The fog deepened as they neared St. Crowthorne's Chapel, swallowing even the faint lamplight until the church loomed out of the gloom like a shipwreck. Its stone walls were weather-worn and blackened with moss, the steeple crooked as though leaning under the weight of centuries. No candles burned in the windows. Only silence, heavy and suffocating, hung in the air.
Elise felt her steps falter. Every instinct whispered to turn back, to run from the place that seemed more grave than sanctuary. But Maris strode forward without hesitation, lantern held high, her boots crunching against the damp gravel. Elise followed, her own breath clouding in front of her face like smoke.
The heavy oak doors creaked as Maris pushed them open. The sound echoed through the nave, startling a flock of birds from the rafters. They exploded into the night sky with frantic wings, leaving behind a rain of dust and feathers.
Inside, the chapel smelled of mildew, salt, and something metallic beneath it all—like old blood. The pews stood in crooked rows, half-swallowed by shadow. The altar cloth was moth-eaten, stained, and the crucifix above it seemed tarnished, the face of Christ warped and sorrowful, eyes cast downward as though ashamed.
Maris set her lantern on a pew. "The archives are below. The Reverend keeps them locked, but I've… borrowed the key before." She drew a thin iron key from her sleeve, its teeth worn smooth with use.
Elise arched a brow. "You've broken in before?"
Maris gave her a ghost of a smile. "When you grow up in Briarwall, you learn that survival often means trespass."
The lock groaned but gave way. They descended a narrow staircase into the chapel's undercroft. The air grew colder with every step, damp seeping into their skin. At the bottom lay a low-ceilinged room lined with shelves. Books and scrolls leaned in precarious stacks, their spines eaten with mold, titles scrawled in faded ink.
Elise trailed her fingers over the nearest stack. The books were older than any she had seen in London's medical libraries—parchments bound in leather, vellum cracked with age. Symbols she couldn't decipher decorated some of the covers: spirals, waves, circles crossed with jagged lines.
Maris moved with a kind of reverence, her hand steady as she pulled a volume from the shelf. "Here," she said, laying it on the wooden table. Its cover bore the sigil Elise had seen carved above the manor's hearth: an eye shrouded in mist.
Elise leaned over it. The pages were brittle, text scrawled in archaic English, interspersed with Latin phrases. Illustrations marked the margins—tall figures robed in shadow, hands outstretched toward the sea, while tendrils of fog coiled around kneeling villagers.
Maris traced one drawing with her finger. "This is the record of the first Watchman."
Elise scanned the script aloud. "Anno Domini 1642. In the year of our Lord, the fog came, thick and endless. The harvest rotted, the sea gave no fish. The people of Briarwall starved, and in their despair, they turned to him—the one who walked from the water." She faltered, her throat dry.
"The Watchman," Maris finished. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
They turned the page. The words darkened, ink bled as though written in haste. "He demanded fealty. A tithe of lives, once every cycle of thirty years, given willingly to the mist. In return, Briarwall would endure, its people spared famine and flood. The bell would toll their number, the names whispered to those marked."
Elise felt her skin crawl. "So it's not madness. It's written here—your curse has roots. And the bell… it's the tally."
Maris' jaw tightened. "My grandmother said as much. But the Reverend forbids talk of it. He claims the Watchman is myth, a cautionary tale. Yet here it is, written in the hand of his predecessors."
Elise turned another page, her breath hitching. This time the illustration was different. Not robed figures, but the bell itself—sketched in grotesque detail, its rope twisting into the form of a serpent. Beneath it, a row of names. Dozens, scratched out over time. She squinted. Among the faded letters she saw Jonas Blackwood.
Her stomach clenched. Jonas' name was already written before he vanished.
"Maris…" Elise whispered, pointing.
Maris stared. Her lantern flickered as though reacting to the truth unveiled. "Then it's not a choice at all. The chosen are doomed before they even breathe their last. The bell doesn't toll to choose—it tolls to announce."
A cold draft swept through the undercroft. The flame sputtered. Elise stiffened, her heart thudding as she heard it again—her name, slithering across the stone.
"Elise…"
This time, Maris heard it too. Her eyes widened in terror. "It followed us here."
The books rustled, their pages turning as though by unseen hands. The crucifix upstairs creaked. From the shadows of the undercroft, something shifted—too large for rats, too slow for birds. The fog had seeped down the stairs. It coiled along the floor, filling the chamber like smoke from an unseen fire.
And in that fog, Elise thought she saw the shape of a man—tall, faceless, a lantern swinging at his side.
The Watchman.