"You should've took the shotgun," I whispered.
Arthur didn't look back. "That'd be clever, yeah—give away our position with a sound like a bloody thunderclap. Genius move, that."
We moved slowly, every step deliberate, like the ground might betray us if we pressed too hard. Gravel crunched in a way that felt louder than it should've been. The freight station ahead looked worse up close—collapsed roof, windows caved in, rust spreading like disease across steel and stone.
Then—movement.
Far end of the lot. A figure, just for a second. Too quick to identify, too tall to be comforting.
Arthur stopped dead.
Without speaking, we dropped behind a rusted shipping container. The air smelled like mould and iron.
"Was it them?" I murmured.
Arthur didn't answer. He was watching, eyes sharp, jaw clenched.
The wind picked up, but only in one direction. Leaves blew toward the station. Not away.
That wasn't right.
After a few seconds, Arthur stood.
"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed.
He didn't look at me. "It moved like bait. Not a scout. Scouts don't break line of sight."
Then he started walking toward it. Slow. Measured. No weapon drawn. Just that quiet certainty again, like if he walked wrong, the floor might swallow him whole.
I followed, pulse hammering in my throat. Every shadow felt too deep. Every sound too sharp.
We reached the loading dock. Paint peeled in sheets from the walls. One of the big metal doors had been forced halfway open—just enough to duck under.
Arthur turned to me, his voice low. "This part's old. Disconnected. No cameras. No signals. If anything's in there, it wants to be found."
"You think Ethan's inside?"
"If we're lucky." He crouched and ducked through the gap. "If we're not... something else is."
I hesitated, then followed.
Inside was worse.
Dark, but not fully. The kind of dark that seemed to shift when you blinked. Shelves toppled. Crates burst open. Something like dust hung in the air, but it didn't float—it drifted, like it knew where it was going.
Arthur moved between beams of weak moonlight slanting through holes in the roof. His steps made no sound now.
Then we heard it.
A voice. Muffled. Close.
It said my name.
Not yelled. Not whispered. Just spoken, like a fact.
I froze. "Did you—"
"Yeah," Arthur said. "I heard it too."
He reached into his coat, pulled out the silver blade, and handed it to me.
"What about you?" I asked.
Arthur smiled, humourless. "I've got worse."
Then the voice spoke again.
But this time, it wasn't mine. It was Arthur's.
Saying something I knew he hadn't said yet.
He looked at me, eyes suddenly very still. "Don't follow the voice. No matter what. If it sounds like me, sounds like Ethan, sounds like your dead nan—don't follow it."
I nodded, tight.
We pressed deeper into the dark. Something waited ahead. Something that knew how to wear our faces.
And it was smiling.
We kept moving. Ignoring the smiling creep.
Each step felt like wading into water that wasn't there. The dark pressed close, but not like absence—it watched. I could feel it behind me, beside me, above me. Things my eyes couldn't catch were waiting just outside the edge of vision.
Somewhere up ahead, metal groaned. Not loud. Just enough to say: You're not alone.
Arthur raised a hand, stopping us in place. We stood behind a half-collapsed shelving unit, its contents spilled across the ground—old shipping manifests, torn plastic, something that looked a lot like dried blood.
Then I saw it.
Between two pillars at the far end of the hall.
A figure, hunched. Breathing, maybe. Its back toward us.
Clothes torn. Head lowered.
Ethan.
Or it looked like him.
I stepped forward.
Arthur grabbed my arm instantly. Tight.
"What did I say?" he whispered. Voice barely there. "Don't follow the voice. Don't follow the shape."
"But it's him," I said. "It looks like—"
Arthur leaned close. "That's the point. They don't hunt you with claws. They hunt you with familiarity."
The figure twitched. Its shoulders shook like it was crying.
Then it spoke. "Please."
Not a whisper. A direct plea. Like a statement shot through a filter of pain. But the voice cracked exactly the way Ethan's did.
I swallowed. "What if it really is him?"
Arthur didn't blink. "Then it'll survive until we're sure. If it's not—" He let go of my arm. "Then it dies quiet."
We started moving again, circling wide. I kept my eyes on the thing in case it moved.
It didn't.
Until we were almost past it.
Then its head snapped up.
But not like a human.
The neck didn't turn. The head rotated—clean, smooth, mechanical—facing backward while the rest of the body stayed still.
Its eyes locked with mine.
And it smiled.
Arthur shoved me hard just as the thing lunged. It moved too fast for something that broken, scuttling like a spider on two legs. Arthur stepped forward, slashed the blade across its arm as it passed him—metal on bone—and it screamed.
Not Ethan's scream.
Something higher. Older. Layered with other voices, all playing at once.
The creature scrambled back, retreating into the dark like it had never been there.
Silence returned like a snapped wire.
I stared at the space where it had stood, heart hammering.
Arthur was breathing heavy. "Not him," he muttered. "They're getting bolder."
I gripped the blade tighter. "What was that?"
"A lure. One of the old ones. They scout by memory. Wrap themselves in people you miss."
I shook my head. "They knew my name."
Arthur looked at me, dead serious. "They always know your name. You've been echoing since birth. They've been listening longer than you've been breathing."
We stood there for a beat. Then Arthur nodded toward a stairwell near the back wall. Concrete steps, half cracked, leading down into dark.
"Basement," he said. "Freight tunnels run under the terminal. That's where they'd keep something real."
"Ethan?"
"Or the remains of him."
He started down without waiting.
I hesitated at the top. Looked once more at the empty floor where the fake Ethan had stood.
Then followed Arthur into the dark.
We descended into the dark.
The air grew colder with every step. Damp. Heavy. The kind of cold that sinks into your teeth and waits there.
Arthur moved ahead of me, blade in one hand, flashlight in the other. The beam flickered as we hit the bottom.
The freight tunnel stretched both ways. Left, the path was blocked by collapsed debris. Right, it opened into shadow.
Arthur didn't speak. Just headed right.
Then—movement. Fast.
Not toward us. Past us.
Something dashed across the far end of the tunnel, just out of the light.
I raised the blade, heart pounding. "You see that?"
Arthur stopped walking. "Yeah. But it didn't see us."
Then a voice from the shadows—rough, low, and familiar in a way that made my skin crawl. Not because I knew it, but because it sounded real. Grounded. Human.
"Step where you are. Hands where I can see 'em."
A silhouette emerged from a side corridor, shotgun leveled.
He looked like hell. Unshaved. Dust-caked clothes. Dried blood on his sleeves. Denim jacket, battered boots, and eyes that didn't blink unless they had to. The kind of man who'd seen too much and still got up the next day.
Arthur didn't flinch. "You shoot me and you'll regret it."
The man stepped closer. His aim didn't drop. "If you bleed red, I'll take that risk."
I raised my hands. "We're not with them."
"No," the man said. "But you've been seen by them. That's worse."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The man didn't smile. Just looked at Arthur like he was deciding where to aim next.
"Name's Fletcher. Used to live in Ashmoore, now i don't live...just exist. Now I kill the things that come out of the dark. And if you've brought more of them with you, I swear to God I'll bury all three of us under this bloody station."
Arthur lowered his weapon slightly. "You've seen them."
Fletcher nodded once. "Saw one wear my wife's face. That was two winters ago. She's still out there. But she ain't my wife."
"They took your wife"? I shivered in cold.
Fletcher tilted his head a bit and lowered his gun,slowly "She got sick. Proper bad. Doctors didn't have a clue what it was. Then outta nowhere, these bloody wankers show up—wearin' robes, faces covered. Said it was some Rathadium nonsense. Took her. Just like that. And I couldn't do a damn thing.
I was just... human."
I didn't knew what to say and arthur also kept quiet.
I spoke up. "We're looking for someone. A boy. Name's Ethan. Might've been taken."
Fletcher studied me. His eyes softened, just a fraction.
"They took a kid down here last week. Couldn't get to him in time. Thought he was dead. But if you're hearing voices—he ain't fully gone. Not yet."
Arthur stepped forward. "You know the tunnels?"
"Better than anyone alive." Fletcher racked the shotgun and turned back toward the hall. "Come on. If he's still breathing, we've got about twenty minutes before the place starts shifting again."
"Shifting?"
"You'll see. Just don't fall behind. If I say run, you run. If I shoot something, you don't ask what it was."
Arthur shot me a glance. "Told you we weren't the only lunatics down here."
Fletcher led us into the dark without another word.
And somehow, even with Arthur by my side, it felt a little safer. Not safe. Not even close.
But steadier.
Like this was a man who didn't flinch anymore. Not from monsters. Not from ghosts. Not even from the people they used to be.
To be continued