Chapter 3: The Rain That Shouldn’t Have Fallen

The rain that night did not feel natural.

It crashed against the city like a warning, pouring through the narrow streets of Ashwick with a violence that made even the old buildings tremble. Thunder rolled across the sky, deep and endless, while flashes of lightning turned the sleeping town white for a single heartbeat before drowning it again in darkness.

At exactly 11:07 PM, the last open shop in Old Ashwick still had its lights on.

A forgotten bookstore stood between two abandoned buildings, its faded wooden sign barely hanging above the door.

Blackthorn Books.

Inside, the air smelled of dust, ink, and ancient paper. Towering shelves stretched toward the ceiling, crowded with books so old their titles had nearly vanished. A brass clock ticked slowly on the wall, its sound echoing through the empty store.

At the center table sat Elena Vale.

Twenty-three years old. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. The kind of person who noticed details others ignored.

For the past three months, she had spent nearly every evening inside this bookstore searching for one thing—

Her father.

Or at least, a clue about where he had disappeared to.

No goodbye.
No message.
No body.

He had simply vanished.

The only thing left behind was a burned journal page with a single unfinished sentence written across it:

“When the Book of Ashes opens, the gate will awaken.”

At first, Elena believed it meant nothing.

Her father had always loved myths and strange stories. He was a historian obsessed with forgotten civilizations, ancient symbols, and forbidden legends.

But then the strange things began happening.

Every night at exactly 2:17 AM, the clocks in her apartment stopped.

Whispers echoed through empty rooms.

Shadows moved where no light existed.

And twice now, she had woken up with dirt on her hands as if she had been digging somewhere in her sleep.

Elena closed the heavy book in front of her and sighed.

“Nothing…” she muttered.

Across the room, the old shop owner looked up from his desk.

Mr. Blackthorn was nearly seventy, thin as a skeleton, with silver hair and tired eyes that always seemed nervous.

“You should go home,” he said quietly. “Storm like this brings bad memories.”

Elena gave a faint smile.
“This town is made of bad memories.”

The old man did not smile back.

Instead, his eyes shifted toward the far end of the bookstore.

Toward the locked basement door.

A silence settled between them.

Then—

THUD.

Something heavy fell below the floorboards.

Elena froze.

Another sound followed.

A scraping noise.

Slow.
Deliberate.

Mr. Blackthorn stood up immediately.

“No,” he whispered.

His face had turned pale.

Elena stared at him.
“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That didn’t sound like nothing.”

The old man moved quickly around the desk.
“Stay away from the basement.”

But Elena had already noticed something strange.

The basement door was slightly open.

It was never open.

In the three months she had visited this place, she had never once seen it unlocked.

A cold breeze drifted upward from the darkness below.

And with it came a sound.

Whispering.

Not one voice.

Many.

Soft and distant, speaking in a language she couldn’t understand.

Mr. Blackthorn grabbed her wrist.
“You don’t listen to them.”

Elena’s heartbeat quickened.
“To who?”

The old man looked terrified.

But before he could answer, the whispering became clearer.

One word repeated again and again.

“Aethra…”

“Aethra…”

“Aethra…”

Elena felt something twist inside her chest.

That name.

She had heard it before.

In her dreams.

Without thinking, she pulled free and stepped toward the basement stairs.

“Stop!” Mr. Blackthorn shouted.

Too late.

The moment Elena touched the stair railing, every light in the bookstore flickered.

The brass clock on the wall stopped ticking.

11:11 PM.

A deafening crack of thunder shook the building.

Then silence.

Complete silence.

Even the rain outside had vanished.

Elena swallowed hard and descended into the darkness.

The basement smelled ancient.

Stone walls stretched into shadows lit only by dim red candles burning at the far end of the chamber. Strange symbols covered the floor in circles and lines that looked carved, not painted.

And at the center of the room stood a pedestal.

On it rested a massive black book bound in cracked leather.

A symbol burned into the cover—

An eye surrounded by flames.

Elena’s breathing slowed.

The whispers stopped.

The room waited.

Then the book moved.

Its cover slowly opened by itself.

Pages began turning violently, as if caught in a storm no one else could feel.

The candles erupted brighter.

A voice echoed inside her mind.

Not through the air.

Inside her head.

“You finally returned.”

Elena stumbled backward.

“Who are you?”

No answer.

Instead, words began appearing across the pages in glowing crimson ink.

Letters writing themselves.

“If this book has opened…”

The room trembled.

Dust fell from the ceiling.

And the final sentence appeared.

“Then the dead are no longer sleeping.”

A scream exploded from somewhere upstairs.

Then came another.

And another.