Chapter Text
A small pitter patter of rain was heard outside, as if conducting its own symphony. It was always raining here in the small town of Washington. Not that you minded — you found it rather soothing. Your head was buried deep in a scatter of books. Each one mentioned various titles and subjects, but at last, they all pointed back to the same topic: The Salem Witch Trials.
You shifted slightly in the library’s old, worn leather chair. The library let students and other people in the town use it, even though the padding had been worn down after years of use, causing you to stretch your back with a quiet groan. Your eyes had started to strain, and your hand cramped after hours of writing out small notes on any piece of information you could find on the topic that had been plaguing your mind for months now.
The Salem Witch Trials weren’t just a tragic footnote in history — they were a mirror, reflecting mass hysteria, fear of female power, and the terrifying ease with which truth could be twisted.
There was something intoxicating about the idea that, buried beneath all that hysteria, might be stories we were never meant to uncover. But that was why you were here — writing your thesis, determined to uncover what had been hidden.
As time wore on, and the only sounds were the heavy rain outside, the scratch of your pen, and the occasional turn of a fragile page, you couldn’t help but notice a certain name. Whichever book you picked up — however old, however obscure — one name always seemed to appear somewhere. Never in the main text. Always in the margins, in citations, in small whispers between the lines.
It had a shadowed sort of weight to it.
How could a woman be mentioned so many times, in so many different accounts, just for there to be no conclusion? No death record. No grave. Just… gone.
You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the strain as you reached for a book you hadn’t cracked open yet tonight — one so old you had to practically beg Mrs. Calderu to let you examine it. The spine was frayed silk, the gold lettering half worn: Specters of Justice: The Untold Histories of the Salem Accused.
You opened it carefully, fingers tracing the uneven edge of the parchment pages, flipping slowly until something made you pause. A small note near the bottom of a page caught your eye — not typeset like the others, but written by hand in faint, browning ink.
She was one of the few that survived — Agatha Harkness.
You frowned. Something about the name felt… off. Familiar, somehow. You’d seen it before — in at least three other books tonight, in passing references, in lists of names, in the corner of a handwritten diagram that didn’t explain what it meant. Your eyebrows furrowed slightly as you examined the name. Something about it drew you in yet frightened you all at once… as if some power was looming over it… stuck to you. Slowly, you took the nail of your finger out of your mouth, a subconscious habit you had when you were too deep in thought.
You reached out and gently brushed your fingers over the ink.
The page was warm.
You froze. The rest of the book was cold, dry from the climate controlled room, but this… this footnote felt like it had just been written. And not with ink. Something darker. You pulled your hand away quickly, startled — as if the very words on the page had burned a hole right through your skin. But nothing changed. No glowing text. No flash of lightning. Just you, the book, and the rain.
“Why does that name keep showing up?” you murmured to no one, your voice lost in the hush of the library.
The rain outside thundered suddenly louder, as if something had just shifted.
You sat there for a few more minutes, trying to refocus, but you just couldn't… You kept going back to the strange occurrence that had just happened. Perhaps the studying is getting to me, you thought to yourself, before deciding to pack up for the night — deeming yourself too tired to remain sane.
After you packed up, you brought the old book back to the librarian, setting it on the desk she always seemed to occupy — a book always in her hand, as if being in the library was her natural habitat and you were just passing through it.
“Here you go, Mrs. Calderu,” you said softly, as if to not burst the calm bubble the library always seemed to hold.
The librarian sat in her usual place, posture regal even in stillness. She was a rather old school woman, preferring to use a notebook to keep track of what came in and what went out. Her long silver hair, wavy and soft, was always pinned back in some elegant but practical style. She wore glasses that you’d only ever heard her complain about losing once or twice, muttering about them like they were mischievous pets. She intimidated you a bit, if you were being frank — something about older women… well, that was something to be unpacked later.
Mrs. Calderu didn’t look up right away. She turned the page of her novel — something with a velvet bookmark and a dark cover — before finally glancing up at you over her glasses.
“Oh, thank you, dear,” she said in her low, always knowing voice. “Did you find what you needed for your little thesis?” There was a teasing lilt to her tone, but something about her eyes made it feel like she already knew the answer.
You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly, but a small smile still tugged at your lips.
“Kinda…” You paused for a moment. “Just still researching,” you said politely.
“Mmm,” she hummed, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Well, if you need any help, you know where to find me. I’ve been in this library longer than the wallpaper. Read more books in the last year than you’ve seen in your entire life, I’d wager.”
You laughed, nodding as you mumbled a small thank you. She was always a little strange — not in an unkind way, just... uncanny. Like she belonged to the library the way a ghost belongs to its house. Mrs. Calderu said nothing more, simply went back to her reading as if your presence had never disturbed her at all.
You readjusted your bag on your shoulder and headed out of the library for the night, feeling the cold air wash over your face. You sighed, letting the tension slip from your shoulders as you made your way to the bus stop — finally heading home, and hopefully to some much-needed rest for your completely fried brain.
---
That had been three days ago.
Three days, and you still hadn’t shaken the name. Agatha Harkness.
It clung to you in your dreams, your notebooks, the corners of your vision when you weren’t looking. You'd tried to let it go, bury yourself in your thesis like a sane person, but your brain kept circling the drain. Every search turned up stranger results. Every mention of her led nowhere — just breadcrumbs on a trail that twisted into fog.
You’d spent the morning rereading notes you didn’t even remember writing. The Litlle written note still pulsed in your head like a low drumbeat.
Just as you were considering pulling out your laptop to go another round with the void, your phone buzzed. A DM. From Billy, of course — because for some reason he refuses to use iMessage like a normal human being.
You rolled your eyes, but there was already a tiny smile tugging at the edge of your mouth.
Hey, want to get some lunch? I found a new coffee spot on 5th Ave.
You rolled onto your side with a sigh, thumbed out a vague “sure,” and finally dragged yourself out of bed to get dressed. About thirty minutes later, you stepped into the café. It had a warm, old soul charm with mismatched chairs, indie folk music humming quietly from unseen speakers, the soft scent of espresso and cinnamon pastries wrapped around you like a hug.
You barely had time to scan the room before Billy spotted you first. He sat at a corner table, grinning like an idiot, and waved you over with a little dramatic flourish.
You gave him a tired smile and shuffled over, dropping into the seat across from him with a sigh.
Billy chuckled, nudging your foot under the table. “What’s up with you? You look like you’ve slept in a haunted library for a week.”
You gave him a half grumble. “Gosh, something like that…”
You slumped back in your chair and rubbed at your face. “It’s the fucking thesis. I feel like my brain’s melting from how much I’vebeen cramming in. Like… I’m one sentence away from losing it.”
Billy laughed, unbothered in the way only someone who’s known you long enough not to panic could. “You say that like it hasn’t already happened.”
Before you could respond, the waitress came by and placed your usual order in front of you. You blinked down at the drink, then up at Billy.
“Did you—?”
“Obviously,” he said, smug. “Have I told you lately how amazing I am?”
A grin pulled at your lips as you took a long, blessed sip. “God, I love you sometimes.”
He beamed. “Mmh, yeah, I know. But say it again. Louder. It’s good for the ego.”
You kicked him under the table, not hard, just enough to keep the ego from inflating too much. The two of you sank into the kind of easy, familiar rhythm that only years of friendship could build. You talked for a while — about Billy’s new classes, the disaster of a midterm he had to grade as a TA, your parents, your advisor’s passive aggressive email tone. Everything and nothing all at once. It was the kind of catch up your brain had been starved for.
He was just now going on about some dinner he and his boyfriend made last weekend — apparently inspired by that rat movie from Disney — as you burst into a small giggle at his attempt at a French accent.
And then, as you were about to take another sip, he hit you with it.
“So… other than turning you into a sleep deprived cryptid, how’s the thesis? Find any witchy woo stuff?”
You let out a long sigh, leaning back in your chair and rubbing at your temples. “It’s going. But, okay — you’re gonna think I’m crazy.”
Billy raised one brow, eyes twinkling. “More than I already do now?”
You gave Billy a half glare at his teasing. “Ugh, fine.” You hesitated for a second longer, then reached for your bag, rifling through it until you pulled out a messy folder stuffed with notes, clippings, and printouts. You spread them out on the table between the two of you.
“There’s this woman who keeps popping up in the records,” you said, thumbing through a stack until you found the one with her name circled in red ink. “Agatha Harkness. And every trail just… ends. No conclusion. No death record. No grave. It’s like she was erased.”
Billy squinted at the page. “Cool name. Vaguely witchy. Ten outta ten branding.”
You huffed. “That’s not the point. It’s like she’s a ghost. And — yes, I know she probably is a ghost now — but this feels different. Like she’s important. There are references to her in old books from every century. But nothing solid. Nothing official. And in the library the other night…”
You faltered, unsure of how to phrase what happened without sounding completely unhinged.
“…I touched this page in an old book where there was some writing. I swear it felt warm. Like it had just been written. And not with ink… something darker. It didn’t make sense. The rest of the book was cold. I just — ughhhh, I don't know! What do you think?”
You looked at Billy, hoping — or even begging — for any reaction that didn’t scream you’ve lost it.
Billy took the longest, slowest sip of his coffee and looked you dead in the eye.
“What do I think?” he said flatly. “I think you need a nap, a girlfriend, and probably therapy. Not necessarily in that order.”
You groaned, flopping against the back of your seat. “I’m serious! Look at this—” You slid more notes across the table, documents littered with highlights and annotations. “She was supposedly tried and executed in 1693. But there are verified records of her in 1721. Then again in 1796. She just… keeps reappearing.”
Billy narrowed his eyes, flicking through the notes. “Okay, I’ll give you this — it’s weird.”
“Thank you!” you said, eyes widening like you’d just been thrown a life preserver.
“But,” he added with a smirk, “Are you sure this isn’t just you trying to manifest a ghost girlfriend? Because honestly? I wouldn’t judge.”
You chucked a napkin at his face.
---
Later that night, your head was once again buried in your notes. It was like you’d gone absolutely mad thinking about this stupid Agatha Harkness.
Sleep deprived, you harshly circled her name again. “What kind of name is that, huh?” you huffed, jabbing the pen so hard it nearly ripped the page. “Agatha Harkness. Sounds like a villain in some off brand Victorian penny novel. Or like… like a really pretentious candle. Pft, yeah… like a stupid candle.”
Your room looked like the set of a crime drama—and not in a good way. Crumpled pieces of paper littered the floor like the aftermath of a thesis induced breakdown. Books were everywhere, just splayed open on every surface: the floor, your bed, the desk. Even the bathroom had become an extension of your investigation. You didn’t even want to think about what you left on the stove.
You took a sip of your now cold black coffe and hummed softly. It didn’t even taste bad. You were so tired it might as well have been ambrosia.
Your corkboard hung crooked on the wall, red thread spun wildly between thumbtacks and annotated printouts, like you were two breakdowns away from becoming an old detective. All you needed was a trench coat and a cigarette, and you could pass for the lead in a gritty 1980s detective flick—the exact kind where the detective’s wife leaves him halfway through the movie.
But you weren’t a detective. You were a 24 year old historian who just wanted to write a thesis on the Salem Witch Trials and accidentally found yourself crawling through some godless rabbit hole.
You rubbed your temples and sighed.
“Focus,” you whispered. “ Focus .”
You reached for a stack of books you’d hounded Mrs. Calderu for after the much needed coffee break you had with Billy earlier today. Old records, out of print local histories, and more than a few handwritten journals with cryptic annotations. When she’d passed them over, she’d warned you not to return them with “so much as a crease,” or she’d have your hands chopped off.
She was probably kidding. You think. Maybe.
You flipped through a brittle town archive from the early 1900s. At first, nothing stood out. You grumbled a bit and ran a hand through your hair before shifting around in your seat, flipping through the pages in search of one name and one name only. Then, you saw it.
Her.
Agatha Harkness.
1901 – “Bostonian woman spotted offering ‘hexes’ in exchange for silver during Prohibition.”
1912 – “Survivor account from the RMS Titanic: ‘A dark haired woman with violet eyes pulled me into a lifeboat. She was singing. Said I was lucky. That the sea liked me.’”
1937 – “A witness at the Hindenburg crash said he saw a woman walk calmly away from the flames. ‘Not a scorch on her coat,’ he claimed. ‘And she was smiling.’”
1973 – “Nashville: A strange woman accused of stealing a country star’s husband. The tabloids dubbed her Jolene.”
You blinked at that one. That couldn’t be real. Could it?
But it was.
And then came the quote that made your spine straighten like a struck match:
She didn’t take him. He followed her.
“What the hell…” you muttered.
Your laptop groaned beside you, the fan audibly protesting as you pulled up your browser. You already had fourteen tabs open, filled with historical databases, occult message boards, census archives, and one cursed Reddit thread about witches who never age. “As if witches are real,” you huffed out once more.
Everywhere you looked, there she was. Agatha. Same strange details each time—always showing up right before something went wrong. Always vanishing just after. Her name lingered like smoke.
You scanned a crumbling newspaper clipping. Some local columnist warned about a “dark haired woman who promised more than she asked for.” No birthdate. No backstory. Just a quote:
"She said her name was Agatha. Just Agatha. She didn’t ask for money. Just something you loved."
You stared at that line for a long time.
“No one lives that long,” you whispered. “Unless…”
You didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.
A gust of wind suddenly hit your apartment’s windows, causing them to fly open. You jumped, heart rattling your ribs, eyes darting toward the shadows, half expecting to see her standing there, curled into the shadows with nothing but her violet eyes staring back. But it was just the wind. Just the dark.
You let out a shaky laugh—or tried to.
“Get it together,” you told yourself. “You’re just tired. This is research. Not some haunted witch bullshit.”
Still, the feeling in your chest tightened, a molten blend of fear and obsession. She was a ghost in every record. A name that refused to die. And now, it wasn’t just about Salem. Not anymore.
You shut the books and pulled your laptop closer. One last search. Just to be sure.
Agatha Harkness
Sort by: Most recent
You hesitated. Then clicked.
There it was.
A book published in 2021.
"Fire, Bone, and Silence: A Study in the Salem Trials"
By: Agatha H.
No author photo. No clear biography. Just an eerie, poetic blurb:
"A world behind the world. Threads of ancient light. Silence that speaks louder than fire."
Your throat went dry. It couldn’t be her.
But if it wasn’t… Why did your stomach feel like it was full of bees? Your fingers hovered, trembling slightly, as you stared at the screen. This wasn’t about your thesis anymore. It was about her.
Whoever—whatever—she was.
And why she kept showing up.
You clicked on the link where you could buy the book. Even if you weren't sure if they were the same unknown woman, you still had to give it a shot.
---
Bang, Bang, Bang.
A knock rattled your door.
You groaned, still half-asleep. “Mhhh… five more minutes.” Your head flopped back against the pillow, the weight of sleep starting to pull you back down—warm, heavy, and thick like honey. That was until another annoyingly sharp knock sliced through the quiet of your apartment.
Bang, Bang, Bang.
You rolled onto your back, arms thrown across your face. “Ugh. Can’t you tell a woman’s sleeping?” you muttered, your voice hoarse.Slowly, you peeled yourself out of bed, blinking blearily at the dull morning light filtering through your curtains.
It had been a full week since you'd fallen headfirst into madness. Spiraling into an academic fever dream over one obscure name in an even more obscure footnote.
You’d sworn off it. Took a proper break. You even went outside. Touched grass, which you think everyone needs to do every once in a while—especially after all of those Reddit rabbit holes you went down. So, now you were reading something normal for once—something that didn’t whisper under its breath.
Because once you started speculating whether she was a vampire werewolf hybrid who fed on the souls of little children, you knew your grip on reality had gotten... slippery.
Bang, Bang, Bang.
Another knock—sharp, impatient.
“Coming! One moment!” you shouted, louder than necessary.
You headed toward the door, the floor cold against your bare feet, your oversized sleep shirt sagging off one shoulder. As you cracked it open, you were met by a man in a nondescript brown cap holding a clipboard and a medium sized package.
“Delivery for you,” he said gruffly. “Need a signature.”
You blinked. “Uh... sure.” You reached out for the pen and brushed his hand by accident. His skin was calloused, strangely dry, the texture almost startling.
You scribbled your name across the line.
“Thanks,” you mumbled.
“Have a nice day, ma’am.” And just like that, he turned and left.
You stood in your doorway for a second, brows furrowed, the weight of the box in your hands somehow heavier than it should’ve been. Your gaze dropped to it. Plain brown wrapping. No return label. No barcode. No brand markings at all.
That wasn’t normal.
“Huh…” you muttered. “Weird.” You didn’t remember ordering anything.
Still, curiosity hummed beneath your skin. You closed the door and headed back to your room, box nestled in your arms like something sacred. You sat on the edge of your bed and carefully began to peel the tape away, the sound of it unnervingly loud in the quiet.
Inside… was a book.
You frowned. Reaching in, lifting it carefully. The box slid to the floor with a soft thud.
The cover was dark, almost charcoal, with subtle raised embossing around the title. The font was elegant, serifed—timeless. And right there, just beneath the title, like the universe laughing at you:
Author: Agatha Harkness.
Your mouth parted. “Oh my god,” you whispered.
It hit you in a wave—the memory of that night. Bleary yed, furious, laughing to yourself as you added it to your cart. You’d been drunk on frustration, too many hours without sleep, hunched over dusty PDFs and conflicting accounts, chasing phantoms through the folds of early American history.
You’d bought the book out of spite. Out of curiosity. Out of some maddening itch you couldn’t scratch. You rubbed a hand over your face. “God, I’m an idiot.”
Still… now that it was here. You hesitated. Looked down at the cover again.
“Well,” you muttered, “I’ve had a week off. What’s the harm?”
You curled back into bed, legs tucked under a blanket, the book resting heavy in your lap. You took a moment to trail your fingers over the slightly raised title, mumbling the name under your breath. When you cracked it open, a scent rose from the pages—rich and loamy, like soil after rain. Old paper, aged leather, and something deeper… like the ash of a hearth long cold.
But the book was new, wasn’t it?
The introduction was brief. No bio. No note from the author. Just a single sentence on the first page:
Memory does not die. It waits.
You turned the page, and the text began. It didn’t read like a historian's work. It read like a confession.
The winter of 1692 was not the coldest in Massachusetts' history. But it was the longest. And in long winters, fear grows faster than wheat. It curls under doorways. It settles in soup pots. It wears the faces of neighbors. And when fear blooms… it always chooses to burn women first.
You shivered. “What the,” you whispered. “Who writes like this?” She wasn’t just citing records. She saw them. Felt them. Bled through them. Every line was more than a fact—it was a wound. An indictment. A spell.
Contrary to what Cotton Mather insisted in his later sermons, the so-called fits did not start with the Devil. They began with silence. Silence broken by girls who were tired of being ignored.
You blinked. “Wait—Mather didn’t—” You reached for your notes, flipping to a previously scribbled margin about the Boston pamphlets. You’d never read it framed like this. It changed everything.
Tituba was not a puppet. Nor was she merely the ‘Indian slave’ scrawled into court records. She was a conduit. Her stories, her spirits—they were real enough to those girls to tear the village apart.
You sat up straighter.
Why didn’t anyone else write about her like that? Why had you never thought to? You prided yourself on nuance. On seeing the pieces no one else did. But this woman… she was miles ahead of you.
“She’s brilliant,” you whispered. And her knowledge ran deep—far deeper than public archives allowed.
Ann Putnam Jr. recanted, yes—but not before blood had stained seven doorsteps. And yet she was remembered kindly. She married. Had children. Lived to gray. The women she named never had that chance.
You closed your eyes, taking a moment to let the seemingly wise words of the woman wash over you. Maybe she wasn't a stupid candle after all.
There is a tree that still stands in the hollow beyond Ipswich’s southern stream. It has not bloomed in 300 years. The snow never melts beneath it. They say it marks the place where the ones who lived in-between were burned—those too feared to kill openly, too powerful to spare.
You froze. You knew that legend. You’d come across a half paragraph about it buried in a local folklore blog once, but dismissed it. No official record confirmed it.
She knew about it.
“Wait…” You flipped back. Reread the paragraph. She named it.
We called it Hollow Oak. And it never spoke of us.
Your skin prickled. “Is she implying she was there?” No. That was insane. …Wasn’t it? She was just telling a story she got through research. You shifted uncomfortably, but still you couldn't pull yourself from her words and kept reading.
She referenced old court documents you didn’t think had been digitized. She quoted witness statements you’d never heard of. Her footnotes cited sources you couldn’t find online. Her voice slipped between omniscient and intimate. Like she wasn’t guessing.
She was remembering.
The prose wasn’t just captivating—it was addictive. It crawled into your chest and made itself a home. You didn’t stop reading. Hours passed in a blur. When you finally finished the last page, your room was dark, lit only by your desk lamp and the cool glow of your laptop in sleep mode.
Your hands trembled.
You needed more.
You jumped up and hurried to your desk, pulling open your laptop, fingers clacking the keys.
“Maybe she has more books. A series. Maybe she teaches somewhere. Does lectures—meet-and-greets—hell, even a podcast—” You stopped yourself mid ramble. This woman wasn’t a celebrity. She was… what, exactly?
You typed her name again. Agatha Harkness.
One result.
Just the book in your lap.
“No,” you muttered. “That can’t be right. Where’s the publisher?” You clicked the link beneath the listing.
Website Error (404)
Your stomach dropped. The site was gone. You sat frozen, blinking at the screen.
Minutes passed.
Then you turned, slowly, to the book on your bed. It sat there, quiet and smug, like it had been waiting. “…Maybe one more red through won’t hurt,” you said softly. “For research.” You curled back up under your blanket and reopened the first page.
Memory does not die. It waits.
You turned the page. You didn’t stop. Not when the shadows in your room lengthened. Not when your eyes burned. Not when the clock on your nightstand changed from midnight to 3:47 AM in what felt like seconds.
You looked up and almost choked. You were three pages from finishing your third reread.
“No way,” you whispered. “I’ve been reading all night? I was just skimming. Just—” You looked down at the book, its spine now comfortably warm from your hands. Your notes littered the bed. Margins full of questions and exclamation points. Strings of “who is she?” scrawled over and over. You hadn’t just read it. You’d absorbed it. You were haunted by it.
And now… you wanted answers.
So, you tossed the book off your lap, heart pounding beneath the blanket still bunched around you. There it was—her name—lingering like a ghost just waiting to be said aloud. The words on the page hadn’t even settled before your thoughts took off, chaotic and restless.
You felt it. In your chest, in your bones. She wasn’t just a woman in some forgotten text. She was real. You didn’t know how you knew—you just did. But what did that even mean? And why did chasing her feel like reaching for a dream you could barely remember when you woke up?
You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor with a quiet thud. The air was sharp, but it helped. You stood, breathed deep. Around you, the apartment was a mess, but the kind that felt lived in, electric with ideas. Textbooks stacked like mini skyscrapers on the desk. Crumpled notes scattered like leaves. Coffee stains sat on every surface. Somehow, it all felt right. Like this was exactly where you needed to be. Your own little war room.
You had to dig deeper. Had to know more. Was the woman who wrote this book the same one described in all of these historic encounters? You dragged your chair closer to the desk and cracked open your laptop, the screen lighting up. You didn’t hesitate—typed in Ipswich folklore and hit enter.
Page after page, you read about different legends, rumors, footnotes buried in obscure blogs and centuries old texts. It was like slipping into another world. You couldn’t stop scrolling.
Then something caught.
Among the ancient trees by the southern stream, legends tell of a hollow wood where snow never melts, a place where those who lingered would be caught between this world and the next.
Your pulse jumped. You recognized it. The same phrasing. The same imagery. From her book Hollow Oak. Not just a creepy story whispered to kids. A real place. One you’d heard of only vaguely, like a rumor passed in a dream. Somewhere in rural Massachusetts. Somewhere you could go.
You leaned in, the glow of the screen painting your face in soft blue. Fingers already hovering above the keys.
Hollow Oak Ipswich Massachusetts.
You searched everything. Cross referenced old town maps, property lines, weather patterns. Looked up every weird story tied to that spot—vanishings, strange sounds, shapes in the woods when the sun was still up. Every word added fuel to the fire growing inside your chest.
It was an obsession now. No point pretending otherwise.
Still, you needed more. Something concrete. You pulled up land records next, chasing any connection you could find. Your eyes burned, and the hours slipped past like water. But then—something.
You froze. Not just in the past. A deed, dated 2022.
You blinked. Stared. Could be a coincidence, right? A reused name. That had to happen. But your gut clenched and refused to let go. Hope flickered. You leaned closer, squinting at the grainy listing. No full address. Just coordinates. Enough.
“What if she’s real?” you whispered, barely loud enough to hear.
The question hung there. Heavy. Sacred.
Your heart pounded like you’d uncovered buried treasure. Like you were on the edge of something that could change everything. You didn’t know what you were chasing anymore—her, the truth, yourself—but it didn’t matter. You were in it. You had to see it through.
You kept going. Compiled notes, bookmarked pages, printed legends and property logs, anything that gave shape to the mystery. Hollow Oak pulsed behind your eyes like a beacon, and your mind couldn’t let it go. You were unraveling something ancient and alive, and it was calling.
Finally, you found it, through a snippet buried in a niche forum post:
Turn left at the old stone bridge, take the path lined with willows, and cross the stream that never runs dry…
Your fingers trembled as you sent the directions to yourself. That was it. That was the way.
You sat back for a second, chest tight with the weight of it all. The apartment was still a disaster, but now it looked like an altar to obsession. Books and notes and half drunk mugs forming the backbone of something more than just research. You were making a map. A story. A future.
What if you went now? Would that be insane? You glanced at your alarm clock on the stand: 5:24 AM . You sighed, rubbing your eyes. You’d just spent another entire day reading about this woman and her work—and now you wanted to figure out where she lived? And find her? “Oh my god. Oh, I’m insane—I’m—this is a new low, what if—” You cut yourself off with a groan.
Ultimately, you decided to sleep the rest of the night away after spending nearly sixteen straight hours diving into this topic all over again. You set the book on your nightstand, but not before tracing your fingers over the title like you were trying to commit it to memory.
With a yawn, you clicked off your lamp and crawled into bed. Your brain was so exhausted. You let your head fall into the pillow and tugged the blankets over your body, finally letting yourself relax, the weight of the day dissolving as you drifted into some much needed rest.
But still, branded into the back of your mind, a certain name lingered…
Agatha Harkness.