Ink and Ivy

The rain was a steady whisper against the windows, tapping out a rhythm that could put a priest to sleep or drive a guilty man to confession. It was just past nine on a Tuesday night, and my bookstore was as empty as the promises on a politician’s lips. I was wiping down the counter, slow and bored, when she walked in.

Red coat, soaked at the hem. A look like she'd just come from a funeral or was on her way to cause one. Her eyes flicked across the room, fast and cold, like they were looking for exits more than books. I pegged her for trouble the way a hangover pegs a whiskey binge.

"Looking for something specific?" I asked, trying to keep my tone indifferent.

She gave me a glance like a thrown dagger. "Just browsing."

She disappeared into the back aisle where the antique stuff lived—the oddballs, the crumpled poetry, the memoirs of lunatics. I let her wander. Then I heard the door chime again and turned my back for one second. Just one. When I looked up, she was gone.

So was the book.

Not just any book. The Drowning of Eliza Grey. A local print, published once in '38, pulled from shelves before it could breathe. It was about a girl who vanished from the edge of the canal on a foggy night. Some say she ran. Some say she drowned. Some say she never existed at all. The book hinted at things that never made the papers—a town council cover-up, missing diary pages, whispers of something in the water.

I'd kept it behind glass. No price tag. Not for sale.

And now it was gone.

I didn’t call the cops. I’ve seen what they do with mystery. They file it under "unsolved" and grab lunch.

Instead, I did what I do best: watched and listened.

Her name was Rita Lane. A former archivist at the library, fired under circumstances too vague to be ordinary. She lived three blocks from the old mill, in a place where the streetlights flickered and the neighbors minded their own business.

I paid her a visit.

The lock on her door was older than jazz. I knocked twice. When she opened, she didn't look surprised.

"Mr. Booker," she said. Yeah, that's me. Lionel Booker. Ex-newshound turned seller of forgotten stories.

"You stole from me," I said.

"I borrowed," she replied. "You can't steal truth."

She stepped aside. I entered. The place smelled like dust, old ink, and a hint of gin.

The book lay open on her kitchen table. Pages dog-eared. Scribbles in the margins. Symbols, underlines, exclamation marks like cries in red pen.

"This isn't just a story," she said. "It’s a map."

She showed me a paragraph on page 47. A scene describing a rusted swing set near the canal. It had been removed years ago. Or so I thought. She claimed it was still there, just covered by ivy and a city that liked to forget.

"Eliza Grey was real," she said. "And I think she left something behind."

She paused. For a second, she looked less like a thief and more like a believer. Or a survivor.

I didn’t buy it. Not at first. But then she turned to the back page—a section I’d never read, or maybe it had never been there.

A riddle:

"Where fog kisses iron and the water sings,

The girl sleeps under the roots of wings."

The book hadn’t just been about the mystery. It was part of it.

We drove out that night. To the edge of town where the canal bends like a crooked finger. Fog hugged the ground like a bad memory, and the only sound was our footsteps crunching gravel.

The swing set was there. Twisted metal, buried under vines. It groaned like an old man when touched.

We dug until our nails bled. A shovel would’ve helped, but desperation doesn’t wait for hardware.

We found a tin box. Rusted shut. Inside: a photograph, a page torn from a journal, and a necklace with the initials E.G.

The photograph was grainy, but the eyes were unmistakable. The same face I’d seen in yellowed microfilm for years.

The journal page told the rest. Eliza hadn’t drowned. She’d witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to see—a meeting under the bridge, money changing hands, a man in a city council pin. They chased her. She ran. Hid the evidence. Disappeared.

Maybe they found her. Maybe she ran for good. But now we had proof.

Rita wanted to publish. Expose the truth. But some truths stick in your throat like old gum. I told her: tread light. This town forgets for a reason.

A week later, she disappeared.

No note. No calls. Her apartment stripped clean.

The only thing left was a copy of The Drowning of Eliza Grey, open to that same riddle. And underlined in red:

"Some stories refuse to stay buried."

I spent the next month looking. Asking questions in the corners where polite society won’t go.

The pawn shop on 9th said she came in with the necklace. Didn’t sell it—just asked if it was gold. The guy behind the counter remembered her hands shaking.

The bar down near the shipyard said she drank there, once. Sat alone. Scribbled in a notebook and left in a hurry.

I found the notebook two nights later, stuffed in a sewer grate. Pages torn out, but the ones that remained were sketches of wings, of water, of eyes with no pupils. Tucked inside was a typed note:

"Forget her."

Then more started arriving.

Typed, no return address. Simple sentences:

"Let the past rot."

"Books are dangerous."

I kept them. Burned one. Regretted it.

I tried the cops. Told them Rita might be in trouble. They nodded like mannequins. Promised to "look into it."

Next day, the bookshop got a surprise health inspection. Funny how that works.

I knew someone didn’t want Eliza Grey’s story told. But I couldn’t help myself. Once a reporter, always.

I went back to the canal. This time, I brought gloves and a flashlight.

There was more. A second box, deeper under the swing. Inside: a roll of film. Old-school Kodak. Still sealed.

I got it developed out of town.

What I saw changed everything.

Photos of city officials. Men in trench coats passing envelopes. A girl watching from behind a tree. The last photo? A blurry shot of what looked like... wings. Not birds. Too wide. Too unnatural.

That’s when I realized—Eliza hadn’t just seen corruption. She saw something else. Something no one wanted found.

I went quiet. Kept the photos hidden. They scared me more than I cared to admit. But the story burned in my chest.

I started writing. Quietly. A new edition of Eliza Grey, but with my notes. My findings. My proof.

I didn’t plan to publish. Just needed to get it down.

But someone did publish it.

They hacked my files. Released the book online under my name. No edits. No warning.

It went viral.

Suddenly I was a minor celebrity. People called me brave. Others called me a liar.

My store got firebombed. Only the back room burned. The glass case holding the original copy melted into slag.

No one hurt. Just a message.

That night, a box arrived on my doorstep. Inside: Rita’s necklace. And a note:

"You kept digging. Now you’re next."

I left town the next morning.

Now I live in a motel two states over. Sell books online. Keep my head down. Sleep light.

But the emails keep coming.

Readers who see things in the text that I didn’t write. Kids drawing wings in the margins. One man swears Eliza Grey spoke to him in a dream.

Maybe she did.

Maybe some stories write themselves. Maybe some truths just want out.

I still have one copy of the book.

Still not for sale.

But I keep it on the shelf.

And I leave the key in the lock.

Just in case someone else wants to remember.

Because some stories refuse to stay buried.

And some... come back clawing.