The constables stepped aside as Adrian and Greaves moved deeper into the narrow room. The gaslamps hissed faintly, their glow swallowed by the fog that had somehow seeped indoors.
Adrian's eyes kept coming back to the silhouette burned into the plaster — arms raised, mouth wide, as if the victim had been screaming at something only they could see. The edges were so crisp it looked painted, but the smell of scorched lime in the air told him otherwise.
"Name?" Adrian asked.
"Charles Wren," Greaves replied, flipping open a notebook. "Dockworker. Forty-three. Lived alone. No family left in Brackensport."
Adrian crouched, scanning the floor. No blood. No sign of forced entry. Just that impossible shadow. "And the body?"
"Gone," Greaves said, voice low. "Like the last two. Not a trace. Just this." He gestured at the wall. "And witnesses say the fog was so thick outside they could barely see their hands."
Adrian ran his fingers along the edge of the silhouette. The plaster was brittle, charred, flaking at his touch. Something about the outline — the way the head was tilted, the angle of the fingers — unsettled him more than the fact there was no corpse.
"Who found him?" Adrian asked.
Greaves nodded toward the doorway. A young constable stepped forward, hat in hand. "Mrs. Calder from the tavern across the street. Said she heard… a sort of humming. Came to check and saw the door open. The fog was pouring out."
Adrian stood. "I want to talk to her."
They found Mrs. Calder leaning against the bar in the tavern, a cigarette dangling from her painted lips. She had the kind of eyes that looked like they'd seen too much and cared too little. Her dress was black silk, clinging in the right places, the neckline dipping low enough to make Adrian notice despite himself.
"You're the detective?" she said, exhaling smoke in a slow curl.
"Something like that," Adrian replied, sliding onto the stool beside her.
She smirked, tapping ash into a chipped glass. "I told the policeman already. There was this sound, like someone humming an old lullaby. Then the fog came — thicker than I've ever seen it. I crossed the street and looked inside…" She paused, eyes darkening. "And I saw her."
Adrian's pulse quickened. "Describe her."
"Tall. Thin. All in white. Face covered with a veil." She shivered, but her voice stayed steady. "And she wasn't walking like normal. She was… drifting."
Greaves, standing behind Adrian, shifted uncomfortably.
"What happened next?" Adrian asked.
Mrs. Calder's gaze met his, unblinking. "She turned her head toward me. And I swear, detective, even with the veil I could feel her smile. That's when the man screamed."
Adrian let the silence sit for a moment. Somewhere outside, a foghorn groaned, low and mournful.
When they left the tavern, the fog had thickened again, curling around their legs.
Greaves muttered, "Three in three weeks. If we don't find her, there'll be a fourth before the month's out."
Adrian glanced down the street — and froze.
Through the mist, a figure stood at the far end of Hollow Street. White veil. Motionless. Watching.
When Adrian blinked, she was gone.