October 25, 2026 - Day One
Ashwood appeared exactly when Vera stopped expecting it.
The GPS had gone silent three miles back, the little blue dot frozen on a blank stretch of Route 9, and she'd been driving on instinct through October-bright Massachusetts hills when the turn materialized: a narrow road barely wider than her car, marked by a hand-painted sign that read Ashwood - Founded 1688. No mileage. No welcome. Just the town's age, worn into the wood like a warning.
Vera took the turn.
The road curved through forest so dense the canopy blocked the noon sun, and the temperature dropped ten degrees in the shade. Her Honda's tires crunched over leaves that hadn't been cleared in weeks—maybe months. No tire tracks visible ahead of her. The steering wheel was cold under her hands despite the heating running full blast.
Then the trees opened, and there it was.
Ashwood looked like every preserved New England town she'd ever investigated and none of them simultaneously. The common stretched before her, impossibly green for late October, surrounded by white clapboard buildings and red brick colonials that belonged on postcards. A gazebo stood at the center, its copper roof oxidized to that perfect verdigris green. American flag hanging limp in air so still it felt held rather than calm. Everything arranged with the kind of precision that made Vera's instincts flare.
Too perfect, she thought, and immediately catalogued why: no visible power lines (buried, probably), no cell towers (but she had signal—weak, intermittent, but present), no chain stores or gas stations (economically impossible for a functional town), and worst of all, no people. It was noon on a Friday. Where was everyone?
She parked in front of the Historical Society—three-story red brick, black shutters, white trim, rooster weathervane atop the peaked roof—and sat for thirty seconds with the engine running, recording impressions into her phone.
"October 25, 12:14 PM. Ashwood town center. Population claimed at 300 but no visible residents. Architecture preservation level suggests significant tourism income, but no tourist infrastructure visible. Town appears..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Waiting."
The engine ticked as it cooled. Vera pocketed her phone, grabbed her messenger bag heavy with recording equipment, and stepped out into air that smelled of woodsmoke and old paper and something else underneath—mineral, earthy, like stone that had been underground for centuries.
The Historical Society's front door opened before she reached the steps.
"Ms. Blackwell." Not a question. The woman who emerged wore a dove-gray cardigan over a floral dress, white hair in a neat bun, reading glasses on a beaded chain. Sixty-something, maybe older, with a grandmother's warmth and eyes that didn't match her face. Too aware. Too knowing. "Welcome to Ashwood. I'm Ruth Mercy."
Vera shook the offered hand—soft, cool, rings on every finger—and felt herself being measured in that brief contact.
"Thank you for inviting me." Professional smile. Journalist armor. "Beautiful town."
"Three hundred and thirty-eight years of care." Ruth stepped aside, gesturing toward the open door. "The others are gathering in our ceremony hall. You're the last to arrive."
Others. Plural. Vera had researched the nine names mentioned in the invitation, but names on a screen were abstractions. Inside would be eight people who shared her specific inherited darkness, and that thought sat in her stomach like cold iron.
She climbed the six stone steps and entered.
---
The ceremony hall occupied the entire second floor, and it was already half-full when Vera arrived.
Eight people sat in chairs arranged in a loose semicircle facing a small podium. Vera's journalist brain catalogued them automatically: three men, five women, ages ranging from late twenties to early fifties, dressed in what she mentally labeled "reconciliation casual"—respectful but not formal, the kind of careful outfit choice that signaled taking this seriously without knowing exactly what this was.
She spotted Isaac immediately. Wire-rim glasses, gray hair despite looking mid-forties, sitting with the particular stillness of someone praying without moving his lips. He glanced up as she entered, and something like relief crossed his face. At least one other person who'd spent last night researching instead of sleeping.
"Please, sit anywhere." Ruth moved to the podium with a grace that made Vera think of things that lived longer than they should. "We'll begin in just a moment."
Vera chose a chair with sightlines to everyone and pulled out her notebook. Pen clicking. Recording without permission was probably rude, but her phone was recording audio in her pocket anyway, and she'd apologize later if she had to.
A young woman to her left leaned over, voice low and warm. "First time being descended from historical atrocity?"
Vera turned. Blonde curls, round face, smile that reached her eyes. Mid-to-late twenties. Small diamond ring on her left hand that she touched when nervous.
"Is it that obvious?" Vera asked.
"You have the look. Like you're not sure whether to be here or run." The woman extended her hand. "Maya Stern. Second-grade teacher. My ancestor testified against her own mother."
They shook. Maya's hand was warmer than Ruth's, grip brief and gentle.
"Vera Blackwell. Journalist. Mine condemned twelve people while convinced he was serving God."
"Twelve?" A man across the circle looked up sharply. Mid-fifties, expensive suit poorly disguised as business casual, the kind of posture that screamed corporate law. "I thought it was seven."
"Official records vary." Ruth's voice carried effortlessly across the room. "Which is part of why we've gathered today—to establish historical truth and acknowledge the full scope of what occurred here in 1692."
The lawyer—Garrett something, Vera's research supplied; executor of the trust funding this event—leaned back with an expression that suggested he found the whole thing mildly beneath him but financially necessary.
Ruth waited until she had complete attention before continuing.
"Thank you all for making the journey to Ashwood. I know this represents significant personal time, and for some of you, considerable emotional labor. Your presence here matters more than you might realize." She folded her hands on the podium, wedding ring glinting. "My name is Ruth Mercy. I'm the director of the Ashwood Historical Society, a seventh-generation resident of this town, and a descendant of Temperance Mercy, who was among those lost in 1692."
Lost. Interesting word choice. Not executed. Not murdered. Lost.
"The events we're here to acknowledge are complex and painful," Ruth continued. "In October 1692, this community experienced what historians have documented as a tragic outbreak of mass hysteria resulting in the deaths of twelve innocent people accused of witchcraft."
Twelve again, Vera noted. But the memorial plaque Ruth mentioned in her welcome email listed seven names. Discrepancy noted.
"For three hundred and thirty-four years, this wound has festered in our collective history. Families divided. Legacies tainted. Children inheriting shame for actions they never committed." Ruth's voice carried genuine warmth, and Vera felt the room responding to it despite herself. "But we believe healing is possible. Reconciliation is possible. And that begins with acknowledgment."
She produced a single piece of paper from the podium—cream cardstock, Vera noticed, same expensive weight as the invitation.
"This is our Reconciliation Compact. Simple language, profound meaning. By signing, you acknowledge the historical injustice committed by some of your ancestors, and we, as representatives of this community, acknowledge our role in perpetuating division rather than healing. Nine signatures. Nine bloodlines. One shared commitment to truth."
Ruth descended from the podium, and that's when Vera noticed the other woman in the room—fifties, comfortable shoes, librarian aesthetic, had been so still Vera had mistaken her for part of the furniture. She produced a fountain pen from seemingly nowhere and handed it to Ruth.
"Margaret Thorne, our head archivist," Ruth explained, then turned to the man nearest her. "If you would, Dr. Hale?"
Isaac stood slowly, moved to the small table where Ruth had placed the compact. Vera watched him read it carefully—scholar's habit, checking every word—before he signed with visible reluctance. His hand shook slightly. Ink bled just enough to make his signature look old.
One by one, they signed.
Maya went third, treating it like a classroom contract, reading quickly and signing cheerfully. The woman beside her moved with economical precision—Asian, early thirties, dressed in structured blazer and tailored pants that screamed academic or researcher. She studied the language for a full minute before signing.
Garrett signed like he was executing legal documents, barely glancing at the content.
A fortysomething woman with red-dyed hair and paint-stained fingers signed while simultaneously sketching in the margins of her own notebook, not even looking at what she was agreeing to.
Three others signed in quick succession—faces Vera would struggle to remember later, background presence more than individuals.
Then it was Vera's turn.
She read the compact three times, journalist's eye scanning for concerning phrasing:
We, the undersigned descendants of those involved in the Ashwood proceedings of 1692, hereby acknowledge the historical harm perpetuated by our ancestral lines and commit ourselves to the work of reconciliation, understanding, and shared healing within this community during the designated ceremonial period of October 25-31, 2026.
Proceedings, not trials. Designated ceremonial period instead of visit. Within this community rather than about this history.
The language felt slippery, and Vera's instinct was to refuse. But everyone else had signed, and backing out now would mark her as difficult, close doors she needed to keep open.
She signed Vera Catherine Blackwell in her messy journalist's scrawl and handed the pen back to Ruth.
"Thank you." Ruth's smile widened fractionally. "With this, our ceremony formally begins. Welcome to Ashwood. Welcome home."
The temperature in the room dropped five degrees, and every window suddenly reflected the afternoon sun at an angle that made looking at them uncomfortable.
Vera told herself it was coincidence. Old buildings shifted. Light changed.
But her hand where she'd held the pen felt cold, and the ink on her signature seemed to pulse once before settling into ordinary black.
---
The building tour took thirty minutes and revealed nothing except how thoroughly prepared everything was.
Margaret led them through the first floor—exhibition hall with glass cases displaying trial documents that looked authentic enough to fool most people, artifacts that Vera itched to examine more closely, period clothing arranged on mannequins that seemed to watch them pass. The reading room held long wooden tables, a microfilm reader that belonged in a museum itself, and shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes.
"Our archives are available for research during your stay," Margaret explained in the quiet voice of career librarians everywhere. "Original documents require white gloves and supervision, but we have excellent photostats and digital scans for most materials."
"Including the trial records?" Vera asked.
"Of course."
"All twelve victims?"
Margaret's smile didn't flicker. "All documented individuals, yes."
Documented. Another careful word.
They climbed to the second floor—administrative offices, the ceremony hall they'd just left, and a locked door at the end of the hallway marked Staff Only - Structural Renovation.
"Third floor?" someone asked.
"Storage, primarily," Ruth answered. "Artifacts too fragile for regular display. The attic space isn't climate-controlled yet—a future project."
The woman with paint-stained fingers—Sienna, Vera remembered from the compact—paused at a portrait gallery lining the stairwell. Founding families, names engraved on small brass plaques. She touched the frame of one almost reverently.
"Elizabeth Warwick," she murmured. "My ancestor."
"The executioner's wife," Ruth said gently. "She kept remarkable journals. If you're interested, we have transcriptions in the archives."
Sienna's fingers lingered on the frame. "I'd like that."
Vera photographed the portraits with her phone, noting which families were represented. Blackwell. Hale. Stern. Proctor. Warwick. Ashford. Mercy. Seven family names. But Ruth had said twelve victims.
Discrepancy number two, Vera catalogued.
They descended to the basement last—mechanical room, additional storage, wooden shelves loaded with archival boxes. Normal basement except for the temperature, which should have been warmer than upstairs but somehow felt ten degrees colder.
Vera noticed Isaac pause near the back wall, head tilted like he was listening to something. His hand went to the silver cross at his throat.
"Dr. Hale?" Ruth's voice carried concern. "Are you alright?"
"Fine." He stepped back quickly. "Just felt... nothing. I'm fine."
But Vera saw him glance back at that wall three times before they climbed the stairs to leave.
---
The Blackwood Inn sat two blocks from the Historical Society, and it was exactly what Vera had expected: white clapboard colonial, black shutters, widow's walk, rocking chairs on the porch, hanging flower baskets with October mums, and a hand-painted sign that read Blackwood Inn - Est. 1702 - Lodging & Dining.
The woman who welcomed them at the door was sixty-ish, comfortable build, floral apron over jeans, and the kind of smile that made you think of fresh-baked cookies.
"Welcome, welcome!" She ushered them inside like gathering chicks. "I'm Elizabeth Ashford. You must be exhausted from traveling. Come in, I'll show you to your rooms, and dinner's at six—pot roast tonight, I hope everyone eats meat?"
The entry hall was narrow with steep stairs leading up, coat hooks on one wall, and an enormous mirror on the other that reflected the group entering in warped fish-eye perspective.
Vera caught her reflection and stopped.
For just a second—less than a second, a fraction of a moment—her reflection blinked a half-beat after she did.
She tested it. Blinked deliberately. Reflection matched perfectly.
Exhaustion, she told herself. Two nights of minimal sleep. Seeing things.
But she avoided looking at the mirror directly as Elizabeth led them upstairs.
Nine rooms, second floor, numbered but not named. Elizabeth distributed old-fashioned brass keys attached to wooden tags.
"Room One, Ms. Blackwell. Corner room, faces the common, lovely morning light."
Vera took the key. Heavy, solid, worn smooth by decades of use.
"Room Two, Dr. Hale. Right next door."
"Room Three, Ms. Stern. Quietest room, faces the woods."
Maya accepted her key with a smile that Vera suspected was requiring effort to maintain. First time away from her fiancé in months, probably. That diamond ring caught the hallway light like a promise.
"Room Four, Dr. Ashford—oh, no relation!" Elizabeth laughed. "Though wouldn't that be something? Room Five, Ms. Warwick. Room Six, Mr. Proctor."
Garrett took his key without comment, already checking his phone.
"Rooms Seven through Nine for our remaining guests," Elizabeth continued, distributing keys to the three descendants whose names Vera had already half-forgotten. They had the quality of people designed to blend into backgrounds—might be protection, might be insignificance. Time would tell.
"Dinner at six in the dining room, first floor," Elizabeth reminded them. "Bathroom at the end of the hall—shared, I'm afraid, original plumbing—and please let me know if you need anything at all."
Vera climbed to Room One, unlocked the door, and stepped into historical reproduction so thorough it verged on uncanny.
Four-poster bed with handmade quilt. Writing desk with oil lamp converted to electric. Armchair upholstered in fabric that looked colonial but couldn't be (too intact, too clean). Dresser. Window seat overlooking the common. Everything perfect. Everything too perfect.
She dropped her bag and immediately began testing: doorknob (turned smoothly), window (opened easily), walls (solid, no hollow sounds), floorboards (no creaking), electrical outlets (modern, hidden behind furniture). The room worked exactly as it should while feeling fundamentally wrong in a way she couldn't articulate.
Vera pulled out her laptop, opened her notes, and began typing.
Day 1, 3:47 PM. Blackwood Inn, Room 1.
Issues noted:- Compact language carefully vague ("proceedings," "ceremonial period," "within community")- Ruth claims twelve victims, memorial and family portraits suggest seven- Basement temperature anomaly- Isaac's reaction to basement wall (listening to something?)- Mirror in entry hall showed delayed reflection (possibly exhaustion-related, verify)- Town appears lived-in but no residents visible- Everything too well-preserved, too perfect, too prepared
Questions:- Where are the 300 claimed residents?- Why does official history say twelve but evidence points to seven?- What's behind "Staff Only" door on Historical Society second floor?- Why does this feel less like reconciliation and more like—
A knock on the door interrupted her.
Vera closed the laptop, opened the door.
Isaac stood in the hallway, still wearing his coat despite being inside, hands shoved in pockets.
"Did you feel it?" he asked quietly. "In the basement?"
"Feel what?"
"Something..." He hesitated, academic precision warring with instinct. "Wrong. Specifically wrong at that back wall."
Vera stepped into the hallway, lowered her voice. "What kind of wrong?"
"Like standing near a grave." Isaac's fingers worried at his cross. "My grandfather used to say certain places remembered suffering. I always thought he meant metaphorically."
"And now?"
"Now I think he meant geologically." Isaac's smile was strained. "Which sounds insane."
"Insane would be ignoring your instincts in a situation this controlled." Vera glanced down the hallway—empty, all doors closed—and continued carefully. "The compact we signed. Did the language bother you?"
"'Designated ceremonial period,'" Isaac quoted. "Why designate a specific week for reconciliation? Why not just 'during your visit'?"
"And 'within this community' instead of 'about this history.'"
They looked at each other, two strangers connected by suspicion and family shame.
"We should compare notes," Vera said. "After dinner?"
"After dinner," Isaac agreed. "My room or yours?"
"Yours. Mine might have—" Vera stopped, realized how paranoid it sounded. "Never mind. Yours."
But after Isaac returned to Room Two, Vera stood in her doorway for a full minute, studying the hallway. Nine rooms, nine descendants, all doors closed now. The runner carpet down the center was deep burgundy, and the walls were papered in a pattern that might have been flowers or might have been something else if you looked at it wrong.
At the far end of the hall, a sitting area held two uncomfortable-looking chairs and a fireplace that Vera suspected hadn't been lit in decades.
She started to close her door, then paused.
The mirror at the top of the stairs—smaller than the entry hall mirror, but same ornate brass frame—reflected the hallway behind her.
Vera turned to look down the hall. Empty.
Turned back to the mirror. In the reflection, for just a moment, she could have sworn she saw someone standing outside Room Three.
But when she looked directly, no one was there.
Exhaustion, she told herself again. Just exhaustion.
She closed and locked her door, then wedged the desk chair under the knob for good measure.
---
Dinner was pot roast and something wrong.
The dining room table sat twelve—exactly twelve, Vera noted—and tonight it held nine descendants plus Ruth, a man Vera hadn't been introduced to yet, and Elizabeth bustling between table and kitchen.
The man sat at Ruth's right hand, and the resemblance was subtle but present: same bone structure around the eyes, same way of holding stillness like a tool. Forty-something, fit in a runner's build sort of way, dressed in flannel and jeans but carrying himself with doctor-at-bedside professionalism.
"My son, Owen," Ruth introduced. "Our town's medical examiner and only physician. If anyone feels unwell during your stay, he's your resource."
Owen Mercy smiled warmly and shook hands around the table. His grip was professional, brief, and Vera felt him taking her pulse in that moment of contact.
"Just a precaution," he said, releasing her hand. "Historical emotional trauma can manifest physically—stress, insomnia, psychosomatic responses. I want everyone to feel supported."
Medical examiner, Vera filed away. For a town of 300 that probably sees one natural death every few months. Overstaffed or prepared for something else?
The pot roast was excellent. Tender meat, perfectly cooked vegetables, gravy with the right amount of salt. Elizabeth had clearly been cooking all day.
But there was an aftertaste.
Vera noticed it after the third bite—mineral, slightly metallic, like drinking water with too much iron. She sipped her water (same aftertaste) and watched the others. Maya frowned slightly after swallowing. Isaac reached for his water glass twice in quick succession. Even Garrett, who'd been eating with the efficient disregard of someone used to business dinners, paused and touched his tongue to his teeth like checking for something.
Only Ruth and Owen ate without reaction.
"How is everything?" Elizabeth emerged from the kitchen with fresh rolls.
"Delicious," Maya said, and meant it despite the aftertaste.
"Wonderful." Elizabeth beamed. "I use a very old recipe. Passed down through my family for generations. The secret is in the water—we have a natural spring on the property. Gives everything a distinctive character."
Spring water. That might explain the mineral taste. Except Vera had drunk spring water before, and it never left her mouth feeling coated.
Conversation drifted through comfortable getting-to-know-you territory. Maya taught second grade in Boston, loved it despite the challenges, was engaged (showed the ring, everyone admired it). The woman in the tailored blazer—Claire Ashford, no relation—worked in genetic research for a Boston biotech firm, specialized in inherited traits and epigenetics.
"Inherited traits," Garrett said with the flat affect of someone making conversation because required. "So you study whether we're doomed by our DNA."
"I study whether we can heal trauma encoded in our DNA." Claire's correction was precise. "There's emerging research suggesting extreme experiences can alter gene expression in ways that pass to offspring."
"Sins of the fathers," Isaac murmured.
"Biology of the fathers," Claire countered. "No moral component. Just chemistry and information transfer."
Sienna—the artist, Vera had learned—spent more time rearranging her food than eating it, drawing patterns in her mashed potatoes with her fork. Abstract spirals that Vera's pattern-recognition brain insisted meant something but couldn't decipher.
The three background descendants introduced themselves with the brevity of people who knew they wouldn't be remembered: Thomas worked in finance, the other two in various professional roles that blurred together the moment they finished speaking.
"And you, Ms. Blackwell?" Ruth's attention settled on Vera like a spotlight. "Your podcast—Rational Fear, correct? Debunking supernatural claims."
"Debunking fraudulent supernatural claims," Vera corrected. "There's a difference. I don't care if people believe in ghosts. I care when belief is weaponized for profit."
"A noble calling." Ruth's smile didn't change. "And have you ever encountered something you couldn't debunk?"
"Not yet."
"How wonderful." Ruth's tone suggested she found this delightful. "A true skeptic among us. That makes what you're about to experience all the more valuable."
What you're about to experience. Not what we're here to discuss or what we're commemorating. Something active. Something coming.
Vera met Ruth's eyes—grandmother-warm and ancient-knowing—and felt the first genuine spike of fear since arriving.
"The historical society archives are available starting tomorrow," Ruth continued, addressing the full table now. "We have a memorial service planned for Sunday at the Hanging Grounds. Monday, a community gathering. The week will be full but meaningful. And of course, you're free to explore the town, speak with residents, engage with our history in whatever way feels right."
"How many residents, exactly?" Garrett asked.
"Three hundred, give or take. Families have lived here for generations. We're quite close-knit."
"I haven't seen anyone," Garrett pressed. "Town looked empty when I drove through."
"Friday afternoon," Ruth said easily. "Most people are at work. You'll meet them soon enough."
But Vera had driven through at noon, and she'd seen no one either. A town of 300 should show signs of life—pedestrians, traffic, movement. Ashwood had felt preserved under glass.
The meal continued. Elizabeth brought out apple pie with ice cream. The aftertaste persisted through dessert, coating Vera's tongue with minerals and something else she couldn't name.
As plates were cleared, Owen stood.
"I'd like to do quick health checks on everyone, if you don't mind. Just basic vitals—blood pressure, temperature. Making sure the travel stress hasn't taken a physical toll." His smile was professionally reassuring. "Won't take more than five minutes each. We can use the parlor, and I'll start with whoever's willing."
Maya volunteered first, followed by Thomas. One by one, the descendants filed into the front parlor for examination.
When it was Vera's turn, Owen had her sit in the wing chair by the cold fireplace and wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her arm.
"Any dizziness? Nausea? Headache?"
"No."
"Sleep well last night?"
"Well enough." Lie. She'd slept maybe four hours, most of it fractured by research anxiety.
The cuff tightened, released. Owen noted numbers in a small leather notebook.
"Pulse is elevated," he observed. "But that's normal for travel stress. Any unusual symptoms? Anything at all that feels off?"
Vera thought about the mirror. The aftertaste. The basement cold. Isaac's reaction to the wall.
"Just tired," she said.
Owen smiled and released her arm. "That's to be expected. If anything changes—insomnia, unusual dreams, any physical discomfort—please let me know immediately. Historical trauma can manifest in surprising ways."
He was watching her too closely. Taking her measure. And Vera realized with cold certainty that this wasn't a health check.
It was a baseline. Documentation of their state before something happened.
"Of course," she said, and left the parlor feeling like she'd just been catalogued.
---
By nine PM, Vera was alone in Room One with the door locked and the chair wedged under the knob and her laptop open to notes that were starting to read like conspiracy theory.
She'd tested the room's boundaries: door opened from inside (chair moved easily), window opened onto a ten-foot drop to garden beds (survivable if necessary, but injury likely), walls solid, floor solid, no obvious surveillance equipment though she'd checked.
The building settled around her with the sounds old structures made—creaking joints, expanding wood, the percussion of age. Normal sounds. Except they had rhythm. Almost like breathing.
Vera closed the laptop, moved to the window seat, looked out at Ashwood common.
Streetlights glowed amber around the gazebo. No cars moved on the streets. No lights in windows across the common except the Historical Society—third floor, where Ruth had said was just storage.
The light moved.
Vera watched it travel from one third-floor window to another, then disappear.
Someone's up there, she thought. In the storage that's supposedly closed.
She was reaching for her phone to photograph it when the sound started.
Faint. So faint she thought it was her imagination at first.
Humming.
Low-frequency, almost subsonic, felt more than heard. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere—the walls, the floor, the air itself.
Vera stood, pressed her ear to the wall. Louder there. Definitely louder.
She pressed her hand flat against the plaster.
The wall was warm.
And underneath her palm, she felt it: vibration. Rhythmic. Like the building had a pulse.
The humming continued, and now that she was listening, really listening, it had pattern. Almost musical. Almost like words if you knew how to hear them.
Vera jerked her hand back, heart hammering.
Old building, she told herself. Pipes. Heating system. Underground water. Something normal.
But the humming didn't stop, and when she checked her phone to record it, the audio captured nothing but her own breathing.
The sound existed, but only for her ears.
Or maybe not just hers. Down the hall, she heard a door open. Footsteps in the hallway. A quiet knock, and Maya's voice: "Isaac? Are you awake? Do you hear it too?"
Vera cracked her door open. Isaac stood in the hallway in pajamas and his grandfather's cross, hair disheveled. Maya wore an oversized t-shirt and leggings, arms wrapped around herself.
"The humming?" Vera asked quietly.
They both nodded.
Three rooms down, another door opened. Sienna emerged, eyes unfocused, moving like sleepwalking. She walked past them to the hallway mirror and stood there, staring at her reflection.
"Sienna?" Maya approached carefully. "Are you okay?"
Sienna raised one hand and pressed it to the mirror. Her reflection pressed back, and for just a moment—less than a heartbeat—Vera could have sworn the reflection moved first.
Then Sienna blinked, awareness returning. "I'm sorry. I was... I don't know. I thought I heard music."
"We all heard it," Isaac said.
Four of them stood in the second-floor hallway at nine-thirty on an October night, listening to a sound that shouldn't exist.
The humming continued, low and patient and somehow hungry.
"Should we tell Ruth?" Maya asked.
"No." Vera's journalist instinct kicked in hard. "Not yet. Let's see if it continues."
They stood together for another five minutes. The humming persisted, and slowly, other doors opened. Claire emerged, then Garrett, then Thomas. All eight descendants eventually gathered in the hallway, connected by a sound only they could hear.
Only Elizabeth's door at the end of the hall—the innkeeper's private quarters—remained closed.
"Old building sounds," Garrett said finally, forcing confidence into his voice. "Pipes. Wind. Something normal."
No one believed him, but everyone wanted to.
One by one, they returned to their rooms. Vera was the last to close her door, and she stood there listening until the humming finally faded around midnight.
But it didn't stop. It just became quiet enough to ignore.
And in the silence that followed, Vera heard something else: footsteps on the stairs. Descending.
She cracked her door again, looked down the hall.
Ruth stood at the top of the stairs, fully dressed despite the late hour, watching the hallway of closed doors with an expression Vera couldn't read in the dim emergency lighting.
Their eyes met.
Ruth smiled, nodded once, and descended.
Vera locked her door, wedged the chair back under the knob, and didn't sleep at all that night.
---
In Ruth's private office on the Historical Society's third floor, she updated the handwritten ledger by lamplight.
October 25 - Day One
All nine assembled. Compact signed without resistance. Blackwood Inn orientation complete. Initial catalyst administered via evening meal (all consumed adequate amounts). Dr. Mercy confirmed baseline vitals for comparison tracking.
Early responses documented:- Auditory phenomenon (marrow song) manifesting for multiple descendants- Blackwell, Hale, Stern demonstrating high sensitivity (as expected given bloodline potency)- Warwick showing unconscious channeling (artistic compulsion already activating)- Proctor resisting acknowledgment (typical defensive response)- Ashford maintaining scientific detachment (will be useful for documentation)
Physical symptoms beginning (bone ache, sleep disruption, elevated stress markers).
Projection: Transformation should begin presenting by Day 3-4. Full manifestation by Day 6-7. Well within acceptable timeline.
The boundary is holding. Geography stable. Communication channels monitored. No external interference anticipated.
Ruth closed the ledger and moved to the window overlooking the common. Nine lights glowed in the Blackwood Inn's second-floor windows. Nine descendants lying awake or fitfully sleeping, hearing the song that had called them home.
She'd done this four times now—1759, 1826, 1893, 1960. Each cycle refined. Each generation bringing new challenges and new variations. This seventh generation showed promise: diverse bloodlines, strong genetic markers, good physical health, intellectual capacity.
Some would resist. They always did. Blackwell especially—the skeptic, the investigator, the one who needed to understand before she could accept. Ruth respected that. Made the eventual transformation more meaningful.
Some would accept. Warwick was already halfway there, artistic soul recognizing the creative transcendence waiting in integration.
And some would try to escape. They always tried. That was part of the process too—the struggle made the harvest richer.
But this time, Ruth was determined, none would succeed.
Four transformations from previous cycles. Seven from 1692 still singing in their alcoves. Add seven from this generation—maybe all nine if the progression went smoothly—and they'd have enough vessels to strengthen the anchor for another 175 years.
The blood remembered. The marrow sang. The cycle continued.
Outside, October wind moved through Ashwood's old-growth trees, and if you knew how to listen, you could hear the song they carried: ancient, patient, hungry.
Ruth smiled, turned off the lamp, and descended to her quarters.
Day One complete. Six days remaining.
Everything was proceeding exactly as it should.