The fog thickened until the very walls of the undercroft seemed to vanish. Elise clutched the edge of the table, her knuckles white, as shadows writhed at the corners of the chamber. Maris lifted the lantern, its glow a fragile island against the tide of darkness.
"Elise…" The voice came again—low, resonant, not spoken with breath but with the grinding weight of stone. It wasn't one voice but many layered together, as though a chorus of the drowned spoke through a single throat.
The silhouette in the fog grew sharper: tall, broad-shouldered, with a cloak of mist that seemed alive, writhing like tendrils. Where a face should have been, only void stared back. And yet, Elise felt the full intensity of its gaze. Hanging from its hand, a lantern swung, its glass panes clouded, its flame blue-white, burning without smoke.
Maris gripped Elise's wrist. "Don't look too long," she hissed. "That's how he marks you."
But Elise couldn't tear her eyes away. The lantern flame pulsed as if beating in rhythm with her heart, drawing her closer. Her chest tightened, lungs refusing air, until she felt she might drown on dry land.
Maris slammed the book shut, the sound sharp as thunder in the suffocating silence. The figure recoiled, if only slightly, as if the record itself was a weapon.
"Elise!" Maris shook her. "We have to go. Now!"
The fog resisted them, coiling around their legs, heavy as water. They pushed toward the staircase, each step a battle. The Watchman moved without motion—one instant distant, the next close enough that the edge of its cloak brushed Elise's arm like ice. Her skin burned where it touched, a mark blooming like frostbite.
"Elise…" The voice again, closer now, intimate, almost tender. "You are written."
She stumbled, knees striking stone. Written. The word echoed in her mind like a curse. Was her name already scrawled on that list, waiting only for the bell's toll to claim her?
Maris dragged her upright with surprising strength. They burst onto the stairwell, but the steps seemed endless, spiraling higher than they should, the geometry of the chapel twisting as though the building itself had bent to the Watchman's will.
"Elise, don't stop!" Maris shouted. Her voice cracked, but she pulled her forward with desperate conviction.
Behind them, the Watchman ascended without sound. The lantern's glow grew brighter, washing the stones in unnatural light.
At last they stumbled into the chapel's nave. The crucifix above the altar had turned, its head bowed not toward the congregation but toward the floor, as if in supplication to the figure that followed. The air was thick with the stench of brine.
Maris flung the great doors open, and the fog outside pressed inward like a living tide. The night should have been cold, but instead it burned with a salt-heavy heat, choking Elise's lungs.
They ran. Across the churchyard, through the leaning gravestones half-sunk in earth. The bell tower loomed behind them, silent now, yet Elise thought she felt its vibrations deep in her bones, as though preparing for its next toll.
Only when they reached the edge of the moor did Maris dare stop. She collapsed against a twisted yew tree, clutching the book to her chest like a lifeline. Elise bent double, gasping, her pulse wild. The mark on her arm still burned, faintly glowing in the moonlight.
Maris saw it and went pale. "He touched you."
Elise swallowed hard. "What does it mean?"
Maris shook her head. "It means your name is already on the bell's list. It means the fog will never stop following you."
They fell into silence, broken only by the distant whisper of waves crashing against Briarwall's cliffs. Elise looked back at the chapel. The lantern's glow still burned within, steady, patient, as if the Watchman had no need to chase them.
Because it already knew: sooner or later, Elise would return.
And the bell would toll again.