Chapter Nine: The First Piece of the Past

Elena stood frozen on the porch, her breath catching in the cold night air.

Mr. Holloway had run.

The oldest man in Blackwood Hollow—who barely moved faster than a slow shuffle—had run like something was chasing him.

And all he had done was look at Leon.

Elena turned, her pulse quickening. Leon was still standing in the doorway, watching the darkness where Mr. Holloway had disappeared. He didn't look surprised.

He looked like he expected it.

"What was that?" Elena whispered.

Leon didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on the empty road, his posture eerily still. When he finally turned to her, his expression was unreadable.

"He knows something," he said.

Elena crossed her arms, suddenly aware of the chill settling into her skin. "About what?"

Leon glanced toward the open basement door behind her.

The silence stretched.

Then—softly—he said, "About the grave."

A shiver curled up Elena's spine.

She swallowed, stepping back into the house and shutting the door behind her. The night outside was too vast, too open. The farmhouse was old, but it was still hers. It felt safer.

Until now.

Until tonight.

She turned toward the hallway, where the basement door still gaped open like an unspoken invitation. The air from below was heavy, damp. The shadows at the bottom of the stairs seemed darker than before.

Something was waiting down there.

Something that had whispered Leon's name.

She met his gaze. "If he knows about the grave, should we talk to him?"

Leon studied her for a moment. Then, with that same unreadable calm, he said, "You could."

Elena frowned. "And you?"

Leon didn't answer. Instead, he stepped past her, moving back toward the open basement door.

"I think it's time we see what's buried."

Elena hesitated only a second before following.

The basement was colder than before. The lantern's flame flickered weakly against the damp stone. The wooden plank they had uncovered earlier still lay askew, revealing a dark hollow in the foundation.

Leon knelt.

He reached inside.

And pulled out something wrapped in brittle, decayed fabric.

Elena's breath hitched.

The cloth crumbled in his hands, revealing a nameplate. Rusted, covered in dirt, but still legible.

The name engraved into the metal sent her stomach twisting into knots.

LEON BLACKWELL.

She barely managed to whisper. "Leon."

Slowly, he turned his head toward her.

His expression remained eerily calm.

But his fingers—gripping the edge of the nameplate—had turned white.