The fog clung to Echo Bay like a shroud woven from the sea's own regrets, muting the crash of waves against the jagged cliffs to a distant, mournful sigh. Nora Hale locked the library's oak doors at precisely 7:00 PM, the brass key turning with a click that echoed too loudly in the emptying halls. The Echo Bay Public Library—more mausoleum than archive, its shelves sagging under tomes yellowed by salt air and forgotten summers—had been her refuge since the accident. Or what the town called the accident. Her mother's "slip" on the pier, twelve years ago, blade-sharp rocks below claiming a life too young for such a quiet end.
Nora adjusted her scarf against the chill seeping through the cracked windows, the wool scratching her neck like accusatory fingers. Thirty-two, unmarried, unmarried by choice—by curse, her reflection sometimes whispered in the bathroom mirror—and still sorting returns in a town that forgot faster than the tide. Tonight's haul: dog-eared romances from Mrs. Harrow, a waterlogged almanac from the fishermen's co-op, and that book. The one without a name, no sender, just her address scrawled in faded ink on the parcel: N. Hale, Keeper of Whispers.
She'd dismissed it as a prank when it arrived that morning—anonymous, postmarked from the mainland, wrapped in oilcloth that smelled of brine and something sharper, like old blood. But curiosity, that old thief, had pried it open on her lunch break. Now, as she carried it to the returns cart, the leather binding felt heavier, warmer than it should, as if it pulsed with a heartbeat not her own.
The circulation desk loomed in the dim lobby, lit by a single desk-lamp that buzzed like a trapped hornet. Nora set the parcel down, fingers lingering on the unmarked spine. No title embossed, no author— just faint ridges under the leather, like veins beneath skin. She should catalog it blind, shove it into the "Unclaimed" bin for the morning shift. But the fog outside thickened, pressing against the panes, and the whispers started.
They always did, on nights like this. Not voices, exactly—more like breaths, sighs threading through the stacks, carrying fragments of the day's confessions: ...late again, Harlan, the boat... from the fisherman's log; ...she knows, she always knows... from a hidden diary in the history section. Nora had learned to tune them out, chalking it up to the wind through the vents, the sea's endless murmur seeping under the foundation. Therapy in Portland had called it "auditory pareidolia," a fancy word for grief's echo. But tonight, the whispers converged on her, coiling around the desk like smoke.
Open it, Nora. See what Mother left.
Her breath hitched. Not her thought—too lilting, too laced with her mother's cadence, the lilt of old Irish lullabies sung over bedtime stories. The lamp flickered, casting the parcel's shadow long and writhing, as if the leather breathed. Heart pounding, Nora's fingers—traitors—unlaced the twine, the book falling open on the desk with a thud that stirred dust motes into spectral dancers.
Ink bloomed across the pages, not printed words but fresh, seeping from the spine like wounds reopening. Crimson-black, viscous, pooling in script that twisted before her eyes: She screamed your name, Nora. As the blade kissed her throat. Not an accident. Not the rocks. Ask the lighthouse keeper. He watched.
Nora's world narrowed to the page, pulse roaring in her ears. The words weren't there a second ago—blank vellum, she'd swear—but now they crawled, forming her mother's face in the stains: eyes wide, mouth agape in that final, silent plea. The air grew thick, the whispers amplifying to a chorus: ...watched... laughed... your fault, little listener...
"No," Nora gasped, slamming the book shut, but her palm smeared the ink—warm, sticky, tasting of copper when she instinctively touched her lips. The library tilted, the desk-lamp's bulb shattering in a pop of sparks, plunging the lobby into abyss. Darkness wasn't empty; it moved, tendrils of fog—no, shadow—seeping from the floorboards, coiling up her legs like icy fingers tracing childhood scars.
The echo came then—not a sound, but a pull, a rift tearing in her mind's fabric. Nora's vision fractured, the library dissolving into a kaleidoscope of then: the pier at midnight, salt spray stinging her eight-year-old eyes, her mother's hand—warm, callused from mending nets—clutching hers too tight. "Stay close, love. The whispers lie tonight." But the fog had thickened, swallowing the lighthouse beam, and Mama had knelt to tie Nora's shoe, humming that damn lullaby.
Now, the rift yanked her back: not memory, but relive—visceral, bone-deep. The blade flashed—rusted, hooked like a gutting knife—slashing across her mother's throat in a spray that painted Nora's cheek warm. Mama's eyes locked on hers, not surprise but knowing, gurgle bubbling: "Nora... run... he sees..." The lighthouse loomed, a silhouette in the fog, a man-shaped shadow at the rail, motionless, watching as the body tumbled, rocks below crunching like brittle bones.
Nora—no, little Nora—screamed, but the echo-ghost clawed deeper, spectral nails raking her adult mind, forcing the sensations: the copper tang flooding her mouth, the sea's roar drowning Mama's last rasp, the shadow-man's faint chuckle carried on the wind. He watched. He laughed. Your fault—for listening.
She thrashed against the desk, real-world anchors— the cart rattling, books tumbling—but the rift held, alternate threads tugging: What if you'd screamed sooner? What if you'd pulled her back? Visions splintered: one Nora frozen, watching Mama fall alone; another lunging, blade turning on her instead; a third, older, bloodied hands pushing the shadow-man from the rail, his face—familiar, town-elder familiar—twisting in surprise.
The ghost's claws tightened, a pressure in her skull like thumbs pressing eyes. Join us, listener. Pull the thread. Rewrite. Nora's nails dug into her palms, drawing blood that dripped onto the book—splat—and the ink responded, absorbing it, pages fluttering open on their own. More words bled: The keeper's name is Elias Crowe. His echo waits in the stacks. Ask why he silenced her.
The rift snapped, hurling Nora back to the present with a gasp that tasted of saltwater and iron. She sprawled on the lobby floor, lamp shards glittering like fallen stars, the book splayed beside her—innocent now, pages blank as fresh snow. But the whispers lingered, softer, insidious: ...Elias... silenced... your name...
Nora scrambled up, heart jackhammering, wiping ink from her hands—smudged but fading, like a dream's residue. Hallucination? Grief's cruel joke, amplified by the fog, the isolation? She'd call Dr. Ellis in the morning, up the dosage on the blockers. But the blood on her palms was real, the scent clinging— and the library felt different, heavier, as if the stacks held their breath.
She grabbed her keys, flashlight beam cutting the dark toward the exit, but a rustle stopped her—pages turning, slow, deliberate, from the history aisle. Nora froze, beam swinging wild: shadows danced, books leaning like eavesdroppers, but nothing. Wind, she lied to herself, hurrying on.
Then, in the stacks' throat—rows of leather spines like judgmental teeth—a flicker. Not light, but absence: a figure, tall and hooded, blending with the gloom. Nora's beam caught it edge-on: coat-tails frayed like kelp, face obscured, but eyes—glinting, reflective—locked on hers. The man—or it—tilted his head, lips moving silent: Nora.
She dropped the light, beam spinning wild across the ceiling in frantic circles. Footsteps? No, just her pulse, the sea's murmur mocking. By the time she snatched it up, the stacks were empty, dust motes settling like ash from a cremation.
Nora bolted for the door, slamming it behind her, fog enveloping the steps like a lover's arms. The parcel-book burned in her bag, a weight she couldn't shake. Elias Crowe—the lighthouse keeper, reclusive since her mother's fall, shunning town gatherings with mutters of "bad echoes." She'd seen him once, post-funeral, his gaze lingering too long at the grave.
Ask him, the whispers cooed, riding the wind. Or pull the thread yourself.
Home was a ten-minute walk through the mist-shrouded lanes, gas lamps guttering like dying eyes. Nora fumbled her cottage key, the door creaking open to the familiar must: chamomile tea, unread manuscripts, the portrait of Mama on the mantel—smiling, oblivious. She barred the door, slumped against it, the book tumbling from her bag.
It fell open again—always to the same page, blank no more: He comes tonight. The thief of echoes. Listen close, Nora. Or become one.
The cottage windows rattled, fog pressing in. And outside, in the lane's gloom, a shadow lingered—tall, hooded, mouthing her name like a prayer.
Or a curse.
To be continued...
End of Chapter 1