The fire started silently, almost politely, in the dead of night.
A faint hiss, a whisper of smoke curling along the floorboards. Ten-year-old Eli Turner woke to the acrid sting of smoke in his nostrils. He sat upright, heart hammering, eyes wide in the darkness of his small bedroom. The room was strangely warm, unnervingly warm, and shadows twisted in the corners like creatures.
"Mom?" His voice barely reached past the smoke.
No answer.
A crackling sound grew louder, almost like the house itself was sighing in pain. The flames were still invisible, but the smell of burning wood and old fabric made Eli gag. Panic clawed at him as the door to his room warped, heat pressing through the thin wood.
He could hear his little sister crying somewhere downstairs—soft, terrified whimpers that cut through the haze.
Eli scrambled out of bed, coughing, hands outstretched. His bare feet met the floor, sticky and hot. A shadow danced across the hallway, flickering like it had a life of its own. Then came the smell of flesh—charred, terrifying.
He ran, blindly, guided only by the whimpers, the screams, the smell. The stairs creaked under him as the fire roared louder, now visible, painting the walls in shades of orange and black.
A beam collapsed with a deafening crack, sending sparks flying like angry stars.
And then—silence.
The house stood smoldering the next morning. The neighbors whispered. Firefighters found no survivors. Only ashes, only blackened walls, and the charred remnants of a family that had been forgotten in the old files of Ravenwood's police archives.
But someone, somewhere, had seen the flames dance strangely. Not the dance of a fire—they said—it was almost deliberate, almost alive.
A case long buried, long cold… was about to breathe again.