The town of Ashwood never truly woke, not like other towns. It was as though it existed in a state of perpetual twilight, caught between day and night, never fully able to decide where it stood. The streets were quietâunnaturally soâdespite the rising sun casting long, stark shadows across the town's weathered buildings. The air was heavy with something unspoken, a quiet tension that Lucas Grey could feel pressing against his chest the moment he stepped out of his car.
He had driven through miles of empty roads to get here, through dense trees that seemed to envelop the car, the darkness still clinging to the tips of the branches as if the trees were holding back the light. By the time he had arrived in Ashwood, the mist had long since dissipated, but a lingering chill remained, a sign that the town had its own rhythm, one that didn't bend to the laws of nature.
Lucas adjusted the collar of his jacket as he made his way down Main Street. The narrow street, lined with old brick shops and empty storefronts, was a far cry from the bustle of the city he had left behind. A few cars passed, but there were no pedestrians, no children playing, no dogs barking. Ashwood was quiet, too quiet. The sort of quiet that gnawed at your nerves, urging you to look over your shoulder and double-check that no one was watching.
He stopped in front of a small diner, the kind you could find in every small town across the country. The sign outside, once bright with neon lights, had faded into a dull glow. The windows were streaked with grime, and the door creaked as he pushed it open, the sound far too loud for such a still morning.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and old oil. A man sat in the far corner booth, hunched over a newspaper. His presence seemed out of place, like a forgotten ghost lingering in a forgotten place. The waitress behind the counter looked up as Lucas entered, her eyes dull and tired, like she had seen far too many strangers come and go over the years.
"Morning," Lucas said, his voice breaking the silence like a gunshot. The waitress barely acknowledged him, a slight nod in his direction before she returned to wiping down the counter.
He chose a seat near the window, where he could watch the street. He wasn't hungry, but he ordered a coffee anywayâblack, no sugar. The waitress poured it without a word and left him to his own devices.
As he sat there, sipping the bitter liquid, he couldn't shake the feeling that the town was watching him, waiting for him to make his move. The locals here had a way of knowing when a stranger entered their midst. Ashwood had a historyâa quiet, unspoken history that clung to the bricks of every building and to the faces of everyone who lived here.
It was only when Lucas finished his coffee that he decided to head to the police station. The town's law enforcement was small, tucked away in a dilapidated building at the edge of town. It wasn't much, but for a town like Ashwood, it was all they needed. Or so he was told.
The station was a one-story structure, weathered by years of neglect, with a flickering light hanging above the door. The windows were shut tight, the blinds drawn, as though the building was trying to keep the world out. As Lucas walked up the cracked steps, he could hear the faint hum of a fluorescent light buzzing from inside.
He pushed open the door, and the sound of the bell above it rang out, sharp and intrusive. The inside of the station was dim, the walls lined with yellowing paper and old file cabinets. A lone desk sat in the middle of the room, behind which sat Sheriff Margaret Cole, a woman who looked as though she had seen more than her fair share of darkness in this town.
Her eyes were sharp, assessing, but her face held the weight of someone who had long since stopped hoping for answers.
"Detective Grey," she said, her voice rough, like it hadn't been used in days. "I figured you'd be here soon."
Lucas raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You knew I was coming?"
Cole didn't smile. "You're the third detective they've sent in two years. I've seen the paperwork."
Lucas nodded and sat down across from her, the creak of the chair adding to the uncomfortable stillness of the room. The weight of the case was already pressing on his chest, but he hadn't expected it to feel this... heavy. Like the town itself was suffocating him before he even had the chance to breathe.
"Two years," he said, breaking the silence. "That's how long it's been."
"Yeah," Cole replied, tapping a pen against the desk. "Two years of brutality, no leads, no witnesses. Just bodies."
"And the pattern?"
"Every six months. Like clockwork. Another victim. No one knows why, no one knows who, and no one knows how. The killer has been running circles around us."
Lucas leaned forward, studying her face. "How many victims?"
"Three," she said, her eyes cold. "And the next one is due any day now."
Lucas processed the information, the weight of the case becoming even clearer. Three lives lost, and no one had the faintest idea who was behind it. But there was something more, something that gnawed at him from the back of his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Ashwood than met the eye.
He stood, his muscles stiff from the long drive and the stillness of the station. "I'll need to see the files. The crime scenes. I want to know everything."
Cole stood, her expression unreadable. "Follow me."
She led him down a narrow hallway, the walls lined with photographs of missing persons, cases long since closed. The air smelled stale, like dust and old paper, as though time had forgotten this place.
The files were stacked neatly on a shelf in the back room, each one carefully labeled and cataloged. Lucas sifted through them, his eyes scanning each report with precision. The details were grim, each victim savagely killed, each one leaving behind nothing but fear and confusion. No fingerprints, no DNA, no clues. It was as if the killer had vanished into thin air after each murder.
The pattern was undeniable. The victims were always young men, always found in secluded areas, always brutally murdered. The timeline was preciseâevery six months. But the motivation? That remained a mystery.
"This doesn't feel random," Lucas muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Cole.
"No," she agreed, "it doesn't. It's like... the killer's toying with us."
Lucas closed the file and stood up, his gaze fixed on the small window behind Cole's desk. The town seemed so quiet, so peaceful. But he knew better. There was something beneath the surface, something festering in the shadows.
"Where do we start?" he asked, turning to face her.
Cole hesitated for a moment before answering, her eyes dark with something he couldn't quite place. "We start by accepting that the killer is one of us. And then... we figure out who."