The alley was quiet, a stark contrast to the clamor of the main street. The morning sunlight was pinched by the towering eaves on either side, casting only a narrow strip of light down the center of the lane.
Villanelle stood before the door.
From inside came the faint sound of deliberately hushed conversation, seemingly involving both men and women. She raised her hand, preparing to knock.
“I feel a lot of eyes watching us.”
Ignis suddenly spoke from inside the backpack.
“A lot of eyes?” Her finger, about to touch the door, paused.
At that moment, on the second floor of a house next door, a window creaked open a crack, and half a wrinkled face full of wariness peeked out.
The face quickly scanned Villanelle, then just as swiftly pulled back, the window slamming shut.
“What’s going on?” Ignis was puzzled. “Is everyone just really spooked by the night noises?”
“I think so,” Villanelle whispered, curling her fingers and knocking on the wooden door of Willow Alley, Number Seven.
The conversation inside stopped abruptly, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps approaching from a distance.
A few seconds later, the door was pulled open a crack, revealing the haggard, tense face of a middle-aged woman with heavy dark circles under her eyes.
Seeing a young, delicate-looking girl standing outside, Aunt Martha was taken aback at first. Her gaze then fell on the staff sheath at the girl’s waist holding a magic staff, and her heart immediately settled. The doubt in her eyes was replaced by a mix of urgent and anxious expectation.
She might look young, but a mage was still a mage. The power they wielded was beyond what ordinary folk like them could imagine.
“You… are you sent by the Adventurers’ Association?” Aunt Martha’s voice was a bit hoarse, carrying a hint of the inherent deference ordinary people felt when facing spellcasters.
“Yes, I accepted the commission to investigate the night noises.” Villanelle showed the folded piece of parchment, her tone gentle. “My name is Vela. Would it be convenient to come inside and discuss the specifics?”
Aunt Martha glanced up and down the alley, pulled the door open wider, and spoke rapidly, “Come in, come in… don’t stand at the door for too long.”
Villanelle slipped inside.
Aunt Martha closed the door, the bolt falling with a soft clunk, shutting out the outside sunlight.
The interior was dimly lit, smelling of old furniture. Several other men and women sat on roughly made chairs by the wall, their faces etched with worry and exhaustion.
It seemed they were all deeply troubled by the nightly disturbances.
All eyes instantly focused on Villanelle—scrutinizing, doubting, but mostly a kind of joyful relief at grasping a lifeline.
Villanelle knew the first commission had officially begun. She set down her backpack, took a seat in the empty chair Aunt Martha brought over, and listened carefully to the descriptions from the people before her.
“It started… about ten days ago.”
Tom the carpenter, a tall, gaunt man with sunken eyes, began, wringing his hands nervously.
“First, there were these rustling sounds, like something scratching inside the walls, or… like lots of people whispering far away. Couldn’t make out the words, but it was just so unsettling, couldn’t sleep at all.”
“Over here, it’s children crying,” said Susie the washerwoman, her voice choked with tears. “Off and on, sometimes a baby crying, sometimes a child sobbing… But none of our households have kids that young! I gathered my courage and checked; the sound seemed to come from… from inside the walls or under the floorboards.”
‘Damn, classic horror movie trope,’ Ignis couldn’t help but think from the backpack.
Children crying could happen anytime, but never in the dead of night.
“Mine is footsteps,” said the last speaker, Old John the cobbler, puffing on an empty pipe. “At night, right above the ceiling… thump, thump, thump… slow, heavy, pacing back and forth. But I live on the top floor; above is the attic for storing junk, no one’s been up there in ages. I went to look, nothing there, the dust was undisturbed.”
Villanelle listened carefully. When everyone had finished, she asked, “Is there any pattern to these sounds? For example, when do they usually appear, how long do they last?”
The group exchanged glances and shook their heads helplessly.
Aunt Martha tried to recall. “No pattern. Sometimes it’s noisy in the early evening, sometimes in the early morning… the longest it’s gone on is over an hour. But I’ve heard that the empty house at the very end of Willow Alley… it seems the sounds started from there earliest, but I’m not sure.”
“Auntie, please take me to see that empty house, and also the rooms where the strange sounds are most obvious.” Villanelle stood up, making a decision.
Hearing is not as reliable as seeing. It’s hard to judge anything just by listening.
It might not necessarily be a haunting; it could be some accidental magical phenomenon. They’re just ordinary people and can’t sense the flow of mana.
Even if it really is a ghost causing trouble… well, her staff isn’t exactly blunt.
“No problem, I’ll take you.” Aunt Martha, who usually avoided going near that place, agreed without much hesitation.
The reason was simple—with a mage present, how could anything go wrong?
The other three also stood up and followed, seemingly not wanting to stay alone here at all.
First, they inspected the empty house at the end of the alley. As soon as the wooden door was pushed open, a strong smell of dust and mildew assaulted them.
Villanelle pinched her nose and cast a Breeze Spell on everyone present, one by one, to disperse the approaching foul odors and floating dust. This small display of power elicited looks of amazement from the followers.
“Magic is so convenient,” Uncle Tom sighed. “If only I could…”
“Give it up, with your clumsy skills…” Aunt Martha teased.
The dilapidated house was empty inside, thick dust everywhere, showing no signs of abnormality.
Villanelle closed her eyes and softly chanted a simple Detection Magic spell. When she opened them again, the air in her vision now revealed extremely faint traces of mana residue.
These residues were so faint they were nearly dissipated, making their attributes difficult to discern. They felt like traces left a long time ago.
“How is it?” Susie asked nervously.
“I can’t fully determine the cause yet,” Villanelle shook her head. “Take me to the places in your houses where the strange sounds are most severe.”
Guided by the several commoners, she went to inspect the three households in turn.
Tom’s bedroom, the area near the kitchen floor in Susie’s house, Old John’s ceiling… Villanelle cast detection spells in all these places, even attempting a few spells she wasn’t very proficient with.
But the results surprised her somewhat.
There were no traces of any spells or spiritual entities having been present, which contradicted the persistent “haunting” phenomenon.
How strange.
Villanelle clearly remembered a sentence Professor Sebastian had mentioned in class, a statement known in academic circles as “Roger’s Law”:
Where there is action, there must be a trace.
No matter what, as long as something has happened, it is bound to leave traces somewhere; it cannot vanish into thin air.
Just as Villanelle was worrying, Ignis finally spoke up from the backpack:
“I think I hear a bit of an ‘echo.’ Not from the present.”
An… echo? Not from the present?
Villanelle felt as if a bolt of lightning had suddenly flashed through her mind.