As I stood over Richard’s still, monstrous form, the Aether still thrumming through me, I noticed something unsettling. The eldritch flesh that had once made-up Richard’s grotesque form began to quiver and shift. It was as if reality itself was struggling to restore a semblance of normalcy.

Slowly, the writhing shadows and twisted limbs receded, pulling back into a more recognizable shape. The mass of corrupted flesh began to smooth out, the grotesque appendages retracting, and the horror that had been Richard's body seemed to dissolve, revealing the man he once was.

I watched, breathless, as Richard’s monstrous form melted away, the hideous features and unnatural growths fading, leaving behind the familiar face of the man I had known. The claws retracted, the gaping maw closed, and the once-elongated limbs returned to their original proportions.

Yet, the sight was far from reassuring. The transformation revealed the full extent of his injuries—the wounds I had inflicted upon him were still present, the blood-stained clothes, the gashes and bruises, all visible on his now-human form. His chest bore the gaping wound from the iron poker, and his body was littered with the evidence of our brutal struggle.

The enormity of what had just happened hit me with a sudden clarity. My heart pounded, and my breath came in ragged gasps as I fought to regain control over the swirling chaos in my mind. I had to think clearly, but my thoughts were jumbled, wrestling with the primal instincts that had kept me alive. I couldn’t stay here. There was too much to explain, too much blood, too much of everything.

The police. I needed to call the police. But how could I explain any of this—how could I articulate the eldritch horrors, the Aether, the monstrosities that had torn through Richard? I pushed the thought aside. I needed to act, to get help.

As I stumbled through the wreckage of the manor, each step a reminder of my injuries, I caught a glimpse of myself in the shattered mirror hanging by the hallway. The reflection that stared back at me wasn’t entirely mine.

For a moment, I froze, my heart pounding in my chest as I took in the sight. My skin—once healthy, albeit marked by the trials of this city—was now taut, clinging unnaturally to my bones, making me appear gaunt, almost skeletal. My cheekbones, once rounded, had sharpened into harsh angles, casting deep shadows across my face. The jawline that had once been softened by time now looked dangerously sharp, almost predatory.

My lips parted in shock, and that’s when I noticed them—my teeth. The canines had elongated, razor-sharp, like something from a nightmare. They were subtle enough that a casual glance might not notice, but up close, they gleamed unnervingly under the dim light. The teeth of something inhuman. Something corrupted.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the reflection. My irises, once brown, were shifting in colour, bleeding into an unsettling shade of emerald green. My eyes were completely bloodshot, veins crawling out from the edges like cracks in glass. There was no warmth left in them, only a cold intensity that mirrored the Aether’s corruption, a clarity that no longer belonged to the person I once was.

My breathing quickened, and for a brief second, a ripple of panic tore through me. This was the final mark. The final proof that I had crossed a line I could never return from. I wasn’t just a bystander to the Aether—I had become part of it. Its power coursed through my veins, distorting and warping me from the inside out.

I raised a trembling hand to my face, watching as my fingers brushed across the gaunt skin. The nails were longer, sharper than before. The hand that had once been mine now looked like it belonged to something else entirely—something darker, more primal.

But I knew, as I wiped my bloodied hands on my coat and reached for the telephone, that the woman who would leave this manor was not the same one who had entered it. The Aether had twisted me, shaped me into something new. Something I didn’t yet fully understand but couldn’t deny.

The cold plastic of the phone grounded me, pulling me from the spiralling thoughts. My fingers, still trembling, dialled the operator. Each number clicked into place, a small act of resistance against the overwhelming change that had taken hold of me. The reflection remained in the corner of my eye, but I kept my gaze focused forward, refusing to look back. I wasn’t ready to face what I had become.

Not yet.

"Operator," a calm, almost indifferent voice answered.

I inhaled slowly, the metallic scent of blood still thick in the air, steeling myself. "This is Elizabeth Shelly. I’m at Haverstead Manor," I began, my voice shaking just enough to sound believable. "I arrived a little while ago. I—" I forced a tremble into my voice. "Richard Haverstead was attacking his wife, Sarah. I... I tried to stop him. I had to defend myself."

The words felt foreign on my tongue, unnatural. My gaze flicked back to Richard’s body, half-expecting the monstrous form to rise once more, to twist back into the nightmare it had been. But there he lay, still and silent, a hollow husk of the man I’d once known. A shudder ran through me.

The operator’s voice remained steady, as if I had called to report something mundane. "Connecting you now, ma’am."

I waited, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. Each second felt like an eternity, the tension mounting, tightening the knot of dread in my chest. Think, Ellie, I commanded myself. You can’t tell them everything. You need a story. You need control.

A click echoed in my ear, followed by a new voice. "New Hollow Police Department, what’s your emergency?"

I drew in a deep breath, forcing composure into my voice, masking the chaos that churned beneath. "I... I arrived at Haverstead Manor and found Richard Haverstead attacking Sarah. I tried to stop him." My voice wavered, just enough to sell the emotion, the horror of it. "I was forced to defend myself. He’s... I think he’s dead."

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There was a pause on the other end, a slight intake of breath, before the dispatcher’s calm voice returned. "You said Richard Haverstead attacked Sarah? And you were defending yourself?"

"Yes," I confirmed, the lie coming easier now. "He—he was out of control. There was nothing else I could do."

"And Sarah Haverstead?" the dispatcher asked, her tone sharpening. "Is she injured?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. I swallowed, my mind frantically trying to craft an answer. How could I explain Sarah? How could I tell them what had really happened?

"She’s..." The word caught in my throat, the truth a stone lodged deep within me. "She’s dead. He killed her before I could stop him."

Silence stretched between us for a moment, the weight of my statement sinking in on both ends. The dispatcher was trained for this, used to hearing the worst, but even so, I could sense the shift in her tone, the urgency that followed.

"Officers are on their way now, ma’am. Please stay where you are."

"I will," I lied, hanging up the phone with a sharp clatter. My hand lingered on the receiver for a moment, feeling the cold plastic under my fingertips. I stared at the wreckage around me, the blood, the broken glass, the evidence of something far worse than the police could ever comprehend. The truth wouldn’t just condemn me—it would unravel everything. It would expose me for what I was becoming.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I turned slowly, taking in the room. The signs of a struggle were everywhere, but the more I looked, the clearer it became what needed to be done. Blood stained the floor where Richard had fallen, and remnants of his grotesque transformation were scattered across the room—evidence of the Aether's corruption, proof of the impossible. I couldn’t leave any of it.

My breath steadied as cold logic took over, my mind compartmentalizing the horror into something manageable, something I could control. I needed to cover my tracks, to erase the traces of the supernatural. No one could know the real story. They’d never believe it anyway, and those who did would know too much.

I walked back to Richard’s body, now a shell of the monstrosity he had been, and knelt beside him. His clothes were soaked with blood, his face peaceful in death, but there were no signs of the nightmare that had unfolded just moments before. That was something I could work with.

First, I found a cloth—something clean, unstained. I used it to wipe away the blood that had splattered across the surfaces. The Aether had left its mark in strange, twisting patterns on the walls, subtle but dangerous. I couldn’t leave them. I scrubbed at the marks, erasing the eldritch signs of corruption. My motions were methodical, calculated. No hesitation, no room for error.

Next, I turned to the weapons. The iron poker was still buried in Richard’s chest. I tugged it free, my hands steady despite the weight of what I was doing. I wiped it clean, removing any trace of the battle that had taken place here. Then I set it aside, where it would be found easily, just another part of the struggle. The claw marks, the unnatural wounds he had inflicted on himself during the transformation, were unexplainable, but I could mask them with something more mundane. I made sure to rearrange the scene—chairs knocked over; furniture upturned—to paint the picture of a brutal but human fight.

The mirror in the hallway caught my reflection again, and I paused, catching sight of myself. I looked monstrous, gaunt and hollow, eyes a vivid, unnatural green. But this wasn’t the time for vanity. I pushed the thought away, focusing on the task at hand.

The blood on my clothes—there was nothing I could do about that. I would claim it was from the struggle. They’d believe that much. But as I moved through the house, adjusting every detail, wiping away every trace of the Aether’s influence, I knew I was preparing for something far bigger than a simple investigation. The police would come, and I would answer their questions. I would tell them what they wanted to hear, offer them a version of the truth that fit within their understanding. But I would keep the real story locked away.

I stepped back, surveying the room again. It looked right. The human elements of the crime were all in place. But then, I felt it—beneath the surface of everything, like a faint hum in the air. The Aether was still here, not in some obvious way, but infused into the very walls of the manor. It was so faint that no normal person would ever notice it. The air felt heavy, the atmosphere subtly altered. I ran my hand over the back of a chair, feeling the slight vibration in my fingertips, the residue of the fight with Richard and the corruption he had unleashed.

My pulse quickened. I couldn’t scrub this away. No amount of cleaning could erase the way the Aether had soaked into the space, invisible yet pervasive. To the police, it would be just another room, just another crime scene—but what if one of them had been touched by the Aether before? What if one of them had seen it, felt it?

That’s what gnawed at me now, more than the blood or the broken furniture. I could control what the police saw with their eyes, but I couldn’t control what they might sense. If any of them had been exposed to the Aether, even a little, they might feel that same hum, that faint pulse in the air. They wouldn’t know what it was, not fully, but it could spark something in them, make them ask questions I couldn’t afford to answer.

I wiped my palms against my coat, trying to shake the thought. The chances of any of them being sensitive to the Aether were slim. Most people went their entire lives without ever encountering it, and those who did rarely lived to tell the tale. But I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I had to hope that none of the officers who would walk through that door had been touched by the Aether’s corruption.

I looked around one last time. The room was still. It was still a crime scene, but now it was one that made sense—a jealous husband, a fight to the death, nothing more. All the strange, unexplainable horrors were gone, erased by my hands. All except for that hum in the air, that subtle residue of the impossible, invisible to all but those who knew what to look for.

I straightened my coat, pulling it tight around me, the weight of the situation pressing down on my shoulders. There was no use in running; that would only make things worse. As a private investigator, I knew the police would dig into every detail. They would find my connection to Sarah, to Richard—the whole thing would unravel quickly if I wasn’t careful. My best chance was to stay, to face the situation head-on. If I was cooperative, I could control the narrative, shape it into something believable. I needed them to see me as the woman who had stumbled into a horrific situation, not someone who had become part of it.

But that faint hum of the Aether, barely detectable, would linger. And if any of them had been exposed, they’d feel it too.

I glanced around the room one last time, mentally rehearsing the version of events I would tell. Richard had gone mad with jealousy, attacked Sarah, and I had no choice but to step in. I’d offer just enough of the truth to make it plausible. I’d leave out the parts they couldn’t understand—the parts that would make them question me. The supernatural, the Aether—that had no place here. What they needed was a story they could accept, something they could close a case on.

As I heard the faint wail of sirens approaching, I steeled myself, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. I was ready for what came next. When the police arrived, I’d be cooperative, calm, the perfect witness. I would give them everything they needed—everything except the truth.

But the Aether was still there, pulsing quietly in the bones of the manor, waiting. And I could only hope no one else would sense it.