After they split up, Lucien didn't go far.
He walked through the town slowly, hands in his coat pockets, eyes moving—not casually, but carefully.
Ravensfield looked worse the longer you stayed in it.
At first glance, it was just… quiet.
A dying town. Empty shops. Faded signs. Too many closed doors.
But if you paid attention—
It felt wrong.
Not abandoned.
Avoided.
The streets weren't just empty. They were left behind.
Even the air felt heavy, like something had settled over the town years ago and never left.
Lucien stopped in front of a building.
A funeral home.
The stone sign outside was clean. Too clean compared to everything else around it. Someone still took care of this place.
"Walker Funeral Home," he read quietly.
Of course.
If there was anyone in this town who knew the truth—
It would be someone who dealt with the dead.
Lucien stepped forward and rang the bell.
It didn't take long.
The door opened with a soft creak, revealing an old man with grey hair and tired eyes.
He looked at Lucien for a moment, clearly surprised.
Not hostile.
Just… confused.
"You're not from around here," the old man said.
Lucien shook his head slightly.
"I'm here about Jamie."
That was enough to change the mood.
The old man hesitated, then stepped aside.
"Come in."
They sat outside in a small courtyard.
The place was quiet. Too quiet. Even the wind seemed weaker here.
"So," the old man said slowly, "you're here to arrange a funeral?"
Lucien shook his head.
"No."
A pause.
"I'm here because Jamie's wife didn't die normally."
The old man's expression stiffened.
Lucien didn't give him time to deny it.
"Her jaw was torn open. Her tongue removed."
Silence.
The old man's face lost color almost instantly.
"And before it happened," Lucien continued calmly, "a package arrived. Inside it—a doll."
The old man looked away.
Too quickly.
"I don't know anything about that," he muttered.
Lucien didn't push immediately.
He just watched him.
Then said quietly—
"You're the only funeral director left in this town."
The old man froze.
"You've been here long enough. You've seen things."
No response.
Lucien leaned back slightly.
"I didn't come here to waste time."
Still nothing.
So Lucien changed tone.
Not louder.
Just… sharper.
"You think staying quiet will protect you?"
The old man's fingers tightened slightly on his chair.
Lucien's voice dropped.
"It won't."
That got his attention.
Finally.
"You don't understand," the old man said, voice unsteady. "There are things in this town you don't talk about."
"Mary Shaw," Lucien said.
The reaction was instant.
The old man flinched.
Actually flinched.
"Don't say that name," he snapped, looking around like someone might hear.
Lucien didn't lower his voice.
"Why not?"
The old man leaned closer, whispering now.
"Because she listens."
Lucien held his gaze.
"Good."
That… wasn't the response the old man expected.
Lucien continued, calm as ever.
"I'm already involved."
"I spoke to Jamie. That's enough."
He tilted his head slightly.
"If she's paying attention… then I'm already on her list."
The old man went silent.
Lucien didn't stop.
"And you?"
He let that question hang for a moment.
"You'll handle the funeral. You'll be connected to this whether you want to be or not."
The old man's breathing grew heavier.
Lucien leaned forward slightly.
"She doesn't choose randomly," he said. "She finishes what she starts."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Lucien added, softer this time—
"You can either help me… or wait for your turn."
That did it.
The old man's shoulders dropped.
Not in defeat.
In acceptance.
"…You're not normal," he muttered.
Lucien didn't respond.
After a long pause, the old man spoke again.
"Mary Shaw… she used to live here. Long time ago."
Lucien listened quietly.
"She was a ventriloquist. Famous, in her own way."
His voice lowered.
"But people said… there was something wrong with her."
Lucien didn't interrupt.
"One night, during a performance, a boy in the audience said he could see her lips moving."
The old man swallowed.
"Not long after… that boy died."
A pause.
"Then Mary Shaw died too. Mysterious circumstances."
Lucien's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And after that?" he asked.
The old man didn't answer immediately.
But when he did—
His voice was quieter.
"People started dying."
Back at the motel—
Jamie couldn't relax.
Didn't matter how many times he sat down, stood up, walked around—nothing helped.
The room felt too small.
Too quiet.
Too familiar.
The doll sat on the chair across from him.
Wrapped.
Still.
But that didn't make it better.
It made it worse.
Because he knew what it could do.
The detective, on the other hand, looked annoyed more than anything.
"I'm telling you," he said, pacing slightly, "this whole thing is getting out of hand."
Jamie didn't respond.
"I've heard your story," the detective continued. "Ghosts, curses, dolls—none of that holds up."
Still nothing.
The detective scoffed.
"That guy you brought in? Your 'expert'?"
He shook his head.
"He's either a fraud… or running from something."
Jamie finally spoke.
"You didn't see what I saw."
The detective stopped.
"No," he said flatly. "Because there's nothing to see."
Jamie looked at him.
"You really believe that?"
"Yes."
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Jamie let out a slow breath and looked away.
There was no point arguing.
The room fell quiet again.
Minutes passed.
Then longer.
At some point, the detective sat down, still keeping an eye on Jamie.
Not trusting him.
Jamie lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Waiting.
For Lucien.
For something.
For anything.
But nothing happened.
And that was the worst part.
Because silence—
In this situation—
Didn't feel safe.
It felt like something was waiting.
The detective shifted slightly.
Something about the room felt… off.
Too quiet.
Even for night.
He frowned.
"…You hear that?"
Jamie didn't answer.
Because there was nothing to hear.
Exactly nothing.
No wind.
No distant cars.
No movement.
Just—
Silence.
The detective slowly turned his head.
His eyes landed on the chair.
On the doll.
For a second—
Nothing.
Then—
It moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Its head turned.
Just enough—
To look directly at him.
The detective froze.
"…No."
His voice came out quieter than expected.
"This is… some kind of trick."
The doll didn't move again.
But it didn't need to.
Because now—
He had seen it.
And once you saw something like that—
You couldn't unsee it.
The room felt colder.
The silence pressed in.
And for the first time—
The detective wasn't so sure anymore.