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Weekly Contest #307
Every town has a place people avoid without understanding why. In Ebonroot, it was the Public Records Hall. It stood hunched at the edge of the northern forest, its stone facade stained with moss, its windows dark as closed eyes. No one remembered who had built it. No one questioned its presence. It was simply there, like a bone buried too deep to dislodge. Mallory Finn was the archivist. She had been for fifteen years. Each morning at precisely 8:03, she emerged from her narrow brick cottage on Crofton Lane, her shoes always spotless, her s...
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