The Brownstone Burns

The call hit at three a.m. A whisper through the static, dispatcher half-asleep, half-panicked. Structure fire. South side brownstone. One confirmed fatal, maybe two. I pulled myself out of bed, boots laced before my head even caught up. I hadn’t been sleeping anyway.

Port Meridian doesn’t sleep, it smolders. The city’s skin peels back in the hours when everyone decent hides. Sirens scream in the distance like lullabies for the damned. By the time I hit the block, the fire was almost out, smoke crawling low like it didn’t want to leave. Greasy, chemical smoke. Not the accidental kind.

The brownstone sagged on its bones. Windows gutted, brick face blackened. Firefighters moved through the wreck like surgeons pulling organs out of a corpse. Their eyes slid over me, then away. Nobody wants a detective around while the embers are still hot.

“Detective Ellison.” The fire chief’s voice was gravel wrapped in whiskey. He pointed me inside with a jaw twitch. “Body’s yours.”

The stairs creaked under my weight, damp from the hoses. My flashlight sliced through steam, cut into the charred ribs of the house. Second floor landing. That’s where they’d set him. Not burned in panic. Not caught by accident. He was arranged.

Male. Late forties. Dressed in a suit that should’ve been hanging in a dry cleaner’s, not smeared in soot. His body was strapped upright to a wooden chair, arms pinned tight, head tilted like a man waiting for his shave. The fire had licked him, but not swallowed. Clothes blackened, skin blistered, but his face was intact. Too intact.

The eyes were wide open. Glassy. They looked at me like he knew I was coming.

I circled the body slow, the beam of light crawling across ash. That’s when I saw it. Words written on the floor in gray-black smear. Not carved, not painted. Written with ash.

HELLO, MARA.

The letters stretched jagged, uneven, but deliberate. My chest went cold.

I heard my name in the walls, in the hiss of dying flame. Heard it like the voice was pressed against my ear.

I stepped back. Too quick. My heel hit something soft. I turned the light down. Matchbox. Red cardboard curled from heat but not consumed. I bent, picked it up with gloved fingers. Logo burned into the side. Same brand from twenty-four years ago. Same ones I used to flick at twelve years old, the night my parents died in a blaze that gutted half my childhood.

My hands didn’t shake, but my throat burned like smoke was lodged there. Whoever staged this wasn’t sloppy. They wanted me to find this. They wanted me here.

Footsteps on the stairs broke the moment. My partner, Rourke, broad frame filling the doorway. Shirt rumpled, tie loose, eyes sagging like he’d been dragged through a bar before he got the call.

“Christ,” he muttered, eyes on the body. “Looks like theater.”

“Looks like a message,” I said.

He saw the writing. His jaw clenched. “Someone’s screwing with you.”

No. Someone was inviting me.

The room stank of accelerant under the char. Whoever the victim was, he hadn’t gone gentle. His fingernails were chipped down, blood caked around them. But the staging said control. Patience. This wasn’t about the man in the chair. It was about me.

I bagged the matchbox, slid it into my pocket. Evidence would go through the usual chain, but I wanted it close. Like an anchor.

Rourke’s phone buzzed. He muttered something under his breath, stepped out to take it. I stayed. Staring. The corpse stared back.

Then I heard it. A click. Subtle, behind me.

I spun. Flashlight beam darted across the ruined walls, floor slick with water. Empty. Empty—

Another sound. This time behind the wall. A faint scratch, like nails dragged against wood.

I stepped toward it, ears tight, heart beating harder than I wanted to admit. The sound moved with me. Following. Taunting.

The wall gave a sigh. A panel of scorched wood shifted, slow. Not by my hand.

“Mara!” Rourke’s voice barked from the hall.

I didn’t answer. My light fixed on the crack opening in the wall. Heat breathed out, fresh and alive. Smoke coiled.

And then I saw it. A shadow inside the crawlspace. Not human-shaped. Not animal. A smear of black, limping, bending, dragging itself like it was half-broken, half-born.

The beam caught its edge, but the face never showed. Only the limp. Left side. The same as in my father’s last moments.

It stopped, turned. I felt eyes on me even if the dark gave me nothing.

Rourke’s footsteps thundered closer. The thing slid back into the crawlspace, swallowed by the dark. Wood snapped shut like it had never moved.

“Mara!” He was in the doorway now, face pale. “What the hell are you doing?”

I stared at the sealed wall, smoke still curling at the edges. My flashlight beam shook now. Just once.

“Listening,” I said. My voice wasn’t mine anymore. It was low. Burned out.

He frowned, followed my light. Saw nothing. Just blackened wall.

But I’d heard it. A whisper in the static, threaded through smoke.

“Wrong sister.”

The words hit like a match strike. And then the floor under my boots groaned, gave way with a crack.

The last thing I saw was the corps

e in the chair staring down at me as I fell into the fire-black basement below.