Chapter 1: The Return to Silence
The silence of Elmridge wasn't just a lack of sound; it was a physical presence, heavy and suffocating, like a shroud draped over the entire town. Nineteen-year-old Ivy felt it press in on her the moment the old taxi's tires crunched to a halt on the gravel driveway. The engine, mercifully, cut out, leaving only the distant drone of cicadas and the unsettling, absolute quiet.
This wasn't the Elmridge she vaguely remembered from childhood, a place of hushed whispers and quick glances. That Elmridge had been viewed through the protective haze of her mother's hand in hers, a brief, annual duty before retreating to the familiar chaos of their city apartment. This Elmridge, now that her mother was gone, felt like a judgment.
The house loomed before her, a skeleton of dark timber and peeling paint, shrouded by overgrown ivy that clawed its way up the walls like grasping fingers. It was older than any building she'd ever lived in, its windows dark and empty, like the vacant eyes of a forgotten ghost. The front porch sagged, and a single, unpruned rose bush, defiant in its wildness, scratched against the crumbling stone foundation.
Ivy gripped the strap of her worn backpack, her knuckles white. Her mother's death, sudden and inexplicable, had ripped a hole in her world. One moment, they were planning her first year of college, the next, a uniformed officer was at their door, his words a dull throb against her ears. Now, here she was, orphaned, standing before a house that felt less like a home and more like a mausoleum. Her only living relative, her estranged grandmother, Agnes, waited inside.
The taxi driver, a burly man whose silence rivaled the town's, had already retrieved her lone suitcase from the boot. He set it gently on the cracked pavement, avoiding her gaze. "That'll be ₦5,000, miss."
Ivy fumbled in her pocket for the crumpled naira notes. As she handed them over, her gaze drifted past the house, towards the sprawling, untamed backyard. And then she saw it.
Towering over everything, dominating the landscape like a silent sentinel, stood a monstrous sycamore tree. Its trunk was ancient and scarred, its massive branches reaching out like twisted, skeletal arms, casting deep shadows even in the late afternoon sun. It was far larger than she remembered, a dark, imposing silhouette against the pale sky. A shiver, unrelated to the humid air, traced its way down her spine. The tree felt… watchful.
The driver muttered a quick "God bless" and pulled away, leaving Ivy utterly alone with the oppressive silence and the looming house.
She took a deep, shaky breath and approached the front door. The wood was rough beneath her fingertips, splintered in places, as if resisting touch. She lifted the heavy iron knocker, shaped like a grim lion's head, and let it fall. The sound echoed through the oppressive quiet, impossibly loud, then swallowed by the house's vast stillness.
She waited. The silence stretched, long and unnerving. She knocked again, harder this time.
Finally, the door creaked open, revealing a narrow sliver of darkness. A face emerged, pale and gaunt, framed by tightly pulled-back grey hair. Agnes. Her grandmother's eyes, a startling shade of blue, were sharp and unblinking, assessing Ivy with an intensity that made her feel transparent. There was no warmth in them, no hint of the sympathy one might expect for a grieving granddaughter. Only a brittle, almost defensive scrutiny.
"You're here," Agnes's voice was reedy, dry, like rustling leaves. It wasn't a question, merely an acknowledgment.
"Yes, Grandmother," Ivy managed, her voice feeling too loud, too young in the vast quiet.
Agnes didn't step aside immediately. Her gaze lingered on Ivy's face, then flickered to the suitcase. "Come in, then. Don't let the flies in."
It wasn't a welcome, but a command. Ivy pushed her suitcase over the threshold, the wheels rumbling noisily on the polished wooden floor, a jarring intrusion in the quiet house. Agnes closed the door with a soft click, plunging the entrance hall into near darkness. The air inside was cool and smelled of dust, old paper, and something else… something faintly metallic, like rain on ancient stone.
"Your room is upstairs," Agnes said, her voice already receding as she turned and moved deeper into the house, a thin, almost ethereal figure disappearing into the gloom. "The first door on the right."
Ivy stood in the dim hall, her heart thumping against her ribs. She was here. In Elmridge. In this house. And beneath the oppressive silence, she could almost hear the whispers already beginning to stir.