The ride to the police station was short, but it felt like a journey across a vast, empty land. Elara sat in the back of the police car, the rough seat fabric digging into her back. The younger officer, who still looked like he wished he was anywhere else, was driving. Distant sounds of the city slowly waking up—a faint, echoing call to prayer, the rumble of an early morning bus—drifted through the closed windows, a muted backdrop to the tension. Detective Miller sat beside her, his presence a heavy weight, even without touching her. The silence in the car was thick, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the frantic beat of Elara's own heart.
The locket in her bathrobe pocket felt like a burning coal against her thigh. It was still warm, that strange, unsettling warmth, and she could almost feel its faint vibration. Every now and then, she'd subtly shift, trying to adjust it, trying to make it less noticeable, even though no one else could see it. It was her secret, her terrifying, impossible secret. How could a locket, one that looked exactly like her grandmother's, appear out of nowhere, perfectly clean, while the real one was supposedly found at a crime scene? The thought twisted in her gut, a sharp, bitter feeling.
Miller finally broke the silence. "You know, Elara," he said, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful, "people who try too hard to forget usually have the most to remember."
Elara slowly turned her head, meeting his gaze. "And people who try too hard to accuse usually end up looking foolish, Detective," she shot back, a flicker of her usual sharp wit returning. It was a small victory, a tiny act of defiance in a situation where she felt completely powerless.
Miller just grunted, a sound that could mean anything. He pulled out a small notepad and a pen, flipping to a fresh page. He wasn't writing yet, just holding it, a silent threat.
The police station was exactly as she remembered it: a building of plain grey walls and tired fluorescent lights. The air smelled of stale coffee, old paper, and something metallic, like cleaning solution mixed with faint traces of something else. It was a place where secrets were kept, and and sometimes, unwillingly, given up.
They led her to a small interrogation room. It was bare, just a metal table and three chairs. The walls were a pale, sickly green. A single, bright light hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows. Elara took the chair closest to the door, a small act of rebellion, even though she knew it wouldn't matter. Miller sat opposite her, placing his notepad on the table. The younger officer stood by the door, looking uncomfortable, like a kid forced to watch a grown-up argument.
"So, Elara," Miller began, his voice losing its quiet tone, becoming sharp and direct. "Let's talk about the night your family disappeared. The fire. The whole mess."
Elara felt a familiar tightness in her chest. The 'incident.' The night her life had shattered into a million pieces. "I've told you everything, Detective. Many times. There was a fire. My parents. My sister. They were gone. I was the only one who made it out." Her voice was flat, practiced. She had recited this story so many times, it felt like a script.
"And the locket?" Miller pressed, his eyes unwavering. "Your grandmother's locket. It was found at the scene of the fire, years ago. But it was never linked to any of the bodies. It was just... there. And now, it's at a new scene. The scene where Marcus Thorne vanished."
Marcus Thorne. The latest disappearance. A quiet, unassuming librarian who had vanished from his home two nights ago, leaving behind only an open book and a lingering sense of dread. Elara hadn't paid much attention to the news reports, trying to keep her distance from the city's growing panic. But now, it was all connected.
"I don't know anything about Marcus Thorne," Elara stated, her voice firm. "And I don't know why my grandmother's locket would be at his house. It's been gone for years." She kept her hand still in her pocket, the warmth of the other locket a silent, burning presence, its pulse a quiet rhythm against her skin.
Miller leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Our notes from your therapy sessions, Elara. They mention a 'Crimson Playground.' A place of nightmares. A place where childhood innocence was twisted." He paused, his gaze fixed on her face, searching for a crack in her composure. "You said it yourself, didn't you? To your therapist?"
Elara felt a cold dread spread through her. "I told you, I never said that. My therapist must have misunderstood." But even as she said the words, a flash of something red, something metallic, something wrong, flickered at the edge of her vision. The hum in her head intensified, a low, buzzing sound that threatened to drown out Miller's voice.
"Misunderstood?" Miller scoffed. "Or perhaps you're forgetting. Or perhaps, Elara, you're choosing to forget." He pulled a tablet from his bag, tapping the screen. "We have a witness, Elara. A child. Who saw something at the Thorne residence, just before he vanished. Something... unusual."
Elara's breath hitched. A child witness? This was new. This was bad.
"The child drew a picture," Miller continued, turning the tablet to face her. "And what he drew, Elara, looks an awful lot like the 'Crimson Playground' you supposedly dreamt about."
The image on the tablet screen was crude, drawn with thick, childish crayons. But there was no mistaking it. A swing set, impossibly tall, its chains stretching into a dark, swirling sky. A slide, bent and broken, leading into a patch of ground colored a deep, angry red. And in the background, barely visible, a figure. A small, shadowy figure, standing perfectly still, watching.
Elara felt a jolt, a cold shock that went through her entire body. The drawing was almost identical to the image in the email she had received that morning. The one still hidden on her phone. How could a child have drawn this? How could anyone know about that image?
"This is impossible," Elara whispered, her voice barely audible. The hum in her head was now a piercing whine, and the metallic taste in her mouth was stronger, like she was tasting blood. "I've never seen this child. I've never seen this drawing."
"No," Miller said, his voice surprisingly soft now, almost sympathetic. "But the child saw something. Something that made him draw this. And something that made him whisper a name. A name that sounds very much like yours, Elara."
Elara stared at the drawing, then at Miller. The pieces were starting to fit, but they formed a picture far more terrifying than she could have imagined. The locket, the email, the whispers, the missing people, and now, a child's drawing. It wasn't just a game. It was a hunt. And she was the prey. Or perhaps, she was the bait.
A sudden, sharp pain flared behind her eyes, and a new image, clearer than any before, flashed into her mind. Not a dream, not a whisper, but a memory. A real one. A memory of a crimson swing, not just painted red, but soaked in it. And a voice, a child's voice, calling her name. Not from the past, but from somewhere close. Somewhere now.
"Elara," the voice whispered, not in her head, but seeming to come from the very air in the room, just for a second. "It's time to play."
Miller looked at her, his expression hardening. "What was that, Elara? Did you say something?"
Elara shook her head, her eyes wide, staring at the empty space beside Miller where the voice had seemed to materialize. The memory, sharp and vivid, of the crimson swing burned behind her eyelids—not just red paint, but something thick and dark, soaking into the metal. Lily's voice, clear and chilling: "Elara. It's time to play." It had been so real, so impossibly clear, not like the distant whispers that usually plagued her.
"No," she managed, her throat tight. "Just... thinking out loud." She tried to force a dismissive shrug, but her shoulders felt stiff, unwilling to obey. The locket in her pocket throbbed, a frantic, desperate pulse against her thigh, mirroring her own terror. The crimson mark on her palm felt hot, a silent burning against her skin.
Miller studied her for a long moment, his eyes searching, probing, trying to find the truth in her face. His initial skepticism warred with the undeniable shift in her demeanor. "You seem a little shaken, Elara. That drawing bothering you?" He gestured to the tablet, still displaying the child's crude but terrifying image of the crimson playground.
Elara forced herself to look at the drawing again. It was a child's nightmare made real. The twisted slide, the broken swings, the angry red ground. And that small, shadowy figure in the background. It was too much like the image from the email. Too much like the flashes in her own mind.
"It's just... unsettling," Elara said, choosing her words carefully. She tried to sound concerned for the child, to shift the focus away from herself. "A child drawing something like that. It's disturbing."
"Disturbing, yes," Miller agreed, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier sarcasm. "Especially when it matches your own nightmares so closely. And when the child whispered your name." He leaned back in his chair, watching her intently. "Tell me, Elara. What do you know about this 'Crimson Playground'?" His tone was no longer accusatory, but urgent, a desperate need for answers overriding his doubt.
The hum in her head returned, a low, insistent buzz that made her teeth ache. It was trying to tell her something, or perhaps just warn her. She gripped her hands under the table, her fingernails digging into her palms. She couldn't tell him about the email yet. Not now. It would only make her seem more delusional, more involved.
"I don't know anything about it, Detective," Elara insisted, her voice firm despite the tremor she felt deep within. "I've never been to a place like that. I've never heard that name before this morning." She was lying, and she knew he knew it. The words felt like ash in her mouth.
Miller sighed, a heavy, frustrated sound. "Elara, we're trying to help you. Or, at the very least, understand what's happening. People are vanishing. And everything points back to that night, years ago, when your family disappeared. And now, to you."
He picked up the locket from the table, the one they claimed was her grandmother's. He held it up, letting the harsh overhead light glint off its tarnished silver. "This locket. Found at the fire scene. Found at Marcus Thorne's house. It's a connection, Elara. A very strong one."
Elara stared at the locket in his hand. It looked exactly like the one in her pocket. The details were so precise, the pattern of vines identical. How could there be two? And why did the one in her pocket feel so... alive? So much a part of her?
"I don't know what to tell you, Detective," Elara said, her voice strained, pulled thin like a wire ready to snap. "I lost my grandmother's locket years ago. I have no idea how it ended up at these places."
Miller put the locket back down on the table, sliding it slightly closer to her. "Think, Elara. Think about that night. The fire. What did you see? What did you hear?" His voice softened, almost coaxing, like he was trying to guide her through a dark maze. "Sometimes, the mind blocks out things to protect itself. But sometimes, those things come back. Especially when something triggers them."
He was trying to get her to remember. To break through the wall she had built around that night. And the hum in her head, the whispers, they were trying to do the same thing. They were pushing against the wall, trying to tear it down, piece by painful piece.
A new wave of images flashed through her mind, quicker this time, more fragmented. Not just the crimson swing, but a distorted reflection in a puddle, a fleeting shadow that moved too fast, too unnaturally, like something inhuman. The scent of burning wood mixed with that chilling metal smell. And the sound of laughter, high-pitched and cruel, coming from somewhere beyond the flames, a sound that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
Elara gasped, a small, sharp sound. She pressed her hands against her temples, trying to push the images away, to force them back into the dark corners of her mind. "It's just... noise," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Just static."
"Static?" Miller asked, his eyes narrowing again, a flicker of genuine concern now in his gaze. "What kind of static, Elara?"
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a fear she couldn't hide anymore. The crimson mark on her palm felt like it was burning, a raw heat that matched the panic spreading through her. "The kind that hums in your head. The kind that whispers things you don't want to hear. The kind that smells like blood and rust." The words tumbled out before she could stop them, raw and uncontrolled, a torrent of impossible truth.
Miller leaned forward again, his expression now a complex mix of deep concern and intense, almost desperate curiosity. "You hear whispers, Elara? Since when?"
She bit her lip, regretting her outburst. She'd given too much away. But it was too late to take it back. "Since the incident," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper, a ghost of her former self. "Always. Just... background noise. Until now."
"And what are they saying now?" Miller pressed, his voice low and urgent, a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate in her chest.
Elara hesitated, looking at the drawing of the crimson playground, then at the locket on the table. She thought of the email on her phone, the one that had welcomed her to the playground. The game. She was in it. And the rules were becoming terrifyingly clear, written in unseen ink on the very air around them.
"They're saying," Elara began, her voice gaining a strange, cold strength, a grim resolve born of utter fear, "that it's time to play." She looked directly into Miller's eyes, her gaze unflinching, no longer afraid of what he would think. "And I think someone just made me a player, Detective. Whether I wanted to be or not."
Miller stared at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, a dawning horror that mirrored her own. He picked up the locket from the table again, turning it over in his fingers, as if it held the answers to a question he couldn't even form. "You think this is some kind of game, Elara?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief, but also a raw, terrifying hint of something that sounded like dawning understanding.
"I don't think," Elara said, a grim certainty settling over her, heavy and unshakeable. "I know. And I think the rules are about to get very, very bloody." The locket in her pocket seemed to vibrate in agreement, a silent, chilling confirmation of her words. The hum in her head, for the first time, felt less like static and more like a twisted invitation, a call to a game she never asked to join.