Clara’s Encore (A Short Story)

Part 3 of 3

The muffled chattering of excited guests stirred Logan from his slumber, a vibrant counterpoint to the usual tranquillity of Gwen’s B&B. He stretched, the satisfaction of having located Idris infusing his limbs with a lightness he hadn’t felt in days. London awaited, but Logan felt no urgency, choosing instead to relish his last hours in Llyndaran.

Throwing on a casual shirt and his well-worn jeans, Logan made his way downstairs. The unmistakable aroma of Gwen’s famous incense — lavender, guiding him.

The dining area buzzed with activity. A family, presumably the source of the morning’s ruckus, was seated at a large table. Their animated conversations about local sights to visit and the day’s anticipated adventures created an infectiously jubilant atmosphere. Gwen moved amidst the commotion, plates in hand, her infectious laughter mingling
with the din.

Logan, captivated by the familial display, nearly missed the solitary figure seated by the window. The morning light streaming in cast Clara in an ethereal glow, her Victorian attire stark against the backdrop of modernity. She looked up, her gaze piercing the distance between them, drawing him in.

Despite the room’s conviviality, a heavy silence enveloped the space around Clara. Her eyes held a depth of sadness, the weight of centuries of untold stories. Logan felt a strange mixture of melancholy and hope as he approached her. All thoughts of London, Idris, and the day’s journey vanished, replaced by an overwhelming desire to understand the enigma that was Clara.

Logan took a deep breath, gathering his courage before venturing toward Clara’s table. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, smiling warmly.

She looked up, eyes like windows to another era. “The morning sun welcomes all who seek its warmth; come, bask in its glow with me,” she responded poetically.

Logan sat down, chuckling, “I must admit, I’ve never been invited to sit in quite that manner. It’s intriguing.” Clara’s lips twitched into a near-smile, her gaze lingering on his face.

Determined to know more about this enigmatic woman, Logan began with a safe topic. “The landscape around Llyndaran is truly breathtaking. Do you have a favourite spot?”

She took a moment, then replied, “Where the river kisses the earth and the willow weeps, there my heart finds its peace.” Logan nodded, recognising her description of a spot near the Wychwood forest, where a beautiful weeping willow stood by the riverbank.

“I’ve been there. It’s tranquil, feels almost magical,” Logan shared, trying to establish a more personal connection. “Llyndaran has a way of wrapping itself around one’s heart. Do you feel that too?”

Clara’s eyes softened, “The soul of the land resonates with the music of memories. Some melodies are haunting, some comforting.”

Feeling like he was making progress, Logan ventured further. “I’ve made a few memories here myself in just a short time. Including meeting someone named Mr. Davies…”

A shiver passed through her, and her eyes, which were once distant, locked onto his with an intensity that made him draw a sharp breath. The atmosphere around them seemed to grow colder.

“Time is a river that flows endlessly, and memories are but pebbles in its bed,” she whispered, her voice lilting and mournful.

Logan leaned forward, curiosity and empathy battling within him. “He spoke of a time when life was vibrant, full of dances and laughter, and betrayal. Your time in London on the stage.”

For a moment, Clara looked like she was about to say something, but her expression froze when Logan mentioned Mr. Davies again. The air grew frigid, and a hauntingly desolate look overcame her face. The light in her eyes extinguished, replaced by a deep well of torment. And then, the scream.

It was a scream that transcended time and pain — a wail so intense and raw, it seemed to come from the depths of the earth itself. The sound was palpable, wrapping around Logan, pressing on him from all sides, draining the warmth, the life, from him. He felt his heart pounding loudly in his chest, its rhythm slowing with every beat. The colour drained from his face, and as his vision tunneled, the last thing he saw was Clara’s
eyes — eyes filled with an agony so profound that it threatened to consume them both. The room spiraled into darkness.

“Logan? Logan, can you hear me?” Gwen’s faint voice reverberated around his head in the darkness. It was coming from all sides. “Where are you?” he shouted back. “Gwen?”

“It’s okay Logan, just breathe. Can you open your eyes?” It was that question that brought Logan back to his senses, the morning light blinding him as he snapped his eyes open. He could feel the soft brush of the carpet on his hands as he lay facing the ceiling. A handful of faces were staring down at him, which gradually came into focus as he rubbed his eyes, concern replaced by relief.

“Gwen? What happened?” Logan supported himself on his elbows as he felt Gwen’s warm touch at his face. “You fainted Logan. Is that normal? Should I call the ambulance?”

“No, I’m quite alright. Where’s Clara?” He looked around the room. She wasn’t in her usual corner. Logan jumped up and went to her table, ignoring Gwen’s protestations. It was set, the usual silver cutlery in place for its next guest, but no Clara. Logan pointed at the seat. “Where is she? The woman that was sat here.” The other guests looked at him, fear in their eyes. The parents moved their children back to their table and distracted them with sausages and eggs. Gwen was the only one to remain, the look of
concern in her eyes changing to sadness. “Ah you’ve met Clara too?” she said with a tone that hinted at many stories of the mysterious woman. “Come with me Logan. I have something to show you.”

Logan, still reeling from the sudden turn of events, followed Gwen, feeling an unnerving mix of curiosity and dread. As she led him through a winding corridor, framed photographs of various guests adorned the walls, their smiles belying the unsettling atmosphere that now hung in the air. They arrived at a room with a sign reading ‘Private.’ Gwen fumbled in her apron pocket, extracting a key with an ornate handle. She inserted it into the lock and pushed the door open to reveal an office filled with memorabilia, and a bookshelf lined with old newspapers, historical documents, and books.

She gestured for Logan to sit in one of the aged leather chairs, while she went to the shelves and retrieved a dusty, hard-bound book. Handing it to him, he saw the title: “Clara Evangeline: The Songbird of Llyndaran.” The book’s cover bore a sepia-toned photograph of Clara, looking just as he remembered her, but with the spirit and energy of a living being.

Gwen began, “Clara was a gem of Llyndaran, a rising star with a voice that could bring tears to one’s eyes. She had the world at her feet, but the world can be cruel.”

Logan thumbed through the pages, absorbing the old articles and pictures, detailing her rise to stardom and the unspeakable acts committed against her. The last page detailed the grim end of the songbird’s life, the haunting note she left behind, and the public’s outcry when the perpetrators were never brought to justice. Tears welled in Logan’s eyes. “I was talking to… to her. She’s gone but still here?”

Gwen nodded. “She’s been a part of this inn for many decades. Some say she’s searching for justice, for closure. Some just see her as a lost soul.”
Logan looked up, the weight of realisation hitting him. “I was talking to a ghost. But why? Why did she choose to show herself to me?”

Gwen sighed, “I wish I knew, Logan. But there are many mysteries in Llyndaran. Clara is just one of them.” She paused, eyeing Logan carefully, “And there are some connections even deeper, with tales that have yet to unravel.” Logan felt a chill run down his spine, but he was determined to learn more about Clara’s connection to the inn and its inhabitants, especially the mysterious Mr. Davies.

Logan, eyes fixed on Gwen, asked hesitantly, “Has anyone else seen Clara?”
Gwen took a moment before responding. “Very few,” she whispered. “Most people only hear the tales, and even fewer believe them.”

Feeling the weight of each word exchanged between them, Logan broached another topic. “What about Mr. Davies? The caretaker? He mentioned Clara the other day.” Gwen looked puzzled. “Mr Davies? Nobody works here but me and the chef,” Gwen began, her tone hesitant. “We’ve been running this B&B for years and years. Never had any caretakers or such, just the two of us.” Logan felt a shiver crawl up his spine. “But I’ve met Mr. Davies, the caretaker. He’s been giving me insight about the place, and he told me about Clara…”

Gwen’s eyes widened, her face taking on a shade of disbelief. “Mr. Davies? We’ve never had anyone by that name working here. You must be mistaken.”

Logan shook his head, his words carried a hint of aggression. He knew what he saw. “Yes, Mr Davies. He seemed quite friendly until he started to mention all those little rich boys taking advantage of her and something about betrayal. He got quite animated about the whole thing.”

Gwen’s complexion visibly paled at the mention of what Mr. Davies had said to Logan. Her hands trembled slightly as she took back the book from Logan and leafed through its pages. She stopped at a faded photograph of a group of men. They were dressed in the fashion of a bygone era, their confident smiles a sharp contrast to the dark deeds they were later accused of.

She pointed at one of the men, whose younger features were unmistakably those of Mr. Davies. “There he is. Younger, of course.”

Logan’s eyes widened in shock. “He was involved?”

Gwen shook her head. “Not directly, but he was there that fateful night. Those men, the ones with him, they were the primary perpetrators. Davies was poor, an easy target for their bullying. He loved Clara deeply, followed her to London, but those brutes manipulated him, forced him into silence.”

She looked away, pain evident in her eyes. “When the trial took place, they intimidated him into lying. He was a crucial witness. His testimony could have convicted them, but instead, it set them free.” Logan, aghast, tried to make sense of it all. “So, he’s been living with that guilt all these years?”

“Yes,” Gwen whispered, tears forming in her eyes. “He’s tormented, a soul broken by guilt and love. Some say that’s why Clara still roams. She’s waiting for him to tell the truth, to set them both free.” A heavy silence fell upon the room. Logan was haunted by the thought of the depth of
pain and regret Mr. Davies must have carried for all those years, a daily reminder of the part he played in Clara’s tragic end.

The taxi’s engine idled in the foreground, but all Logan could hear was the rush of his own thoughts. He had a train to catch, a life to return to, a demanding father waiting with a mounting list of expectations. Yet, the ghostly tale of Clara and Mr. Davies weighed heavily on his mind, and the pull was too strong to ignore.

The Victorian doors of the B&B loomed in front of him as he pushed them open with a sense of urgency. His boots echoed in the hallway, the ornate chandelier above him casting shadows that seemed to dance with every step he took. With every corner turned, he hoped to glimpse Mr. Davies, but the corridor was empty. Stopping in the hallway where their initial encounter had taken place, he could almost feel the presence of the old caretaker.

With a swift movement, Logan took out his pen, and on a piece of paper from his notebook, he wrote, “The truth will set you both free”.

He flipped the paper, scribbled Mr. Davies’ name, and carefully propped it up against a painting of the countryside that had probably witnessed countless such stories over its years on that wall. He paused, hoping that somehow his message would bridge the chasm between the living and the dead, and offer some semblance of peace to the tormented souls.

Making his way out, he was met with the impatient honk of the taxi. He turned and waved goodbye to Gwen as she closed the gate behind him. “Do come again Logan. You seem to have a connection to this place.” She looked around lovingly, as if caught up in a trance, “like so many of us do.”

Logan held up Clara’s biography and smiled, “Thanks Gwen. For this. For the hospitality. See you soon.” As he settled into the backseat, he couldn’t help but glance back at the B&B one last time, its storied walls housing both history and mystery, forever intertwining the past with the present.

As Gwen made her way back into the B&B, Logan’s eyes were drawn to the window on the top floor. Clara and Mr. Davies stood side by side, staring out after him. Their expressions were soft, more at peace than he had ever seen them. There was a tentative closeness between them, not quite touching but emanating warmth. As Logan watched, they seemed to be drawn together, their outlines blurring and blending into the golden morning light. In that ethereal glow, the two figures seemed to dissipate, their earthly shackles finally released. Logan leaned back in his seat, taking a moment to let the weight of the past few days settle.

There was a sense of closure, a belief that he somehow played a part in freeing two tortured souls. As he let out a sigh of relief and turned his thoughts to London and the looming confrontations ahead, his phone buzzed with a new message notification.

The screen displayed an incoming text from an unknown number: “You think you’ve solved the story, but every end is a new beginning.” Attached was a photo of the note he had left in the corridor, but now stained in what looked eerily like blood, with the words “The truth will set you both free” morphed into “Who will set you free?”

Logan’s heart skipped a beat. He instructed the driver to go faster, glancing in the rearview mirror as if expecting to see a shadowy figure chasing after him. The quaint, magical village of Llyndaran, which once promised peace and resolution, now loomed large in his mind with a haunting, unfinished tale. The story might have taken an unexpected twist for Clara and Mr. Davies, but Logan’s tale was far from over.