I shuffled onto the ferry with the rest of the tourists, the badges around our necks swinging slightly as we moved. Finding my way back had been surprisingly easy—thanks to the map, which not only showed the streets of Bonetown but also tracked my location in real-time. Convenient and unsettling in equal measure.

Charon stood at the helm, waiting with that same ominous yet oddly welcoming presence. His skeletal fingers tapped lightly on the ferry’s railing as he greeted us, his voice carrying across the water like a low, resonant echo.

“Come, come,” he called, bowing theatrically. “I trust you all enjoyed your time in Bonetown? So glad to see you again.”

We boarded quickly, the gangplank creaking under our collective weight. The ferry rocked gently as we settled in, its lanterns casting long shadows over the dark, rippling water. Charon lingered for a moment, watching the dock with a thoughtful stillness that made me wonder if someone had been left behind. But before I could dwell on the thought, he clapped his bony hands together.

“Well then,” he said, “we’ve waited long enough, haven’t we?”

Without further ado, he gave the signal, and the ferry lurched forward with a soft groan, the oars dipping into the water with precise, rhythmic strokes.

Did Charon know how many passengers there should have been? Was there a headcount, or was it more of a guess-and-go situation? I glanced back at the dock one last time, half-expecting to see some poor soul waving frantically as we drifted away. But the dock was empty, save for the flicker of lantern light.

A few minutes later, a dense fog rolled in, enveloping the ferry in an eerie shroud. The scenery vanished, replaced by an impenetrable gray haze. Even the river below was lost to the mist, leaving us adrift in what felt like an endless void. The creak of the ferry and the rhythmic splash of the oars were the only sounds to remind us we were still moving.

Charon cleared his throat, the rasp echoing unnaturally in the still air. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice as smooth and detached as ever, “the time has come for us to part ways. First to depart is...” He glanced down at a small, faded ledger in his hand. “Ah, yes. Gabriel Woodstock.”

All eyes turned toward the named passenger, who stepped forward with a satisfied smile, as if their time in Bonetown had been everything they’d hoped for. They made their way to Charon, stopping near the edge of the ferry at a spot that seemed conspicuously empty—no gangplank, no railing, just the misty abyss yawning beyond.

The passenger exchanged pleasantries with Charon, even shaking his bony hand as though this were nothing more than a routine disembarkation. I couldn’t help but stare at the spot where they stood; it looked precarious at best, dangerous at worst. One wrong move, and there would be nothing to stop them from toppling into... well, whatever was below.

With a final farewell, the passenger turned and leaped into the fog.

There was no splash, no sound of impact. Only a jubilant yell that echoed faintly before fading into silence.

I stared at the empty space where they’d been, my stomach twisting into uneasy knots. The fog seemed thicker now, the ferry quieter. Charon, unfazed as ever, turned back to the remaining passengers with the faintest hint of a smile.

“Next,” he said, his voice calm and unhurried, as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

One by one, the passengers stepped up to the edge and leapt off, each of them practically glowing with excitement. Their farewells were brief but cheerful, their voices fading into the mist with jubilant cries. Then my turn came.

“Max Silver,” Charon announced, his hollow voice carrying my name like a bell toll.

I swallowed hard, my feet feeling rooted to the ferry’s deck as I approached him. “Uh, hi,” I said, trying to sound calm but failing miserably. “So, this is my first time here. Can you, uh, explain what’s going on?”

Charon tilted his head, his eyeless sockets somehow managing to convey amusement. “Ah, a first-timer! Not to worry. It’s quite simple, really. When you jump, you’ll find yourself back where you started before you embarked on this little journey. No harm, no fuss.”

I frowned, my heart thudding in my chest. “Yeah, but... what if I can’t do it? I mean, I’m not sure I can just jump like that.”

Charon’s bony hand clapped my shoulder in what I assumed was meant to be a reassuring way. “That’s not a problem either!” he said, his tone almost too cheerful.

Before I could protest, he shoved me off the edge with surprising strength for someone who didn’t have muscles.

A scream tore from my throat as I plunged into the mist. The sensation of falling was brief but heart-stopping, my stomach lurching as the world blurred around me. And then, just as suddenly, that strange, familiar feeling of teleportation swept over me—a tingling rush, like being pulled through space by invisible threads.

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The next thing I knew, my feet hit solid ground, and I staggered slightly, blinking as the world reassembled itself around me.

It was dark. Why was it dark? No—wait. Not completely dark. My eyes adjusted slowly, picking up faint outlines in the shadows. I was in a room. And what was that crackling sound next to me?

Fumbling in my pocket, I pulled out my phone and switched on the flashlight. A narrow beam cut through the gloom, illuminating fragments of my surroundings.

Yep, I was definitely in a room—a large one. The light from my phone barely scratched the surface, failing to reach the far walls. The air was heavy with a metallic tang and a faint chemical bite that stung my nose. I turned the flashlight sideways, and there was some sort of apparatus sitting just beside me.

Curious, I stepped closer. The machine was a jumble of pipes, tubes, and dials that gleamed under the beam of light. Liquids of various colours swirled inside glass containers. A spindly metal antenna topped the machine, like a steel branch growing out of it. For a few seconds sparks faintly crackled along it and then stopped.

I turned away from the odd machine and swept the light across the rest of the room. The beam caught glimpses of other strange objects: a tall cylinder filled with a murky, greenish liquid; shelves lined with vials, jars, and jars within jars; and what looked like a mechanical arm suspended from the ceiling by thick cables, its metallic fingers clenched as though frozen mid-motion.

The far end of the room came into view as I crept forward. A massive workbench stretched across the wall, littered with tools, wires, and more glass containers. I raised my phone, illuminating the scattered notes pinned to a corkboard. They were diagrams, blueprints, and anatomical sketches—most human, others distinctly not.

My pulse quickened. This wasn’t just a room. It was some kind of laboratory—a mad scientist’s laboratory if the ominous atmosphere and questionable experiments were any indication.

A notebook laid in the center of the table. After turning around and re-checking that I was truly alone in the room, I opened it and began to read.

October 25.

At last, the foundations of my work are being laid. The manor stands empty, its grand halls echoing with untapped potential. Today marked the first step in transforming this forgotten estate into a bastion of progress. Harold Bundewick, ever resourceful and discreet, arrived with the equipment as promised.

The laboratory tables, vials, and apparatuses were transported in heavy crates, each bearing the weight of my ambition. Harold himself directed the laborers, ensuring no item was misplaced. The electromagneto generator was the most challenging—its sheer size required ingenuity to maneuver through the narrow halls. Bundewick’s wit shone through when he suggested dismantling the east door. I must admit, his practicality is a relief in contrast to the skeptics who plagued me at the university.

…

October 29.

Tonight, under the cover of darkness, the first shipment arrived. Five bodies, as promised. Their forms were swathed in burlap and bound with coarse rope, unceremoniously dumped at the manor's rear entrance. Harold, ever the tactician, ensured the carter asked no questions. Money, it seems, greases even the rustiest hinges of discretion.

It is peculiar how lifeless they appear—mere vessels now. Yet, as I gazed upon their still forms, I could not help but imagine the possibilities they represent. Each body, though inert, brims with potential energy. The work that lies ahead will not be easy, but I am confident in my methods.

…

October 30.

The experiments began today. Despite my meticulous preparations, the results were... disheartening.

Subject 001 was placed on the table, electrodes affixed to key nerve centers. The generator hummed to life, its coils sparking as energy coursed through the apparatus. A surge of 5000 volts passed through the subject’s frame, causing the body to convulse violently. The soulcatcher was working perfectly. I was sure of it. The machinery hummed faintly, a sound not of this world, as if it drew its energy from the void itself. The principle of it was simple, yet profound: the device would draw in and deposit nearby any stray souls it found coursing the Ether. With a final surge of energy, the soulcatcher crackled.

For a fleeting moment, I thought I had succeeded. The fingers twitched; the chest heaved as though drawing breath. But it was a cruel illusion. Moments later, the corpse unintelligibly thrashed against it’s bindings.

I repeated the procedure, adjusting the voltage, the placement of the electrodes, even the chemical infusion meant to stimulate cellular regeneration. Each attempt ended in failure. The bodies twitched and jolted, thrashed and wailed, but none sustained the spark of consciousness.

…

I decided to skip the following details about the experiments and turned to the page of the last entry which is from five days ago.

November 16.

Harold Bundewick, the fool, the traitor! I should have seen this coming. From the very beginning, his gaze lingered too long on my work, his questions laced with skepticism masquerading as curiosity. And now, he dares to call my experiments failures? He dares to threaten me, to claim that my creations—my children—should be destroyed?

He does not understand. None of them do. My work is no longer bound by the trivialities of mortality or ethics. Life and death are but tools to wield, and I have wielded them masterfully. Harold will rue the day he thought to cross me.

Oh, how glorious they are! My legion of the reawakened. Flesh and bone, stitched together with care and precision, each one a masterpiece of resurrection. They were failures once, perhaps, but now they are perfect instruments of my will. They hear my call, and they come.

Harold thinks he can silence me? That he can waltz into my manor with his hired thugs and end my work? Let him come.

…

The sudden sound of approaching footsteps startled me, sending a spike of adrenaline through my veins. My instincts screamed at me to hide. Frantically, I scanned the room, my eyes darting from one shadowy corner to the next. There wasn’t much time. My gaze settled on a closet nearby—my best option. Without hesitation, I slipped inside, easing the door shut behind me as quietly as I could.