ECHOES I N SILENCE
Copyright © 2025 by
A.Z. RAVESHADOW
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
I shouldn't be here.
The thought repeats with each turn of the rental car's wheels as I navigate the narrow coastal road. Maybe it's the fog pressing against the windshield, or the way the GPS signal keeps cutting out, but something about this journey feels like a mistake being written in real time. Turn left in 500 feet.
The disembodied voice startles me, though I've been waiting for it. I slow the car, peering through the mist for any sign of the turnoff. There—a weathered stone pillar emerges from the gray, its twin appearing moments later to frame an entrance nearly consumed by overgrown vegetation. No sign marks it as Blackwood House. Nothing announces that behind this threshold lies the home of Dr. Nathaniel Reeves, one of the most brilliant historical minds of his generation.
Nothing warns that this is the place where I've agreed to spend the next three months of my life.
I turn onto a gravel drive that winds upward through dense pines. Their branches scrape against the roof of my car like fingernails, and I flinch at each contact. The coastal fog thins slightly as I climb, revealing glimpses of churning ocean far below. The house appears suddenly around a bend—a looming Victorian silhouette against the pale sky, all sharp angles and watchful windows. Blackwood House.
I've been here before, twice for academic conferences years ago when Dr. Reeves still hosted gatherings of historians specializing in persecution studies. I remember the grand parlor where we'd argued theory over wine that cost more than my monthly rent, and the library where first editions were displayed in glass cases like museum artifacts. I remember feeling out of place among the academic elite, a scholarship student with more ambition than pedigree.
I never imagined I'd return as Dr. Reeves's literary savior. The email had arrived three weeks ago, as I sat in my apartment surrounded by past-due notices. The subject line was simple: Employment Opportunity - Urgent. The contents had changed everything: Ms. Ellis,
I represent Dr. Nathaniel Reeves, who suffered a stroke four months ago. He requires assistance completing his manuscript on the Blackwood Witch Trials. Your dissertation on gendered persecution in colonial New England has been recommended to us. Compensation would be triple your university salary for three months' work. Accommodations provided at Blackwood House. Immediate start preferred.
Caroline Reeves (for Dr. N. Reeves)
I park near the front steps and sit motionless, engine off, gathering courage. The silence presses against the windows, broken only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. A figure appears at one of the upstairs windows—just a shadow behind gauzy curtains— watching me. Then it's gone.
My phone buzzes with a text from my landlord: Decision? I've bought myself one week's reprieve with the promise of paying double next month. This job is my only chance to dig myself out of debt. With a deep breath, I step out of the car.
The house looms larger up close, its facade a patchwork of darkness where ivy has been recently torn away, leaving scars on the stone. I'm halfway up the crumbling steps when the massive front door swings open. A woman stands in the doorway, tall and severe in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a tight knot, emphasizing high cheekbones and eyes that match the stormy sea below. I recognize her immediately from academic journals and the author photo on her own book about feminine agency in historical records.
"Caroline," I say, extending my hand. "I'm Mara Ellis. Thank you for this opportunity." She doesn't take my hand. Instead, she studies me with the critical gaze of someone assessing a dubious purchase.
"You're late. We expected you an hour ago."
"I'm sorry. The fog—"
"Father is waiting. He tires quickly these days." She turns without waiting for a response, leaving me to hurry after her with my suitcase bumping against my leg.
The entryway is smaller than I remember, its grandeur diminished by dust motes dancing in thin beams of light. The air smells of beeswax and something medicinal. Caroline leads me through the main hall where a grandfather clock ticks accusingly.
My phone buzzes with a text from my landlord: Decision? I've bought myself one week's reprieve with the promise of paying double next month. This job is my only chance to dig myself out of debt. With a deep breath, I step out of the car.
The house looms larger up close, its facade a patchwork of darkness where ivy has been recently torn away, leaving scars on the stone. I'm halfway up the crumbling steps when the massive front door swings open.
A woman stands in the doorway, tall and severe in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a tight knot, emphasizing high cheekbones and eyes that match the stormy sea below. I recognize her immediately from academic journals and the author photo on her own book about feminine agency in historical records.
"Caroline," I say, extending my hand. "I'm Mara Ellis. Thank you for this opportunity."
She doesn't take my hand. Instead, she studies me with the critical gaze of someone assessing a dubious purchase.
"You're late. We expected you an hour ago."
"I'm sorry. The fog—"
"Father is waiting. He tires quickly these days." She turns without waiting for a response, leaving me to hurry after her with my suitcase bumping against my leg.
The entryway is smaller than I remember, its grandeur diminished by dust motes dancing in thin beams of light. The air smells of beeswax and something medicinal. Caroline leads me through the main hall where a grandfather clock ticks accusingly.
Family portraits line the walls—generations of Reeves ancestors watching our progress with painted eyes.
"Your room is on the second floor," Caroline says without turning. "East wing, opposite Father's study. The housekeeper comes three days a week. Kitchen privileges are included, but meals are your responsibility except for dinner, which is served at six precisely."
We pass the closed doors of the parlor and library, rooms I once moved through with a glass of wine and desperate attempts at scholarly conversation. Those memories feel like they belong to someone else now—a version of me still certain about her future.
Caroline stops before a door at the end of the hall and finally turns to face me. "Father has good days and bad. Today is... moderate. His speech is affected, but his mind remains sharp. Do not make the mistake of talking around him or treating him like an invalid."
The warning in her voice is unmistakable. I nod, throat suddenly dry.
She pushes open the door to reveal a sun-drenched study that stands in stark contrast to the dimness of the hall.
Three walls of windows overlook the sea, while the fourth is lined with books from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room, silhouetted against the glare, sits a figure in a wheelchair.
"Father," Caroline says, her voice softening slightly. "Mara Ellis has arrived."
Dr. Nathaniel Reeves turns his chair with effort, and I struggle to hide my shock. The commanding presence I remember from conferences has diminished into a man whose right side seems to have collapsed in on itself.