When Devils Bring Coffee
Rosemary POV
My hands shake as I gather the scattered photographs from the hidden room's floor, each face—my face—staring back with terror I now understand. The genealogy charts blur through tears I refuse to acknowledge. Every twenty-seven years. Eclipse cycles. Death after death after death, all wearing my features like a genetic curse.
The front door chime cuts through my panic like a blade through silk.
I freeze, crouched among the evidence of six generations of murder, listening to footsteps cross the main floor above. Confident steps. Familiar steps that make my pulse spike with equal parts attraction and terror.
"Rosemary?" Holden's voice carries down the basement stairs, warm honey with an undertone of something darker. "Are you down there?"
I scramble to shove photographs back into their manila folders, but my trembling fingers betray me. Images scatter like fallen leaves—1847, 1874, 1901, each date marking another woman's death during an eclipse. Another version of me sacrificed to whatever ancient hunger drives this town.
His footsteps descend the wooden stairs, each creak announcing his approach like a countdown to execution.
"Just—just exploring," I call back, my voice cracking on the lie. The secret door to the hidden room stands open behind me like an accusation. There's no hiding what I've discovered, no pretending I haven't seen the truth about my bloodline written in faded ink and desperate warnings.
He appears at the bottom of the stairs carrying a cardboard tray with two coffee cups and a white bakery bag, looking like every woman's fantasy of the perfect boyfriend surprise. The afternoon light filtering through basement windows catches in his dark hair, and his smile could melt glaciers. But now I see what I missed before—the predatory grace in his movements, the way his eyes catalog every detail of my distress like he's taking notes.
"I brought your favorite," he says, extending a cup toward me. "Vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso and cinnamon instead of nutmeg."
The words hit me like ice water. I've never told him my coffee preferences. We've never discussed my caffeine habits or my strange aversion to nutmeg that stems from a childhood allergy I rarely mention. Yet he knows exactly how I take my coffee, down to the specific spice substitution that only three people in my life have ever been told about.
"How—" The question sticks in my throat as he steps closer, his presence filling the small basement space until I can smell his cologne mixed with something earthier, like pine needles and winter air.
"The barista at Celestial Grounds remembered you from yesterday," he says smoothly, but the explanation feels rehearsed. "Small town, you know. Everyone pays attention to newcomers."
I never went to Celestial Grounds yesterday. I've never been to any coffee shop in Thornwick Hollow. I've been living on the instant coffee I found in Millicent's kitchen cupboard since arriving.
"That's—that's very thoughtful." I accept the cup with numb fingers, noting how his touch lingers when our hands brush. The coffee tastes exactly right, perfectly prepared to my precise specifications. It should be comforting. Instead, it tastes like evidence.
His gaze moves past me to the open hidden room, taking in the scattered documents and genealogy charts with what looks like genuine curiosity rather than surprise. "Millicent was quite the family historian, wasn't she? She spent years researching your bloodline."
"You knew about this room?"
"She mentioned it once." He sets his own coffee down and moves closer to examine the charts on the wall, his finger tracing the red lines connecting generations of women. "Fascinating how strong the family resemblance runs. You could be any of these women's twin."
The casual way he says it—like genetic similarity across centuries is perfectly normal—makes my stomach lurch. I study his profile as he examines the charts, noting how he shows no surprise at the dates or the pattern they reveal. He's not discovering this information with me. He already knows about the eclipse cycles, about what happened to every woman whose face I wear.
"The photographs are particularly striking," he continues, lifting one of the images from 1928. The woman in the picture—wearing a white dress that looks disturbingly like a wedding gown—stares back with my green eyes wide with terror. "Such beautiful women. It's a shame they all died so young."
"How did you know they died young?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He turns to face me fully, and for just a moment, his mask slips. Something ancient and hungry flickers across his features before the charming smile returns. "Small towns have long memories for tragic stories. These women are local legends."
"Legends about what?"
"Strange accidents. Mysterious circumstances." He shrugs like he's discussing the weather rather than multiple suspicious deaths. "Mountain living can be dangerous, especially during unusual celestial events."
The way he says "celestial events" makes my skin crawl. Not like someone discussing astronomy, but like someone intimately familiar with their significance.
"What kind of festival is the town planning?" I force myself to ask, remembering Millicent's journal entry about twenty-eight days until the crimson eclipse.
His smile widens, and this time there's nothing warm about it. "A harvest celebration. Very traditional. We hold it every generation when the conditions are right." He pauses, his dark eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. "The whole town participates. It's quite an honor to be chosen as the festival's centerpiece."
The way he says "chosen" makes every instinct I possess scream warnings. I back toward the stairs, putting distance between us, but he matches my movement with fluid grace.
"Twenty-six days," he continues conversationally. "Everyone's very excited. It's been twenty-seven years since our last proper celebration."
Twenty-seven years. The exact interval between the deaths in these photographs.
"I should probably get back to organizing the bookshop," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
"Of course." He steps aside to let me pass, but his proximity as I climb the stairs makes my skin feel electric and wrong. "I'll see you tomorrow, Rosemary. Sweet dreams."
The way he says my name—like a prayer or a promise or a claim—follows me up the stairs and into the bookshop's afternoon light. But even surrounded by books and normalcy, I can feel his presence below like a weight pressing against my chest.
Through the front windows, I watch him walk away with that same predatory grace, and I notice something that stops my heart cold. Every person on the street—the woman sweeping her porch, the man walking his dog, the children playing—they all turn to watch him pass. And then, as if choreographed, they turn to look at the bookshop. At me.
Their faces wear the same expression I've seen in every photograph downstairs: reverence mixed with pity, like mourners at a funeral viewing the deceased.
Twenty-six days until a festival that happens every twenty-seven years. Twenty-six days until something called a harvest celebration where I'm apparently the centerpiece. Twenty-six days until the crimson eclipse that killed six generations of women who all shared my face.
I lock the front door with shaking hands and lean against it, Holden's perfect coffee still warm in my grasp. He knows things he shouldn't know. He's part of whatever happened to those women. And despite every logical warning screaming in my head, part of me still wants to trust him.
That might be the most terrifying realization of all.