Sunken City of the Saco

NOTE BEFORE READING: This story explores themes that some may find distressing. It includes depictions of long-term grief and trauma, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, and scenes of physical violence. Please proceed with care.

The bookshop was a mausoleum of paper and dust, a quiet monument to a love of stories Elias Thorne had inherited from his older sister, Eleanor. Ten years she’d been gone, vanished like a character from one of the folklore books she’d adored, leaving Elias the sole keeper of her legacy and the struggling business that had been her dream. He’d kept it running, a quiet, methodical penance, the scent of aging paper a constant, bittersweet reminder of her absence.

The bell above the door chimed, a dissonant note in the funereal quiet. A man stood dripping on the welcome mat, a gaunt figure with eyes that darted around the cluttered shelves like a cornered animal. Elias, perched precariously on a stepladder, a bucket balanced on the top rung to catch the steady drip from the ceiling, barely acknowledged him. The man, who introduced himself as Alistair Finch, was looking for a book, a rare, out-of-print collection of local legends called The Sunken City of the Saco. The title sent a jolt through Elias, a phantom ache in the hollow space where his sister used to be. It was their book, the one they’d pored over as children, their imaginations ignited by tales of river witches and forgotten histories.

“Folklore section, back left,” Elias grunted, his attention fixed on the growing puddle on the floor. “You’ll have to find it yourself.”

Alistair scurried away, and Elias, with a sigh, returned to his Sisyphean task of battling the leaky roof, the man and the book fading from his mind. It wasn’t until later, after the rain had subsided and the last customer had departed, that he noticed its absence. He scanned the folklore section, his fingers tracing the empty space where the worn, blue spine should have been. A knot of unease tightened in his gut. He checked the security footage, the grainy black and white images confirming his suspicion. There was Alistair, his movements furtive, slipping the book into a worn satchel before hurrying out the door. This wasn't just shoplifting; it was a desecration of a sacred memory. He remembered Eleanor's fascination with the book, especially the chapter on the “River Witch,” a local legend linked to a string of disappearances along the Saco River. He had to get it back. A quick search of his records pulled up Alistair’s name and address from a special order placed months ago. He grabbed his keys, the little silver bell on the keychain a mocking echo of the one on the shop door, and headed out into the damp, twilight air.

Alistair’s house was a ramshackle affair on the edge of town, a place that seemed to be slowly succumbing to the encroaching woods. The front door was unlocked, a detail that did little to assuage the growing sense of dread in Elias’s chest. The air inside was thick with the cloying sweetness of decay and unwashed laundry. The Sunken City of the Saco lay open on a dusty table, a passage about the River Witch circled in angry red ink. Tucked between the pages was a faded photograph of a young woman, her eyes wide with a familiar, haunting fear. Around her neck was a silver locket, the same one Elias had given Eleanor for her sixteenth birthday. The room spun, the floor tilting beneath his feet. This wasn't just about a stolen book anymore. It was about his sister. He snatched the book and the photograph and fled, the unlocked door swinging shut behind him with a mournful creak.

Back in the bookshop, the familiar scent of old paper did little to calm his racing heart. He examined the photograph, the silver locket a painful reminder of a life cut short. He recognized the woman in the photo now. Her name was Sarah. She’d vanished a few years before Eleanor, another victim of the Saco River’s insatiable appetite. A memory surfaced, a whisper from the past. Eleanor had had a pen pal, someone who shared her obsession with local folklore. He scrambled up to the attic, the small, cramped space that had once been his sister's bedroom, now a repository of forgotten dreams and unsold inventory. He found the box of letters under a loose floorboard, a treasure trove of secrets hidden in plain sight. The letters were from Alistair Finch.

The ink was faded, the handwriting a spidery scrawl, but the words were a chilling testament to a dark and twisted obsession. Alistair, a lonely, ostracized boy, had been ensnared by a man named Silas, a charismatic charlatan who called himself a historian. Silas was obsessed with the River Witch, convinced that the disappearances were ritual sacrifices, offerings to a hungry god. He’d manipulated Alistair, preying on his loneliness and his desperate need to belong, twisting his fascination with folklore into a macabre religion. Silas had convinced him that another sacrifice was needed, a final offering to appease the witch and bring the other girls back. The last letter was a desperate, guilt-ridden plea, a warning to Eleanor to stay away from Silas, to stay away from the river. A warning that had come too late.

A floorboard creaked behind him. Elias spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Alistair stood in the doorway, his face a mask of despair. He’d come back for the book, his voice a ragged whisper as he confessed everything. Silas was planning another sacrifice, another offering to the River Witch, that very night at the abandoned mill by the river. Alistair had stolen the book, hoping to find a way to stop him, to break the spell Silas had cast over him, but his courage had failed.

The mill was a skeletal silhouette against the bruised purple of the twilight sky, the air thick with the smell of river water and rot. Inside, the scene was a tableau from a nightmare. Silas, his eyes wild with a feverish light, chanted over a bound and terrified young woman, his voice a low, guttural hum that seemed to vibrate in Elias’s bones. The room was a chaotic shrine to his madness, the walls adorned with crude symbols from The Sunken City of the Saco. Alistair, his face pale and slick with sweat, let out a guttural cry and sent a stack of old barrels crashing to the floor. The sound shattered the ritualistic silence, and Silas, his concentration broken, turned, his face contorted in a mask of rage. Elias tackled him, the force of the impact sending the ritual knife skittering across the floor. They grappled, Silas’s body surprisingly strong, his eyes burning with a zealot’s fire. He was a man possessed, not by a spirit, but by an idea, a dangerous, all-consuming belief that had turned him into a monster. Alistair, his face a mess of tears and snot, grabbed a heavy wooden plank and swung, the sound of the impact a sickening thud. Silas stumbled back, his eyes wide with surprise, his feet tangling in the rotten floorboards. The wood splintered, and with a final, choked cry, he plunged into the churning, black water of the Saco River.

They untied the girl, her sobs a raw, ragged counterpoint to the distant wail of sirens. As the blue and red lights painted the mill in a lurid, strobing glow, Alistair pressed a small, tarnished silver key into Elias’s hand. “This was Eleanor’s,” he whispered, his voice choked with a grief that was both fresh and a decade old. “She gave it to me… told me it was the key to all her secrets.”

At the police station, Alistair’s confession was a torrent of guilt and relief, the words spilling out of him in a cleansing flood. He was taken into custody, a strange sense of peace settling over his gaunt features. Elias clutched the key, its small weight a heavy anchor in the storm of his emotions.

Back in the quiet sanctuary of his bookshop, the key found its home in the lock of Eleanor's old diary. The pages were filled with her familiar, elegant script, a ghost of her voice whispering from the past. He read of her fascination with Silas, her initial admiration turning to a growing unease, a dawning horror as she realized the true nature of his obsession. Her last entry was a hurried, desperate scrawl, a plan to meet Silas at the mill, to confront him, to try and stop him. A plan that had cost her her life.

The bookshop was no longer a tomb, but a place of quiet contemplation. The stories that lined the shelves were no longer just a reminder of his loss, but a testament to his sister’s courage, her insatiable curiosity, her unwavering belief in the power of a good story. He had found his own story, not in the dusty pages of an old book, but in the quiet, unassuming bravery of his own heart. The silver key, a small, insignificant object, had unlocked a door he hadn't even known was there, a door to a past he could finally lay to rest. He kept the key, a tangible reminder that some secrets, once brought to light, have the power to set you free. He had finally found the ending to Eleanor’s story, and in doing so, he had found the beginning of his own.