Chapter 3 — Ghosts of the Farmhouse
Clara
Clara shivered as she stepped into the Marks family farmhouse, the mild autumn air outside giving way to a chill that seemed to seep from the house itself. The scent of aged wood and faint mildew hung heavy in the air, mingling with something metallic, like rust from forgotten tools. The creak of the floorboards beneath her feet echoed sharply, each sound amplifying the oppressive silence.
She lingered in the entryway, her hand brushing against the doorframe. Splinters bit at her fingertips, and she drew her hand back instinctively, as if the house objected to her presence. The walls seemed to lean inward, heavy with the weight of unspoken histories. Ahead of her, Juliana moved with deliberate precision, her stiff posture and clipped steps like the ticking of a metronome.
Clara’s eyes flitted to the walls, where faded wallpaper peeled at the edges, its once-cheerful floral print now a sickly yellow. A crooked photograph caught her attention—a snapshot of the Marks sisters as children. Vivian’s grin, wide and untamed, was framed by her wild auburn hair. Beside her, Juliana stood more reserved, her hand resting protectively on Vivian’s shoulder.
Clara’s throat tightened. She tore her gaze away, following Juliana deeper into the house.
“Vivian’s room is upstairs,” Juliana said, her voice brisk and impersonal, as though even acknowledging Clara’s presence was a concession.
“I remember,” Clara murmured, though her voice felt small. She hadn’t set foot in the house in years, and while the layout remained familiar, the warmth she once associated with it had long since evaporated. A bittersweet memory surfaced—Vivian dragging her up these very stairs, laughing as they whispered secrets. The memory twisted in her chest, sharp and unwelcome.
The narrow staircase groaned under their weight as they ascended, the sounds echoing like voices trapped in the wood. At the top, Juliana turned left and stopped in front of a door that hung slightly ajar. She pushed it open with a firm bump of her shoulder, stepping aside to let Clara enter first.
The room was smaller than Clara remembered, and the clutter made it feel even more cramped. The floral quilt on the bed was tangled at the foot, and the desk near the window was a chaotic sprawl of pens, notebooks, and loose papers. A vibrant scarf, draped over the back of the desk chair, added a jarring splash of color to the otherwise muted space.
Clara hesitated at the threshold, the sense of trespassing settling over her like a second skin.
“Start wherever you want,” Juliana said, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her sharp blue eyes tracked Clara’s every move, a quiet challenge glinting in her gaze. “If she left anything behind, it’ll be here.”
Clara stepped inside, her movements tentative. She ran her fingers along the edge of the desk, her touch so light it barely stirred the dust. Her hand paused on a stray pen, its ink dried out. The room felt frozen in time, as if Vivian might walk in at any moment.
“She’s not dead,” Clara said softly, almost to herself. The words escaped before she could stop them, an ache pressing against her ribs.
Juliana’s sharp intake of breath cut through the quiet. “I didn’t say she was.”
“No, but…” Clara faltered, the weight of unspoken fears pressing down on her. She glanced at Juliana, whose jaw was tight, her expression unreadable. “It’s just… I can feel her. In this room.”
Juliana’s shoulders stiffened, but her voice softened slightly. “Let’s focus on the task.”
She moved toward a small dresser in the corner, her movements deliberate but tense. Clara knelt by the bed, the worn rug rough against her knees. Reaching beneath the bedframe, her hand brushed against stray socks, a crumpled piece of paper, and then something solid—a book. She pulled it out, revealing a small spiral-bound journal with a floral cover, its edges frayed and corners bent with wear.
“Juliana,” Clara said, her voice tight as she held up the journal.
Juliana turned sharply, her guarded expression cracking ever so slightly. In two brisk steps, she crossed the room and took the journal from Clara’s hands. Her fingers, cold and trembling, brushed Clara’s briefly before retreating.
The two women sat down on the edge of the bed, the journal resting between them like a fragile artifact.
Juliana hesitated, her gaze fixed on the journal. “You found it. You read it.” Her voice was low, clipped, and laced with a vulnerability she quickly masked.
Clara nodded, swallowing hard as she opened the journal. The handwriting was unmistakably Vivian’s—bold, messy, and erratic. Certain letters looped extravagantly, while others slashed angrily across the page.
*I can’t keep running forever.*
Clara’s breath hitched. She glanced at Juliana, who was staring at the page with a fierce intensity, her fingers gripping the edge of the bed tightly.
“What does it mean?” Juliana asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Clara turned the pages slowly, her pulse quickening. Fragmented thoughts and scrawled sentences covered the pages, the ink often bleeding through the thin paper.
*He knows.*
*I can’t trust anyone.*
*Clara… I wish I could tell you.*
Clara read the last line aloud, her voice trembling. Her chest tightened, a mixture of guilt and hope surging within her.
Juliana stiffened, her eyes narrowing. “Why you? What makes you so important?”
“I don’t know,” Clara said, though her mind was already racing. The memory of their last argument flickered, vivid and raw. Vivian’s tear-streaked face, her voice shaking with accusations—*You don’t understand. You never did.* Clara squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memory away. “I wish I knew.”
Juliana studied her for a moment, her gaze sharp and searching. “Keep going,” she said finally, her tone tight.
Clara flipped to the next page and froze. Jagged sketches filled the space—trees, shadows, and a crude map. At the bottom, a string of numbers was scrawled in the corner.
“What is this?” Clara murmured, tracing the numbers with her fingertip.
Juliana leaned closer, her brow furrowing. “Coordinates. Looks like somewhere near the Old Mill.”
The mention of the Old Mill sent a shiver down Clara’s spine. Just the thought of the place—the crumbling walls, the rusted machinery—made her stomach twist. It had always seemed haunted, even as a child, a monument to the town’s decline.
Juliana snapped the journal shut, rising abruptly to pace the room. “This has to mean something. Why else would she hide it?”
“Maybe she was trying to leave a trail,” Clara suggested, though the words felt flimsy, as though she were grasping at straws.
“A trail for you?” Juliana turned on her, her eyes blazing with a mix of accusation and desperation.
“I don’t know!” Clara’s voice rose, sharper than she intended. She stood, her pulse pounding. “But I’m trying. Don’t you see that?”
The tension between them crackled, raw and unyielding. Juliana’s shoulders slumped slightly, and she sank back onto the bed with a heavy sigh.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I just… I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Clara nodded, her throat tight. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Juliana didn’t respond, but the silence that followed was softer, less jagged.
Clara reached for the journal, tucking it under her arm with a firm grip. As she glanced around the room, her gaze landed on the vibrant scarf draped over the chair. The sight of it stirred something within her—a flicker of determination. Vivian was out there. And for the first time in years, Clara felt a fragile but undeniable ember of resolve begin to burn.
