— The Dispute Over Eight Thousand —
Victor, Daniel, and a heavyset, dark-skinned man were waiting for us in the lobby.
"Mr. Arcturus, this is Dick. He supervised the construction at the film city," Victor introduced.
"Mr. Arcturus." Dick gave a polite, tight-lipped smile as he shook my hand.
We moved to a meeting room. Once seated, Victor spoke first. "Daniel and my other partner have no real enemies. Any friction they've had is minor—certainly nothing that would provoke a retaliation like this."
"You said you had a lead. What is it?" I asked, cutting to the chase.
"Dick, you should explain," Victor said.
Dick cleared his throat. "Right. One of our carpenters wanted his pay early. Said it was a family emergency. But our policy is to settle after the entire project is finished. I had to refuse."
"And then?"
"He made a scene. Came back a few times, caused a disturbance. We ignored him, and eventually he left." Dick's gaze shifted slightly as he spoke.
I kept my eyes on him. "Did you lay hands on him?"
"He damaged property first. My guys just shoved him a bit—told him to leave and stop making trouble. It wasn't a beating."
"Did he say anything when he left?"
"Oh, he cursed us out. Threw down a threat."
"What threat?"
"Said... we'd regret it. That he'd make us pay." Dick's voice tightened with anger. "People say things when they're mad. Who knew the bastard would go this far?"
I studied the faces in the room. Daniel's expression held a faint unease.
"Daniel," I asked directly, "did you know about this?"
He looked up, startled. "No. I'm hearing it now for the first time."
His eyes flicked away just a moment too late. I nodded slowly, filing the reaction away.
"Mr. Hale, Mr. Mercer—I'm sorry. If I'd known he'd pull something like this, I would've handled his pay differently," Dick added quickly.
"It's not your fault, Dick. Don't blame yourself," Victor said generously, then turned to me. "Mr. Arcturus, do you think the carpenter is behind this?"
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I asked Dick, "What did he say he needed the money for?"
"Said his mother was sick. Needed it for her treatment. But the guy had shifty eyes—I figured it was just an excuse.Probably had other reasons."
"How much?"
"A little over eight thousand. He'd been on the job for just over a month."
I fell silent, turning the details over in my mind.
After a minute, Victor pressed again. "Mr. Arcturus, do you think it's him?"
I still didn't answer right away. A term surfaced in my thoughts: "Ghost Craftsman." A specialized woodworker who created funerary objects, coffins among them. Those with deeper cultivation could even commune with the dead.
After a moment's consideration, I said, "Take me to see him tomorrow. I'll know better face to face. You have his address?"
"Yes. Fraser, the man who referred him, is from the same village," Dick said.
---
— Ghost-Fence Gate —
Early the next morning, Victor arrived with Dick and a man in his fifties named Fraser, also a carpenter.
Fraser was smooth and quick with words. "Mr. Arcturus, I've heard so much about you. It's an honor."
I dislike empty pleasantries and responded with only a brief nod. He offered an awkward smile in return.
"Mr. Arcturus, I brought eight men. Will that be enough? I can call for more." Victor gestured toward a van packed with burly young men.
I sighed inwardly. What was Victor thinking? "We don't need a crowd. We're not going to fight—just to talk. Send them back. The few of us will go."
"But—"
"But what ?" Jasper cut Victor off. "Do as Mr. Arcturus says. If it comes to a fight, I'll handle it." He thumped his chest with gusto.
"Right, of course." Victor waved the van away.
During the drive, Fraser explained that the man in question was named Elias Rowan, around forty, unmarried. He was skilled, so Fraser often hired him for woodwork. This whole situation clearly troubled him.
I asked how well Fraser knew Elias.
"Not well. He'd finish the job, take his pay, and leave. Never stayed to talk."
Two hours later, we passed through a small town and entered a remote mountain village.
The car stopped at the village entrance. "I picked him up here once, but I don't know which house is his. Let me ask," Fraser said.
A man on a motorcycle approached. Fraser stopped him. "Excuse me, could you direct us to Elias Rowan's home?"
"Looking for Elias for furniture? You've come to the right place. He does good work, charges fair. A bit odd, but his craft is solid." The villager was helpful.
"Odd in what way?" I stepped out of the car and asked.
The man adjusted his seat. "Keeps to himself. Hardly talks to anyone. When his mother passed recently, the village offered to help with the funeral. He refused. No rites, no ceremony—just took her up the mountain and buried her. We knew he was poor, but... not even a proper send-off." He shook his head, then pointed down the road. "Follow this path all the way to the end. You'll see his place."
We drove to the path's end, parked, and continued on foot up a stone stairway. A dilapidated shack came into view—no more than fifty square meters.
"This is it. I recognize that patched jacket on the line," Fraser said, pointing.
"No wonder he turned to forbidden methods—cornered and broke. When I get my hands on that bastard..." Dick, still nursing his grudge, stormed ahead. He took two steps, then froze.
"Something's got my foot!" He looked down and let out a sharp cry.
We all looked, but the ground beneath him appeared empty.
"What's wrong, Dick?" Victor asked urgently.
"A hand! It's gripping my ankle!" Dick panicked, trying to pull free.
"Don't move!" I commanded.
He went rigid, eyes wide with fear. "Mr. Arcturus, what is this?"
"Stay still if you want to live." I approached. The soil under his boot was loose.
About thirty centimeters from his foot, I noticed another patch of freshly turned earth. I found a stick, scraped away the soil, and within ten centimeters, uncovered a small rectangular wooden block.
It was only two fingers wide, but carved into its surface was a grotesque, gripping hand—so lifelike it seemed ready to move.
"Mr. Arcturus, what is that?" Victor asked, stepping closer.
"A Ghost-Fence Gate."
"A Ghost-Fence Gate? I've heard of ghost-blocked roads and ghost-stopped cars, but this... Elias is capable of this?" Fraser muttered, astonished.
"Mr. Arcturus, what do I do? Can I step back?" Dick pleaded.
"No. Stepping forward would kill you. Stepping back would let the specter attach to you, haunting you until your death." Elias had anticipated our visit and laid this trap.
Dick paled. "That snake... killing without a trace. I'll finish him when I find him."
"Finish him? You're barely hanging on. He has countless ways to end you before you even get close. You're no match for his methods." By now, I was certain: Elias was a Ghost Craftsman.
"What do I do then, Mr. Arcturus? Please, help me!" Dick begged.
I didn't answer, focusing on the carved hand in the pit. "Does anyone have a lighter and paper?"
The driver quickly retrieved a lighter and an old book from the car. I tore out a page, lit it, and dropped it into the hole. Soon, the wooden sizzled, releasing a sound that didn't belong to dead things.
When the paper turned to ash, the wood was charred black.
"It's gone! The hand's gone! Can I move my foot now?" Dick exclaimed.
"Yes."
He yanked his foot back, cursing under his breath.
"What now, Mr. Arcturus? Should we go inside?" Victor asked nervously, his eyes scanning the ground.
I shook my head. "He's not here. If he set this, he knew we were coming. He's already gone."
"If he fled," Dick growled, "how do we track someone who doesn't want to be found?"
I didn't answer. Someone like Elias never truly ran—he repositioned.