The Silent TownShaina TranquilinoSeptember 14, 2024

The Silent Town Shaina Tranquilino September 14, 2024

The traveler came upon the town at dusk, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and purple. He had been on the road for days, weary from his journey and looking for a place to rest. The town, nestled between two hills and surrounded by a forest, seemed like the perfect refuge. A thin mist clung to the cobblestone streets, softening the edges of the world, and the houses were old but well-kept, their windows dark and empty.

He wandered into the heart of the town, expecting the usual hum of activity—a shopkeeper sweeping the sidewalk, children laughing, the murmur of conversation. Instead, the town was silent.

The traveler frowned, feeling an unsettling stillness in the air. He saw people—dozens of them—standing in front of their homes or sitting on porches. They watched him with blank, almost expectant expressions, but no one greeted him. No one spoke. There were no footsteps, no whispers, not even the rustle of fabric as they moved. It was as if the town held its breath.

He approached an old woman sitting on a bench, her eyes fixed on him. "Excuse me," he said. "Can you tell me where I might find an inn?"

The woman only stared, her lips pressed into a tight line. The traveler waited, expecting her to speak, but she remained silent. He glanced around, noticing the other townsfolk had turned their heads toward him, all with the same vacant, unmoving expressions. A chill ran down his spine.

Something was wrong.

"Is there an inn?" he asked again, louder this time, hoping someone—anyone—would respond. But the silence was absolute.

His footsteps echoed unnaturally loud as he made his way deeper into the town. He spotted a faded sign swinging gently in the breeze that read, The Weary Traveler. Relieved, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The inn's common room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth barely flickering. A tall man stood behind the counter, his face gaunt, his eyes sunken but alert. The traveler approached.

"I need a room for the night," he said, his voice tentative now.

The innkeeper didn’t speak, merely nodded and handed him a key, his hands trembling slightly. The traveler accepted it, watching the man closely. There was a strange sadness in his eyes, a weariness that seemed deeper than exhaustion.

"What is wrong with this town?" the traveler asked. "Why won't anyone speak?"

The innkeeper flinched, his face paling. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but he quickly shut it, glancing nervously around the room. Without another word, he turned away, retreating into a back room.

The traveler felt a creeping unease. He climbed the stairs to his room, the silence thick around him. When he reached his door, he heard something—a faint whisper, barely audible, coming from behind him. He turned, but the hallway was empty. The sound wasn’t quite human. It was as though the air itself was whispering.

Inside the room, he locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to shake the growing sense of dread. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps a religious vow or a tradition he didn’t understand.

As he lay in the dark, sleep came slowly, interrupted by uneasy dreams of shadowy figures watching him with hollow eyes, their mouths open in silent screams.

The next morning, the traveler set out to find answers. He wandered through the quiet streets, the townspeople still watching him in silence. He tried to speak to several of them—children, shopkeepers, even a priest standing outside a small chapel—but none of them made a sound.

Finally, he found himself in front of the town’s only church, an old stone building with a tall, weathered bell tower. Something about it drew him in. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.

The interior was dim, the only light coming from a few flickering candles. At the far end of the room, a single figure knelt before the altar—an elderly man dressed in a long, tattered robe. He didn’t turn as the traveler approached.

"Are you the priest?" the traveler asked, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Do you know why no one here will speak?"

The man didn’t answer, but he rose slowly to his feet. His movements were stiff, as though he hadn’t moved in years. He turned, revealing a face lined with age and sorrow. His eyes, like the innkeeper’s, held a deep sadness.

"They cannot speak," the priest said at last, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. "Not anymore."

The traveler’s heart quickened. "Why?"

The priest’s gaze drifted to the altar, where an ancient, worn book lay open. "A long time ago, this town made a pact. A bargain with something... not of this world. The harvests had failed. The children were sick. People were desperate. A creature came to them in the night, offering salvation."

The traveler felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "What did it ask in return?"

The priest’s voice trembled. "Their voices. Their words. The people would never speak again, but in exchange, the town would prosper. The crops grew rich, the sickness vanished, and the town thrived."

"But at what cost?" the traveler asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"The creature feeds on their silence. It lingers in the shadows, watching, waiting. If anyone breaks the silence—if they utter even a single word—the creature returns. It takes more than just their voice."

The traveler stepped back, horror dawning in his mind. "How do you speak, then?"

"I am the last who remembers," the priest said, his voice fading. "But my time is ending. Soon, I will be silent too."

The traveler turned to leave, but something stopped him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow shift in the far corner of the room. It was darker than the rest of the room, a shape that didn’t belong, and as he looked at it, the air around him seemed to thicken.

The priest's voice was barely a whisper now. "You must leave. Before it knows you’ve heard."

But it was too late.

The shadow moved, stretching toward him with unnatural speed. The traveler ran, his heart pounding, the silent screams of the town echoing in his mind. He fled the church, down the cobblestone streets, and into the woods, not daring to look back.

Behind him, the town remained still and silent. Forever cursed, forever watched, bound to their pact with the darkness that thrived in their silence.

The Midnight Library Shaina Tranquilino September 12, 2024

In the heart of a forgotten town, where the streets whispered secrets and the wind carried the scent of old memories, stood a library unlike any other. Its doors, carved from dark mahogany and etched with ancient symbols, only creaked open at the stroke of midnight. The townsfolk called it The Midnight Library, a place spoken of in hushed tones, where the brave—or the foolish—ventured in search of forbidden knowledge.

Rumours swirled that the library's shelves were filled with books that foretold the future. Some claimed to have seen visions of their destiny unfold between the pages, while others spoke of ominous warnings best left unread. But no one could resist the pull of curiosity for long.

Ethan Caldwell had heard the stories all his life, passed down from his grandfather who had once dared to cross the threshold. The old man had returned with wild eyes and a shaking hand, clutching a small, leather-bound book. He had never spoken of what he saw, but Ethan knew the terror in his grandfather’s eyes had come from that place. Yet, on the night of his twenty-ninth birthday, with the weight of unsolved mysteries pressing on his shoulders, Ethan found himself standing before the library.

The clock tower in the distance chimed midnight, each strike reverberating through the deserted streets. The doors of the library groaned open, revealing a dimly lit interior. Ethan hesitated for a moment, the air thick with anticipation, before stepping inside.

The air was cool, filled with the musty scent of ancient pages. Shelves towered above him, lined with books of every shape and size. Some were bound in rich leather, others in cracked, faded covers. There was no librarian in sight, no one to guide him. The library seemed to breathe, alive with the secrets it held.

Drawn by an invisible force, Ethan wandered deeper into the labyrinth of books. His fingers trailed across spines as he passed, feeling the pulse of the future within them. Then, as if guided by fate, his hand stopped on a book that seemed to glow with a faint, eerie light. It was unremarkable in appearance, a simple black cover with no title. But when Ethan opened it, he saw his name etched on the first page.

His heart raced as he flipped through the pages, each one filled with his life story. There were moments he recognized, memories that seemed distant yet vivid on the paper. But as he reached the final chapters, his breath caught in his throat. The words told of a future he had not yet lived, a future that seemed to be set in stone.

The book spoke of a night not far from now, where Ethan would find himself alone in his home, a storm raging outside. The lights would flicker, the windows rattling with the force of the wind. And then, as the storm reached its peak, a shadowy figure would emerge from the darkness, a figure Ethan would recognize as his own reflection. But this reflection would not be him—it would be something darker, a twisted version of himself, come to claim his life.

Ethan slammed the book shut, his hands trembling. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, his breath shallow and quick. The prophecy was clear—he was destined to die by his own hand, or rather, by the hand of a version of himself that had been corrupted by something evil, something he couldn’t yet understand.

He stumbled out of the library, the book still clutched in his hand. The doors slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the night. As Ethan fled home, the book’s words burned in his mind. Was this his fate? Was there no way to escape the future that had been written for him?

Days passed, each one filled with a growing sense of dread. Ethan became obsessed with the book, reading and rereading the prophecy, searching for any detail that could change his fate. He stopped sleeping, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. He avoided mirrors, fearing the moment when his reflection would turn against him.

Then, on a stormy night, just as the book had foretold, Ethan found himself alone in his home. The wind howled outside, the lights flickering ominously. He felt a chill creep down his spine as the shadows in his home seemed to lengthen and twist, taking on a life of their own.

And then, in the dim light of his living room, he saw it—his reflection in the window. But it wasn’t him. The figure stared back with hollow eyes, a sinister smile playing on its lips. It moved when he didn’t, tilting its head as if mocking him.

“No,” Ethan whispered, backing away. “This can’t be real.”

But the figure stepped closer, emerging from the glass as if it were stepping through a doorway. It was him, yet not him—an embodiment of every dark thought, every fear he had ever harbored.

“You can’t change what’s written,” the doppelgänger whispered, its voice a twisted echo of Ethan’s own. “The future is set. The book never lies.”

Ethan’s mind raced, desperate to find a way out. But the prophecy had already begun to unfold, and he realized with horror that every action he took only brought him closer to the inevitable.

As the figure lunged, Ethan closed his eyes, bracing for the end. But in that final moment, a thought struck him—what if the book was wrong? What if the future wasn’t set in stone?

With a surge of defiance, Ethan reached for the book, still lying on the table where he had left it. He tore it open to the final page, where the prophecy ended, and with a shaking hand, he grabbed a pen. As the doppelgänger loomed over him, Ethan began to write, scrawling new words over the old ones, changing the story.

The figure paused, its form wavering, as if reality itself was unraveling. Ethan wrote furiously, his heart pounding in his chest. He wrote of a different ending, one where he survived, where he defeated the dark version of himself.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm outside died down. The figure let out a final, piercing scream before it dissolved into shadows, vanishing into the night. The room was silent, save for Ethan’s ragged breathing.

He dropped the pen, staring at the book in his hands. The pages were filled with his own messy handwriting, a new story written over the old. He had changed his fate, rewritten his future.

As the first light of dawn crept through the windows, Ethan knew that The Midnight Library had given him not just a glimpse of the future, but the power to change it. He had confronted his darkest fears and emerged victorious. But the memory of that night would linger, a reminder of the thin line between destiny and choice.

And somewhere, deep within the shadows of the forgotten town, The Midnight Library waited for its next visitor, the doors silently creaking open as the clock struck midnight.

The Secret Garden Shaina Tranquilino September 15, 2024

Isla had always been a curious girl, the kind whose boundless curiosity led her to places no one else dared to go. On a crisp autumn afternoon, she wandered far beyond the old churchyard, through the woods, until she stumbled upon something peculiar—an iron gate, half-buried in brambles. It was strange; she had played in these woods for years, yet she had never seen this gate before.

A gentle breeze seemed to beckon her. Isla pushed aside the overgrown vines and felt a strange chill as her fingers touched the cold, rusty bars. With a creak, the gate opened, revealing a hidden path that wound deeper into the forest. Compelled by an unspoken force, Isla followed it, until the trees parted, and there it was—the garden.

It was unlike any place she had ever seen. The garden lay in the middle of a sun-dappled clearing, surrounded by ancient stone walls that were far too old to belong to any house still standing. But it wasn’t the isolation of the garden that made Isla’s breath catch in her throat. It was the flowers.

They bloomed in colours Isla had never imagined—unnatural shades of deep violet, shimmering silver, and hues that seemed to change depending on how the light hit them. Their petals moved, though no wind stirred. Each flower seemed to pulse with life, as if they were breathing. And the fragrance—sweet and intoxicating, yet heavy, like old secrets clinging to the air.

She knelt beside a midnight-blue rose, the darkest of all, drawn to it by a strange compulsion. The moment she touched it, a whisper filled her ears.

"The child in the river... she was pushed."

Isla snatched her hand away, her heart racing. She looked around, expecting to see someone standing behind her, but the garden was still. Her fingers tingled where they had touched the rose, and the whispered words echoed in her mind. She remembered the old town legend about a young girl who had drowned in the river fifty years ago. Everyone said it was an accident. But now... Isla wasn’t so sure.

Her eyes scanned the other flowers, a gnawing feeling growing in her chest. One flower for one secret.

A few feet away stood a tall, silver lily, its petals gleaming in the sunlight. She hesitated, but her curiosity overpowered her fear. As she stroked the petal, a new voice emerged, soft but unmistakable.

"The baker never acted alone."

Isla gasped. There had been whispers in town for years about Mr. Hobbs, the town's kindly old baker, who had disappeared one winter’s night. The rumour was that he had been involved in something shady, but no one knew the truth. The flowers did.

She stood, trembling, unsure if she should continue. Each flower represented a secret, a piece of the town’s dark past that had been buried, forgotten—until now. She looked down at a cluster of blood-red carnations. Did she want to know more? Did she dare?

Against her better judgment, she touched another flower.

"They buried him beneath the willow tree."

The voice was cold, filled with malice. It chilled her blood. Isla knew which willow tree it meant. The ancient one that stood on the edge of town, where people left offerings for good fortune. Was someone buried there? Who?

Panic set in. This garden was no ordinary place; it was a tomb for the town’s sins. And the flowers, beautiful and haunting, were keepers of those sins. She stumbled back, desperate to leave, but as she turned, her foot caught on something—a small, marble plaque hidden beneath the ivy. Brushing the leaves aside, she read the engraving:

"For those who carry the weight of truth."

Isla’s breath hitched. The whispers weren’t just telling her secrets—they were pulling her into them. With each truth she uncovered, she felt the weight of it press against her heart. It was as if the garden demanded she carry the burden of the town's past, as if the flowers were sowing their secrets into her very soul.

A rustling noise caught her attention. The flowers seemed to sway toward her, their colours darkening as if they were feeding on the very air she breathed. She needed to leave—now.

She bolted toward the gate, but her path was no longer clear. Vines had twisted together, blocking her way. The more she fought, the tighter they seemed to grow. Panic surged through her chest. The garden didn’t want her to leave.

"She knows too much," the wind seemed to whisper.

With one final, desperate tug, Isla broke free from the vines and burst through the gate. She ran, heart pounding, until she was far from the garden, far from the whispers. Only when she reached the safety of her home did she stop, collapsing onto her bed in a breathless heap.

That night, Isla dreamed of the garden. The flowers spoke to her in her sleep, their secrets curling around her like smoke. She woke in a cold sweat, a feeling of dread weighing on her.

The next day, she tried to tell someone about what she had seen, but no words would come. It was as if the garden had stolen her voice. And deep inside her, she felt something shifting. The secrets she had touched, they weren’t gone. They were alive inside her, growing, festering like the flowers in that cursed garden.

As the days passed, the whispers followed her, haunting her every step. The more she tried to forget, the more they clung to her. It became clear—she had carried the truth out of the garden, and now it was hers to bear. The garden had chosen her.

And so, Isla became the keeper of the town’s darkest secrets, just as the plaque had warned. She could never go back to the garden, nor could she forget it. But she knew that someday, someone else would stumble upon the iron gate, curious and unsuspecting, and the garden would bloom again.

And the flowers—those beautiful, cursed flowers—would whisper their secrets to a new soul, just as they had to hers.

The Forgotten Photograph Shaina Tranquilino September 3, 2024

The small, cluttered studio had the scent of chemicals and dust, a familiar blend that clung to the air as Cole Huber worked in the darkroom. The soft red light bathed the space in an eerie glow, casting long shadows as he meticulously developed a roll of film he’d discovered in an old, boxy camera.

The camera had been a forgotten relic from an estate sale, a clunky thing of metal and leather that caught Cole 's eye. It was the kind of piece that hinted at history, at stories long past, and he couldn’t resist adding it to his collection. The roll of film inside was a surprise, a forgotten memory waiting to be unveiled. Curiosity pushed him to develop it, to see what secrets the film held.

As the images began to take shape in the developing tray, Cole's casual interest turned to confusion, and then to a creeping unease. The photographs were clear, well-composed, capturing a sequence of events that seemed almost surreal. They showed an old house, nestled deep within a dense forest, the kind of place where silence hung heavy and time seemed to stand still. The house was unfamiliar, yet something about it tugged at the edges of his memory, a vague sensation that he should know it.

The first few images were unremarkable—shots of the house’s exterior, a wide front porch, a cracked windowpane. But as the sequence continued, the tone of the photographs shifted. The next image was of a woman, standing in the doorway, her face half-hidden in shadow. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes dark pools that seemed to stare directly into the camera—directly at him.

Cole frowned, peering closer at the developing image. The woman’s face was hauntingly familiar, yet he couldn’t place her. She seemed out of time, her clothes vintage, her hair pinned up in a style that belonged to another era.

He moved on to the next photograph, and his heart skipped a beat. The woman was now standing in the middle of a room—an old parlor, perhaps—holding something in her hands. It was the same camera that Cole had bought, the one he now held in his hands. The realization sent a chill down his spine. How could this be? He stared at the image, trying to make sense of it, but there was no explanation that came to mind.

The subsequent images grew stranger. In one, the woman appeared to be speaking to someone just out of frame, her face twisted in a look of anguish. Another showed a figure—a man, his features blurred and indistinct, like a shadow—standing in the corner of the room, watching her.

The final photograph made Cole's breath catch in his throat. The woman was lying on the floor, the camera still clutched in her hands, her eyes wide open and staring, but lifeless. The shadowy figure loomed over her, its form now clearer but still impossible to fully discern. The image was grainy, as if time itself had frayed the edges, but the horror it captured was palpable.

Cole stumbled back from the developing tray, his mind reeling. This wasn’t possible. He had never taken these photographs, never been to the house in the images, and yet… they were undeniably real. He could feel the weight of the camera in his hands, its leather strap cool against his skin, the very same camera from the photographs.

His thoughts spiraled as he tried to comprehend what he had seen. The woman, the house, the shadowy figure—they were all fragments of a nightmare he had never had, yet one that seemed deeply familiar. He felt an inexplicable connection to the events, as if he had been there, as if he had witnessed it all… but had somehow forgotten.

A sudden, sharp knock on the studio door jolted him from his thoughts. Cole turned, his heart pounding, but the knock was not repeated. The silence in the studio was deafening, pressing in on him from all sides. He hesitated, then moved towards the door, his steps slow, as if he were moving through water. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob, but when he opened it, the hallway outside was empty.

His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of movement, but there was nothing. Just the empty, dimly lit corridor.

He closed the door, his breath unsteady, and turned back to the darkroom. The photographs were still there, hanging to dry, each one a piece of a puzzle he couldn’t solve. The woman’s lifeless eyes seemed to follow him, accusing, pleading.

Cole knew he needed answers. He grabbed the camera, turning it over in his hands, searching for some clue. There was an engraving on the bottom, worn and nearly illegible, but as he tilted it towards the light, the words became clear: "Property of C. Huber."

His own name.

The world seemed to tilt, his vision narrowing as a rush of memories flooded his mind. The house, the woman, the shadowy figure… he had been there. He had taken those photographs. But the memory was fragmented, like a dream slipping away upon waking. He remembered the woman’s name—Lynne. His wife. His heart ached with a pain that felt both ancient and fresh, a wound reopened after years of being buried.

But the shadow, the figure in the photographs… that was the part that didn’t make sense. He couldn’t remember its face, couldn’t remember what it was. But he knew it was important, knew that it was the key to everything.

The camera felt heavy in his hands, and as he looked at it, he felt a pull, a compulsion to return to that house, to find it again. It was as if the camera itself was guiding him, urging him to uncover the truth.

With a final glance at the photographs, Cole made his decision. He packed his bag, the camera carefully placed inside, and left the studio. The answers were out there, waiting in the shadows of his forgotten past. And he would find them, no matter the cost.

As he stepped out into the night, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the echoes of a forgotten photograph—a moment in time that was never meant to be remembered, yet demanded to be uncovered.

The Lighthouse Keeper's Log Shaina Tranquilino September 22, 2024

Day 1 The sea is restless tonight. Waves crash against the rocks below, and the wind howls through the lighthouse, rattling the windows. There’s a fog rolling in, thick and suffocating. I can barely see past the edge of the cliff, and yet… there it is again. A light. Flickering, out on the horizon.

It’s faint, but unmistakable. A ship, perhaps, though no vessel should be this far north in this weather. I’ve sent out the usual signal—no response. Odd. But perhaps they’re just out of range. I’ll keep watch through the night.

Day 3 The light returned again last night. I’m beginning to doubt my senses. It moves, not like a ship, but with a strange, deliberate rhythm. It disappears beneath the waves, only to reappear moments later, closer. I watched it for hours, mesmerized, trying to understand what I was seeing.

I reported the sighting to the mainland, but the response was dismissive. “No known ships in the area,” they said. “Possibly a trick of the light.” A trick of the light. Am I imagining it?

Tonight, I will keep detailed notes on its movements. Something is out there. I can feel it.

Day 5 I’ve barely slept. The light comes each night, always at the same time, always in the same place. Tonight, it was closer than before—too close. The rhythm has become more erratic, almost like it’s… signaling.

I know how this sounds, but I swear the light is alive. It’s watching me. Waiting.

I’ve started hearing things, too. Strange sounds beneath the crash of the waves. A low hum, like a voice just out of earshot, whispering through the fog. I’m not sure what it’s saying, but it fills me with a dread I can’t shake.

I tried to ignore it, to focus on my duties, but my mind keeps drifting back to the sea, to the light. I feel as though something is calling me. I must stay vigilant. I mustn’t let it draw me in.

Day 7 I saw it clearly tonight. Not a ship. Not a flare. Something else. Something unnatural.

It rose from the depths, a glowing orb, hovering just above the water’s surface. The light it emitted wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen—pale and cold, with an otherworldly sheen. It pulsed slowly, in time with my heartbeat, or so it seemed. For a moment, I was frozen, unable to look away.

Then, I heard the sound again. Louder this time. A voice, no longer a whisper. It spoke my name.

I ran inside, bolted the door, and shut all the windows, but I could still feel it. Watching. Waiting.

Day 9 I dreamt of the sea last night. Dark and endless, stretching out in every direction. The light was there, beneath the surface, pulling me down. I woke gasping for air, drenched in sweat.

I can’t shake the feeling that the light is getting closer each night. There’s a madness creeping into my mind, twisting my thoughts, making me doubt what’s real and what isn’t. I’ve tried to contact the mainland again, but the radio is dead. The storm last night must’ve damaged the lines. I am utterly alone out here.

I’ve started keeping the lantern lit at all times, but it does nothing to ease my fear. The light outside grows stronger. It’s as if it’s challenging me.

Day 11 It spoke again tonight. Louder this time. Clearer. Not my name, but something else. Words I didn’t understand, but they echoed in my mind long after the sound faded.

I went outside, against my better judgment, to face it. The fog was thick, but the light cut through, illuminating the shore in that same eerie glow. It was waiting for me, just beyond the rocks.

I called out to it—demanded to know what it wanted. No answer. Just that same pulsing light, drawing me in.

It wants me to follow. I know this now.

I’m losing my grip on reality. I can feel it, slipping through my fingers like sand. But I have to know. I have to understand what it is.

Day 13 The light is in my dreams now, constant and unyielding. It’s no longer content to stay on the horizon. Last night, it hovered just outside the lighthouse, bathing the walls in its cold glow.

I couldn’t help myself. I went outside again, to the edge of the cliff. The waves crashed below, and there, in the water, it waited. But it wasn’t alone this time. Shapes moved beneath the surface—dark, sinuous forms, circling the light like moths to a flame.

I stood there for what felt like hours, watching them. Watching it.

I could hear the voice again, louder than ever, and for the first time, I understood. “Come.” That’s what it was saying. “Come.”

Day 14 I’m not sure how much longer I can resist.

The light calls to me, day and night. I hear it even when I’m inside, whispering through the walls, through my thoughts. It promises answers, secrets hidden beneath the waves. I am so close now, I can feel it. The truth, just beyond my reach.

But the cost… I fear what it will demand of me. My mind, my soul, my very being. It would be so easy to give in. So easy to let go.

I must stay strong. I mustn’t follow. But the light, it’s always there, waiting, watching.

Day 15 This will be my final entry.

I’ve made my decision. The light will not be denied, and I no longer have the strength to fight it. I’ve seen what lies beneath the waves, and it is beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful.

There are things in this world, in this universe, that we were never meant to understand. I know this now. But the light has chosen me. It wants me to see.

I will go to it tonight, to the edge of the sea. To the place where the land meets the water, and the sky meets the depths. I will follow the light, wherever it leads.

And when the fog rolls in, when the tide pulls me under, I will finally know the truth.

The lighthouse was found abandoned the next day. The keeper's boat was missing, though no sign of it or him was ever discovered. The logs remain, his final words a mystery, unsolved and whispered about by those who dare to keep watch at the edge of the world.

The Vanished Bride Shaina Tranquilino September 16, 2024

The story of my mother’s disappearance had become the stuff of legend in our small town. She vanished on her wedding day, slipping away from the reception like a shadow, leaving behind a confused husband and a lifetime of questions. I was only a baby, cradled in her arms during the ceremony. For years, people whispered about her—some saying she’d run away, others that something more sinister had occurred.

Growing up, my father never spoke of her. The wedding photos were removed from the house, her belongings stored in dusty boxes in the attic. I was raised by my father and grandmother, two ghosts who pretended the past was a forgotten dream. But it wasn’t forgotten. Not by me.

On the day of my twenty-first birthday, I found the letters.

It was a stormy night, and the attic had always held a strange pull for me. My father was out of town on business, and the house was eerily quiet, save for the rain tapping against the windows. I climbed the creaky stairs and sifted through the old boxes until I found one with her name on it: Presley Beckford.

I hesitated before opening it. The scent of aged paper and lavender lingered in the air as I carefully pulled out an old bridal veil, brittle with age, and a stack of yellowed envelopes tied with a faded ribbon. They were addressed to my mother in handwriting I didn’t recognize, and each one was dated a week before her wedding day.

I untied the ribbon and began reading.

The first letter was brief: “My dearest Presley, I know you love him, but you cannot marry him. There are things you don’t understand, things that would ruin you if they came to light. Meet me at the old chapel before it’s too late.”

It was signed only with the initials J.H.

The letters that followed grew more frantic. Whoever J.H. was, they were desperate for her to call off the wedding, warning her of secrets hidden in my father’s past. He spoke of betrayals, of dangerous lies, of a promise broken long ago. I couldn’t reconcile the man in these letters with the father I’d known my whole life. But the final letter was the one that stopped my heart.

“Presley, If you go through with this, everything will fall apart. I have done everything I can to protect you, but I can no longer stay silent. I know you’ve kept our daughter’s birth a secret from him, but soon the truth will come out. Please meet me tonight at the chapel. This is our last chance to escape.”

I dropped the letter, my hands trembling. Our daughter? I was born before the wedding? My father wasn’t my father?

The pieces began to fit together in a sickening clarity. My mother hadn’t simply vanished on her wedding day—she had run. But not alone.

I rushed to the old chapel on the outskirts of town, my heart pounding. It had long been abandoned, overgrown with ivy and forgotten by time. I pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the scent of damp stone and decay filling the air.

There, in the flickering light of my flashlight, I found an inscription etched into the stone wall behind the altar: “Presley Beckford, 1972-1995. May you rest in peace.”

A chill ran through me. I knelt, brushing away the dirt, revealing a hidden compartment in the floor. Inside, I found a small box. Inside that box was a photo—my mother, standing beside a man who wasn’t my father. J.H., I realized. The letters had been from him, my real father.

I pieced together the truth that had been buried for so long. My mother had fled the wedding to be with the man she truly loved—the man she had already had me with. But something had gone wrong. Perhaps they had been caught. Perhaps my father, the man who had raised me, had discovered the truth.

And in that moment, I knew—she hadn’t just disappeared. She had been silenced.

The letters had led me here, to her final resting place, hidden in plain sight.

I left the chapel, the rain washing away my tears. The truth had been uncovered, but justice was still waiting.

I would make sure it found its way.