The clock on the wall ticked like a bomb, each second slicing into the suffocating silence of Horizon TV's Mystery & Investigation Unit. It was 9:03 p.m., and the office was a ghost town—desks abandoned, screens dark, the hum of fluorescent lights the only sound besides Laura's frustrated muttering.
Laura slumped in her chair, hair a wild nest, her dress still reeking faintly of yesterday's laundry sins. Her laptop glowed with a dozen open tabs—cold case forums, sketchy conspiracy blogs, and a Wikipedia page on "unsolved mysteries in [city name]." Nothing. Nada. Zilch. She slammed a fist on the desk, sending a half-empty coffee mug wobbling dangerously.
"This is it, John. We're screwed. Midnight's gonna roll around, and I'll be handing my department to Clara on a silver platter."
John, sprawled across from her, looked like he'd aged ten years in the last ten hours. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, his tie was a crumpled mess, and a stray sticky note clung to his elbow. He was flipping through a dusty file labeled "1987—UNSOLVED," his eyes bleary but determined.
"Come on, Laura. We've got… three hours. We'll find something. What about that haunted warehouse story? Or the guy who disappeared in the old theater?"
Laura groaned, dragging her hands down her face.
"John, nobody cares about haunted warehouses. And the theater guy? Probably just ran off with his mistress. We need something...."
Her phone, dead as a brick, lay useless on the desk, mocking her. She'd already scoured every archive, emailed every contact, and even—out of sheer desperation—checked an X thread about local urban legends. She leaned back, staring at the ceiling, where a flickering light buzzed like it was laughing at her.
"I'm done for. Clara's probably in Robert's office right now, pitching some polished, perfect documentary idea about… ." : laura
John snorted, tossing the file aside.
"Clara? She'd pitch a documentary on her own reflection. You're better than her, Laura. You just need—"
His phone buzzed, cutting him off. He glanced at the screen, and his face fell.
"Oh, crap. It's my mom."
Laura raised an eyebrow, half-amused despite her despair.
"Your mom? What, is it past your bedtime, Johnny?"
John shot her a look, adjusting his glasses as he answered.
"Hey, Ma… yeah, I'm still at the office."
He paused, wincing as a loud voice crackled through the speaker. Laura could hear it from across the desk—a rapid-fire lecture in a tone that could guilt-trip a statue.
"Johnathan Michael, it's nine o'clock at night! You think I raised you to live in that office like some workaholic gremlin? I'm not heating up your lasagna if you're not here in twenty minutes!"
John rubbed his temple, mouthing "help me" to Laura, who stifled a laugh. "Ma, I'm in the middle of something important. Laura's got a deadline, and—"
"Laura? That wild girl who's got you working late again? Tell her to get her life together and let my son come home! You're her personal assistant, John, not her slave!"
Laura's jaw dropped, and she leaned forward, whispering loudly, "Did your mom just shade me?"
John held up a hand, pleading for silence.
"Ma, I'll be home soon, okay? Just… save me some lasagna. Please."
Another pause, another earful.
"Yes, I know you made it from scratch. Yes, I'll bring the Tupperware back. Okay, love you, bye!"
He hung up, exhaling like he'd just defused a bomb.
"She's gonna kill me if I'm not home by ten."
Laura smirked, but her heart wasn't in it.
"Go, John. Save yourself. I'll just… sit here and wait for the universe to hand me a miracle." She waved a hand dramatically, knocking over a stack of files. Papers fluttered to the floor like defeated confetti.
John stood, hesitating as he grabbed his jacket.
"Laura, you're not giving up. You're the queen of chaos. You'll figure this out." He paused at the door, adjusting his glasses with a small, encouraging smile. "Just… don't throw any more food, okay? Call me if you get a lead. I'll be up."
She rolled her eyes, but her chest warmed at his loyalty. "Yeah, yeah. Go eat your lasagna, you mama's boy." John chuckled, slipping out into the dark hallway, leaving Laura alone in the wreckage of her department.
The silence hit harder than she expected. She glanced at her dead phone, then at the clock: 9:17 p.m. Three hours left. Her fingers twitched, itching to do something, but the weight of failure pinned her to the chair. She grabbed her bag, muttering, "Screw this. I need air."
She shoved her dead phone into the charger in her car, cursing its betrayal as she slammed the door. The Horizon TV building loomed behind her, its glass facade reflecting the city's neon glow like a judgmental mirror. She floored the accelerator, weaving through the sparse late-night traffic, her mind a blur of panic and defiance. "One day, my ass," she muttered, gripping the wheel.
The city lights streaked past, a kaleidoscope of reds and yellows. Her stomach growled, her head throbbed, and the faint smell of her unwashed dress made her grimace. She needed a break, a spark, something
Spotting a neon sign flickering in the distance—"The Rusty Anchor"—she swerved into the parking lot of a bar-cafe hybrid, its windows glowing with warm, amber light. It was her usual spot, it looked alive, buzzing with low chatter and the clink of glasses. Perfect for drowning her sorrows or maybe—maybe—finding inspiration.
Laura parked crookedly, grabbed her bag, and checked her reflection in the car window. "Yikes," she muttered, smoothing her hair and sniffing her armpit with a wince. "Whatever. I'm a disaster with a deadline." She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed through the heavy wooden door.
The Rusty Anchor was a mix of gritty charm and hipster pretension—exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs dangling like fireflies, and a chalkboard menu boasting overpriced cocktails and "artisan" fries. The air smelled of whiskey and fried onions, and a jukebox in the corner played a moody indie track.a couple arguing in hushed tones, and a bartender polishing glasses with a bored expression.
Laura's eyes scanned the room, her journalist instincts kicking in despite her exhaustion. Something about this place felt… off. Maybe it was the guy in the corner staring too long at his notebook, or the faint flicker of a shadow moving behind the bar where no one stood. Her gut twisted. that old reporter's itch whispering: There's a story here.
She slid onto a barstool, tossing her bag onto the counter with a thud. The bartender, a wiry guy with a patchy beard and a name tag reading "Milo," raised an eyebrow. "Rough night?"
Laura snorted, leaning her chin on her hand. "You don't know the half of it, Milo. Hit me with something strong and cheap. And maybe a miracle, if you've got one back there."
Milo smirked, sliding a glass of amber liquid her way. "No miracles, but this whiskey's close. What's got you looking like you just lost a fight with a tornado?"
She took a sip, the burn grounding her. "Oh, you know. Just my entire career hanging by a thread, a smug coworker waiting to steal my job, and a deadline that's gonna bury me by midnight "
She glanced at her watch: 9:42 p.m. Her heart sank.
"Any chance this place is hiding a mystery I can turn into a documentary?"
Milo chuckled, wiping the counter.
"This dump? Only mystery here is how we stay open with these prices."
Laura's eyes wandered across the bar, her journalist instincts flickering weakly through the fog of fatigue. In the corner, hunched over a wobbly table, was an old man with wild gray hair sticking out like he'd been electrocuted. His fingers gripped a tattered notebook, scribbling furiously while muttering to himself—a jumbled mess of words like
"they hid it" and "nobody sees." His worn-out coat hung off his shoulders, and his eyes darted around, wide and restless, like he was arguing with ghosts.
Laura leaned forward, nudging her glass toward Milo
. "Hey, what's with the old guy in the corner? The one blabbering to his notebook like it's his therapist?"
Milo glanced over, then shrugged, tossing his rag over his shoulder.
"Oh, him? Just some regular. Comes in most nights, scribbles like a maniac, talks to himself. Harmless, but weird. Calls himself 'The Archivist' or something. Don't bother him—he's in his own world."
Laura exhaled heavily,Her brain, usually a sparkplug for stories, felt like a dead battery.
"Yeah, figures," she muttered, taking a long gulp of whiskey. The old guy might've been interesting, but right now, she could barely keep her eyes open, let alone chase some muttering weirdo's secrets. Her deadline loomed, but her body was screaming screw it.
Milo gave her a nod and wandered off to handle a couple of new orders at the other end of the bar, leaving Laura alone with her drink and her thoughts. The jukebox's moody indie track faded into a low hum, blending with the clink of glasses and the old man's faint muttering. Laura's head dipped, her eyelids growing heavier with each sip. The bar's amber glow blurred, the edges of her vision softening.
She propped her elbow on the counter, resting her cheek in her hand, the whiskey glass loosely clutched in her fingers.The old man's muttering faded into the background, and Laura's head drooped onto her arms on the bar counter. Within moments, she was out, her messy hair fanned across the wood, the midnight deadline slipping her mind as sleep took over.
.....
Time slipped away like sand through Laura's fingers. The Rusty Anchor's amber glow blurred into a haze, the clink of glasses and the old man's muttering fading into a distant hum. Laura's head rested on her folded arms, the whiskey glass still loosely clutched, her messy hair spilling across the bar counter. She was out cold, lost in a deep, dreamless sleep, the midnight deadline forgotten.
"Yo, lady! Hey, wake up!" Milo's voice cut through the fog, sharp and insistent. He leaned over the counter, snapping his fingers an inch from her face. "You're drooling on my bar, come on!"
Laura jolted upright, her heart lurching like she'd been electrocuted. Her eyes blinked wildly, struggling to focus as she swiped at a damp spot on her chin. "Wha—what? I'm up, I'm up!" she slurred, her voice thick with sleep. The bar was a ghost town—empty stools, dimmed lights, the jukebox silent. No sign of the old man with his tattered notebook. The air smelled faintly of stale beer and cleaning spray.
Milo crossed his arms, his patchy beard twitching with a half-amused smirk. "It's 12:30 a.m., Sleeping Beauty. You planning to camp out here or what? Need me to drop you home?"
Laura blinked, the words "12:30" hitting her like a slap. "No, I'm—wait, 12:30?!" Her stomach dropped as the realization crashed in—her deadline was over. Midnight had come and gone, and she had nothing. No idea, no pitch, no hope. "Shit, shit, shit!" She scrambled off the stool, nearly tripping over her bag on the floor, and bolted for the door, waving off Milo's offer. "I'm fine, I'm fine, gotta go!"
She stumbled into the cool September night, Bristol's salty breeze carrying a faint chill that prickled her skin. Her car sat crookedly in the lot, a silent witness to her failure. She yanked open the door, grabbed her phone from the charger, and powered it on, her hands shaking.
The screen lit up with a flood of notifications—ten missed calls from John, a string of texts, and one glaring message from Robert, sent at 11:00 p.m.: "Call in 10 minutes if you've got an idea, or you're fired."
Laura's breath caught, her heart hammering. "Shit," she exhaled, the word heavy with defeat. She leaned against the car, the night air wrapping around her like a cold embrace. The city was quiet, streetlights casting long shadows, a soft breeze rustling the leaves along the empty street. She took a deep breath, the air sharp and grounding, and closed her eyes.
Her mind spiraled. All those years… clawing my way up, building the Mystery & Investigation Unit from nothing. Late nights, fake stories, real ones—every risk I took to make it mine. She saw flashes of her past—pitching her first documentary in a cramped meeting room, the thrill of her first viral hit, the pride of leading her team.
She smirked bitterly, muttering, "That smug little gremlin. Hope she chokes on her kale smoothies."
She opened her eyes, ready to slide into the driver's seat and face the wreckage of her career, when a faint noise cut through the quiet—a low, raspy hum from the street. Her head snapped up.
There, under a flickering streetlamp, was a strange old man, his wild gray hair glowing like a halo in the dim light. He shuffled along the sidewalk, clutching a tattered notebook, muttering to himself in a jumbled mess of words, then breaking into a haunting snippet of an old Scottish ballad. Laura squinted, her breath catching as she realized—he was the guy from the bar earlier
"Oh, ye'll take the high road, and I'll take
the low road…" he mumbled
She remembered him—the "Archivist," Milo had called him, blabbering in the bar like a man possessed. She stepped closer, her sneakers scuffing the pavement.
"Hey, uh, sir? You okay?"
He froze, his head snapping toward her, eyes wide and glassy like he was staring through her. "Nae talkin' to strangers, lass!" he snapped, waving a bony hand as if shooing a fly. His voice was rough, like gravel scraped raw, and he turned to shuffle away, resuming his song.
Laura's instincts kicked in, stubbornness overriding her fatigue.
"Wait, hold on!"
she called, jogging to catch up.
"You were in the bar, right? Writing in that notebook? What's your deal?"
He stopped again, his shoulders hunching, and for a moment, she thought he'd bolt. But then he turned, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her freeze.
"Lost it all, did ye?"
he rasped, his voice low and trembling, like her words had cracked something open. "Aye, I know that look. Lost my wee lass to it… to Haceol."
Laura blinked, caught off guard.
"Haceol? "
He chuckled, a dry, broken sound, and leaned closer, his breath sour with whiskey. "The Whisper's Maw, they call it. In Edinburgh's shadows, where the cobbles sing and the streets eat the light. My girl… she went pokin' where she shouldn't, chasin' stories. Swallowed her whole, it did. Folk vanish there—dozens, poof, like mist at dawn. Tourists laugh, call it a ghost tale, but I saw the shadows pull her under. Dinnae go, lass—it's hungerin' still."
His voice cracked, and he trailed off into a hum of that same ballad, his eyes distant. Before Laura could press him, he shuffled off, his notebook clutched tight, his song fading as he melted into the alley's darkness, leaving a single crumpled page fluttering to the ground.
Laura stood frozen, her heart racing. Haceol. The Whisper's Maw. The words sparked a faint memory—she'd heard whispers of that town before, maybe in an old article or a late-night bar story. It felt like a lifeline in the wreckage of her night, real or not, and right now, it was all she had.
Will be continued -