The room smelled of wax, ink, and sleepless nights. A single oil lamp flickered weakly on the desk, its flame casting erratic, ghostly shadows over walls lined with books and journals. Some volumes lay open, their brittle pages filled with half-legible equations, frantic notes, and desperate theories. James Caldwell sat hunched over them, his fingers stained with ink, the shadows beneath his eyes etched deeply with exhaustion. His gloved hand traced lines of ancient text as his lips moved in silent whispers.

  Somewhere within these pages lay the truth he sought—the answers to the voice in the alley, the one that whispered his name directly into his bones. The figure of Eliza lingered in his thoughts, there for just an instant before dissolving into mist, leaving only the unsettling cold—a chill deeper than mere temperature.

  A hesitant knock at the door shattered his reverie.

  James stiffened, wary. Visitors at this hour were never a good sign. He rose cautiously, boots creaking against the worn rug. Opening the door slowly, he revealed a boy standing nervously in the fog-drenched street—no older than ten, with torn clothes and a face hollowed by fear.

  “Who sent you?” James asked softly.

  “The woman at the market,” the boy replied, glancing around anxiously. “She said you… you know about strange things.”

  James knelt down to eye level, his voice gentle. “What's your name?”

  “Thomas,” the boy answered, his voice brittle and fragile.

  James studied him carefully, recognizing the haunted look of a child forced to confront things beyond his years. “Tell me what happened, Thomas.”

  “My sister, Anna,” Thomas began, his voice cracking with emotion. “She started hearing whispers last week, from the woods behind our house. She thought it was just the wind, but then she saw it—something tall, thin, with no face, watching her from the trees. She told Mama, but Mama didn't believe her.”

  James felt a familiar pang in his chest, the ache of shared loss. “When did she disappear?”

  “Two nights ago,” Thomas whispered, fingers trembling. “She went into the woods to prove it was real. She never came back.”

  James straightened, decision firm. “Come inside, Thomas. Tell me everything you remember.”

  He placed a steaming cup of tea in front of the boy, who clutched it tightly. James listened intently as Thomas recounted the whispers, the shadow figure, the night Anna vanished. His mind raced, connecting dots between his own eerie encounter and this new, unsettling disappearance. No coincidences. Not anymore.

  James stood abruptly, sliding his revolver into its holster and grabbing his coat. “Take me to your house.”

  Thomas’ eyes widened hopefully. “You’ll help?”

  James nodded resolutely. “Let’s find your sister.”

  They stepped into the dense fog, the city around them eerily silent. Shadows twisted oddly beneath flickering gaslights, making James’ instincts prickle with unease. Reality itself seemed thinner the further they moved from the heart of the city.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  At last, a small cottage came into view, its fragile presence clinging desperately to the forest's edge. A single candle flickered bravely in the window. Thomas knocked softly, and the door creaked open. A gaunt woman appeared, her eyes hollow with exhaustion.

  “Mama,” Thomas said softly, “this is Mister Caldwell.”

  She looked at James, desperation plain on her face. “They said you could help.”

  James stepped inside, immediately noticing the oppressive scent of damp wood and herbs. His eyes caught a ripple of movement in a mirror by the door—a subtle, unsettling distortion of his reflection. His pulse quickened, but when he turned sharply, the mirror showed nothing unusual.

  Thomas’ mother wrung her hands anxiously. “I warned her. Anna was always so stubborn…”

  James nodded solemnly, turning toward the door. “Show me where she disappeared.”

  The forest loomed before them, its presence hungry and malevolent. James stepped forward, boots sinking into damp earth, his chest tightening with an unnatural chill.

  Then, he saw it—a faint shimmer in the air, cold and wrong. Through it, shapes moved vaguely, disturbingly. Something beyond reality, watching.

  His breath caught sharply, pulse racing.

  And just as suddenly, the shimmer vanished, leaving James standing at the forest's edge, heart pounding, knowing with grim certainty that this was only the beginning.

  Dystrios never slept.

  Victor Harrow stared at his reflection in the cracked, rain-slicked window of the auto-cab. His hollow eyes, clenched jaw, and scarred cheek spoke volumes about a life battered by the city’s relentless grind. Dystrios consumed its inhabitants, and Victor knew he was already halfway swallowed.

  His fingers brushed against the empty vial of Crux in his pocket, the temporary reprieve from his haunting memories fading quickly. The ghosts were waking again.

  The cab jerked to a stop. "Sector Nine," the automated voice announced flatly.

  Stepping into the rain, Victor approached a cluster of warehouses, their facades scarred by graffiti and neglect. Officers stood silently by the entrance, faceless behind reflective visors.

  “Harrow,” one officer greeted curtly. “They're waiting inside.”

  Victor entered, immediately sensing a shift in atmosphere. The vast warehouse interior was cold and heavy, dominated by abandoned machinery. At its center lay a body, sprawled grotesquely on the concrete.

  But the face—or lack thereof—chilled Victor to the bone. The victim’s features were smudged into anonymity, empty hollows where eyes should have been.

  A sharp voice broke his horrified silence. “Harrow. Finally.”

  He turned to see a woman with an air of authority, her gaze steady yet uneasy. “Corporate. They want this contained.”

  Victor crouched beside the corpse, noticing a subtle shimmer in the air nearby—a distortion colder than death itself. He reached out cautiously, his fingertips brushing the unnatural ripple.

  The shimmer pulsed violently, revealing a figure beyond—tall, impossibly thin, its movements jerky and unsettling. Though eyeless, it stared directly at Victor.

  Recoiling sharply, Victor felt his heart hammer in his chest.

  “What was that?” he demanded breathlessly.

  “You tell us,” the woman responded tensely, fear evident in her eyes.

  “This wasn't murder,” Victor said grimly. “This was erasure.”

  Determined, Victor pulled out his comm device, reluctantly dialing Lansing, his client.

  Lansing’s voice was brittle with anxiety. “Do you have something?”

  “Not yet, but something unnatural is happening,” Victor admitted. “I’ll find the answers.”

  He ended the call, tension gripping him. The shimmering figure haunted his thoughts.

  As Victor stared around the warehouse, a sudden chill ran down his spine. In a distant mirror, he glimpsed another figure—a man standing at the edge of a dark forest, looking back at him.

  Neither knew the other, yet both sensed a connection deeper than reality itself. As the veil between worlds frayed, both stepped forward into uncertainty, driven by questions that would shake their understanding of existence.