The fog in Oakhaven didn’t move with the wind; it pulsed like a living lung. Elias Thorne, a man whose soul was as weathered as his leather valise, stepped off the bus into a silence so thick it felt physical. He had spent fifteen years finding people who didn’t want to be found, but this case was different. The client was himself—or rather, a version of himself that had written a letter he didn’t remember drafting.
The village was a skeletal remains of a fishing town. Windows were boarded up with mirrors, silver side out, to reflect the woods. As Elias walked toward the Blackwood Estate, he saw her: a girl in a yellow dress at the edge of the trees. When she turned, she had no face—only a smooth, pale mask of skin. “The harvest is coming, Detective,” a voice rattled in his skull.
He reached the manor, a jagged Victorian beast. Inside, the air smelled of wet earth and old copper. On the mahogany table in the foyer sat a single item: a silver tray holding a human jawbone. Carved into the bone was his own social security number.
