The next evening, Eleanor found herself standing in front of a decaying house on the edge of the city.
It looked exhausted—like it had been trying to collapse for years but hadn't quite finished the job.
The grass in the garden was overgrown.
The porch light flickered, barely hanging on.
She knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
Slowly, the door creaked open.
A man in his late sixties appeared.
Face wrinkled.
Eyes heavy with years of grief.
> "Who are you?" he asked, voice quiet but guarded.
> "Detective Eleanor Crawford. I'm investigating your son's death—David Collins."
He hesitated… then stepped aside and let her in.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Like everything inside it had stopped breathing long ago.
They sat across from each other in a dim living room that smelled like old wood and forgotten memories.
> "He was never the same," William said at last. "Always drawing… never smiling. The art didn't save him. It devoured him."
Eleanor nodded, gently.
> "Did he ever talk to you about… things he saw? People who weren't there?"
William went still.
Then, softly:
> "He mentioned… something called The Crimson Eye."
"He said it appeared in his dreams. In the shadows. In every mirror. That it watched."
Eleanor felt her stomach twist.
> "Did he leave anything behind? Journals? Drawings?"
William stood slowly.
Walked to a dusty cupboard in the corner.
Pulled out a small wooden box.
He handed it to her.
> "This is everything. But I couldn't bring myself to look at them… The last ones especially. They… scared me."
Eleanor opened the box carefully.
Inside—
A stack of drawings.
Forests full of shadows.
Faceless figures.
Twisted houses.
Bleeding moons.
And then—
One drawing caught her breath.
A man… standing before a massive, scorched gate.
Above him—a single glowing red eye.
---
> "Did he draw this before he died?" she asked, pointing.
William nodded slowly.
> "He said… he saw it every night.
That once you go through the gate... you don't come back."
---
The cold ran deep in Eleanor's bones.
These weren't just drawings.
They weren't imagination.
They were memories.
From somewhere else.