The night had grown heavier, thick with fog that pressed in from the sea and curled around the edges of Seabrook like a living thing. Miles stood at the window of his room, staring through the cracked glass as the world outside dissolved into pale shadows. The faint glow of lanterns blurred into indistinct orbs, their light smothered by the mist. Beyond, the ocean's restless rhythm pulsed in steady waves, as if keeping time with the town's secrets.
He drew the curtain shut, but the fog seemed to follow him, lingering in the corners of his mind. Sleep had been restless—filled with half-formed dreams of faces, eyes, and a voice he couldn't quite place. When the faucet's steady drip in the bathroom grew too loud to ignore, he rose, splashing cold water over his face. The reflection that met him in the tarnished mirror looked as worn as the room itself—creases at the edges of his eyes, damp hair clinging to his forehead, and the shadow of a man already carrying the town's unease on his shoulders.
By morning, the fog still hadn't lifted. Miles left the inn and stepped into streets that looked as though they belonged to another world. Buildings loomed like specters, their outlines blurred; the sea's salt hung heavy in the air, biting at his throat. The silence was not complete—he could hear faint murmurs now and then—but whenever he tried to trace them, the voices dissolved, as if the fog itself were whispering.
As he walked, he noticed details he had missed the night before. Windows were shuttered, even in daylight. Doors were bolted tight, as though the townsfolk were barricading themselves against something unseen. A wooden crucifix had been nailed above one door; another house had strings of charms and weathered seashells hanging like talismans. He paused, running a hand lightly over one charm, and realized it bore the same swirling symbol he had glimpsed on the noticeboard in the inn.
A soft shuffle of footsteps behind him made him turn. An old woman, bent with age and carrying a wicker basket, stopped abruptly when she saw him. Her eyes darted away, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. But before she hurried past, she muttered, almost as if against her own will, "Don't listen when the fog speaks."
The words lingered in the air, chilling in their simplicity.
Miles watched her disappear into the mist, her form swallowed in moments. He noted it carefully in his mind—the second time someone in Seabrook had offered him a warning without explanation. The fisherman's cryptic line from the night before—The sea always takes what it is owed—now echoed alongside the old woman's words.
Further down the street, he came upon a group of men huddled near the pier. They fell silent as he approached, their conversation dying mid-sentence. Their eyes, narrowed and guarded, followed him as though he were an intruder trespassing on sacred ground. Miles inclined his head politely, but no one returned the gesture. One of them spat onto the cobblestones, muttering something under his breath.
Miles didn't need to hear the words to understand the intent.
The pier itself stretched into the fog, wooden planks damp beneath his shoes, gulls crying faintly overhead. He paused at the edge, staring into the gray void where the sea should have been. A faint sound—something between a sigh and a whisper—rose from the fog, drifting across the water. It was almost human, almost a voice calling his name.
Miles froze.
He leaned forward, straining to listen, but the sound slipped away, carried off by the wind. Only the waves remained, steady and unbroken. Still, the unease gnawed at him. He knew tricks of the mind could play on weary travelers, but this was different. The sound had been deliberate, intentional—like an invitation.
By the time he returned to the inn, the streets felt emptier than before. He closed the door of his room and sat at the desk, pulling out his notes and the missing posters he had gathered. Each face seemed to watch him in the dim lamplight, silent and accusing. He tapped the end of his pen against the wood, thinking of the fisherman, the old woman, and the whisper in the fog.
Three warnings. Three fragments of a puzzle that had only begun to reveal itself.
The town was afraid—of what, he did not yet know. But Miles Corbin had learned long ago that fear this thick was never baseless. It was always tied to something real, something dangerous.
He leaned back in the chair, letting the fog outside press against the thin glass. Somewhere out there, in the white void, the truth waited.
And Seabrook would do everything it could to keep him from finding it.