The October Society Short Story: Part Three

Hello and welcome back to my blog! Today I’m sharing the third and final part of The October Society! I’ve really enjoyed writing this little autumn mystery over the past few weeks, and I’m excited to finally share how Daphne’s story ends. If you’ve been following along, thank you so much for reading! And if you’re new here, I’d recommend catching up on Parts One and Two before continuing.

So, grab yourself a cup of tea, get cosy and enjoy the final chapter. I’d love to hear what you think of the ending!

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Daphne had several questions for the stranger standing in front of her, although she felt that asking how he had managed to stay alive since 1886 was a pretty reasonable place to start.

“I don’t even know who you are,” Daphne responded with a twinge of fear in her throat.

“Isn’t that what it said in your prediction? Someone you’d never met before?”

“How do you know that?”

“As I said, Miss Vale, you are not the first person they’ve pushed to kill me.”

“Why? Who are they?”

The stranger looked at her, calculating, as if he was trying to decide whether Daphne knew more than she was letting on. As if he didn’t trust her, which she thought was rather unfair considering he was the one appearing in photographs from over a hundred years ago.

“The Society,” he finally answered. “Though I suspect Mr Fletcher has given you a rather convenient version of events.”

“Mr Fletcher told me about the agreement. Something about protecting the village.”

At this, the stranger smiled, although there was nothing particularly kind about it.

“Protecting the village. Yes, they do like to call it that.”

“Who are you?”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he stepped closer to the photograph, his eyes settling on the figure standing in the centre.

“You see that man there?” he asked, pointing to himself. “That photograph was taken in 1886. I remember the day quite clearly. The photographer complained about the weather for nearly an hour, and one of the founders sneezed just as the shutter closed.”

Daphne looked between the photograph and the man beside her. His face hadn’t changed. Not a wrinkle, not a grey hair out of place. It was as though the years had simply forgotten him.

“That’s impossible.”

“An understandable conclusion.”

“You’re telling me you’ve been alive for over a hundred years?”

“I’m telling you that I’ve been here for over a hundred years. There is a difference.”

Daphne took a cautious step backwards. “What are you?”

“I was hoping you’d ask me something easier.”

“Mr Fletcher said you made an agreement with the founders.”

“I did. But I never promised that their predictions would come true. I agreed to witness them. Nothing more.”

“But the predictions always happen.”

“The villagers wrote them themselves, Miss Vale. They believed that recording their intentions would help them regain control over their lives. When events unfolded as they’d written, they credited me. Their belief gave the Society its power, and over generations, nobody remembered where the truth ended and the superstition began.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because I cannot leave while the agreement remains in place. Every October, I return to Blackthorn Manor. A century of traditions is a difficult thing to escape.”

Daphne glanced down at the photograph again. “And if I refuse to fulfil my prediction?”

For the first time, the stranger looked uncertain. “I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never witnessed a year in which the predictions weren’t fulfilled.”

Daphne stared at him. The Society didn’t know what would happen if she refused. Neither did the stranger. And somehow, that frightened her more than anything else.

By the time Daphne returned home, the rain had soaked through her coat, her boots were making an unpleasant squelching noise and she had developed a headache from thinking too much. She put the kettle on, as any sensible person would after discovering that an entire village had been following the instructions of a mysterious organisation for over a century.

She sat at her kitchen table with the photograph and the invitation spread out in front of her. The prediction had been very clear. Before the seventh day, she was expected to take the life of a man she had never met. There had been no instructions on how she was supposed to achieve this, which seemed a rather significant oversight on the Society’s part.

Daphne thought about everything she had discovered. The missing bride, the wealthy landowner, the farmer who had inherited a fortune. How many of these events had been arranged by the Society? How many people had suffered simply because somebody had written something unpleasant on a piece of paper?

And what would happen if she refused?

She had never considered herself particularly brave. She disliked confrontation, avoided returning things to shops and once apologised to a lamppost after walking into it. But there was something deeply irritating about being told she had no choice in the matter.

The following morning, Daphne decided she would return to Blackthorn Manor. She had no particular plan, other than to tell the Society exactly what she thought of their traditions. It wasn’t a very sophisticated plan, but it was considerably better than committing murder.

Blackthorn Manor looked even less welcoming in daylight. Its windows were dark, the garden was overgrown and a stone angel stood beside the entrance with half its face missing. Daphne knocked three times before the door opened to reveal Mr Fletcher, who looked as though he had been expecting her.

“Miss Vale. I wondered when you’d return.”

“Well, here I am,” Daphne replied, stepping inside before he had the opportunity to object. “And I think we need to have a conversation.”

Mr Fletcher led her into the same dining room where she had received her prediction. The long table remained in the centre, although the candles had burned down and the chairs had been pushed neatly beneath it. Daphne noticed that the thirteenth chair was still empty.

“You’ve spoken to him,” Mr Fletcher said.

Daphne stopped. “So you knew he was following me?”

“We knew he might approach you. He has a habit of interfering when his own existence is threatened.”

“His existence? You’ve spent over a hundred years trying to have him killed!”

Mr Fletcher sighed and pulled out a chair. “The agreement requires a witness, Miss Vale. Without him, the Society cannot continue.”

“Then why give me a prediction to kill him?”

“Because we believe his death would release us from the agreement.”

Daphne frowned. “You believe? So you don’t actually know?”

Mr Fletcher looked towards the empty chair. “The original records are incomplete. Certain details have been lost over the years.”

“That’s convenient.”

“The Society has protected Wychwood for generations. Every prediction has been fulfilled, and the village has survived.”

“Or perhaps the village has survived because villages generally do, Mr Fletcher. People get married, people die, people inherit money. You don’t need a secret society to make those things happen.”

He looked rather offended by this suggestion, as though Daphne had questioned the quality of his bread.

“You don’t understand what you’re risking.”

“No, I don’t. And neither do you.”

Daphne reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the envelope. She placed it on the table between them, smoothing its creased edges with her fingers.

“You’ve all spent so long making these predictions come true that nobody knows what happens when one doesn’t. You’ve been frightening people into doing terrible things because you’re too afraid to find out.”

Mr Fletcher remained silent. For the first time, Daphne noticed how tired he looked. Not frightened exactly, but exhausted, as though he had spent his entire life following rules that nobody had thought to question.

“Tonight is the seventh day,” he eventually said. “If you intend to refuse, you must understand that whatever happens afterwards will be your responsibility.”

Daphne picked up the envelope and tore it neatly in half.

“Then I suppose we’ll find out.”

She left Blackthorn Manor without waiting for his response. Outside, the afternoon was growing darker, and the first few drops of rain had begun to fall. Daphne walked home through the village square, passing the bakery, the post office and the familiar row of cottages. Everything looked exactly as it always had, which she found oddly reassuring.

That evening, Daphne stayed at home. She made herself a cup of tea, reheated the remaining beef stew and settled into her armchair with a book. She had decided that if something terrible was going to happen to Wychwood, she might as well be comfortable when it did.

At eleven fifty-nine, the village church bells began to ring. Daphne sat upright, staring at the clock on her mantelpiece. She waited for the windows to shatter, the ground to shake or perhaps for the mysterious stranger to appear in her sitting room.

But nothing happened.

The clock struck midnight. Somewhere outside, a dog barked, and the rain continued tapping against the window. Daphne waited another ten minutes before deciding that the end of the world was taking an unnecessarily long time.

The following morning, Wychwood was still standing. The bakery opened at eight, the postman made his usual rounds and Mrs Whitmore complained about the price of butter. It appeared that the village had survived its first unfulfilled prediction in over a century.

Daphne returned to the bookshop feeling rather pleased with herself. She had barely finished making her morning tea when the bell above the door jingled.

Standing in the doorway was the stranger, still wearing his dark overcoat, although this time he carried a small leather suitcase.

“You’re leaving?” Daphne asked.

“It would appear so.”

“Where will you go?”

He considered the question for a moment. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve never had the opportunity to find out.”

Daphne smiled. “Well, I hope you find somewhere nice.”

The stranger gave a small nod before turning towards the door.

“Oh, Miss Vale,” he said, looking back. “There’s one thing you ought to know.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow.

“The agreement was never broken. You simply proved that it was never necessary.”

And with that, he stepped outside into the October morning, leaving Daphne alone with her tea and the rather comforting knowledge that, for once, nobody had decided her future for her.