Clara sat at the kitchen table long after dawn, the steam from her untouched coffee curling into the stale morning air. Abigail's journal lay open beside her, heavy with anguish; the translucent map, now frayed at the edges, pointed to the desecrated gravesite she'd bound. Salt and iron nails glinted in a small dish at her side. She should have felt victory—she'd reclaimed the past, faced the well, and seen its spirits recoil. Yet a tremor of unease shivered through her spine.
Her phone buzzed. The screen read Sheriff Dalton.
Reluctantly, she answered. "Sheriff?"
"Morning, Clara." His voice was smooth but distant.
"I got your message. You said you found something last night?"
Clara paused. She'd called him as soon as she uncovered the blooded handprints and that Help me, Mom scrawl. "Yes. I—there's evidence you need to see. Could you come by?"
"Actually, I'm swamped here with paperwork," Dalton replied. "Look, if it's about those stories of children at the well—town legend stuff—best leave it alone, Clara. You're scaring your boy."
She swallowed. "It's more than stories. I found bones in a hidden grave. Blood messages in my house."
"Bones?" He sighed. "Clara, Woodpile has its share of old tragedies. But messing with the past can bring trouble. Let me know if you need patrols out there, okay?"
He hung up before she could protest. Clara set the phone down, frustration thudding in her chest. He dismissed her fear—but worse, he seemed content to leave her vulnerable.
A Visit to the Station
That afternoon, Clara drove to the sheriff's office, journal stuffed into her backpack. She parked along Main Street and entered the low-slung building. Deputy Marcy was behind the desk, eyes widening when she saw Clara.
"Miss Bennett, everything all right?" Marcy asked.
Clara forced a calm smile. "I need to talk to Dalton. It's urgent."
"He's tied up in the conference room," the deputy said, voice soft. "But I can maybe help—"
Clara shook her head. "No. This is between me and him."
Marcy glanced toward a closed door. "Be careful. He… he gets testy."
Clara nodded and rapped on the conference-room door. Sheriff Dalton's voice beckoned her in.
The Sheriff's Offer
Dalton stood behind a wide oak table, somber in his uniform. A faded photograph of Woodpile's founders hung crookedly on the wall behind him. He motioned to a chair.
"What is it?" he asked, arms crossed.
Clara sat and laid Abigail's journal on the table, flipping it open to the page describing the original bindings. "I found more bones—inside a sealed box buried under the fields. A locket with Eli Harper's picture. And someone left this in blood on my floor." She tapped at her phone and showed him the photo of crimson handprints and the Help me, Mom plea.
Dalton's jaw tightened. He glanced at the journal, then steepled his fingers. "Clara… I know about the Harper graves. I've known for years."
Her pulse quickened. "Then you believe me?"
He leaned back, face shadowed. "I believe a lot of things. But law and order—there's only so far I can go based on folklore and old diaries."
Clara's hands clenched. "This isn't folklore. Something is hunting Eli. I need protection."
Dalton's gaze drifted to the window. Outside, a patrol car was parked under a swaying elm. "I can assign someone to watch the property," he offered. "But I need evidence. Real evidence."
She exhaled. "Bones are evidence. Blood messages are evidence. The well is evidence."
He shook his head. "Clara, you're a mother in distress. I've read about this," he said quietly. "The town council forced me to keep tight lips. Folks were… panicked when children disappeared decades ago. They blamed the well. I was ordered to close the cases."
Stunned, Clara whispered, "Ordered by…?"
"By my predecessor and the council president," Dalton said. "They buried the incidents—literally and figuratively—to save this town's reputation. I've kept those records locked away. They didn't want a panic."
The Depth of the Cover-Up
Her blood turned cold. "You've known all along? You never told me?"
Dalton's shoulders sagged. "I've watched you dig deeper. I hoped this would all blow over—no harm done. But now… I see it's spiraling beyond control."
He reached into a drawer and produced a manila folder stamped Confidential—1875. Clara took it, hands trembling. Inside were old police reports:
1875 — "Benjamin Crowther missing after midnight on midsummer's eve. No body recovered."
1880 — "Two children found drowned in well, official cause: accidental."
1890 — "Eli Harper retrieved from well unconscious. Father deceased. Story reclassified under 'hazardous structure'."
1922 — "Reports of whispers in farmhouse. Resident moved away. Case closed."
She flicked through a separate set of reports:
1965 — "Jonathan Miller, age 7, vanished. Witness claimed hearing 'Mommy' from the floorboards."
1988 — "Sara Jennings, scratched handprints in kitchen. Family relocated. No charges."
2002 — "Neighborhood disturbance at Harper House—no evidence found."
Clara's chest tightened. So many victims. "Why?" she whispered.
Dalton exhaled. "They thought sealing records and closing cases would seal the curse. But legends don't die that way."
A Deal Fractured
Clara looked up, eyes fierce. "I need your help—not your secrets. I need you to open those cases, send patrols, call in specialists."
Dalton closed the folder and stood. "I can't. Not officially. If those records surface, the whole town will demand action. They'll want the well filled in, the house condemned—your son could lose his home."
Tears stung Clara's eyes. "So you'd let me face this alone?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "It's not alone. I'll watch from a distance. I'll stay on call. But I have responsibilities—to the council, to the town. If I help you… they'll replace me. They might even blame you for stirring up trouble."
Betrayal burned in Clara's chest. She stood, journal clutched to her side. "You swore to protect this town. My son is part of this town. Do your job."
Dalton's eyes flicked away. "I'm sorry, Clara."
Exiting on Broken Trust
Clara left the sheriff's office with the folder in hand, mind racing. Outside, the sky was overcast—light glimmered fitfully through grasping clouds. She slid into her car and drove home with shaking hands.
At the farmhouse, a gust rattled the windows. Eli waited on the porch, clutching his flashlight.
"Mom?" he called as she stepped out. "Who was that man you met?"
Clara knelt and embraced him. "Just someone who's scared," she whispered. "But I'm not."
She looked back at the trapdoor in the floor, sealed for now but crying out in silence. Clara pressed her palm to the weathered wood.
"I'll do this myself," she vowed. "I'll finish Abigail's ritual, find that Heart of Water, and end this—for Eli, for every child."
Eli nestled against her, trusting. Clara stood, shoulders squared, determination shining in her eyes. The betrayal of the sheriff cut deep—but it also steeled her resolve: no whisper, no secret, no evil buried in Woodpile would stand in her way.