The delicate notes of a violin drifted through the dimly lit apartment, threading between the quiet hum of turning pages and the faint hiss of a burning cigarette. The record spun in lazy circles on the gramophone, a piece of classical music swelling gently before fading into softer tones.
At the center of the room, hunched over a cluttered desk, a woman studied a stack of patient files with the intense focus of someone trying to extract meaning from chaos. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, catching the morning light filtering through the curtains. Her sharp features were set in concentration, eyes scanning lines of text with quick, practiced efficiency.
The cigarette in the ashtray had burned low, its ember flickering weakly. She hadn't touched it in some time.
With a sigh, she leaned back, stretching her sore muscles. As she did, a golden sliver of sunlight breached the gap in her curtains, catching the high arch of her cheekbone and the tired shadows beneath her eyes. She blinked at the sudden brightness—then stiffened.
Her head snapped toward the floor, where a small brass clock lay on its side, half-hidden beneath scattered papers.
She reached for it, fingers fumbling as she flipped it upright. The moment her gaze landed on the time, her breath hitched.
"Shit."
The chair scraped against the wooden floor as she shot up. The files were forgotten, papers shifting in the wake of her hurried movements. She was already unbuttoning her wrinkled blouse before she reached the bedroom, cursing under her breath as she dug through the wardrobe.
It was Saturday, the 30th. The mayor's visit to Blackwood Sanitarium.
She yanked on a clean blouse, pulling a blazer over it as she searched for matching shoes. It should have been her day off, but out of good faith—or rather, out of political necessity—she had to attend the event. Smile. Play along. Pretend.
Her fingers moved to the buttons of her sleeve, fastening them quickly. She reached for the doorknob—then hesitated.
Her eyes flicked back to the desk. The cigarette was still burning in the ashtray, tendrils of smoke curling toward the ceiling.
She exhaled sharply, crossing the room to snuff it out with practiced efficiency. The ember hissed in protest before dying completely.
As she turned to leave, she muttered, "Not again."
---
The morning air was sharp as she stepped outside, a chill biting through her clothes. The streets were quiet, save for the distant murmur of movement and the occasional footsteps of early risers.
By the time she reached Blackwood Sanitarium, a row of dark, gleaming automobiles sat idling at the entrance, their presence unnatural against the town's aged streets. The polished chrome and tinted windows belonged to another world—one where progress had left Dunwich behind. The mayor's entourage.
She didn't slow her stride.
The guards at the gate barely spared her a glance—they knew her well enough. The moment she passed through the threshold, the atmosphere changed.
Inside, the air was heavy with the subtle perfume of wealth—expensive colognes, polished shoes clicking against marble, the murmur of benefactors exchanging pleasantries.
She had no patience for any of it.
Moving quickly, she navigated the grand hall, scanning the room for a particular figure—only to curse inwardly when she spotted him.
Dr. Lionel Thatcher.
The director of Blackwood Sanitarium was hard to miss. A tall, broad-shouldered man, his neatly pressed suit impeccable as always. His dark hair, streaked with silver, was combed back in an almost surgical fashion, and his expression carried the perpetual weight of authority.
She tried to slip past him unnoticed, but Thatcher's gaze was sharp.
"Ah, there you are."
His voice, even and authoritative, cut through the murmurs of conversation. Evelyn forced a neutral expression as he gestured for her to come forward.
Several well-dressed figures turned their heads.
Trapped.
She smoothed out the irritation in her features before stepping closer.
"Mr. Mayor," Thatcher said smoothly, "allow me to introduce Dr. Evelyn Harrow. One of our finest."
The mayor, a man whose face was sculpted for re-election posters, extended his hand with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before.
"It's a pleasure, Doctor." His voice had the polished warmth of a seasoned politician. "We need more people like you—dedicated to the well-being of our community."
She took his hand briefly before releasing it.
"We're grateful for your continued support," she replied with careful diplomacy. "It's important that we don't forget the most vulnerable members of Dunwich's Reach."
A few nearby benefactors nodded approvingly, as if they truly believed in the words being exchanged.
Evelyn doubted any of them had ever stepped foot beyond the sanitarium's reception hall.
After enduring a few more hollow pleasantries, she was finally able to take her seat in the main hall, where the event was set to begin.
The master of ceremonies took the stage, beginning with a speech on the importance of mental health, community service, and, of course, the upcoming Festival of the Veil.
Evelyn tuned most of it out.
But then—
Something shifted.
It was subtle. Barely there.
A creeping sensation.
Her shoulders tensed, though she wasn't sure why.
Her gaze moved across the room, scanning the gathered guests. Nothing seemed out of place. The polished suits, the forced smiles, the self-congratulatory atmosphere.
And yet—something was off.
She glanced toward the far end of the hall.
Her eyes swept past gilded curtains and ornate chandeliers, past the expressions of apathetic donors and obliging politicians—
And settled on a shadowed corner.
Nothing.
She shook her head slightly, dismissing the unease.
Unaware that, hidden in the dimmest part of the room, a hooded figure stood.
Silent.
Still.
Watching.
And Evelyn never saw them.