Chapter Six: The Whisper Beneath the Roots
The next morning, Isabelle returned to the library before school. She wasn't searching for homework help anymore—she needed history. Myths. Anything that might lead her closer to Cordelia.
The librarian, Mrs. Finch, raised an eyebrow as Isabelle approached the mythology shelf for the third time that week.
"Looking for something specific?" she asked.
"Do you have any books on... I don't know, local folklore? Ghost stories? Spirit guides?"
Mrs. Finch tilted her head. "Odd request. Not exactly a popular genre. But we do have one box of archived materials in the back. Mostly old town legends."
Isabelle's heart skipped. "Can I see them?"
The archive room was cold and smelled like dust and forgotten things. Mrs. Finch handed her a box with faded labels: Morganridge Lore – 1800s–1930s.
She sifted through yellowed newspaper clippings, typewritten pamphlets, and hand-inked drawings.
And then she found it.
A leaflet titled "The Woman Beneath the Tree." The illustration matched the one from Belle's diary: a tall woman with braids, cloaked in feathers, standing beside a crooked tree.
"Cordelia, guardian of threshold souls. Said to whisper through the roots of the dying willow tree that once stood near Hollow Creek. It is believed she guides lost spirits between lives."
A chill crept over Isabelle's arms.
She looked at the date. 1924.
Below that, handwritten: "Last sighting: girl named Eliza Markham, age 17. Disappeared after claiming she could hear Cordelia speak."
Eliza Markham.
Another name.
Another girl.
Another... Isabelle?
She shoved the leaflet into her backpack just as the bell rang.
Later that day, Isabelle returned to the woods near Hollow Creek, where a cluster of ancient trees loomed over the frozen earth. She hadn't been here in years. The air buzzed with a strange pressure, as if the forest was waiting.
She walked toward the oldest willow, the one locals called "the Weeper."
The tree was dead, gnarled and split, but it pulsed with presence.
She closed her eyes.
At first, nothing.
Then a sound—so faint it could've been wind, or breath, or memory.
"You're not the first... and you won't be the last."
Her eyes flew open.
The whisper had come from inside her own head—or maybe... from under her.
A crow screamed overhead. The wind surged through the trees. She stumbled back, heart pounding.
Suddenly, the line between her and the girl in the diary—between Isabelle and Belle—didn't feel so solid anymore.
That night, Isabelle couldn't sleep.
She stared at the ceiling, the name "Eliza Markham" repeating in her mind like a prayer or a curse.
She opened Belle's diary again, scanning the pages not for writing this time—but for layers beneath.
She found it. Faint indentations from a missing page.
Using a pencil, she shaded the spot gently.
Letters emerged.
"I saw her in the mirror. She wears my face, but her eyes are older. Cordelia says I must remember. I must return..."
Return where?
To who?
To what?
Isabelle sat back, spine tingling.
This wasn't just a haunting.
This was a calling.