The village library sat at the edge of Hallowbridge like a relic forgotten by time. It was a narrow brick building with high windows dusted by cobwebs, and a bell above the door that rang with a frail, metallic clatter when Arthur entered.
The scent inside was thick—leather, paper, dust, and damp wood. Rows of books lined the shelves like quiet witnesses, spines faded, titles almost erased by time. There was no receptionist, no hum of modernity. Just silence.
And in the silence, a name whispered from history.
Mary Chambers.
Arthur had come across the name by accident—buried in the margins of Helen's journal, scribbled hastily between her notes on the Hollow. Just two words: "Mary Chambers. Find her."
The mention had gnawed at him all night, refusing to let him rest.
He moved through the aisles until he reached the local archives section. The books here were thick and crumbling, bound in twine or rotting leather. He pulled a heavy volume labeled "Hallowbridge Parish Records: 1800–1875" from the shelf and took a seat at the nearest table.
It took nearly an hour before he found her.
Mary Chambers, born 1849. Accused of witchcraft. Executed by hanging on the edge of the Hollow in 1872.
Arthur stared at the entry.
Witchcraft?
In 1872?
He flipped to the accompanying note, a page yellowed with damp. It was brief—clinical.
"Accused of unnatural knowledge. Responsible for the blighting of crops, the miscarriage of livestock, and the fevering of five children. Villagers demanded justice. She was apprehended at nightfall and hanged by morning."
There was no mention of trial. No formal charges. Just accusation, and then death.
Arthur leaned back, running a hand through his hair. A knot tightened in his chest—not fear, exactly, but something close. That creeping sensation of touching the edge of something buried too long.
He flipped to the next page. There was a second note—faded, ink smeared, almost illegible. But three words stood out, underlined heavily:
"She warned them."
⸻
Later that afternoon, Arthur found himself standing before the Old Gallows Tree, a twisted, gnarled oak at the edge of the Hollow's perimeter. Its limbs were skeletal, blackened as if by fire, yet still alive. The rope marks were gone, but the tree's history hung heavy in the air.
Doyle met him there, brows furrowed.
"You're chasing ghosts now?" he asked.
"I'm following the patterns," Arthur replied, gesturing to the ground. "Helen's journal led me here. She mentioned Mary Chambers. Said the village erased her."
Doyle sighed. "Plenty of ugly things happened back then. Doesn't mean they're connected to our case."
Arthur crouched by the tree's base. Moss and dry leaves curled at the roots. Something glinted faintly between the knots in the bark. He reached out, brushing the debris away—revealing a carved symbol.
The same spiral. Faint. Weathered.
But unmistakable.
Doyle exhaled sharply. "No one's been up here in decades."
"She was branded a witch," Arthur murmured. "Because she asked questions. Knew things they didn't want her to know. They called it unnatural knowledge. That sound familiar?"
Doyle frowned. "Like Helen."
Arthur stood, brushing his hands clean. "History doesn't repeat—it echoes."
⸻
That evening, back at the vicarage, Arthur lit the fireplace and sat with a stack of books borrowed from the library. Each one told fragments of Hallowbridge's history—official versions, scrubbed and sterilized. Yet Mary's story was either erased entirely or reduced to rumor. Her name appeared only in old folk tales and vague whispers about the "Burning Year," a time when suspicion had turned neighbor against neighbor.
The more Arthur read, the more he understood: Mary Chambers had become a symbol. A warning. A shadow people avoided even naming. They'd buried her story under generations of silence.
And yet, she lingered. Not as a ghost, but as a wound.
Helen had known. She'd connected the same threads. The Hollow. The sigils. Mary's fate. And somehow, it all looped back to the bridge—the place where memory and fear converged.
Arthur flipped Helen's journal open again, this time to a tucked-away sketch she had drawn. A rough portrait of a woman with sharp eyes and a half-smile. Mary?
Beneath it, she had written:
"They hanged her to silence her. But the truth doesn't die. It waits."
⸻
The next morning, the first official protest arrived.
A letter, slipped under Arthur's door.
No signature. Just jagged handwriting.
"We see you digging. You think you're different. You're not. Leave now, or you'll find what she found. Cold roots. Cold stone. Cold silence."
He held the paper over the fire until it blackened, then fell apart.
Outside, the fog thickened. The wind blew in sharp, bitter gusts. And across the village, word spread: Arthur Stoker was stirring things again.
⸻
That night, the dreams returned.
Not visions—just sounds.
Footsteps on stone. Rope tightening. A woman's voice, breathless and defiant.
"You'll forget me. But he won't."
And then a creak.
A fall.
A silence.
⸻
When Arthur woke, he found something resting on his windowsill.
A small bundle of dried hemlock, bound with black thread.
A witch's curse—or a warning?
Either way, someone knew he was getting close.