Letter from the dead

Michael’s hand tightened on the diary as he flipped through it, skimming the pages, his eyes narrowing with each line. Clara sat slumped in the chair by the desk, pale, exhausted, her hands trembling as though the weight of the words had drained what strength she had left.

“Clara,” he said firmly, lowering the book. “Listen to me. This isn’t just history. Whoever’s been here—they’re watching us. This place isn’t abandoned. Not really.”

Clara swallowed hard. “But why? Why keep it all here?”

Michael didn’t answer right away. His eyes swept the room again, lingering on the wastebasket tucked near the desk. He crouched and pulled it closer. Inside, beneath a few scraps of paper, sat a paper cup. Coffee. Not years old, not stale, but recent. Still clinging to the faint bitter smell of stale grounded coffee beans.

His stomach tightened. He rose slowly, turning towards the window. And there it was—parked just beyond the tree line, half-hidden by shadow. A truck. The same one he had noticed outside the bookstore. The same one again near the café.

And now here.

Michael’s jaw set. He turned back to Clara. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

Clara blinked at him, fear surging in her chest. “But—”

“No,” he cut her off, sharp and steady. “Someone has been here. Someone followed us here. That truck has been shadowing us since the beginning. We’re not staying to find out why.”

She hugged the diary against her chest, as if letting go would mean losing Daniel all over again. With her other hand, she reached for the frame on the shelf—a photo of Daniel with his parents, the same faces from the portrait in the hall. “I can’t leave them,” she whispered.

Michael grabbed her hand, steady and firm. “Fine. But only what you can carry. No more.”

Within minutes, they were outside, the manor’s shadow falling behind them. Michael guided her quickly to the car, every movement sharp, his eyes flicking constantly to the line of trees where the truck lingered.

He slid into the driver’s seat, Clara clutching the diary and photograph against her chest. The engine roared to life, tires spitting gravel and leaving deep trail lines as Michael pulled hard onto the road. His grip on the wheel was rigid, his eyes locked on the rearview mirror.

The truck pulled out behind them, steady, unhurried.

Clara twisted in her seat, heart hammering. “It’s following us.”

“I know.”

Michael pressed harder on the accelerator. The car surged forward, weaving around the bends of the narrow road. For a moment, the truck lagged and reduced speed like it wanted to stop,but then headlights flashed on like a predator’s eyes in the distance. And then it picked up speed.

Clara’s hands dug into the diary. Her breath came fast and shallow. “Michael—”

“Stay down,” he ordered.

The truck closed the distance, its engine growling louder. Michael swerved sharply around a bend, but the road opened straight again, and the truck surged forward. In the mirror, its grille loomed larger, closer, filling his view.

Then came the sound—the gut-deep roar of metal on metal.

The impact slammed them forward. Clara screamed as the car jolted, the seatbelt cutting across her chest. Michael fought the wheel, but the truck didn’t stop. It rammed them again, harder this time, sending the car skidding sideways.

The world turned into chaos—shattering glass, screeching tires, the crunch of metal twisting against itself.

The car tumbled. Once, twice. Clara’s side slammed upward, her body suspended and thrown, until the vehicle landed hard, her door facing the sky.

Silence. Then the hiss of steam from the damaged hood.

Michael’s head hung forward, blood dripping steadily from his forehead soaking his vision in red. He blinked, dazed, reaching up instinctively. His fingers came away wet. He stared at the crimson streak on his skin, but something was wrong. There was no pain. None at all,at first it felt like a miracle.

The realization slowly crawled through him slowly, dread piling up in his gut.

“Clara…” His voice cracked. His head whipped toward her.

Her body hung against the seatbelt, face pale, eyes closed, blood trickling from a cut above her temple. The diary was still pressed weakly against her chest probably what saved her from the seat belt suffocation.

Michael’s voice broke into a roar, raw and desperate. “Clara!”

His cry echoed in the twisted wreck, carrying out into the empty road where the truck idled in silence, its engine still growling, like a beast waiting to see if its prey would move again,just to deliver the final blow.