"Yes," Mayor Olah said. "There's been lots of deaths in the grandfather house. Why?"

  "We think that what we've been searching wasn't in the executions log all along, but in whatever report book was kept about the grandfather house," Niram answered.

  The man was quiet for a while, taking on a contemplative look. "You're lucky it's that one. Though you might have much to search through, I'm pretty hopeful you'll find your answers there."

  He then stood up, making his way into a small hallway down the corner, "come with me."

  Niram shared a glance with Kiesh before he shrugged and followed the man.

  Mayor Olah led them down two closed doors, before he came out into the other end of the hallway, turning towards a spiralling stairs leading upward.

  It took them a minute to reach the top floor of the house, coming out into another hallway. And this time, Mr. Olah didn't lead them further in, stopping at the first closed door to their right.

  Mr. Olah opened the door to a room—probably his. A bed was shifted against the middle wall, as expected. A huge wardrobe was placed on the left side of the room, opposite the large double windows. A wooden cabinet was then positioned under the window, and it was there that Mr. Olah walked up to, picking up a little book from the cabinet's top.

  "This is a journal kept by my father, who inherited it from his father, and likewise." Mr. Olah began, and then he looked up, a smile quirking his lips. "Don't look so reverent, there's nothing special about it. This is simply their personal accounting of the grandfather building during their rule."

  "How many generations does it go?" Niram asked, looking at the worn-down leather held together by some kind of adhesive substance.

  The middle-aged man shrugged. "This started with my great grandfather... So about a hundred years plus, give or take."

  He moved towards a corner of the room, drawing a chair Niram hadn't taken notice of in his initial observation.

  "Take a seat," he invited. "Although this isn't as old as the logs in the study, it should, hopefully, be old enough to cover what you need."

  Niram drew a second chair, taking his seat. "I don't want to go as far as I did with the logs, so let's start small this time."

  "How does a decade sound?" Olah suggested, unwrapping the strap. "Those are my accounting, which are really sparse."

  Niram shrugged.

  "Fine by me," he said. "What can you remember?"

  The man rested his back comfortably on the soft backrest.

  "This should take a while, or not," he sighed. "There are two events in my time that took place in the grandfather building. Both were before you arrived."

  He cleared his throat.

  "The first one took place about nine years ago, when a gang of thieves terrorized the town during the night, robbing almost every home in town. Mine wasn't spared. By morning, the only things left were the wailing of the victims— a few broken bones here and there from those who'd refused to part with their properties—but no murders were ever committed. They were professional, never overstretching past the valuables they could carry and never touching any of the lasses. They took what they came for and vanished into smoke by morning.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The people took it very lightly at the beginning, but when more and more of them began dipping into savings meant for winter, they all began clamoring for a response."

  The man stood up and moved towards a small square table at the edge of his bed, taking up a pitcher and two glasses out of the four. Niram stood up to assist but was told, in no vague way, to sit back down.

  "I might be old," the man said. "But I'm not decrepit."

  Knowing how old men could be touchy about their fragility, Niram sat back down.

  Mr. Olah moved back to his chair, handing the two cups over to Niram, after which he began pouring into them.

  "I'd bring one for you, Kiesh," the man said. "But I don't think you can drink this... Or can you?"

  "Bleghhhh!" Kiesh said, projecting his voice for the man to hear. "No, thank you."

  Mr. Olah shrugged. "Said so."

  Done with both glasses, the man took his while he gently placed the pitcher on the floor. Niram squinted at the liquid sloshing inside his own cup. He might be an adept drinker, but even he knew when it wasn't appropriate to drink. This was such a time.

  "Drink up, it's just water," the old man laughed, having deciphered Niram's expression.

  "As I was saying," he continued. "A few select people and I planned the whole endeavor. My house was to be used as bait. You ask why? Who wouldn't want to rob a mayor's home?" He chuckled.

  Damien took a little sip of the liquid, expecting something alcoholic despite the man saying otherwise. His lips widened into a little smile as he took in the refreshing taste of water.

  "Not long after the planning, my home was robbed," the man went on. "Despite the hidden people in the room outnumbering them, we didn't move to apprehend them. Instead, a few able-bodied men and I tailed them back to their hideout, which should have been, unsurprisingly, the grandfather building.

  He smiled grimly. "What we did to them is something I still have nightmares about till this day."

  This time, Niram sat up, interest heightened.

  "What?" He urged.

  Slowly, the man placed his half-finished cup on the floor and then sat back upright. His fingers Interlocked and he took on a grim look with a touch of what Niram instantly recognized as shame.

  "Their hideout was in a sectioned-off room in the basement of the house. A meat storage room. There wasn't a window or anywhere else out of the room, except the single entrance in which they used.

  So, instead of apprehending and publicly punishing them, a majority of us voted instead for trapping them inside the room. And so we did that.

  While the thieves had been professional during their nightly activities, it wasn't the same when they got back to their hideout.

  While they were drunk off probably stolen alcohol, we closed in the steel door, locking it from the outside."

  The man sighed.

  "For the next few days afterward, people two houses over could hear the screams coming from the basement. The pleadings, the beggings, the promises, and even the threats."

  "What happened after?" Kiesh said, voice subdued.

  Mr. Olah shook his head. "We don't know. We stopped hearing their voices after the fifth day and we didn't check. None of us were brave enough to, so we forced our minds off it."

  Niram waited a while for the man to continue, and when he didn't, he frowned. "Wait, that's it?"

  Mr. Olah looked at him. "What did you expect?"

  "I don't know," Niram shrugged. "Some revelation about what happened after. Didn't someone take a look? There's always someone with more curiosity and less brain to rein it in."

  "You're right," the man nodded. "There was only one other person who went deep into the basement."

  "What happened to him?" Niram leaned closer.

  "We don't know," the man shook his head. "We never heard from him again. His screams did echo through the street that night, though."

  Niram looked over at Kiesh. "The terror must have eaten them."

  "That's a probability," Kiesh agreed. "And we'll table that for the moment. I just realized something: Papa Yemir said that terrors were bad for both ghosts and humans, but Myckie had been haunting that house for weeks before we chased him away. How is it he wasn't eaten or consumed, as Papa Yemir said?"