Journal Entry – December 5, 1871
Another guest is missing.
Mr. Thorne — the banker — left his boots by the fire, his papers neatly tucked beneath the bed, his coat folded with care. But he is gone. The others don’t remember him. When I said his name, Mrs. Crane only smiled politely, as though I’d mentioned a stranger who passed by once in summer.
The fog led me to the well.
I should have turned back.
The water was too still — no wind, no ripple, no echo of my reflection. Only blackness. When I leaned closer, my breath stirred the surface… and beneath it, I saw his face rise from the dark, distorted and reaching.
I stepped back.
The water stilled instantly, as though ashamed.
The mark on my arm flared once — a pulse of heat that felt almost like a greeting.
I don’t know who whispered “thank you,”
but I know it wasn’t me.