The orange sky hung low over the old houses like an unfinished, gloomy painting. Fog crept slowly across the front yard, then seeped through the gaps in the grass and the teak steps. The cold air pierced the skin even though the sun had not yet set.
Inside the house, the atmosphere was not much different. The curtains were still open, allowing the gray light to slowly seep into the living room. Mocca sat alone in the living room with her laptop on her lap. She adjusted her slightly crooked anti-radiation glasses. The light from the screen reflected a faint shadow on her face, which looked curious and focused.
Her fingers moved the cursor slowly. She opened several websites and articles, any digital notes related to Duskvale. She read every word carefully so as not to miss a single statement. About the history of this city, unsolved cases, and about that institution.
The silence was broken by the creaking of the front door. Mocca turned her head abruptly. A second later, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her father entered, looking tired, wearing a slightly wrinkled work jacket. He was clutching a folder of documents under his arm. He walked over to his beloved daughter. The man's gaze immediately fell on Mocca, who was busy with her laptop.
"How's the internet?" Khan looked at his daughter's laptop screen, which only had a few dots.
"Still rubbish. But I'm grateful, at least it's useful tonight. I even saved 10 times more data because I rarely use it," said Mocca, starting to chatter.
"I'm grateful we can save money," Khan smiled happily, making Mocca snort in displeasure.
"Have you eaten?" asked Khan as he took off his jacket.
"Yes. How about you?" replied Mocca, slowly closing his laptop.
"Not yet."
"I'll fry some eggs later." Khan put his folder on the table and sat down in the chair opposite him, sighing deeply, his expression looking tired. His eye bags were dark, clearly showing that he hadn't slept well. It felt like something had been riding on his back all day.
"So? How was your trip around your new neighborhood? Do you have anything interesting to tell me?" Khan asked Mocca. The girl, who had been sitting cross-legged, placed her laptop on the table and adjusted her position so she could face her father.
"Okay! So today I explored Duskvale. It turns out Duskvale is a really strange city. At first I saw a statue near the city gate, but the statue had a strange face," Mocca began to explain with a serious face, but it made Khan happy. He liked his talkative daughter better than having to watch her mope around all day.
"I know that statue. It's an old statue. It was there before this city was built. It's only natural that it's been destroyed by age," said Khan.
"No, Dad. Milky said that according to legend, the statue's face was stolen," said Mocca.
"And I saw a church that was tightly chained shut. I mean, don't people worship here? Or is there another church?" she continued.
"Yes, I know. The structure inside is fragile, so they decided to close the church before it claimed any lives," Khan replied casually.
"Then? What else?" Khan asked again.
"Then we went to the Eastfield institution, which was like a terrifying Dracula castle. There was a closed-off part of the building that was not worthy of being called an elite academy. And I was offered admission directly by the supervisor," Mocca continued to explain her day.
"Are you interested in continuing your education?"
Silence.
The clock on the wall in the corner ticked once, filling the void between them. Khan massaged his head and sighed softly. He looked at his daughter. Not with anger, but with the caution of a father who had lost too much. "I know it sounds impulsive," Mocca continued softly. "I mean, honestly, I'm a little lonely and bored, Dad."
Khan stared at Mocca's face for a long time. "I still remember two years ago, there was a girl who flatly refused my offer to continue her education at the best university in the city center. Then what is this?" He demanded an explanation from his son.
"Dad, I was still a child back then. Now I'm twenty years old. I'm lonely here, Dad. You always leave me alone. Back then, in the city center, of course I would have fun if you left. But now? What will I do, Dad?" Mocca asked whiningly.
Khan sighed softly, "You know, if you want to, just do what you want. But are you sure about that place? I think it's a closed institution," said Khan.
"Dad, you know I'll never feel at peace if I just stay here."
"That's the problem. I'm afraid you won't be able to stay still and will cause more trouble," Khan argued, making Mocca snort in annoyance.
"When will I ever be independent if Daddy keeps restraining me!" she grumbled with a pout. Her eyebrows were sharply arched.
"No one is restraining you, Monica! Remember the last time I let you out of my sight? I almost lost you." Khan called Mocca by her real name, showing that he was serious.
"It's Daddy's fault for bringing me to this outdated place!" Mocca retorted, not wanting to be outdone. Selfishness took over her.
"Monica, you immediately agreed and smiled happily when I asked you to move."
"Daddy didn't explain that this place is strange. I didn't know it was such an uninteresting and quiet town! If I had known, I would have preferred to live alone there!" Mocca replied, not wanting to be outdone.
"Rather than let you live alone in Luxendale, I'd rather lock you up in Duskvale!"
"At least I'll be safe there."
"What do you mean, safe? Nothing is different here or there. Crime exists everywhere as long as there is opportunity. You are the child of a police officer, and many enemies dislike me. If they knew that the child of their enemy was living alone in Luxendale, what would happen?"
"You're annoying!" Mocca went upstairs to her room, leaving Khan alone in the living room.
"She's stubborn, just like her mother," he muttered softly. He took his documents and left the house for the police station. Not wanting to get caught up in his child's quarrel, he chose to spend his time at work.
The rain was still falling on the city of Duskvale since Khan left the house. The glass windows in the investigation room were covered with condensation, and the sound of dripping water blended with the ticking of the clock on the wall. The lights on the ceiling flickered, their light not very bright, adding to the gloomy atmosphere in the narrow and old police office.
Khan Abraham sat with his hands on the table covered with documents, notes, and many photos of the victims. His gaze was fixed on one archival document. He read it carefully, as if he didn't want to miss a single word of its contents. Across from him, Arthur Renn—a renowned detective from the same city—sat with his back straight, his hands supporting a cup of hot coffee for him to drink.
"This is the twenty-first victim." Khan closed one of the files and showed a photo of a woman's body. "She was 28 years old, still young. She suddenly disappeared and was found on the street, lifeless. According to witnesses, the street lights went out before the body was found."
Arthur nodded slowly. "The pattern repeated itself until the twenty-fifth victim. It's like a ritual."
Khan glanced at him briefly. "Don't start with that ritual again. I've heard enough from residents who still believe in old wives' tales."
Arthur chose not to answer. He handed over an old file, a folder labeled 1997. The folder was dull and worn, the edges peeling off. Khan opened it carefully. He read page after page, until he reached the last page. The last page contained several rough sketches, their shapes almost unrecognizable. Circles? Triangles? A party? A hill? He squinted to read the black ink writing in the corner of the sketch paper.
They want us, all of us.
"It's unproven. This document is from 1997. The DaVelle terror has only been going on for the last 6 years," said Khan in response to the contents of the document. Arthur stared at him intently. "This is an eyewitness account."
Khan turned his face away, not wanting to admit that the sketches made his skin crawl. He turned to open another folder containing ballistic reports and a plastic bag containing bullet fragments.
"Caliber 22," he said, showing the bullet to Arthur. "But the engraving on this is not a normal bullet. Look."
Arthur took the tweezers and held it up to the light. At the tip of the bullet was a circular engraving with a cross, like the symbol of an eye in a triangle. It was a symbol that was familiar to Arthur, but one he could never explain rationally.
"This symbol was also found on the remains of a burned door twenty years ago," Arthur muttered. "At the site of their ritual."
Khan leaned back in his chair. "A cult. A ritual. Fog. It's all like the plot of a detective story from an old novel."
Arthur was not offended. He just shook his head slowly. "You may not believe it. But it all started as a joke, until someone actually got shot."
Khan stared at the map of Duskvale covered in red dots. His face began to tense. "So you don't think this is a random murder? But part of something?"
Arthur took an additional file and placed it on the table. "The last eyewitness report. An old man, a gravedigger. He said he saw a shadow standing on an old grave, holding something like a book. But as soon as he approached, the figure disappeared—and in the same place, the guard dogs always barked for no reason."
Khan snorted again, but his voice began to lose its conviction. He stared at the photo of the last victim. "So who are we dealing with, Arthur?"
Arthur stared at him for a long time. "Not who. But what."
Silence reigned in the room again. Outside, lightning flashed far away on the hill.
Khan finally spoke softly. "Whatever it is, I'll stop it." Arthur nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the red dot on the map. "Hope you don't say that too soon."
★★★
The night was growing cold. Raindrops still fell slowly on the roof of the house, a monotonous sound accompanying the old house as it breathed in the dark. Mocca sat on the edge of the bed, wearing soft-colored wool pajamas. Her hair was still wet, tied up with a plastic clip. The table lamp illuminated the room with a warm golden light, but it wasn't enough to dispel all the shadows lurking in the corners of the room.
Mocca stared at the small suitcase in the corner of the room, half open. Inside, several items of clothing were neatly arranged for tomorrow, her second visit to Eastfield. She didn't know what to expect from the place. Would it be like the art school she had seen in the previous city? Or would it be more... closed off, like the impression that had stuck in her mind since meeting a man named Arlan yesterday?
Mocca stood up, walked to the chair, and began sorting through the clothes with calm hands but restless eyes. A white shirt, a sky blue sweater, or a beige jacket with black pants?
"Formal but not flashy," she muttered to herself. "Smart but not pretentious."
She chose the blue sweater and a simple gray skirt. She smiled slightly, then spread them out on the bed. But as she was about to slip a white T-shirt under the sweater, her hand touched something.
Paper.
She furrowed her brow. A small fold, like a memo. She didn't remember putting anything there. With her heart beating a little faster, Mocca opened the fold. Old paper. The scent of a long-closed wooden cabinet wafted from the folds. And the writing—not handwriting, but letters from an old typewriter, printed firmly and tightly.
"Be careful of the man with old boots. He never walks alone."
Mocca's breath froze in her throat. She stared at the sheet in silence for a long time, before finally turning slowly to look around the room. The lights were still on. The curtains were tightly closed. The door was still locked. She knew no one had entered her room today. Since returning from her afternoon walk with Milky, she had only briefly seen her father, and had spent most of her time locked in her room. Her hands trembled as she turned the paper over, but the back page was blank. There was no signature. No time, no sender's name. But... how did that paper get inside her shirt?
She sat on the bed, staring at the small piece of paper for a long time. The sound of rain continued to fall softly outside, but now it sounded like a faint whisper from uncharted territory. Her thoughts flashed to Arlan. The way he had suddenly appeared in the narrow hallway that day. His heavy boots stepping silently. His words that never gave a direct answer, only circling like a riddle.
Mocca took a small notebook from the drawer. She slipped the paper between the blank pages, then wrote today's date on it. She didn't know if the note was a threat or an invitation. But she was sure of one thing—something was watching her.
As Mocca was about to close the notebook, a soft knock sounded from the back wall. Not the door. Not the window. The wall.
Knock.
Mocca was silent. Then she stood up slowly and pressed her ear against the old wood that separated her room from the small, unused attic. There was no sound. Only silence. She took a deep breath, turned on a small flashlight from the drawer, and walked to the corner of the room. There, there was a small ventilation hole that led into the narrow attic. She peeked inside.
Dark.
Empty.
But as Mocca turned to go back to bed, she saw something on the floor near her bed. A footprint. Not hers. Wet, as if it had just been stepped on from outside. She didn't scream. She just stood frozen, her body slowly tensing. But there was no one there. Only the room, the rain, and an old note waiting to be read again.