“It’s a TV set,” she whispered to herself.
She should have stayed at home, curled up on the sofa watching her gran’s favourite film. But the moment Maggie had drifted off, Ellie had slipped on her shoes and was out the door before she could talk herself out of it.
As she moved between the graves, her foot caught on something and she tumbled forward, landing hard on a cold stone slab. Wincing, she pushed herself up and squinted at the engraving beneath her hands. It was a grave from the 1800s, commemorating a husband and wife. The inscription read:
Two Lovers, Together Again.
Ellie sat back on her heels, dusting the crumbly mud from her palm as she took in the grave of the two lovers. The wife died in 1843 at fifty-three, the husband in 1850 at sixty-one. So far from the current moment, yet their story remained, carved in stone. She could almost see the husband at this very church over 150 years ago weeping for his lost wife.
“Where we have wept,” Ellie repeated, standing with the help of their gravestone.
We? Plenty of people had wept at the church over the years, Henry Jacobs Deceased 1850 and Ellie included. But who was ‘we’ specifically? She looked off towards Blackwood House, catching the faint glow of red stained glass through the thick canopy of leaves hanging from the tree.
We, as in the Blackwood family? That’s who Edmund had left the riddle for in his will. With renewed purpose, Ellie tucked her hair behind her ears and scooped up her phone, patting Dora and Henry’s final resting place for the helping hand. She needed to find a Blackwood grave.
Ellie’s heart raced as she crouched low, her phone light sweeping across the jaunty graves. Row by row, she scanned for any hint of the Blackwood name, muttering each new inscription aloud to herself to make sure she wasn’t missing anything. The beam of light danced over weathered stones and fresh flowers, casting eerie shadows in the darkness. But no mention of any Blackwood graves.
As she reached the newer section of the cemetery, the crematorium garden with its small plaques came into view. Without thinking, Ellie’s eyes darted to an old familiar spot. Luke’s plaque. Her feet carried her closer before her mind could protest.
Luke Clifford Thompson
5th June 1993 - 15th September 2012
Three weeks. Just three weeks after she’d called off the wedding, right here at this very church. The memory of that day flooded back, unbidden and unwelcome. Reverend Michelle Walsh had asked if they were planning on starting a family after they got married, and Luke’s excited chatter about football-inspired baby names echoed in her mind. Wayne. Theo. Steven. Frank. She remembered the icy dread that had settled in her stomach as she realised how incompatible they truly were. It seemed so trivial now, in the face of what happened after, but those names.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted children, but if she did, they wouldn’t be called Wayne or Frank. As a girl, when stuck with other girls who talked about things like ‘what are you going to call your children when you grow up?’ Ellie had decided she’d go for Frederick for a boy and Georgina for a girl, and they all laughed at her and chose names like Justin and Britney.
But it hadn’t been about the names.
That wasn’t why she’d called off the wedding.
Wayne, Theo, Steven, and Frank cemented what Ellie had known in her deepest gut since Luke dropped to one knee—they were far too different for the marriage succeed.
Ellie blinked rapidly, trying to stem the tears that threatened to fall. This was exactly why she avoided places like this, why she preferred early nights curled up with a book in bed. Nothing good ever happened this close to midnight, especially not in a place haunted by the twisted ghosts of her past regrets.
Staring at that plaque, she thought about the first time they met. Year Eleven, St. Augustus’s school library. Ellie, the quiet loner, was getting on with her history revision, going over the details of WWII, which had been the focus of the syllabus for the exams. Luke, the best footballer in school—he’d been second best until Micky Jarvis broke his ankle—was struggling with his essay on To Kill a Mockingbird. Ellie, unable to focus on the D-Day landing as Luke mumbled his essay aloud to himself, couldn’t help but intervene when she overheard him misunderstanding every theme. That moment of connection, of her helping him see the deeper meanings in the text, had sparked something between them. They’d been in the same school for close to five years and never talked until then.
Now, standing before his memorial, Ellie blinked away tears. This was why she never let herself go there, why she kept those memories locked away. But in Meadowfield, a place steeped in history and personal ghosts, how could she not?
Ellie continued her search, pushing away the fog of memories and refocusing on the task at hand. The old graves seemed to press in around her, their crooked, crumbling forms creating a labyrinthine path. She scanned for any sign of the Blackwood name.
Then, between two particularly jaunty stones covered in crustaceans and moss, something that shouldn’t have been there caught her eye—a squat red marble headstone, innocuous at first glance, but it was the carving of a bell that had caught her eye. The red gleamed like glass in the dim light, almost brand new compared to decaying markers around it. As she approached, she could almost hear the ghostly chime of the engraved bell echoing around the graveyard.
Crouching down, she traced her fingers over the smooth surface. The engraving was clear and crisp, barely weathered by time. Her eyes landed on the four lines etched below the bell:
In the place where books and lore are found,
A guiding light with wisdom profound.
Amidst the pages, old and new,
Seek the matriarch, steadfast and true.
Another riddle.
Guiding light? Matriarch in a place where books are found? This had to be the clue that led Thomas to Maggie. But what did these musical notes mean?
She pulled out her phone to take a picture, switching off the flash to avoid drawing attention. As she framed the shot, a creaking noise behind her made her pause. The next instant, an ancient headstone came crashing down on top of her.
Instinct took over. Ellie dived forward, remembering advice she’d heard a stunt coordinator shout on set: “If in doubt, duck, tuck, and roll!” She managed to duck and tuck, but found herself wedged underneath the headstone bearing down on her.
Panic surged through her veins as she tried to free herself. Her breath came in short gasps as she pushed against the heavy stone pressing down on her back. Every movement seemed to worsen her predicament.
She didn’t realise how much she was groaning and heaving until the pressure suddenly lifted. Daring to unfurl herself, she glanced upwards to see Sylvia Fortescue with another woman—a brunette—heaving the headstone just long enough for Ellie to roll out from underneath it. As soon as she was clear, they dropped the stone, which landed on the smaller red marble monument with a sickening crack, splintering into countless pieces.
Dusting herself off, Ellie looked around the graveyard, her heart still hammering in her chest. Could that stone have fallen over on its own? Graves didn’t just collapse without reason, even sloping ones.
“Hello?” Sylvia called out, clicking her fingers in front of Ellie’s face. “Dear lord,” she exclaimed, “the girl can’t hear us; she must be in a total state of shock. I say,”—her voice rising to a shout—”Ellie, is anything broken?"
Ellie zoned back in and saw Sylvia’s concerned face alongside the brunette, who on closer inspection was someone Ellie knew. Willow Thompson. The two women helped her up and away from the grave.
“Are you okay?” Willow asked gently.
“Yes,” Ellie replied, still dazed. “I… I think so.”
“Those old graves are a hazard!” Sylvia announced. “I’ve been saying it since I arrived in this village, but the locals can be so blind to it.”
“I think someone pushed it on me,” Ellie muttered, more to herself than to anyone else.
