“For nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest, nor is anything secret that will not be known and come to light.” — Luke 8:17
The house on Ashgrave Street had seen better days. Its century-old bones creaked like a drunk trying to stand straight, and the wallpaper peeled in strips that looked like confessions trying to escape.
Justin Case balanced his steaming Doughnut Hole double-double, the coffee inside strong enough to cut through the dust. “Old houses don’t keep secrets,” he muttered. “They hoard them.”
Notcho Dog, his golden Sheprador partner, moved with quiet authority. Her amber eyes scanned the floorboards, tail stiffening, a signal she’d learned to give when something wasn’t right.
Lawson D. Woods, the kind of man who could find trouble in a locked filing cabinet, pried open a sealed crawlspace beneath the stairs. Dust billowed like smoke from a cheap revolver. Inside: a cracked leather satchel, a child’s shoe, and a ledger with names crossed out in red pencil.
Justin crouched, setting his rapidly cooling eye opener aside. “Ledger’s not numbers,” he said. “It’s people. And someone wanted them erased.”
Lawson swallowed hard. “This house belonged to the Coffynail family. Their daughter vanished in ’47. No trace.”
Notcho pressed her nose against the satchel, pawing gently until a faded photograph slipped free, a girl with a ribbon in her hair, smiling like she didn’t know the world could turn cruel.
The truth settled heavily in the room. The little girl hadn’t simply vanished; she had been erased. The satchel was hers, once filled with schoolbooks. The shoe was left behind when she was hidden in the crawlspace, a brief stop before being spirited away. And the ledger told the rest—her name crossed out in red pencil, one among many. She wasn’t the only child whose life had been cut short or concealed. The Coffynail’s had debts, reputations to protect, and secrets they were willing to bury deeper than any foundation.
Justin straightened, coat brushing the shadows. “This isn’t just one disappearance,” he said. “It’s a pattern. Every name in that ledger is a ghost walking this town. Crawlspaces don’t lie—they just wait for someone stubborn enough to pry them open.”
The silence of the house pressed in, heavy as guilt. Outside, the streetlights flickered, but inside, the conspiracy had already begun to hum.
This is Part One of the Ashgrave Street mystery—tune in next week for Part Two.