emma stares at the cabinet, a chill running through her. May I see it? Eleanor hesitates, then nods to Agnes, who retrieves a key from her pocket and opens the cabinet. Inside is a small rosewood box bound with tarnished silver bands. It sits on a cloth embroidered with strange symbols. Agnes brings it to the table and sets it down carefully.

Up close, Emma can see that the silver bands are engraved with tiny symbols similar to those in Margaret’s journal. It has never been opened since Margaret sealed it. Elellaner says, “We don’t know if it contains anything at all.” Emma reaches toward the box, then hesitates. Should I? No. Both women say simultaneously. Agnes adds, “There’s no need to risk breaking the seals. They’ve held this long.

” Emma withdraws her hand. “I understand why you maintain these precautions, but do you truly believe Elizabeth created some kind of supernatural entity? Isn’t it more likely she was mentally ill, suffering from delusions? Perhaps?” Eleanor acknowledges. But explain the hand in the bouquet. Explain the empty grave.

Explain Thomas Blackwood’s suicide and his claims of being haunted in his final days. And explain this, Agnes adds, taking something from her pocket. It’s a small photograph, clearly very old. This was taken in 1945 during the war. My mother found it in our backyard and brought it to Eleanor’s mother. Emma takes the photograph.

It shows what appears to be a child of about six standing partially hidden behind a tree. The image is blurry, but there’s something strange about the child’s proportions. The arms seem too long, the head slightly too large for the body, and the eyes, visible even through the blur, are unnaturally bright, almost luminous.

This was 50 years after the fire at Blackwood Manor, Agnes says quietly. And it’s not the only sighting. Every few decades, there are reports, a strange child seen at the edge of town, often near locations connected to the Montgomery family. always beautiful, always compelling until you look closer.

Emma hands the photograph back, her mind struggling to process all she’s learned. “What do you want from me? Why share all this?” “Because your family,” Elellaner says simply. “And because you found the photograph with the hand in the bouquet that suggests the entity may be stirring again.” She leans forward in her chair. “We’re old,” Agnes and I, the last of our generation who know the full story.

Someone must continue the vigil after we’re gone. You want me to take over maintaining the silver hands? Emma asks incredulously. Based on a story that sounds like something from a horror movie. We want you to be aware, Eleanor corrects her. To keep the knowledge alive. The silver hands have specific properties.

They were crafted by someone who understood such things. They don’t just ward off evil. They contain it, diminish its power, but they must be maintained. And if I choose not to believe any of this, Emma asks, Ellanar sigh. Then at least take the journal. Read it again when you’re ready. The truth has a way of making itself known eventually.

Emma leaves Elellanar’s house with Margaret Montgomery’s journal, her mind reeling. She drives back to her hotel in a days, unsure what to make of everything she’s learned. Part of her wants to dismiss it all as superstition and coincidence. Yet the evidence is compelling.

The hand in the bouquet, the consistent accounts across generations, the strange photograph from 1945. In her hotel room, she opens her laptop and looks again at the enhanced wedding photograph. Elizabeth’s smile now seems knowing, secretive. The hand in the bouquet is undeniable. Emma zooms out to look at the full image. For the first time, she notices something in the background, a blurry shape at the edge of the frame that could be interpreted as a small figure. She enhances this section of the image, increasing contrast and sharpness.

What emerges is disturbing. What appears to be a child’s face, partially obscured, but unmistakably present. The features are indistinct, except for the eyes, which seem to glow with an unnatural light. This can’t be real, Emma whispers to herself. She returns to the journals and photographs, reading deep into the night. Margaret’s account aligns with Walter’s information and the historical records. The timelines match.

The disappearance of a child before the wedding is mentioned in passing in a newspaper from June 1892. Thomas Blackwood’s suicide is recorded in Boston records from September 1895. Around 3:00 a.m., exhausted but unable to sleep, Emma begins searching online for information about occult practices involving hands as charms or sacrificial rituals. What she finds disturbs her further.

Numerous traditions across cultures associate hands with power, particularly the hands of innocents. Several obscure texts mention rituals involving preserved body parts as a means of transferring life essence or creating entities through necroantic practices. She falls into a restless sleep sometime after dawn. Her dreams are chaotic. Wedding bouquets that squirm with hidden life.

Brides with hollow eyes. Small silver hands that turn to flesh and grab at her throat. Emma wakes with a start around noon, her heart pounding. Sunlight streams through the hotel window, making the horrors of the night seem distant and absurd. In the rational light of day, she can almost convince herself that there must be logical explanations for everything she’s discovered. The hand in the bouquet could be a photographic anomaly or a Victorian morning token.

Perhaps a small glove or decorative element that only resembles a hand. Elizabeth’s journal could be the product of mental illness rather than actual occult practices. Margaret’s account could be similarly tainted by superstition and grief. Yet, doubt lingers.

She packs her belongings, planning to return home, but finds herself driving instead to the location where Blackwood Manor once stood. According to Walter’s directions, it’s an empty lot at the edge of town, overgrown with weeds and surrounded by a dilapidated iron fence. The gate caks as Emma pushes it open.

The lot is surprisingly large with only a few crumbling foundation stones to indicate a house once stood here. Nature has reclaimed most of the ground. Wild grasses and saplings pushing up through what might have been formal gardens. Emma walks the perimeter slowly, trying to imagine the imposing house that once dominated this space.

On the eastern side, she notices the foundation stones form a different pattern, circular rather than rectangular. This must have been the east wing that Elizabeth claimed as her domain. As she steps onto this area, Emma feels a strange sensation, a subtle shift in temperature, a heaviness in the air. She tells herself it’s just her imagination, fired by the disturbing stories she’s absorbed over the past days.

Something glints among the tall grasses near the center of the circular foundation. Emma kneels to investigate and finds another silver hand charm. This one partially buried in the soil. It’s identical to the one she found at Elizabeth’s grave. As she picks it up, she hears something.

A soft sound that might be a child’s laughter, or merely the wind in the trees at the edge of the property. Emma turns quickly, scanning the overgrown lot, but sees nothing unusual. She pockets the second charm and continues exploring. At the far end of the property, nearly hidden by underbrush, she discovers a small family cemetery enclosed by a rusted iron fence.

The headstones are weathered almost to illegibility, but one larger monument bears the Blackwood name. As Emma approaches, she notices fresh flowers placed before one of the smaller stones. This strikes her as odd. Who would be leaving flowers at an abandoned family plot more than a century after the family departed? She kneels to examine the stone.

The inscription is worn but still readable. In memory of Grace Blackwood, beloved daughter of Thomas and Elizabeth, born and died June 1st, 1893. Emma stares at the stone in confusion. None of the historical records or journals had mentioned Elizabeth having a child. Yet, here is clear evidence that a daughter was born to the couple, dying the same day.

The fresh flowers, white liies, seem recently placed, perhaps within the last day or two. Emma touches them gently, wondering who could have left them and why. As she turns to leave, something catches her eye. A small footprint in the soft earth beside the grave. It appears to be a child’s print, but something about it seems wrong.

The proportions are slightly off, the toes too long and distinctly separated. A chill runs through Emma despite the warm afternoon sun. She backs away from the grave, then turns and hurries toward her car, fighting the irrational feeling that she’s being watched. Back at her hotel, Emma calls Walter at the historical society. Mr.

Jenkins, did you know the Blackwoods had a child? A daughter named Grace who died at birth. There’s a long pause on the line. No, Walter finally says there’s no record of a child in any of our documents. Are you sure about this? I found a headstone in the family cemetery on the Blackwood property.

It was for Grace Blackwood, born and died on June 1st, 1893, about 9 months after their wedding. Walter is silent again. That’s interesting and troubling given what we know about Elizabeth’s activities. Where exactly did you find this? Emma describes the location. Walter promises to investigate personally and asks her to send photographs of the headstone, which she does immediately. He calls back an hour later, his voice tense.

I’ve checked our most comprehensive records of Ravencraftoft births and deaths. There is absolutely no record of a Grace Blackwood being born or dying in 1893. No birth certificate, no death certificate, no mention in church records or newspapers. Then why would there be a headstone? Emma asks. I don’t know, Walter admits. But given Elizabeth’s interests, I find it deeply concerning. You mentioned fresh flowers at the grave. Yes, white liies.

They looked like they’d been placed there very recently. Walter is quiet for a moment. Miss Lawson, I think you should leave Ravencraftoft today. return home and try to put this behind you. Why? Emma demands. What aren’t you telling me? Another long pause. There have been incidents over the years, always near the old Blackwood property, always involving children who aren’t quite what they seem. His voice drops to almost a whisper. The last one was in 1976.

A local boy disappeared after reporting seeing a beautiful girl with bright eyes near the old foundations. They never found him. And you think this is connected to Elizabeth Blackwood to whatever she supposedly created? I don’t know what to think, Walter says honestly.

But the Montgomery family has maintained those silver wards for generations for a reason. And now you found two of them disturbed. Disturbed? The silver hands are meant to be left in place. By removing them, even temporarily? Well, the old stories suggest it weakens the containment. Emma looks at the two silver charms sitting on her hotel desk. I didn’t know.

I just found them and picked them up. Put them back, Walter urges. Ass soon as possible, then leave town, please. Emma promises to return the charms, but makes no commitment about leaving. After hanging up, she sits for a long time staring at the two small silver hands. They seem harmless enough, simple charms from a superstitious age.

Yet, she can’t shake the feeling that they represent something important, something necessary. As evening approaches, Emma drives back to the Blackwood property, determined to replace the Silver Hand where she found it. The lot seems more forbidding in the fading light, shadows stretching from the surrounding trees across the overgrown foundations.

She makes her way to the circular area that was once the East Wing, and kneels to place the charm back among the grasses where she found it. As she does, she notices something she missed earlier. a small hollow beneath one of the foundation stones, just large enough to contain the charm.

Emma carefully places the silver hand in this hollow, making sure it’s secure. As she does, she feels a subtle change in the atmosphere, as if some tension has eased slightly. Next, she heads to Saint Paul’s churchyard to return the charm she took from Elizabeth’s grave. The cemetery is deserted at this hour, the lengthening shadows creating patterns among the headstones.

Emma finds Elizabeth’s grave easily enough, she kneels to place the silver hand at the base of the headstone, noticing a similar hollow there. As she fits the charm into place, she hears a soft sound behind her, a child’s sigh, or perhaps just the evening breeze. She turns quickly, but sees only empty paths between the graves.

The sun has nearly set now, casting long shadows across the churchyard. Emma rises, suddenly eager to leave this place of death and secrets. As she walks toward the cemetery gate, she glimpses movement from the corner of her eye. A small figure darting between headstones. Emma stops, peering into the gathering darkness. “Hello,” she calls. “Is someone there?” No answer comes, but she hears a soft laugh, high and sweet, the innocent sound of a child at play. It seems to come from near Elizabeth’s grave.

Against her better judgment, Emma returns to the grave. The silver charm she just replaced is gone. A cold fear grips her. She scans the area, looking for whoever might have taken it. In the dim light, she catches sight of a small figure standing some distance away, partially hidden behind a large monument. Who’s there? Emma calls, her voice unsteady. This isn’t funny.

The figure steps slightly forward, but remains mostly in shadow. It appears to be a child of perhaps six or seven, though in the poor light, it’s hard to be sure. Hello, cousin. A voice calls, sweet and musical, but with an underlying quality that raises the hair on Emma’s neck.

Have you come to play with me? Emma takes an involuntary step backward. Who are you? A soft laugh. Don’t you know? I’m family, just like you. The figure moves slightly and something glints in its hand. The silver charm Emma had replaced at the grave. “That doesn’t belong to you,” Emma says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Please put it back.

It’s mine,” the child’s voice replies. “They’re all mine. The silly trinkets they’ve used to keep me small, keep me weak.” The figure takes another step forward, but I’m growing stronger now, thanks to you. In the last light of dusk, Emma catches a glimpse of the figure’s face. It appears to be a beautiful child with perfect features and luminous eyes.

But something about the proportions seems wrong. The eyes too large, the mouth too wide. “What are you?” Emma whispers. I’m Elizabeth’s masterpiece,” the voice replies, no longer sounding entirely childlike. Her gift to the Montgomery bloodline, a vessel of power that should have been celebrated, not imprisoned. The figure takes another step forward, and Emma sees it more clearly now.

Despite its small size, there’s nothing childlike in its movements. They’re too fluid, too precise. And its eyes, its eyes seem to glow with an inner light. You freed me when you took the silver hands. It says you called to me with your blood. Montgomery blood like mine. Like Elizabeth’s. Emma backs away. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I’m leaving now. No, the figure says, it voice hardening. You’re not. I’ve waited too long for this moment, for someone of the blood to return to complete what Elizabeth began. It moves with shocking speed, closing the distance between them in an instant. Up close, its face is a horror.

Beautiful at first glance, but fundamentally wrong. Like a doll crafted by someone who had only a vague idea of human features. Emma turns to run, but finds herself unable to move. A numbness spreads through her limbs as the creature reaches for her with small, perfect hands that end in nail-like claws. Your blood will make me complete, it whispers.

Your essence will give me final form. It was always meant to be this way. In her paralyzed state, Emma’s mind races frantically. The journals, the silver hands, the stories, all point to this moment. This is what Margaret Montgomery feared, what generations of her family had worked to prevent.

With tremendous effort, Emma forces her hand into her pocket, where she placed the third silver charm she found at Eleanor’s house. Her fingers close around it just as the creature’s hand touches her face. The effect is immediate. The creature recoils with a shriek of pain, its perfect features contorting into something inhuman.

The paralysis breaks and Emma stumbles backward, holding the silver charm before her like a shield. You can’t stop what’s already begun. The creature hisses, its voice no longer remotely human. Elizabeth bound me to the Montgomery blood. Only blood will set me free or seal me away forever. Emma backs toward the cemetery gate, keeping the silver charm extended.

The creature follows at a distance, its movements jerky now, as if the proximity to the charm causes it pain. What do you want from me? Emma demands completion. It answers simply. Elizabeth created me from sacrifice and blood magic, bound me through her marriage vows, and fed me with more sacrifices.

But she died before the final ritual could be performed, the one that would give me permanent independent form. It gestures toward Elizabeth’s grave. Her body was never in that coffin. She became part of me willingly, but the transformation remained incomplete. I’ve existed in this half state for over a century, neither fully formed nor truly free.

The creature’s face shifts subtly as it speaks, features flowing like wax, sometimes resembling Elizabeth from the wedding photograph, sometimes appearing as a beautiful child, sometimes as something not quite human. I need the blood of her line freely given to complete the transformation, it continues, or the blood of her line spilled in sacrifice to end me forever. Those are the only two paths.

Emma’s mind races, trying to process what she’s hearing. And if I refuse both options, the creature’s face twists into something like a smile. Then I remain as I am, growing incrementally stronger with each passing year, feeding on what small sacrifices I can manage. Eventually, I will find another of Elizabeth’s line. Perhaps your children someday or theirs. A terrible understanding dawn on Emma.

This entity, whatever it is, is bound to her family line through Elizabeth’s ritual. It cannot be simply destroyed or banished, only completed or permanently sealed through blood. The silver hands, Emma says, they contain you somehow. The creature nods reluctantly. They bind my power, limit my range.

I can only manifest near places connected to Elizabeth or the ritual. That’s why they’ve been maintained all these years. It gestures to the charm in Emma’s hand. That one you hold was kept in reserve, passed from guardian to guardian. It’s the strongest of them. Emma glances down at the silver charm. Unlike the others, this one has small red stones set into its palm and fingertips.

Rubies or garnets that catch what little light remains. Blood stones, the creature says, noticing her examination. Powerful binding agents. That charm could seal me completely with the right ritual and the willing sacrifice of Montgomery blood. And what happens to you then? Emma asks.

The creature’s beautiful face contorts briefly with something like fear, oblivion, true death, release from this half-existence. Emma considers her options. She could attempt to return to Elellanor and Agnes, seek their guidance on performing this binding ritual. But that would mean acknowledging the reality of this impossible creature, committing herself to a world where such things exist. Her rational mind rebelss against the very idea.

Yet the evidence stands before her. This shifting unnatural being that speaks of blood magic and ancient rituals. The hand in Elizabeth’s bouquet, the journals with their consistent accounts, the century of careful vigilance by the Montgomery women. I need time, Emma says finally. Time to think, the creature’s face settles into an expression of cold calculation. Time is one thing I have in abundance, cousin.

But be warned, now that you’ve disturbed the wards, my power grows. Each day you delay, I become stronger, more able to influence the world around me. It gestures toward the darkening town below the cemetery hill. Those people, your distant kin among them, will be my sustenance while I wait.

Small sacrifices to tide me over until you decide. Horror washes through Emma. You would harm innocent people. I would survive. The creature corrects, as I have for over a century, through whatever means necessary. It studies her with its two bright eyes. You have until the new moon, 7 days. Decide by then, or I will take matters into my own hands.

Before Emma can respond, the creature seems to shimmer and fade, becoming insubstantial as mist. Within moments, it has vanished completely, leaving Emma alone among the graves. With only the silver charm in her trembling hand, she returns to her hotel in a state of shock, her mind struggling to process what she’s experienced.

Part of her wants to flee Ravenscroft immediately to return to her normal life and convince herself that stress and grief over her grandmother’s death have caused her to hallucinate this entire bizarre scenario. But the silver charm in her pocket is real. The journals are real. The hand in Elizabeth’s wedding bouquet is real. And now people’s lives may be at stake. Emma calls Ellanar Harding.

“I saw it,” she says without preamble when the elderly woman answers. “The entity Elizabeth created. It spoke to me.” Elellanar is silent for a long moment. Where in the cemetery near Elizabeth’s grave, it took the silver charm after I replaced it. It said, “Emma struggles to articulate the impossible conversation.

It said it needs Montgomery blood to either complete its transformation or to seal it away forever. Yes, Eleanor says softly. That’s what Margaret believed. It’s why our family has maintained the vigil all these years, keeping it contained but never confronting it directly. The price of either outcome was too high.

It gave me 7 days to decide, Emma continues. It threatened to harm people in town if I don’t. You must not give it your blood to complete its transformation. Eleanor says firmly. The consequences would be unimaginable. What Elizabeth sought to create was an abomination, a being of pure power without conscience or restraint.

Then I have to perform this binding ritual, Emma concludes, with the silver charm. The charm you now hold is special, Elellanor acknowledges. It contains elements from the original ritual. Bloodstones that Margaret obtained from the old woman’s cottage by Black Pond. But the ritual itself is dangerous.

It requires blood freely given and a strength of will that few possess. Do you have instructions for this ritual? Yes, Eleanor says after a pause in Margaret’s papers, but Emma, you must understand what you’re considering. This entity has existed for over a century. It has grown cunning and powerful despite the containment measures.

The ritual would put you in direct spiritual conflict with it. Many have tried similar bindings throughout history. Few have survived with their minds intact. What choice do I have? Emma asks. Let it grow stronger until it can’t be contained at all. Give it what it wants and unleash god knows what on the world or run away and know that people will die because of my cowardice.

Ellaner sigh heavily. Come to my house tomorrow morning. We’ll show you what you need to know, but promise me you won’t attempt anything on your own before then. Emma promises and ends the call. She places the silver charm carefully on the nightstand and prepares for bed, though she doubts she’ll be able to sleep.

As she turns off the lamp, she notices something on the hotel room wall that wasn’t there before. A small symbol drawn in what looks like ash, similar to those described in the journals. A warning or a threat. Emma isn’t sure, but it confirms that whatever she encountered in the cemetery was real, and it knows where she is.

Mourning brings no clarity, only a grim determination to see this through. Emma drives to Elellanar’s house where she finds not only the elderly woman and Agnes but also Walter Jenkins from the historical society. I told them what happened, Elellanor explains as she ushers Emma inside. Walter has been a trusted ally for many years.

Few outside the Montgomery line know the full story, but he has earned our confidence. In the parlor, they show Emma a collection of papers, books, and artifacts related to the entity and the binding ritual. Margaret’s detailed notes explain that the ritual must be performed at a place of power connected to the original creation.

Either Elizabeth’s grave, the site of Blackwood Manor, or the cottage by Black Pond where the old woman who instructed Elizabeth once lived. The cottage foundations would be best, Agnes advises. It’s the furthest from town in case something goes wrong. Walter spreads out a map of the area. The cottage site is here about 3 mi from town. It’s remote.

Woods have reclaimed most of the area, but the foundation stones are still visible. Elellaner hands Emma a small wooden box. Inside is a silver dagger with intricate engravings on the blade and handle. This belonged to Margaret, she explains. It was meant to be used in the binding ritual if ever it became necessary.

The blade is silver mixed with iron, powerful against supernatural entities. Emma takes the dagger carefully. And what exactly does this ritual entail? Eleanor’s expression grows somber. You must draw the binding circle exactly as shown in Margaret’s diagrams. Place the silver charm at its center. Then you must freely give your blood while reciting the binding words.

How much blood? Emma asks quietly. Ellaner and Agnes exchange glances. The notes are not specific, Agnes admits. But Margaret wrote that the binding would require sacrifice sufficient to demonstrate true commitment. We believe it means you must be willing to risk your life, though not necessarily lose it.

And once I’ve done this, the entity will be sealed away forever. If the ritual is successful, yes, Elellaner confirms. But Emma, you must understand the entity will fight. It will use every power at its disposal to stop you, including deception, illusion, and direct attack.

You will be most vulnerable during the ritual itself when your blood and spirit are open to its influence. Walter clears his throat. There’s something else you should know. According to local weather reports, there’s a storm coming tomorrow night. Unusually severe for this time of year. Electromagnetic disturbances have been reported already. Equipment malfunctions, strange lights, the entity’s growing power.

Agnes suggests it’s affecting the natural world as it strengthens. They spend the day going over the ritual details. Emma committing the binding circle design and incantation to memory. Elellanar provides her with a bag containing everything she’ll need. Chalk made from crushed bones and silver dust. Herbs for protection.

Salt for the outer circle, candles made with special wax. As evening approaches, Walter offers to drive Emma to her hotel. In the car, he speaks frankly. I’ve been curator of the historical society for 30 years, he says. In that time, I’ve documented seven unexplained disappearances and three deaths that might be connected to whatever this thing is.

All occurred near the full or new moon when certain barriers are said to be thinner. He glances at Emma. The Montgomery women have maintained their vigil faithfully, but they’re only human. Sometimes the wards weaken or the entity finds loopholes, and each time it grows slightly stronger, slightly more capable of affecting our world.

Why are you telling me this? Emma asks. Walter’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. Because I want you to understand what’s at stake. This isn’t just about your family legacy or some abstract supernatural threat. Real people have died because of this thing. More will die if it isn’t stopped permanently.

At the hotel, Walter helps Emma carry the ritual supplies to her room. As they enter, both freeze. The silver charm Emma left on the nightstand is gone. “It’s been here,” Walter whispers, pointing to more symbols drawn on the walls. different from the one Emma noticed last night. More numerous and complex. What do they mean? Emma asks. Walter studies them with a frown. I’m not certain. Some appear to be binding symbols, others summoning.

He points to one particularly elaborate design above the bed. This one resembles old fertility symbols, but corrupted somehow. Emma feels violated knowing the entity has been in her room touching her things. I need a different place to stay tonight. Walter nods. You can stay at my house.

My wife is visiting her sister in Boston, so you’ll have privacy. And I have some protective measures in place. I’ve studied occult defense methods for years given what I know about Ravencraftoft’s secret history. They gather Emma’s belongings in the ritual supplies and leave the hotel. As they drive through town toward Walter’s house, Emma notices unusual activity.

Several police cars with lights flashing outside a residential area. An ambulance parked nearby. Walter slows the car. That’s not good. A police officer is directing traffic around the scene. Walter rolls down his window. Officer, what’s happened? The policeman looks exhausted and troubled. Missing child.

7-year-old boy wandered away from his backyard about 2 hours ago. Search parties are being organized now. Emma and Walter exchange alarmed glances. As they drive away, Emma whispers, “It’s starting. The entity is feeding, growing stronger. We need to perform the ritual as soon as possible.” Walter agrees grimly.

Tomorrow night during the storm, electromagnetic disturbances can amplify certain kinds of energy work. According to the literature, it might give you an advantage. At Walter’s house, Emma tries to rest, but finds sleep impossible. She studies Margaret’s notes again, committing every detail of the ritual to memory.

The binding words are in Latin with a phonetic pronunciation guide that Margaret prepared. The circle design is complex but geometrically precise. Emma practices drawing it several times on large sheets of paper Walter provides. Morning brings news that chills them both.

The missing boy has been found alive but catatonic, huddled in the ruins of an old well near the edge of town. According to the initial report, he keeps whispering about the pretty girl with the glowing eyes who wanted to show him something special. “It’s toying with us,” Walter says grimly, demonstrating its growing power. They spend the day preparing. Walter helps Emma practice the Latin incantation until she can recite it flawlessly.

They gather additional supplies, flashlights, rain gear, a first aid kit. Walter even brings out an old revolver. Silver bullets, he explains when Emma raises her eyebrows. I had them specially made years ago after I learned the truth about Ravencraftoft’s secret. I’ve never had occasion to use them. Thank God.

By late afternoon, storm clouds are gathering on the horizon. The weather forecast has been upgraded to a severe thunderstorm warning. Walter’s phone rings. It’s Agnes calling with disturbing news. Elellanar collapsed an hour ago, she says, her voice shaking. She’s been taken to the hospital before she lost consciousness.

She said she saw it in her bedroom standing at the foot of her bed. It took her silver hand charm, the one she’s kept with her for decades. Is she going to be all right? Emma asks when Walter relays this information. They don’t know. Walter replies grimly. Agnes says she looks drained somehow. Aged beyond her years in just hours. Emma’s determination hardens. We need to do the ritual tonight. Storm or no storm.

It’s growing too powerful too quickly. Walter nods in agreement. We’ll leave at dusk. The cottage ruins are remote. We’ll need to hike the last half mile or so. I have good flashlights and rain gear. As they make final preparations, Emma realizes something. The silver charm. The entity took it from my hotel room.

How can I complete the ritual without it? Walter’s expression is grim. It’s collecting the charms to prevent the binding. But there might be another way. He goes to a bookshelf and retrieves an old volume bound in faded leather. According to some sources, the original object of power can substitute for a charm in binding rituals. The original object, Emma repeats.

You mean the hand from Elizabeth’s bouquet? Walter confirms. If it still exists somewhere, it would be more powerful than any charm created to contain its energy. But where would it be after all this time? Walter considers. If it wasn’t destroyed in the fire at Blackwood Manor, there are only a few possibilities.

It might have been buried with Elizabeth when her body was moved to the Montgomery plot. Or or the entity has it, Emma concludes, keeps it close as the source of its power. Walter nods slowly. We need to proceed with the ritual regardless. Perhaps the dagger and your blood will be enough if your will is strong. As dusk approaches, they load the car with their supplies.

The storm is moving in quickly, the sky darkening with unnatural speed. Wind gusts bend trees along the road as Walter drives toward the edge of town. They’re forced to park about half a mile from the cottage site. The forest path is overgrown and difficult to follow, especially in the gathering darkness.

They use flashlights to pick their way forward, the wind growing stronger around them. It knows we’re coming. Walter shouts over the howling wind. It’s using the storm’s energy to manifest its power. They press on, finally reaching a small clearing where crumbling stone foundations are visible among the underbrush.

All that remains of the cottage where Elizabeth allegedly learned her dark arts from the old woman in the woods. Emma feels it immediately. A heaviness in the air. A sense of watchfulness. This place has power, ancient and patient. Walter helps her clear the central area of the foundations, creating a space large enough for the binding circle.

As Emma begins to draw the circle with the bone and silver chalk, the wind suddenly dies, creating an unnatural pocket of stillness around the ruins. The silence is more unsettling than the howling wind had been. “It’s here,” Walter whispers, drawing the revolver from his coat pocket. “Keep working. I’ll keep watch.” Emma continues drawing the complex pattern of the binding circle.

Her hands steady despite her fear. The design takes shape. Concentric rings connected by intricate symbols. Each precisely placed according to Margaret’s diagrams. As she completes the outer ring, a child’s voice speaks from the darkness beyond the ruins.

Do you truly think you can bind me with chalk and words, cousin? Emma doesn’t look up, continuing her work on the inner symbols. I’m going to finish what Margaret Montgomery started a century ago. Soft laughter answers her. Margaret was a fool who understood nothing of what her sister had accomplished. She saw only darkness where Elizabeth had discovered transcendence. The voice is closer now.

From the corner of her eye, Emma sees Walter turn, the revolver raised. Stay back, he warns. The guardian speaks. The voice mocks. Another fool who thinks he comprehends forces beyond human understanding. Emma completes another section of the binding circle. Only the central symbols remain. You’ve hurt people, she says without looking up. You’ll hurt more if you’re not stopped. I take only what I need to survive, the entity replies, as all living things do.

Would you condemn a lion for hunting its prey? You’re not a lion, Emma retorts. You’re not natural. You’re an aberration created through murder and dark magic. The voice hardens. I am evolution. the next step for the Montgomery line. Elizabeth understood this.

She gave herself willingly to become part of something greater. Emma finishes the final symbol and rises, facing the entity at last. It stands at the edge of the clearing in the form of a beautiful child with luminous eyes. In its hand, it holds what appears to be a small withered object, the original hand from Elizabeth’s bouquet. Walter raises the revolver. Don’t come any closer.

The entity smiles, its face shifting subtly to resemble Elizabeth from the wedding photograph. Your weapons cannot harm me, Guardian. I am beyond such physical threats now. It takes a step forward and Walter fires. The sound of the shot is swallowed by the unnatural silence surrounding them. The entity doesn’t flinch or slow its approach.

The silver charms were clever, it acknowledges, now standing just beyond the outer edge of the binding circle. They contained me for decades, limited my growth. But now I have reclaimed them all. It opens its other hand to reveal the silver charms, including the special one with the blood stones. And I have this.

It holds up the withered hand, the original vessel of my creation, the sacrifice that began my existence. Its eyes fix on Emma. All I need now is the blood of Elizabeth’s line freely given, and I will be complete at last. Emma removes the silver dagger from her bag. And if I use my blood to bind you instead, the entity’s beautiful face twists with something like fear.

Then you condemn me to oblivion and yourself to death. The binding requires life force, not just blood. Are you prepared to die for this cousin? To give your life to destroy something you barely understand? Emma hesitates, the dagger heavy in her hand. What exactly are you? What did Elizabeth truly create? The entity’s expression softens. I am possibility.

The concentrated essence of the Montgomery bloodline’s latent power given form through sacrifice and ritual. Elizabeth sought to transcend human limitations to create a being that could channel powers lost to your family generations ago. It gestures to the storm darkened sky.

I can command elements, peer across time, move between worlds. With your blood freely given to complete my form, I could share this power with you. We could restore what was lost. Bring the Montgomery line back to its former glory. Emma feels a pull toward this offer. Not just the promise of power, but of connection to her family’s past, to secrets and abilities long forgotten.

For a moment, she waivers. Walter sees her hesitation. Emma, don’t listen. It’s trying to manipulate you, just as it manipulated Elizabeth. The entity’s face hardens as it looks at Walter. Silence, Guardian. This is not your decision. It makes a dismissive gesture and Walter crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. Stop it, Emma cries. Let him go.

The entity turns back to her. Join with me and I will spare him. Resist and he dies here and now. Then I will move on to Elellanar, to Agnes, to others in town. I will feed and grow with or without your willing participation. Emma looks at Walter struggling on the ground, then back at the entity with its beautiful inhuman face.

She thinks of the missing child, of Eleanor in the hospital, of Elizabeth’s disturbing journal entries. You promise to spare them if I give you my blood willingly, she asks. The entity’s face lights with triumph. Yes, they will be untouched. I will need no more sacrifices once I am complete.

Emma steps into the binding circle she has drawn, standing at its center. Then come, take what you need. The entity approaches eagerly, entering the circle with no hesitation. It holds out the withered hand from Elizabeth’s bouquet. Place your blood here where it began. Complete the circle of creation. Emma raises the silver dagger, drawing it across her palm. Blood wells from the cut, bright red in the dim light.

My blood freely given, she says. The entity extends the withered hand to receive the offering. As Emma’s blood drips onto it, she begins to recite the Latin words of the binding ritual, not the transformation ritual the entity expected. Sanguin Mayo. The entity’s face contorts with rage and fear as it realizes the deception. No.

It shrieks trying to pull away, but the binding circle has activated with Emma’s blood and words, creating an invisible barrier that prevents escape. Tenibris creatibris revert. Emma continues, her voice growing stronger despite the pain and dizziness from her bleeding hand. The withered hand in the entity’s grasp begins to smoke and blacken.

You cannot do this. The entity howls, its beautiful form beginning to waver and shift. You will die with me. If that’s the price, I accept it. Emma replies, continuing the incantation. Victims sit in a tournum. The entity lunges for her, its face transforming into something monstrous.

No longer a beautiful child, but a horrific amalgamation of features. Its mouth stretching impossibly wide to reveal needle-ike teeth, but it cannot reach her. The binding circle holds it fixed in place, unable to advance or retreat. Emma’s vision begins to blur as more of her blood drips onto the withered hand and the ground of the binding circle.

She feels her life force draining, being channeled into the ritual. The silver dagger in her hand glows with an unearly light. “Per sacrificium mume, finish sit,” she inones, completing the ritual with the final words. The withered hand bursts into blue flame. The entity shrieks, a sound of such agony and rage that the very air seems to vibrate with it.

Its form begins to dissolve, collapsing inward like matter being drawn into a singularity. This isn’t the end. It hisses, its voice distorting as its form destabilizes. What was created can be created again. The knowledge remains. Another will come. With a final terrible cry, the entity implodes, collapsing into nothingness.

The withered hand and the silver charms it held fall to the ground, smoking slightly. Emma sways on her feet, darkness encroaching on her vision. She has given too much blood, too much life force to the ritual. As she collapses, the unnatural silence lifts and the storm returns with full force. Rain pouring down, wind howling through the trees.

She is vaguely aware of Walter at her side, pressing something against her bleeding hand, calling her name. But his voice seems far away, growing more distant as consciousness slips from her grasp. Emma dreams of Elizabeth Blackwood in her wedding gown, standing in a circular room with symbols carved into the walls.

Her bouquet squirms with hidden life as she smiles triumphantly. Blood calls to blood, she whispers. What was begun cannot truly end. The scene shifts and Emma sees a woman who resembles herself dressed in Victorian clothing. Margaret Montgomery. She realizes Margaret stares at her across time and says urgently, “The price has been paid, but vigilance must remain. Some doors once opened can never be fully closed.

” Emma awakes in a hospital bed, weak but alive. Walter sits in a chair beside her, looking exhausted but relieved. Welcome back, he says softly. You’ve been unconscious for 2 days. The entity, Emma asks, her voice a horse whisper. Gone, Walter assures her. Completely destroyed. The binding worked. Emma tries to sit up but lacks the strength.

How did I survive? The ritual was supposed to require a life sacrifice. Walter hesitates. It nearly did take your life. You lost a dangerous amount of blood. But he pauses, choosing his words carefully. Elellanar died the night of the ritual. At the exact moment the entity was destroyed, according to the hospital records, Emma stares at him.

You think she Agnes believes Ellanar offered her remaining life force, somehow channeled it into the ritual to spare you. She had been the primary guardian for decades. Perhaps that connection allowed her to intervene at the critical moment. Emma sinks back against the pillows, processing this information and the withered hand, the silver charms, all destroyed in the binding. Walter tells her nothing remains but ash.

Emma is silent for a long moment. Is it truly over then? Walter’s expression is solemn. The entity is gone, but the knowledge that created it might still exist somewhere. Elizabeth’s instructions, the ritual components, these things have a way of surviving, of being rediscovered. He takes her hand gently.

Agnes has asked me to tell you that the Montgomery vigil must continue in some form. Not actively as before, but as awareness, as memory. Someone must remember what happened and recognize the signs if history threatens to repeat itself. Emma nods slowly. I understand. 3 days later, Emma attends Eleanor Harding’s funeral in Ravenscraftoft.

The elderly woman is laid to rest in the Montgomery family plot, not far from Elizabeth’s grave. Agnes and Walter stand beside Emma during the service. Afterward, as the other mourers disperse, Agnes takes Emma aside. “Ellaner left something for you,” she says, pressing a small wooden box into Emma’s hands.

“She wanted you to have it if if things turned out this way.” Inside the box, Emma finds a silver locket. When opened, it contains a tiny dger type of two young women, Elizabeth and Margaret Montgomery, before darkness came between them. On the reverse is an inscription. Blood binds, memory protects. Keep watch. Will you accept this responsibility? Agnes asks quietly. Not as a burden, but as knowledge that should not be lost.

Emma closes the locket and puts it around her neck. Yes, she says simply. A week later, Emma returns home to her apartment. She places the enhanced wedding photograph in an acid-free protective sleeve and stores it carefully in a fireproof box along with Margaret’s journal and her own detailed account of what transpired in Ravencoft.

On her desk, she places the silver locket where she can see it daily, a reminder of what was lost, what was saved, and what must be remembered. As she prepares to resume her normal life, Emma sometimes wonders if the entity was truly destroyed or merely banished.

 In stillen Momenten meint sie, das Lachen eines Kindes in der Ferne zu hören oder unsichtbare Blicke auf sich zu spüren, doch das silberne Medaillon bleibt kühl auf ihrer Haut, und keine seltsamen Symbole erscheinen an ihren Wänden. Spät in einer Nacht, als sie das Gedenkprojekt für ihre Großmutter fertigstellt, fügt Emma eine einzelne Seite Elizabeth Montgomery Blackwood hinzu. Sie schreibt schlicht: „Elizabeth Montgomery Blackwood, 1868–1894, eine Braut, die nach Macht strebte – zu einem zu hohen Preis.“

 „Möge sie in Frieden ruhen.“ Daneben legt sie das Hochzeitsfoto, jedoch nicht die vergrößerte Version, auf der die Hand im Brautstrauß zu sehen ist. Manche Geheimnisse, so hat Emma gelernt, bewahrt man am besten mit den Worten derer, die bereit sind, die Last zu tragen. Sie berührt das silberne Medaillon an ihrem Hals und flüstert Margaret Montgomerys Worte.

 Der Preis ist bezahlt, doch Wachsamkeit ist geboten. Draußen vor ihrem Fenster braut sich ein Gewitter zusammen. Nur ein gewöhnliches Sommergewitter, redet sich Emma ein, während in der Ferne Blitze zucken. Nichts weiter. Trotzdem vergewissert sie sich vor dem Schlafengehen, dass Türen und Fenster verschlossen sind, nur für alle Fälle. Und manchmal ruft in ihren Träumen ein wunderschönes Kind mit leuchtenden Augen noch immer ihre Cousine an und verspricht ihr ein Wiedersehen.

 Blut ruft schließlich nach Blut. Und manche Türen lassen sich, einmal geöffnet, nie wieder ganz schließen.