El's Chronicles: Shadow Island // Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The packages from Archivum arrived late the next afternoon, thudding onto the porch with all the grace of a meteorite landing in someone’s garden. Indifference with a dash of passive aggression, I thought, truly is the universal language of mail delivery.

I spotted the boxes through the window. They were plain brown boxes, unassuming and unmarked, except for the weight of possibilities they carried. 

I took them all inside and set them on the dining room table, heart pounding. The tape came off easily, and within moments, files, court documents, police reports, decades-old newspaper clippings, property records, and university bulletins spilled out across the surface.

Archivum, as always, had outdone itself.

There were scanned academic journals, out-of-print monographs, property maps of the island, geological surveys of the cave system, historical zoning permits, and hand-annotated pages from the professor’s published works.

Stacked neatly beside them were personal records on the two doctoral students: dissertation abstracts, graduate funding logs, professional affiliations. For Alexander Blackwoods, the academic and employment histories were both notably empty. Archivum had produced nothing beyond the two newspaper articles I had already read online, both dated seventeen years earlier.

A printed map of the island’s tidal patterns was clipped to a folder labeled simply “Fatal Incident, August 16.”

Tucked between it all was a single slip of memo paper generated by Archivum’s internal agent AI. It read: “Query complete. Let us know if you’d like to initiate a secondary pass.”

I shoved the note aside, my focus narrowing on the contents. I started sifting through the stack of articles, and a more vivid picture began to emerge. 

Harrington wasn’t just respected in marine archaeology. He was polarizing. His unconventional theories, though groundbreaking to some, had earned him more than a few detractors. One article suggested he’d been on the brink of something monumental, while another hinted at disputes among his peers.

He’d been staying in the house with three doctoral students at the time of his death, and while the police ruled his death an accident, the island’s residents seemed less convinced. The article hinted at whispers of foul play but offered nothing concrete. Two of the students had disappeared the same night the professor died, and the third, Alexander Blackwoods, had been found alone in the woods two days later, disoriented and refusing to speak to investigators. His name was barely mentioned at all, an afterthought in a story that already felt too thin.

The police reports were even more frustrating. The timelines didn’t quite align, witness statements contradicted each other, and the whole thing had been wrapped up with the efficiency of someone slapping a bandage on a gunshot wound, letting logic collapse while conspiracy theories thrived.

Harrington’s death was dismissed, the students vanished, and the Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother looked far too good for someone supposedly surrounded by mystery and danger, at least if the photographs were anything to go by.

I didn’t leave the house for two days.

The documents spread across the dining room table, spilling over onto the chairs, the floor, and even a small side table nearby.

My workspace now looked like a conspiracy theorist’s dream. The journal sat front and center like a ringleader, right next to me, its cryptic notes taunting me with the answers it refused to give. 

Outside, the island seemed to move on without me. I saw the occasional fisherman’s boat pass by from the windows, and heard the faint calls of gulls. The gulls, I was certain, were exchanging more coherent theories about the case than the official police reports. I stayed hunched over the papers, poring over them with an intensity I hadn’t felt in years. Somewhere, a therapist was missing out on the perfect case study in obsessive fixation. My world had shrunk to the table, and the gnawing sense that I was onto something far bigger than I’d anticipated.

By the second day of my all-consuming research, the house began to feel too quiet. The walls seemed closer, the shadows darker. The sound of the wind rattling the windows made me jump, and for the first time, I felt genuinely uneasy. It wasn’t just the isolation. Paranoia, the ultimate fuel for an overactive imagination, had begun to take hold. Beneath it was a deeper, more unsettling truth. Perhaps I was digging into something someone didn’t want to come to light.

The last of the daylight was fading beyond the windows when the knock at the door nearly sent me into orbit. I froze, my heart racing. It had been days since I’d spoken to another human being, and the sudden noise felt very intrusive. For a moment, I considered ignoring it. Maybe if I stayed very still, they’d just go away. But the knock came again, firmer this time.

I reluctantly got up, brushing off my sweater. If doom was on the other side of the door, at least I’d meet it lint-free. 

I opened the door, and there he was, the Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother, in all his rugged, brooding glory.

“You’re alive,” he said without preamble, his tone deadpan. “That’s good.”

I blinked at him, thrown off by his presence. I crossed my arms, leaning casually against the doorframe as I studied him. Unintentional passive-aggressive interrogation always came naturally to me. 

“So, let me get this straight,” I said, my tone just shy of sharp. “Fisherman by day, food delivery by night, and now moonlighting as the island’s resident welfare officer? Is this a standard practice around here, or am I just lucky enough to get the deluxe package?“

The faintest flicker of amusement crossed his face, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he tilted his head, his gaze steady in the way that made it impossible to tell if he was annoyed or completely unfazed. For one horrifying second, I wondered about my face again. I’d been hoping to showcase at least one of my better faces this time.

“What are you doing here, Alexander? It’s Alexander Blackwoods, isn’t it?” I pressed, keeping my voice calm but pointed, determined not to let him catch me off guard again.

He stood there, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his jacket, the hood pulled loosely over his head. The wind tousled his hair, and his gray eyes seemed to take in everything and nothing all at once. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, his tone dry. “Are you a journalist? A private investigator? Another one of those amateur sleuths with too much time on their hands?” His voice sharpened slightly. “How did you even get this house? Betty doesn’t rent it out.” 

“Me? A journalist?” I asked, a surprised laugh escaping before I could stop it. “No, I’m more of a freelance investigator. Very experimental methodology,” I said, straightening slightly. “I’ve cracked the case of the vanishing dentures and uncovered the great disappearance of the cafeteria meatloaf. Oh, and I still have an open file on the stolen reading glasses, but that one’s highly confidential.”

I studied his unreadable expression, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. “Why?” I asked, tilting my head slightly. “Do you have a case for me?”

He stared at me, his lips twitching, though whether it was from amusement or pity, I couldn’t tell. Here was a ruggedly handsome marine-archaeologist-turned-fisherman-turned-delivery-guy-turned-welfare-checker standing on my doorstep, and instead of saying something remotely alluring, I’d defaulted to my usual routine of awkward sarcasm. 

“Impressive résumé,” he deadpanned. “But what I really want to know is how you got this house.” 

I stepped back and opened the door wider. “Would you like to come in?” 

He hesitated, glancing past me toward the cluttered table and the faint light from the fireplace. For a moment, I thought he might refuse, but then he gave a curt nod and stepped inside, brushing off his jacket as he crossed the threshold. I closed the door behind him, and the house suddenly felt warmer, smaller with his presence. 

As he stood near the table, his eyes swept over the scattered documents. The papers were laid out in clusters that made obvious sense to me, grouped by names, dates, and themes. To keep them from flying away in the draft slipping through the old window frames, I’d used pumpkins as paperweights.

He stared at the scene like he’d just walked into a crime scene staged by a lunatic farmer. His jaw tightened, his brow twitching in quiet horror, as if the pumpkins somehow made the whole thing worse. He glanced over the photo of the professor, the house, a few very flattering shots of himself, the clipped headlines, then paused to study one of the articles pinned under a gourd like it was a hostage. He said nothing, but the judgment was thick enough to slice.

Just so you know, I don’t usually violate someone’s privacy, but when I do, I use produce and a disturbing level of systemization.

I saw him zeroing in, the tension sharpening in his stance, so I spoke before he could ask. “I stopped by a bakery the other day. Their bulletin board had an old article about this place. Who knew this house had such a history? Now I can’t stop.”

I paused for a moment, watching his reaction before continuing. “Anyway, Betty offered me the place. My son, Fyo…” I caught myself, the word slipping out before I could soften it. “He goes by the Americanized Theo… Well, he’s ten and volunteers at a retirement center back in the city, where she lives.”

I wasn’t making up my “investigative past.” I had tracked down all of the above, and yes, I was quite proud of it.

“Betty doesn’t offer this place to anyone,” he said firmly.

I stared at him. “Theo and I became close with Betty. She mentioned the house casually and offered it to me several times, so I thought I was doing her a favor by renting it. I had no idea about her late husband’s tragic death until just a few days ago.”

“This house has always been for family only and comes with history. I just find it odd that someone she barely knows could make her forget that and convince her to rent it out,” Alexander said, his tone polite enough.

“Excuse me?” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating or what family you’re talking about. Maybe you should ask that son of hers why she’s so lonely in there and has to look for family in strangers.”

I exhaled, crossing my arms. “If I knew I was going to be interrogated for staying here and get annoyed by unwelcome visitors, I definitely would’ve thought twice.“

But as I looked at him, some of the tension ebbed. There was no hostility in his expression, just quiet scrutiny. I sighed, my tone softening. “I thought this was just a quiet escape, somewhere Theo and I could come back to in the summer after his semester abroad. I was even hoping Betty might come with us too. She talked about this house as if it were a memory she’s still living in. It seemed right to give her a little of it back and get her out of that place for a while, let her breathe some fresh air again.” 

He didn’t respond, and I couldn’t help but let my gaze wander over him. The Grim Reaper’s younger, hotter brother was a curious blend of fisherman and an almost-scholar in marine archaeology. His weathered jacket smelled faintly of salt and smoke, and his boots were caked with dried mud. His appearance did not fit the mold of “Doctor Blackwoods.” And yet, behind those sharp gray eyes was the unmistakable glint of intellect.

I leaned back slightly, offering a smirk. “So, what’s so urgent that it warranted the honor of an in-person visit?”

“You haven’t been out of the house in two days,” he said, his tone almost conversational.

I blinked, taken aback. “Oh, so now you’re keeping tabs on me? What’s that about?” My voice carried more surprise than bite, but I couldn’t help the edge of sarcasm that crept in.

He shrugged, unbothered by my reaction. “I saw you poking around the caves,” he said simply. “Just wanted to make sure you were safe. Those caves are on private property, and they’re dangerous.” 

I raised an eyebrow, still caught off guard by the unexpected concern. “Dangerous?”

“A maze,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “Easy to get lost in. Locals know to stay away unless they’re prepared.”

The bluntness of his words hung in the air between us. For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted or oddly reassured. I crossed my arms, studying him as I tried to make sense of his sudden interest in my well-being. “I didn’t realize I also got a babysitter,” I said dryly, but his expression didn’t shift.

“Look,” he said finally, his tone softening just enough to sound sincere. “It’s not about keeping tabs on you. It’s about you knowing how dangerous this place can be if you’re not careful. That’s all.”

I stared at him, trying to decide if he was genuinely concerned or just trying to make a point. Either way, his words planted a seed of unease I couldn’t quite shake.

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering toward the documents scattered on the table before returning to me. “I owe it to Betty to keep an eye on her guests,” he added quietly, as if that explained everything.

Before I could think of a response, whether sharp, dismissive, or even grateful, he stepped back toward the door. He turned and left without another word, his boots heavy against the wooden porch. The door clicked shut behind him, and I had to hand it to him. His exit strategy was flawless, ending the conversation while deepening the mystery in the same breath.

I stared at the closed door for a second, then raised my voice just enough to carry through it. “Hey! If you plan on making this a habit, at least keep showing up with food!”** **There was no reply, only the muffled sound of boots fading down the steps, but I was certain he heard me.

I didn’t know then that in just four days, he wouldn’t be carrying food. He’d be carrying me, naked and barely conscious.