Night embraced Oakhaven with a deep darkness, a black velvet cloth studded by the spectral, wavering light of a crescent moon. In the suffocating narrowness of her attic room, Eliza lay motionless, her eyes wide in the gloom. The silence that enveloped the house was now a more terrifying specter than her father's guttural snores, to which she had grown accustomed since childhood. The words he had spoken hours before, with an ominous charge that chilled her blood, danced like specters in the confines of her mind, "Your mother...she was not who we thought."
What meaning was hidden behind that late and disturbing revelation? What veil of secrecy shrouded the fuzzy memory of the woman who had given him life and whose face was becoming increasingly blurred in the labyrinths of memory? Her father had always woven a wall of silence around her mother, a painful and inexplicable void in the narrative of his own existence. Now, that silence had been broken, but instead of clarity, it had only engendered a shadow of sinister foreboding.
A sharp knock resounded from the lower floor, breaking the oppressive stillness. Then another, louder, more imposing, charged with an impatient urgency. Eliza sat up with a start, her heart hammering against her ribs with alarming violence. Who could be knocking at her door late at night, when the whole town was supposed to be sleeping under the protection of darkness?
With instinctive caution, he slipped out of bed and approached the door of his room, half-opening a narrow crack. The trembling light of a flashlight danced in the hallway below, casting grotesque, elongated shadows that distorted the familiar shapes of the furniture. She heard her father's rough, strained voice, intermingled with those of other men, coming muffled from the doorway.
"We have enough evidence, I assure you. The symptoms coincide perfectly. The unexplained ruin of Goodwin's crop, the sudden illness that has decimated Miller's cattle..."
Other voices answered her father, a low, unison murmur that exuded accusation and condemnation. Eliza recognized some of the tones, burned into her memory: the solemn, pontifical cadence of Pastor Davies, and the harsh throat clearing of Thomas, the village blacksmith, a man of few words but firm convictions.
An icy pang ran down Eliza's back, ruffling the hairs on her arms. What were they talking about with such vehemence? Who were they pointing at with their venom-laden words? A sense of impending danger began to strangle her breath.
Driven by fearful curiosity, she crept up the stairwell, clinging with white knuckles to the rough wooden railing to muffle any noise that might give away her presence. From the darkened landing, he could discern more clearly the fragments of conversation ascending from the main hall, like wisps of thick, choking smoke.
"-...she was seen prowling near the edge of the forest just at dusk," stated a female voice, high-pitched and tinged with barely contained nervousness, "gathering strange herbs, muttering unintelligible words that sounded like incantations..."
"-Weeds! Pure humbug! A smokescreen to hide his malevolent intentions! -" her father snarled, his voice ringing with barely controlled fury. That woman practices the dark arts, I tell you. I've been watching her closely for weeks. I've always suspected it, from the beginning."
A violent twist turned Eliza's stomach. Who were they talking about with such vehemence? Who had her father been subjecting to such obsessive surveillance? The uneasiness turned into a chilling certainty that something terrible was about to happen.
Suddenly, a name emerged from the confused murmur, a muffled whisper that struck her with the force of a fist in the solar plexus.
"-...Eliza Rowen..."
Eliza staggered backward, clinging desperately to the railing to keep from falling down the stairs. Had she heard right? Had her name been uttered in the midst of those sinister accusations? Her mind refused to accept the terrifying implication. It couldn't be.
He heard the thud of the front door as it burst open, followed by the ominous sound of heavy boots crossing the threshold and invading the sanctity of his home.
"-Caleb, for God's sake, are you absolutely sure about this? It's your own daughter?" -Sheriff Johns' hesitant, incredulity-laden voice broke through the chorus of angry accusations.
"-She's just like her mother! Deceitful and wicked to the core! -" her father roared, his voice wracked with blind fury and incomprehensible pain. I have seen her. I've found her... her implements. Irrefutable proof of her witchcraft!"
Implements? What on earth was her father talking about? Eliza felt herself immersed in a grotesque nightmare, where words were meaningless and reality blurred into menacing contours. A cold, paralyzing fear gripped every cell in her body, immobilizing her like a deer before the eyes of a predator.
She heard the creaking of wood under the weight of footsteps beginning to ascend the stairs, slow and deliberate, like the inexorable advance of fate. Her heart beat with painful, erratic force against her ribs, a war drum announcing the impending catastrophe. She was trapped, like a helpless insect in the spider's web of a nightmare.
With a desperate movement, she spun on her heels and ran back to her room, slamming the door shut and leaning against it with all her might, her whole body trembling with silent hysteria. What was happening? Why was she being accused of a crime she didn't understand?
The knocking resounded on the flimsy wooden door like the mournful tolling of a funeral bell, heralding his doom.
"-Eliza Rowen! Open this door in the name of the law!" -Sheriff Johns' voice was firmer now, stripped of its initial hesitation, though it still retained a tinge of resigned sadness.
"-No, I didn't do anything, it's a mistake!" -whispered Eliza, her throat dry and scratchy with terror, feeling hot tears slide down her pale cheeks.
"-Your father has formally accused you of witchcraft, child," said Pastor Davies' deep, solemn voice through the door. You had better cooperate without resistance. Surrender peacefully and then you will have a chance to prove your innocence before the people's trial."
His innocence? How could he prove something so intangible, something he didn't even understand the nature of the accusation? Her father's dark words about her mother echoed in her mind again, now with a terrible and revealing meaning. Was that the key to her sudden misfortune? Was she being held accountable for something she had inherited, an invisible and cursed mark that ran through her veins without her knowledge?
The door began to give way under the brute force of the pounding. The hinges creaked with a metallic wail, and splinters of wood leapt around the cracked frame. Eliza looked around in desperation, searching for an escape route in the small garret. The single window, wedged in the sloping roof, was her last hope, even if it meant a dangerous leap to the slippery roof of the shed attached to the house.
With a sudden determination born of pure fear, he approached the window and struggled with the rusted latch, pulling it open with trembling hands. The cool, moist night air caressed his face, bringing with it the earthy smell of wet earth and the melancholy fragrance of decaying leaves.
The knocking on the door grew more violent, the dry sound of splintering wood filling the small room. She had no time to waste. Every second she remained there brought her closer to the clutches of her father's accusation and blind rage.
With a last desperate glance at the door that was about to give way completely, Eliza perched on the cold, rough window sill. The void opened beneath her, dark and unfathomable, promising an uncertain and dangerous fall. But to stay meant facing the irrational wrath of her progenitor and the unfounded accusations of a people fueled by fear and superstition.
She took a deep breath, feeling the harsh cold of the stone under her numb fingers. Then he closed his eyes tightly, entrusting himself to the darkness of the night, and threw himself into the void.