Sealed as a witch, forgotten as a saint—
she waited a thousand years beneath the water for the world to remember her again.
Case records: PA4-01 to PA4-
Date: 2026-1-30(ISO)
— The Saintess Tree—
After Clara told her family about our planned trip to Ashcroft, her parents wanted to meet me. An invitation to a family dinner soon followed.
The moment I stepped into the living room, I saw two middle-aged men seated on the sofa. Clara made the introductions: her father, Edward Whitmore, and her uncle, Michael Hargreaves.
We exchanged pleasantries. Then Edward leaned forward, his expression turning thoughtful. "Rhan, to be honest, people who do what you do... I've always thought they live in a different world from the rest of us."Michael and I, when we were boys, we encountered something... unnatural. It was a practitioner of the Esoteric Arts who resolved it. Ever since, we've never doubted that there are things beyond ordinary understanding."
Some of my initial nervousness faded. There was no skepticism in his voice, only the weight of experience.
"We lived in the mountains back then," Edward began, his gaze drifting to a distant memory. "Must've been about ten years old. It was around Halloween. People left offerings at the graves—apples, pears, that sort of thing. We were hungry, and foolish, so we snuck into the cemetery to steal some."
He paused, glancing at Michael, who gave a slight, grim nod to continue.
"To get home, we had to cut through a patch of woods. We were walking together, and then... we just weren't. I don't know how we got separated. I called his name, over and over. The woods seemed to swallow every sound I made."
"I ran back to the village for help," Edward's voice grew quieter. "The whole town turned out to search. They combed those woods all night and found nothing. It wasn't until dawn that someone spotted him in the cemetery again."
"He was on his knees before a headstone," he whispered. "His mouth was packed with dirt. A huge, dark bruise swelled on his forehead. He wouldn't wake. Wouldn't move. Three strong men couldn't budge him. In the end, they had to fetch an old man from the village, one who understood the old ways. He was the one who... freed him."
Michael let out a slow, heavy breath. "Yes. And I was feverish for days afterwards."
"Uncle Michael," Clara asked, her eyes wide, "what happened in the woods? What did you see?"
"I saw a cabin," Michael said, a wry, humorless smile touching his lips. "Just walked right inside. A feast was laid out on the table—foods I'd never seen, smells that made my stomach ache. I ate until I was full..." He spread his hands. "It was all earth. Cold, damp soil."
"My God," Clara breathed. "Why have I never heard this story?"
"Old history," Edward said dismissively. "Not exactly a proud moment."
"But why did it only happen to Uncle Michael?" Clara pressed. "Why were you alright, Dad?"
The two men shared a look, a silent conversation passing between them.
Finally, Michael spoke. "Because your father had already asked for the Saintess's protection. Nothing... unclean... could touch him."
"It's true," Edward admitted, no longer evasive. "I'd been very sick as a child. My mother took me to the Saintess Tree. I prayed there, drank from the spring that flowed beside it."
"The willow tree? By the old well in your village?" Clara asked.
"That's the one," Edward nodded, a faint warmth in his eyes that quickly cooled. "The whole village drank from that spring. After I made my offering at that tree, my health returned. Better than before, really. Felt stronger, more alive." He looked down into his glass. "But a couple of years ago, the tree withered and died. The spring dried up soon after. Nothing but dust and dead roots now."
The story hung in the air, rich with unsettling implications, especially the name—Saintess Tree. My mind raced with questions.
But seeing the genuine regret on Edward's face, I held them back. "The world changes," I offered instead. "Things run their course. You've done well for yourself since, uncle Edward."
"That I have," he agreed, a hint of pride returning.
Just then, Michael's phone buzzed. He excused himself with an apologetic nod and stepped out onto the balcony.
---
— The Serpent in the Excavator —
When he returned, his complexion was ashen. He sat down, took a deliberate sip of his drink, and let out a long sigh. "Rhan, I... I hate to bring this up now. You're a guest in my brother's home. But that call... I'm afraid I have no choice. Please forgive the discourtesy."
"Not at all, uncle Michael. Please, speak freely." I'd sensed the tension coiled in him since I arrived.
"I'm in construction. Contracting. I've built a good reputation in Novalis District. Reliable. But last year, I took on a reservoir project. It's... stalled me completely. I'm at a loss."
I waited, saying nothing.
"It's an old embankment dam," he continued. "Shallow thing, maybe three, four meters at its deepest point. Dried up a couple of years back for no reason anyone could figure."
Just like the spring, I thought, the coincidence prickling at the back of my neck.
"The plan was to retrofit it for agricultural use—excavate down another ten meters, channel in a new water source. Everything was designed: the channels, the levees, the sluice gates. We started the deep excavation. On the second day..."
Michael took another fortifying drink.
"At around seven meters, the excavator bucket uncovered a nest. Snakes. Dozens of them, a tangled knot. It was... wrong."
Clara gasped softly. Even the thought was deeply unsettling.
"We tried everything to drive them off. Fire, water, sulfur powder. They wouldn't budge. With the clock ticking, we finally hired professional snake handlers to remove them."
"And after they were gone?" I asked, knowing the answer couldn't be simple. A nest that size was an omen, not an accident.
Michael nodded grimly. "We went back to work. At around nine meters down, every single piece of machinery on site failed. Simultaneously. Different breakdowns, different causes. We had to shut down for repairs. Two days lost." He swallowed. "Then, on the morning we were set to resume... we found something else."
"What?" Clara whispered, utterly still.
"A snake. Coiled in the bucket of the primary excavator." Michael's face was pale. "I've never seen anything like it outside a zoo. Its body was thicker than my thigh. And its color..." He met my eyes. "It was black. Not dark brown, not patterned. A pure, absolute black. It looked at us, raised its head, and tasted the air."
"Wait," I interrupted, a cold certainty settling in my gut. "You're certain? Entirely black?"
"Completely. Blacker than a king cobra."
I nodded slowly. That was wrong. A land-dwelling snake that large, with that unnatural, pitch-black coloring... it belonged in the mythic waters of the Amazon, not here. And certainly not in the dead of winter.
Now wasn't the time for zoological debate. "What did you do?"
"I knew it wasn't normal. I sought out specialists. People like you. The kind who deal with things no one else wants to touch." A weary frustration entered his voice.
"The first two took one look and walked away, muttering about things beyond their skill. The third was an old monk. He performed a rite at the site. A hard rain fell almost immediately afterwards, and when it cleared, the snake was gone. He told us we could proceed, but only if we made daily offerings to the local earth spirits. We did. For two days, we made the offerings, then began to dig. And then—"
His voice dropped to a haunted whisper.
"—it happened again."
The room was silent, thick with anticipation.
"The machines... they just stopped. As if they'd hit bedrock. But the ground was soft! A man with a shovel could dig it. The excavators simply... refused. It was too much. I went to find the monk, to ask what we had violated."
Michael's hands tightened on his glass.
"He was dead. In his meditation cell."
His voice broke. He couldn't go on, his eyes staring past us, lost again in the terrifying memory he had just unearthed.