The train screeched into Brackensport like it was trying to claw its way back out.Adrian Blackthorn stepped onto the platform, boots striking wet stone, and breathed in the scent of home — coal smoke, salt from the harbor, and the heavy stench of rain-soaked decay.
Fog had already rolled in from the docks, swallowing the far end of the station. It pressed against the gaslamps, turning their light into dull yellow halos. Somewhere in that murk, a bell tolled — slow, measured, like a warning no one could hear.
Brackensport hadn't changed. It still looked like it had been built by men who hated sunlight. The soot-black buildings leaned over the narrow streets, their crooked roofs dripping from the endless drizzle. But there was something else this time — a weight in the air, a kind of damp cold that sank deeper than bone.
Adrian adjusted his coat and lit a cigarette. The flare briefly lit the scar that cut across his cheek, the one he'd brought back from the war. He'd been gone six years. He hadn't expected a welcome. But the note that had pulled him back had been short and sharp:
They're dying again. The fog's come back. – G
He found Greaves waiting near the exit, collar up, hat low, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. Same thick jaw, same tired eyes. A little more grey in the hair.
"You came," Greaves said, voice rough like gravel under boots.
"You wrote," Adrian replied, falling in step beside him. "What's this about the fog?"
Greaves didn't answer right away. They crossed the square, boots splashing through puddles, passing shuttered shops and the flicker of a tavern sign. Somewhere down a side street, a woman laughed — sharp and too loud, followed by the slam of a door.
Finally, Greaves spoke."Three dead in as many weeks. Always on a foggy night. Always in the old quarter. Same as before."
Adrian's stomach tightened. "You mean—"
Greaves cut him a look. "I mean the Widow's back."
The name carried weight. In the war, soldiers swapped ghost stories to pass the time. One of them — a tall tale about a veiled woman who walked the field before the worst massacres — had stuck with Adrian. The punchline had always been the same: if you saw her, it was already too late.
But that was war talk. This was home.
"You saw her?" Adrian asked.
Greaves's jaw worked. "No. But others did. And the bodies—hell, you'll see soon enough."
They turned into Hollow Street. The fog here was thicker, swirling around their legs, beading on their coats. Adrian caught movement in the corner of his eye — a shadow crossing an alley — but when he turned, there was nothing but brick and mist.
Then came the smell. Not just damp and rot, but something sharper. Burnt.
Greaves stopped in front of a narrow doorway, two constables standing guard. Inside, the gaslamps flickered.
"Ready?" Greaves asked.
Adrian ground out his cigarette. "Show me."
They stepped in, and the first thing Adrian saw was the shadow — black and crisp, burned into the plaster wall. A perfect silhouette of a man, mouth open in a scream, but there was no body. Just the mark, and the fog curling along the floor like it had followed them inside.
Adrian had been a soldier long enough to know when the air changed. And in that moment, he knew — whatever had started in Brackensport, it wasn't finished.