The wind howled through the skeletal trees as Detective Mara Voss stepped off the bus, her boots crunching over frostbitten leaves. The town of Blackmoor clung to the edge of a jagged cliff, its buildings hunched like wary animals. She hadn’t expected this—this hollow ache in her chest, this sense that the air itself was holding its breath. Her partner, Eli, lingered at the bus stop, his phone screen casting blue light across his face. “You sure about this?” he asked, voice low. Mara didn’t answer. She’d spent seven years chasing ghosts, and this case felt different. The body had been found at dawn, half-buried in the marshes beyond the old mill. No ID, no signs of struggle—just a single silver ring, etched with a symbol she’d seen only once before: a serpent swallowing its tail. The sheriff’s office was a relic, its walls papered with faded crime scene photos. Sheriff Hayes, a man with a face like weathered leather, handed her a file. “Last year’s missing persons. No leads. No bodies. Just this.” Inside was a photo of a woman, her face blurred by rain, standing at the edge of the cliff. Mara traced the image with her thumb. “Who is she?” Hayes exhaled, smoke from his cigarette curling into the air. “Nobody knows. But she’s the only one who disappeared after the storm.” The storm. The one that had torn through Blackmoor three years ago, leaving a trail of unanswered questions. Mara’s phone buzzed—a text from her brother, Jordan: *They’re still looking for you. Stop digging.* She deleted it without replying. The mill was a skeleton of its former self, its wooden beams warped by time. Inside, the air reeked of mildew and something sharper—metal, maybe. Or blood. She crouched by the edge of the marsh, her flashlight beam slicing through the gloom. The ring lay there, glinting like a challenge. When she picked it up, a chill slithered up her spine. It was warm. *Too* warm. A sound behind her—a footstep, deliberate. She spun, but the marsh was empty. Only the reeds whispered in the wind. Back at the station, Eli pored over the files. “This isn’t random,” he said, tapping the photo of the woman. “The missing people—same age, same profession. All worked at the mill before it closed.” Mara frowned. “What did they do there?” “No one knows. The records were destroyed in the storm.” A silence settled between them, thick as the fog that rolled in each morning. That night, Mara found herself in the town library, its shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten books. She pulled a volume on local history, its pages brittle with age. A map of Blackmoor sprawled across the table—dots marking locations where people had vanished. The mill. The cliff. The old church. And one other place: the Hollowed Veil, a cavern beneath the town, sealed off decades ago. The librarian, an elderly woman with eyes like cracked glass, watched her. “You shouldn’t be here,” she murmured. “Some things are better left buried.” Mara didn’t look up. “What happened in the Veil?” The woman’s smile was a razor. “They tried to dig too deep.” The next day, Mara returned to the mill, her flashlight cutting through the darkness. She found a rusted door, its hinges frozen with time. Inside, the air was colder, heavier. Walls lined with strange symbols, some glowing faintly. A low hum vibrated in her skull. Then—a voice, not hers: *You shouldn’t have come.* She spun, but the room was empty. The symbols pulsed, and suddenly she saw them—ghosts, flickering like candle flames. Faces she’d seen in the photos. The woman with the blurred face. A man in a lab coat. A child with wide, unblinking eyes. They were trapped, their forms dissolving at the edges. One stepped forward, its mouth moving without sound. *The storm wasn’t natural.* Mara’s breath hitched. *It was a ritual.* The mill had been a place of experiments, of forbidden knowledge. The storm had been a mistake—a rupture in the veil between worlds. The missing people hadn’t vanished. They’d been pulled into the Veil, trapped in a loop of their own making. The ring she’d found was a key, but it wasn’t meant for her. It was a warning. That night, Mara stood at the cliff’s edge, the wind tearing at her coat. Eli joined her, his face pale. “I found something,” he said, holding out a file. Inside were photos of the mill’s construction, dated 1987. A name repeated in the notes: Dr. Lorne Voss. Her father. The man who’d disappeared the day she was born. The pieces clicked into place—his obsession with the Veil, his final experiment. He’d tried to open a portal, to reach beyond the veil of reality. But something had gone wrong. The storm. The deaths. The trapped souls. Mara’s hands trembled. “He didn’t just vanish,” she whispered. “He got stuck.” Eli stared at her. “You’re saying he’s still there?” “Not exactly.” She looked out over the cliff, the stars blinking like distant eyes. “He became part of it. Part of the Veil.” The next morning, Mara returned to the mill, her flashlight beam trembling. The symbols on the walls had changed, their glow brighter now. She stepped through the door, into the heart of the Veil. The air was thick, alive. Faces swirled around her, voices overlapping in a cacophony of memories. She saw her father—older, gaunt, his eyes hollow. “Mara,” he said, his voice a whisper. “You found me.” She reached for him, but the moment her fingers touched his, a surge of energy knocked her back. The Veil resisted, its boundaries shifting. She had to leave. Now. But as she turned, the ghosts surrounded her, their forms flickering. *You can’t go back.* The voice was her own, but wrong—distorted, broken. Mara stumbled out into the daylight, her breath ragged. The mill was gone, replaced by a field of wildflowers. The sheriff’s office stood empty. Blackmoor had vanished. Only the ring remained in her hand, its symbol now etched with new lines—something ancient, something alive. She looked up at the sky, where the stars had disappeared. The Veil was still there, waiting. And somewhere, her father whispered her name.
