Martha Ellis

Biography

Martha Ellis is the kind of person people forget is in the room—until they need something. In her mid-to-late 40s, with soft, slightly graying hair often pulled back in a loose bun, she carries herself like someone who’s been in service work her entire life. She’s a bit heavier than the other women at the lodge, but moves quietly and efficiently, rarely sitting unless the day is done. Her uniform is plain—conservative and clean—and her shoes are made for utility, not comfort.

She rarely smiles unless spoken to, but when she does, it’s a gentle, practiced smile—one honed over years in hospitality, where politeness is expected, even if it’s not returned. She doesn’t volunteer conversation, doesn’t gossip, and doesn’t ask questions. She just shows up, works hard, and disappears back into the rhythm of the day.

Most of the guests barely notice her. She makes the beds, folds the towels, prepares breakfast, and handles laundry with a kind of steady grace. She doesn’t have much to say unless asked—but she’s always watching. She sees who comes and goes, who’s up late, who avoids whom. She picks up on tensions without fully understanding their causes.

Elliot’s disappearance shakes her more than she lets on. He was the one who gave her direction, structure—without him, she’s untethered. And while she doesn’t realize it at first, Martha may hold small pieces of the truth—fragments of observation, overheard conversations, things seen in passing. But she doesn’t connect the dots. Not yet. Maybe not ever, without help.

She’s the kind of character who fades into the wallpaper—until the wallpaper starts whispering secrets.