The alley was narrow, slick with rain, and suffocatingly dark.
A man—disheveled, breathless, and bleeding—stumbled through the winding path between crumbling brick walls. His left arm hung limp, blood dripping steadily from a deep gash along his shoulder. His coat was torn. Mud clung to his boots, and his every step splashed water across the stone.
The rain had begun only moments ago, a cold, sharp downpour that blurred the city's lamplight and turned the alley into a maze of shadows and reflections.
He ran anyway.
Tripping past an overturned trash can, he darted deeper into the labyrinth. The sound of his own heartbeat drowned out everything else. He could hear nothing but the desperate slap of his feet against the pavement, the frantic rasp of his own breath, the sharp, cutting cold in his lungs.
Then—he slipped.
His foot caught on something—wood, rope, metal, he didn't know—and he fell hard. His body hit the ground with a wet, sick thud, the impact jolting pain through his wounded arm.
He tried to get up.
Tried to crawl.
Then he froze.
Tap… tap… tap…
Footsteps.
Deliberate. Calm. Getting closer.
He turned his head slowly, mouth trembling. The puddle beneath him reflected a silhouette—tall, broad-shouldered, the face hidden in shadow.
"P-Please," the man gasped. His voice cracked. "Please don't kill me. I—I didn't mean to—just have mercy, please…"
Then came the sound.
A deep, wet scraping.
A hand—no, not a hand. A clawed limb, two times the size of any human's, pale and sinewed, slid out from the darkness.
It grabbed his leg.
He screamed.
The creature dragged him back—into the shadows, behind the bins, behind the crumbling wall, into whatever was waiting in the dark.
The scream cut off as suddenly as it started.
Then, silence.
Just the soft sound of rain, falling steadily over a blood-slick alley.
Time skip.
The morning sunlight filtered weakly through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow across Arsa's modest apartment. He stirred with a groan, lifting himself from bed with his usual drowsy reluctance. His long greenish-gray hair clung slightly to his cheeks as he sat up, blinking the sleep from his pale eyes.
Without a word, he stood and began his morning routine.
First, he folded his bedsheets with tidy efficiency, fluffing up the pillow Jenkins had begrudgingly given him last week. Then he swept the floor, gathered up his clothes from the previous night, and set them in a pail for washing. The sound of water sloshing and the scent of simple soap soon filled the apartment as he scrubbed and rinsed the garments with practiced care.
After hanging his freshly washed clothes out on the narrow balcony to dry, Arsa leaned against the railing, wiping his damp hands on his trousers. The morning breeze brushed through his slightly messy hair. He glanced up at the gray clouds above and down at the glistening cobblestone street below.
"The road's still wet," he muttered to himself. "Looks like it rained last night."
He turned back inside, his bare feet quiet on the wooden floor. A simple breakfast followed—bread slightly hardened from age and a bowl of warm soup. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
Afterward, he dressed in his detective uniform: white button shirt, black waistcoat, long frock coat worn open, string bow tie pinned with a blue crystal, and polished black shoes. He placed the black top hat on his head and slipped on his white gloves, adjusting the cane with the silver handle under his arm.
Opening the door, he stepped out and locked it behind him, descending the narrow stairs of the apartment building.
On the ground floor stood Mrs. Anna Waywind, the landlady—a young woman with shoulder-length green hair tied back in a ribbon, and striking yellow eyes that always seemed to gleam with quiet amusement. Her younger twin siblings, Evaline and John, played near the stair railing, their hair matching hers in color and their faces glowing with youthful mischief.
"Good morning, Mr. Ashrith!" both twins chirped in unison.
Arsa smiled faintly and pulled two wrapped chocolates from his coat pocket. "For you two. Don't fight over them this time."
"Thank you!" they beamed, grabbing the sweets with eager hands.
Then Evaline tilted her head innocently and asked, "Will you marry our big sister?"
John nodded with excitement. "Yeah! You're perfect for her! You even look like a pretty lady!"
Arsa froze mid-step, and his face flushed a faint pink. Anna, who had been calmly sweeping the floor nearby, turned scarlet and let out a small, embarrassed cough.
"Ahem! I-I told you not to say strange things to tenants!" she scolded gently, though her flustered expression betrayed her embarrassment.
Arsa quickly handed her his monthly rent with a quiet, "Here you go, Miss Waywind," before escaping through the door with a polite, "Have a good day."
Outside, the air still held the damp scent of rain. He had barely taken three steps when he spotted a familiar figure beside a black carriage.
"Late again, Mr. Ashrith," said Argus Jenkins, arms crossed.
Jenkins, always stern and composed, wore his usual gray-toned outfit and top hat, brass-colored eyes watching Arsa beneath furrowed brows. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place.
"My apologies," Arsa said, voice flat but respectful. He climbed into the carriage, sitting opposite his superior.
Jenkins gave a signal to the driver.
The carriage creaked into motion, rolling along the wet cobbled street.
Their destination: the Eastbank district.
Specifically, Lord Mervyn's estate.
The carriage rumbled through the rain-slick streets of Eastbank, the wealthy side of the city where cobblestones were polished by the hooves of well-fed horses and the wheels of carriages never slowed for beggars. As they passed ornate wrought-iron fences and rose-covered walls, Arsa rested his chin on his gloved hand, eyes watching the grand buildings roll by.
After several minutes, the carriage pulled up before a wide gate guarded by two men in navy uniforms. A quick word from Jenkins and a flash of his identification got them through. The iron gate creaked open slowly.
Lord Mervyn's estate loomed beyond.
It was a massive, three-story mansion built of pale limestone, with tall, arched windows and pointed gables. Ivy crept along one side of the building, and a trio of marble statues stood at the front steps like sentinels. The surrounding garden was meticulously maintained, though the cloudy sky and damp air lent it a melancholic air.
The moment they stepped out of the carriage, a servant opened the door to the estate and led them into the entrance hall. The floor was black and white marble, polished to a shine. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, its light refracted through glass like cold stars.
Lord Mervyn awaited them in the drawing room. He was a tall man in his late fifties, his once-dark hair streaked with gray, his expression a permanent mixture of tired and guarded. He stood with the support of an ornate cane, a ruby ring glinting on one finger. His wife and two teenage children were not present.
"Mister Jenkins. Mister Ashrith." His voice was low, almost hoarse.
"Lord Mervyn," Jenkins replied with a nod. "We came as soon as we received your letter."
Mervyn gestured to the armchairs before the fireplace. "Please, sit. I'll come straight to the point."
Arsa sat silently, crossing one leg over the other.
"I received this yesterday," Lord Mervyn said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a folded paper. He handed it to Jenkins.
Arsa leaned closer to read.
The letter was written in shaky, slanted handwriting with ink that had smudged in places. The message was short, but clear.
"The dead do not rest in your house. One of them will come. Blood will spill. Your family will be next."
"And this wasn't the first strange occurrence," Mervyn added, gripping his cane. "There have been... noises. Footsteps at night. Whispers. One of the maids claimed she saw a woman in black walk through a wall."
"With all due respect, Lord Mervyn," Jenkins said carefully, "no ghost sightings have ever been confirmed in this city. Not in over a century."
"I know," Mervyn said grimly. "And I never believed in them myself. But my family is terrified. I cannot afford to take chances."
He took a breath, then looked directly at Jenkins and Arsa. "That's why I want you both to remain here tonight. In the estate. Investigate. And if something is here—ghost or not—I want it gone."
Arsa gave a faint nod. "Understood."
TO BE CONTINUE
TTT