After separating from Jamie and the detective, Lucien Blackwood made his way deeper into the town alone.
The fog had thickened.
What had seemed like a quiet, abandoned town from afar now felt… wrong. The kind of wrong that pressed against your skin and lingered in your lungs. Even at midday, the sunlight struggled to pierce through the dense gray mist hanging over Ravensfield.
Lucien moved calmly through the empty streets, his steps unhurried.
Eventually, he stopped in front of a building that stood out from the rest.
A stone sign stood near the entrance.
Walker Funeral Home.
Unlike the other places in town—most of which were abandoned, broken, or swallowed by weeds—this place was… maintained. The stone was clean. Fresh flowers had been planted nearby. Someone was still taking care of it.
That alone made it suspicious.
Lucien pressed the doorbell.
After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing an elderly man with white hair. His eyes carried the exhaustion of someone who had seen far too much—and wanted to forget all of it.
The man led Lucien into the courtyard, motioning for him to sit.
"Are you here to arrange a funeral?" the old man asked, though his gaze lingered with curiosity.
Lucien shook his head.
"No. I'm here on behalf of Jamie Ashen."
The name alone caused a flicker of recognition in the old man's expression.
"His wife, Lisa… was murdered a few days ago," Lucien continued calmly. "Her jaw was torn open. Her tongue… removed."
The old man froze.
Lucien didn't stop.
"Before her death, Jamie received a ventriloquist doll. He believes it's connected to something in this town."
Silence settled between them.
The old man's face gradually lost its color.
"We… don't know anything," he muttered.
Lucien gave a faint smile.
"You run the only funeral home in a town like this," he said evenly. "And you expect me to believe that?"
The lie was obvious.
"And that's exactly why I came to you."
Lucien leaned slightly forward.
"I want to know about… Mary Shaw."
The reaction was immediate.
The old man's eyes widened in terror. He raised a trembling hand, motioning frantically for Lucien to lower his voice. His gaze darted around as if something might be listening.
In this town, even saying her name was taboo.
But Lucien didn't stop.
"I want to know where that nursery rhyme came from," he continued. "And what she really did."
The old man stared at him, fear written all over his face.
"You're not from here," he said shakily. "Why would you get involved in something like this? Aren't you afraid?"
Lucien's expression didn't change.
"Afraid that a doll will show up at my door? That she'll come for me next?"
He let out a quiet breath.
"If I were afraid, I wouldn't be here."
The old man shook his head.
Fear had already rooted itself too deeply.
Lucien understood.
This wasn't the kind of fear that logic could break.
So he changed his approach.
"Mary Shaw doesn't kill based on reason," Lucien said, his tone turning colder. "She kills anyone connected to her."
"Jamie is already her target. I spoke to him—so now I'm on her list."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"And you?"
The old man stiffened.
"You'll be handling Lisa's funeral," Lucien continued softly. "That ties you to Jamie."
"Do you really think she'll ignore you?"
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Lucien's voice dropped lower.
"If you do nothing… she'll come for you next."
"You can run. Hide. Pray."
"It won't matter."
The old man's breathing grew uneven.
Lucien leaned back slightly, his gaze steady.
"So what will it be?"
"Take a risk… or wait to die?"
For a long moment, the old man said nothing.
Then—
"Have you… seen her?"
A new voice interrupted.
Lucien turned.
An elderly woman stood nearby, holding a black crow in her arms. Her cloudy eyes stared directly at him, unnervingly sharp despite her age.
"Were you there… when Lisa died?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately.
The tension in the air thickened.
Meanwhile…
The detective was growing increasingly irritated.
"This whole thing is ridiculous," he muttered.
The town itself was suffocating—too quiet, too empty, too lifeless. Even after just a day, it had started to get under his skin.
He had followed Jamie back home, partly to keep an eye on him, partly to gather more information.
What he learned didn't impress him.
Jamie's father was a violent man. His mother had died because of him. His second wife had run away.
A broken family.
Nothing supernatural about that.
As for Mary Shaw?
Just a story.
A convenient excuse.
"What I need is evidence," the detective muttered.
Not ghost stories.
Jamie sat nearby, restless.
"You don't think any of this is strange?" he asked. "Everything that's happening—this isn't normal."
The detective didn't even bother responding.
Without evidence, it meant nothing.
"And even if you arrest me," Jamie continued, "you don't have enough to hold me. You'd just be wasting time."
The detective's expression darkened slightly.
He didn't like hearing that.
But it was true.
He needed something solid.
"Where's your friend?" the detective asked suddenly.
"Lucien… hasn't come back yet."
Jamie frowned slightly.
Something about that bothered him.
He glanced at the doll sitting in the room.
He didn't trust it.
But leaving it out of sight felt worse.
The detective let out a short laugh.
"Probably ran off," he said. "Guilty conscience."
Jamie didn't respond.
There was no point.
The room slowly grew quiet.
Too quiet.
The detective lay down, still half-alert, listening for movement.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No breathing.
Not even Jamie.
It was as if the entire room had gone… dead.
Just as sleep began to take him—
Something moved.
The ventriloquist doll sitting on the sofa…
slowly turned its head.
On its own.