Detective Miles Corbin arrived in Seabrook just as the last light of day sank beneath the restless horizon. The sky above was a bruised purple, heavy clouds pressing low as if the heavens themselves were conspiring to keep the town in perpetual gloom. Rain clung to his coat—fine and cold—seeping into the seams despite his best efforts to brush it away. The sea wind carried the sharp tang of salt and decay, stinging his nose with every breath.
The town unfolded before him like a forgotten relic. Wooden storefronts leaned at odd angles, their once-bright signs now bleached and battered by years of storms. The main street was quiet—too quiet. Shutters banged softly in the wind, chains clinked against rusting lampposts, and yet there was no laughter, no conversation, no sound of ordinary life.
What there was, however, were posters.
Dozens. Hundreds. Everywhere he looked.
The missing faces stared back at him in stark black-and-white, their smiles frozen, their eyes hollow reminders of what had been lost. Tattered edges fluttered in the breeze—some so faded by rain they were barely legible, others freshly plastered over cracked paint.
The repetition of grief was overwhelming: women, men, children. Each poster carried the same grim headline: MISSING.
Miles slowed his steps, his polished shoes echoing against the uneven cobblestones. He had been in many towns where tragedy left its mark, but never had he seen grief so vividly displayed, so suffocating in its presence. It wasn't just mourning—it was as though the town itself had surrendered to despair.
A few figures moved in the distance. Locals. Their movements were hurried, their heads bent low, their eyes flickering toward him and then away as if contact might bring misfortune. A woman dragged her child across the street, the boy glancing back at Miles with wide, questioning eyes before being pulled behind a slamming door. An old fisherman, his face leathered from years at sea, muttered something under his breath, his voice carried away by the wind.
And then, the first words—cryptic, unsettling—reached him.
A passerby, a stooped man clutching a bundle of nets, whispered as he passed: "The sea always takes what it is owed."
The phrase lingered in the air like smoke, curling into the recesses of Miles's mind. He turned, hoping to press the man further, but the fisherman had vanished into an alley, swallowed by shadows.
Miles pushed onward, his instincts prickling. The silence of the town wasn't ordinary—it was watchful. He felt the weight of unseen eyes tracking his movements, an invisible tension clinging as tightly as the fog rolling in from the coastline.
Through the gray curtain of mist, he spotted the local inn, its weathered sign creaking on rusted hinges. Inside, the glow of lamplight promised warmth, but the moment he stepped across the threshold, conversation ceased. A group of men at the bar turned stiffly, their gazes sharp and suspicious. The waitress—a young woman with trembling hands—nearly dropped her tray when she saw him.
Her eyes darted nervously toward a noticeboard at the back of the room, its surface locked behind glass. For a brief second, Miles caught the reflection of a strange symbol etched faintly across one corner—something circular, swirling, almost hypnotic.
He made a note of it, tucking the image away in his memory.
Taking a seat by the window, he let the weight of the journey settle into his bones. The inn smelled of damp wood and salt, as though the sea itself had seeped into the walls. Outside, the fog thickened, cloaking the streets, turning lanterns into pale smudges of light.
Miles Corbin had come to Seabrook chasing answers. But as the shadows lengthened and the hush deepened, he couldn't shake the feeling that the town wasn't merely keeping secrets.
It was protecting them.
And somewhere out there, among the fog and the whispers, someone—or something—was waiting for him.
Seabrook Inn – Vacancy.
A brass bell rested on the counter, and behind it, the innkeeper stood stiff and watchful—a thin man with hollow cheeks and eyes that flicked too quickly over his guest.
"A room," Miles said, placing cash on the counter.
The innkeeper hesitated, then dropped a tarnished brass key onto the wood with a clatter. "Room 3," he muttered, not meeting Miles's eyes.
The hallway was narrow and dim, the carpet worn thin and the wallpaper peeling at the corners. His door groaned as he unlocked it, revealing a room that felt more tired than welcoming.
A single lamp buzzed weakly on the nightstand, throwing a sickly yellow light across a sagging mattress. The sheets looked clean but carried the faint scent of damp wood. A desk stood by the window, its surface scratched from years of use. Through the cracked glass pane, the distant rhythm of waves echoed like a restless drum.
Miles set his bag on the desk, unfolding the stack of missing posters he had collected along the way. Their faces stared back at him in silence, demanding answers. He sat at the edge of the bed, the faucet dripping steadily in the bathroom, the hum of the lamp filling the quiet.
When he finally lay back, sleep became heavy and unkind. The last thing he saw before the dark claimed him was the smiling face of a missing girl—her eyes seeming to follow him into his dreams.