We started our investigation where it began: the school. At night, long after the janitors had left, we walked the empty, dark corridors of BNHS. The only light came from the emergency exits, casting long, ominous shadows. Our footsteps echoed in a way they never did during the day, a hollow sound that emphasized how alone we were.
Luna led me to the old art room, a place that smelled of turpentine and clay dust. "This was my favorite place," she said, her voice echoing softly. She drifted to a locker in the back, its paint chipped and rusted. "This was mine."
I looked at the combination lock, frozen shut for decades. "Do you remember the combination?"
She closed her eyes, her form flickering with concentration. "17… 32… 6."
I spun the dial. The lock, impossibly, clicked open.
Inside, nestled on a shelf thick with dust, was a single, yellowed sketchbook. Luna gasped, a sound like the wind stirring dead leaves. She reached for it, her fingers passing through the cover. She looked at me, a silent plea in her eyes.
I carefully lifted it out. The cover was titled "Luna's Light" in elegant, faded script. I opened it.
The pages were filled with breathtaking sketches. Not of watchtowers, but of people. A woman who must have been her mother, hanging laundry. A young boy flying a kite. The old plaza, but brighter, newer, filled with people in 90s fashion. And on the last page, a half-finished, frantic sketch of a face. A man's face, contorted in anger. His features were blurred, unfinished, as if she'd been interrupted.
Luna was staring at the drawing, her hands pressed to her temples. "I remember," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I was here… drawing… I heard a noise. An argument outside. I looked out the window. I saw him. I started to draw… I had to remember his face…"
"Who was he, Luna?" I asked, my heart pounding.
She shook her head, a tear of spectral silver tracing a path down her cheek. "I don't know. But he saw me. He looked up… and he saw me watching."
The memory ended there. But it was a start. We had a face. A half-finished, angry face from a twenty-five-year-old night. It was the first piece of the puzzle. And it was the most dangerous thing we could have found.