The oppressive silence of the house, coupled with the insistent murmurs of the sycamore, finally drove Ivy out. She needed air, a change of scenery, a break from the suffocating weight of secrets. Perhaps a walk into Elmridge, a place her mother had always avoided, would offer some clarity, or at least a distraction.
The main road leading from Agnes's property was little more than a dusty track, flanked by dense, whispering bushland. The sun beat down relentlessly, but Ivy found a strange comfort in the open sky and the distant sounds of village life – a generator humming, children's laughter, the faint rhythm of a local song.
Elmridge wasn't a bustling town; it was a collection of weathered buildings clustered around a central market square. Most structures were made of sun-baked mud bricks or painted concrete, their colors faded by time and weather. A small, whitewashed church stood on a slight rise, its cross glinting in the sun. A few dusty shops lined the main street, their wares spilling out onto the pavement: sacks of garri, colourful fabrics, plastic buckets, and pyramids of fresh produce. The air, though warm, was alive with the scent of woodsmoke, spices, and damp earth.
As Ivy walked, she noticed the glances. They weren't overt stares, but quick, assessing looks that lingered a fraction too long. Women selling yams paused their haggling. Men gathered under the shade of a mango tree, playing ayo, shifted their eyes. Children, usually boisterous, quieted as she passed, their games momentarily forgotten. It was the kind of attention that made her skin prickle, the kind that spoke of shared knowledge she wasn't privy to.
She decided to head towards what looked like the town's only general store, a small building with a faded Coca-Cola sign. As she approached, she overheard two women, their voices low and conspiratorial, just outside its entrance. They were elderly, their faces etched with the stories of years, their heads wrapped in vibrant gele.
"...the girl from the Sycamore place," one whispered, her eyes flicking towards Ivy.
The other woman nodded slowly, her gaze following Ivy. "Just like her mother. Same eyes. Always asking questions, that one was."
"And look where it got her," the first woman murmured, a note of grim finality in her voice. "Some things are better left buried."
Ivy's steps faltered. Her mother. Asking questions. Better left buried. The words were like tiny, sharp needles, pricking at her growing suspicions. She quickened her pace, pretending not to have heard, her heart thudding. The whispers from the tree, the cryptic diary page, Agnes's warnings – it was all beginning to coalesce into a terrifying narrative.
Inside the store, the air was cooler, smelling of kerosene and dried fish. An old man with a kind, weary face sat behind the counter. He greeted her with a nod, but his eyes, too, held that familiar, assessing quality.
"Can I help you, nwa m?" he asked, his voice soft.
"Just looking," Ivy replied, feigning nonchalance as she browsed a shelf of tinned goods. She felt his gaze on her back.
As she picked up a bottle of water, she heard him speak to another customer who had just entered, a younger woman with a baby strapped to her back.
"The old woman's granddaughter, eh? Came all the way from the city."
The younger woman sighed. "Ah, it is sad. Her mother… such a quiet soul. But always seemed to carry a heavy load, that one." She lowered her voice further, but Ivy's ears were straining. "They say the house… it has a way of holding onto things. And that tree…"
The old man shushed her gently. "Shhh. Some stories are not for young ears, or for strangers."
Ivy paid for her water, her fingers trembling slightly as she counted out the naira. She didn't look at either of them, but she felt the weight of their unspoken words, their pity, their fear.
Back outside, the sun seemed less friendly, the air more oppressive. The glances continued, now seeming to hold a mixture of curiosity and a strange, almost morbid fascination. She was not just Ivy; she was "the girl from the Sycamore place," a living echo of a past the town clearly remembered, but refused to speak of openly.
As she walked back towards the house, the sycamore tree, now visible in the distance, seemed to pulse with a dark energy. The town's hushed comments, her grandmother's evasions, the whispers from the tree – they were all threads in a tangled web. Elmridge wasn't just quiet; it was a town that actively suppressed its history. And Ivy, despite the lingering looks and the chilling snippets of local lore, knew, with a cold certainty, that she was walking directly into the heart of it. The silence wasn't empty; it was full of secrets.