The next morning, Ravenwood looked deceptively calm. The rain had passed, leaving the streets slick and glistening, the mist curling lazily over rooftops like pale smoke. Yet Alex Monroe couldn't shake the stench of the Turner ruins. It clung to him, woven into the fibers of his trench coat, buried beneath his fingernails. Ash had a way of following you, no matter how far you tried to walk.
He sat in his office at the precinct, a chipped mug of coffee cooling beside him. The Turner file lay open on his desk, its edges yellowed and curling, the ink of old reports faded to a dull brown. The case had been closed in 1993—ruled as an accident caused by faulty wiring. But Alex had already seen enough in those ruins to know that "accident" was a lie.
The basement. The footprints. The whisper.
His pen tapped absently against the margin of the report as his mind replayed that voice—thin, frightened, childlike. He hadn't imagined it. He couldn't have. But there had been no one in the basement when he searched, no sign of life except for the strange symbols etched into the scorched walls. Symbols that hadn't been in the original crime scene photos.
The door to his office creaked open.
"Morning, Monroe."
Captain Evelyn Shaw leaned against the frame, her sharp eyes narrowing at the mess on his desk. Shaw was in her fifties, her gray-streaked hair pulled back tight, her uniform crisp despite the hour. She had the look of a woman who had seen too much of Ravenwood's darkness and learned to carry it with steel in her spine.
"You were at the Turner place last night, weren't you?" she said, her voice low but edged with reproach.
Alex didn't answer right away. He closed the file, slid it aside. "Who told you?"
"Half the damn town, Monroe." Shaw stepped in, folding her arms. "You stir up ashes, people notice. That case is dead. It's been dead for thirty years."
Alex met her gaze. His gray eyes were steady, but inside, something smoldered. "The dead don't leave fresh footprints," he said quietly.
Shaw's jaw tightened. "You think you're onto something? Fine. But tread carefully. The Turner fire… it burned more than just a house. It burned trust. People don't want it reopened."
Her words hung in the air long after she left. Alex stared at the closed file, then pulled it back toward him, flipping to the original list of victims.
Daniel Turner, 42.
Margaret Turner, 39.
Eli Turner, 10.
Abigail Turner, 7.
Clara Turner, 4.
Five names. Five lives.
But only four bodies had been recovered.
Alex's pen hovered over the paper. Eli Turner—age ten. His body had never been identified.
Later that afternoon, Alex drove to the edge of town, where the Ravenwood Archives squatted like a forgotten relic. The building smelled of mildew and dust, its shelves groaning under the weight of decades of secrets.
Behind the counter sat Harold Greene, the town's archivist, a gaunt man with spectacles that magnified his watery eyes. His hands shook slightly as he flipped through the request Alex had handed him.
"The Turner fire?" Harold muttered, voice reedy. "That's… that's an old wound, Detective. Folks don't like it being poked."
"Wounds don't heal if they're ignored," Alex replied.
Harold swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You're not the first to come asking, you know. Couple years back, a young reporter came digging. Thought she was onto something. Then she vanished. No trace."
Alex's grip on the counter tightened. "What was her name?"
"Claire Duvall." Harold lowered his voice. "Bright girl. Asked the wrong questions. Some say she left town. I… don't think she did."
Alex's pulse quickened. A missing reporter tied to the Turner fire? The pattern was forming, threads weaving into something bigger, darker.
Harold slid a brittle folder across the counter. "These are copies of the original fire marshal's notes. But—Detective, some of the originals are missing. Pages torn out. Like someone didn't want the whole story told."
Alex opened the folder. Scribbled sketches of the fire's spread, reports of "unusual burn patterns," notes about accelerants that were never mentioned in the official ruling. His breath slowed. This wasn't faulty wiring. This was deliberate.
Arson.
That night, Alex returned to the ruins. The mist had thickened, and the skeletal remains of the Turner house loomed like a grave marker. His flashlight beam danced across the rubble until it found the basement entrance again.
He descended slowly, the silence pressing in like a physical force. The symbols on the walls seemed clearer now, etched deep into the blackened stone. Strange shapes, circles intersecting lines, almost ritualistic. He traced one with his gloved hand, the grooves rough beneath his touch.
A sudden noise—a shuffle of movement—snapped his head around. His flashlight swept the far corner, and for an instant, he saw it.
A figure. Small. Thin. Standing in the shadows.
"Eli?" The name escaped his lips before he could stop it.
The figure twitched—and vanished.
Alex's breath caught. The basement was empty again, silent except for the steady drip of water. His heart pounded, but he forced himself to keep the light steady, to keep searching.
And then he saw it—scratched into the soot-blackened wall, beneath the symbols. Fresh. Jagged.
I'M STILL HERE.