The Fissure in the Frost: A Town That Pretends Not to See

They both knew, with chilling certainty, that going back home now was definitely not an option.

London meant distance, yes. But it also meant walking away. From the pouch. From the child-shaped shadow in the trees. From the hands that had buckled Emilia’s knees at the edge of the platform.

Mara couldn’t do that. And deep down, Emilia knew it too.

So they did the only thing that made sense: they stepped onto the train not to escape the region, but to take themselves out of immediate danger.

“One stop,” Mara had said on the platform, voice low and precise. “Just to the next town. Somewhere we can think. Somewhere that isn’t Brumewood.”

Emilia’s fingers had dug into her arm. “And then?”

“Then we decide if we go back up the mountain,” Mara replied. “Or if the mountain comes down to us.”

Now they sat side by side in the swaying carriage, breath still uneven, the snow-bright countryside sliding past the window. The tannoy announcement earlier had been clear: Next stop: Haldenridge.

Not London. Not home. Just the next point along the same cold vein of track that connected these little towns like beads on a string.

Emilia stared at the floor. “So we’re staying.”

Mara nodded once. “We’re staying. Just… not there.”

Brumewood.

The name felt heavier now. A pretty little bowl of a town where someone had tried to push Emilia under a train, and the rest of the platform had watched like it was a show.

A town that pretended not to see.

Mara shifted her gaze slowly along the carriage. The passengers here were quiet, bundled in coats, faces pink from the cold. No one stared openly. But no one looked particularly surprised by two shaken women with luggage, either.

“They look normal,” Emilia whispered.

“So did Brumewood,” Mara replied.

Her hand brushed against the side pocket of her bag, feeling the outline of the pouch. Still there. Still heavy. Still wrong.

The train began to slow, the outside world resolving into the edges of a settlement—slate roofs, neat chimneys, a small station building dusted with frost.

Haldenridge.

Emilia exhaled. “Whatever this is… we leave it on this line, yeah? We solve it here. Before it follows us any further.”

Mara didn’t answer.

Because as the train shuddered over the points and eased into Haldenridge, she could feel it already—the uncomfortable sensation of unseen eyes turning with them, tracking their path from one town to the next.

And somewhere behind them, in the rear carriages, she could swear she’d felt the faintest weight of a gaze she recognised from the platform in Brumewood.

Someone—or something—had decided they were worth the journey.

The Stranger in Carriage 4

Haldenridge station was small and simple—a stone platform, iron benches, and a faded timetable pinned in a glass case. Snow had settled on the roof edges but not in thick drifts like Brumewood. The air was still cold, but less oppressive, less dense.

If Brumewood had felt like a snow globe, Haldenridge felt like a town that knew winter and got on with it.

“We get off here,” Mara had said before the stop was even announced. “One station. That’s all.”

They stayed seated until the brakes began their familiar grind, until the train’s speed dipped low enough for them to move without drawing attention. Mara stood first, slinging her bag over her shoulder, scanning the length of the carriage.

Emilia rose more slowly, wincing as she put weight on the leg that had dangled over the tracks minutes earlier.

“Walk, don’t run,” Mara murmured. “We’re just travellers changing our minds. Nothing more.”

They made their way down the aisle. As they passed into the next carriage—Carriage 4—Mara felt it.

That prickling awareness.

Someone watching.

She glanced sideways.

A woman sat three rows in, by the window. Late twenties, pale hair scraped back in a loose knot, high cheekbones, a knitted jumper that had seen better days. On her lap, a small child—no more than six—sat very still, legs dangling, woollen hat pulled low.

The woman’s eyes were fixed on Emilia. Not casually. Not curiously. Fixed.

Mara slowed.

The woman did not look away.

The child’s gaze was stranger still—neither glassy nor lively, but distant, as if his attention hovered a second behind his body. His boots didn’t quite reach the floor.

“Mara,” Emilia breathed, not looking directly at them. “Don’t stop. Please.”

Mara forced herself forward. At the carriage door she glanced back once more.

The woman had risen.

The child was gone.

Her chair was empty.

The train hissed and sighed to a halt. Haldenridge slid fully into view.

Mara’s pulse hammered.

“How did…?” Emilia whispered.

Mara didn’t answer. The possibilities were too many and she hated all of them.

They stepped down onto the platform, boots crunching on packed snow. The air bit at exposed skin, but it felt different. Less watchful. Less staged.

Haldenridge passengers moved with ordinary haste—people greeting loved ones, shouldering bags, adjusting scarves. No perfect, frozen tableaux like in Brumewood. No curated friendliness.

They walked towards the exit, passing under the small iron archway marking the station doors.

Mara couldn’t resist. She turned.

The woman from Carriage 4 stood inside the train, one hand on the seat in front of her, watching them through the glass.

No child.

Her mouth curved into the smallest, slowest smile.

The doors slid shut between them with a clean mechanical sound.

The train began to move.

As it pulled away from the platform, Mara had the unnerving sensation that nothing about this was random—that the route, the timing, even the decision to get off here had already been accounted for by something that understood the line better than they did.

Haldenridge might be just one stop away from Brumewood.

But it was still on the same track.

Haldenridge

If you squinted, Haldenridge could almost have been Brumewood’s cousin.

Same old stone houses. Same soft layers of snow on tiled roofs. Same tiny shops lined up along a main street that curved gently through the centre of town.

But the similarities ended there.

Brumewood had felt… rehearsed. Overly friendly. Each smile a little too polished. Each helpful gesture a fraction too timely. Like a village permanently hosting a show for some invisible audience.

Haldenridge felt lived-in.

People here said hello because it was habit, not performance. A man in a high-vis jacket scraped ice from his van without looking up. A woman tugged a dog away from a lamppost, apologising absently when the lead nearly tripped Mara. Two teenagers argued half-heartedly outside a supermarket, shoving each other in the half-playful, half-serious way teenagers always had.

“Feels different,” Emilia murmured.

“Yes,” Mara said. “Which doesn’t mean safe.”

They found the café just off the main street—a narrow-fronted place with steaming windows and a chalkboard outside that read: WINTER SPECIAL: CINNAMON HOT CHOCOLATE & ORANGE CAKE.

Inside, the air was warm, scented with coffee and baked sugar. Mismatched chairs. Wooden tables. Books piled on a shelf in one corner. A radio played softly, some old song about lost time and winter roads.

A woman behind the counter—early forties, tired eyes, genuine smile—served them without lingering. No curiosity beyond the usual glance at their luggage.

They chose a small table in the corner with a clear view of the door and the back exit.

Emilia wrapped both hands around her mug when it arrived, as if it might anchor her to the room. “We need a plan,” she said, voice low.

Mara watched the condensation on the window slowly bead and run. “We have too many unknowns to build a plan that isn’t fantasy.”

“Try me.”

Mara exhaled and began counting on her fingers.

“One: the diamonds. We know they’re rough, decent quality, and someone—some group—cares enough about them to try and push you in front of a moving train.”

“Comforting,” Emilia muttered.

“Two: Brumewood. No visible police. Everything ‘handled’ in-house. A town that looks perfect on the surface and refuses to react to obvious danger.”

Emilia’s jaw tightened.

“Three: the child-sized figure in the woods. Fast, agile, avoiding direct contact. And four: whatever happened on that platform. You felt hands. I didn’t see anyone.”

Emilia swallowed hard. “Don’t forget five: the woman on the train. And the disappearing kid.”

“Yes,” Mara said quietly. “Five: someone on this line is watching us deliberately. And they’re not in a hurry.”

She glanced around the café. A man in a wool cap stirred his drink. A young couple shared a slice of cake. No one seemed particularly interested in them.

“So what now?” Emilia asked. “We hole up here? Go to a hotel? Go back up to Brumewood? What?”

Mara stared into her untouched tea.

“Whatever this is, it started with the pouch. It started up there,” she said. “If we go home now, we take it with us. If we stay on this line, we at least stay close to whatever rules this place plays by.”

Emilia let her head fall back against the wall. “You’re saying we treat this like a case.”

“I’m saying that, whether I like it or not, it already is one.”

Emilia was about to reply when the bell over the café door jingled.

A man stepped inside.

He stomped snow from his boots, looked up—and froze when he saw them.

Not the cursory freeze of someone surprised to see strangers. Something sharper. Older. Recognition, almost.

His gaze dropped to their luggage. Rose to their faces. Stopped.

Mara held his stare, pulse ticking faster.

He turned around.

And walked straight back out into the cold.

Without saying a word.

The First Warning

Mara was already on her feet before the door had fully swung shut behind him.

Emilia grabbed at her sleeve. “Mara, what are you—”

“Stay here,” Mara said. “If I’m not back in five minutes—”

“Oh, don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Emilia hissed, but Mara was already moving.

Outside, the air slapped her cheeks with cold. The man was halfway down the street, hands jammed into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched.

“Excuse me!” Mara called. “Sir! Please—wait!”

He didn’t turn.

She lengthened her stride, boots slipping slightly on a patch of ice. “Please,” she repeated, closer now. “We just want to ask a question.”

He stopped.

Turned his head halfway, appraising her with those winter-grey eyes.

“You came from Brumewood,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Mara replied. “We were staying in a cabin above the town.”

He turned fully now. Up close, he looked older than she’d first thought. Lines etched deep around his mouth, beard peppered with white. A man who’d seen too many winters and didn’t particularly want to see another.

“You should not have come down the line,” he said quietly. “You should have gone home. Properly home.”

Mara’s jaw tensed. “That’s not an option.”

He gave a humourless half-laugh. “No. I expect it isn’t. Not once you’ve picked up something that belongs to them.”

The word sat oddly on his tongue. Them.

“Who is ‘them’?” Mara asked.

He glanced around the street, as if expecting someone to be standing just over her shoulder.

“The ones who watch the forest,” he said finally. “Who pretend to be part of that town but are not. They keep Brumewood what it is.”

Mara’s skin crawled. “And what is it?”

“A place that eats what it cannot control.”

The wind gusted between them, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and exhaust.

“Whatever you found,” he said. “Put it back.”

“If we knew where ‘back’ was, we might,” Mara replied.

His eyes flicked to her bag. The corner of his mouth tightened.

“Then you are in more trouble than you know.”

“People in Brumewood… have they left before?” Mara pressed. “Come down the line like we did?”

He hesitated, then nodded once.

“Some do. After they go digging where they shouldn’t. After they go looking for the old stories.” His voice dropped. “Some make it as far as Haldenridge.”

“And then?”

His silence was answer enough.

Emilia appeared at Mara’s side, unable to stay put any longer. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and from listening through the café window.

“Sir,” Emilia said, trying for a smile that came out brittle. “We just want somewhere to stay for the night, and then we’ll… reassess.”

He looked between them—one woman steady and analytical, the other frayed and frightened but still standing.

Finally, he sighed.

“There’s only one place that will take you now,” he said. “The others will say they’re full once they hear where you came from.”

“What place?” Mara asked.

He jerked his chin down a side street that sloped away from the main road, disappearing between trees.

“An old boarding house,” he said. “Not on any map. The woman there… she collects stories. People like you always end up at her door.”

Emilia swallowed. “Is she… safe?”

“Safer than Brumewood,” he said. “For a little while.”

He stepped back, already withdrawing from the conversation.

“I’ve told you what I can,” he said. “The rest… the rest is between you and whatever you woke up in that forest.”

He turned and walked away, head down, leaving their questions hanging in the frost-heavy air.

Mara stared at the street he had indicated. It curved between houses, then dropped out of sight.

“Well,” Emilia muttered, hugging herself. “That’s not ominous at all.”

“Come on,” Mara said quietly. “If the obvious hotels won’t take us after Brumewood, we don’t have many choices left.”

They started down the narrow lane toward the place that “wasn’t on any map.”

Neither of them noticed that, up at the café window, someone else had been watching their entire conversation reflected in the glass.

The Hotel That Wasn’t on the Map

The building at the end of the lane didn’t look like a hotel.

It looked like a house that had outlived its own century—dark timber bones, steep slate roof, heavy shutters framing tall windows. Snow lay around it in a smooth, uninterrupted blanket, as if no one had walked up to the door in weeks.

Mara’s instincts told her three things at once:

This place was old.

This place was waiting.

This place had seen others like them.

She raised her hand and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

An elderly woman stood there, small and straight-backed, grey hair swept neatly into a bun. Her eyes were bright, sharp, assessing. But her smile—unexpectedly—was warm.

“Welcome,” she said. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Mara’s blood chilled.

“We didn’t make a reservation,” she replied.

“You didn’t have to,” the woman said softly. “You came from Brumewood. Guests like you always arrive eventually.”

Behind Mara, Emilia muttered, “Okay, that’s not creepy at all.”

The woman’s smile faltered slightly, as if she’d heard the strain in Emilia’s voice. She stepped aside.

“Come in, both of you,” she said. “You must be freezing. Let’s get you in front of the fire before those words sound any more dramatic than they are.”

Reluctantly, they crossed the threshold.

The hallway smelled of beeswax polish and something floral, faint and old-fashioned. A grandfather clock ticked steadily against one wall. Their bags thumped dully on the wooden floor.

“Before I show you your room,” the woman said, “sit for a moment in the drawing room. I’ll bring tea. I didn’t mean to sound mysterious at the door—habit, I’m afraid. Many who come from Brumewood end up here for a night or two. One gets used to certain patterns.”

She ushered them into a large, cosy room with a fireplace already lit, flames licking quietly at stacked logs. Two worn armchairs and a sofa faced the hearth. Heavy curtains framed the windows, shutting out the blue-grey afternoon.

Mara and Emilia sank into the armchairs without argument.

True to her word, the woman appeared a minute later with a tray—teapot, cups, sugar, a small plate of biscuits.

She poured for them, then settled on the sofa opposite, cup in hand.

“Let me explain,” she said, tone softening. “You came straight from Brumewood, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Mara replied. “From a cabin above the town.”

“And you found something you should not have found,” the woman added calmly. “And now the town feels… wrong.”

Mara’s fingers tightened around her cup. “How do you know?”

The woman gave a little shrug. “Because that is how it always begins.”

She glanced at the fire, eyes reflecting its light.

“Brumewood wasn’t always what it is now,” she said. “Hundreds of years ago, it was a mining village. Not coal or tin like most. Diamonds.”

Emilia sat forward despite herself. “Diamonds?”

“Oh, yes,” the woman said. “They brought great wealth. Everyone in town benefited. Even those who never set foot in the mine saw their lives improved. Shops. Schools. Fine houses. For a while, Brumewood glittered brighter than anywhere else in this valley.”

Her smile faded.

“Then one day, the mine dried up. Just like that. No more stones worth cutting. The tunnels were abandoned. Life went on, as it does. People left. Others stayed. The stories faded into something half-remembered.”

She took a sip of tea.

“And then, about thirty years ago, there was a… spark.”

Mara felt the hairs on her arms lift.

“A young man—local boy, not much older than you two when it happened—was walking his dog in the forest near the old shafts,” the woman continued. “His dog began to dig at a strange little hole in the ground. The man tried to stop him, thought he was after some poor animal.”

She set her cup down.

“But when he looked closer, he saw something in the earth. A few rough stones, dull to most eyes but not to his. He took them home, turned them in the light, and realised exactly what they were.”

“Diamonds,” Mara said quietly.

The woman nodded. “He told the local butcher—Dominic Keller. They were friends. And Brumewood being Brumewood… well, secrets don’t stay buried long. The story spread. A new pocket of diamonds. Proof the mine was not as empty as everyone had believed.”

She folded her hands together.

“That young man disappeared soon after.”

Emilia’s mouth went dry. “You mean he left?”

“Perhaps,” the woman said. “Some say he was frightened. That he threw the diamonds into the river and ran, hoping to outrun whatever greed he’d awakened. Others…” She paused. “Others think he was… removed.”

“Disposed of,” Mara translated.

The woman did not disagree.

“And ever since,” she went on, “there have been… incidents. People drawn up there by the old stories. Tourists. Hikers. Treasure hunters. And every now and then, someone claims to have found a pouch, or a handful of stones, or a glint of something in the snow.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Mara’s bag.

“Some of them go back home and pretend they’ve seen nothing,” she said. “Some go digging deeper. Some, like you, come down the line to Haldenridge instead. They sit where you’re sitting now and tell me about shadows in the woods and strange little people watching them from the trees.”

Emilia felt suddenly cold despite the heat of the fire.

“What happens to them?” Emilia asked. “The ones who come here?”

The woman gave a small, sad smile.

“Some leave in the morning,” she said. “I assume they go home. Some decide to go back up to Brumewood to ‘finish what they started.’” She made air quotes with thin fingers. “I don’t always hear what happens after that.”

She shifted in her seat, almost as if shaking off the weight of her own story.

“I’ll tell you something else, since we’re already talking out of turn,” she added. “My niece lives up there. In Brumewood. With her husband. She’s only one station away from me.” Her voice softened. “The last time I saw her was over ten years ago.”

Emilia’s throat tightened. “You haven’t seen her since?”

“No,” the woman said simply. “So you girls make of that what you will.”

She stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from her skirt.

“Finish your tea. I’ll have your room ready. You can sit by the fire as long as you like.”

She left the drawing room, door closing gently behind her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The fire cracked. Somewhere deep within the house, a floorboard creaked as if under the weight of a small, running body.

Emilia stared into the flames. “Mara,” she whispered, “what if these are those diamonds?”

Mara didn’t answer.

Because in her mind’s eye, she was replaying the woman’s story—the young man, the hole in the ground, the dog scratching, the butcher Dominic Keller. The disappearance.

She was also remembering the childlike figure in the trees. The hands on Emilia’s legs. The empty lap on the train.

And the way the woman at the door had said: Guests like you always arrive eventually.

Later, after an indeterminate stretch of silence by the fire, the owner returned and led them up a narrow staircase to a room at the end of the hall—two single beds, heavy quilts, a small dresser, a basin.

“Bathroom’s down the corridor,” she said. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

She left them there, closing the door with another soft, well-practised click.

Emilia sank onto the nearest bed.

Mara crossed to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to look outside. From this angle, she could see a sliver of the lane, the dark line of trees beyond.

Something moved at the very edge of vision.

A small figure, standing just inside the tree line.

Mara blinked.

Gone.

She let the curtain fall, heart thudding in her chest.

“Mara?” Emilia said quietly.

Mara turned.

On the wall between their beds hung a framed photograph—faded, but clear enough. A woman in her twenties stood in front of a familiar Brumewood house, arm around a tall man. At their feet, a child in a knitted hat stared straight at the camera, eyes bright and winter-pool blue.

The woman’s face—

Emilia’s breath caught. “That’s her.”

The woman from the train.

Underneath the photo, in looping handwriting, someone had written:

To Aunt Elise,

With love from Clara, Michael and little Jonas

– Brumewood, 2013

From somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock began to chime the hour.

Mara felt the cold reach all the way into her bones.

They hadn’t escaped Brumewood at all.

They had just checked into its waiting room.

And something that had once belonged to Brumewood was waiting, patiently, for them to decide whether to keep it… or give it back.

Disclaimer: This was written with the help of AI.