NOTE: The writings in italics take us into Locke's mind and the horrors that are happening there and not the things happening presently in the place.
The town of Graybridge slept through most storms. But at 5:30 in the morning, the streets were already slick with rain, the sky bruised with a quiet, sickly blue that warned more was coming.
The police cruiser rolled through the empty roads, wipers dragging across the windshield with a tired, rhythmic scrape.
Selvis Locke sat in the passenger seat.
His left leg, stiff and almost dead from the old damage, the murder that had lost him everything. Every bump in the road made the muscles in his jaw twitch, but he said nothing. He rarely did at sunrise.
Nathan Holt, young and sharp around the edges, kept his hands firm on the wheel. A constable barely two years into the force, and already pulled into a crime scene most veterans prayed to avoid, especially in Locke's town, Graybridge.
The passerby's call had come first. Almost 5:15 in the morning
Then the confirmation.
Now the town was wide awake.
A gust of wind shoved rain against the hood of the cruiser. Nathan cleared his throat — he always did when things got too quiet beside Locke.
"We're almost there, sir," he said. "Just a minute out."
Locke didn't respond. His eyes followed the thin ribbons of fog sliding across the road like something alive.
Another beat of silence.
Another scrape of the wipers.
Outside, the rain thickened.
Nathan risked a quick glance.
"Uh… just letting you know. They already put up a tent over the scene."
Locke shifted only his eyes toward him.
Nathan continued, "We were expecting rainfall. The forecast warned us. And, uh… even Old Mira said someone would 'sleep with the stones' today."
He gave a humorless exhale. "It's not a surprise to know that she wasn't wrong, sir."
Locke turned back to the window as the cemetery gate emerged through the fog — twisted iron, wet with rain, wide open as if it had been expecting them.
Locke finally spoke, voice low:
"Good. Keep it covered. Until I say otherwise."
Nathan nodded, swallowing.
Ahead, flashing lights painted the morning mist red and blue. Officers moved under the tent like shadows.
And beyond them, somewhere in that fog, the body of John Moris waited...nailed to a name Locke had hoped he'd never hear again.
The cruiser rolled to a slow stop in front of Hollow Pines Cemetery, the iron gate looming like a jaw frozen mid-bite. Rain drummed steadily on the roof, heavier now, turning the gravel path into a dark, shining ribbon.
Nathan killed the engine.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was that of the rain.
Then Nathan took a breath, pushed open his door, and sprinted out into the rain. His boots slapped against wet ground as he ran around the front of the car, an umbrella already unfolding in his hand.
He reached the passenger side, pulled the door open, and snapped the umbrella up over the gap just as the rain intensified.
Locke stepped out slowly — the limp shifting his weight, his left leg stiff and uncooperative. Nathan instinctively angled the umbrella closer, shielding him from the rain as best he could.
The cold morning air wrapped around them.
Locke adjusted his footing, jaw tightening for only a second as he found balance on the uneven ground. Nathan pretended not to notice.
"Careful, sir," he said quietly.
Locke didn't respond. The tent glowed pale through the fog, its edges ghosting under the police lights. Locke didn't look away.
Somewhere under that canvas, a dead man waited.
And a message meant for him.
Nathan kept the umbrella steady as they walked toward the gate, rain whispering against its fabric like fingers tapping for attention.
Locke and Nathan stepped through the iron gate, its hinges groaning under the push of the wind. The cemetery stretched before them—rows of tilting stones, half-lost in fog, rainwater dripping down their faces like tears.
The path was narrow and soft with mud. Locke's limp made each step deliberate, the uneven ground forcing Nathan to slow his pace to stay beside him, umbrella held firm overhead.
Ahead, faint shapes began to materialize.
A cluster of officers stood under the white forensic tent, their uniforms darkened by the rain. Blue tarps glistened under portable lights that hummed faintly, the only sign of electricity in the sleeping graveyard. Forensic techs moved around the scene like ghosts, their plastic suits reflecting thin flashes of light as they photographed, collected, assessed.
From a distance, Locke could already see the body—
John Moris.
Even through rain and fog, Moris's form was unmistakable: slumped unnaturally, one arm pinned in place. But Locke didn't move closer yet. He stopped several feet away, studying the stillness, the arrangement, the way the officers kept glancing at him as if waiting for him to bring order to the wrongness of the scene.
Nathan lowered his voice.
"They're all a bit shaken. No one's seen anything like this here."
Locke said nothing. He didn't need to. The air around the tent felt different—heavy, intentional. The kind of atmosphere that didn't belong to random violence.
One of the forensic officers noticed him and quickly stepped aside, giving him a clear path forward. The murmurs died down. Respect, fear, and expectation all tightened the air.
Locke took another careful step, rainwater collecting in the grooves of old stone at his feet.
The body waited.
John Moris lay sprawled before the tombstones, rainwater slicking his hair and clothes. His right hand was driven through the gravestone with a single, sharp nail, blood streaking down the stone in thin, dark rivulets. The hand seemed almost frozen in place.
A knife protruded from his left lung, its blade slick and cruel, the wound deep and jagged. Yet the officers murmured quietly among themselves — it wasn't immediately clear that the knife had killed him. Traces of a dark liquid on his lips and in his mouth hinted he had drunk something beforehand, something that may have numbed him or worse, forced his body to endure the ritual before death finally claimed him.
His face, pale and wet, was contorted in a silent expression of pain and shock. Every detail of the murder spoke of precision, control, and intent — not rage.
Locke didn't speak. He didn't move closer yet. His eyes scanned the body, noting the ritualistic cruelty of the nail, the timing implied by the fluid, the unnatural stillness.
Locke's gaze lingered on Moris's body, noting the careful cruelty, when a figure approached from under the tent.
Matt Harbor, a seasoned forensic officer with a calm that rarely cracked, moved with deliberate quiet. He stepped beside Locke, glancing at the body but keeping his words low, meant for Locke alone.
"Sir," Matt said softly, "here's what we've got so far." He handed Locke a small, cream-colored cloth, damp from the rain. On it, smeared in dark, glistening blood, was a message:
"For the great Selvis Locke Himself."
Locke's eyes flicked to the note, then back to the body.
Matt didn't break the silence. From his other hand, he extended a cassette tape, wrapped carefully to protect it from the rain.
"The Devil himself has arrived."
Locke took the tape, fingers brushing the cloth, noting how intentional everything felt — the nail, the knife, the drink, the note, the timing. Every piece of the scene screamed a signature.
Matt Harbor signaled to a couple of officers. With careful, precise movements, they shifted Moris's body slightly aside, revealing the tombstone beneath him.
Locke's eyes caught the wet, moss-streaked letters:
ALEXANDER WOLFE
1983 – 2002
A flash of lightning split the clouds above, illuminating the graveyard in stark white. Thunder rolled immediately after, deep and resonant, shaking the fog around them like a warning.
The storm seemed to lean in closer, drumming against the tent and the scattered headstones. For a moment, the cemetery felt alive, watching, waiting.
Locke didn't speak. His jaw tightened as he took in the sight — Wolfe's name carved into stone, a man long dead, and yet everything about this scene screamed that Wolfe's presence had returned in ways Locke wasn't ready for.
Every detail — the nail, the knife, the note, the tape — now carried a weight far heavier than death itself.
The game had begun.
Locke stared at Wolfe's grave, the storm rolling over the cemetery like a living thing. The tape in his hand felt heavier than the rain-soaked cloth, heavier than the corpse itself.
Finally, he spoke, voice low, measured.
"Nathan," he said, eyes still fixed on the tombstone, "I need you."
Nathan stepped closer, bracing the umbrella against the wind. "Sir?"
"We're going to see Old Mira," Locke continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now."
Nathan hesitated and nodded.
Selvis hadn't seen Old Mira in years. Especially, after her prediction of Selvis holding his heart in his hand and dying, came wrong. And now, for some reason, her prediction might've been true but delayed, for death had just arrived.
Thunder rattled in the distance. And in that charged silence, Locke's gaze lingered on the grave one last time before turning toward the road leading out of Hollow Pines Cemetery.
The drive took only a few minutes, but it felt longer. Neither Nathan nor Locke spoke. The wipers pushed the rain aside in tired sweeps, and the storm trailed them like an unwelcome passenger.
Old Mira's house sat at the edge of Hollow Pines — a leaning wooden structure with creeping ivy and a wind-chime made of bones and rusted keys. People in town said her predictions were never wrong. Every fire, every sickness, every missing child — she had foreseen them all.
Except one.
Except the day she prophesied Selvis Locke's death.
He hadn't come back since.
Nathan killed the engine. Rain drizzled harder now, splashing cold against their faces as they stepped out. They passed through the squeaking iron gate, the hinges trembling with the wind. Locke paused at the door, raising a hand to knock—
Before he touched it, the door creaked open on its own.
A sliver of dim, amber light spilled out.
They exchanged a look — hesitation, unease — before stepping inside.
The room wasn't fully lit, but not dark either. Shadows curled around shelves stacked with brittle books. Old furniture sagged with age. The faint smell of herbs and tobacco clung to the air. And there she was — Old Mira — sitting on a cushioned chair that looked older than the house itself, her eyes sharp despite the years.
Locke dragged a wooden chair across the floor and sat opposite her. Without a word, he pulled the cream-colored cloth from his coat and flicked it onto her lap.
Her fingers traced the dried blood. She didn't blink.
"Wolfe has come back, hasn't he?" she said.
Locke leaned back, jaw tightening. "Should've buried him long back."
Nathan shifted behind him, a small involuntary reaction — confusion, fear, maybe both.
Mira's gaze drifted to the cassette in Locke's hand. "What's with the cassette?"
"Left it for me," Locke replied. "Still wondering what Moris had to do with him."
Mira nodded once. She lit a cigar, took a slow drag, and said, "Go on then… let the relic speak."
Locke rose without a word, the floorboards groaning under his weight as he crossed the room. He placed the cassette into Old Mira's battered player, pressed the button, and stepped away — moving toward the window where the rain streaked the glass in trembling lines.
The machine whirred.
A low hum filled the room.
THE TAPE (Broken Audio Format)
(Transcript reconstruction)
[00:03] whirr… static…
Wolfe: "Tell me, officer… have you ever wondered what it means to bury yourself while still breathing?"
[00:09]
Unidentified Voice: "You're not making sense."
[00:11]
Wolfe: "That's what Locke said once." [distorted chuckle]
[00:18]
Wolfe: "He believes in justice…I believe in balance. Both kill, just in different uniforms."
[00:26]
Unidentified Voice: "What are you planning?"
[00:28]
Wolfe (warped, broken): "Nothing. I already did."
— high screech of tape twisting — static —
[00:34]
Wolfe: "Tell Locke… that death no longer hides in stories and that the curses are awake."
[00:39]
Wolfe (final line, half-static):
"And when the final game begins… his name will be carved beside mine."
— tape stops with a hollow click —
Silence folded into the little room.
Locke closed his eyes.
And once again, he was back in that forest… standing before the same body he had killed almost thirty years ago. The place where everything began. Where the division—L.O.C.K.E.—was born. Where every horror Graybridge had ever witnessed could be traced back to one man: Selvis Locke.
Behind him, the sun dipped away. Darkness gathered.
"Told you I'd be back," a voice murmured.
He turned. No one. Only the grave of Alexander Wolfe.
Then—pain. A sudden, vicious stab in his back. He staggered forward as Alexander Wolfe rose behind him, gripping Locke by the throat, dragging him close.
"This time," Wolfe whispered, his voice cold and alive, "I AM GOING TO BURY YOU...PROPERLY."
Locke snapped awake with a violent gasp. His walking stick slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor as he clutched the nearby chair, trying to steady his breath.
Behind him, Nathan stiffened, fear flickering across his face as if something unseen had stepped inside with the recording. Old Mira closed her eyes and exhaled, her shoulders sinking under a weight she had hoped never to feel again.
Locke's fists tightened until his knuckles paled.
Outside, lightning tore open the sky — a violent flash illuminating his reflection in the rain-soaked glass.
The storm had finally found him.
To be continued in...
L.O.C.K.E.-D: The Wolfe's Story