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Lord of Perverted Ladies

Chapter 78: Historians grave · Oct 26, 2026

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Chapter List (228)

Page number / 5

51 Chapter 51 - 24 hours 2026-10-26
52 Chapter 52: Curtain rises 2026-10-26
53 Chapter 53: Opening day 2026-10-26
54 Chapter 54: Guest 2026-10-26
55 Chapter 55: Who are you? 2026-10-26
56 Chapter 56: Invitation 2026-10-26
57 Chapter 57: Letter 2026-10-26
58 Chapter 58: In the dark 2026-10-26
59 Chapter 59: Mystery 2026-10-26
60 Chapter 60: Crowd 2026-10-26
61 Chapter 61: Unexpected 2026-10-26
62 Chapter 62: Principal’s story 2026-10-26
63 Chapter 63: No answer 2026-10-26
64 Chapter 64: Ordinary 2026-10-26
65 Chapter 65: Festival 2026-10-26
66 Chapter 66: Case file 2026-10-26
67 Chapter 67: Missing professor 2026-10-26
68 Chapter 68: Eastbridge 2026-10-26
69 Chapter 69: Observer 2026-10-26
70 Chapter 70: Evidence 2026-10-26
71 Chapter 71: Detective 2026-10-26
72 Chapter 72: Track 2026-10-26
73 Chapter 73: Journal 2026-10-26
74 Chapter 74: Missing morning 2026-10-26
75 Chapter 75: Dead man’s name 2026-10-26
76 Chapter 76: Fifth witness 2026-10-26
77 Chapter 77: Forgotten 2026-10-26
78 Chapter 78: Historians grave 2026-10-26
79 Chapter 79: One who’s watching 2026-10-26
80 Chapter 80: Library 2026-10-26
81 Chapter 81: Page 107 2026-10-26
82 Chapter 82: Author’s floor 2026-10-26
83 Chapter 83: Locked book 2026-10-26
84 Chapter 84: First sentance 2026-10-26
85 Chapter 85: Hidden face 2026-10-26
86 Chapter 86: Hidden line 2026-10-26
87 Chapter 87: Beyond 2026-10-26
88 Chapter 88: Empty seat 2026-10-26
89 Chapter 89: Letter 2026-10-26
90 Chapter 90: Corridor of faces 2026-10-26
91 Chapter 91: Lonely boy 2026-10-26
92 Chapter 92: Draft zero 2026-10-26
93 Chapter 93: Rejected 2026-10-26
94 Chapter 94: Notebook 2026-10-26
95 Chapter 95: Man without record 2026-10-26
96 Chapter 96: Awake 2026-10-26
97 Chapter 97: Heartbeat 2026-10-26
98 Chapter 98: Beneath 2026-10-26
99 Chapter 99: Scriptorium 2026-10-26
100 Chapter 100: Behind the book 2026-10-26

I didn’t answer the message.

I simply stared at it.

Do you intend to inherit his mistake?

Unlike every other anonymous text, this one remained on the screen.

No countdown.

No disappearing letters.

No corruption.

Just five words that somehow felt heavier than everything I’d witnessed beneath the railway depot.

I typed a single reply.

Who are you?

The message sent.

For several seconds...

Nothing happened.

Then my phone vibrated.

Wrong question.

I frowned.

Again I typed.

What mistake?

The typing indicator appeared immediately.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Vanished.

Nearly a full minute passed before the reply arrived.

Visit his grave tomorrow.

Not tonight.

The conversation ended.

No matter how many times I refreshed the screen, there was no sender.

No number.

No account.

Only an empty conversation that looked as though it had always existed.

I looked back at the memorial.

The stone stood beneath the old oak tree exactly where it always had.

Or...

Where I believed it always had.

Had it really been there yesterday?

I searched my memory.

I walked through this park almost every evening.

I remembered children feeding pigeons.

An old man reading newspapers.

A broken drinking fountain near the entrance.

But the memorial...

Nothing.

I couldn’t remember seeing it even once.

That should have been impossible.

It wasn’t hidden.

It stood nearly two metres tall.

Anyone entering the park would notice it.

Unless...

They weren’t supposed to.

A familiar blue window appeared.

______

[Memory Verification]

Location:

Eastbridge Memorial Park

Historical Landmark Registered.

Current Public Recognition:

0.03%

Reason:

Narrative Blind Spot.

______

Narrative Blind Spot.

The words lingered long after the window faded.

The System wasn’t saying people forgot the memorial.

It was saying they never truly noticed it.

I stepped closer.

The granite was older than I’d first assumed.

Rain and wind had softened its edges.

The engraved names stretched far below Elias Ashcroft’s.

Doctors.

Teachers.

Firefighters.

Historians.

Archivists.

Every profession involved preserving knowledge.

I slowly read the dates.

1974.

1975.

1976.

1977.

1978.

None had died naturally.

Some disappeared.

Others were listed simply as Presumed Lost.

One inscription caught my attention.

Margaret Holloway

Archivist

”The shelves were never empty.”

Unlike the others, hers included a quotation.

I looked around the base of the memorial.

Fresh flowers rested beneath Margaret’s name.

Someone had visited recently.

White lilies.

Not yet wilted.

There were no flowers beneath Elias.

Only dust.

”Interesting, isn’t it?”

The voice came from behind me.

I turned immediately.

An elderly groundskeeper pushed a wheelbarrow along the path.

He wore faded green overalls stained with soil.

His beard was almost completely white.

”You knew him?”

I asked.

The old man looked toward the memorial.

”I knew all of them.”

I studied him carefully.

”You don’t seem surprised that I’m here.”

He smiled faintly.

”People only find this place when they’re meant to.”

That wasn’t an answer.

He leaned his rake against the wheelbarrow before continuing.

”You were looking at Elias.”

”Yes.”

”He visited almost every week.”

”When?”

The groundskeeper looked at me strangely.

”Until he died.”

A chill crept through me.

”The System says he died in 1989.”

”So it does.”

”But I met him today.”

The old man didn’t laugh.

Didn’t question my sanity.

He simply nodded.

”I expected you would.”

Silence settled between us.

”You believe me?”

”I’ve worked in this park for forty-three years.”

”I’ve learned not to argue with impossible things.”

He brushed a few fallen leaves away from the base of the memorial.

”Sometimes the dead keep appointments.”

The evening wind carried the scent of approaching rain.

Clouds covered the last light of the setting sun.

The groundskeeper continued working as though our conversation were perfectly ordinary.

”What was Elias like?”

I finally asked.

The old man smiled.

”Kind.”

”Patient.”

”Terrible at gardening.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

”He always brought books.”

”Never flowers.”

”He said flowers were remembered for a week.”

”But stories...”

The old man looked toward the memorial.

”...could outlive civilizations.”

My heartbeat quickened.

Stories.

Again.

Everything returned to stories.

To witnesses.

To history.

”He disappeared for several years once.”

The groundskeeper continued quietly.

”When he came back...”

”...he looked exactly the same.”

My smile disappeared.

”Did that surprise you?”

”It terrified me.”

The old man admitted it without hesitation.

”He apologised.”

”For what?”

”He said...”

The groundskeeper frowned, trying to remember.

”...’The Archive keeps better records than time does.’”

A car horn echoed somewhere beyond the park.

The old man looked toward the entrance.

”My shift is over.”

He began pushing the wheelbarrow away before stopping.

”Oh.”

”I nearly forgot.”

He reached into his pocket.

”This was left with me.”

He handed me a brass key.

Small.

Old.

Its bow was shaped like half of a pocket watch.

”Elias said to give this to the first person who asked about him after he returned.”

I stared at the key.

”When did he tell you that?”

The old man thought for a moment.

”1988.”

My grip tightened.

”But...”

”You said he died in 1989.”

”I did.”

”So how could he know someone would ask decades later?”

The groundskeeper simply shrugged.

”He said you’d understand.”

”I don’t.”

”Not yet.”

With that, he continued toward the park gates.

Within moments he disappeared behind the trees.

I looked down at the key resting in my palm.

It felt strangely warm.

The moment I reached my apartment, I locked the door.

The notebook from the Archive sat on my desk.

Beside it...

The photograph Elias had given me.

The brass key.

Three objects.

Each connected to a dead man I’d spoken to that morning.

I placed the key beside the notebook.

Nothing happened.

Then...

Almost imperceptibly...

The notebook trembled.

Its cover opened by itself.

Pages turned rapidly.

Blank sheet after blank sheet.

Finally they stopped.

New words slowly appeared.

Archive Relic Resonance Detected.

Below it...

A crude drawing formed.

A keyhole.

Not circular.

Not rectangular.

Its shape perfectly matched the key Elias had left behind.

Another line appeared beneath it.

One lock remembers you.

Find it before the Fifth Witness does.

The pages fell still.

My phone rang.

Detective Hale.

I answered immediately.

”Detective?”

”You still have that photograph?”

My pulse quickened.

”How do you know about it?”

”I don’t.”

His reply came instantly.

”I guessed.”

”What happened?”

A long silence answered me.

Then Hale spoke in a voice I’d never heard before.

Quiet.

Almost shaken.

”I visited the city cemetery.”

”Why?”

”I checked burial records.”

”And?”

”There isn’t one Elias Ashcroft.”

I frowned.

”What do you mean?”

”No death certificate.”

”No funeral permit.”

”No next of kin.”

”No grave registration.”

”But...”

I interrupted.

”I’m looking at his grave.”

Another silence.

Longer this time.

Finally Hale asked,

”Can you send me a picture?”

”Of course.”

I ended the call and immediately photographed the memorial.

The image uploaded.

Sent successfully.

Ten seconds later...

Hale called back.

”Adrian.”

”Yes?”

”What exactly did you photograph?”

”The memorial.”

”There isn’t any memorial.”

My heartbeat stopped.

”What?”

”The image you sent...”

His breathing was uneven.

”...only shows an empty patch of grass beneath an oak tree.”

I slowly lowered the phone.

The memorial still stood before me in the photograph’s background through my apartment window.

Solid.

Unmistakable.

Yet Detective Hale couldn’t see it.

A familiar blue notification materialised.

______

[Narrative Blind Spot Confirmed]

Individuals capable of perceiving protected historical objects:

Current Count:

• Adrian Cross

• Unknown

Warning:

The second observer has also located the Historian’s Key.

Estimated Time Until Contact:

23:41:12

______

The countdown began.

Less than twenty-four hours.

Someone else was coming for the key.

And this time...

The System wasn’t calling them the Fifth Witness.

It was calling them...

The Second Observer.

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