The fog rolls in thick as ever, clinging to the damp streets like a secret that refuses to be told. The town of Havenwood is quieter than usual tonight—no one’s out walking, no lights from the houses flickering on the horizon. It's as if the whole town is holding its breath. You can almost feel it in the air, a kind of stillness that hums at the edges of your consciousness.

People here don’t talk about the darkness. At least, not aloud. You hear things in whispers, maybe while waiting in line at the grocery store or down at the local bar, but those words are never meant to leave the lips of anyone who knows better. And most people don't even realize there's anything wrong.

But you do. You always have.

It’s the way the shadows linger just a little too long, or the way the sun seems to set just a bit too early some nights. It’s the way you sometimes feel like someone’s watching you, even when you’re alone. And every so often, it’s that bone-deep feeling that things… aren’t quite right.

The town has its own rhythm, but tonight it feels offbeat, like the whole place is trying to catch its breath, teetering on the edge of something it can’t quite define.

You’ve seen the signs. Maybe you’ve felt it too. The creeping dread. The whispers. The strange, haunting dreams that feel too real. It’s all getting worse. And the deeper you look, the more you start to realize the town has been rotting from the inside out for years.

Welcome to Havenwood, Kansas. And don’t expect things to get better anytime soon.

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When Kathy couldn't sleep she worked. Maybe she was a workaholic, perhaps she just didn't know what else to do. She believed it was the latter. Kathy didn't have a lot in the way of hobbies. At least nothing that was an at-home hobby. If Kathy could avoid being home she did. For the most part, she used her home for cooking and sleeping.

Today there hadn't been much in the way of events but she still had to plan. There were upcoming events that she had to plan for. On one side of her was her overstuffed planner. On the other was a local history book, checked out from the library. She typed on her computer. Trying to ignore the tiredness that was seeping into her _{and the movement in the corner of her eye}. It was the type that would let her sleep. Not yet. She glanced at the clock. It'd be another hour yet before she could even try to sleep. She hated that. A part of her wished that her bed wasn't empty, that he was in it waiting for her. But he had never expressed interest - always treated her like a little sister.

Kathy paused in her typing and cracked her knuckles. She stretched her arms over her head and closed her eyes. Counting down from ten to zero. Tension slowly released from her shoulders. Maybe it was time to head to bed, even if she knew it'd be a while yet before exhaustion took over. She could read for a bit. Kathy saved her progress and turned off the computer then headed to bed.

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Bronwyn strummed the guitar in her hands that was older than she was, allowing the melody flow through the somewhat sparse cafe. She recognized a few faces in the crowd; regulars she was on a first-name basis with but who always forgot what her name was. Expected in a town like this. People had it wrong about small towns, she realized. The sepia-toned image of people who called out in passing, who kept their doors unlocked, who allowd their kids to just run around without fear. It wasn't here.

No, there were too many shadows in this town.



Music was a ground for her. It kept her in the moment. Despite the uneasiness of her situation it was music that always reminded her that things could be better. If music still sounded then the future was not set in stone. Not yet.



Bronwyn scanned the crowd and thought she caught something in the corner. A little movement, but no, no one was there. She saw her boss behind the counter, watching her. Bronwyn was thankful for any opportunity to sing. Her boss knew she had nothing to call home and was living paycheck to paycheck, tip to tip, to make ends meet and become something more. So she looked the other way when Bronwyn helped herself to a pastry that was meant to be thrown out the next day or taking home a small coffee or water bottle if she needed it. And then there were moments like this where she was allowed to play and any money spent, a portion was given to her.

It didn't get her any closer to New York, but it was something.



Bronwyn enjoyed songwriting too. She found herself with moments of inspiration jotting down lyrics that swept her up. Conversations surrounding her could be moments of beauty with the pen in hand. This was one of her most recent inspirations, though she never stated why.



Bronwyn felt her true self when performing. She enjoyed the stage, the spotlight. She never felt more free than when she was singing. The room melted away and she was bathed in afterglow, the vibrations resonating within her, in her skin. She hoped she showed this in her performances, though she never had a complaint.



At the last words the crowd applauded lightly. She stood a moment before standing from her stool and bowing slightly.

"Thank you. That was an original song called 'Escaping Shadows'. I hope you enjoyed it." She bowed again before making her way off the stage towards the counter. She hoped she earned enough for a sandwich. She hadn't eaten since this morning.

The streetlights were flickering on as a high-pitched noise broke the stillness of the darkening night. Michael was hunched over using a drill to screw down a board. He was in process of replacing the stairs leading up to his front door. The old steps were splintering and rotten. It was a project that had been on his list for a while and had suddenly moved up to a priority as he had broken through one of them the previous day and taken a tumble. Thankfully it was the bottom step, and he hadn't broken anything.

One might wonder why Michael was doing this at this hour, but when one does not get off work till its dark sometimes projects must be done at inopportune times. He was silently cursing under his breath. Havenwood woods lumber store sucked to put it mildly. Even though he only needed roughly twelve pieces for what he had in mind it had been a fight to get anything good.

"Not one fucking straight board out of forty damn pieces."

Luckily, he had been able to find some wood that was barely warped and with the drill and some screws was able to get it to lie mostly flat. As he finished the last step, he wiped his brow and sat down on the porch. A sigh escaped his lips as a cool breeze drifted across him. It was currently twilight. The darkness was chasing away the lingering orange light with gusto. Despite the calm look on his face his mind raced as he doubted himself. Wondering if there were any ways he could have done the porch better.

As his inner voice battled himself, it was all interrupted as the screen door cracked open allowing a delicious smell to waft out. A wrinkly face peered out with a joyful smile. Her voice was soft and full of affection.

"Michael dear, it looks like you did a wonderful job with the steps."

He grinned as her reassuring voice chased away his doubts. He raised himself up from the steps and turned towards her taking the door from her following her into the house. "Thank you ma. It had to be done. I can't have any of us getting hurt." Joyce nodded her head as she ladled some chili into a bowl and handed it to Michael. He took it with a smile and sat down at the dining room table and waited for her.

The smile on his face faltering as the weight he had been too busy to notice reintroduced itself in this quiet moment. Though most certainly it did not help that he could vaguely see something large and black sitting on his shoulders in the reflection of the wall mirror that was in the dark living room. Michael sighed and turned his focus away from it towards his grandmother's warm smile.

"I ain't got much money right now because of the lumber I had to buy but I'm getting paid tomorrow and hopefully I can do something about the dip in the floor in the bathroom."

Joyce just knowingly smiled, and the duo enjoyed their chili in silence. Tomorrow would bring its own headaches and Havenwood would no doubt have new shades of rot for them to deal with but now was for the living.

---

"Night started to fall, then it fell, till it was lying all over the ground."

The female weather reporter's voice crackled through the static of the old box TV in the corner of the morgue, chiming in that Kansas was settling in for a freezing night at 38°F. "Brrr, isn't that chilling?" she remarked.

Azrael was only half-listening, her focus mostly on humming along to a tune as she prepared documents in her office. Another death in Havenwood. The police report was vague and hastily written, providing little detail. The body hadn't been a pretty sight on arrival, but with Azrael's magical touch-ups, it now looked almost lifelike.

As Havenwood's sole mortician, the weight of the work fell solely on Azrael's shoulders. Processes were delayed, the workload piled up, and the bereaved endured longer-than-average waits to bid their final farewells - funeral drama had become the norm lately. Azrael desperately needed an apprentice, yet she could scarcely find a moment to catch her breath.

Tension built in her temples and she pursed her lips pensively. What had been the colour of the latest decedent's eyes? With a heavy sigh, Azrael strode towards the storage room. "Number... 62," she whispered, her gaze sweeping across the numerous doors concealing the bodies within.

Azrael soon spotted the faded '62' marking the door. Gripping the handle, she braced her shoulder and pulled it open, revealing the body within. As soon as Azrael locked eyes with the corpse, it dropped its mouth into a gaping 'O', whispers of 'help' pouring forth. Wasting no time, Azrael quickly pushed the tray back into the dark cavity, slamming the door with a resounding thud. "Vaffanculo," she cursed. "Esci di fra coglioni!"

Azrael heaved a weary sigh. Ever since that unsettling case a year prior, these phantoms continued to haunt her consciousness. Was someone harbouring ill intentions, casting her the evil eye? Or perhaps it was the bad karma those American interlopers had left in their wake. Whatever the cause, it was hindering her ability to focus on her work.

"Ah, brown eyes." Azrael hummed cheerfully, her eyes sparkling with positivity despite the gloom that seemed to envelop her. Though the silent town of Havenwood offered little respite, she clung to the belief that her optimistic outlook would one day be rewarded. For now, it was simply another night, and tomorrow promised no exception.

He's been here before. He doesn't realize or recognize from where, how, or even why. It is a ominous meditation Wilson has found himself in too close for comfort.

A double gin and tonic rests peacefully on the just-now cleaned counter of the hardwood bar where a chubby Mexican man just wiped five minutes earlier as he entered - watermarks still fresh as Wilson is careful not to rest his naked hands there. There's tranquility knowing this separation of self-discipline in moments of tentative and short-lived relaxation. The gin is cool but the air is freezing as it sits below a dim light, beckoning him to enjoy it as fresh ice floats carelessly above its surface, all too cold to melt just yet. The tasteful concoction in this mustered burrow where injured souls take leave, clinging to the muse of an unventured and unsolved light of their own lives in this pitstop from day-to-day folly that carried them to some distant end without context of the shadows looming in the distance.

Maybe a more pompous man could consider himself brave enough to delve there, Wilson did not consider himself quite there yet. Whether he is supposed have a drink knowing his restless mind or without one and destitute amidst the darkness that irks him but it's there now. There was no amount of absurdity that wouldn't bewilder the mind of acutely clever or intellectual men in existential angst and disconcert. Not that it would matter anyway, but the situation-at-hand was definitely bothering him and had lingered only closer since moving here to hick-Kansas, Havenwood just a year ago from his short-lived career as a police officer in Inglewood, California. More notably now as one of the only black officers in his department. The thoughts of turmoil are something he simply cannot ignore but cannot ascertain the origin of and wonders if anyone else could sense it too. It is external and contrived, whether coming from, through, around him, or simply coincidental - it doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. And whatever it was that tails him, it is without siren. It's neither poetic nor profound. It is something ancient and persistent, a knowing that slips through the cracks of a dam holding water.

Four drinks minimum, he reminds himself. The idea of boundaries comforts him as they always did. He's in control at the moment of the one thing that matters most: himself. That's what's supposed to matter. It'll be two now and maybe a couple of beers while sitting here at this bar gazing mindlessly at the bulky television that hangs steadily from the ceiling, whatever is playing on there. It is the only thing he knows isn't completely sticky. Or so he thinks. He sits gracefully at the bar and gently sips from the frigid glass, absorbing the environment around him, and casting any further doubts of his mental posture aside. It is the time of evening where annoyance from other people staggering in to ruin his baseline and any hinderance of further short-lived peace he has from anyone who might take notice of his darker-complexion this part of the country.

For now, it is occupied by brain-rotten folk whose minds are tarnished away from years of heavy drinking. He notices a young man whose hands were overtly shaking - too young to be put in such a predicament he witnesses his peripheral vision just a few steps away from the entrance/exit of this place. Maybe he's going through these motions, too? He thinks, catching himself going full-circle again. He briefly sighs and shoves such thoughts of turmoil into the empty attic of temporary resolution, a necessary remission he's reluctantly comfortable with having for now.

He sits at the bar and has a conversation with the affable bartender, carefully weaving away from threads of would-be details of a body found earlier today and supposedly investigated thoroughly by detectives before it's way to a morgue and then buried. Where it should remain. He heads out the door again which swings abruptly open. It is a greeting from the deathly wind that prowls the outside prairies where the consolation of a small hill could capture an eye for hope in this flatland. The sun has taken leave, the rays of dying lights slowly faded, their strength dilapidated and the night crawled in.

He twists the ignition of his Honda accord car engine as it hums to life and figures instead of going home, he'd take a short detour around town without thought of what he will drive to, from, or towards...