Chapter 3: The Mark of the Taken

The next morning, Ben stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, rolling up his sleeve to examine the spiral mark on his wrist. In the harsh fluorescent light, it looked even more deliberate than it had in the attic—too precise to be natural, too purposeful to be random.

A brand, he thought, tracing the raised edges with his fingertip. But who would brand a baby? And why?

He'd barely slept after finding his father's hidden box. Every creak of the old house had him sitting bolt upright, listening for the phantom footsteps that seemed to be growing stronger each night. The countdown in his head had become a constant drumbeat: ten days, ten days, ten days.

Ben pulled his sleeve down and headed downstairs, where he found Allen sitting alone at the kitchen table. Their father was already gone—probably fled to his office early to avoid another confrontation.

"Hey, buddy," Ben said, trying to keep his voice light. "Want me to walk you to school today?"

Allen looked up from his cereal, and Ben was struck by how pale his little brother looked. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his usually neat hair stuck up at odd angles.

"I heard them too," Allen said quietly.

Ben's blood went cold. "Heard what?"

"The footsteps. Last night, they stopped outside my door." Allen's voice was barely above a whisper. "Just like you said. Click, click, click."

No. The word screamed through Ben's mind. Not Allen. He's only ten. It's supposed to be me.

But even as he tried to deny it, Ben remembered what he'd read in those old newspaper clippings he'd found online. The pattern wasn't as rigid as he'd thought. Sometimes siblings were taken together. Sometimes the entity—whatever it was—seemed to collect multiple children from the same family.

"It's going to be okay," Ben said, kneeling beside Allen's chair. "I promise. I won't let anything happen to you."

Allen nodded, but his eyes remained scared and distant. "Dad said you were making it up. But you weren't, were you?"

"No," Ben said. "I wasn't."

---

Ben spent his lunch period in the school library, hunched over one of the ancient computers, trying to research everything he could about Tourmaline Falls' history. Most of what he found was the usual tourist board propaganda—stories about the town's founding, its mineral wealth, the beautiful falls that gave the place its name.

But scattered between the cheerful articles about local festivals and hiking trails, he found hints of something darker. References to "unfortunate incidents" that were quickly glossed over. Mentions of families who had "moved away suddenly" without explanation. A recurring theme of children who had "struggled with behavioral issues" before their disappearances.

It was all coded language, Ben realized. A way of acknowledging the truth without actually admitting it.

He was so absorbed in his research that he didn't notice someone approaching until a shadow fell across his screen.

"Find anything interesting?"

Ben looked up to see Elara Vance standing beside his table, her dark eyes fixed on his computer screen. She was probably the last person he'd expected to talk to—the girl most of their classmates avoided like she carried some kind of social disease.

Elara had transferred to Tourmaline Falls High two years ago, and from day one, she'd stood out like a sore thumb. While their classmates wore designer clothes funded by their parents' mining fortunes or tourism businesses, Elara favored ripped jeans, band t-shirts, and a leather jacket that had seen better days. She had a piercing in her lip, dark hair that always looked slightly messy, and sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to see right through people's facades.

More importantly, she was one of the few students who didn't come from old Tourmaline Falls money. Her family lived in a tiny apartment above the used bookstore on the edge of town, and rumor had it that her grandmother was some kind of fortune teller who read tarot cards for tourists.

"Just doing research for a history project," Ben said, minimizing his browser window.

Elara raised an eyebrow. "About missing kids? That's not exactly standard curriculum."

Ben's heart skipped. "How did you—"

"I saw what you were reading. And I recognize that look." She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down uninvited. "You're trying to figure out what's really happening in this town, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." Elara leaned forward, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Let me guess. You've been hearing things at night. Footsteps, maybe? Sounds that shouldn't be there?"

Ben stared at her, his mouth suddenly dry. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because my family has been keeping track of this town's secrets for a long time." Elara glanced around the nearly empty library, then pulled a worn leather journal from her backpack. "My grandmother started this when she first moved here thirty years ago. Every disappearance, every 'runaway,' every family that suddenly packed up and left town without explanation."

She opened the journal to reveal pages covered in neat handwriting, newspaper clippings, and what looked like hand-drawn symbols.

"The pattern is always the same," Elara continued. "It happens every few years, always on July first. Always kids between ten and seventeen. And it's always someone from one of the founding families."

Ben felt like the floor had dropped out from under him. "Founding families?"

"Tourmaline Falls was established in 1887 by five families," Elara said, flipping through her grandmother's notes. "The Carters, the Brennans, the Kellys, the Rosenthal, and the Ashworths. Every single child who's disappeared over the past century has been descended from one of those original settlers."

"That's impossible," Ben said, but even as he spoke, he knew it wasn't. "My dad never said anything about us being founders—"

"Your dad is the town historian," Elara interrupted. "You think he doesn't know his own family tree?"

Ben thought about his father's reaction that morning, the desperate way he'd tried to shut down any discussion of the phantom footsteps. The hidden box in the attic with its list of names and dates.

"Show me your wrist," Elara said suddenly.

"What?"

"Your left wrist. Roll up your sleeve."

Ben hesitated, then slowly pushed back his sleeve to reveal the spiral mark. Elara's eyes widened, and she reached across the table to trace the raised pattern with her fingertip.

"Jesus," she breathed. "It's real. I mean, I hoped I was wrong, but..."

"What is it?" Ben's voice came out strangled. "What does it mean?"

Elara pulled her hand back and flipped to a specific page in her grandmother's journal. There, drawn in careful detail, was an exact replica of the mark on Ben's wrist.

"It's called the Spiral of Binding," she read from her grandmother's notes. "A mark that appears on children chosen by the Collector. Not a birthmark—a brand, placed there at birth to identify the selected bloodlines."

"The Collector?"

"That's what my grandmother called him. The Man in the Suit, the Shadow Walker, the Debt Keeper—he has lots of names, but they all refer to the same entity." Elara's voice was grim. "According to the research, he's not just some random monster that preys on kids. He's bound by rules, by an agreement made long ago."

"What kind of agreement?"

"That's what we need to find out." Elara closed the journal and stood up. "But not here. Too many ears, and some of them belong to people who have a vested interest in keeping the truth buried."

Ben glanced around the library, suddenly aware of how exposed they were. Mrs. Patterson, the librarian, kept glancing in their direction with an expression he couldn't quite read. And wasn't that Senior Class President Ashley Rosenthal sitting three tables over, pretending to study while obviously eavesdropping?

Rosenthal. Another founding family name.

"Where?" Ben asked.

"My grandmother's shop. After school." Elara gathered her things and paused at the edge of the table. "Ben? How many days until July first?"

The countdown that had been running in the back of his mind suddenly felt more urgent than ever. "Ten."

"Then we don't have much time." She turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at him. "And Ben? Don't go anywhere alone from now on. Especially not at night. The closer we get to the date, the stronger he becomes."

As if summoned by her words, Ben heard it again—faint but unmistakable. Click. Click. Click. The sound seemed to echo from somewhere deep within the walls themselves, and this time, he wasn't the only one who noticed.

Elara's face went pale. "He's here," she whispered. "In the building."

The phantom footsteps grew louder, more distinct, as if something was walking through the library's back rooms. But when Ben looked around, none of the other students seemed to hear anything unusual. They continued reading and typing, oblivious to the supernatural presence moving among them.

Only Elara seemed to share his awareness, her dark eyes tracking the sound as it moved from shelf to shelf, getting closer to their table.

"We need to go," she said urgently. "Now."

They gathered their things and headed for the exit, but the footsteps followed them, staying just out of sight but never quite disappearing. It wasn't until they reached the main hallway, surrounded by the noise and chaos of passing students, that the phantom sounds finally faded.

"He's marking you," Elara said as they walked toward their respective classes. "The closer we get to July first, the more real he becomes. Soon, other people will start to see him too."

"What happens then?"

Elara's expression was grim. "Then it's too late to run."

Ben spent the rest of the day thinking about everything Elara had told him. Founding families. Ancient agreements. A entity bound by rules that no one understood.

But the most terrifying part wasn't the supernatural threat stalking him through the halls of his school. It was the realization that his father had known all along—known about the mark, known about the pattern, known that this day would eventually come.

And he'd said nothing.

Ten days, Ben thought as the final bell rang and students began flooding toward the exits. Ten days to figure out how to break a curse that's been running for over a century.

As he headed toward Elara's grandmother's shop, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Not the Collector—this felt different. More human.

He glanced back and caught a glimpse of Ashley Rosenthal standing by her locker, her phone pressed to her ear. Their eyes met for just a moment before she turned away, but Ben had caught enough of her conversation to make his blood run cold.

"—confirmed," she was saying. "The Carter boy knows. We need to move up the timeline."

Ben walked faster, Elara's warning echoing in his mind. Some of the people in this town had a vested interest in keeping the truth buried.

And apparently, some of them were willing to do whatever it took to protect their secrets.