Chapter 1: The Return to Blackthorn Cove
The ferry to Blackthorn Cove moved like a funeral procession through the fog. Elara
Voss stood at the bow, her fingers gripping the railing until her knuckles
whitened. Ten years had passed since she’d last seen the jagged silhouette of the
town’s cliffs, but the smell of brine and rotting kelp hadn’t changed. It clung to
her like a shroud, resurrecting memories she’d buried in London: her mother’s
laughter echoing over the waves, her grandmother’s stern voice warning her to “stay
away from the tide pools.”
The moment she stepped onto the dock, the sky split open. Rain lashed the
cobblestones as villagers hurried to shutter windows, their glances slicing through
her. A hunched fisherman spat at her feet. “Bad blood,” he growled. Elara tightened
her scarf, as if it could hide the Voss lineage written in her storm-gray eyes.
The Blackthorn Estate loomed at the edge of town, its gables crowned with seagull
nests. Inside, dust motes swam in the stale air. Elara’s boots echoed through halls
she’d once raced down as a child, chasing her mother’s shadow. Now, the house felt
like a museum of absences.
In the parlor, she found her grandmother’s desk—still cluttered with tide charts
and a half-empty bottle of rum. A framed photo lay facedown: Elara at sixteen,
grinning beside her mother on a sunlit pier. Her throat tightened. She’d torn up
all her own photos of that summer after her mother vanished. “Lost at sea,” the
villagers called it, but Elara knew better. Her mother had walked into the waves at
midnight, singing a lullaby Elara could still hum in her sleep.
A creak upstairs. Elara froze. “Hello?” Her voice frayed. Silence. Then—a muffled
drip, drip, drip from the bathroom. She followed the sound, heart pounding.
The bathtub was full. Not with water, but with seaweed—thick, glistening ropes of
it spilling onto the floor. At the center floated her grandmother’s ivory
hairbrush. Elara recoiled. Moira had hated the ocean, refusing to even bathe with
sea salt. “This house is cursed,” she’d snap whenever Elara asked about the Voss
family history.
As she fled the room, a voice slithered from the walls: “Find the diary, child.”
Scene Addition: The Raven’s Nest Tavern
That evening, Elara sought refuge in the only pub still open—The Raven’s Nest. Peat
smoke and the tang of pickled herring hung thick in the air. The bartender, Bran, a
bear of a man with a tattoo of an anchor on his neck, stiffened when she entered.
“Elara Voss,” he said, not smiling. “Heard you were back.”
Three fishermen hunched at the bar turned in unison. One—Finn, her childhood
friend, now gaunt and gray-bearded—nodded at her. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Why?” She forced a laugh. “Afraid I’ll dredge up old ghosts?”
Finn’s gaze dropped to her left hand, where a birthmark coiled like a tiny wave.
“Your grandmother… she wasn’t right at the end. Kept mumbling about voices in the
cistern. We boarded it up.”
“The cistern?”
“Aye.” Bran slammed a pint of murky ale in front of her. “Where the old Voss well
used to be. Your grandmother sealed it after your mother…” He trailed off, wiping
the counter with unnecessary force.
Elara’s chest constricted. She’d played near that cistern as a child, dropping
pebbles into the dark and waiting for echoes that never came.
“Leave while you still can,” Finn muttered. “This place eats its own.”
Flashback: The Last Summer
(Slows pacing while deepening Elara’s ties to the town and her grandmother)
Sixteen-year-old Elara had found her grandmother in the study, pouring over a
ledger filled with names and dates. “What is that?” she’d asked.
Moira slammed the book shut. “Genealogy. Useless, like everyone in this family.”
“Including Mom?”
A flicker of pain crossed Moira’s face. “Especially her.” She grabbed Elara’s
wrist, her grip bruising. “Promise me you’ll never go near the caves. Never.”
“Why?”
“Because the sea lies.”
Later, Elara had stolen the ledger. Page after page of Voss women’s names, each
followed by a single phrase: “Drowned, age 34.” “Drowned, age 27.” “Drowned, age
19.” Her mother’s entry: “Mara Voss. Drowned, age 32.”
Elara’s own birthdate ended the list.
She’d fled the house that night, running until her lungs burned—straight into the
arms of Kael, a boy her age mending nets on the dock. He’d said nothing, just
steadied her with calloused hands, his eyes reflecting the moonlight like wet
stones.
“Who are you?” she’d asked.
“No one,” he’d said. “Forget me.”
She did. Until now.
Scene Addition: The First Omen
Back at the estate, Elara dreamed of drowning again. This time, her mother was
there, hair fanned like black seaweed, pressing the ledger into Elara’s hands.
“Break the cycle,” she pleaded, before the current dragged her away.
Elara woke gasping, saltwater pooling in her palms. Outside, the cistern groaned.
She followed the sound, flashlight trembling in her grip. The boarded-up well
pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. With a crowbar, she pried off the planks—and
recoiled.
Inside, the walls were clawed raw. And at the bottom, glowing faintly blue, lay her
grandmother’s diary.
