The night pressed heavy on Ravenwood like a wet blanket, smothering even the weak glow of the streetlights. Alex Monroe stood at the edge of the Turner property, coat collar pulled high, breath misting in the cold. The ruins loomed before him, skeletal beams jutting like broken teeth against the sky. Even after three decades, the air still smelled faintly of smoke, as though the earth itself refused to forget.
He should have gone home. His body screamed for rest—two sleepless nights had left his eyes raw, his head pounding with static. But something kept pulling him back to the ruins. Maybe guilt, maybe obsession, maybe both. The case was rotting in his mind, hollowing him out from the inside. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw fire reflected on the walls, heard the faint cries of children smothered by smoke.
The crunch of gravel behind him cut through the silence.
Alex spun, hand instinctively brushing the butt of his holstered pistol. A figure stepped out of the shadows beyond the rusted gate. She was tall, her posture deliberate, a long coat slick with rain clinging to her frame. The streetlight above caught her face just enough to reveal sharp cheekbones, hair tied back in a tight knot, eyes dark and unflinching.
"Detective Monroe," she said, her voice even, low. "Or should I say former detective?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Depends who's asking."
The woman walked closer, unhurried. She stopped a few feet away, keeping her hands where he could see them. "Mara Ellison. Investigative journalist. I've been following your work."
Alex let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah? You planning to write me up as the washed-out detective who chases ghosts?"
Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "Not ghosts. Fires." She gestured toward the ruins behind him. "Specifically this one."
A chill pricked Alex's skin. He hadn't told anyone he was coming here tonight. Not officially. "How the hell do you know about this?" he asked, his voice sharp.
"Because I've been digging," Mara said simply. "The Turner fire isn't just a forgotten tragedy. It's a sealed file. Records missing, testimonies redacted, official reports tampered with. Doesn't that sound familiar?"
Alex's stomach tightened. *The Circle*. Their fingerprints were all over cases like this, twisting truths, burying evidence. But he hadn't seen any mention of them in connection with the Turner fire. Not yet.
"You talk like you've seen the files," Alex said carefully.
"I have." Mara's eyes glinted. "Or rather, I've seen what's left of them. Fragments. Enough to know that what happened here was not an accident."
The rain picked up, tapping against the ruined beams like skeletal fingers. Alex felt the earth shift beneath him—half relief that someone else believed, half suspicion tightening his grip on reality.
"You expect me to trust you?" he asked.
"No," she said quickly. "In fact, I'd be concerned if you did. But you've been circling this case alone. And the truth is, Detective…" She paused, letting the silence stretch. "The truth is, you won't survive it alone."
---
They moved into the ruins together, Mara walking ahead as if she'd been here before. Her flashlight cut arcs through the charred skeleton of the house. The floor groaned under their weight, beams sagging like brittle bones. Every sound echoed, amplified by the emptiness.
"Careful," Alex muttered. "This place has been rotting since '93."
"Some things don't rot," Mara replied. "Some things linger."
She crouched near what had once been the living room, brushing aside damp ash with her gloved hand. The beam of her flashlight illuminated a blackened teddy bear, half its face melted into a permanent grimace. Alex had seen it in the crime scene photos. But seeing it now, in the flesh—or what was left of it—made his throat tighten.
Mara's voice softened. "Two children died here. Eli and Hannah Turner. Their remains were found close together, curled into each other. But the official report lists them as discovered in different rooms. Doesn't add up."
Alex frowned. "Could be a clerical error."
"Or a cover-up," Mara countered. "Why separate them? Unless someone wanted to muddy the timeline."
She stood, brushing ash from her knees. Her gaze met his, steady, unreadable. "This fire didn't behave naturally. Witnesses reported seeing flames move against the wind. Neighbors claimed the smoke formed… shapes. And the footprints—"
"Yeah, I've seen them," Alex interrupted. "Fresh. Someone's been coming back."
Mara tilted her head. "Not someone. Something."
The word lingered in the air like smoke. Alex felt the urge to laugh it off, but the images that haunted him—the shifting shadows, the phantom whispers—rooted him in uneasy silence.
---
They pushed deeper into the ruins, their flashlights cutting through the darkness. The house seemed to breathe around them, every groan of wood like an exhalation. The rain dripped through holes in the roof, sizzling softly when it hit the scorched floorboards.
At the base of the stairs, Mara stopped abruptly. Her beam caught on something half-buried in the ash: a scorched photograph frame, glass cracked, the image inside warped but visible. Alex knelt beside her. The picture showed a family—father, mother, two children—smiling in front of the very house they now stood in.
But something was wrong. The children's faces, though warped by the heat, looked… altered. Eyes darker, wider than natural, mouths twisted into uncanny half-smiles. The parents' faces were almost erased, but the children remained disturbingly clear.
"Jesus Christ," Alex whispered.
Mara studied the photo without flinching. "You see it too."
Before Alex could respond, a sound cut through the ruins. A faint, high-pitched giggle. Childlike. Close.
His flashlight swung wildly across the room, slicing through shadows. Empty.
"Tell me you heard that," Alex said, voice taut.
Mara's face was pale, but her voice was steady. "I heard it."
The laughter came again, softer, like it was hiding between the walls. The ruined house groaned as though shifting, ash raining down from the ceiling beams.
Alex's heart slammed against his ribs. He raised his gun instinctively, though what good a bullet would do against whatever this was—he couldn't say.
Mara's hand brushed his arm, grounding him. "Stay still."
They stood frozen, breath shallow, flashlights trembling in their grip.
Then the sound stopped. Silence swallowed the house.
Alex exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of him only to be replaced with dread. "If this is your idea of a journalistic trick—"
"It's not," Mara said sharply. "And if you think I enjoy this, you're wrong. But whatever happened here… it's still happening."
Her words hung in the air, undeniable.
---
When they finally stepped out into the night, the rain had thinned to a mist. Alex's nerves felt raw, his body aching from the tension. Mara pulled a cigarette from her coat pocket but didn't light it—just held it between her fingers like a relic of normalcy.
"You'll need me," she said quietly, almost to herself.
Alex's instinct screamed to reject the idea, to keep pushing alone. But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the paranoia, a darker truth stirred. He was no longer sure if he was chasing the fire… or if the fire was chasing him.
And Mara Ellison—enigmatic, fearless, and far too informed—might be the only thread keeping him tethered. Or the one tightening the noose.