Ashes Of Her Name

Echoes of the Dead

The wind howled through the skeletal trees of Marrow Ridge Cemetery, carrying with it the ghostly scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Clara held the box close to her chest, feeling the brittle edges of the photographs press against her palms. It was more than evidence — it was the last piece of her mother, a story buried with the dead.

Damien watched the path behind them, ever alert, his face shadowed by the moonlight. Every sound seemed magnified out here — the snap of a twig, the cry of a distant animal. Clara’s heart pounded, her breath rising in visible clouds.

“We need to get this somewhere safe,” Damien murmured. “We’re sitting ducks out here.”

Clara swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. “Where?”

“My cabin,” Damien replied. “It’s off-grid, buried deep in the woods. They won’t find us there.”

She hesitated, glancing back at the forgotten graves. Mother… we’re so close.

They moved quickly, slipping through the rusted gate and disappearing into the forest. The narrow trail was uneven, roots like gnarled fingers grasping at their ankles. The night pressed in, thick with fog.

It felt like hours before they reached the clearing.

A small cabin stood there, half-swallowed by vines and shadows. It looked like something forgotten by time, the wood weathered to a silvery gray. Damien ushered her inside.

The interior was dimly lit by an old oil lamp. Dust hung in the air, and the scent of aged wood was thick. There was a single table, a worn leather chair, and a fireplace filled with cold ash.

Clara set the box down carefully.

“Here,” Damien said, locking the door behind them and drawing the faded curtains shut. “We can go through it now. But you need to brace yourself. Some of this… it’s going to hurt.”

Clara took a deep breath, her stomach tightening. “I’m ready.”

Damien knelt by the box, pulling out one of the cassette tapes. The label read November 18, 2002 — Hollow Creek Deal.

“I found an old recorder,” Damien said, retrieving a battered device from a shelf. He inserted the tape, pressing play.

A crackle of static filled the room, followed by a woman’s voice. Clara’s heart clenched.

“If you’re hearing this, it means I’m gone.”

It was her mother.

Clara covered her mouth, eyes filling with tears.

“They’re planning something… bigger than you know. Luther Creed, Robert Sterling… they’re laundering money through the church, buying silence with blood. People have disappeared, and I found proof. It’s all in the files. Clara, if you ever find this, trust Damien. He’s the only one left who can protect you.”

The tape ended in static.

Clara sat in stunned silence.

“She knew,” Clara whispered. “She knew what they’d do to her.”

Damien’s jaw tightened. “She was braver than any of us.”

He handed her another photo. This one showed her mother standing beside Luther Creed, a look of defiance in her eyes. A date was scribbled on the back: May 3, 2002.

“Wait,” Clara said, pointing. “That’s the old church. The one by the quarry.”

Damien’s eyes darkened. “That church burned down… the night she disappeared.”

Clara’s pulse quickened. “Do you think… something’s still there?”

“It’s possible,” Damien admitted. “If they hid the bodies… the records… it would’ve been the perfect place.”

Clara stood, determination hardening in her chest. “Then we’re going.”

Damien grabbed her arm gently. “It’s dangerous. They’ll have it watched.”

“I don’t care,” Clara snapped, pulling away. “I’ve spent my whole life in the dark. I won’t stop now.”

Damien’s expression softened. “Alright. But we go at dawn. It’s too risky now.”

Clara nodded reluctantly. The exhaustion of the night was catching up with her. Damien stoked the fireplace, and soon the room was filled with the soft glow of flickering flames.

As they settled in, Clara stared at the dancing shadows on the wall.

“Do you ever wish you’d left?” she asked quietly.

Damien didn’t answer right away. He stared into the fire.

“Every day,” he admitted. “But I made a promise. And promises… they matter.”

Clara’s chest ached. “I don’t know how to fight them, Damien. I’m just one person.”

“You’re not just anyone,” he said softly. “You’re your mother’s daughter. And you have me.”

For the first time, warmth flickered in Clara’s heart.

They drifted into a restless sleep, the old cabin creaking with every gust of wind.

At dawn, Clara woke to the scent of damp wood and the faint chirp of birds. Damien was already up, checking their supplies — a flashlight, a crowbar, and his ever-present knife.

“Ready?” he asked.

Clara nodded, steeling herself.

They moved through the misty woods, the town still cloaked in uneasy silence. The burnt remains of the old church emerged from the trees like a charred skeleton, blackened beams reaching toward the sky.

Clara shivered.

The ground crunched beneath their feet as they stepped into the remains. Ash clung to the stones, and the air still smelled faintly of smoke, even after all these years.

Damien led her to what had once been the altar. He knelt, brushing aside debris.

“Here,” he muttered. “Help me.”

Together, they pried up loose floorboards, revealing a narrow, dark passage beneath.

A hidden cellar.

The stench that wafted up was foul—damp, with mold and decay.

Clara’s stomach churned, but she forced herself to climb down.

The cellar was cramped, lined with old bricks and rusted shelves. On one side, a row of old filing cabinets, their labels worn. On the other, something worse.

A row of shallow graves.

Clara clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Dear God,” she whispered.

Bones, long decayed, lay scattered. Torn bits of fabric clung to them. Names carved into small, crude markers — initials, mostly.

Damien’s face was grim. “These… these are the missing people. The ones your mother tried to save.”

Clara’s vision blurred. She staggered to the cabinets, yanking open the drawers. Inside were files and stacks of paper yellowed with age. Transaction records, photographs, letters.

It was everything they needed.

And then a voice broke the silence.

“Well, well… what do we have here?”

Clara spun, her blood turning to ice.

----------------------------------------------

Luther Creed stood at the top of the steps, flanked by two armed men. His face was older now, lined and cruel, but his eyes gleamed with the same merciless hunger.

“I should’ve finished what I started,” he snarled.

Damien stepped protectively in front of Clara, knife drawn.

“This ends tonight, Creed,” Damien growled.

Creed chuckled, a cold, hollow sound. “You think a couple of old bones and dusty papers will stop me? This town belongs to me.”

Clara’s hand tightened around a metal rod. “Not anymore.”

With a sudden burst of courage, she hurled it, striking one of the armed men. Damien lunged, tackling the other.

The cellar erupted into chaos.

Clara grabbed a file, tucking it under her jacket as she ducked behind a pillar. Damien fought fiercely, the room filled with grunts and the clash of metal.

Clara’s heart pounded as she made for the exit, Damien close behind. Creed’s shouts echoed after them, bullets splintering wood.

They burst into the daylight, breath ragged, and ran.

The forest swallowed them, the evidence clutched to Clara’s chest.

This wasn’t over.

But for the first time, Clara felt the tide turning. The dead would no longer be silenced. And neither would she.