Chapter 2 — Clara’s Assignment
Clara Bennett
The train screeched into Willow Street Station, its brakes groaning and steam hissing as it cut through the fog that clung to the valley like a suffocating shroud. Clara Bennett stepped down onto the slick wooden platform, the damp planks creaking under her boots. The strap of her leather satchel dug into her shoulder as she adjusted it, her sharp hazel eyes scanning the unfamiliar town through the mist.
Willow Street was smaller than she’d imagined, its cobblestone streets and weathered storefronts picturesque in a way that felt almost staged. Yet something about the town refused to sit comfortably. The gray sky pressed close, and the air carried a damp chill, heavy with the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. Clara pulled her blazer tighter, a flicker of unease skittering across her thoughts before she pushed it aside.
This wasn’t just another assignment. It was her chance to prove she could handle more than fluff pieces. But even as she told herself that, she couldn’t quite ignore the other reason she’d accepted the job: the faint hope that confronting the supernatural might force her to confront the abilities she tried so hard to suppress.
“Miss Bennett?” A voice interrupted her thoughts.
She turned toward the source, finding a wiry man in his late sixties standing at the edge of the platform. His neatly trimmed white beard and worn fedora lent him an old-world charm, but his piercing gray eyes were what held her attention. They seemed to weigh her in an instant, missing nothing.
“That’s me,” Clara replied, extending a hand. “You must be Edgar Langley.”
Edgar hesitated for barely a moment before shaking her hand. His grip was firm but fleeting, as though he wanted to keep his distance. “I suppose you’ll want to get started right away,” he said, his tone clipped. “Though if you’re smart, you’ll think twice about poking around where you don’t belong.”
Clara arched an eyebrow, slipping on her professional mask. “I appreciate the concern, Mr. Langley, but I’m here to do my job. The public has a right to know the truth, don’t you think?”
Edgar’s lips twitched—a smirk, or maybe a grimace. “Some truths don’t set you free. Around here, they bury you.”
“Good thing I’m not afraid of a little dirt,” Clara shot back, the edge in her tone masking the unease prickling at her confidence.
Edgar gave her a long, appraising look, his expression unreadable. Then, with a soft snort, he turned on his heel. “Come on, then. I’ll show you to the inn.”
The walk through Willow Street was as revealing as it was unsettling. The town seemed to shrink under the weight of its own secrets. Lace curtains twitched in windows, and shadowed figures peered out from cracked doorways. A woman sweeping the steps of a general store paused mid-motion, her narrowed eyes following Clara’s every step. Children stopped their play to watch her, their giggles fading into whispers. Even a stray dog lounging near a lamppost got to its feet and slinked away, its tail tucked low.
“They’re not fond of strangers,” Edgar said, his voice low. “Especially ones asking about the house.”
Clara glanced at him. “It seems like the house has quite the reputation.”
Edgar snorted softly. “Reputation ain’t the half of it.” He gestured toward a faded sign above an abandoned storefront. “Used to be a bakery. Closed after the owner’s boy went missing. Last place he was seen was the house.”
Clara’s steps faltered. “And no one went back to look for him?”
“They did,” Edgar said grimly. “Found nothing but his shoe and a door that wouldn’t open. After that, they stopped asking questions.”
The story lodged itself in Clara’s mind, its edges jagged. She’d been to towns with secrets before, but this was different. Here, the secrets felt alive, lurking in every shadow and every wary glance.
They arrived at the Silver Fox Tavern, its weathered sign swaying slightly in the misty breeze. The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of wood smoke, spilled beer, and something faintly metallic. Patrons hunched over tables, their conversations quieting as Clara stepped inside. A burly bartender with a salt-and-pepper beard gave her a curt nod, his eyes narrowing as Edgar introduced her.
“Room’s upstairs,” Edgar said, handing her a brass key. “If you’re smart, you’ll stay there and write about something else.”
Clara forced a smile. “Thanks for the advice, but I think I’ll stick with the story.”
Edgar’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something crossing his face—pity, perhaps, or regret—before he tipped his hat and left without another word.
*
Later, Clara sat at a corner table in the tavern, her Vision Journal open before her. The pages bore her tidy handwriting, filled with fragmented impressions of the town and its people. Despite her skepticism, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Willow Street carried a strange energy, something just beneath the surface. It wasn’t just the stares or the whispers—it was the way the air itself seemed to hum, a tension that made her skin prickle.
The bartender approached, setting a steaming mug of tea in front of her. “On the house,” he said gruffly, his eyes flicking to the journal. “What brings you here, anyway?”
Clara hesitated. “I’m writing a piece on the Dead Man’s House.”
The man froze, his hand tightening around the edge of the table. “You don’t want to mess with that place,” he said quietly. “Bad things happen to people who do.”
Clara leaned forward, her journalist’s instincts sharpening. “What kind of bad things?”
The bartender shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Accidents. Disappearances. Stories about her.”
“Her?” Clara pressed.
“The lady of the house,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “She doesn’t forgive. Not even after all these years.”
Before Clara could ask more, he retreated to the bar, his broad shoulders hunched as though shielding himself from the weight of his own words.
Clara exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of her journal. She’d heard warnings like this before—cryptic statements meant to scare her off. They rarely worked. If anything, the bartender’s words only deepened her resolve.
She flipped to a fresh page and began writing, jotting down the details of the day: the train ride, Edgar’s warnings, the wary stares of the townsfolk. Her pen hovered as a prickle of unease crawled up her spine, the faintest sensation of being watched. She glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention.
Shaking off the feeling, she returned to her notes, scrawling a single question: *Why does the house scare them so much?*
The answer, she knew, lay just beyond the edge of town, in the decaying house that already lingered in her thoughts like a shadow. Tomorrow, she would see it for herself.
For now, though, she closed the journal and drained the last of her tea, the faint taste of herbs lingering on her tongue. As she climbed the narrow staircase to her room, the floorboards creaking beneath her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was already waiting for her.
And it wasn’t alone.
