Rest in Peace
The rain fell in a steady rhythm over the quiet village of Ederfield. Streets glistened under the dim glow of old lanterns, and the smell of wet earth filled the air. Detective Mara Ellison stood before the crumbling gate of the old Ashford mansion, her coat soaked, her notebook tucked under one arm.
Inside the mansion, the silence was suffocating. Dust hung like a fog in the air, disturbed only by her cautious footsteps. She had been called here after a chilling note appeared at the police station, signed only with two words: “Rest in Peace.”
The message had come with coordinates that led to this very house—abandoned for nearly twenty years.
Mara’s flashlight beam danced across the grand hall. Cobwebs clung to faded portraits, and the faint echo of dripping water came from somewhere deep inside. She had heard stories about this place growing up—stories of betrayal, of greed, and of a tragedy that had torn the Ashford family apart.
Her radio crackled.
“Detective, we’ve found something behind the garden wall,” said Officer Patel’s voice.
“I’ll check it out,” she replied, her voice steady, though her pulse quickened.
The garden was a twisted maze of overgrown ivy and broken statues. At its center stood an angel with one wing missing, its stone face streaked by rain. Behind it, a small mound of fresh soil caught her eye. Someone had been here recently.
Kneeling, Mara brushed aside the leaves and found a simple wooden cross driven into the ground. A single word was carved into it: “Lydia.”
Lydia Ashford— the youngest daughter, who had disappeared twenty years ago under mysterious circumstances. The case had gone cold, but the rumors never died. Some said she’d run away. Others whispered darker tales.
Patel appeared beside her, holding an old photograph they had found inside. It showed a young woman standing by the very same angel statue, smiling, her eyes full of life. “Looks like Lydia,” he said softly.
Mara nodded. “Someone wants us to find her.”
They began digging carefully until their shovels hit wood. A small box, not a coffin—just a chest, old and water-stained. Inside were letters, each sealed and labeled by date. The first was dated March 2, 2005—the night Lydia vanished.
Mara slipped on gloves and unfolded the first letter.
“If anyone finds this, please know that I am not running away. I am afraid of what my brother has done… and what he plans to do. Father trusted him, but he’s not the same. Something inside him has changed. If I don’t come back—tell the truth.”
The detective exhaled slowly. “So it wasn’t an accident,” she murmured. “She knew something.”
The wind howled through the garden, as if the house itself was exhaling secrets long buried. They took the box inside and laid the letters across an old table in the grand hall. The handwriting grew shakier with each page, the words turning desperate.
One final letter stood out—dated only a day before the Ashford family vanished from public life entirely.
“He told me he’s found peace now. He said Mother’s voice won’t leave him. I think he’s losing himself. He asked me to forgive him for what comes next.”
Mara looked up from the letter, meeting Patel’s uneasy eyes. “This wasn’t just a disappearance. It was a confession.”
Lightning flashed, illuminating the hall. For a split second, she thought she saw a shadow move by the staircase. Her flashlight followed—but there was nothing there, only the creak of old wood settling.
Then came a faint whisper, barely audible: “Rest in peace.”
Her heart skipped. “Did you hear that?”
Patel shook his head. “What?”
“Nothing,” she muttered, though she knew she had heard it. She turned back to the letters, scanning for clues.
At the bottom of the final page was a small map drawn in ink—showing the mansion, the garden, and a hidden room behind the library.
They rushed there, pushing aside a tall, dusty bookshelf. Behind it, a narrow door revealed a small chamber. Inside was a desk, an oil lamp long extinguished, and one final journal. The first line froze her in place.
“To whoever reads this, forgive me. I couldn’t live with what I did.”
The entries that followed painted a story of guilt and grief—of a brother tormented by his actions, haunted by the memory of his sister. He had tried to make amends by hiding the truth, by leaving behind clues so someone—someday—could uncover what really happened.
The final entry read simply:
“I see her now. She’s waiting for me by the garden. I will join her soon. Rest in peace, Lydia. Rest in peace.”
Mara closed the journal, her throat tight. “He wasn’t a monster,” she whispered. “He was broken.”
Outside, the storm began to fade. The clouds parted, and moonlight spilled over the Ashford garden, bathing the angel statue in silver light. The shadows that had lingered there for decades seemed to lift at last.
Mara stood quietly, watching as the wind rustled through the trees, carrying the faintest sound—a sigh, almost grateful.
Justice had taken twenty years, but peace had finally come to Ederfield.
