The Jacksville Killings - The Trophy Files

Chapter 1 - Welcome to Jacksville

Detective Brand knew the case would be unusual. He sat in the rowboat without a word, taking in his surroundings. On either side of the vessel, the water was still, a thick, unending sea of mist hugging its surface. The night sky was thick with clouds, and as such the only light came from a single lantern adorning the boat's bow. Brand exhaled, pipe in hand and a grim scowl plastered on his face. With one hand, he took his ragged tricorne hat from atop his head, rubbing his eyes with the back of his arm. He then turned his attention to the papers in his lap, replacing his hat and flipping through them with a hand.

The night would have been completely silent, if not for the oarsman hard at work near the back of the vessel… and the retching gasps coming from Brand's companion.

His attention was pulled away from the papers. He examined his traveling partner, sitting at the front of the boat, back arched, and head leaned over the water. Another retch, and the sound of putrid splattering tore through the quiet. Brand let out a sharp laugh, allowing his lips to curl upward in amusement. “Shouldn't have eaten.”

“Thought it wouldn't be so bad, sir.” The young man muttered between labored breaths, heaving another load into the water alongside their boat. He managed a small glance back, a pained grin on his pale face. His curly orange hair was caked with dirt and mud.

“Ah, you'll be fine once we reach shore.” Brand cleared his throat, leaning in to look closely at him. “Now, what are the rules, Collin?”

Collin jolted, trying to keep whatever remained in his stomach down. “Can it wait, sir?”

“No.” Brand tapped his pipe with a finger. “I need to make sure you won't get yourself hurt doing something stupid. You were assigned to work beneath me; that means I'm in charge of your well-being. Come on, lad. Give me the rules.”

Brand watched as Collin suddenly leaned back over the water, letting out a gurgling groan. He averted his gaze and chuckled.

“Chumming the water for something?” The oarsman behind them questioned in a gruff, warning tone. “Best keep your face away from the water; wouldn't want one of the dead grabbing you.”

Collin immediately pulled away from the water, taking deep breaths to steady himself. “T-the dead?”

“Old towns around here fell into the sea, right in this very channel. We're rowing over a graveyard, boy.” The response was almost intentionally ominous, as though the man enjoyed giving the warning.

“A graveyard?” Collin repeated, eyes wide. He dared another look down into the water, though Brand doubted he saw much due to the lingering mist.

Brand glanced back at the oarsman. “And what's that about the dead grabbing you?”

The ferryman shrugged. “The most recent happened a year ago, I'd say. Couple of fisherfolk made their way out into the water to try for a catch. Only one came back. The two had a big one on, but when they leaned over to pull in their catch…”

“Something grabbed them?” Brand raised a brow.

He gave a small nod. “Said the other had been grabbed by a dozen gray-blue hands, dragged into the depths to feed that which lives beneath the waves.”

Collin leaned back away from the water at that, placing a hand on his stomach.

Brand chuckled. “Doubt it. Sounds like a tall tale to me. Is the fisherman still alive?”

“He is, but he skipped town just a few months ago. Said he don't feel safe here anymore.” He met my gaze. “Lots of people sayin' that nowadays.”

Brand wasn't surprised. It worked best for a story like that if the people involved weren't around anymore, though it certainly piqued his curiosity. Regardless, he gave the oarsman a friendly nod and looked back down at the papers. Then, he asked, “Collin?”

“Yes.”

“Put the ghost stories aside for now. What are the rules?”

Collin nodded. “Well, I'm not to speak unless spoken to…”

“Good lad.”

“I'm not to look around alone.”

“Good.”

He thought for a moment, then pointed to the bags sitting between us on the boat. “I'm to keep an eye on all of our belongings.”

“And lastly?”

Collin adjusted himself, sitting straighter and pulling his freshly cleaned coat shut. “I am to act with professional courtesy while remaining distanced enough from the victims to form opinions on the case, which could impact our end report.”

“Good man, Collin. You—” Brand began, but he was quickly interrupted by Collin retching over the side of the boat a final time. While Collin suffered through the last of his violent spasms, Brand peered into the mist beyond. A single, shimmering light was now visible in the darkness.

He shot a look at the oarsman.

“Relax, it's no ghost light. That's where we're headed.” The oarsman called out. “Brit! You there?”

The echoing cry back was barely audible, only barely reaching the ears of the approaching men. “Aye, Pete! You got the detective?”

“That I do!” With a mighty heave, the oarsman propelled our boat through the water. Vegetation was starting to stick up from the water now, with a few pieces of wood here and there, which Brand assumed came from long-unused shipyards. Insects flitted about, drawn by the lantern. Collin slapped uselessly at them as they crowded around the front of the ship, earning curses from the young man. The tang of an unkempt shoreline hit Brand. He brought his pipe closer, hoping to drown the horrid stench from his nostrils.

“Yep, that's the first thing that kills people when they get to Jacksville.” The oarsman laughed. “The smell of dead fish and brine, aye?”

Collin looked as though he'd vomit again, although at this point the poor boy had nothing left in his stomach. Brand leaned forward, patting Collin's shoulder before standing upright. The boat warbled at his movements, and Collin latched onto the sides with his hands.

Jacksville's coast slowly came into view. The mist parted, revealing a decrepit coastline covered in the ruins of old buildings and shipwrecks. It was certainly no island paradise. The sand was an almost mud-colored, sickly gray-brown with bits of decayed seaweed and smashed shells spread throughout the mixture. It continued for several miles on either side before curving away from the oncoming vessel. Beyond the beach was a thick sea of dark, twisted trees with leaves of varying colors, ranging from deep green to a sickly shade of red. A mountain rose high in the distance, making up the opposite side of the island. Brand cast his gaze around, taking in everything. He realized the only thing this coastline truly had going for it was the seemingly calm water, which raised further questions as to how so many ships had lost their way and been destroyed upon the rocks. The strait between Jacksville Island and The Hallowed Isle wasn't large, but it wasn't so small it should be so difficult to traverse. Or so he thought. He made a mental note to ask the locals about it when he had the time, pulling a pen and paper from his ragged coat and quickly jotting down the question.

A little ways down the coast Brand made out a number of buildings. Jacksville, the town the whole island was named after, sat near the coast. Smoke rose from chimneys and dim light permeated the dark night.

Brand faced the man who had called out to their ferryman. He was younger than his voice portrayed. The boy was of a darker complexion with curly black hair. Unlike the oarsman, his clothes, while drab, were in relatively good condition. A gray shirt and brown cap that looked like they'd been freshly cleaned, perhaps to make a good impression. He stood at the edge of a rugged-looking pier, a long pole with a lantern resting near the top held aloft.

Everything about Jacksville, from what Brand could gather, was gloomy and miserable. Not the sort of place most would want to live. And being so far out from most civilized society would breed a certain kind of folk. The sort who wouldn't call for outside aid unless a situation was, in fact, serious.

Collin tried to get to his feet, nearly falling over into the murky water. Brand put a steadying hand on him, motioning towards their bags. “Get ready, lad.”

“Yes, sir.” Collin wobbled, leaning into Brand's firm grip to get his bearings.

The oarsman warned behind us. “Last chance to turn back. Not coming back for a week.”

“Thank you, but we'll be fine.” Brand glanced back at their ferry. “When you get back, we'll pay you for the return trip.”

“Fair is fair.” The man agreed.

Collin's expression turned sheepish at the mention of being stuck on Jacksville Island for a week. Brand gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Don't worry, lad. Both The Guild and The Trophy Organization know we're out here. If we go silent for too long, they'll send someone else to get us.”

The boat clunked quietly against the dock. Collin and Brand departed without any formality, quickly stepping up onto the decaying platform. Brand turned to look at the oarsman. He was already rowing away, quickly fading into the mist. The man offered no further pleasantries. Instead, he simply chuckled to himself. Like he pitied the men who had just departed.

A chill ran up Brand's spine, but he shook it off quickly.

“So you're the out-of-towners!” The boy with the lantern grinned, revealing a number of missing teeth. He couldn't have been older than twelve, though it was hard to tell as shadows danced across his features from the lantern light.

Brand stepped forward, extending a hand. “Detective Brand. And you?”

“Friends call me Hob. You know, like the little goblin?” Hob seemed amused by this, waving his post overhead and motioning toward Jacksville with his free hand.

“I wouldn't call them goblins.” Brand corrected. “But I get the idea. And you were sent here to retrieve us? Alone?”

Hob shook his head. “No, I snuck out. My mom told me not to, but I wanted to see you before the rest of the town did.”

Brand furrowed his brow. “Well, we better get you back to your mother before she has a fit. You shouldn't be wandering off alone.”

“I'm fine!” Hob retorted. “I know this beach like the back of my hand. Anyway, if you want, we can go. It's not like we're that far.”

Collin grunted. “Please. These bags are heavy.”

“Doesn't hurt to build some upper body strength, lad. You need it.” Brand motioned for Collin to follow. “Let's get a move on.”

Grumbling, Collin trailed behind Brand with Hob in the lead. The boy sang to himself as he walked, carelessly traversing toward a path leading in the direction of Jacksville. Brand glanced at the papers he was still holding, then back to the boy. His mother would need a talking to for letting him wander all the way out here alone, especially given the circumstances. Something easily could have happened to him.

It didn't take long for the trio to reach Jacksville. While the path was barely traveled, there were no obstacles between the settlement and the old pier they'd used. Hob spun to face the men accompanying him as they reached the edge of town, a toothy grin on his face.

Brand immediately took note of the town's architecture and general disposition. It was, on the first look, just as dreary as the coast. The path turned to a dirt road, splitting off in several directions. All of the buildings were aged, with hazed windows and heavy wooden doors. There were maybe forty or so roofs the detective counted in his head, most of which puffed black smoke through stone chimneys into the night sky. The dreariness Brand at first felt, however, quickly fell away due to curious architectural choices that fed Brand's inquisitive mind.

Just to their left was a strange-looking building, unlike any the detective had ever seen. It was painted gray and brown and shaped similarly to a capsule. Near the rear of the building was an almost tail-like addition, rising five or so yards into the air. The name of the building sat on a wooden post just beside the door. “Silvertail Inn.”

“Silver? Maybe gray.” Collin sounded unimpressed.

“Looks like the building is supposed to be some sort of whale from this angle.” Brand turned around, biting down on his straight pipe. “Doesn't it?”

Collin didn't stop, groaning. “Can we admire the buildings later, sir? I want to know where I can put our things.”

Brand shrugged. He pulled the pipe from his lips, exhaling a cloud of smoke and narrowing his eyes. There were other things of note across the town, some more important than others. He noticed, for instance, that a number of orange and black streamers were hanging between many of the buildings. Carved jack-o'-lanterns sat on almost every doorstep, but not all of them were your average variety. Some were made of vegetables like onions and monstrously sized carrots. Lanterns filled with incense hung from lantern-shaped ashtrays every dozen yards. The air was thick with the aroma of burning sage and other local plants Brand couldn't place. These were all tells of locals celebrating the Day of the Dead. A festival was on the horizon. Brand returned the pipe to his mouth, scribbling down all the little details. While it wasn't uncommon to hang streamers and host some sort of celebration around this time of the year, these things could be significant. He wrote a reminder down to ask about any upcoming festivities.

Hob led them down a left turn in the street, pointing further into town with an outstretched finger. “My mom's down here! Although I don't know if you want to talk to her.”

“We'll get you home.” Brand replied. “Does your town have some sort of governing figure?”

“Yeah, the mayor. His house is in the same direction.” Hob motioned down the road.

Jacksville was completely silent. Not a man or woman was in sight, and Band noticed a number of signs dictating a curfew after dark. A couple of businesses were still lit up regardless, although most had their doors shut and lights dimmed. Some temporary stands had been set up, advertising various sweets and activities akin to carnival games. They currently stood unattended. Brand also noticed the town had no electricity. Instead, oil lanterns and candles adorned most occupied buildings.

Collin was noticeably nervous. He looked at one of the stands. “Where are the stall owners?”

Hob answered before Brand could open his mouth. “They're all getting ready for our faire! We have a big one every year on the Day of the Dead. The mayor thinks it might help with…” The boy stumbled for a moment, trying to remember the word. “Terrorism,” I think he said.”

“I think you mean tourism.” Brand corrected with a small chortle.

“Yeah, that! And until the festival we're not supposed to be on the streets, anyway.”

Brand added. “It is the middle of the night, Collin. I'd assume most of the folk here are asleep.”

Hob agreed. “I was supposed to be asleep hours ago.”

“Which is exactly why we need to get you back to your mother.” Brand murmured, eyes falling on a new point of interest. A building that towered over the others, a square-shaped tower topped by a stone steeple. Just below the roof of this tower, visible even from where Brand stood at ground level, was a large metal bell. A man stood beside the bell, only visible from the waist up due to a stone balustrade surrounding it. It wasn't uncommon for small towns to have such a bell tower, but the purpose of said towers would often vary from place to place. Judging from the location of this one, Brand assumed it was a sort of watchtower.

“What's with all the lanterns and incense?” Collin asked aloud.

“They're also for the celebration.” Hob thought for a moment. “And to protect us. That's what Ma says.”

Brand raised a brow but didn't ask for any further elaboration.

Eventually, Hob led them toward the only building with a colored roof Brand could see. It was painted orange, with a large set of double doors and stained glass windows. Two steeples pointed high into the sky, one ending in a silver star. At first Brand thought it was some sort of church, but then he read the sign sitting over the wooden doors. “Jacksville Orphanage.” Collin and Brand both shared a look of understanding, a pang of pity connecting the two men for a moment. But then it was back to business. Brand knelt down, lowering himself to look Hob in the eyes. “Why don't you go get your mother? I've got a few questions for her.”

“Sure, Ma wanted to meet you anyway.” Hob scurried up the wooden stairs leading up to the entryway. With noticeable effort, he pulled open one of the heavy wooden doors before slipping inside.

“Fairly big orphanage for such a small town.” Collin replied.

Brand pulled his pipe from his mouth, exhaling loudly. He looked the structure up and down, pondering over every inch. “Those are new doors. Renovations?”

“How many deaths have there been?” Collin questioned. “I remember seeing two.”

Brand looked at Collin with a small frown. “Now, if the orphanage is freshening itself up, one would assume it's starting to get more use, yes?”

Collin nodded his head. “Perhaps, sir. Although plenty of the buildings here could use some love and care. This whole place is rather dreary, even despite the decorations and stalls.”

“True that.” Brand agreed. “The last of the deaths took place only a month ago. It took some time for our employers to get this paperwork to us. There's a possibility there were more.”

“So we have a potential serial killer?” Collin questioned, a worried frown curling his face downward. He was growing noticeably uncomfortable ever since they'd arrived at Jacksville. Brand wasn't surprised by this. I

Brand shrugged. “Could be. I want to confirm some things before we start hatching theories. But stick close and don't wander off alone, just to be safe.”

The sound of the orphanage doors opening caused the detective to turn on his heels, facing the entryway of the old church with as close to a friendly smile as he could muster. Unfortunately, he could tell immediately his outward appearance did little to calm the individual stepping out to meet him. She let out a startled gasp and placed a hand to her bosom, pale skin only growing paler by the moment. “Goodness me, Hob said you looked drab, but this is even worse than I imagined. A regular spook showing up on my doorstep.”

Brand didn't take offense. It wasn't the first time a local had called someone in his line of work a spook, and it was, to put it bluntly, one of the more polite terms distrusting locals levied his way. He only gave a short chortle, removing his tricorne from his hand and lowering his head. The strands of black hair hanging from it were matted from traveling on the long road, and even he knew there was no making a good first impression in his current state. It was a good thing he'd kept his gun in a hidden holster at his chest instead of at his side.

“Apologies for my appearance, miss. My clothes serve a particular function in my line of work. Well, save for the hat, though I've grown rather fond of it.”

“You need a bath.” The woman sighed, placing her hands on her hips.

Brand stood straighter, taking her in. Her corset and dress were black and gray, highlighted by orange ruffles around the chest and waist. One arm was bare, revealing a number of marks written in black paint. The other was covered by a black sleeve ending in a set of orange ruffles around her wrist. She stood nearly a head shorter than the detective, regarding him with pursed lips. Brand took note of a golden chain resting around her neck, hanging low enough that whatever it held was hidden within her bosom. He kept his eyes squarely on her face, letting his smile linger.

“I suppose I should thank you.” The woman finally admitted, tone softening. “Hob knows better than to run off, especially around this time of the night. All the other children are sleeping, and I thought he was too. Until I checked his bed and found several pillows resting in his stead.”

Brand placed his hat back on his head, returning the pipe to his mouth. “I don't blame you for being a little surprised. Folk like us don't come to these islands often.”

“Most folk don't come through, period.” She chuckled. “Can't handle the ghosts and ghoulies.”

“It does have a reputation.” Brand agreed.

Her momentarily jovial expression faded. She examined Brand more closely now, hazel eyes scanning his every detail. Brand didn't bat an eye, biting on his pipe and putting his hands in the pockets of his coat. He let her look. It wouldn't hurt anything, and he had questions.

Finally, she asked, “You're here about those killings, aren't you?”

“We're here about the deaths, yes.” The detective was careful with his wording when he replied. “We haven't been properly acquainted, miss. You can just call me Brand; the boy behind me is Collin. He's my assistant on this investigation.”

She leaned to look around Brand at the young man. Collin was looking down the street, completely oblivious to the ongoing conversation. His expression was skittish, and the boy looked like he would bolt at any moment.

Brand coughed. “He doesn't normally travel much. Trying to get him some experience in the field.”

“I can tell.” The woman returned to her original position, waving a hand down the street. “You'll want to talk to the mayor. I can take you there if you wish it, but you'll need to allow me a moment.”

“Will he be awake at this hour?” Brand raised a brow.

“Most of the governing men and women are nowadays. They got to keep the curfew in effect.” She turned her back to Brand. After a moment, she gave him a somewhat coy glance from over her shoulder. “My name is Petra Hallow, since you asked. I'll return shortly.”

Then she was gone, wooden door slamming shut in her stead. It hadn't been as helpful a conversation as Brand had hoped, but at least someone would take them to the mayor.

“Collin.” He whirled toward his assistant.

The boy returned his gaze, shuffling in place.

“Ensure you're on your best behavior. This woman is going to take us to the mayor. Hopefully, they will have some lodging prepared for us.”

“I would assume so, as they sent for us, sir.”

Brand agreed with a nod.

Petra returned a moment later, rubbing her eyes. “Alright, let's go.”

Without even looking at Brand, she walked down the steps, a weary expression on her face. Brand hurried to follow, snapping his fingers and pointing at the bags at Collin's feet. Collin groaned and lifted them, grumbling under his breath and slowly plodding after them.

“So…” Brand began. “You run the orphanage?”

“Yes.” Petra's response was polite but short. “I have for quite some time now. I've always taken well to children, and in recent times we have far more children in need of tending.”

He didn't ask for an explanation. It was written on her face. Instead, Brand focused on receiving clarification regarding something Hob had said earlier. “That kid, Hob, mentioned you keep these incense and lanterns lit to protect you. Is it a local tradition?”

The question made Petra narrow her eyes. She looked somewhat distrustfully in the detective's direction. At least Brand thought it was distrust; whatever it was, it caused her brow to furrow pensively and her arms to fold across her chest uncomfortably. It was clear she didn't know how to answer, but Brand pressed regardless. “Miss?”

She didn't speak for a pregnant moment, a feeling of tension in the air between the two. Collin cleared his throat behind them. “We're just wondering if it has to do with the celebration.”

“I'm not one for interrogation, detective.” Petra finally said. “I don't know the sort of person you are or what you believe. You can't be from a neighboring region. You must be from someplace far away.”

Brand raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Well, spooks from neighboring regions know to stay away from us, like I mentioned before. So I figure you have to be from quite far.” Petra shrugged. “The neighboring regions think we're a strange lot. And they know to stay away.”

Brand chuckled, pulling his pipe from his lips. “Strange in what way?”

“Our traditions. I think we scare them, to be perfectly honest. They do call this area The Haunted Isles for a reason.” This seemed to amuse the woman, and a small grin split her lips. “Like I said, ghosts and ghoulies. Strange stories. Things like that.”

“Yes, our ferryman filled us in on one.” Brand said. “Something about corpses pulling men from boats?”

“I've heard that one.” Petra agreed. “I've not seen it myself, but I've seen no reason to doubt it.”

“And why's that, miss?”

She stopped at this, expression hardening. “You don't know the town you've walked into. Things are rarely what they seem here, Detective—but the folk here are good and loyal. I don't think any one of us would turn around and kill our own. Jacksville is tight-knit. You have to be when you live on these islands.”

Collin interjected. “I thought this place was called The Hallowed Isles.”

“That depends on who you talk to,” Petra said. “Both names are accurate, I assure you. Many generations ago, my distant family was quite powerful and owned all the land from Jacksville to their old, now-abandoned estate. But that was years ago. The islands belong to the dead now. We living few are just lucky to be allowed a small corner of it.”

She spoke so matter-of-factually that it made Brand even more curious. “Your distant family?”

“Yes, they bred like bunnies and had so many children we're all over the place now.” Petra chuckled. “I hold the name, but I'm many generations down the line. Probably helps in its prime it was already so large.”

“Well…” Brand adjusted his tricorne hat, clearing his throat. “I hope you're wrong about what you're saying, miss.”

“Regarding?”

“The island belonging to the dead,” Brand said candidly. “Because if that truly is the case, then you're going to need our help even more than you realize.”

The trio stopped at an intersection in the dirt road. This specific section of the street had been fortified with wooden spikes and hastily constructed barricades. A large guard tower made of similar material had been set in the very middle of the crossroads. Men holding old, wooden guns sat at the top of the tower. Every building in eyeshot was dark, with doors barred and windows shut. Not a soul could be seen save for the guards.

Petra paid no mind, stepping through a break in the defenses and motioning for Brand to follow. Collin murmured a question, “Did they just make this?”

“Looks new. And sturdy enough.” Brand put a hand on the side of one of the barricades, trying to shake it to no avail. “Folks seem pretty spooked around here.”

“This is where one of the bodies was found,” Petra said, leading them around the guard tower.

One of the men called down. “Hark, miss! Shouldn't you be at the orphanage?”

Petra raised her voice. “The spook from out of town finally showed up.”

“Oh, maybe we'll finally get something done about the freak in our town.” He replied, raising a glass bottle in our direction. “Get to it, then. And then get home. I'm not having a murder on my watch, you hear?”

“Should they be drinking?” Brand asked in a low tone as the man settled back down.

Petra scowled. “Probably not.”

Regardless, neither scolded the guards. Collin huffed and grunted behind them, exasperation evident with each step. The poor boy had to have been carrying those bags for several miles now. Brand cast a glance back at him, trying to come up with some sort of reward for the task. But his attention quickly shifted to the building in front of them, sitting behind a stone fountain at the end of the street.

It was certainly a city hall of some sort, although it had seen better days. The stone pillars surrounding the large double doors were cracked and damaged in multiple places. Likewise, every brick in the foundation was aged. Moss and vegetation had started climbing up one side of the building, vines snaking up the wall and around the windows. Almost every lantern within had been lit, casting light out into the empty street. It was a large building. There were four visible floors from the outside, although Brand wouldn't have been surprised if there were basement and attic levels for storage. On the fourth floor, a few men were talking in front of an open window.

Petra strode up to the double doors, rapping on them loudly with the back of her fist. Then she stepped back, placing her hands on her hips. Brand came to stand beside her, folding his arms. After a moment, she turned her head, looking the man up and down.

“Pretty rude to stare, miss,” Brand noted.

“I'm just wondering what sort of man decides to run toward a murder scene instead of away from it,” Petra replied.

He shrugged. “Not sure what you want me to say. It's my job. And let's refrain from calling it a murder scene until I can get more hands-on with the evidence.”

“Have you seen the bodies?” Petra raised a brow.

“The pictures,” Brand said darkly. “Although I would like to get hands-on with the cadavers if possible.”

She snorted. “Don't get too excited.”

“It's a grisly process, Miss Hallow.” Brand looked at her with a faint grin. “But it's unfortunately a necessity in my line of work.”

The door opened, and they both fell silent.

Standing before them was an older man wearing a freshly cleaned black and white suit. He wore a black top hat and carried a large book in one hand. His pale skin was covered in dirt, and black bags underscored his narrow, tired eyes. In a gruff tone, he muttered, “Petra? What the devil are you doing out at this hour? You know there's a curfew in effect. The guards should have sent you home.”

“They asked, between sips of whatever brew they have in those bottles,” Petra replied.

“Damn boys, drinking again.” The man growled. “Don't they understand how serious this is? Why am I the only one in this godforsaken town who has any amount of common sense?”

Petra chuckled. “I ask myself the same question.”

“I resent that, Miss Hallow.” The man complained. “I'm doing my best here.”

“Yes, well, your knight in shining armor finally showed up.” Petra waved a hand in my direction. “I brought you your foreign spook.”

At this, the man's entire disposition changed. He looked both relieved and nervous at the same time. “Detective?”

Brand removed his hat and bowed low. “That would be me. Detective Brand of the Private Occult Investigative Society. I'm here on behalf of The Violet Flame and other parties of interest as a private investigator looking into your…situation.”

“You're just a PI?” He sounded disappointed. “I wanted an actual detective.”

“I am an actual detective,” Brand reassured him. “Just in the private sector. I work with law enforcement in most situations. This is one of them. All the papers are with my good colleague, Collin.”

Brand motioned to the boy holding the bags behind him. Collin gave a friendly smile, although it was clear he was exhausted.

The man sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Forgive me. Edmund Kolinski, at your service. I'm the closest thing to a mayor this town has, now that Jackson's dead.”

His wording interested Brand. The detective stood straighter, pulling his pipe from his lips. “Jackson?”

“Yes, sir. Madox Jackson, the previous mayor. You would have met him if you were a day faster.” Edmund laughed. But it was obviously forced. There was no joy or happiness there. Instead, it was bitter and almost vindictive.

“Did he skip town?” Brand questioned, although he already had another answer in mind.

“No, Detective. Not at all. He was found dead last night.”

Brand folded his arms, exchanging glances with Petra. She didn't say anything, only motioning for him to enter the town hall.

“Ah, where are my manners?” Edmund realized. “I apologize. Much is on my mind. Please, come in.”

Edmund let them inside the town hall. It was a complete juxtaposition of the exterior's appearance. Everything was gorgeous and looked brand new. White, tiled floors arranged in beautiful orange carpets with a black crest on them that Brand didn't recognize. It looked like a carved jack-o'-lantern, but its vines were each wrapped around a pair of sickles. Surrounding the jack-o'-lantern was a stylized windmill. Dozens of shelves lined with books and beautiful ornaments lined the walls. To the left was a study with a large fireplace against the back wall. On the right, a dining room and kitchen with a table large enough to seat a dozen men. A stairway rested on the opposite end of the building, leading upward.

“Collin, that was your name, yes?” Edmund shut the door behind the party.

The question was obviously directed at the young man, who gave a polite nod in response. “Yes, sir.”

“Those bags look quite heavy. We have your room up on the fourth floor. I'll get one of the maids to it.”

Brand cleared his throat. “We'll take a look at the room first. Does it have a lock?”

“It does. And a key.” Edmund raised a brow.

“We have important equipment in the bags.” Brand explained. “I don't want it damaged or, to be blunt, touched in any way.”

Edmund nodded. “I assume you two are weary, regardless.”

Petra motioned back toward the door. “I should get home.”

“Yes, you should.” Edmund agreed. “But not alone. I will get the guards to accompany you after these two settle in.”

“If you wish it.” Petra sighed. “Off to bed, spook. I want to get some sleep myself.”

Collin walked toward the stairway, obviously eager to be free of the extra baggage. Brand turned toward Petra. “Get home safe, Miss Hallow.”

With that, the detective followed after Collin, Edmund in tow.

“You'll have to excuse her, detective.” Edmund noted. “She's a snarky woman, and most of the locals around here aren't keen on outsiders.”

Brand waited at the top of the stairs for him. The second level was comprised of a single hall with doors on either side to different rooms. He looked around curiously. “Yes, well, you do seem the superstitious lot.”

“This town isn't like other towns, detective.” Edmund warned, joining Brand at the top of the second level. “You'll need to be a little open-minded if you want to get answers out of these folk.”

“I'm plenty open-minded, Edmund.” They continued up the next set of stairs after Collin. Brand asked, “You'll see.”

“I just worry whenever someone from out of town comes by.” Edmund murmured. “There are rules here you have to follow, Brand. Rules here that someone like yourself won't be used to.”

Brand sounded amused. “Like curfew?”

“The curfew is new.” Edmund replied. “And it wasn't my idea; it was local law enforcement. You'll speak to the sheriff tomorrow once you're more well-rested.”

“It's not a bad idea.” Brand reassured him. “But a curfew isn't anything special to me.”

“You'll understand tomorrow.” Edmund promised, “I appreciate your help on this, detective. I truly do. Ever since the first death a couple of months ago, it's just been getting worse…and we don't know why. We haven't started doing anything differently. I just offer a bit of warning because the Hallowed Isles are steeped so deep in dark history.”

They reached the fourth floor. Collin was standing there impatiently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Which one is ours, sir?”

Edmund stopped at the top of the stairs, pulling a metal key from his pants pocket and handing it to the boy. “Yours is the door with the windmill. The detective's will be to the left.”

Eagerly, Collin grabbed the key before hurrying down the hall with the bags. The fourth floor was just like the second—a single hallway with orange and black carpet with a number of doors on either side of it.

Brand turned to look at Edmund. “I thank you for your hospitality, Edmund. This is one of the nicer places I've stayed.”

“It's nothing at all. You came all this way.” Edmund waved a hand. “Please, rest. Tomorrow will be…”

He hesitated, unsure what to say.

“Eventful?” Brand offered.

Edmund nodded, managing a faint but forced smile. “Eventful.”

After exchanging a pleasant set of “good nights,” Brand turned toward the rooms they had been offered. Collin was already opening both of the doors with the key he'd been handed, looking over at Brand. “In your room, sir?”

“Of course.” Brand agreed. “Thanks for the help, Collin. I'll get you something from a street vendor tomorrow for your trouble.”

Collin shook his head. “It's part of my job, Sir. You know that.”

“Regardless, that was a far further walk than I expected.” Brand approached the door to his room, and Collin stepped inside with their baggage. He paused at the entrance, looking at the open door. A man holding a lantern in one hand was carved in the very center. But on a closer inspection, Brand noticed something. The man had no feet or legs, and a chain dangled from his left arm.

“Curious.” He thought aloud, entering the room. It was shockingly bare, with little more than a large bed on one wall. There was no artwork or mirrors, which often adorned these spaces, although there was a restroom with running water. Collin had already set to lighting the candles, and the bags had been set down on the orange carpet.

Brand patted the young man's back. “So, what do you think?”

“I think this whole island gives me the creeps.” Collin replied, blowing out the match he had been using to light the candles. “I will not sleep without light tonight.”

“What about all the ghost stories?” Brand questioned.

Collin hesitated before he replied, but Brand could tell he was uneasy. “It is our responsibility to rule out all potential causes of death before we jump to conclusions. That's the smartest way we can handle things, yes?”

“Good lad.” Brand agreed. “Now, off to bed. And keep your door locked until the morning.”

Nodding, Collin handed Brand the key before exiting the room. The detective shut the door behind the man, locking his door and stashing the key in his coat. Then, without thought, he kicked off his boots and fell back in the cushioned bed. He wouldn't sleep that night. Brand had too much to think about. Far too much.

So he lay there, eyes on the ceiling, while he thoughtfully pondered as to what the morning would bring.