The rain in Oakhaven didn’t fall; it drifted, a heavy grey veil that tasted of salt and old iron. Elias Thorne stepped off the rusted bus, his leather valise feeling heavier than it had in London. The village was silent, the windows of the cottages boarded up not with wood, but with mirrors facing outward. Every surface was a reflection of the mist. As he walked toward the Blackwood Estate, he saw a young girl standing at the edge of the treeline. She wore a yellow dress that looked decades old.
“Hello?” Elias called out, his voice swallowed by the fog. The girl turned. She had no face—only a smooth surface of pale skin where eyes and a mouth should be. Yet, he heard her voice clearly in his mind, a wet, rattling sound. “You’re late for the harvest, Detective.”
