Alliances
Vera’s hand shot to her pistol as Kane Baker lunged, his movement a blur in the precinct’s dim light. Her fingers grazed the grip, but he was on her, his weight pinning her against the desk. Papers scattered, a chair toppled, and her breath hitched as they grappled. His hands clamped around her wrists, and she twisted, driving her elbow toward his ribs. The struggle was chaotic, a dance of desperation—her training against his raw strength.
“Stop!” Kane grunted, dodging her strike. “Vera, let me explain—please!” She ignored him, her anger fueling a knee aimed at his midsection. He staggered but held firm, his grip tightening.
“I don’t trust a word you say!” she spat, wrenching an arm free to swing at his jaw.
The blow connected, and he grunted, but he countered, seizing her gun hand. With a deft twist, he pried the pistol from her grasp, stepping back and holding it aloft. “Listen to me!” he pleaded, his voice raw. Slowly, he extended the gun toward her, butt first. “Take it. I’m not here to hurt you. I swear.”
Vera froze, her chest heaving, the bruises from two nights ago throbbing in sync with her racing pulse. She snatched the weapon, keeping it trained on him, but his gesture gave her pause. His eyes—dark, intense—held no malice, only a plea. Reluctantly, she lowered the gun, her breath steadying. “Talk. Fast.”
Kane rubbed his jaw, wincing. “That night at the Carey house—I didn’t mean to knock you out. I was trying to save your life. Something was there, something… wrong. I hit you by accident in the chaos.”
Her skepticism flared. “Save me from what? Ghosts? Spare me the fairy tales.”
He shook his head, stepping closer but stopping at her warning glare. “It’s not just stories. When I was a kid—twenty years old, 1944—my cousin disappeared. Tommy Baker. Last seen near that house. Three days later, they found him by the river, his neck broken, eyes wide open like he’d seen hell. Same with Jenny Holt in ’59—six years old, snatched while playing, found the same way. I saw the bodies, Vera. The fear in their faces wasn’t human.”
She studied him, sensing the weight of his words, but also the gaps. His voice trembled with memory, yet his eyes flickered—holding back. “And you think Martin Carey’s spirit did this?”
“I don’t know what it is,” he admitted, “but it’s real. And it’s not done. Another kid will be taken soon—days, maybe hours—unless we stop it. Together.”
“How do you know that another kid will soon be taken? How could you possibly have that information?”
“It’s the pattern. It doesn’t really change. It’s how it’s been in this town for decades,” he sounded so invested, Vera couldn’t help but sense his desire to solve this, a desire she had as well.
Vera’s grip tightened on the gun. She didn’t trust him—his sudden appearance, his convenient story, the bruises he’d caused—but the pattern of kidnappings left her no options. “I’m watching you, Baker. One wrong move, and you’re done.”
He nodded, a grim resolve settling over him. “Fair enough. We start tomorrow.”
.
.
.
The night deepened, the moon a sliver above Greenly Bay. A boy, no more than eight, slipped out of his house, the screen door creaking shut behind him. His name was Eli Carter, and he’d forgotten his favorite wooden truck on the porch. The toy's chipped paint was warm in his tiny hands as he bent to retrieve it, the cool air brushing against his cheeks. Then he heard it—a slight jingle, like bells on a faraway wind or coins in a pocket. His head tilted, curiosity tugging at him.
“Eli?” his mother’s voice called from inside, but the sound drew him, a trance-like pull.
He stepped off the porch, the truck forgotten, and followed the jingling down the yard. It led him past the fence, into the street, the night swallowing his small figure. He was led farther away from home by the hypnotic chime that grew louder.
A few minutes later, he was standing in front of the Carey house, staring at it through broken windows. The jingling ceased, but he was prodded onward by an invisible force. His eyes were completely white, almost like they had rolled all the way to the back. He took a step forward and then he took another, ascending up the short steps until he stood right in front of the door. With a creak that can only be described as other-worldly, the door slid open and a bright light peered out of its frame, accompanied by some wind that howled ferociously.
“Eli? Come on inside. Come and play with the rest of us. We’ll have fun. So much fun. Don’t you want to come in?”
Whatever the voice that spoke was, one thing was certain, it wasn’t the voice of a human. The little boy didn’t stand a chance. He was firmly held in the trance and the eerie sounds around him did nothing to comfort him. With trembling, he entered through the door frame and in front of him stood a man; damp muddy suit, pale skin, holding tightly in his left a medallion with a three-pointed star, hate in his eyes and evil in his intentions.
The door slammed shut and what followed was the horrific shrieks of a petrified little boy!
