Chapter 2: Six Nights Remain

Absolutely! Here is Chapter 2 of The Le

Elior didn't tell anyone about the second letter. How could he? Who would believe him? That someone dead—someone he'd never met—was sending him messages by night, each warning him of something unspeakable that was about to rise?

Instead, he hid it under his bed, between the pages of a forgotten notebook. But hiding didn't make it go away. All day at school, the words echoed in his head like a chant:

Six nights remain.

And it wasn't just the words. Something about the world had changed. His classmates looked duller, like people drawn with less color. Even the teacher's voice seemed far away, muffled, like she was speaking underwater. Only the shadows in the corners of the room seemed sharper—longer than they should be. Watching him.

At lunch, he sat alone. He barely touched his food. He was staring out the window when a voice broke through the fog of his thoughts.

"You got one too, didn't you?"

Elior blinked. A girl with black nail polish and violet-tipped hair stood beside his table. He recognized her—sort of. Her name was Maren Something. She was a year older. Quiet. The kind of girl who read ancient poetry for fun and gave off the energy of someone who wasn't afraid of cemeteries at night.

He looked up slowly. "What?"

"The letter," she said, pulling out a chair and sitting without asking. "You look like someone who read the letter."

His heart thumped. "You know about it?"

She didn't smile, but her eyes narrowed, as if testing him. "Was it sealed with a black wax eye?"

He froze.

She nodded, as if that confirmed something she'd already guessed. "Same."

Elior leaned in, lowering his voice. "Who sent them?"

Maren shrugged. "Nobody knows. Or everyone who did is already dead."

That didn't make him feel better.

She pulled something from her backpack: an old leather notebook, worn and stained like it had been through a fire. The front was engraved with a single word: GREYHOLLOW.

"My grandmother left this behind before she disappeared," Maren said, flipping it open. "She used to say the town was cursed. Said there were rules—things you had to do to keep the dead from waking. I thought she was just… you know, old and weird."

Elior stared at the pages. Handwritten entries. Names. Symbols. Drawings of trees with twisted branches, tunnels under graves, and a stone door carved with eyes.

"But then I got the letter," she said. "Seven nights. Just like you."

Elior swallowed hard. "Have you seen anything… strange?"

She looked at him, dead serious. "I've been hearing my grandmother's voice. In my dreams. Calling me back to the place where she was buried."

Elior didn't answer. His mind was spinning. None of this made sense. And yet, it did. In some deep part of him—some hidden corner—he knew this was real.

Before he could speak, the bell rang.

But as Maren stood, she looked at him again. "Meet me tonight. Midnight. The east cemetery gate. If this is real, we need to find out what's coming."

Then she walked off, leaving only the scent of pine and ashes behind.

---

That night, Elior couldn't sit still. The ticking of his wall clock was unbearable, like a countdown to something terrible.

His parents were asleep by ten. He left a note on his desk—"Out for air. Be back."—and slipped out the window, hoodie pulled over his head.

Greyhollow was quiet at midnight.

Too quiet.

The wind didn't blow. The dogs didn't bark. Even the streetlamps seemed to hum with tension.

He made his way through the alleys, avoiding the main roads, until the cemetery came into view. It sat at the edge of town like a forgotten scar. Wrought iron gates, rusted with age, creaked open slowly as he approached.

Maren was already there, flashlight in hand.

"You came," she said softly.

"I had to," he replied.

Together, they entered the graveyard.

The ground was soft with mud from the rain. The headstones leaned in strange directions. Some were cracked. Some were too clean, as if someone had scrubbed the names off. A fog clung to the earth like something alive.

"We're looking for the Watcher's Grave," Maren whispered. "That's what my grandma called it. Said it wasn't really a grave—but a doorway."

Elior shivered. "To what?"

She didn't answer.

They wandered for what felt like an hour. No birds. No wind. Just their breathing and the crunch of damp leaves underfoot.

Then Elior stopped.

"Here," he said, pointing.

A stone unlike the others stood alone, near the tree line. Tall. Unmarked. But at its base, someone had scratched a symbol—an eye, carved into the stone itself.

Maren knelt beside it. "That's it."

As she ran her fingers over the carving, the earth began to hum. A low vibration—deep and ancient. The stone pulsed with a faint light.

Then the ground cracked.

The dirt split open like dry paper. Roots pulled back. And before them, a staircase spiraled downward, disappearing into pitch black.

They stared in silence.

Elior's mouth was dry. "You're kidding."

Maren looked at him. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

Without another word, she stepped forward and began to descend.

Elior hesitated for only a second.

Then he followed.

---

The air below was cold and thick with the scent of mold and old death. The staircase wound deep into the earth. No cobwebs. No rats. Just the steady, creeping sense that they were being watched.

At the bottom, the passage opened into a chamber.

Stone walls. A round room with seven alcoves—each holding a statue. Each statue had a missing face, smooth and blank. But all of them were carved with eyes across their bodies.

At the center of the chamber was a pedestal.

And on it… another letter.

Elior stepped forward, heart pounding.

It had his name again.

He opened it slowly, fingers trembling.

> Five nights remain.

You've chosen the path of truth.

But truth is a knife.

Every answer will cost you.

The dead are not what you think.

Nor are the living.

Soon, the soil will remember.

And it will rise.

Come to the Old Library.

Bring the girl.

There is more than one grave in Greyhollow.

—L.

---

They left the chamber in silence.

Neither of them spoke until they were back above ground. The night air felt strange—thicker, like the town itself knew what they had just done.

Elior's phone buzzed.

It was a text.

From a number he didn't recognize.

No contact name.

Just four words.

"I saw you dig."

He stared at the screen, his breath hitching.

"Elior?" Maren asked. "You okay?"

He turned the screen toward her.

Her face went pale.

Someone was watching them.

And whoever they were… they weren't human.