Ja.
A low laugh. Controlled. Almost entertained.
The man was seated in a dark wooden chair, slightly reclined backward, in front of a wide table covered by dancing shadows. His long fingers held a thick book open on the surface, the yellowed pages spread like motionless wings.
He wore a long dark green coat, elegant yet sober, Victorian in cut. Beneath it, a fitted waistcoat and a high-collared shirt perfectly buttoned. The fabric was fine, but not ostentatious. Everything about him conveyed discretion… and an almost obsessive precision.
His hair was dark, wavy, falling naturally over his forehead. Not too long, but enough to give him a studied carelessness. His face was sharp, pale, with a defined jaw and an expression that shifted between curiosity and silent judgment.
His eyes.
They were the most unsettling.
Clear, piercing, with a cold intelligence that seemed to analyze beyond what was visible.
He slightly lifted his gaze from the book.
He smiled.
—Lies… —he said in a deep, serene voice— are the most refined architecture of humanity.
He turned a page.
Frrrp…
—We were not born knowing how to lie. We learned. And we did it well.
He rested an elbow on the table, still holding the book with the other hand.
—One lies to protect secrets. One lies to protect others. And sometimes… —a slight tilt of the head— one lies because the truth is too large to hold without breaking.
He slowly closed the book.
Thump.
His fingers remained on the cover.
—Jane lied to protect. Henry believed because he needed to believe.
He leaned forward slightly.
—And you… —his eyes lifted directly toward the reader— you would have done the same.
Silence.
The atmosphere seemed to compress.
The barely visible walls were covered in old frames, paintings darkened by time. In one of them, something seemed to watch from within. In another, a crack ran across the canvas like an open wound.
The man narrowed his eyes.
Then, almost amused:
—Ah… but we are not here to theorize.
He opened the book and his fingers began to move again.
Frrrp… frrrp… frrrp…
Several pages advanced beneath his hand until stopping with precision.
—Let us continue with the story.
He adjusted the book in front of him.
—This chapter is titled…
A small crooked smile appeared on his face.
—The Unknown.
And then, he began to read.
The rattling began before the image appeared.
Clop… clop… clop…
The carriage wheels creaked over the uneven road.
Krrr… krrr…
Night had completely closed over the sky. Low clouds hid the moon, leaving only a faint glow that turned the landscape into overlapping shadows.
Inside the carriage, Henry Evans remained silent.
His posture was rigid. One hand resting on his knee. The other near the inside of his coat.
The air smelled of damp earth.
Of dead leaves.
Of something ancient.
In the distance, a caw broke the stillness.
Kraaah.
Then another.
Kraaaah.
Crows.
Too many for that hour.
Henry lifted his gaze toward the small side window. He could only make out the silhouette of tall, bare trees that seemed to lean toward the road as if watching the vehicle pass.
The carriage gave a small jolt.
Bump.
The driver cleared his throat from outside.
—The road worsens from here, sir.
Henry opened the small hatch that connected to the coachman's seat.
—How much farther to Blackthorn Vale?
There was a brief silence before the reply.
—A few more miles… if the road allows it.
The man's tone was not alarmist.
But neither was it calm.
Another caw cut through the air.
Kraaah.
The driver spoke again, this time without Henry asking.
—It's not a village that receives many visitors. —In fact… most prefer to pretend it doesn't exist.
The carriage moved forward a few more yards.
Clop… clop…
Henry kept his gaze on the darkness outside.
—Why?
The driver hesitated.
Silence.
Then he added, more quietly:
—That village never had much fame… nor a good reputation —the man said, looking toward the dark woods surrounding the road—. Since its founding it has carried something… strange.
Henry frowned. —Since its founding?
—Yes. It was established by a family known as the Byers. They owned nearly all the land when this was nothing but mud and trees. No one knows exactly where they came from, but they arrived with money, materials, and men willing to work for them. They built the first houses, the church, and even the mill.
Henry crossed his arms. —And why such a bad reputation?
The man lowered his voice. —Because hardly anyone saw them. They lived in a huge house on the outskirts, near the forest. They rarely went out during the day. They always sent servants. And when someone tried to get too close… they simply stopped appearing for a while.
Henry swallowed. —What kind of things happened?
—Disappearances —the man answered without hesitation—. People who went out hunting or chopping wood and did not return. Sometimes they found bodies in the forest… with deep wounds, as if something had attacked them. Other times there were blood marks on roads or walls, but no clear sign of a struggle.
Henry felt a chill. —And no one did anything?
—Many thought they were wild animals. Wolves, perhaps something worse. Others swore they weren't… that it was the work of a sect, that they performed rituals in the forest under the moonlight. And of course… there were also those who said the Byers were not entirely human. That they were vampires.
Henry let out a nervous laugh. —That sounds like superstition.
—Perhaps —the man replied—.
The wind began to blow harder through the trees.
Hoooooo…
Henry spoke firmly, without hesitation.
—Do you believe in that?
The man let out a brief laugh.
—I believe in what I see, sir. And what I see is that people who enter Blackthorn Vale… rarely leave in a hurry to return.
Henry fell silent.
The driver spoke again.
—If it is not indiscreet… what brings you to this place?
Henry took a few seconds to answer.
His eyes reflected faintly in the glass.
His voice came out lower. Deeper.
—I have unfinished business in Blackthorn Vale.
The driver did not respond immediately.
Only a small "hm" escaped his throat.
The road began to narrow.
The trees closed in around them.
Branches stretched over the path forming a natural vault.
The darkness grew denser.
Heavier.
Suddenly—
The carriage stopped abruptly.
Thud.
Henry leaned forward from the momentum.
—What happened?
The driver did not answer at once.
Henry opened the hatch abruptly.
—What happened?
The man was standing, looking ahead.
—I cannot go on.
Henry frowned.
—What do you mean?
The coachman pointed to the road.
The ground was sunken, covered with protruding roots and thick mud. The wheels had barely managed to reach that point.
Further ahead, the path disappeared beneath a layer of low fog sliding between the trunks.
—The village is beyond the forest —the driver said—. But this stretch hasn't been maintained in years. The wheels won't endure it. Nor the horses.
Henry stepped down from the carriage.
His boots touched the damp ground.
Schk.
The cold was more intense down there.
He looked toward the forest.
It was not a simple group of trees.
It was a natural wall.
Closed.
Immovable.
—How far on foot? —he asked.
—Half an hour… perhaps forty minutes.
Henry clenched his jaw.
His patience was beginning to strain.
—So be it —he muttered.
The driver watched him.
—I can wait here until dawn… if you decide to return.
Henry held his gaze.
—I will not return tonight.
The coachman nodded slowly.
—Then from here you will be alone, sir.
A caw tore through the silence.
KRAAAH.
Closer this time.
The driver adjusted the reins.
—I advise caution.
Henry adjusted his coat.
—Anything else I should know?
The wind slipped between the trees.
Hoooo…
—Be careful with the wild animals of the forest, sir. It is not uncommon to find wolves roaming at night… boars that charge without warning… even rabid foxes and feral dogs have been seen among the trees.
The man paused briefly, as if hesitating.
Then he searched beneath the carriage seat and pulled out an object wrapped in cloth.
—And take this.
Henry lowered his gaze.
It was an old lantern, blackened metal and thick glass, slightly clouded by time.
—The fog falls thick here when the sun disappears. And the forest does not forgive those who walk blind.
He extended it toward him.
—With all that fog it will be difficult to keep moving at night.
Silence.
Henry held his gaze for a second longer.
Then he took the lantern.
—Thank you for the lantern… and for bringing me this far.
The driver inclined his head.
—Take care, Mr. Evans.
Henry turned toward the forest.
The fog seemed to part slightly to receive him.
One step.
Schk.
Another.
Schk.
Behind him, the carriage began to move away slowly.
Clop… clop… clop…
Until the sound disappeared completely.
Silence.
A dense silence. Compact.
Henry remained still for a few seconds, standing at the edge of the forest, feeling the cold pierce through the fabric of his coat and settle into his bones.
In front of him, the trees rose tall, twisted, branches intertwining like bony fingers above his head.
The breeze blew through the treetops.
Hoooooo…
Dry leaves whispered.
Shhhh… shhhh…
Henry swallowed.
He did not look back.
He did not want to see the empty road.
He did not want to measure the distance already separating him from London.
He took the first step into the forest.
Schk.
The damp earth yielded beneath his boot.
Then another.
Crack.
A branch broke under his weight.
The air smelled of moss, old wood, and something else… something metallic, barely perceptible.
In his right hand he held the oil lamp, protected by glass and a metal frame given by that coachman. The flame trembled inside, casting a warm and unstable light that tore grotesque shapes from the nearby trunks.
The shadows seemed to stretch as he advanced.
Schk… crack… schk…
The wind slipped once more between the trees.
Hoooooo…
Each step seemed amplified.
Too loud.
Too evident.
Henry took a deep breath.
—I am in a forest… —he muttered to himself, almost in disbelief—. In the middle of the night.
Another branch snapped.
Crack.
—Walking toward a remote village… because my wife was sent to retrieve a strange artifact.
His voice sounded strange in there. As if the forest absorbed part of the words.
—My daughter is with her grandparents… believing her mother is simply working.
The wind blew harder.
The high branches creaked.
Crrrrrk…
Henry clenched his jaw.
—My wife belongs to a secret organization.
A small nervous laugh escaped his throat.
Brief.
Incredulous.
—And now I am the one who has to rescue her.
He stopped for a moment.
Reality struck him hard.
Him.
Henry Evans.
Accountant.
Lover of order.
Of exact numbers.
Walking alone through an unknown forest with a weapon in his coat and a lamp in his hand.
The forest responded with a faint collective whisper.
Shhhhh…
Suddenly—
A dry sound came from a nearby bush.
Rrssshhht.
Henry froze.
His heart gave a brutal удар in his chest.
Thud.
Another.
Thud.
The sound came again.
Rrrssh.
Barely a few meters away.
His breathing changed.
Shorter.
Faster.
He slightly raised the lamp, the light trembling along with his pulse. With the other hand he opened his coat and drew the revolver.
The metal gleamed faintly under the swaying light.
Click.
He aimed toward the bush.
—Who's there? —he said in a firm voice, though an evident tension ran through it.
Silence.
The wind ceased for a moment.
Nothing.
Then—
A small flutter.
Frrrpt.
From the bush burst a small dark bird, taking flight in fright.
Flap flap flap.
Henry lowered the weapon slowly.
The bird disappeared among the branches.
His heart was still pounding in his chest.
Thud… thud… thud…
He exhaled forcefully.
—Damn it…
He put the revolver away.
He ran his free hand over his face.
—You're letting your imagination control you.
But he was not entirely convinced.
The forest breathed again.
Hooooo…
This time, deeper.
Henry raised the lamp and continued forward.
Schk… crack… schk…
His shadow stretched before him, long and distorted by the trunks.
However, something inside him was beginning to change.
The fear was still there.
Of course.
But beneath the fear… there was something else.
Determination.
If Jane was there.
If what she wrote was true.
If something was holding her…
Then that something would have to face him.
—Ja.
A low laugh filled the room again.
The man closed the book with deliberate softness.
Thump.
His fingers remained on the cover for a few seconds, as if he could feel the pulse of the tale beneath the aged leather.
He shook his head, amused.
—Determination…
He reclined in the chair.
—What a beautiful word when it has not yet been tested.
He stood up slowly.
The wooden floor creaked under his steps.
Crrrk…
He began to walk around the table, the shadows sliding over his dark coat.
—Determination is admirable… —he said softly— until it discovers that the world does not negotiate with courage.
He stopped.
Turned his face toward the reader.
His eyes gleamed with something difficult to name.
—Determination does not stop what has already begun.
A barely perceptible smile.
—It only guarantees that you will be present when it happens.
Silence.
Then, in an almost reflective tone:
—Few men would be capable of doing what Henry Evans is doing right now.
He leaned lightly on the table.
—Traveling toward the unknown… to face something he does not even understand.
A pause.
—Walking voluntarily into the darkness.
His fingers drummed on the surface.
Tap… tap… tap…
He raised an eyebrow.
—But they say love is the strongest thing that exists.
A small laugh escaped his lips.
It was not cruel.
It was… skeptical.
—Is it?
He leaned forward.
—Does love defeat fear?
The instinct for survival?
The inevitable?
He straightened up.
—Or perhaps love is only the most elegant excuse to justify our recklessness.
His steps began to move toward a staircase in shadow.
Crrrk… crrrk…
Before descending, he looked back over his shoulder.
—Tell me…
His voice dropped slightly.
—Would you be capable of doing what Henry is doing?
The silence stretched.
The man held the gaze a few seconds longer.
—It was fun.
A crooked smile.
—But I have things to do.
He began to descend the stairs.
Step.
Crrrk.
Another.
Crrrk.
The light diminished as he went down.
—We will see each other in the next chapter.
His voice was lost among shadows.
And the darkness finished reclaiming the room.