I find myself walking through a twisted version of New Hollow, where the familiar streets are now nothing but a barren wasteland. The buildings, once proud and solid, are crumbling husks, their windows shattered, and walls covered in an unearthly darkness. The air is thick with a silence that presses against my ears, almost suffocating in its intensity. The only sound is the crunch of ash beneath my feet as I step forward, each footfall echoing in the emptiness around me.

The sky above is a sickly shade of green, swirling with ominous clouds that seem to pulse and writhe with a life of their own. As I walk, I notice that the shadows around me begin to shift, stretching out from the buildings and from the ground itself. They gather, coalescing into a form that seeps out of every crack and crevice—the same monstrous, eldritch abomination from before.

It’s the same one I’ve seen before—the night after the Haverstead case. The memory of that dream, of that grotesque creature, had lingered with me ever since. I tried to forget, tried to tell myself it was just a nightmare, a product of my overworked mind. But here it is again, more real than ever.

Its presence is overwhelming, an amalgamation of everything unnatural and wrong. It oozes from the soil, drips from the decaying facades, and even bursts from the bloated, dead bodies that lie scattered across the wasteland. The air is filled with the stench of rot and decay, mingled with something far more insidious, something that gnaws at the edges of my sanity.

As it grows larger, the abomination begins to speak again, its voice a discordant symphony of howls, whispers, and guttural sounds that grate against my mind. The language it speaks is as incomprehensible as it is horrifying, a cacophony of alien words that make no sense, yet I can feel them digging into my consciousness, planting seeds of dread.

But this time, something is different. Amidst the noise and chaos of its speech, I catch a word—a single, clear word that cuts through the madness like a knife through flesh. The word is "Return."

The moment I understand it, my body seizes up with fear, my pulse quickening, the blood roaring in my ears. I’ve heard this word before, or maybe it’s the echo of something I can’t quite grasp, a fragment of the nightmare that had plagued me after the Haverstead case. I try to move, try to flee, but my legs are rooted to the spot, my body betraying me as the abomination looms closer, its form shifting and undulating with grotesque fluidity. It reaches out to me, its many limbs twisting and stretching, and just as it’s about to make contact—

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I wake up to a sky blanketed in dark, churning clouds, the kind that promise nothing but a storm. The room is cast in shadows despite the morning hour, with only a faint, grey light seeping through the curtains. The air feels heavy, charged with the electricity of an impending downpour. It’s as if the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for the sky to open up. Pain lances through my skull, a sharp and unforgiving migraine, as if the very word "Return" is still echoing inside my mind. My heart pounds in my chest as I try to shake off the remnants of the nightmare, but the feeling of that word lingers, like a warning I can’t quite comprehend.

The remnants of last night’s dream cling to me like a shroud, the word “Return” echoing in my mind, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. I can still see the twisted wasteland, still hear the distorted voice of that eldritch abomination. What does it want from me? What could “Return” mean? Questions swirl in my head, could it be calling me back to the place where it all began? The Haverstead case? Or is it something deeper, something tied to the Aether.

I push the thoughts aside as I force myself out of bed and go through my morning routine mechanically, trying to ground myself in the familiar. The kitchen is dimly lit, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the thick, oppressive air. I make myself a simple breakfast—toast and eggs—knowing I need to keep up my strength.

As I chew, my mind drifts back to the case that Morgan presented to me. Four tourists, dead without any clear cause. It’s not the first time New Hollow has seen strange deaths, but something about this feels different. Ritual circles, an abandoned warehouse… It all points to something more than just a tragic accident. And the way they were found—arranged so deliberately—it suggests an intention, a purpose. But whose? And why? Could the Aether be involved?

I finish my breakfast and head to the door. As always, I reach for my hat first, feeling the familiar weight settle on my head before I pull on my coat. It’s a small ritual, but one that grounds me, reminds me of who I am, even as the world around me grows increasingly unfamiliar.

Stepping outside, I’m greeted by the thick, humid air, heavy with the promise of rain. The clouds overhead are darker now, swirling like a bruise in the sky. The wind picks up, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver through me. It’s as if the entire city is holding its breath, waiting for the first drop to fall.

I walk the short distance to the car mechanic around the corner, the streets eerily quiet for this time of day. The city feels deserted, like it’s bracing itself for what’s to come. The mechanic’s shop is a small, greasy place, the kind where the air smells like oil and metal, but it’s familiar, comforting in its own way.

Inside, the mechanic, a burly man with grease-stained hands and a kind smile, nods as he sees me approach. “Morning, Miss Shelly,” he greets, wiping his hands on a rag. “Got your car running again, but I gotta be honest with you—it’s a temporary fix. The engine’s on its last legs.”

I nod, expecting as much. The old thing had been giving me trouble for a while now. “How long do I have?”

He shrugs, looking a bit apologetic. “Could be a few weeks, maybe a month if you’re lucky. But I wouldn’t count on it. Best you start thinking about getting a new engine altogether.”

I let out a sigh, rubbing my temples as I think about the cost. “I’ll get one when I can afford it. For now, I’ll have to make do.”

He gives me a sympathetic look but doesn’t press the issue. “Just take it easy on the old girl. No long trips unless you have to.”

I thank him and pay for the repairs, the exchange feeling routine, almost mundane in contrast to the storm brewing both outside and within my mind. As I slide into the driver’s seat, the familiar smell of worn leather and gasoline fills the car. I start the engine, the rumble steady beneath me, and pull out onto the road.

The sky darkens even more as I drive, the first fat drops of rain splattering against the windshield. It’s a slow, methodical rain at first, but it quickly picks up, turning into a torrential downpour. The world outside blurs, the city’s edges softened by the sheets of rain. The wipers struggle to keep up, their rhythmic swish almost drowned out by the sound of the storm.

The police station comes into view, standing grey and imposing against the backdrop of pouring rain. The building’s hard edges are softened by the downpour, but the structure still looms like a fortress. I park the car close to the entrance, not that it does much good—the second I step out, I’m soaked to the bone. I make a quick dash to the front door, my boots splashing through puddles as I clutch my coat tightly around me.

Inside, the contrast is stark. The buzz of activity is immediate, chaotic even. Officers dart back and forth, papers in hand, phones ringing off the hook. Desks are cluttered with case files, and there’s a hum of constant chatter mixed with the clacking of typewriters. The noise level makes it clear—there’s no shortage of work here, and it seems everyone is in over their heads.

I shake off some of the rain, droplets falling from my coat onto the tiled floor. The air inside is thick with the scent of coffee, ink, and damp uniforms. There’s a palpable tension in the air, the kind that tells me things are about to get worse before they get better.

I approach the front desk, where a young officer looks up from her paperwork, raising an eyebrow at my approach. “Can I help you?” she asks, her voice clipped, though not impolite.

“I’m here to see Detective Morgan Davies,” I say, smoothing my coat down to look somewhat presentable despite the rain. “Is he in?”

The officer gives me a glance, her eyes flicking down to the file in my hand, probably putting two and two together. “Morgan’s not in yet,” she replies, clearly unsurprised by my question.

“How long will he be?” I ask, hoping for a quick answer.

She snorts, clearly amused. “Could be a few minutes, could be tomorrow. No way to tell with him.”

I blink, caught off guard by the nonchalant response. “What do you mean?”

The officer leans back in her chair, shaking her head slightly. “Morgan works at his own pace. Comes and goes when he feels like it. Honestly, we never know when he’s gonna show up.” She gives me a wry smile. “If you’re lucky, it’ll be today.”

I glance around the busy station, wondering how someone like Morgan could still hold his position with such an unpredictable schedule. As if reading my thoughts, the officer adds, “Most of us wonder how he still has a job, to be honest.”

Just then, a couple of officers nearby start a hushed conversation, but I catch enough of it as I stand there waiting.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“I’m telling you, the only reason Morgan’s still around is ‘cause of Captain Macon,” one officer says, his voice low but carrying in the bustle of the room. “They used to be partners back when Macon was still a detective. Morgan’s got a free pass because Macon lets him do whatever he wants.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that too,” another replies, “but seriously, how long can Macon keep covering for him? The guy practically does whatever he pleases.”

I keep my expression neutral, though their words stay with me. So, Morgan’s relationship with Captain Macon is the key. That explains a lot. I turn back to the officer at the desk. “Is there anywhere I can wait for him?” I ask.

She gestures to a row of uncomfortable-looking chairs by the wall. “You’re welcome to sit there, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

I nod, stepping aside to find a seat. The hum of the station continues around me, officers moving like bees in a hive, but my mind is elsewhere, turning over the pieces of what I’ve just learned. Morgan’s erratic work schedule, his past with Captain Macon—it all paints a picture of someone who operates on his own terms, following his own rules. Deceivingly careless but still sharp as a tack underneath it all.

I settle into the chair, pulling the collar of my coat tighter against the cold air. If I’m going to wait, I might as well try to get comfortable, though the thought of Morgan being somewhere out there, probably doing anything but police work, makes me a bit restless.

I glance at the door every so often, wondering when—or if—he’ll show.

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Hours passed. The noise and commotion of the station had started to fade into background static as I sat there, glancing at the clock on the wall every now and then. The rain outside showed no signs of letting up. I shifted in my seat, trying to stave off the stiffness in my legs, and wondering just how long I’d have to wait for Morgan. I tapped my fingers against the case file, trying to keep my thoughts occupied.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy boots echoed across the tiled floor. I looked up and found myself face to face with an imposing figure—a hulking man, easily towering over most of the officers in the room. His uniform was perfectly pressed, the sharp lines of military posture unmistakable. Dark brown hair, slicked back with precision, and a clean-shaven beard accentuated the harshness of his features. A scar ran from the top of his cheekbone down across his face, causing his lower left lip to droop slightly. Hazel eyes bore into me, cold and calculating, like a hawk circling its prey.

"Private Investigator Shelly, I presume?" His voice was gruff, though there was a softness in the undertones, like someone used to controlling the intensity behind their words.

I blinked, pulling myself upright. "Yes. Can I help you?"

"I'm Captain Macon," he said, not bothering with a handshake or any formal greeting. His gaze never left mine as he continued, "Morgan mentioned he’d be meeting someone today. You're that someone, I take it?"

I nodded slowly, unsure where this was headed. "That's right."

Macon’s eyes narrowed, and his posture shifted slightly, though he never broke that sharp, hawk-like focus. "Mind if I ask why Morgan would need the help of a private investigator for a case?"

His tone was flat, but I could tell this was more than a casual inquiry. He was digging, looking for something. I kept my face neutral, trying to play it cool. "Just a small case. Morgan thought I could lend a hand."

Macon took a step closer, the weight of his presence making the space between us feel smaller than it really was. "Small case?" He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "Morgan's not exactly known for outsourcing his work. Why would he bring in someone… external? Especially someone I don’t recall seeing around here before."

I kept my voice steady, dodging the inquiry. "I'm just here to help out where I can. We crossed paths recently, and he thought it might be useful to get another perspective."

Macon wasn’t satisfied. He leaned in, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Perspective, huh? And what kind of relationship do you have with Morgan? Seems unusual for him to bring in a PI he barely knows."

His bluntness hit like a punch to the gut, but I didn’t let it show. I shrugged, offering a thin smile. "We don’t have much of a relationship, Captain. Just a professional acquaintance, that's all."

Macon’s eyes didn’t leave mine, like he was trying to peel away any layers of deception. "Acquaintance. Right. And you expect me to believe that's the only reason he called you in? Out of all the resources available to him in this department?"

Before I could answer, a voice cut through the tension. "Captain, ease up."

I looked past Macon to see Morgan walking into the station, looking as nonchalant as ever, though his usual overworked demeanour couldn’t hide the sharp glint in his eyes. He strolled over casually, like this whole scene was just a mild inconvenience.

"Morgan," Macon acknowledged, his tone more professional, though the tension lingered. "I was just trying to understand why you'd bring in an outsider for this case."

Morgan waved a hand dismissively, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ellie’s not just some outsider, Captain. She's my partner on this case."

Macon’s eyebrows rose, clearly not expecting that. He glanced between Morgan and me, his hawk-like gaze losing none of its intensity. "Partner, huh?"

"Yeah," Morgan said smoothly, stepping closer. "Now, if you’re done interrogating her, I’d appreciate it if you let us get to work."

Macon held Morgan's gaze for a beat longer before stepping back, his posture still rigid. "I expect results," he muttered, though his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. He nodded at me, a formal gesture but still dripping with suspicion, before turning on his heel and striding off.

Morgan watched him go, then turned to me, an amused expression on his face. "Sorry about that. Macon can be a bit... intense."

I exhaled, finally letting the tension leave my shoulders. "That’s one way of putting it."

Morgan shrugged, still unfazed. "He’s a stickler for protocol, but he means well. Can’t blame him for being cautious." He glanced at the door where Macon had exited, then back to me. "You ready to dive into this case?"

I nodded, keeping my thoughts about Captain Macon to myself as I followed Morgan further into the station.

Morgan led me to his desk, a small corner of organized chaos amid the bustling police station. Papers were strewn across the surface, coffee stains overlapping case files, yet everything seemed to have its place in the mess. He motioned for me to sit before settling into his chair, sighing heavily as he leaned back. Despite his apparent indifference, his sharp gaze followed my movements, as if always assessing, always calculating.

"You’re a braver soul than most, Ellie," he muttered, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "I had a feeling you'd take this case, though. Always had a knack for picking the right ones."

I raised an eyebrow, not biting at the compliment. “Right. So, what’s the rest of it, Morgan? What aren’t you telling me about these tourists?”

Without a word, he rifled through the pile of documents on his desk and pulled out a worn manila folder, the edges fraying from use. "Here," he said, pushing it across to me. "Some disturbing stuff in there. Drawings mostly, from the tourists' personal belongings."

I flipped open the folder and was met with sketches—vivid, haunting images scratched onto crumpled pieces of paper. They all depicted the same scene: the abandoned warehouse, engulfed in flames, people trapped inside, their twisted faces in silent screams. Some of the drawings were more detailed than others—one showed a figure standing outside the blaze, watching, seemingly unaffected by the chaos.

“They were drawing this before they died?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

“Yeah,” Morgan replied, his tone suddenly flat, eyes focused on something unseen. “Found in their luggage and some among their personal effects at the crime scene.”

I traced a finger over one of the drawings, my mind turning. "Why fire? There’s no sign of burning at the crime scene."

Morgan remained silent for a moment, clearly gathering his thoughts, before he leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk. “That place has history,” he began, voice low. “Seven years ago, Jason Vornir—better known as the 'Firelight Killer'—used that very warehouse as his hunting ground. Bastard was a real piece of work. Would burn some of his victims alive, others he’d keep chained up… torturing them slowly.”

I stiffened, feeling a cold shudder creep up my spine. The Firelight Killer. I had read about him in the papers back then, but never this level of detail. Morgan continued, his words taking on a hardened edge.

“Vornir was finally cornered in that warehouse with six of his victims. SWAT was ready to move in, but the man decided to torch the whole place instead. Lit the fire himself, choosing to burn alive alongside the people he’d kidnapped.” His voice cracked, barely perceptible, but enough for me to catch the underlying pain. “They didn’t find enough to bury.”

I caught a glimpse of something raw in Morgan’s eyes—anger, maybe even guilt. This case was more than just another file to him.

“You were involved in that investigation, weren’t you?” I asked carefully.

Morgan’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. “Yeah. I was there. Missed saving them by minutes.” He let out a long breath, leaning back again as if trying to distance himself from the memory. “The place is cursed, Ellie. Has been since that day. People still say they hear screams if they pass by at night. That’s why those drawings get under my skin. The tourists didn’t know about Vornir, but they were drawing that place like they were there… like they were seeing it burn again.”

I mulled over his words, the implications unsettling. The tourists, with no prior knowledge of the Firelight Killer, drawing scenes from a tragedy they couldn’t possibly know about? It reeked of something beyond the physical, something tied to the Aether. But I couldn’t bring that up, not here, not yet.

Instead, I focused on the facts. “Anything else? Something that might explain why they were drawing this? What about their backgrounds—any connections to the occult or local history?”

Morgan shook his head. “That’s the thing. They were just normal tourists. Brits on holiday. Came here for the usual—ruins, legends, maybe a ghost tour or two. None of them had any history with crime, no interest in the occult that we could find. No connection to each other before this trip, either. But once they got here, something changed.”

He paused, locking eyes with me. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, but I think there’s something about that place—about Vornir’s old haunt—that does something to people. Warps their minds, makes them see things they shouldn’t.”

I studied him closely, the tension between us palpable. Morgan was a cop through and through, but he skirted the rules, dove headfirst into the unknown. He didn’t care about safety nets or methodical plans. He went wherever the case led, even if it meant smashing through barriers or bending the law.

Me? I was thorough, cautious—especially now that I knew the stakes. Aether wasn’t just some ethereal concept. It was real, and it was dangerous. I couldn’t afford to make mistakes. Not anymore. But sometimes I wondered... was it still me being careful, or the Aether within me?

“You’re not suggesting that place is haunted, are you?” I asked, half-joking to lighten the mood, though the idea didn’t seem as absurd as it once might have.

Morgan’s grin returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You tell me. You’re the one who believes in things people like me can’t see.”

I held his gaze, searching for any sign that he was mocking me, but found none. Instead, I realized he was testing me, in his own subtle way. Testing whether I’d approach this like a sceptic or dive into the unknown. Morgan was unpredictable, yes, but also sharp. He was giving me a chance to see how far I’d be willing to go.

“I’ll start with the drawings,” I finally said, closing the folder. “And I’ll take a look at the warehouse too. Maybe I’ll find something the police didn’t.”

Morgan leaned back, hands behind his head, and smiled that lopsided smile of his. “Knew I picked the right partner.”

“Partner?” I shot back with a smirk. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m just helping you out on this one.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Whatever you say, Ellie. But trust me—once you’re in, you’re in.”