#hochmvt

The Great Eclipse, or as the scientists call it: the Blackout, had changed the world from one day to the next. Technically, it had been the same day, but it ended entirely differently. A total eclipse, a natural rare astronomical event, dependent on time and location, occurred two years ago, visible for the western hemisphere—but despite its invisibility for the eastern part of the world, had impacted every speck of the earth. Much like the big assumption of 2012, the anticipated event had caused a stir in much the same fashion. The end of the world, foretold by some, doubted by many, but for once the ones who had been deemed delusional were right. In some way, at least. In Zeev's eyes, the world seemed very much alive, but it had changed nonetheless. Within the glimpse of a moment, wrapped in darkness as the moon covered the sun, parts of humankind had vanished. Entire civilizations were left inhabited, families were ripped apart. The rain that followed did the rest to most, skinning them alive and leaving nothing but acid remnants, as if the sky had cried tears of bitterness and wrath, angered by something it didn't tell the rest of the world. The result of climate change to some, a cosmic doom to others. Suddenly, scientists listened to former conspiracy theorists, but both were faced by a development that seemed to have no real answer to their questions. 

With time, the last survivors who hadn't given up on their lives, found refuge in bunkers underneath the earth, some had turned to organisations trying to rebuild what had been lost, while some just waited. Waiting for a life that most likely wouldn't come.

Truth be told, though, Zeev didn’t remember much of how it had been, considering the lack of memory regarding the past. He knew something, but it felt strangely detached. As if it were myths and legends that had been told to him like a bedtime story, filling his blonde head with fantasies of a life as it used to be, while he had been flowing with a much different tide. Perhaps it was his way to cope with the loss, to avoid the ever lingering question of why, as he, alone and powerless, wouldn’t be able to change the cause of events anyway. Why look at the past, when the rocky hills of surrounding mountains, the high growing trees of the woodlands and lucious fields of seemingly endless acres lay right before his eyes? A wide and vast freedom of nothingness and all at once. Somewhere to find yourself and lose yourself along the way entirely alike. 

Touched by the sun, lungs filled with itching molecules within the oxygen, Zeev was aware once more why the empty fields were called lonesome. It hadn't been like that before. Zeev didn't know why, he just knew that. He remembered presences, feelings—something attached to faceless arrays of energy. A family he can't name, but he knows that has abandoned him. He couldn't blame them, hate them, feel guilty for or sorry with. He was devoid of any emotional connection except one: loss. A feeling so deep, it twisted his heart and left him breathless, urging him to move forward in a world where nothing seemed to follow a reachable goal. 

He struggled to his feet and followed a path that was invisible, overgrown by nature and muddy soil. Zeev had no place to retreat to, so he went wherever he was welcomed. Which was a rather laborious effort and usually took hours of wandering. Sometimes he found shelter in dilapidated buildings, remnants of a civilization that had crumbled so tremendously in just 700 days that it was hard to imagine it had ever been different. It was essential for the blond to keep an eye on the weather and seek shelter early, before even the hint of a drop swirled through the air. Every now and then he came across equipment on his way, too careless to muster up enough compassion to wonder whether it still belonged to a living person or not. The umbrella on his backpack, whose material he couldn't even name, was marked with a symbol he knew very well.

The Meridian Technology Corporation, which had been considered innovative and progressive long before the Blackout, had risen to the top of the food chain after Day 0. When Americans spoke of science, Meritech had always been mentioned in hushed tones, with equal parts admiration and reserve. The future of the world, the progress of humanity, has been the fuel of research, without ignoring the state of the earth and the impact of society in these matters. Diseases, greenhouse gases, climate change, changes in living conditions and world hunger. MeriTech presumably had tried to find a solution to all these problems. Perhaps it was a testament to megalomania, the desire to be a savior who achieved god status. In a way, they had failed and won on all levels—because now MeriTech seemed to have become humanity's only hope. As quickly as they had created shelters and developed concepts of reconstruction, evil tongues could claim that they had seen it all coming. But no matter how bitterly they were confronted, they were literally all they had left. 

The Meridian Corporation, however, was too broad and large a concept to be tangible to the remnants of the general public, and while they addressed all concerns of current conditions, they established a sub-organization dedicated solely to new world research: Project Failsafe.

Their research didn't just entail the possibility of using the acid rain and how to reverse it, the reason why the weather seemed to be indecisive or why people had disappeared without anyone noticing—after the Great Eclipse something else had happened, too. Something that was far more confusing and raising questions than weather ever could.

On some parts, changing with the wind and unpredictable like the outburst of sudden cones of sunlight between stratus clouds, one was able to see black lines reaching into the sky, moving like loose umbilical cords. In the beginning, they were just a phenomenon, seemingly leading to nothing like a colourful rainbow. But unlike the legendary and non existing pot of gold, they pointed at areas everyone needed to keep their distance from. 

While humankind had disappeared, something else had come to existence. 

The wailing of something invisible, of something that is there and simultaneously is not. A fragile structure that, if stirred, unleashes the full asset of antimatter and creates a chaos that Failsafe considers a so-called Voidout, a reaction to an action like a Newton Cradle that can't be avoided nor prevented when started. Humankind had been unable to identify the entities that were attached to the black cords for the longest time, not even aware of their existence except of their widespread destruction and deadliness when disrupted. That hadn't changed much, however, Failsafe—during their long search for willing scouts and volunteers for their cause—had found people with abilities that were as unexplainable as the events that had shaken their home planet. 

Those people have been branded W.I.T.C.H, a necessary shortened down acronym translated to: Warpstream Intelligence for Transdimensional Contact and Hyperawareness. Humans with the ability to see beyond the confines of common perception, who were able to foretell the change of the weather and its upcoming danger, who seemed to be able to sense the tune of an earth that had become a stranger to most—but above all, were connected to the cosmic sources. They were able to see the beings clearly, who appeared and disappeared like the tide. With Witches, and considering the ever falling numbers of humans left it wasn't truly necessary to mention that those were rare, MeriTech had been able to not only make progress in their endeavours, they also managed to come to some conclusions. One of which was the impingement of cosmic influences. The entities looked somewhat human, as far as they could believe those who had tried to assist them, but they most likely weren't.

Witches were rare and with the promise of a better future, they were of high importance for their cause. Unfortunately, if you play with fire to this extent, you get burned sooner than later. And most had turned to the ashes at the stakes they had been forced to build themselves. 

And Zeev truly didn't want to be reduced to a means to an end. He had dipped out weeks after he had assumed to have found safety and meaning in a mess he couldn't understand. At that time, he had thought his abilities weren't very special, until they had told him differently. At first, that revelation had been uplifting, motivating and in some egoistical way filling him with pride and an arrogant self-confidence—until, in reality, he was nothing more but a mere plaything they sent out in the name of science, just to risk his life. Zeev didn't mind helping, but if the burn scar that resembled a sun on his palm was any indicator, his survival meant little in the greater scheme of things. 

And he had goals of his own. Goals more important in his eyes than the survival of people he didn't know. In a sense, he was still pridefully egoistical, but there was little he had of his own anyway. If being alive was all there was, he wanted to live on his own terms. Still, being on your own for the longest time turned one wary of one another, especially when being who he was.

And so the day had came when Zeev, with a group of scientists and an armed escort—although firearms only suggested a false sense of security—had been led to a place where a high density of antimatter had been measured. In the end, they only had to follow the tracks in the sky and the instinct that Zeev possessed like no one else. That day at the latest, the Witcher had realised that his cooperation with Failsafe was not voluntary and that the escort was not necessarily for his safety, but to prevent an escape. What they hadn't reckoned with was the lengths he would go to in order to ensure his freedom and that they, in their blindness, were inferior to his abilities. He was unable to stand up to their multitude and power, but the supernatural apparitions could—so he had taken advantage of them. His escape had not been without danger and he was lucky to have done so without as much as a scratch. If fortunate enough, MeriTech thought he was dead, as was everyone who had gone to this cosmic event that day. Zeev was not proud of what he had to do, but there was no room for regret in this world any longer. 

Since then, Zeev tried to keep his heritage hidden, which wasn’t the hardest task to succeed in. The rare encounters never went deeper than smalltalk, everyone too wary of one another to put too much trust into each other and therefore as fleeting and forgetting as any dull day within grey walls built by a company that served as much as it took. MeriTech had created a network that only functioned under their supervision. All remaining people were dependent on their work and the mercy that their care brought to light. An unspoken propaganda, a loyalty without alternative was the result of a pervasive hopelessness. Anyone who wanted to survive inevitably had to stand up for MeriTech. In principle, Zeev would probably have found fulfilment in that if he wasn't who he was and thus, he felt more alone than anyone. Unable to stay in one place, even if the company felt soothing for a change. Afraid he might be forced back into the care of the company.

Wherever Zeev was really walking towards, not even his instincts could tell him, and more often than he would have liked, he was just wandering because it felt right to keep moving. In places he had been, run-down towns and deserted forests, he had not found what he was looking for and the answers had not yet opened up in front of his eyes like the clearing of the sky. So he wandered without a destination, driven only by the knowledge that somewhere, with all the luck he potentially had left, he might stumble upon something that felt like progress. 

To conserve his resources, he rarely used the breathing mask and the oxygen canister that came with it, a rare commodity that he could only obtain from a few fallen travellers, unable to recharge the canisters at MeriTech's collection points and use them for safe travel. The air was not necessarily bad, but over time the acidity of the humidity took its toll. 

The roughness of the terrain was sapping his strength, and as the day wore on, it became increasingly difficult for him to keep his concentration up and his eyes open. Zeev skirted mostly around the high mountain landscape, roaming instead through the nearby forests that had once been known as the Appalachians. The new weather conditions had literally diminished the appearance in places, creating craters out of mountains and cutting a swathe through the lowlands. Bare serpentines wound their way up to the peaks and promised the same as after every other milestone of his hikes. Fallow nothingness, devoid of human life or the possibility of creating any. The only signs that there was a spark of life anywhere were MeriTech's excavations, old and abandoned scaffoldings that were supposed to be used for research before being left behind due to lack of results..

The smell of ozone filled the air and Zeev turned his gaze to the sky, watching the colours of the sun as they refracted in the distant water droplets, shimmering with grim promises as the star sank lower. Zeev had to decide, moving upwards, slowing down, and hoping for shelter or darting fast through the open, diminished fields with no cover in sight. The umbrella he carried would only hold off a little and the suit he wore would soon need repairing. In the end, he decided for the latter and for another time, luck seemed to be on his side. 

His eyes were only human in regards to earthly conditions, hence he hadn’t seen what lay beyond a hill along his way. Relief flooded through him when he spotted the characteristic grey structure of a MeriTech bunker. An unhoisted flagpole, indicating an absence of habitants and thus posing no threat to him, peeked out from behind the lush green hill. His gait slowed and he allowed the exhaustion to unfold, saturating his steps and taking away his sense of purpose. The entrances to the bunker reminded him of the wide-open mouths of whales feasting on krill. Not that he could remember ever having seen anything like it, but it was his first association. The firm concrete ground caused his skull to shake, while the soft grassland had cushioned his every step in comparison. Sighing, he slumped his shoulders and circled his head on his neck, about to pull a stranger’s keycard out of his pocket, when he noticed a rucksack.

Tattered, but no doubt not too old to be considered abandoned. 

Interested and curious, he took a look inside. A few tinned foods, a bottle or two of water with MeriTech's logo, writing utensils and laundry. Before Zeev could consider taking the food and drink, he glanced back so as not to get into an awkward predicament and make a bad first impression on the person he wanted to pray to for a place to stay for the night and be sheltered from the approaching storm. At first he didn't spot anyone, so he straightened up and stepped outside. 

And then he did.

A good three-hundred feet away from the bunker, sitting on a rise, resting on a collection of boulders.

They just sat there drawing, or so Zeev thought, which was an odd sight to begin with, but also something surprisingly relaxing. Every now and then they presumably checked the time, pulled out binoculars, chewed on the flat end of their pencil when in thought and then continued to scribble down something. Zeev couldn’t help but keep staring. Especially since he was trying to fathom if the person was safe to be approached. Zeev was in dire need of resting and he had learned to take every opportunity when given. The chance of coming across another bunker within the next hour—let alone one unoccupied—was below zero. 

His first impulse was to go to them, to speak to another person, to feel the hoarseness of his own voice that he hadn't used for so long, to hear what they were doing and what they were looking for. A feeling of happiness as strong as the urge to sleep, but he held back and stood rooted to the spot. From experience, he left a friendly and welcoming impression on others who, like him, often succumbed to their loneliness. Nevertheless, he decided to wait until the person would start moving and see what their first reaction would be. Should the person be hostile against all expectations, he would at least still have the element of surprise. Minutes flew by and Zeev sat down at the edge of the bunker, knees bent and head leaning against the solid wall, which was cracked and crumbling due to the precipitation. He took off his mask for comfort and hissed briefly as the air scratched his throat. For a long time, he watched the person he identified as male as he performed the same procedures over and over again. Watching, observing, scribbling. Watching, observing, scribbling. There was something strangely calming about it, Zeev had to admit. The stranger was relaxed in a way he had rarely seen. As if he was exactly where he wanted to be. The longer he looked at him, the more Zeev wondered what he was even doing out here. Failsafe rarely acted alone and the scouts were usually not in one spot for a long period of time. Who was he observing for?

Suddenly, his body shook itself to the core, wiping out all air from his lungs, causing his body to tremble and heave. Every tiny hair on his body stood up, numbing and sharpening senses alike—and he rose to his feet within seconds, black spots dancing across his field of view in the process. Black lines fell from the sky like wet paint, changing the landscape from peaceful beauty to dawning danger. The bodies of seemingly sedated people came into view, connected to the cords that reached far beyond the clouds. Sometimes, it wasn’t hard to believe they were just peacefully asleep. Zeev, however, had seen what they were like when stirred awake. He wasn’t sure if the stranger could see them, too.

In awe, the guy's notebook fell to the ground, which he hurriedly saved off the ground, not wanting to risk its decomposition, Zeev assumed. His excitement was both fascinating as it was worrisome to witness. 

“What in the sun's name are you doing?,” Zeev muttered under his breath, his voice muffled by the mask he covered half his face with again. And before he knew it, he was moving forward, to the male that willingly and too curious for his own good, did the same—towards a catastrophe—instead of retreating to the safehouse.

Although  he  was  used  to  the  uneven  roads  of  their  hometown,  Zeev  found  it  extremely  annoying  to  be  shaken  back  and  forth  so  much  that  he  could  neither  doze  nor  read.  The  bumpy  ride  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  concentrate  on  one  line  of  the  book.  Glancing  up,  he  realised  that  his  companion  was  also  anything  but  pleased  that  any  attempt  to  put  the  tip  of  his  pen  down  only  invited  an  abstract  rendering  of  a  questioning  work  of  art. 

Simultaneously,  they  closed  their  respective  books—one  waiting  to  be  filled  with  glorious  discoveries  and  theories, the  other  already  filled  with  ideas  of  a  stranger's  mind. 

The  man  in  front  of  him  ruffled  his  blonde  hair,  any  attempt  to  have  it  brushed  and  neatly  pressed  into  a  current  style  of  hair  had  been  flung  out  of  the  carriage’s  foggy  window  the  second  they  had  entered.  Zeev  didn’t  mind,  they  both  didn’t  exactly  fit  into  the  current  narrative  of  the  world—always  a  little strange,  something odd, but  never anomalous enough  to  turn  a  blind  eye,  to  not  be  fascinated  by  their  monthly  publication.  For  most,  it  was  just  a penny  dreadful, for  them  however,  it  was  the  truth.

For  the  world  was  an odd place.  A strange one  even.  And  that,  in  essence,  made  it  all  the  much  more  worth  living  in.

On  the  front  of  the  man’s  journal,  rested  a  lettering  that  indicated  their  origin.

Spindle  &  Pines,  Investigation  and  Press.

Slowly,  Zeev  put  the  book  to  the  side  and  reached  forward.  Slim  fingers  making  quick  work  with  the  scarf  around  his  companions  neck,  pulling  it  loose,  ruffling  it  some.  He  brushed  over  the  thick  collar  of  his  brown  coat.  A  necessity  considering  the  coldness  creeping  in.  It  seemed,  the  closer  they  got  to  the  estate,  the  less  warmth  the  earth  seemed  to  emit.  A  fact  that  Zeev  didn't  like  at  all.  For  him,  there  was  hardly  anything  better  than  bathing  in  warmth. Preferably  in  front  of  the  fireplace  with  a  cup  of  tea  and  the  man  who  had  changed  his  life.

Reminiscing,  he  leaned  forward  and  pulled  the  other  closer,  kissing  him  lovingly,  feeling  their  tension  melt  away  in  equal  parts.

Kissing  Isaiah  Pines  was  like  sunshine  in  the  morning  reflecting  off  the  hard  cobblestones  as  the  city  slowly  regained  life,  like  the  smell  of  warm  scones  and  lavender  tea,  like  the  concept  of  love  in  physical  form.

It  was  probably  not  worth  mentioning  at  this  point  that  Zeev  Spindle  was  able  to  spend  hours  pursuing  this  passion.  The  most  impressive  aspect  of  it  was  probably  that  it  had  been  eliciting  the  same  feelings  in  him  for  years.  Not  once  had  the  biologist  looked  at  his  partner  and  faced  doubt. 

So  he  kissed  him  again,  even  if  the  turbulent  ride  meant  that  their  noses  bumped  into  each  other  now  and  again  or  they  rocked  to  the  side.  With  a  firm  grip  on  his  coat  and  his  hands  on  his  hips,  they  gave  each  other  support.  Like  they  always  did.

Zeev  gazed  lovingly  into  his  eyes  and  moved  his  hand  to  his  cheek,  stroking  the  curve  of  his  bone  and  smiling  back  at  him.

“Don’t  you  be  worried, my  darling,”  he  spoke  words  of  reassurance,  as  he  always  did—and  every  time  he  was  right.  “We’ll  see  what  this  is  about  and  if  it  won’t  lead  to  anything,  we’ll  come  up  with  something  one  way  or  another.  And  hide,  the  castle  surely  has  some  warm  spots  for  us.” 

Their  home,  an  ever  growing  village  at  the  border,  was  a  three  days'  travel  away  and  had  cost  them  a  few  resources  and  much  beloved  time  in  their  confines  of  safety.  Lord  Ashmor  had  heard  of  their  work,  as  did  most  who  didn’t  know  what  else  to  talk  about.  The  occult  and  the  paranormal  had  always  sparked  a  fascination,  one  of  which  Zeev  and  Isaiah  were  more  than  aware  about,  even  if  most  folks  didn’t  like  to  openly  claim  they  were  truly  believing. A  bravery  only  the  investigators  inherited. 

Admittedly,  the  aspect  of  hysteria  that  Lord  Percival  of  Ashmor  had  spoken  of  had  been  of  less  interest  to  them.  Alleged  demons  were  apparently  haunting  every  other  home,  but  strangely  enough, it  always  seemed  to  be  women.  In  most  cases,  they  faced  less  genuine  occult  challenges  and  more  a  combination  of  many  man-made  burdens  that  were  just  as  heavy  on  a  person's  mind  as  the  sight  of  a  shadowy  creature.  Sometimes,  he  believed,  a  cure  for  the  latter  would  be  an  easier  task  to  accomplish.

Indeed,  it  was  the  hints  Percival  had  left—unconsciously  or  deliberately—between  the  lines.  Incidental  hints  like  the  weight  of  the  waves,  a  suffocation  in  the  sheer  endless  tide  of  an  approaching  tragedy,  and  a  rushing  so  loud  it  seemed  to  emphasise  the  sounds  of  his  wife's  suffering.

As  Zeev  had  read  the  letter,  nestled  against  his  lover’s  side,  wrapped  in  his  arms,  he  had  noticed  something  else  as  well.  A  note  hidden  underneath  the  sea’s  salt,  something  acidic  and  moldy,  wet  and  putrid.  It  reminded  him  of decay.

Now  they  stood  in  front  of  the  massive  gates  of  a  castle  estate  that  wasn’t  as  big  as  it  had  seemed  on  the  drawings,  but  it  surely  demanded  some  sort  of  respect  that  Zeev  couldn’t  decline.  Lord  Ashmors  waning  societal  standing  aside,  the  castle  spoke  of  wealth  all  for  itself. 

Zeev  glanced  over  his  shoulder  as  the  horses  of  the  carriage  strutted  downhill  again,  following  the  curves  of  the  road  that  reminded  him  of  a  tentacle  for  a  short  second,  before  looking  up  at  Isaiah  with  an  emotion  he  couldn’t  quite  name  himself.

They  were  going  to  be  stuck  here  for  a  week.  Seven  days  of  unorthodox  scientific  research  that  potentially  could  be  nothing  but  a  hoax  and  the  impudent  result  of  a  wife-beater  with  a  poetic  touch,  then  again,  Zeev's  senses  had  never  let  them  down  and  he  hoped  they  wouldn't  this  time  around,  too.  There  was  little  that  would  hurt  him  more  than  watching  Isaiah  be  disappointed.  The  joy  in  discovery  and  tying  knots  was  a  display  more  beautiful  than  any  art  gallery  over  the  world  could  ever  challenge. A  boyish  wonder  he  maintained  throughout  the  years  that  was  both  fascinating  as  it  was  energising. 

He  took  his  hand  like  the  first  time  years  ago,  a  sign  of  companionship  and  trust, of  being  one  force  instead  of  two  separate  minds  in  the  eye  of  uncertainty.  Zeev  felt  him  squeeze  his  hand  in  encouragement,  aware  of  the  hesitation  he  felt  just  the  same.  Not  because  they  lacked  interest  or  even  enthusiasm,  but  something  seemed  to  ask  them  to  reconsider.  A  conscious,  a  gut  or  heart  feeling—but  none  of  which  was  strong  enough  to  contain  their  curiosity.

 “Greetings,  gentlemen,  welcome  to  Castle  Ashmor,”  a  surprisingly  young  man  with  thick,  black  sideburns  greeted  them.  His  bright,  round  eyes  contrasted  with  the  grey  cold  outside  these  walls.  “Just  put  your  luggage  aside,  I’ll  take  care  of  it  later  on  and  carry  it  to  your  rooms  upstairs.  I  will  show  you  the  way  in  short  notice.”

His  slight  bow  made  Zeev  uncomfortable.  Not  because  he  detested  politeness,  but  rather  because  he  felt  that  such  treatment  towards  him  was  unjustified. 

“I’m  Alberic  Lamére,  a  pleasure  to  make  your  acquaintance.  I  work  under  many  names,  such  as  housekeeper,  servant  or  butler  for  Lord  and  Lady  Ashmor,  but  you  may  just  address  me  with  Alberic.  We  will  be  in  much  contact  throughout  your  stay  as  we  are,  well,  rather  short  staffed.  If  you  may  follow  me,  please.”  He  pointed  to  a  corridor  next  to  the  wide  staircase  that  completely  filled  the  entrance  area  and  led  them  through  a  hallway  hung  with  family  portraits.  Everything  seemed  tediously  desaturated  in  colour.  There  was  a  lack  of  intensity  to  everything,  tainted  memories  of  better  days.  The  coldness  of  the  stone  floor  was  evident  in  the  soles  of  his  shoes  and  his  jaw  quivered  a  little. 

Alberic  led  them  into  a  living  room  space  that  had  more  in  common  with  the  servant  in  front  of  him,  than  the  path  that  laid  behind.  Rich,  vibrant  red  tapestries  with  turquoise  accents,  dark  wood  flooring  and  a  fireplace  that  seemed  to  be  higher  than  his  shoulders.  The  crackling  soothed  Zeev’s  senses  tremendously  and  he  sighed  in  relief  at  the  returning  warmth.  The  high  stained  windows  displayed  images  he  couldn’t  quite  decipher.  At  first  glance  it  felt  like  an  depiction  of  a  ship  and  the  unruly  sea.  A  rather  odd  choice  in  colour,  as  Zeev  was  used  to  mosaics  of  a  wide  array  of  hues.  Perhaps  Lord  Ashmore  thought  the  same,  as  most  of  the  windows  had  been  covered  by  long  silky  curtains,  perfectly  aligned  with  the  ground. 

“May  I  offer  something  to  drink?  A  Pinot  Grigio  perhaps?  Or  would  you  rather  enjoy  a  red  wine?”

Zeev  sat  down  on  a  wide  couch,  cushioning  his  fall  perfectly.  “Do  you  serve  malt  whisky  by  any  chance?”

“Yes,  sir,  that's  no  challenge  for  me.”  He  nodded  and  turned  his  attention  back  to  Isaiah  who  seemed  to  still  examine  the  space.  Already  investigating  or  just  pandering  to  personal  interest—usually  both  going  hand  in  hand. 

“If  you  excuse  me  for  a  moment,  I’ll  be  back  in  a  few.”  Once  more  Alberic  bowed  slightly,  withtreating  and  disappearing  into  the  coldness  of  the  hallway.

Zeev  stretched  his  legs  far,  slipping  down  the  couch  as  nobody,  except  Isaiah,  bore  witness  to  his  childish  behaviour.  “This  is  probably  the  most  saddening  castle  I’ve  ever  been  to.  Did  Alberic  even  blink  once?”  He  chuckled  slightly,  straightening  his  back  again,  turning  towards  the  backrest  of  the  couch  to  look  over  to  Isaiah,  strolling  through  the  room  like  a  museum’s  guest. 

“Perhaps  he’s  so  in  awe  to  finally  see  a  living  human  being,  he  can’t  risk  ruining  the  moment.”

Zeev  chuckled,  feeling  his  heart  swell  with  love  at  the  sight  of  his  man’s  smile  at  that.

Movement  at  the  edge  of  his  eyes  forced  him  to  swallow  any  following  remark  however,  looking  over  to  the  approaching  man,  who  Zeev  had  mistaken  for  a  resident  of  different  kind.

The  skin  of  the  man  was  pale  and  lacked  as  much  colour  as  the  cliffs,  his  cheek  hollowed,  his  eyes  tainted  with  a  sadness  that  unsettled  Zeev  deep  within.  He  had  been  a  tall  man  once,  even  taller  than  Isaiah,  and  yet  his  shoulders  hung  low  and  his  spine  was  giving  up  underneath  him.  His  bony  hand  held  on  tight  to  the  cane  that  strained  underneath  the  responsibility  brought  upon  it.  Lord  Ashmor,  as  Zeev  had  presumed,  was  a  man  in  his  late  fifties.  This  man,  however,  looked  rather  like  a  phantom  of  the  man  he  used  to  be.  Like  a  ghost  unable  to  leave  the  confines  of  his  self-inflicted  imprisonment. 

Zeev  stood  up  immediately,  rounding  the  couch  in  respect,  offering  his  hand  with  a  beaming  smile  that  seemed  to  blind  the  lordship  as  he  flinched.  It  took  the  blonde  a  moment  to  realise,  as  the  man’s  lips  curled,  that  he  tried  to  mirror  his  gesture.  Zeev  hoped  he’d  never  try  again  as  it  was  profusely  unsettling  to  watch—shortly  after  he  felt  guilt  for  thinking  so,  as  Lord  Ashmor  probably  hadn’t  had  much  reason  to  smile  for  a  very  long  time. 

“Mr.  Spindle,”  Percival  spoke,  his  voice  surprisingly  strong  for  a  man  this  brittle.  “Or  are  my  tired  eyes  deceiving  me?” 

“Zeev  Horace  Spindle,  at  your  service—naturalist,  biologist,  and  occasional  investigator  of  peculiar  occurrences.” 

Lord  Ashmor  nodded  delayed,  then  glanced  over  to  Isaiah,  noticing  his  approach  fairly  late.  “Then  you  must  be  Isaiah  Pines.  I’m  glad  you’ve  reached  my  estate.  How  was  your  travel?  Did  Alberic  offer  food  and  drinks  already?  You  surely  must  be  tired.”

He originally had an appointment with Naomi, whom he had recently met, but something had come up. It wasn't as if Zeev didn't have countless hobbies that he could pursue. The garden definitely needed tending again, but the weather was too gloomy for that. He could finally work through his pile of shame and snuggle up in his armchair with a cup of tea, but he didn’t feel like it. He could try out a few new tea blends, which he could give Sarah for her birthday—as he does every year—so that she doesn't ingest those insults from the supermarket. Or he could check the emails in which he could probably drown himself in enquiries again. But the thought of the flood forced him to turn away from this idea. The agencies' interest in him was certainly flattering, but it was clearly asking too much of him at the moment. And he didn't want to entrust Isaiah with it either. It would probably be good if he had someone who could take care of it. Zeev shrugged his shoulders. His thoughts were already drifting off again. His indecision at not knowing what to do came less from the fact that he had no options than from the fact that Isaiah had made a rather unmotivated impression since this morning. 

Some days were like that, nothing much to worry about. Still, he did and Isaiah had been nestled into his little cabin in the basement for quite a while now. So Zeev did what he always did. He made him a coffee and crept down the narrow steps to the lower level of the house, Jersey excitedly following him, jeopardising his safety on the stairs more than once. He knocked gently on the door and heard only a frustrated but he assumed permissive grumble. The office wasn't huge, but it had room for everything that was needed. Various shelves for Isaiah's personal collection of books, comics and toys from his childhood, odds and ends he had collected on his travels and mementos placed with incalculable reasoning wherever Isaiah happened to be standing and could reach. Whenever Zeev entered his office, he felt as if he were entering his mind. The light from the screen seemed to be one of the few sources Isaiah allowed while he worked, reflecting sparsely off the walls and illuminating the Overlook-Hotel-wallpaper that Zeev almost had to donate a kidney for. From a corner of the room, he was gazed at by the watchful eyes of a Nicolas Cage cardboard cutout, tugged away between the shelves; witness and victim alike. 

Zeev stepped up to his boyfriend and instantly ran his hand through his hair, lightly scratching his skull in encouragement and stroking a few strands from left to right as he placed the coffee on the coaster—which wasn’t occupied because Isaiah's empty mug was right next to it. Zeev smiled to himself. 

“Are you getting anywhere?” the witcher wanted to know, looking at the screen without really understanding what he was looking at. His hands slid over the blond's shoulders and he felt the tension. With Isaiah's posture, though, it wasn't much of a surprise, regardless of his demotivation. In response to Zeev's question, Isaiah just groaned in annoyance. “All is shit and nothing works. I can't even write one coherent sentence.” Zeev's thumbs pressed where his neck and shoulders met before he leaned forward and kissed the back of his head. 

“Perhaps it’s time for a break, don’t you think?” A suggestion that rarely sat well with Isaiah, as if he thought he was wasting time fulfilling his job. From Zeev's perspective, though, his writer’s block could only dissolve if he took time to relax his mind. They probably jumped from one thing to the next, as was so often the case. Of course, it was then difficult to put down on paper what he wanted to convey. “Do you want to lie down for a bit?” Zeev slowly rounded him, coming to a halt against the desk, smiling crookedly at him.

“I can't take a break now-I need to-”

“Isaiah,” Zeev breathed, his smile intensifying and he tilted his head in amusement before briefly glancing down at his boyfriend, biting his bottom lip suggestively. Of course, Zeev's act of selflessness was purely born out of a willingness to help, to get Isaiah out of his predicament of frustration. Of course.

“... however, upon closer consideration…”

A sweet, almost innocent laugh fled Zeev’s chest and he invitingly took Isaiah’s hand to pull him out of the chair, feeling his body shuffle closer to him, his warmth wrapping itself around his frame like his arms. Hungrily, yet caring, he caught his boyfriend’s lips, tilting his head just the slightest to deepen it. Despite having done it numerous times, it still felt refreshingly new and loving like the first time. Zeev loved Isaiah’s hands on his waist and hips as they kissed, his palms dipping perfectly into the curve, whereas his own hands were running along his throat and neck, occasionally wheeling out towards the back of his head, taking a handful of his hair. 

Suddenly, Zeev pushed himself off the table, his hands pressing against Isaiah’s chest as he forced him further into the room. For a split second he broke away, just to be able to pull the hoodie off his boyfriend, discarding it rather carelessly, but Zeev was on a mission and he wouldn’t be hindered by trifles. His hands wandered underneath his shirt, sighing delightful at the soft touch of his skin, his body tensed at the touch. But that shirt needed to go too, no matter how beautifully it clung to him. Zeev pushed himself as far off the ground as humanly possible, his hands wrapped around Isaiah’s neck as he continued the kiss, pulling him down in the process to meet him halfway. Happily he hummed into the frantic exchange of breaths and salvia, as Isaiah’s pretty fingers were disappearing underneath his own shirt, accentuating his slim torso. Each and every shiver motivated his movements; how he pressed himself closer to the other, how his tongue darted forward, how their heads moved like a rehearsed choreography.

At some point Isaiah’s knees must have buckled away from under him, as he stumbled against the couch, pulling Zeev along and accidentally hitting his forehead with his own. Zeev hissed, his hand flung against the spot. As much as Isaiah apologised, Zeev just laughed amused, feeling the other’s lips against the patch of skin. 

“Lie down,” Zeev ordered soon after, a mischievous tug at the corner of his lips. He pushed Isaiah’s legs apart, causing one to fall off the edge of the couch, kneeling in between as he leaned down to plant soft open mouth kisses along his chest, all while his hands were busy unbuckling his pants. Once done, his fingertips started to roam the white unmarked skin of his boyfriend, feeling his breathing and shivers as Zeev reminded himself how beautiful he thought Isaiah was. Every now and then Zeev allowed himself a detour to longingly press his mouth onto his again, his thumb brushing promisingly over his throat. Nothing was hotter than the trust and loyalty they held for each other and Zeev absolutely revelled in the devotion he held for the man underneath him. The witcher softly kissed the tender skin close to his ear, coarsely whispering: “I’m going to rearrange all that loose thoughts, love, I’m going to make you feel so good.”

“Warm,  writhing  flesh.”  Stiles  scrubbed  a  hand  over  his  face,  then  ran  it  through  his  hair,  leaving  the  dark  strands  in  disarray,  before  he  dropped  the  hand  at  his  side  and  shrugged.  “Sure.  Why  not.”  His  voice  was  edged  with  the  sort  of  resignation  that  came  with  realizing  that  yet  another  thing  that  should  have  only  existed  tucked  away  between  the  pages  of  horror  stories  had  quietly  stolen  away  and  slipped  into  his  reality.  And  Stiles  wasn’t  granted  the  luxury  of  ignorance,  couldn’t  claim  that  he  didn’t believe in  this  kind  of  stuff–whatever  it  was. Because  experience  had  taught  him  that  whatever  you  can  imagine  in  your  worst  nightmares  already  exists  somewhere.  Hidden,  but  real.  So  whatever  Isaiah  had  expected,  or  feared,  his  reaction  to  be–disbelief,  a  joke,  even  shock–failed  to  materialize.  Instead,  the  blond  was  met  with  Stiles’  voice,  dry  and  unimpressed.  “That’s  not  the  worst  thing  I’ve  ever  heard,  but…  It’s  certainly  up  there.” 

It  made  sense,  in  a  twisted  way.  Since  the  moment  that  Stiles  had  been  pulled  into  this  investigation,  the  case  had  felt odd.  Unsolvable.  The  information  provided  by  Isaiah  confirmed  a  suspicion  that  had  taken  root  in  Stiles’  mind  the  more  he’d  tried  to  dig  into  the  case:  he  didn’t  have  the  full  picture.  He’d  been  thinking  of  this  as  just  another  missing  person’s  case.  Without  the  supernatural  angle,  he  had  only  been  looking  at  one  half  of  the  picture,  like  a  chessboard  with  half  the  pieces  missing.  “That  tracks,”  Stiles  muttered,  more  to  himself  than  to  Isaiah.  Nevertheless,  the  blond’s  gaze  lifted  instantaneously,  and  a  hint  of  curiosity  flashed  across  his  face.  Mischief  sparked  in  Stiles’  eyes,  his  hazel  irises  glistening  as  he  raised  one  shoulder  in  a  half-shrug. “Sorry.  Confidential.” 

Isaiah  scoffed,  and  something  in  his  eyes  flickered,  the  shift  so  subtle  it  could  have  easily  been  missed.  But  Stiles  had  been  watching  him  intently  ever  since  he’d  shoved  past  Isaiah  into  the  motel  room–gaze  measuring,  studying,  taking  note  of  the  amount  of  times  Isaiah  had  run  a  hand  through  his  hair.  The  restlessness  of  the  gesture  stirred  something  akin  to  recognition  in  Stiles.  It  nearly  bordered  on  sympathy.  He  got  the  feeling  that,  if  he  was  willing  to  look  past  their  differences,  he  would  find  a  lot  of  himself  in  Isaiah.  As  of  right  now,  he  wasn’t  sure  if  that  was  a  good  or  a  bad  thing. 

The  subtle  change  in  Isaiah’s  eyes  at  the  mention  of  confidentiality–the  FBI's  favorite  phrase–made  him  wonder  if  he  had  heard  those  same  words  before.  Not  jokingly,  the  way  Stiles  had  intended,  but  meant  to  brush  him  off.  To  get  him  to  stop  asking  questions,  to  keep  him  from  looking  into  things  he  had  no  real  authority  to  look  into.  Maybe  that  was  where  the  barely-concealed  disdain  for  the  FBI  stemmed  from.  The  blond  had  a  warranted  suspicion  about  him  that  Stiles  not  only  recognized  but  deeply  understood,  and  could  have  even  appreciated  under  the  right  circumstances.  Now,  however,  it  was  greatly  hindering  his  plan,  and  therefore  an  absolute  pain  in  his  ass. 

“Christ,  dude,  I’m  just  kidding,”  he  sighed,  then  quickly  corrected  himself,  “I  mean,  kinda.  Like,  I really shouldn’t  be  telling  you  this.” But  what  he  should  and  shouldn’t  do  were  hardly  more  than  loose  suggestions  to  Stiles.  Always  had  been.  Be  it  curfews  implemented  by  his  dad  growing  up,  rules  set  by  teachers,  or  the  legal  bindings  of  his  job.  Stiles  had  never  been  one  to  blindly  follow  rules,  and  he  wasn’t  about  to  start  now.  Isaiah  had  given  him  something,  however  minor  and  non-committal.  If  they  were  ever  going  to  work  together,  it  would  have  to  be  a  matter  of  give  and  take,  which  meant  Stiles,  too,  would  have  to  volunteer something. 

“Brock  Reynolds  isn’t  the  first  case  of  an  outsider  just  disappearing  here.”  He  slumped  against  the  edge  of  Isaiah’s  desk,  rubbing  the  heel  of  his  palm  over  his  forehead  as  he  recounted  the  findings  of  last  night’s  research  session.  “Those  disappearances  aren’t  mentioned  anywhere  in  the  city  archives, as  I’m  sure  you  know.”  Stiles  spared  Isaiah  a  pointed  glance,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitching  treacherously.  “Not  a  trace  of  them  anywhere  except  in  some  backchannel  FBI  database.  There’s  a  whole  trail  of  reports  and  case  files  going  back  to  1912.”  Considering  that  the  FBI  had  been  founded  in  1908  and  had  only  become  a  federal  investigative  agency  much  later  in  1933,  this  tidbit  of  information  had  struck  Stiles  as  especially  noticeable.  In  those  early  years,  the  agency–back  then  still  dubbed Bureau  of  Investigation–had  neither  the  authority,  jurisdiction,  nor  the  manpower  that  distinguished  it  today. 

“Here’s  the  kicker  though:  They’re  all  sealed.  Can’t  access  any  of  them,  which…  shouldn’t  even  be  possible,  because  I do have  the  required  level  of  security  clearance.”  To  think  that  the  bureau,  while  still  in  the  fledgling  stage,  had  spared  its  limited  time  and  resources  to  make  some  of  their  earliest  case  files  essentially  inaccessible  was suspicious, to  say  the  least.  “But  they  were  all  filed  around  the  same  time:  every  two  years,  always  close  to  the  spring  equinox.”  One  of  two  times  a  year  when  the  sun  was  positioned  directly  above  the  equator,  ensuring  an  equal  edge  between  day  and  night,  rendering  them  both  approximately  the  same  length.  Many  cultures  implemented  festivities,  celebrations,  and  rituals  around  the  spring  equinox  to  bid  farewell  to  the  cold  winter  months  and  welcome  the  fresh  start  of  spring. 

The  repeating  pattern,  paired  with  the  convenient  timing,  had  gotten  Stiles  thinking  about  sacrifices.   “So…  circling  back  to  what  you  were  saying.  What  if  it’s  like  a  trade?  Cages  get  lowered  down,  whatever  is  inside  somehow  gets  out.  Maybe  whatever  is  down  there  thinks  of  it  as  an  offering  and…  the  flesh,”  a  shiver  trailed  down  his  spine  at  the  thought  of  it,  “is  what it is  giving  back?”  Uneasily,  Stiles  wondered  if  sometimes  there  was  something  else  in  the  cages  when  they  were  lowered  down,  soon  swallowed  by  waves.  Not  bait.  Something  bigger. Human. 

When  Stiles  stepped  through  the  door  to  Isaiah’s  room  and  out  onto  the  balcony  that  connected  all  the  rooms  on  the  upper  story  of  the  motel  half  an  hour  later,  frustration  lined  his  shoulders,  muscles  rigid,  tight.  Any  attempt  at  luring  the  fisherman’s  full  name  out  of  Isaiah  had  amounted  to  nothing.  All  he’d  been  willing  to  give  was  a  first  name:  Jack.  Which,  without  the  addition  of  his  last  name,  wasn’t entirely  useless  to  Stiles,  but  certainly  made  finding  him  unnecessarily  complicated.  Rain  was  still  falling  hard,  coming  down  in  thick  curtains  that  pelted  against  the  rusty  railing  lining  the  balcony,  spurred  by  gusts  of  wind  whipping  past.  It  pulled  at  Stiles’  flannel  as  he  struggled  with  the  key  at  his  own  door,  metal  slippery  between  his  damp  fingers. 

The  flick  of  the  light  switch  revealed  the  state  of  chaos  that  Stiles  had  deserted  his  room  in.  An  open  suitcase  on  the  bed,  bursting  at  the  seams  with  hoodies  and  shirts,  all  entangled  in  a  messy  heap.  The  desk  lamp  that  he’d  forgotten  to  turn  off  cast  a  soft  glow  across  the  half-eaten  pizza  left  in  a  soggy  box  on  the  desk,  grease  seeping  through  the  cardboard  onto  the  files  that  were  strewn  across  the  table. He’d  never  hear  the  end  of  it  when  he  sorted  those  back  into  the  filing  cabinet  in  New  York. Stiles  shook  the  rain  from  his  hair,  sending  droplets  flying,  before  he  flopped  down  on  the  creaky  chair  and  pulled  up  his  laptop,  nimble  fingers  hacking  away  at  the  keyboard.  He  was  looking  for  an  angle.  A  motive.  Some  personal  stake.  It  couldn’t  be  a  mere  coincidence  that,  in  a  town  full  of  people  sworn  to  secrecy,  Isaiah  just  so  happened  to  stumble  across  the one person  willing  to  help. Stiles  didn’t  believe  in  people  doing  things  out  of  the  goodness  of  their  hearts.  Not  anymore.  Call  it  intuition,  paranoia,  or  simply  experience.  But  there  was  always  an  angle. 

By  2:37AM,  Stiles  was  in  sweats,  hoodie  half-zipped,  hair  sticking  up  in  spikes  like  he’d  run  his  hand  through  it  five  hundred  times.  He  was  hunched  over  the  desk,  one  knee  drawn  up  to  the  chair  like  posture  was  optional.  The  leftover  pizza  had  been  reduced  to  a  single  cold  slice,  and  his  fingers  trembled  with  fatigue  where  they  curled  around  a  half-empty  Red  Bull.  The  desk  lamp  flickered  at  irregular  intervals  where  it  sat,  perched  at  an  awkward  angle  like  it  was  trying  to  look  over  his  shoulder.  He  had  six  tabs  open,  tiredness  blurring  their  contents  before  his  eyes:  CoastalTown.gov,  a  local  fishing  license  database.  A  sketchy,  poorly  scanned  PDF  of  harbor  logs  dated  back  three  years,  the  black  ink  of  the  original  document  smudged  in  several  places.  A  community  group  called Hook,  Line  &  Local that  he’d  pulled  up  on  Facebook,  browsing  for  any  mentions  of  users  named  Jack.  Digitized  property  records  from  Harrow’s  Deep,  the  IRS  access  portal,  plus  the  sleek  user  interface  of  LinkedIn. Because  apparently  fishermen  have  LinkedIns. 

Stiles  strained  his  eyes  against  the  screen’s  faint  glow,  letters  momentarily  growing  hazy  as  he  typed  “Jack” into  the  town’s  active  fishing  licenses,  fingers  hovering  over  the  keyboard  after  hitting  enter.  As  expected:  too  many  hits. Much  obliged,  Isaiah. Up  until  an  hour  ago,  Stiles  had  heard  faint  murmuring  from  Isaiah’s  room,  adjacent  to  Stiles’.  The  noise  had  been  much  softer  now  that  Isaiah  knew  Stiles  was  listening,  too  quiet  to  make  out  any  words,  the  thrum  of  the  rain  outside  additionally  drowning  out  the  conversation.  Still,  Stiles  had  welcomed  the  noise.  It  made  him  feel  less  alone,  even  if  it  was  only  through  a  wall.  For  most  of  his  life,  he  had  felt  that  sort  of  divide  between  him  and  everyone  else–not  quite  as  literally,  but  distinctly  there. The  sort  of  invisible  line  that  he’d  never  quite  figured  out  how  to  cross.  Like  he  was  there  on  one  side,  alone,  and  everything  else  happened  on  the  other  side.  And  no  amount  of  wishing  and  longing  could  transport  him  over  there  and  make  him  a  part  of  it. 

Discarding  the  thought,  Stiles  focused  on  the  list  of  just  short  of  twenty  Jacks  listed  in  Harrow’s  Deep’s  fishing  licences. “Okay,  Jack…  Jack  who? Jackoff,” he  mumbled,  then  shook  his  head.  “Nope.  Focus.”  He  filtered  the  list  down  to  people  over  forty,  following  a  gut  feeling,  and  cross-referenced  the  data  with  boat  registrations.  The  search  spat  out  three  boats  registered  to  Jacks  in  Harrow’s  Deep.  Pelletier,  Libby,  Bouchard.  Not  ideal,  but  he  could  work  with  three.  Stiles  set  down  the  energy  drink  on  the  table,  the  condensation  immediately  leaving  a  circular  mark  on  the  wood  while  Stiles  flipped  through  pages  of  handwritten  notes  and  wrinkled  print-outs  of  newspaper  articles,  all  taken  from  the  digital  archives  of The  Harrow’s  Deep  Gazette,  reporting  on  boating  accidents  on  the  town’s  shore.  Though  his  eyes  burned  and  felt  dry  like  sandpaper,  they  remained  vigilant,  scanning  the  pages  for  highlighted  passages,  skimming  sticky  post-it  notes  scrawled  with  his  messy  handwriting. 

“Come  on,  come  on,  give  me  something…”  Stiles  muttered,  absent-mindedly  picking  up  a  pen,  worrying  at  the  cap  with  his  teeth  as  he  rifled  through  the  newspaper  clippings.  He  stopped  when  he  hit  an  article  dated  nine  years  back: Tragedy  Strikes  Again:  Teen  Lost  in  Weekend  Boat  Outing. He  skimmed  the  article,  eyes  jumping  so  fast  between  the  words  that  he  nearly  stumbled  over  them. There  it  was. “...  as  the  town  mourns  the  loss  of  Bennett  Libby  (17)...” Stiles  yanked  the  pen  from  his  mouth,  cap  demolished,  and  spun  it  between  his  fingers  as  he  flicked  through  more  articles,  heart  rate  spiking.  The  next  stack  of  papers  turned  up  nothing,  so  he  hastily  set  it  aside,  paying  no  mind  to  several  pages  slipping  over  the  edge  of  the  desk  and  gliding  to  the  carpeted  floor.  Then,  finally,  a  clipping  with  curled  edges  mentioning  a  Samuel  Libby: Family  Mourns  Second  Loss  to  Sea. The  father  of  two,  descendant  of  a  long  line  of  local  fishermen,  never  returned  from  a  morning  fishing  trip.  Neither  his  body  nor  his  boat  was  ever  found.  Stiles’  eyes  skipped  to  the  end  of  the  article  and  widened  at  the  last  sentence: Samuel  Libby  is  survived  by  his  son  Jack  and  wife  Nora.  He  is  the  second  member  of  the  family  to  die  at  sea,  joining  son  Bennett,  who  tragically  drowned  two  years  prior. 

Stiles  didn’t  bother  checking  the  other  surnames.  Instead,  he  turned  back  to  his  laptop,  movements  so  jittery  from  a  cocktail  of  excitement  and  sleep  deprivation  that  he  knocked  over  the  energy  drink.  He  caught  it  at  the  last  second  before  the  contents  spilled  all  over  his  notes.  Harrow’s  Deep  didn’t  keep  public  death  records  the  way  many  other  small,  underfunded  towns  did.  Not  digitized,  at  least.  And  even  if  they  did,  they  would  only  provide  him  with  the  most  basic  information–death  certificates,  public  obituaries  or  registries,  maybe  annual  coroner’s  reports,  but  those  would  most  likely  be  anonymized.  His  fingers  made  quick  work  of  entering  his  federal  credentials  into  CJIS,  a  database  for  local  criminal  justice  agency  data-sharing,  and  ten  minutes  later,  he  flipped  open  a  new  page  on  his  notepad,  frantically  jotting  down  the  findings  from  Bennett  Libby’s  official  autopsy  report. COD:  undetermined.  Unexplained  injuries,  inconsistent  with  drowning.  Mentions  of  rust  in  lungs? 

By  the  time  Stiles  crawled  under  the  thinning  sheet–beige-grey  and  stained  in  several  spots–of  his  motel  bed,  the  alarm  clocks’  ageing  digits  flipped  from  3:59AM  to  4:00AM,  flickering  with  the  effort.  Two  water-related  deaths  across  the  same  family  in  the  last  ten  years,  and  that  was  only  what  he  had  found  at  first  glance.  He  was  sure  that  if  he  were  to  dig  deeper,  he  would  uncover  more  drownings,  boating  accidents,  or  Libby  family  members  going  missing  at  sea.  Stiles  was  lulled  into  sleep  by  the  satisfaction  of  proving  himself  right  once  again: There  was always an  angle. 

The  next  morning,  smudged  patterns  of  raindrops  bore  witness  to  the  intensity  of  last  night’s  storm.  They  stained  the  dirtied  windows  to  Stiles’  room  through  which  the  light  filtered  in,  though  barely.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  sky  had  not  cleared  overnight.  Clouds  hung  low  over  the  horizon:  A  thick,  impenetrable  wall  that  made  it  impossible  for  the  sun  to  peek  through,  and  equally  hard  to  tell  where  the  dark  sea  ended  and  the  grey  sky  began.  Lines  blurred,  the  boundary  between  what  was  above  and  what  was  below  dissolving,  until  it  looked  like  it  was  all  one  and  the  same.  A  dark,  gloomy  realm  of  hidden  secrets  whispered  between  crashing  waves  and  howling  wind. 

The  sea  out  here  was… different.  Stiles  had  noticed  it  the  second  he  had  swung  his  legs  out  of  his  Jeep  upon  arriving  in  Harrow’s  Deep.  Granted,  the  only  other  time  he  had  been  to  the  ocean  was  Santa  Monica  beach,  back  in  California.  His  parents  had  taken  him  three  or  four  times  on  the  rare  occasion  that  his  dad  managed  to  get  time  off  work  long  enough  to  spare  a  day-trip.  Though  treasured  greatly,  the  memory  of  sand  between  his  toes,  melted  ice  cream  making  a  sticky  mess  of  his  fingers,  and  the  sun  burning  on  his  skin  felt  like  it  belonged  to  a  different  lifetime.  Still,  Stiles  distinctly  remembered  the  waves:  mellow,  rolling  toward  the  shore  slowly,  as  if  careful  not  to  disturb  the  children  playing  in  the  shallow  water.  Some  had  dug  for  seashells  or  pebbles  while  others  had  passed  a  ball  with  yellow  and  white  stripes  between  them,  erupting  into  fits  of  laughter  whenever  the  inflated  plastic  had  dropped  from  their  hands  with  a  splash,  floating  seamlessly  along  the  waves. 

But  in  Harrow’s  Deep,  the  sea  seemed  almost angry.  Hungry.  A  beast  scorned.  Like  it  was  owed  something  it  had  yet  to  receive,  and  every  day  that  it  went  without  it  only  spurred  its  ancient  wrath.  And  the  town  seemed  to  know  it,  too.  Stiles  had  yet  to  hear  a  single  bird  chirp.  He’d  spotted  a  couple  of  seagulls  at  the  harbor,  circling  the  fishing  boats,  but  had  never  once  heard  their  distinctive  cries.  An  eerie  quiet  hung  over  Harrow’s  Deep,  no  matter  what  part  of  town  he  wandered  into.  Like  the  collective  was  holding  its  breath.  As  if  by  making  themselves  as  small  and  as  quiet  as  possible,  they  might  evade  whatever  was  coming  for  them. 

As  Stiles  walked  along  the  cobbled  main  street,  jacket  pulled  tight  around  his  shoulders  to  shield  himself  from  the  crisp  air  laden  with  moisture,  fog  wafted  over  from  the  harbor,  thick  billows  swallowing  the  surrounding  buildings.  Every  now  and  then,  a  silhouette  peeled  out  from  the  fog,  but  they  all  hurried  past  him,  eyes  cast  downward. Freaking  weirdos. He  passed  dusty  souvenir  shops  that  cluttered  the  sidewalk  with  their  stand-up  displays,  necklaces  made  from  seashells  dangling  in  the  breeze  next  to  stacks  of  postcards,  paper  curled  at  the  edges.  Maybe  he  should  send  his  dad  one.  Give  him  something  to  pin  to  his  fridge  besides  the  grocery  list  consisting  solely  of  red  meat  and  deep-fried  food specifically designed  to  send  his  blood  pressure  soaring. 

A  few  steps  from  the  wooden  stairs  leading  up  to The  Lighthouse  Grill–his  destination–Stiles’  steps  came  to  a  halt,  eyebrows  drawn  together  in  irritation.  Since  the  motel  offered  little  to  no  on-site  parking,  he  had  parked  his  Jeep  by  the  diner  and  walked  the  rest  of  the  way  after  arriving  in  Harrow’s  Deep.  Now,  as  he  was  walking  past,  something  caught  his  eye:  A  slight  crack  in  the  windshield.  Barely  noticeable,  but  Stiles  knew  every  inch  of  his  car  like  the  back  of  his  own  hand. Better,  even.  Stepping  closer,  he  eyed  the  fissure,  noticing  that  it  looked  like  something  had  been  flicked  against  the  windshield.  Stiles’  gaze  skirted  up,  but  there  was  no  tree  overhead  from  which  something  could  have  dropped  on  his  car,  and  he  was  sure  the  crack  couldn’t  have  happened  on  the  drive  to  Harrow’s  Deep.  He  would  have  noticed.  His  frown  deepened.  Maybe  he  should  have  taken  the  bureau  up  on  their  offer  to  use  a  company  car  –  one  of  those  sleek,  flashy  black  Chevrolet  Tahoes  that  looked  ripped  straight  out  of  a  bad  crime  drama.  But  those  had  never  been  Stiles’  style.  He  patted  the  Jeep’s  hood  as  if  trying  to  apologize,  clicked  his  tongue,  then  jogged  up  the  stairs  to  the  diner. 

The  Lighthouse  Grill was  a  relic  of  the  1950s.  Overhead,  a  rundown  neon  sign  cast  a  flickering  red  glow  through  the  fog.  The  D  didn’t  light  up  at  all  anymore.  Facing  the  misty  harbor,  the  front  door–made  of  salt-stained  wood  and  chipped  paint–wore  a  sign  with  etched  out  letters  above,  the  diner’s  name  barely  legible.  As  soon  as  Stiles  pushed  open  the  door,  the  bell  overhead  gave  a  half-hearted  jingle,  and  the  diner  fell  almost  comically  silent.  The  low  hum  of  conversation  that  had  been  buzzing  through  the  air  just  moments  before  died  in  an  instant,  snuffed  out  like  a  candle’s  flame.  Stiles  paused  for  half  a  second,  feeling  the  weight  of  the  silence  settle  over  him  like  a  cloak,  then  rolled  his  eyes  and  stepped  inside  fully. Freaking  weirdos. 

With  every  step  further,  the  distinct  smell  of  cooling  grease  crawled  into  his  nostrils,  overwhelming  his  senses.  It  clung  to  the  cheap  seats,  pine  green  covers  peeling  from  the  booths  lining  the  windows  in  several  places.  The  interior  of  the  diner  looked  like  it  had  been  frozen  in  time.  Framed  pictures  of  fish  with  glazed-over  eyes  hung  crookedly  on  the  paneled  walls,  fishing  boats  bobbed  on  sun-bleached  waves  in  photos  turned  sepia  with  age.  The  crown  jewel,  however,  was  a  single  Yelp  review  printed  out,  laminated,  and  framed  proudly  at  eye-level  above  the  counter: “Best  pancakes  around,  small-town  charm!” Whopping  five  stars.  Stiles  wouldn’t  be  surprised  to  find  out  the  owners  of  the  joint  had  written  it  themselves.  He  slid  into  a  booth  by  the  window,  the  vinyl  seat  letting  out  a  soft  sigh  under  his  weight.  The  table  was  worn  smooth  in  some  places  and  scarred  deep  in  others,  initials  and  hearts  carved  into  the  wood.  Stiles  ran  his  index  finger  over  a  jagged  I+Z  that  looked  like  it  had  been  there  longer  than  he’d  been  alive. 

A  waitress–name  tag  reading  Connie  in  peeling  green  letters–ambled  over,  her  heels  clicking  against  the  checkered  flooring.  She  didn’t  bother  with  a  notepad  when  Stiles  rattled  off  his  order:  coffee  (even  though  it  was  thin  and  tasted  distinctly  like  dish  soap),  chocolate  chip  pancakes  drowning  in  maple  syrup,  scrambled  eggs,  and  a  side  of  bacon.  “Coming  right  up,  hon,”  Connie  said  with  practiced  cheerfulness,  and  wandered  off.  Stiles  slumped  back  against  the  seat,  tapping  his  fingers  against  the  table,  gaze  drifting  lazily  around  the  diner  until  it  snagged  on  a  familiar  sight.  There,  perched  at  the  counter,  was  a  mop  of  messy  blond  hair  that,  even  after  having  only  seen  it  once,  Stiles  was  confident  he’d  be  able  to  pick  out  of  a  crowd. 

He  was  out  of  the  booth  in  an  instant,  hands  curled  at  his  side  to  keep  his  fingers  from  fidgeting.  The  floorboards  squeaked  under  his  Converse,  one  cracking  at  the  heel,  the  sound  unnaturally  loud  in  the  hush  that  still  lingered.  Isaiah  looked  up  when  Stiles  stepped  up  to  him,  close  enough  to  lean  an  elbow  against  the  edge  of  the  counter.  “You  know,  I’ve  been  wondering,”  Stiles  said,  not  bothering  with  a  formal  greeting.  “What’s your stake  in  all  of  this?  Didn’t  exactly  sound  like  trouble  in  paradise  drove  you  out  here.”  The  smirk  that  curled  around  the  corners  of  his  mouth  didn’t  falter  under  the  weight  of  Isaiah’s  exasperated  stare.  “Come  on,  I’m  hardly  to  blame  here.  I  figured  someone  as  wary  as  you  would’ve  kept  his  voice  down,”  Stiles  continued,  an  amused  glint  in  his  eyes,  voice  thick  with  sarcasm. “Don’t  you  know  the  government  is always listening?” 

A  beat  of  silence  passed  between  them,  then  another,  in  which  Stiles’  gaze  lingered  on  Isaiah,  unwavering,  one  eyebrow  arched  in  expectation.  Finally,  Isaiah  sighed,  as  if  by  answering  he  was  admitting  defeat.  “If  you  must  know,  I’m  just  looking  for  inspiration  for  my  next  episode,”  he  explained.  “I  host  a  horror  podcast,  so  I’m  always  looking  for  stories  to  get  inspired  by.  And  I  figured,  why  not  try  to  help  people  along  the–”  Stiles  slammed  his  palm  down  on  the  counter.  The  sharp crack of  it  cut  Isaiah  off  mid-sentence.  Heads  turned,  forks  clattering  onto  plates.  Isaiah  stiffened  at  the  sudden  attention,  but  Stiles  paid  it  no  mind,  already  grinning  widely,  hazel  eyes  lit  up.  “Shut  up,”  Stiles  said,  breathless,  like  he  couldn’t  quite  believe  it  himself.  The  pieces  clicked  into  place  fast,  and  realization  settled  over  him,  body  buzzing  with  excitement.  “You’re  Isaiah  Pines?  No  way,  dude!”