"What was that, Elara? Did you say something?" Miller's voice cut through the ringing in Elara's ears. He was looking at her, his expression now hard, like stone. The younger officer by the door shifted, his eyes darting between Elara and the detective, clearly sensing the sudden, sharp change in the room's feeling.
Elara shook her head, her eyes wide, still staring at the empty space beside Miller where the voice had seemed to come from. The memory, sharp and vivid, of the crimson swing, burned behind her eyelids. It wasn't just red paint; it was soaked in something dark and thick. And the child's voice, calling her name – Elara. It's time to play. It had been so clear, so real, not like the usual whispers.
"No," she managed, her throat tight. "Just... thinking out loud." She tried to force a small, dismissive shrug, but her shoulders felt stiff, unwilling to move. The locket in her pocket throbbed, a frantic, desperate pulse against her skin. It felt like it was trying to tell her something, or maybe just mirroring her own terror. The crimson mark on her palm felt hot, a silent burning against the inside of her hand.
Miller didn't look convinced. He studied her for a long moment, his eyes searching, probing, trying to find the truth in her face. "You seem a little shaken, Elara. That drawing bothering you?" He gestured to the tablet, still displaying the child's crude but terrifying image of the crimson playground.
Elara forced herself to look at the drawing again. It was a child's nightmare made real. The twisted slide, the broken swings, the angry red ground. And that small, shadowy figure in the background. It was too much like the image from the email. Too much like the flashes in her own mind.
"It's just... unsettling," Elara said, choosing her words carefully. "A child drawing something like that. It's disturbing." She tried to sound concerned for the child, to shift the focus away from herself, to play the role of the worried citizen.
"Disturbing, yes," Miller agreed, his voice flat. "Especially when it matches your own nightmares so closely. And when the child whispered your name." He leaned back in his chair, watching her. "Tell me, Elara. What do you know about this 'Crimson Playground'?" His tone was no longer accusatory, but demanding, a desperate need for answers.
The hum in her head was back, a low, buzzing sound that made her teeth ache. It was trying to tell her something, or maybe just warn her. She gripped her hands under the table, her fingernails digging into her palms. She couldn't tell him about the email yet. Not now. It would only make her look more guilty, more involved, a madwoman talking about impossible things.
"I don't know anything about it, Detective," Elara insisted, her voice firm, despite the tremor in her hands. "I've never been to a place like that. I've never heard that name before this morning." She was lying, and she knew he knew it. The words felt like ash in her mouth, tasting bitter and hollow.
Miller sighed, a sound of deep frustration. "Elara, we're trying to help you. Or, at the very least, understand what's happening. People are vanishing. And everything points back to that night, years ago, when your family disappeared. And now, to you."
He picked up the locket from the table, the one they claimed was her grandmother's. He held it up, letting the harsh overhead light glint off its tarnished silver. "This locket. Found at the fire scene. Found at Marcus Thorne's house. It's a connection, Elara. A very strong one."
Elara stared at the locket in his hand. It looked exactly like the one in her pocket. The details were so precise, the pattern of vines identical. How could there be two? And why did the one in her pocket feel so... alive? So much a part of her?
"I don't know what to tell you, Detective," Elara said, her voice strained, pulled thin like a wire. "I lost my grandmother's locket years ago. I have no idea how it ended up at these places."
Miller put the locket back down on the table, sliding it slightly closer to her. "Think, Elara. Think about that night. The fire. What did you see? What did you hear?" His voice was softer now, almost coaxing, like he was trying to lead her through a dark maze. "Sometimes, the mind blocks out things to protect itself. But sometimes, those things come back. Especially when something triggers them."
He was trying to get her to remember. To break through the wall she had built around that night. And the hum in her head, the whispers, they were trying to do the same thing. They were pushing against the wall, trying to tear it down, piece by painful piece.
A new wave of images flashed through her mind, quicker this time, more fragmented. Not just the crimson swing, but a distorted reflection in a puddle, a fleeting shadow that moved too fast, too unnaturally, like something inhuman. The scent of burning wood mixed with that chilling metal smell. And the sound of laughter, high-pitched and cruel, coming from somewhere beyond the flames, a sound that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
Elara gasped, a small, sharp sound. She pressed her hands against her temples, trying to push the images away, to force them back into the dark corners of her mind. "It's just... noise," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Just static."
"Static?" Miller asked, his eyes narrowing again, a flicker of something new in his gaze. "What kind of static, Elara?"
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a fear she couldn't hide anymore. The crimson mark on her palm felt like it was burning, a raw heat that matched the panic spreading through her. "The kind that hums in your head. The kind that whispers things you don't want to hear. The kind that smells like blood and rust." The words tumbled out before she could stop them, raw and uncontrolled, a torrent of impossible truth.
Miller leaned forward again, his expression now a mix of deep concern and intense, almost desperate curiosity. "You hear whispers, Elara? Since when?"
She bit her lip, regretting her outburst. She'd given too much away. But it was too late to take it back. "Since the incident," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper, a ghost of her former self. "Always. Just... background noise. Until now."
"And what are they saying now?" Miller pressed, his voice low and urgent, a deep rumbling that seemed to vibrate in her chest.
Elara hesitated, looking at the drawing of the crimson playground, then at the locket on the table. She thought of the email on her phone, the one that had welcomed her to the playground. The game. She was in it. And the rules were becoming terrifyingly clear, written in unseen ink on the air around them.
"They're saying," Elara began, her voice gaining a strange, cold strength, a resolve born of fear, "that it's time to play." She looked directly into Miller's eyes, her gaze unflinching, no longer afraid of what he would think. "And I think someone just made me a player, Detective. Whether I wanted to be or not."
Miller stared at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, a dawning horror. He picked up the locket from the table again, turning it over in his fingers, as if it held the answers to a question he couldn't even form. "You think this is some kind of game, Elara?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief, but also a hint of something else, something that sounded like dawning understanding, a chilling realization that mirrored her own.
"I don't think," Elara said, a grim certainty settling over her, heavy and unshakeable. "I know. And I think the rules are about to get very, very bloody." The locket in her pocket seemed to vibrate in agreement, a silent, chilling confirmation of her words. The hum in her head, for the first time, felt less like static and more like a twisted invitation, a call to a game she never asked to join.