The Town Chamber

Latchcombe was a village lulled into comfort by a single man’s silence–Sir David Quill’s. The retired etiquette coach kept his mouth sealed as if it were gold–he hadn’t uttered a word in a decade.

The illustrious etiquette coach had made and crushed the reputations of speakers with single, cutting words. Some townsfolk thought it was penance for his harshness–for sinister actions untold. Others thought that he was just practising what he preached. Now, he wore a plastered smile–one that chilled the hardiest bones.

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

Reporter Ellie Marsh tore at tomes in Latchcombe’s only library, hoping to reap harvest writing gold for her tribute on Sir Quill. The man was a true chamber of curiosities.

But, Ellie being Ellie, Sir Quill was a mere excuse.

A reason to pry–and find out exactly what it was that had driven him to silence.

After days of sleuthing, she broke into his cottage while he was on one of his long walks–he took them when he needed to get away from prying eyes like hers.

Only it wasn’t a home.

It was an acoustic Fort Knox.

A Fort with tapes. And more tapes.

And walls, padded with not just foam, but intent.

Housed in an old journal entitled “When I Chose Silence.”

His quiet had apparent fervour–passion stored in pads and replayed.

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

She touched the pads lightly –and boom.

A sonic boom, followed by a low hum.

And the sound of her own name.

“Ellie. You were too young. You couldn’t have known.”

The words were reassuring. The tone? Dark. Too precise.

Too knowing.

The volume was low, but the message deafened.

The pads weren’t silence –they were surveillance.

“I know what you did.”

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

Ellie remembered. Little David Quill.  Quiet. Coiled up. 

The lunch money. The many free lunches she had.

On his account. 

Forced. 

The push. 

Into the ditch.

Dirt. Mounds.

The peals of echoing laughter. The village was suddenly louder than she remembered. 

Shaken, Ellie ran from shame’s razor-sharp teeth.

She wasn’t sure if the voice came from within, or without. But this she knew for certain –she couldn’t un-hear unspoken truths. 

She heard them. Echoes of her guilt bouncing off Sir David’s walls.

Recorded. 

Remixed. 

Returned.

In many ways, shapes, and forms. 

Doubt in a compliment. Warnings, veiled by whispers. 

Sir David’s silence stalked. With soft-feet. And a too-sure grip. 

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

No speech.

No confrontation.

He didn’t need a sonic boom. 

He spoke –when he needed to.

🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️ 🖋️🖋️🖋️

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.