The radio crackled faintly in the dimly lit car, the voice of the announcer sharp and clear against the quiet hum of the engine.
Radio Announcer:
"Breaking news tonight: Erin Crawford, a journalist for The Morning Gazette, has been reported missing during an assignment in Riflow Town. According to her employer, she was investigating an article on the local mines and was last known to be staying at the Crestvale Hotel. Authorities are urging anyone with information to come forward as the search continues."
The broadcast ended with a somber tune fading into the static of the next station.
Aamon, seated behind the wheel of his sleek, black sedan, tapped ash from his cigarette into the tray before bringing it to his lips. The faint orange glow illuminated his sharp, weathered face. He reached for his phone on the dashboard, his calloused fingers dialing with precision.
The line clicked.
Aamon: "Hey, Seth. You hear the news? The Riflow Town one."
The voice on the other end responded, calm and measured, with an undertone of curiosity.
Seth: "Yeah, I heard it. You're thinking about going, aren't you?"
Aamon exhaled a plume of smoke, his tone as direct as his nature.
Aamon: "It's part of the job, right?"
A brief silence hung between them, the kind that came with understanding and unspoken history.
Seth: "Very well. Call me back when you arrive. And Aamon…"
Aamon raised a brow, tapping the ash from his cigarette again.
Seth: "Take care of yourself."
The corners of Aamon's mouth lifted ever so slightly, a ghost of a smile.
Aamon: "You know me."
The call ended with a faint beep. Aamon dropped the phone onto the passenger seat, flicked the cigarette butt out the window, and shifted the car into gear.
The engine purred as he merged onto the open road, the headlights cutting through the dark, winding path ahead. Riflow Town was miles away, but Aamon drove with purpose, his expression unwavering.
The road stretched before him, empty and foreboding, with the faint silhouette of distant mountains on the horizon. The night seemed to grow quieter as he approached the outskirts of the town, the weight of the missing journalist's story settling in his mind.
Aamon's eyes flicked to the glowing green road sign ahead:
"Riflow Town – 15 Miles."
He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his thoughts sharp and focused. Whatever waited for him in Riflow Town, he would handle it the only way he knew how—head-on.
[Few Hours later]
The low rumble of the car engine faded as Aamon pulled into the dimly lit gas station on the outskirts of Riflow Town. The neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a sickly glow over the area. Aamon stepped out of his black sedan, briefly scanning the empty lot before heading inside the shop.
The bell above the door jingled as he entered, the faint smell of motor oil and cheap air freshener filling the air. A young cashier, wiping his hands on a rag, looked up from behind the counter.
Aamon approached casually, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.
Aamon: "Hey, you know much about Riflow Town?"
The cashier froze for a moment, his face paling slightly. He glanced outside at Aamon's sleek black sedan, which was now being cleaned by an attendant.
Cashier: "Sir, you shouldn't go there. A lot of people have gone missing. It's not safe."
Aamon raised an eyebrow, feigning concern.
Aamon: "Missing? Huh. Guess I'll be fine, though. I'm a detective."
The cashier hesitated, wringing the rag nervously as he glanced back at Aamon.
Cashier: "Listen, the town's cursed. And that hotel? Crestvale? It's worse."
Aamon leaned forward slightly, his expression carefully neutral, though he let a hint of curiosity creep into his voice.
Aamon: "Cursed? Really? I didn't know that. Care to explain?"
He widened his eyes slightly, his expression feigning confusion as he tilted his head, inviting the cashier to keep talking. The younger man shifted uncomfortably, but the words began spilling out as if he couldn't stop himself.
Cashier: "Look, ever since the mines opened, weird stuff started happening. People say they dug too deep and... opened something. Some say it's a portal to hell. Others think the mine itself is hell. Either way, people die there—workers, visitors, even investigators like you. And it's not normal deaths, either. They had the best safety equipment, the latest tech, but... people just vanish, or worse."
Aamon's face twisted into an exaggerated look of fear, his lips parting as if the cashier's words had genuinely startled him.
Aamon: "That... that's terrifying. Really. But, uh..."
He straightened, his expression softening into something more neutral again.
Aamon: "Too bad. I've already been paid to investigate, so... gotta do what I gotta do, you know?"
The cashier stepped back, shaking his head slowly, his face pale with worry.
Cashier: "Please, sir. Leave while you still can. No amount of money is worth your life."
Aamon nodded solemnly, letting out a soft sigh as he picked up a bottle of water from the counter and paid for the gas.
Aamon: "Appreciate the warning, but don't worry. I'm a professional. I've handled worse."
The cashier opened his mouth as if to say more, but then stopped. He handed Aamon his change with trembling hands before stepping back behind the counter.
As Aamon walked out, he glanced at his car, now spotless. He gave a small wave to the attendant before getting back into the driver's seat.
With the tank full and his mind sharper than ever, Aamon drove off into the dark road leading to Riflow Town, the cashier's warnings replaying in his mind. His face was calm, but his thoughts were spinning.
Aamon (to himself): "A cursed town, a haunted hotel, and a mine straight out of a nightmare. Sounds like fun."
The headlights of his black sedan cut through the growing fog as Riflow Town came into view.
[Night]
The night sky hung heavy above as Aamon's black sedan hummed quietly along the empty road. The dense fog swirled around the car like ghostly tendrils, and the faint silhouettes of twisted trees lined the way, their bare branches clawing at the darkness.
As Aamon approached the outskirts of Riflow Town, an uneasy feeling settled in his chest—a sense that he wasn't welcome here, or worse, that something was watching him.
Aamon: "Feels like home already," he muttered under his breath, his tone dry as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Suddenly, the night erupted into chaos.
A deafening thud smashed against the side of the sedan, sending it spinning violently across the road. Tires screeched, and the car skidded several meters before coming to a jarring halt. Aamon's body jerked against the seatbelt, his head snapping forward before slamming back against the headrest.
He groaned, his hand instinctively going to his temple as he blinked through the haze of adrenaline.
Aamon: "What the hell just hit me?"
The fog outside seemed thicker now, almost alive, wrapping around the car like a shroud. The windshield was cracked, but the headlights still worked, casting weak beams onto the empty road ahead.
Aamon tried to start the engine—it sputtered but wouldn't turn over. He reached for his phone, pulling it from his coat pocket, but his frustration grew as the screen flashed "No Signal."
Aamon: "Figures," he muttered, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat.
Leaning back against the damaged car, he exhaled sharply, the cold night air biting at his skin. He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with steady hands despite the tension in the air. The orange ember flared briefly, illuminating his face as he took a deep drag.
The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves and the occasional creak of the car settling into the road.
As he smoked, his eyes scanned the fog, searching for whatever had hit him. A glint of curiosity and wariness flickered in his gaze, though he kept his expression neutral.
Aamon: "Guess I'm walking."
Flicking the cigarette to the ground, he crushed it under his boot and adjusted his coat. The faint crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound as he began walking toward the dim, distant lights of Riflow Town.
Each step felt heavier, the weight of the oppressive atmosphere pressing down on him. The road ahead seemed longer than it had moments ago, and the eerie quiet only deepened the sense of isolation.
His hand instinctively brushed against the handle of the small pistol holstered under his coat, a subtle reassurance as he continued forward. He didn't know what had struck his car, but he had a sinking feeling that the answer waited for him in the darkness ahead.
The lights of Riflow Town grew closer, but the uneasy feeling in his gut only worsened, like stepping into the maw of some unseen predator.
Aamon: "What the hell am I walking into?" he muttered, the fog swallowing his words as he disappeared into the night.
[Night]
Aamon continued walking, his boots crunching softly against the gravel-strewn road. The fog clung to him like a second skin, obscuring everything beyond a few feet. The stillness of the night was broken by a sound—faint, distant, and chillingly familiar.
The melody floated through the dense mist, eerily mechanical, like the tinny tune of a wind-up box music. Aamon froze mid-step, his head tilting slightly as he strained to hear it better.
Aamon: "That song…"
He recognized it. The haunting notes pulled at his memory, dredging up something he couldn't quite place. He exhaled slowly, letting the chill air fill his lungs, and followed the sound.
The road became narrower, the trees growing closer together as though trying to bar his path. The melody grew louder, clearer, guiding him through the fog. His footsteps echoed faintly now, bouncing back in a way that made the space feel wrong—too enclosed, too quiet.
Then, through the swirling mist, a shadow emerged. It was large, looming, and as Aamon approached, its details became clearer. The fog peeled back reluctantly to reveal the structure—a massive, imposing building that seemed to rise out of the darkness itself.
The sign above the entrance flickered weakly, its letters partially obscured by grime and decay. Aamon squinted, making out the words: "Crestvale Hotel."
The building was a relic of another time, its grand facade now weathered and cracked. Windows stared back at him like empty eyes, some shattered, others so dirty they reflected nothing. The doors, heavy and ornate, stood slightly ajar, creaking softly as the wind teased them.
Aamon: "Cozy."
He stepped closer, the song fading as he reached the entrance. The sense of desolation was almost palpable now. The street was empty, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the sign above.
Without hesitation, Aamon pushed the doors open.
As he entered the lobby, a faint chime echoed, announcing his arrival. The air was stale, tinged with the faint scent of mildew. A woman stood behind the desk, her smile plastered on as though forced.
"Welcome to Crestvale Hotel," she said in a flat tone. "Do you have a reservation?"
Aamon, unfazed, replied with equal flatness.
Aamon: "No. I want a room for one person. Maybe a week."
He stepped closer to the desk, leaning casually on the counter as he studied the woman. There was something off about her—something in the way her expression never shifted, her eyes fixed on him but not quite seeing.
Still, Aamon decided to test her. His tone shifted, smooth and deliberate, as he let a faint smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.
Aamon: "You know, working here alone at night? That's brave. A place like this… It doesn't seem like the type to attract the safest crowd."
She said nothing, her smile unchanging.
Aamon: "But I guess you like danger, huh? Makes life more exciting. Maybe after your shift, you could show me around town—help me figure out what I'm really walking into here."
His voice dripped with charm, his gaze steady, testing her reaction. For a moment, he thought he saw her eyelid twitch—a flicker of something human behind the mask.
But it was gone as quickly as it came.
"Your key," she said, sliding a worn brass key across the counter. Her tone remained flat, her expression unchanged.
Aamon picked up the key, turning it over in his hand.
Aamon: "Thanks. Guess I'll see you around."
He didn't wait for a response, walking toward the hallway she'd indicated. The faint hum of the elevator echoed ahead, its outdated machinery groaning as if reluctant to function.
The key in his hand read 314. Third floor.
[In Front of Room 314]
The hallway was eerily quiet as Aamon reached his door. The faded carpet muffled his footsteps, and the flickering light above cast long, shifting shadows. Room 314's door looked no different from the others, but the atmosphere around it felt heavier—like stepping into a place that wanted to remain undisturbed.
Aamon slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open.
Inside, the room was surprisingly cozy. A plush bed sat against the far wall, its sheets pristine and neatly tucked. The warm yellow glow of a bedside lamp lit the space, casting soft shadows that seemed to dance faintly along the walls. A desk stood by the window, a single chair pulled out as if someone had been sitting there moments before.
But something was off. Despite its welcoming appearance, the air inside felt stagnant, almost suffocating, and carried a faint metallic tang that Aamon couldn't quite place.
He stepped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Aamon: "Cozy, but weird. Figures."
He began checking the room methodically, his movements calm but deliberate. He started with the desk, pulling open its drawers. They were empty, save for a faint layer of dust that hinted no one had touched them in ages.
The bathroom was next. Aamon flipped the light switch, the bulb buzzing to life with a harsh, flickering glow. The mirror above the sink was cracked, and a single drop of water clung to the faucet, trembling as though afraid to fall.
Aamon: "Clean enough."
Finally, he moved to the closet. Its wooden doors creaked loudly as he pulled them open, revealing a bare interior save for a single hanger dangling from the rod. At the bottom of the closet, something caught his eye—a small, round object glinting faintly in the dim light.
He crouched down, picking it up. It was a pearl, perfectly smooth and unnaturally cold to the touch. Aamon held it between his fingers, turning it over as he studied it.
Aamon: "A pearl? What's this doing here?"
The moment stretched as he stared at the pearl, a faint unease creeping up his spine.
Knock. Knock.
The sudden sound jolted him, his head snapping toward the door. The knocks were deliberate, sharp, and echoed faintly through the quiet room.
Aamon stood slowly, slipping the pearl into his pocket. His hand hovered near the concealed pistol under his coat as he approached the door.
Aamon: "Who's there?"
No response.
He leaned closer, peering through the peephole. Nothing but the dimly lit corridor greeted him. Cautiously, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.
The hallway was empty.
Aamon stepped out slightly, his eyes scanning the corridor. Then he looked down.
On the floor, a folded piece of paper rested, its edges smeared with what looked disturbingly like dried blood.
He picked it up, unfolding it carefully. The word "DeAd" was scrawled in jagged, uneven letters, the ink—or blood—still slightly tacky to the touch.
Aamon: "That's subtle."
He looked around again, his sharp eyes sweeping the empty hallway for any sign of movement. The shadows seemed deeper now, and the flickering light at the end of the corridor cast strange, shifting shapes.
Satisfied—or rather, unsettled—he stepped back into his room and locked the door firmly behind him.
Aamon leaned against the door for a moment, his mind racing. The pearl, the note, the unsettling atmosphere—everything felt like a piece of a puzzle he hadn't begun to solve.
Aamon: "Guess I'm not sleeping tonight."
He moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside slightly to peer out into the foggy night. The town below was still and silent, but something about it felt alive, as though the very streets were waiting for him.
Aamon: "What's your game, huh?" he muttered, his voice low as his gaze hardened.
With that, he turned back to the room, the pearl still heavy in his pocket, and began preparing himself for whatever came next.
[Morning, Monday, 09:00]
Aamon stepped into the dining area of the hotel. The room was dimly lit, with sunlight struggling to pierce the thick, yellowed curtains that draped over the windows. The tables were arranged neatly, each set with silverware that looked old but polished to an unsettling shine. A buffet was set up along one wall, the smell of breakfast wafting faintly through the air.
He scanned the room. The receptionist was nowhere to be seen. A few other guests sat scattered across the dining area, their faces obscured by the shadows and their postures oddly rigid.
Aamon approached the buffet, his sharp eyes quickly assessing the spread. Plates of eggs, sausages, and bacon glistened under the weak light, but something about the smell—something faintly metallic and off—made his stomach churn. He hesitated for a moment before settling on a small selection of fruit and vegetables, carefully picking only what looked fresh and untouched.
As he made his way to a table, a staff member in a pristine uniform appeared from the kitchen, moving silently as they refilled trays. Aamon set his plate down, his casual demeanor hiding the tension coiled in his chest.
Aamon: "Hey, mind if I ask something?"
The staff member turned to him, their face expressionless, eyes dull.
Aamon: "How many guests you got staying here?"
The staff member paused, their flat tone cutting through the quiet.
Staff: "Not many."
Aamon raised an eyebrow, pretending to be mildly interested.
Aamon: "Huh. Guess it's not a busy season. Say, you ever hear of Erin Crawford?"
At the mention of the name, the staff member's dull eyes seemed to sharpen, their gaze locking onto Aamon with unsettling intensity. For a moment, they said nothing, the silence stretching uncomfortably long.
The dining area felt colder, and Aamon's sharp instincts flared. He maintained his casual tone, masking the unease creeping into his thoughts.
Aamon: "She went missing, right? Stayed here, I think? Figured I'd ask around. Need all the help I can get for—"
Before he could finish, an elderly woman seated nearby cut him off, her voice quivering but firm.
Elderly Woman: "There's no need to talk about such things while people are trying to eat in peace."
Her words carried an undertone of warning, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at him.
Aamon leaned back slightly, feigning embarrassment.
Aamon: "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to stir anything up."
He resumed eating, though his focus was far from the bland fruit and vegetables on his plate. He glanced subtly at the other guests, who seemed unnervingly still, their movements almost mechanical. The air around them was thick with something unspoken, something wrong.
Aamon bit into a piece of fruit, his senses on high alert. The food tasted fine—ordinary, even—but the smells lingering in the room told another story. The rich aroma of the meats seemed tainted with something he couldn't quite place, something his instincts told him to avoid.
He finished quickly and left the dining area.
[Around Town]
The streets of Riflow Town were eerily quiet as Aamon stepped outside. The fog from the night before lingered, clinging to the ground and dulling the colors of the already faded buildings. The town looked like it hadn't seen life in decades—storefronts were grimy and abandoned, windows were cracked or boarded up, and the air was heavy with the smell of damp decay.
Aamon wandered through the desolate streets, his footsteps echoing faintly against the empty structures. He came across a small general store, its sign hanging crookedly from a single rusted chain.
Inside, the store was as lifeless as the town. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a cold, gray hue over the shelves stocked with dust-covered goods. Aamon grabbed a few canned items and bottled water, choosing only what looked sealed and untampered with.
As he paid at the counter, the cashier—a pale, gaunt man—didn't say a word, merely nodding as he handed over the change.
Aamon stepped outside and found a bench near the store. He sat down, opened a can of fruit, and ate in silence, his eyes scanning the empty streets.
The air was unnaturally still, as if the town itself were holding its breath. There were no birds, no insects, no distant hum of life—just an oppressive quiet that pressed down on him like a weight.
Aamon: "Place is a damn ghost town," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible in the void.
Finishing his meager meal, Aamon stood and dusted off his coat. He glanced back at the hotel in the distance, its looming structure barely visible through the fog.
Aamon: "Guess it's time to head back. Fun's just getting started."
He adjusted his coat and began walking, his sharp gaze darting to every shadow as he made his way through the lifeless streets.
[Back at the Hotel]
As Aamon walked into the hotel lobby, he was immediately greeted by the receptionist. However, it wasn't the woman from the previous night. This was someone new—a younger woman, with sharp features and a nervous, almost forced smile.
Receptionist: "Hi, welcome back, sir. Did you have a pleasant morning?"
Aamon's brow furrowed slightly, though he kept his expression neutral.
Aamon: "Hi yourself. Didn't expect to see a new face. What happened to the other receptionist?"
The woman tilted her head slightly, her smile unwavering.
Receptionist: "Oh, I'm just covering for her today. Is there anything I can help you with?"
Aamon leaned casually on the counter, his sharp eyes studying her every move.
Aamon: "Well, now that you mention it... How about your name? Can't be just calling you 'Miss Receptionist,' can I?"
The woman's smile seemed to falter for just a moment before she regained her composure.
Receptionist: "Erin. Erin Crawford. Nice to meet you, sir."
Aamon froze for half a heartbeat, though he masked it well. His mind raced, connecting dots that didn't make sense. He chuckled lightly, maintaining his charm.
Aamon: "Erin, huh? Beautiful name for a beautiful woman."
Erin's laugh was soft, almost mechanical.
Erin: "You're too kind."
Their conversation carried on as though nothing was wrong, but every word from Erin felt strange—too polished, too perfectly placed, yet hollow. She was trying to be engaging, but there was no real emotion behind her tone.
Aamon: "Well, Erin, guess I'll leave you to it. Got a room waiting for me."
Erin: "Of course, sir. Enjoy your stay."
Aamon walked to the elevator, his expression darkening the moment he turned away from her. He pressed the button, stepped inside, and watched as the doors slid shut.
[Inside the Elevator]
The faint hum of the elevator filled the space as it ascended. Aamon leaned against the wall, his mind racing. That wasn't just any receptionist. That was Erin Crawford. He'd seen her face in the files, her voice matching descriptions perfectly.
Aamon: "Damn good imitation," he muttered under his breath.
Before he could think further, the elevator jolted violently. The lights flickered as it shuddered to a halt. Aamon barely flinched, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden in his coat.
Aamon: "Here we go again."
The elevator shuddered once more, then everything went silent. A faint groan of metal echoed as the doors slowly creaked open.
But Aamon was gone.
[Hours Later – Room 314]
The hallway was silent as Erin Crawford—now dressed in her receptionist uniform—walked cautiously toward Room 314. Her movements were deliberate, her expression unreadable. She reached the door and hesitated for a moment before slowly pushing it open.
Inside, the room was dark, illuminated only by the pale light filtering through the curtains. She stepped inside, glancing around.
Erin: "Mr. Aamon? Are you here?"
A deep voice answered from behind her, smooth and laced with danger.
Aamon: "Looking for something, beautiful?"
Erin spun around to see Aamon leaning casually against the doorframe, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Her smile returned, the same forced one she'd worn before.
Erin: "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."
Aamon stepped closer, pulling something from his pocket. His hand opened to reveal the pearl he'd found earlier.
Aamon: "Looking for this?"
Erin's eyes widened slightly, the only crack in her otherwise perfect facade.
Erin: "Yes, I... I misplaced it when I was cleaning your room. Thank you for finding it."
Aamon tilted his head, his smirk never fading.
Aamon: "You know, I'd love to help you out, Erin. But there's one thing bugging me."
Erin blinked, her smile faltering.
Erin: "What's that, sir?"
Aamon stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
Aamon: "Where's the real Erin Crawford?"
The air in the room seemed to thicken, the light above flickering wildly. Erin's smile remained, but her eyes betrayed her.
Erin: "I'm not sure what you mean."
Before Aamon could press further, the light above flickered violently, casting strange shadows across the room.
Then, with a sudden flash, both Aamon and Erin vanished.
[The Last Sound]
The hotel was silent, the oppressive stillness broken only by the distant sound of something crashing into water—a loud, echoing splash that faded into the abyss.