The moment Lena stepped into the archives, the scent of old paper and dust greeted her. She had always loved libraries—the silence, the endless corridors of stories and forgotten knowledge. But tonight, the air felt heavier, charged with something unseen.
She had spent the last few hours digging through every public record she could find on Adrian Blackwood. There wasn't much. His name appeared in a few news articles, mostly as a footnote in missing person cases that had long gone cold. No criminal record. No known relatives. It was as if he had been erased from existence.
Except for the fires. The disappearances. The name burned into the floor.
Lena flipped through an old newspaper, its pages brittle beneath her fingertips. A headline from ten years ago caught her eye:
Mysterious Fire Claims Third Victim—No Bodies Found
Her heart pounded as she scanned the article. The pattern was identical. A person vanished. Their home burned to the ground days later. And buried in the middle of the article, barely noticeable, was a name.
Adrian Blackwood.
Lena took a shaky breath. If this man had been involved in disappearances for over a decade, why hadn't anyone stopped him? Why wasn't he on every law enforcement watchlist?
She reached for her notebook and scribbled down every address connected to the case. If the police weren't going to find him, she would.
As she packed her things, she felt the sensation of being watched. A slow, creeping awareness that sent a shiver down her spine.
She turned sharply. The library was empty.
But she could have sworn, just for a second, that she saw a shadow move where no shadow should be.
A whisper echoed in her mind.
"Lena Mercer…"
Her breath hitched.
She wasn't alone.
---
Lena's fingers tightened around the strap of her messenger bag. She forced herself to breathe, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Slowly, she scanned the aisles of bookshelves, her journalist instincts warring with the primal urge to run.
Nothing moved. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.
She shook her head. Maybe she was just imagining things. She had been up for hours, chasing leads, running on caffeine and adrenaline. Lack of sleep did strange things to the mind.
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
With deliberate steps, she made her way toward the front desk. The elderly librarian, Ms. Carmichael, was still at her post, meticulously cataloging books. The woman had worked here for decades—if anyone knew about the city's hidden past, it was her.
"Excuse me, Ms. Carmichael?"
The librarian looked up, pushing her glasses down her nose. "Yes, dear?"
Lena hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I'm researching old cases connected to Adrian Blackwood. Do you remember anything about him?"
For a moment, the librarian's face remained unreadable. Then, something flickered in her gaze—recognition, hesitation, and… fear?
She exhaled sharply. "That's not a name I've heard in years."
"But you have heard it before?" Lena pressed.
Ms. Carmichael pursed her lips, glancing around the empty library as if afraid someone might be listening. "Some names are better left forgotten."
Lena leaned forward, lowering her voice. "People are disappearing, Ms. Carmichael. Houses are burning. If you know something—anything—it could help."
The librarian's hands trembled slightly as she set down her pen. "Adrian Blackwood was—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "No, he is dangerous. If you're smart, you'll stop digging before you end up like the others."
Lena's stomach tightened. "The others?"
Ms. Carmichael pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly regretting saying too much. "That's all I can say."
Lena pulled out her phone. "Do you have any records, any old files on him? Even something small?"
The librarian hesitated, then nodded toward the restricted section. "There might be something in the private archives. But if anyone asks, I didn't help you."
Gratitude surged through Lena. "Thank you."
Ms. Carmichael sighed. "Don't thank me yet, dear. Just be careful."
---
The restricted archives were colder than the rest of the library. The dim overhead light buzzed faintly as Lena navigated the shelves, scanning labels. Boxes of forgotten documents filled the room, the smell of old parchment and ink thick in the air.
She found a box marked Blackwood, Adrian—Case Files and pulled it down carefully, setting it on the nearest table. With a deep breath, she opened it.
Inside were old police reports, faded photographs, and handwritten notes. The first report she picked up was dated fifteen years ago—a case eerily similar to the ones happening now. A missing person. A fire. No body recovered.
Lena flipped through more reports. The pattern repeated over and over.
Then, at the bottom of the box, she found something that made her blood run cold.
A photograph. Old and grainy, but clear enough to see the man in it.
Adrian Blackwood.
The problem was… the picture was over a hundred years old.
And he hadn't aged a day.
Lena's breath caught in her throat. That wasn't possible. The rational part of her mind screamed for an explanation—maybe it was his ancestor, maybe it was a mistake. But deep down, she knew the truth.
This was him. The same man responsible for the disappearances. The same man whose name had been burned into the floor of a ruined house.
A whisper curled through the still air, sending a chill down her spine.
"Lena Mercer… you shouldn't have come here."
The lights flickered.
Then, they went out.