The Silence Beneath

The town of Elmridge was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s birthday, favorite pie, and how many dogs they owned. Nothing exciting ever happened — unless you counted Mrs. Holloway’s cat getting stuck in a tree as newsworthy. But that calm was only surface deep. Because beneath the silence, death was moving quietly, like pages turning in a darkened library.

Every day at 9:00 AM sharp, Beatrice Mallory unlocked the doors to Elmridge Public Library. Always in a gray cardigan, her hair pinned tightly back, glasses perfectly aligned, she was a ghost of a woman — polite, unnoticed, and forgettable. The children said she smelled like old books and peppermints. The adults said she had a tragic past: an only child, no husband, and parents long buried.

No one asked questions.

Until the disappearances began.

It started with Tommy Ray, the teenage troublemaker who got caught spray-painting the mayor’s car. One day he came into the library after school, and then — gone. His mother swore he had promised to meet her for dinner. The sheriff shrugged. Probably ran away again, like last time. But then old Mr. Cartwright vanished. And then Jenna Farrow, the florist’s daughter.

Three people in one month.

Beatrice shelved books as usual. She served tea to the town council during their meetings in the reading room. She gave out bookmarks to schoolchildren and recommended murder mysteries to lonely retirees.

Detective Simon Rourke, however, wasn’t convinced by the town's sleepy explanations. He had transferred from Chicago after a breakdown — too many bodies, too much corruption — hoping for peace. But even here, death found him.

What disturbed him was the pattern.

Each missing person had last been seen near or in the library. Security footage? The town didn't have cameras inside public buildings — too expensive, said the mayor. Simon decided to go low-key. He visited daily, pretending to browse. Beatrice always greeted him with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

“You like thrillers, Detective?” she asked one afternoon.

“Yes. Especially the ones where the killer hides in plain sight.”

She didn’t flinch. “The best ones always do.”

That night, Simon hid behind the non-fiction shelves until closing. He watched her lock the doors and turn off the lights. Then something strange happened. She didn’t leave.

She opened a small, unmarked door behind the front desk — a door Simon had never noticed before. He followed, staying silent.

What he found was a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

He took out his flashlight.

The smell hit first — a mixture of mildew, old paper, and something far worse.

At the bottom was a cold room lined with bookshelves. But instead of books, the shelves held something else: boxes. Human-sized boxes. Some covered in dust. Others… fresh.

A table stood in the center, and on it lay Jenna Farrow, lifeless, her eyes wide open, her body cold.

Footsteps behind him.

Beatrice stood there, holding a scalpel.

“You were supposed to be a peaceful man, Simon,” she said softly. “You came here to forget death, but you brought it with you.”

He drew his gun, but her expression remained calm.

“You won't shoot me,” she whispered. “You still want answers.”

His hands trembled.

“Why?” he asked.

She smiled gently. “They were broken. Lost. I gave them silence. I preserved them. People forget — libraries are for keeping things safe.”

She lunged.

The shot echoed in the basement, muffled by the stone walls. Beatrice collapsed, her blood pooling on the cold stone floor, her scalpel clattering beside her.

It was over.

Or so he thought.

Later, as investigators cleared the room and bodies were taken for autopsy, Simon noticed a worn ledger tucked in Beatrice’s desk upstairs. Inside, a list of names. Dates. Notes like "too loud" or "always asking questions."

There were thirty-four names.

But only ten bodies in the basement.

Twenty-four still missing.

The last name on the list?

Simon Rourke.

The ink was still wet.


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The silence of Elmridge had always been deceptive. And some stories, even in quiet libraries, refuse to stay closed.