Chapter 5: Elena Sent Me

Chapter 5: Elena Sent Me

The orange and green wool of the socks was an abrasive reality against Tamara’s skin, a constant, itching reminder of where she was. Each time she moved, the rough fibers chafed, a physical manifestation of the town’s oppressive grip. Back in the sterile quiet of her guesthouse room, she sat on the edge of the bed, the image of the Ivanov family’s terrified smiles seared into her memory. They weren't just following a tradition; they were hostages negotiating with their captor, one pair of ugly socks at a time.

Her mission had a new, desperate clarity. Finding answers was no longer an academic pursuit; it was about survival. She had to find an ally, a crack in the town’s monolithic facade of fear.

She retrieved the folded sheet of paper from her pack, the one she’d found with the letters in the attic. The list of crossed-out names was a testament to a long, failed struggle. But at the bottom, the single name, circled three times in Elena’s determined hand: Rory.

And beside it, the key. ‘Elena sent me.’

It wasn't a piece of advice; it was a password. A shibboleth designed to separate friend from foe in a place where an honest word could get you killed. Or worse, returned as a gift. Her grandmother had left her a weapon, and now it was time to wield it.

Her desire for an ally warred with the primal fear the town instilled. The obstacle was clear: every person she spoke to was a potential traitor, a devout follower of the Merry Man. She had to choose her targets carefully.

Her first test was Marta. The guesthouse proprietor was the most visible authority figure Tamara had met, her smile as sharp and unyielding as a shard of glass. A direct confrontation was risky, but Marta’s reaction would tell her everything she needed to know about the power of Elena’s words.

She found her in the guesthouse’s small, tidy kitchen, polishing a set of silver spoons that looked as if they’d never been used.

“Marta,” Tamara began, forcing a pleasant, inquisitive tone. “As a folklorist, I’m fascinated by the history here. Solenvol is so… unique. Were there ever people who questioned the traditions? People who left?”

Marta’s polishing cloth stopped moving. She placed the spoon down with deliberate precision. “The Merry Man’s generosity is a gift. Only a fool or a sinner would question a gift.” Her eyes, flat and cold, met Tamara’s. “There is nowhere to leave to.”

Tamara’s heart pounded against her ribs. This was it. “My grandmother used to tell me stories,” she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Her name was Elena Volkov. Elena sent me.”

The change in Marta was instantaneous and terrifying. The practiced smile didn't just vanish; it inverted into a snarl of pure contempt. The warmth in the room seemed to evaporate.

“Your grandmother was a fool who ran from her blessings,” Marta hissed, her voice low and venomous. “And you are a bigger fool for coming back. The Merry Man sees all gifts, dear. Even words. Do not offer that particular gift to anyone else in this town. It is spoiled. It is poison. And we burn our spoiled things here.”

The threat was unambiguous. Shaken, Tamara retreated from the kitchen, Marta’s cold glare following her out the door. The password was potent, but it was also a brand, marking her as a heretic.

She needed to be smarter. She left the guesthouse and walked the quiet, winding streets, the garish socks a secret shame inside her boots. The town was deceptively peaceful. A man repaired a picket fence, a woman swept her porch, but their movements were stiff, automatic. As Tamara passed, the hammering would stop, the sweeping would pause. She felt their eyes on her, gazes that slid away the moment she tried to meet them. Curtains in the windows of the perfect houses seemed to twitch as she went by. And in every window, the blood-red leaves of a Christmas Begonia seemed to track her progress. It wasn't just the people watching her. The whole town was a single, paranoid organism, and she was the foreign bacteria it was deciding how to expel.

She found a small general store, its shelves sparsely but neatly stocked. An old man with a face like crumpled parchment stood behind the counter, polishing the wood with a soft cloth. He moved with a weariness that suggested a lifetime of forced smiles. He seemed less a zealot and more a prisoner worn down by time.

Tamara picked up a bar of soap, a plausible excuse for her presence. She brought it to the counter and paid with one of the strange, featureless coins Marta had given her. As the old man counted out her change, his hands trembling slightly, she leaned in.

“Elena sent me,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

The old man flinched as if struck. His head jerked up, his eyes wide with a terror that was stark and unfeigned. He snatched his hand back from the counter and took a shuffling step away from her, shaking his head frantically.

“No,” he breathed, his voice a dry rasp. “No, no. Go away.” He looked wildly toward the door, as if expecting the Merry Man himself to burst through. He wouldn't look at her, but with a shaky finger, he tapped the countertop, then gestured vaguely to the west, toward the edge of town where the buildings grew shabbier. “Old things… old things are best left to rust,” he stammered, before turning his back on her completely, ending the conversation.

It wasn’t a welcome, but it was a clue. A dismissal wrapped around a direction. Old things. Rust.

She followed the cryptic advice, heading toward a part of town that looked neglected. The neat houses gave way to structures with peeling paint and sagging roofs. Here, the silence felt different—not reverent, but derelict. At the end of the street, a massive, skeletal building loomed against the golden sky. Its windows were shattered, and its brick walls were stained with rust-colored streaks that looked like old wounds. A sign, barely legible, hung crookedly over the main gate: Solenvol Textile Combine No. 4. The factory.

An old man sat on the porch of the last house before the factory grounds, his face a mask of grim resignation. He was watching her approach. As she drew near, Tamara felt a surge of desperate resolve. She walked directly up to him.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said, dispensing with all pretense. “Elena sent me.”

The old man didn't flinch like the shopkeeper. Instead, a deep sigh rattled in his chest. He looked at her with eyes that held a universe of sorrow.

“Aye, I can smell her ghost on you, girl,” he rasped, his voice like grinding stones. He gestured with his chin toward the factory. “The rust keeps its own secrets. But you be careful. He unspools the liars and the schemers. Be careful which threads you pull.”

He had confirmed it. Rory, or the path to him, was connected to this place. Hope, fragile but fierce, flickered within her. She turned to thank the old man, but he had already risen and disappeared inside his house, the door clicking shut with finality.

She stood alone before the silent, decaying factory, the cryptic warnings echoing in her ears. She felt a renewed sense of being watched, but this time it was sharper, more focused. A flicker of movement in the alleyway between two derelict buildings. Not a twitching curtain, but a definite shadow detaching itself from the deeper gloom.

Before she could react, a hand shot out from the alley, clamping hard over her mouth. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her off her feet and dragging her backward into the darkness. Her cry for help was smothered against a rough, calloused palm. The world narrowed to the stench of damp earth, the shock of the attack, and the terrifying, complete blackness of the alley.