The scent of old pages and fresh rain filled the library that Saturday afternoon.
Outside, the world was caught in a quiet drizzle, gentle raindrops tapping against the tall windows like a rhythmic lullaby, but inside the children's wing of the Blackridge City Library, the air shimmered with something electric—anticipation. Tiny figures shifted on bean bags and miniature chairs, the occasional crinkle of a snack packet or a rustle of a raincoat breaking the hush. Parents hovered at the back, some leaning against the walls, others flipping through their phones, but their ears—like the children's—were trained on the figure seated at the front, perched cross-legged on a wide leather cushion, beside a tall floor lamp that cast her in a halo of warm light.
Elira Wells.
She was in her element. The light softened her features, making her large hazel eyes gleam like honey catching sunlight. Her dark curls framed her face, and a small crescent moon pendant bounced lightly against her chest as she shifted forward, a finger pressed to her lips in a conspiratorial hush.
"Are you ready," she whispered, her voice velvet smooth and low, "for a story that's just a little scary… but just scary enough to make your toes curl?"
A few giggles answered her. One boy pulled his hoodie up as if bracing for the tale already. A girl clutched her stuffed fox closer.
Elira smiled, savoring that beat of silence where curiosity overtook everything else—the library's hum, the rain's whisper, even the restless shuffling of children. She opened the old leather-bound book resting in her lap, its spine cracked and loved, its pages tinted a whispery gold at the edges.
She began to read.
> "There once was a house on Hollowmere Lane. Not a regular house. Not a bright yellow one with daisies in the yard. No… This house had shutters that never opened, a gate that creaked even when the wind didn't blow, and a chimney that sometimes puffed smoke even when no one lived there…"
Her voice dipped low, curling like smoke around the words, rising when needed, pausing in the perfect places to let silence do its part. The children leaned closer. Even the adults in the back straightened a little.
> "People said the house was empty. But at night, if you passed by just close enough, you'd hear something… something like…"
Elira snapped her fingers suddenly.
Snap!
A few kids jumped, wide-eyed.
> "...tapping. Just three gentle taps. As if someone—or something—was knocking. But not on the door. Oh no. That would be too polite. It tapped from inside the walls."
She grinned mischievously, delighting in the shivers that traveled through the little group. Her voice changed again, now airy and slow, like a ghost sighing through autumn trees.
> "One day, a boy named Milo dared to step inside. The townsfolk begged him not to. 'It's just a story!' he said. But as soon as he crossed the broken threshold… the door closed behind him."
She let the word closed stretch and fall like a trap.
The light from the tall lamp flickered slightly—maybe from the storm, maybe not—and Elira didn't miss a beat.
> "Inside, the air was heavy. Thick like syrup. Milo called out—'Hello?' But all he heard was the sound of the tap-tap-tap again. Closer now. Coming from behind the walls… and beneath the floorboards…"
She drew in a soft breath and let her tone rise with urgency, painting the tension vividly.
> "And then… there it was. A whisper. Right beside his ear. Not a human whisper. No, this one rattled. Like it had dust and cobwebs stuck in its throat."
Her voice changed again, now hoarse and crackling.
> "'Why are you in my house…?'"
A collective gasp came from the children. Elira let the silence linger before she snapped the book shut with a dramatic thud. The sound echoed in the hushed room.
"...but that," she said brightly, eyes twinkling, "is a story for another day."
There was a beat of stunned silence—then applause. The kids clapped wildly, some letting out nervous giggles. One shouted, "Nooo, you can't stop there!"
"Is Milo okay?" asked a small boy with red glasses, eyes huge behind the lenses.
Elira leaned in and whispered, "That depends on whether he listened to the whisper… or answered it."
More delighted gasps.
The parents chuckled, visibly relaxed now. A few pulled out their phones to snap photos of their kids listening in rapt attention. One older woman in the back, clearly without a child, clapped a little longer than the others, her expression oddly wistful.
As the children began to scatter—some heading toward the crafts table, others pulling books off shelves to mimic bravery—Elira rose and stretched her legs. Her heart was full.
Storytelling wasn't just a job for her. It was home. It was the first time she'd felt seen as a child, nestled in her grandmother's lap, listening to fairy tales that made monsters manageable and endings sweet. Now, watching young faces glow with imagination, she felt like she was giving a little of that magic back.
"Thanks again, Miss Elira!" a girl waved, skipping toward her dad.
Elira smiled warmly, brushing hair out of her face. "See you next week, Nora. We're doing ghost ships then."
She spent the next few minutes tidying up—the books she brought, the cushions the kids had scattered, the leftover juice boxes. The library was quieter now, but still alive in that comforting, bookish way. She hummed under her breath, tucking the worn storybook into her canvas bag.
Thunder rumbled faintly above the building. The storm had thickened.
As she moved toward the exit, she didn't notice the tall man who had walked in just a few minutes too late, standing in the shadows of the archway—watching.
But that was a story for tomorrow.
Tonight, Elira walked home in the rain, heart light, unaware that her voice—soothing and eerie, comforting and wild—had just lodged itself into someone else's silence like a stubborn splinter.
Someone who would soon come looking.
For her.
For the voice.
For the peace it gave him.
-----------
The morning after her storytelling session, Elira sat cross-legged on her small apartment couch, wrapped in a faded yellow robe and nursing a steaming cup of coffee. The weather had carried over its mood from yesterday—gray, damp, and quiet. Raindrops slid lazily down the balcony window like they had nowhere better to be.
Her phone buzzed on the table beside her.
She reached for it absentmindedly, expecting it to be a message from the library or one of the parents asking for book recommendations again. But instead, it was an email.
No subject line.
Just:
From: [email protected]
Time: 09:06 AM
Attachment: Contract.pdf
Her brows pulled together. She tapped it open cautiously, heart ticking up just a notch.
---
Good day, Ms. Wells,
You do not know me, but I attended your storytelling session yesterday at the Blackridge Library. You read very well.
My employer was... taken with your voice.
He is seeking a private storyteller.
The arrangement is simple:
One session per day
Length: 45–60 minutes
Genre preference: Horror. (Romance will result in instant termination. His words, not mine.)
Format: In-person, no recordings.
Location: Private estate outside of town (address below)
Compensation: $2,500 per session. Paid weekly in advance.
Yes, you read that correctly.
If interested, respond by 3PM today. A car will be arranged for pickup if accepted. Security clearance and a basic NDA will follow upon confirmation.
— A. Morozov
Personal Assistant to A. Volkov
Attachment: "Contract_Volkov_Confidential.pdf"
---
Elira blinked. Then blinked again. She re-read the email twice, then stared at the amount.
"Two thousand five hundred… per session?" she whispered out loud.
She set the coffee down carefully before she dropped it. Surely this was a scam. Or a prank. Or one of those rich weirdos who wore black gloves and quoted Kafka at brunch.
But there had been a man in the back yesterday. Alone. Not with a child. Tall, still, intense. She'd only caught a glimpse of him. Sharp cheekbones, a coat too expensive for a casual story hour, and eyes that hadn't blinked once during the entire story.
She hadn't given it much thought—figured he was a curious passerby or maybe someone's brother who got dragged along.
She clicked open the PDF, half-expecting to find nonsense.
But the document was real. Detailed. Professionally formatted. There were multiple clauses, including ones about confidentiality, discretion, and punctuality. There was even a clause titled, quite literally, "No Romance Content Clause", underlined with the note: Strictly horror or thriller-themed storytelling only. Breach of genre is a violation of contract.
Elira burst out laughing.
The man was serious.
She sat back, tapping the screen lightly with her index finger.
Who paid thousands to be read to like a child?
Someone deeply lonely. Or eccentric. Or broken in a way words might still reach.
The logical part of her brain ran wild with questions: Was it safe? What kind of person hired a personal storyteller like this? What kind of house had "security clearance" requirements for bedtime reading?
But the other part of her—the dreamer, the broke artist, the girl who still believed that stories could take people apart and put them back together—was intrigued.
And the money…
That money would cover her rent for months. She could fix the car she hadn't driven in three years. She could upgrade her equipment for her online sessions. Maybe even fund her dream: her own podcast studio.
She bit her lip.
Glancing out the window at the gray world beyond, Elira sighed and reached for her keyboard.
---
Subject: Re: Storyteller Position
Dear Mr. Morozov,
Thank you for your email.
Please consider this message as my confirmation of interest in the position.
I am curious—cautiously—but intrigued.
Looking forward to the details.
— Elira Wells
---
Fifteen minutes later, another email arrived.
Thank you. The car will arrive at your building by 4PM. Please bring one valid ID. No phones or personal devices permitted during sessions. You will be compensated in advance upon arrival.
Underneath was the address.
She stared at it.
Highridge Hollow. The old estate area near the cliffs. She'd passed by it once when she took a wrong turn while hiking. The houses there were… less "homey" and more "gothic vampire movie set." Perfect, she thought dryly, for a man who wanted horror stories and had a No Romance Clause.
Elira shut her laptop, heart hammering somewhere between thrill and anxiety.
This wasn't just a job.
This was the start of a story she hadn't written yet.
And she was walking straight into it.