Ashes Of Her Name

Whispers At Midnight

The photograph never left Clara’s hand.

By the time she made it back to her car, the world felt different — darker, heavier, as though everything familiar had been draped in some invisible shroud. The chapel’s silhouette lingered in the rearview mirror, its crooked cross stabbing at the sky like an accusation.

Clara drove with trembling fingers, headlights carving narrow tunnels through the fog that had begun to gather along the road. The town of Hollow Creek lay in uneasy silence, its houses shuttered, streets abandoned. It was as if the whole town slept with one eye open.

She didn’t go home.

Instead, she found herself turning onto Willow Lane, the narrow gravel path winding toward Tommy’s place. The one person she trusted. Or thought she did.

Tommy Reed had been her anchor for years — childhood friend, sometimes protector, sometimes accomplice. They shared the kind of bond born out of growing up in a town built on secrets and shadows. And though she could still hear Damien’s warning — don’t tell anyone — the weight of what she’d learned was too much to carry alone.

Tommy’s truck sat in the driveway, porch light spilling weakly onto the overgrown yard. Clara killed the engine and sat for a moment, trying to steady her breath.

Maybe this is a mistake.

But before doubt could win, she was out of the car, walking quickly to the door.

Tommy answered on the third knock, shirt rumpled, eyes bleary. "Clara? It’s almost one in the morning — what’s wrong?"

She stepped inside without waiting, heart pounding. "I need to talk to you."

He blinked, sensing the urgency. "Okay. Come in. What happened?"

Inside, the living room was warm and cluttered with worn furniture and the scent of coffee and motor oil. Clara stood near the window, unsure where to begin.

She held up the photograph.

Tommy frowned, taking it from her. His gaze lingered on the faces, recognition dawning. "Your mom… your dad… and Creed… is that Damien?"

She nodded. "Taken the night she died."

Tommy’s face darkened. "Where did you get this?"

Clara took a shaky breath. "From him. Damien. He was at the chapel. He… he said our fathers were working together. That they killed my mother because she was going to expose them."

Silence.

The kind that thickened the air between them.

Tommy set the photograph down. "Clara… you shouldn’t be talking to him. You don’t know what he’s capable of."

"I have to know the truth. Tommy, everything they told me — it’s a lie. Damien knows something. And there’s more. He wants me to meet him tomorrow night."

Tommy’s jaw clenched. "This is dangerous. What if it’s a setup? What if he’s using you?"

Clara met his gaze. "I don’t care. I need to know. I can’t live with half-truths anymore."

Tommy sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Then I’m going with you."

"He said no one else."

"Too bad. I’m not letting you walk into something like this alone."

For a long moment, they stared at each other, neither willing to back down. Then Clara relented with a soft nod.

"Okay. But if anything feels wrong…"

"We leave," Tommy finished. "Deal."

They sat in quiet agreement, the clock ticking too loud.

The Next Night, Midnight came fast.

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

The old mill loomed at the edge of town, its rusting frame silhouetted against the pale sky. Broken windows gaped like empty eye sockets, the air thick with the scent of earth and decay.

Clara parked a good distance away, gravel crunching under the tires. Tommy was tense beside her, eyes scanning the darkness.

"You sure about this?"

"I have to be."

They stepped out together, moving carefully along the narrow path through the trees. Shadows danced in the undergrowth. Every crack of a branch underfoot sounded too loud.

At the clearing by the mill, Damien was waiting.

He leaned against a rusted post, jacket collar turned up, pale smoke curling from a cigarette. The faint glow lit his face, sharp and cold.

"You brought him," Damien said, voice even, but his eyes narrowed.

"I don’t take orders," Clara replied, lifting her chin.

Damien’s gaze lingered on Tommy for a long, unreadable moment before flicking back to her. "Fine. But understand, this wasn’t meant for anyone else."

"Show us."

He stubbed the cigarette out, gesturing toward the mill. Inside, the air was damp and thick with mildew and rust. Moonlight filtered through broken boards, stripping the floor in silver. Old machinery loomed like sleeping beasts.

Damien led them to a corner where a tarp covered something large and flat.

He yanked it back. A wall. Or what remained of one. Peeling wallpaper, faded floral patterns, splattered with something dark. The boards around it were warped and stained.

"This," Damien said, "was your mother’s. The room where she died. They moved it here to cover the evidence. Built a false story on top of it."

Clara’s stomach turned.

She stepped closer, reaching out to trace the jagged lines of old bloodstains. Her mother’s blood.

"Why would they move it?"

Damien’s expression hardened. "To hide what really happened. This town - your family, mine - was built on bargains. Secrets paid in blood."

Tommy spoke voice tight. "Why are you doing this? What do you gain?"

Damien’s eyes glinted. "I lost everything too. My father disappeared. My name turned to Ash. I want what you want, Clara — the truth."

The mill seemed to press in around them, its ancient timbers groaning.

Damien reached into his coat again, this time pulling a journal. The leather cover was cracked and brittle.

"Your father’s," he said quietly, handing it over.

Clara took it, fingers trembling. Inside, page after page of neat handwriting — dates, names, deals made in the dark. The final entry blurred before her eyes.

June 13th, 2004: The price is set. M.S. knows too much. It ends tonight. L.C. agrees.

M.S. - Margaret Sterling.

Her mother.

Clara’s breath shuddered. The final proof.

She looked up, meeting Damien’s gaze. Something like grief passed between them.

Then a sharp crack split the air.

A gunshot.

Tommy shoved Clara down as a bullet struck the beam behind her. Chaos erupted.

From the darkness, two figures emerged — masked and armed.

Damien cursed, drawing a weapon of his own and firing into the shadows. Wood splintered. The attackers ducked.

"Go!" Damien barked.

Tommy grabbed Clara, pulling her toward the side exit as bullets tore through the air. The mill groaned, dust choking them.

They burst into the open, running blindly through the trees.

Behind them, Damien’s shouts, more gunfire.

Clara’s heart pounded. The journal still clutched in her hand.

Whatever they uncovered tonight, someone was willing to kill for it.

And it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.