Introduction

My mother, Evelyn, was born deaf-mute, burdened by an ancient prophecy: she would speak three times, and disaster would follow each utterance.

I, Sarah, grew up under this constant, quiet dread.

The first words came when I was a teenager, a rough whisper to my father, David: "Don't go, David."

Hours later, he plunged from our high-rise balcony, an "accident" that shattered our lives.

But I saw the grainy security footage: Mom stood in the doorway, simply watching him fall, her face a chilling, unreadable mask.

She then vanished to her hometown, Blackwood Creek, leaving me with a growing, terrible suspicion.

Five years passed, my fiancé Mark brought a fragile peace, but Mom's cryptic second words to him at a public dinner reignited the whispers.

The next night, Mark was climbing his balcony railing, vacant-eyed, just like Dad, saved only by his parents' timely intervention.

Then, the staticky, desperate phone call: Mom's third utterance, "Sarah, listen to me. You have to get away... Mama loves you."

Her voice was raw with terror, not manipulation.

Moments later, the news screamer: Evelyn Hayes found dead, an apparent suicide in Blackwood Creek.

Suicide? After that warning, after that desperate love?

My heart screamed; the official story felt like a carefully constructed lie designed to hide something monstrous.

I refused to believe it.

My mother's last terrifying words, her love, and her impossible death demanded answers.

Blackwood Creek held those secrets, and I swore to uncover them, no matter the cost.