Drip. A single drop of water landed on the stone step, shattering as the small puddle it landed in rippled. Compared to the torrential downpour beyond it, the single raindrop was nothing. Yet, shivering violently, Clara was able to pick out the sound of that single raindrop as she sat hunched over on the doorstep of a house that had long since been abandoned. She pushed a hand through her soaking, dark brown hair, a cascade of icy water seeping into the blue and white plaid shirt, running down her spine.
An abandoned house was nothing new to her. The entire city of Arcadia had been a ghost town since before she, and even her mother, had been born. For as long as she could remember, she had stared down at the city from the tiny hillside village where her mother had raised her alone. There had never been so much as a mention of her father; Clara didn’t even know his name, she thought as she twiddled the jagged, golden, half-moon charm on her necklace between her fingers.
She had longed to go and explore Arcadia for years. There was something about it that drew her towards it. The moment she had any inclination to investigate the ruins, her mother had forbidden it. Clara had even been forbidden from leaving the village altogether until two years earlier.
Despite having just turned sixteen, she was still only allowed out of the village when her mother was with her. It frustrated her endlessly. But at least she had been able to explore the city, even if it was under very close supervision. With a sigh, Clara ran her hand through her soaking brown hair once more. Trying to outrun the storm had been a mistake.
For a minute, she contemplated braving the thunderstorm again; after all, she was already soaked to the bone. It couldn’t be any worse, could it? As she watched the rain fall, a fork of lightning lit up the dark sky, and a rumble of thunder followed seconds later. ‘Of course,’ she muttered to herself. Maybe she should wait a little longer. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere she needed to be.
Her mind began to wander back to the tiny house in the village on the hill that would be waiting, warm and comforting, with a bowl of piping hot stew and dry clothes ready for her. It probably wasn’t even comparable to a single room in any one of the old mansions in Arcadia, but it was far better in her mind. Arcadia was a cold and lifeless shell of what it must have once been.
Clara pushed herself to her feet, eyeing the rain, which, if anything, had only begun to fall harder. She turned to the house behind her, pushing the door. To her surprise, it swung open with a soft creak. What she had been expecting to happen, she didn’t know, but now that the door stood open, she was paralysed by indecision. Was it safe to go in there? On the one hand, the houses had been abandoned for so long; on the other, she had never been inside one before.
She stepped forward, curiosity getting the better of her in the end. It wasn’t as if she could go back to the village in this weather. She tried to reason with herself. To a small extent, it made her feel a little better. Not much, though.
Despite the darkness outside, it was surprisingly light inside, probably due to the huge amount of marble reflecting any light that had found its way through the broken windows. Everything was marble—the floors, the walls, the staircase, even a couple of the picture frames, by the looks of it. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to live such an extravagant life.
Cautiously, Clara moved further into the hallway, leaving the heavy wooden door to swing shut behind her, the squeaking of the hinges echoing through the house. She didn’t know what it was, but there was something about the stairs that drew her in their direction.
Ever since she had been a little girl, she had always had these strange senses—something calling to her, drawing her to investigate. Her mother had said it was just the city; it had that effect on some people. It was something else, though; she just knew it.
The thunderstorm beyond the thick stone walls seemed to have fallen silent. Her footsteps, muffled by a thick layer of dust, were the only sound in the house.
As she neared the top of the staircase, there was a flash of lightning outside. In the brief moment that the inside of the house was illuminated, she saw a group of footprints disappearing up the stairs and around the corner in the dust. There must have been at least three or four sets. The uneasy twinge in her stomach multiplied tenfold as darkness returned to the house in the absence of the lightning outside.
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Arcadia had been unoccupied for decades, she reminded herself, pausing at the top of the stairs. On the handful of occasions that she had gone into the ruined city, she had never seen another soul. Did that mean that she was alone, though? Something deep down told her otherwise.
In the end, she concluded that she would have the element of surprise if she wasn’t alone in the house. Just for good measure, she took one of the metal pieces from a curtain rail that had fallen from the wall at some point. At least it would be better than nothing if she had to defend herself.
Reassured somewhat now that she had a weapon of sorts, she moved forward as another flash of lightning highlighted the footsteps in the dust once more. They led her into the room directly ahead of her, the door standing open like a jar. Pausing, she listened for a moment, straining desperately to hear any sound that might warn her if she wasn’t alone. If someone was here, she might still be able to sneak away without them noticing.
When there was no such sound, Clara shuffled forward, slowly easing the door open with the piece of curtain rail. Nervously, she peered inside. The room was dark—much darker than the rest of the house—but appeared to be empty. Lowering her makeshift weapon, she opened the door fully and stepped into the room.
On one side, a large bed filled the majority of the room. Next to the curtain-covered window sat a dusty dresser with half a dozen pictures in frames on top of it.
Fully satisfied that she was alone in the room, she moved to the window, opening the curtains. Outside, the rain continued to lash at the glass. In the distance, a fork of lightning illuminates the partly destroyed city. It looked completely different than it did from down the street. Over the rooftop of the house opposite, she could see the skeletal remains of the enormous, half-destroyed towers.
Looking out on all the derelict buildings as the lightning cast eerie shadows across the landscape, it was no wonder that the villagers avoided Arcadia as far as possible. She considered the city for a moment longer before turning her attention to the pictures on the dresser.
Set in a silver frame, the picture of two young boys and a girl caught her eye. The two boys looked to be a couple of years older than the girl, both of them with a protective arm around her shoulders as she stood in the centre, smiling brightly. It wasn’t the first time since she had set foot in Arcadia that the forbidden question crossed her mind. This time it wasn’t fuelled by curiosity, though; now it was the need for truth that demanded the answer. How many families had been torn apart by whatever had happened here?
From a young age, all the children in the village were taught that there were three questions that must never be asked, no matter how curious they were. The first of those questions is: what happened to Arcadia?
The older she got, the more she began to realise that it was not what had happened in Arcadia that prevented people from talking about it but the lack of knowledge. Her mother had told her that many of the elders in the village speculated about Arcadia’s demise, but few, if any, had any actual idea about what had happened.
As another flash of lightning lit up the city, a movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. In the centre of the street, a dark figure was limping heavily in the direction of the village, a lantern held out in front of them. Quickly, she ducked, peering over the windowsill.
Outside, the figure froze. It was as if whoever it was knew that they were being watched. Slowly, they turned towards the house, holding the lantern up against the rain and darkness as they peered in her direction. With a squeak, Clara dived to the floor, the picture slipping from her hand. With a tinkling that sounded like thunder to her heightened senses, the glass in the frame broke and fell out.
For what felt like an eternity, she lay on the floor with baited breath, waiting for the sound of the door opening downstairs. Had they seen her? Were they going to come and investigate, or did they not care? There were many times when the ruins played tricks on her mind, making her think that there was someone else there with her. Maybe they would just put it down to the effect that the ruins had on people.
When there was no sound of the door downstairs opening, Clara slowly lifted herself from the floor, peeking over the windowsill. The street was deserted once more, the figure that had been there before seemingly having vanished into thin air. Maybe it was a combination of the city and her own exhaustion playing tricks on her.
Clara picked the picture up again, setting it back on the dresser. All the while, she watched the window out of the corner of her eye. For a moment, she hesitated, considering the picture once more.
Picking up the broken frame, Clara slipped the picture out from behind the smashed glass. She carefully folded it in four, slipping it into the inside pocket of her coat. With one last glance out the window to make sure that the street was still empty, she slipped out of the room.
As she hurried down the stairs, she noticed that the door stood wide open ahead of her. A chill ran down her spine as she hurried across the hallway. She was sure that the door had swung shut behind her earlier.
Not daring to look into any of the other rooms for fear of finding someone standing in the darkness, she tore across the hallway, no longer trying to mask the sound of her footsteps. She sprinted out the door and into the rain without looking back. Tossing the broken curtain rail aside, she ran down the middle of the street, the rain stinging her face as it lashed against her.