The shack was quiet save for the faint hum of wind pressing against its warped wooden walls. Inside, Evelyn Harrow sat facing a desk littered with old notebooks, curled cigarette butts, and the remains of takeout cartons. She tried not to look at the mess too long; it reeked of a life decaying in slow motion. Her eyes wandered instead to the man on the other side of the desk.
Silas Crowe had seen better days. His thick mustache twitched as he rifled through a drawer, mumbling about the oddity of her request. The lantern beside him cast long shadows across his wrinkled face, his eyes watery but still sharp with suspicion.
"You're a strange one, Doc," he said, pulling out a small paper-wrapped bundle. "You sure this is what you need? I've dealt with cultists who've asked for less."
"I pay for your services, Silas," Evelyn said, her voice clipped but calm. "Not your commentary."
He raised a hand in surrender. "Fair enough. But don't say I didn't warn you."
She stood, taking the bundle from his hand without another word. It was warm—why was it warm? She didn't want to know. She turned to leave.
"Doc," he said just as she reached the door. "This town... it takes pieces of people. Just make sure you know what you're giving up."
She paused, then walked out into the night.
---
The fog had deepened by the time Evelyn stepped outside. Dunwich's Reach was quiet—too quiet. The mist clung to the cobblestone streets like old secrets, softening every footfall, dimming every lamp to a faint halo of gold. She wrapped her arms around herself, regretting not bringing a coat.
Her breath came out in thin streams as she moved, more from tension than cold. Her mind buzzed with fragments—faces at the charity, whispers behind closed doors, the weight of her dreams pressing like a hand at the back of her skull.
She needed clarity. She needed ritual.
Her thoughts drifted to Silas. Once a proud officer, now a ghost of a man hunting for someone long vanished. She remembered hearing about the disappearance of his son—how he snapped, beat a superior officer, and was committed to the same asylum she now called her battlefield.
She didn't pity him. Not really. Pity was dangerous. But she understood him.
As her feet carried her forward, she began to murmur under her breath.
"I am the breath. I am the form. Still as sand, yet shaped by hand."
Again. And again. A mantra, quiet and grounding. Her fingers twitched at her sides. The air seemed colder now, the night sharper.
By the time she reached her apartment, her key was already in hand.
---
She changed into loose, comfortable clothes. The kind that didn't cling or weigh her down. At the sink, she splashed her face with cold water and stared at her reflection. Her eyes looked older tonight. Like she'd aged a year since morning.
The study room was dim, its curtains drawn. She lit a small lamp in the corner, and set the bundle on the floor before her. Her hands moved with quiet precision.
She laid out the ritual.
Bay leaves in a ceramic dish. She set them alight, the thin smoke curling toward her face. A cigarette—unlit, but placed in a small groove in a piece of black river stone. She whispered to it.
"For those who hunger for breath."
Chamomile tea, steeped and poured in a careful circle around her. Calming, grounding.
Then, the mirror.
Face up. Filled with rainwater she'd collected the night before. Its surface shimmered faintly, as if hiding something just beneath.
She removed her glasses and placed them in the center.
Her voice shifted.
"Mind clear. Sight sharp. The Veil lifts for me alone."
Seven times. Her voice steady at first. Then strained. Then not hers at all.
"Mind clear. Sight sharp. The Veil lifts for me alone."
With each repetition, her back straightened. Her pupils dilated. Her breath slowed.
Then the final chant.
"Vashtiri nel aranth, kesh va mir imanth."
Again.
"Vashtiri nel aranth, kesh va mir imanth."
The mirror shimmered.
Her hands trembled slightly. Her lips began to move on their own, the chant now deeper, dragged from some echoing chamber behind her consciousness. Her eyes rolled back, veins in her neck rising. Her voice cracked and twisted.
Then—
Her head snapped up.
Eyes white. Veins like red threads against pale skin. Her mouth was open in a silent scream. A pressure filled the room—an unseen hand pressing against the walls.
The candle flickered wildly. The mirror's water rippled. The cigarette on the stone flared with no flame.
---
Elias stirred in his bed.
He rolled once. Then again. Sweat on his brow. His hands clenched the sheets.
Something was brushing against the edges of his sleep. Something heavy. Wet.
A whisper beneath a whisper.
A veil, thinning.
A name, almost said.
And then—
Silence.
---