large_Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

medium_Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

small_Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

thumbnail_Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

Red Green Gift Time Facebook Ad (2).webp

Novelo Rectangle

&nbsp;The frozen lake cracked beneath his feet and every fibre of his being stopped dead. The breath in his lungs stilled, his heart even halted the pumping of blood. Would she have heard him?In his mind’s eye Stephen fancied pallid skin twitched and indigo eyelids shuddered into wakening. He could see her skeletal fingers clawing at the ice until they found a gap, slithering into the bitter fog. Instead his lungs burned and his head swam and there was nothing but the milky silence around him. He was safe. For now.He couldn’t allow that the happen again, he knew he must be swift but he must still be as silent as the grave and even then, that may not be enough. Who could say what she knew, she may well be aware of his plan already, toying with him. His mind wanted to wander back to before, when his fear was nothing more than innocent curiosity, when there was the promise of adventure and recognition from the comfort of his fireside armchair. But he wouldn’t allow it, daydreams and reprimands were the luxury of the safe and he needed all of his wits to ensure a path through the labyrinth.Another mis-step. Another crunch. Just the crumbling of new snow beneath his boot not enough to irritate the surface of the ice, still he would need to be lighter on his feet. He had to confess he had never even heard of Blackthorn Vale before he came across the article, a forgotten village in a faraway county spackled with countless others of similar size and nothing but brambles and boulders besides. It was only a small thing, perhaps had the lady resided in one of the cities it would have been more newsworthy, but tucked away in the back pages of his Saturday Telegraph it was there. A disappearance most intriguing, the widow Roschilde had not been seen nor heard from, there were no signs of theft, or damage to the property, no tracks to or from as though she had vanished into thin air. As interesting as he found the story, if he was completely honest with himself, it was the photograph that captured his attention fully. The lady was elegant and surprisingly young for a widow, even in poor quality monochrome her eyes shone with a sadness that he couldn’t turn away from and he knew he must act. This could be the key to turn him from a bottom of the pile legal assistant to a celebrated detective of the highest calibre. That he had no education on the matter nor any practical experience was of no consequence, Stephen’s ambitions often outweighed his skillset but he could always rely on his determination to see him through. A week later he found himself on the streets of Blackthorn Vale, his green wool coat barely taking the sting out of the wind and sleet he was under attack from. There were mercifully few dwellings for him to decide between, the closest and the largest appeared to be the most inhabited and on discovering it to be a pub, he let himself inside. The soft warm light and the heat from the fire of the White Hart was so welcoming that he took a long moment before entertaining the accusing glares of strangers. When he did take a moment to assess his surroundings he found the country folk to be different than he had been warned of, rather than accusatory or sneering glances, they seemed to be viewing him with sympathetic eyes. A large, red-cheeked and rough-skinned man standing behind the bar even furnished him with a sizable glass of golden liquid free of charge. He was told in the most apologetic of tones that he could only be accommodated for one night on account of the impending mass of visitors arriving the next day. The harvest was an annual spectacle, he was told, and very important by all accounts. But the red-cheeked barman thanked him for his custom and assured him he would make all the alternative accommodation enquires he possibly could. Stephen had his reservations about staying at the manor, it seemed somehow like trespassing. But with assurances from the lady’s family and desperate pleas for him to help Ms Roschilde, he could have hardly refused. With hindsight, it should perhaps have seemed strange that his introduction to the house was done by a shabbily dressed ‘house-keeper’ and not by any member of the supposed concerned family. The house-keeper seemed jumpy and uncomfortable, but Stephen told himself that was just her nature and thought little of it. The manor had the appearance of a house that had been left far longer than the few weeks the papers had reported, although not in a state of complete dereliction, it was most certainly unloved by man and too well loved by spiders. The walls of the dark entrance hall were lined with portraits, no doubt the property had been in the family for generations. He could see the same dark hair and piercing eyes emanating from every woman confined to canvas. As he followed the house-keeper to the sitting room, he saw a mantlepiece full of photographs and the same striking face in different clothing, embracing different husbands. Some with the sepia stain of time, others crisp and newer. Stephen opened his mouth the comment on the strong genetic similarities that seemed to possess the family but the house-keeper’s discomfort seemed to have reached such a level that she stood with tears in her eyes. She held out a key with a shaking hand and all but fled from the manor, he was left with his duffel bag at his feet and a feeling of utter bewilderment. It was difficult not to let the peculiar reaction of the house-keeper poison his view of the manor but he insisted to himself that his own unease was simply on the account of not receiving a formal invitation from the owner of the property, nor any proper introduction to it. Stephen assigned himself the task of exploring the building and after having done so, he set to work pouring over anything he could find that could house a clue to her whereabouts. He referenced the vague notes he’d been passed from the family regarding their last interactions with Ms Roschilde but these were of little use, she may as well have vanished into thin air. He examined all doors and windows, nothing amiss there. It was unlikely any of the windows would have been open in the dead of winter and he had been assured that the lady almost obsessively kept the doors bolted shut, so the idea of an intruder seemed most unlikely. He could only conclude that she must have been drawn from her house somehow. As darkness began to fall, the dim light of the dying fire soothed him into sleep and just as his eyes finally closed, a single, loud bang ripped him from peace. He ran to the back door through instinct, rather than knowledge, and unbolted it. He couldn’t see far into the unfamiliar garden but far enough to believe he was alone. He paused but the still, cold air revealed nothing, as he turned to re-enter the manor Stephen saw a well-worn, brown book lying on the flagstones by the door. It had no title and no author that he could discern from the shabby cover but it felt as though it belonged to the building somehow and so he took it inside and placed it on an end table before retiring for the evening. He woke the next morning dishevelled and unrested, the feeble attempt at daylight he could see through the gap in the curtains did nothing to lift his spirits. He resigned himself to seeing no sun at all that day but decided on a turn around the gardens regardless.As he descended the old oak staircase his legs ached and his arms felt as though they were made of lead, he was instantly transported back to his sleep where he remembered running from one end of the house to the other and the feeling of being chased. He felt a sudden annoyance for the house-keeper and her fear and at himself for allowing her ridiculous expressions to invade his unconscious. Of course it was natural that such a mystery and a grand old house would cause unease but he wondered at who would send such an unwelcoming guide in the first place. The second of the morning’s irritations came when he reached the garden and found clots of mud strewn about it. His first thought was of a fox or some other stray animal in search of scraps until he saw a man crouched in the borders. He was dressed in little more than rags with mis-matched boots and an ombre of soil clung to his fingertips. His skin was as pale as a corpse’s and had he not leapt to his feet with such dexterity, Stephen could have mistaken him for being so. ‘Fog’s comin’ in.’ The stranger commented. Stephen was dumbstruck, this man had been caught in the act of inflicting criminal damage and all he could comment on was the weather. He wanted to call out the stranger but the words would not come to him, and so he nodded weakly. It was true. Stephen could see the thick, white smoke rolling down the distant hills like an avalanche, so thick the rest of the world could have disappeared. ‘So you’re the one lookin’ for her…’ The stranger said, half to himself. ‘Won’t find her though… Not until it’s too late…’‘What do you mean?’ asserted Stephen. ‘What do you know of it?’ The man smiled at him sadly. ‘It coulda been me… at one time….’ His eyes glazed before rolling back into his skull, the man was clearly unbalanced but Stephen pressed, it was the only lead he had.‘What do you know?’ He shot again.The man opened his eyes and met Stephen’s with surprising clarity.‘What do you know? More’s the point. How many do you think’s gone…? One? Two? Twenty? Try Hundreds! One a year… every year… more or less anyway…’ He smiled again. Stephen wanted to shake him, ‘Give me a straight answer, won’t you? What do you know about Ms Roschilde?’‘That lady’ll be here forever...’ He chuckled to himself and Stephen, frustrated with fatigue and confusion stepped forward. He didn’t know what he intended, to apprehend the man, take him inside, force him to speak what he knew. Instead, his feet slipped in the mud and he found himself on his knees with a sprained ankle. The stranger leapt back weightlessly, ‘You’d do well to get out of here before the harvest.’Enraged, Stephen exclaimed, ‘Don’t make threats to me! I will find you out, you mark my words.’‘Oh I wouldn’t threaten you, Sir.’ The stranger had a tinge of disappointment in his tone. ‘I was in your position… once.’As Stephen pulled himself to his feet, the stranger had disappeared into the fog. Stephen limped back towards the manor, trying to decide if he was more irritated by the confusing interaction, pain in his ankle or the mud on his slippers. After a day with his foot elevated and another night without rest, Stephen marched with purpose into the town. By this time he had convinced himself that the stranger had Ms Roschilde held captive, or at least knew who had, and that someone must know who something about it.After unsuccessful conversations with what seemed like the entire town, Stephen found himself in the company of the accommodating barman from the White Hart once again. He was dismissive of Stephen’s story at first;‘Oh, he’s just some vagrant no doubt. Just passing through… we don’t get those types round here. Can’t hack the cold in the valley.’ His voice was casual enough but the lack of movement in his eyes convinced Stephen he knew more than he was letting on.‘Is that so?’ He pressed. ‘Well, he seemed to know an awful lot about this place for someone just passing through… He knew about the Harvest.’Stephen took a swig from his class and studied his victim, his words would never betray him but his face already had, he was as pale as a sheet.‘Surely someone must have mentioned him… A name? An address..?’‘No, Sir. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything of the kind.’The barman excused himself abruptly and Stephen felt deflated, he had begun to think he would need to engage formal proceedings if he were to gain any traction in the case. His dreams of solving the mystery unaided and launching his career as the greatest solo detective of the age were falling around him as he trudged back to the manor resolutely. As he sat on the worn and dusty sofa in the sitting room, the air leaving his lungs in as flat a fashion as it had the cushions, he looked around and his eyes laid on the abandoned book he had found on the doorstep. With nothing else to occupy him and frankly, being sick of the investigation, he picked it up as a distraction. It was the most unusual book Stephen had ever seen, it had the expected number of pages but all where blank save for a section at the very centre of it, printed in the blackest of inks. A woodcut printing of a woman floating in a body of water, followed by pages of what Stephen discovered to be a story. It must have been a local story and not a nice one at that. It was of a demon, masquerading as a woman, she lived beneath the surface of the water and came to land once a year, to feed on the blood of some unsuspecting victim. To protect their own kind, the local villagers created their elaborate ceremony, the harvest, to keep her evil at bay. Anyone who didn’t return for it would be declaring themselves the sacrifice. Stephen chuckled to himself as he put the book down, it would take more than a story to frighten him away. The fact that it had been placed there convinced him that the village was in fear of him discovering the whereabouts of Ms Roschilde, the fact that no one of them would speak about the disappearance convinced him that none of them could be trusted. He felt reconciled to the fact that he would need help and would no doubt have to continue his investigations from London, for the time being at least. And he hoped this retreat would lure his criminal into the open. Bags packed and another unsatisfying sleep behind him, Stephen was more than a little aggrieved to discover that there was absolutely no transportation whatsoever that could get him out of Blackthorn Vale that day. Or indeed, for the foreseeable future. ‘It’s the fog, Sir!’ The kindly disposed barman explained. ‘Can’t see a damn thing in front of your face. It’s not safe.’He wasn’t wrong, it had been treacherous enough for Stephen to reach the White Hart, but Stephen was nothing if not stubborn and he had set his mind to leaving the place that day.‘Then I shall walk!’ He huffed. ‘Can’t let you do that, Sir. Road’s closed.’Stephen looked at the man aghast. ‘I’m not a child. My safety is no one’s responsibility but my own.’ And he left the building in disbelief. Sure enough, however, when Stephen tried to use the road he was escorted, rather roughly, back to the manor and ordered to stay there. He made several more attempts to leave and was, each time, made a prisoner. With nothing else to do, Stephen lifted the story book once more. Only this time, found its pages blank entirely. As he turned it about, something fell from the leaves, a folded square of much thinner paper that he soon discovered to be a newspaper article. It had the same black and white illustration of the woman as the one that drew him to Blackthorn Vale in the first place and for a moment he believed it to be the same article. Until, that was, he read the date and saw it to be more than fifty years prior to his own. Stephen was astounded, it seemed far too worn to be a forgery and yet how could it not be? And where had the story gone?Stephen was weary and cared little for solving the mystery or, if he was really honest with himself, Ms Roschilde anymore. There was something sickly and strange and suffocated about that village and Stephen felt he should just leave it be.He would leave, and he would leave that night.Not foolish enough to attempt the road again, he thought of the only other way, over the frozen lake. The journey began innocently enough but with every step, the fog folded in and the lake whispered to him and Stephen became more and more convinced the story was true. She was down there, beneath the ice. Nothing human in her veins, his only hope was to slip past before she knew, before the harvest. If he was quiet and quick he could make it out, like the stranger, she could take one of the others, he was beyond the point of care. It was a cursed place and he would be glad to never think of it again. He took another careful step and saw something in the darkness, the bank. He breathed relief and tried with all his power not to rush to its edge, to freedom.Tears stung his eyes as he placed one foot onto the frosty grass.But the other betrayed him.Ice cracked beneath his feet and the hiss of the grave reached his ears. Water lapped at his heel and the cold embrace of death wrapped her arms tightly around his chest. She was found.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;

Try Premium

Try Premium

The Harvest

AliciaInWonderland

Alicia Knifton

Share

The Harvest

Synopsis

Chapters

Word Count

Read Time

Publish Date

Story Updates

This story has no updates.

Reviews

This story has not been rated yet. Login to review this story.

Advertisement

Challenge

About Author

Alicia Knifton

Advertisement

Browse