I do not know why I came back.
Maybe it is the pull of the ocean—that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that is both familiar and suffocating. Or maybe it's the fact that I have spent the last five years of my life chasing ghosts—cases that do not deserve to be solved—and somehow, this one feels different. It feels personal.
The bones are real. The bones were fresh. The bones belonged to someone I used to know.
The town of Haven's Cove, Maine, has not changed significantly since I left. It still smells of rotting seaweed, salt, and something older, something darker, that lingers in the air. The fog rolls every night without failure, suffocates the streets, and covers the town like a thick gray blanket. Once a proud sentinel of the coast, the lighthouse stands at a distance—a broken, decaying monument to a time long gone. And the people here? Well, they also did not change. They still speak in hushed tones, watching you from behind their windows, pretending they do not know more than they let on. This is always the case. Haven's Cove is not a town that invites outsiders, but it has a way of keeping you locked in once you arrive.
I should have stayed away. Should have listened to my advice. But the pull of the past—my mother's obsession, my aunt's disappearance, and the town's quiet refusal to let go—drew me back like a rip current. And now I'm here.
Sitting on the edge of my old bed, in my childhood bedroom, staring at walls that have not seen a coat of paint in years. The dusty dresser, the cracked mirror, the yellowed curtains—all reminders of life I tried to bury. My fingers slide over the wooden edge of the nightstand, brushing against a small worn notebook. My mother's journal.
The one she kept secret and locked away from me. Until I found it.
I opened it slowly, as though expecting the pages to bite me. The words drawn on the first page were frenzied and almost illegible. It took me a moment to leave them.
They drowned her, but the tide always returned to truth.
The words echo in my mind, a whisper from the past, that I cannot shake. My mother's final words were not written long before she died. She never stopped searching for answers and never stopped trying to solve the mystery of Clara's disappearance. I wish I could say I understood why, but I did not. Not then. I have my own demons to fight. Now, these demons are the least problematic.
I close the journal and let out my breath, my hands trembling. This town, these people—this mystery— is too much. But I can't stop now.
The bones were just the beginning.
I push myself off my bed and walk to the window. This view has remained unchanged. The town's crumbling docks stretch out into misty waters, the same ones I used to fish with my mother. The same waters swallowed Clara up, leaving nothing but a hollow shell of a woman in their wake. I wonder if I would ever find the truth about her death. Now, I do not have the luxury of wondering anymore.
A soft knock on the door snaps me out of my thoughts. My pulse quickens, not from fear but from something far more familiar. I recognize the knock. It's him.
"Mac," I murmur to myself, though I don't know why I still call him that. Thomas MacAllister is not a man you keep calling by his nickname, not after all of these years. He was a retired detective who botched the original investigation into my aunt's disappearance. A man riddled with guilt, drinks his nights away, and lives in the shadows of his mistakes. Yet, for all of his faults, Mac has something I need: answers.
I walk to the door, the weight of the years between us pulling my chest. When I open it, he is standing there, tall and broad, his weathered face a mask of regret. His grey hair was unkempt, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets. He does not say anything at first; he just stands there, looking at me like I am something he is trying to forget.
"You're not supposed to be here, Ellie," he says finally, his voice rough, like it's been years since he last spoke.
"Funny. I thought I was the one who left,' I reply, stepping aside to let him in.
He doesn't move. Instead, his eyes flicker nervously over my shoulder, scanning the room like it is about to swallow him whole.
"This place hasn't changed," he mutters, though it's clear that he's not just talking about the room. He talks about everything—Haven's Cove, the case, me.
I don't respond. Instead, I moved to a desk where my mother's journal lies.
"I'm not going to tell you to leave, Mac," I say, not looking up. "But you might want to reconsider getting any deeper into this."
He takes a step closer to his boots, creaking against the old wooden floors. He looks at the journal, and then at me.
"You can't trust anyone here," he says quietly. "Not even me."
I force a smile, although it does not reach my eyes. "You might be right. But I am not leaving until I finish this. You know I won't."
He has been silent for a long time, and when he speaks again, there is a tremor in his voice. "I shouldn't be helping you. I do not know if you should be here. This is dangerous, and Ellie. This town… it's built on lies."
"I know."
I have closed the journal to a snap. The words on the pages were all familiar. The lies, the secrets, and the one thing I know for certain: Clara did not vanish. Someone made her disappear.
"Then why come back?" Mac asks, his voice low, almost pleading.
I looked at him, meeting his gaze for the first time, since I walked in. "Because someone has to find the truth. And you're the only one who can help me."
He exhales a long, frustrated breath, and rubs his temples. I can see the weight of the years and mistakes in his posture. He does not want to be here, does not want to relieve the case, and does not want to confront the ghosts. However, Mac cannot say no to me. He never could.
"Fine," he mutters, the resignation in his voice heavy. "But we do it my way. Not going off half-cocked. You hear me, Ellie?"
I nod, although I do not believe him. Mac may have been a detective once, but I have learned how to follow the trail of breadcrumbs, no matter how dangerous it gets. No matter how many lies, I have to sift through.
We both know that the truth is waiting to be uncovered, buried deep in the town's bones, where it has been festering for decades. And it's time for me to dig it up.
Outside, the wind picks up and howls through cracks in the windows. It is almost time for the tide to enter. The bones may have been washed ashore, but the real danger is still out there, waiting in the shadows hidden by the fog.
Ferryman is watching. And so am I.
I turn back to the window, my gaze lingering on the distant lighthouse as the sky darkens. Somewhere out, the truth is waiting to be found. However, this will not be easy. The Ferryman will not let me find it without a fight.
And I am ready for that fight. I have to be. The clock is ticking.