The Widows Watch

The house on Black Hollow Cliffs had stood for over a century, its turreted silhouette slicing the mist that rolled in from the sea. Once a grand estate, it was now a weather-beaten relic, its iron gates rusted shut, its halls long since abandoned—except for her.

Eleanor Wakefield, the widow of Black Hollow, had outlived three husbands, each dying under circumstances the town whispered about but never dared to question. The first fell from the cliffs, his body dashed against the jagged rocks below. The second, a banker from Boston, choked on a glass of sherry—poison, some suspected. The third? Vanished without a trace, his name barely a memory.

On a storm-thick night, the house lit up once more, a glow from the study flickering through the rain-streaked windows. Inside, Eleanor sat by the fire, dressed in mourning black, her fingers turning the pages of a leather-bound ledger. The names of the deceased, written in neat script, stretched across the parchment.

A knock. Slow, deliberate.

She closed the book and rose, her breath clouding in the cold air. The butler had long since quit. No one visited unannounced.

Another knock.

She unlatched the door. A figure stood in the rain, draped in a long coat, a hat pulled low over shadowed eyes. "Mrs. Wakefield," the voice was smooth, unfamiliar. "May I come in?"

Something in his tone sent a chill up her spine. But Eleanor Wakefield did not scare easily. "I don’t entertain visitors after dark."

"I think you'll want to make an exception." The man stepped forward, revealing a silver badge glinting under the lantern light. "Detective Charles Whitaker. Here to ask about your missing husband."

Eleanor smiled, but her grip on the door tightened. "How diligent of you, detective. You’re only five years late."

"Justice has no expiration date," Whitaker said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. He removed his hat, shaking off the rain, and his gaze lingered on the heavy chandelier, the grand staircase, the paintings with subjects long dead. "Quite the place you keep. And all to yourself."

She shut the door behind him. "My solitude is by design, Detective."

He turned to face her. "Is that why your husbands keep dying?"

The fire crackled. The wind howled through unseen cracks in the old house. Eleanor did not blink. "Careful, Mr. Whitaker. Accusations without proof are dangerous."

He reached into his coat, pulling out a folded parchment. "Then maybe you'd like to explain this?"

She took it with a gloved hand, unfolding the brittle paper. Her breath caught.

A letter. From her last husband.

Eleanor,
If I disappear, know that I did not go willingly. The walls here whisper secrets, and I fear you are listening.

Henry
Slowly, Eleanor looked up. The detective was smiling, but there was no warmth in it.

"I found this in an old sea chest," he said, watching her reaction. "Locked away, hidden under false boards. Almost as if he knew he wouldn’t get the chance to send it."

Eleanor’s lips parted slightly, but she recovered. "And yet, you have no body. No proof of foul play."

Whitaker tilted his head. "Perhaps. But I find it odd, Mrs. Wakefield, that your husbands always seem to disappear near the cliffs. And wouldn’t you know it, the tides have been kind lately. They’ve been giving up old bones."

Eleanor’s fingers twitched. "You have nothing but speculation, Detective."

"Maybe." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "But you and I both know, sooner or later, the dead do talk."

Silence stretched between them. The wind outside had died. The fire popped, casting long, dancing shadows across the room.

Eleanor Wakefield smiled.

And locked the door.

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