Ashes Of Her Name

Echo Of Her Name

The weight of what Damien said in the chapel clung to Clara’s skin like a second shadow. The photograph of her mother — smiling that night, before her life was snuffed out — felt like a stranger's memory now. The pieces of her past were no longer fitting into the neat puzzle her father had built for her. They scattered like broken glass, sharp enough to bleed.

Clara didn’t sleep that night.

She sat by the window of her room, the town’s lights flickering in the distance, crickets whispering secrets in the dark. She held the photo so tightly the edges bent, but she couldn’t let go.

What if Damien was right?

What if everything she believed about her mother’s death was a story fabricated to keep her quiet?

And what if the lies were deeper than even Damien suspected?

The memory of his voice haunted her — low, bitter, edged with something old and raw. She couldn’t decide if he was a villain, a victim, or something worse. The clock struck 3:17 AM when her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

The text was there, sitting on her screen like a death sentence. No name, no number — just those five words.

Her pulse spiked.

She grabbed her phone and typed a reply, fingers trembling.

“Who is this?”

No response.

She stared at the screen until the light dimmed and the shadows in her room seemed to move. The message wasn’t a prank — she could feel it. Whoever sent it knew about the chapel, about Damien, about her.

And they were watching.

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By morning, Clara was in a fog. Her father’s face at breakfast was too calm, too practiced. He buttered his toast, sipped his coffee, and read the paper like nothing in the world could disturb the peace of Hollow Creek.

But Clara knew better now.

“Dad,” she said carefully, breaking the silence.

He looked up. “Hmm?”

She swallowed hard. “Do you remember that night? When Mom… died?”

His hand stiffened around the coffee cup.

A beat too long.

“Why are you asking about that now?” His voice was steady, but there was a flicker in his eyes — a momentary lapse.

“I was just… remembering. I wish I could remember more.”

Her father set the cup down. “That night was hard for all of us. There’s no good in digging up what’s buried, Clara.”

Buried.

The word hit her like a stone.

“Sometimes,” she said softly, “what’s buried doesn’t stay buried.”

Their eyes locked. For a moment she thought she saw fear. Or was it guilt?

“I have to go,” he muttered, standing too quickly, grabbing his briefcase and car keys. “We’ll talk later.”

But she knew they wouldn’t.

**

The old library on Maple Street had been closed for years, but Clara remembered the hidden side door that used to stick just enough for a determined teenager to slip through. It was one of the last places in town untouched by surveillance, unclaimed by her father’s influence.

She met Tommy there by noon.

He looked as worn as she felt.

“I got your message,” he said, pushing open the rusted door. “You okay?”

Clara shook her head. “No. And it’s getting worse.”

Inside, the air was thick with dust and forgotten stories. Shelves sagged under the weight of old records and books too old for the public library. The kind of place her mother would’ve loved — quiet, filled with secrets.

“I got a text,” she whispered, glancing around. “Middle of the night. No number. Said I shouldn’t have come.”

Tommy’s face darkened. “It’s starting.”

“What is?”

“The town protects its own. When someone stirs the past, the past pushes back.” He crouched near an old filing cabinet, tugging it open. “I did some digging too. Remember what Damien said about the photograph?”

Clara nodded.

“Well,” Tommy continued, pulling out a thin, dust-covered folder. “I found this.”

He handed it to her.

Inside were newspaper clippings, old police reports, and a faded copy of her mother’s autopsy. Except — there was a name on the last page Clara had never seen before.

L.C.

Her breath hitched. “That’s what was in my father’s journal. June 13th, 2004. ‘L.C. agrees.’ Who the hell is L.C.?”

“I think I know.” Tommy hesitated, his throat working around the words. “Luther Creed.”

Clara’s blood ran cold.

“Damien’s father?”

Tommy nodded. “Your dad’s oldest friend. Business partner. They practically built this town together. If anyone could cover up a murder, it’d be them.”

Clara sat back hard against the wall, the room spinning.

“But Luther’s dead,” she whispered. “Isn’t he?”

Tommy met her eyes. “That’s what they want you to think.”

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The evening air was heavy with the scent of rain when Clara drove back toward the chapel ruins.

She knew it was reckless.

She knew she was risking everything — her safety, her sanity. But something pulled her there. A compulsion she couldn’t fight. She parked a safe distance away, the car hidden by the overgrowth. Her flashlight cut through the thickening fog, the beams catching on twisted stone and broken glass.

And then she saw him — Damien.

He stood where the altar used to be, a lone figure in the mist, waiting.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said, echoing the message from the night before.

“I had to.”

She approached him slowly, her heart hammering in her chest. “Who sent the text?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re watching us. They know you have the journal.” Clara clutched her bag tighter.

“I found something,” she told him. “L.C. Luther Creed. Tommy thinks he’s alive.”

For the first time, Damien’s cool mask cracked.

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” She stepped closer. “Or have we both been chasing the wrong ghosts?”

Damien swore under his breath. “If he’s alive… it changes everything.”

A branch cracked in the distance.

Both their heads snapped toward the sound.

Footsteps.

More than one.

Damien grabbed Clara’s arm. “We have to go. Now.”

But before they could move, a voice cut through the fog.

“I wouldn’t run if I were you.”

A man stepped into view. Tall. Dressed in black. His face was familiar, though time had grayed his hair and sharpened his features.

Clara’s stomach dropped.

“Dad?” she gasped.

Her father stared back at her, his expression cold and foreign. Not the man she knew.

Not the man who tucked her in at night, who spoke of integrity and family.

“I told you, Clara,” he said softly, voice like gravel. “Some things are better left buried.”