Chapter 30: The Abandoned House

The streets were unnaturally quiet as Elias approached the abandoned house. The buildings around it bore the scars of time, weather, and neglect, but none more so than the house itself. The structure loomed, its facade twisted by ivy and decay. It radiated an air of abandonment, yet Elias couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching him.

He adjusted the strap of his satchel, taking a steadying breath. Inside were the tools he'd brought: his brass monocle, a Veil charm for minor protection, a flashlight, and a notebook to document any findings.

"This place has seen better days," Elias muttered to himself as he pushed open the creaking gate.

The front door hung slightly ajar, the wood warped and splintered. Elias inspected the scratches on the doorframe with his monocle, crouching to examine the faint marks. At first glance, they looked like random scrapes, but the monocle revealed faded Arcaenic glyphs scratched into the wood.

"Someone knew what they were doing," Elias murmured, jotting down the pattern in his notebook. "Or at least, they thought they did."

He stepped inside. Dust motes swirled in the faint light streaming through broken windows. The air was stale, thick with the scent of mold and something faintly metallic. The floors creaked underfoot as Elias moved cautiously, his flashlight cutting through the gloom.

The living room was a mess of shattered furniture and discarded belongings. Elias took his time examining the area, noting the odd placement of items. A chair lay toppled near the center of the room, its fabric torn. Nearby, he found a small scrap of cloth snagged on its edge.

He held it up to the light. It was worn and faded, but the floral pattern matched the description of the dress Clara had been wearing on the day of her death.

"Clara was here," Elias said softly, tucking the scrap into his notebook.

His monocle revealed faint Veil energy radiating from the chair. The spectral traces hinted at a struggle, blurred shapes moving erratically in his vision. It was as if someone—or something—had been forcibly restrained or dragged.

Moving further into the room, Elias found more troubling evidence: melted candle stubs arranged in a loose circle, scorch marks on the floor, and fragments of chalk near the edges of what seemed to be an incomplete diagram.

As Elias worked his way through the house, he noticed an unusual draft coming from a section of the wall in the hallway. The air felt colder, carrying an almost imperceptible hum that made his skin prickle. Carefully pushing aside a pile of debris, Elias found a concealed door.

"Locked, of course," he muttered, kneeling to inspect it.

Using his Ethereal Touch, Elias manipulated the lock. The Veil charm he wore glowed faintly, amplifying his focus as he felt the mechanism click into place. The door creaked open, revealing a small, dimly lit chamber.

Inside, the atmosphere was even heavier, oppressive in a way that made it difficult to breathe. Elias's flashlight illuminated the remnants of what could only be described as a ritual site. Faded glyphs etched into the walls and floor formed an incomplete pattern. The chalk lines were smeared, as though someone had interrupted the ritual mid-process.

At the center of the room was a large bloodstain, long since dried. The monocle revealed faint echoes of Veil energy still clinging to the area. Elias shuddered as he thought of what might have transpired here.

Elias crouched near the bloodstain, studying the glyphs around it. They were incomplete but recognizable as a rudimentary attempt at an Arcaenic binding circle.

"This wasn't done by an amateur," he mused. "But why leave it unfinished?"

He scribbled notes in his journal, sketching the glyphs for later analysis. The fragments painted a picture of desperation, as though whoever performed the ritual had been interrupted or fled in haste.

Elias's thoughts turned to the Lantern Guards. With their expertise and resources, how had they missed this hidden room and its clues? The abandoned house was practically screaming of mysticism, yet they had dismissed the case as inconclusive.

"This doesn't add up," Elias muttered. "Why didn't they dig deeper?"

The file mentioned that the Lantern Guards couldn't summon or communicate with Clara's spirit. Now, standing in the remnants of what looked like a failed ritual, Elias began to question the official narrative. Was it negligence? Or something more deliberate?

Before leaving the hidden room, Elias's monocle caught a faint glimmer near the edges of the circle. Kneeling to inspect it, he uncovered a small shard of glass etched with intricate, almost imperceptible runes.

"This isn't ordinary glass," he muttered, carefully wrapping it in cloth before placing it in his satchel. The shard pulsed faintly with Veil energy, suggesting it might have been part of a tool or artifact used in the ritual.

Back in the hallway, Elias combed through the remaining debris. On a dusty shelf, he discovered a faded photograph tucked into a cracked frame. It depicted a group of young adults standing under the sun, smiling brightly. Clara stood near the center, her floral-patterned dress unmistakable.

Elias's eyes narrowed as he studied the man standing beside her: Marcus Harrison. His presence wasn't surprising—Harrison had been mentioned in the Lantern Guards' file as one of Clara's colleagues. But the photograph suggested something more personal.

"Just a colleague?" Elias murmured, his fingers brushing over Harrison's face in the image. There was an ease in their posture, the way Clara leaned slightly toward him, that hinted at a closer bond.

A sense of unease crept over Elias. The Lantern Guards' file had been brief, dismissing Harrison as a peripheral figure. Yet here he was, a recurring thread tying Clara's death to the Syndicate and the Veil.

The combination of the incomplete ritual, the Veil-infused shard, and Harrison's more personal connection to Clara painted a troubling picture. Elias couldn't shake the feeling that the Lantern Guards had overlooked—or intentionally ignored—these details.

As he left the house, his mind buzzed with questions: Why had the case been dismissed so quickly? What role had Harrison truly played in Clara's life? And why had the ritual been interrupted?

The sky was streaked with orange as the sun dipped below the horizon, and a few lanterns flickered to life along the cobblestone streets. The clues he had uncovered weighed heavily on his mind, but he knew better than to linger on them openly.

When he returned to his office, Marian was waiting, seated at her desk with a cup of tea in hand. She looked up, her expression brightening momentarily before a shadow of concern crossed her face.

"You've been gone a while," she said, setting the cup down. "Was it… a difficult case?"

Elias loosened his collar and sat across from her, choosing his words carefully. "It's complicated, but I'm making progress."

Marian frowned, her hands tightening around the teacup. "I can't help but think about Henry… How one day he was here, and then he wasn't. This case you're working on, it—it reminds me of what happened to him. All these strange details, the uncertainty…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked away, her worry evident.

Elias felt a pang of guilt. He had kept her husband's case close to his heart, but progress had been painfully slow. "I haven't forgotten about Henry," he said gently. "I'm following every lead, and I won't stop until we find answers. I promise you that."

Marian nodded, but the worry didn't leave her eyes. "I trust you, Elias. It's just hard, not knowing."

"I know," he said, his tone steady. "But I need you to trust me a little longer. I'll find the truth, one way or another."

She offered a faint smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I'll keep believing that."

Elias rose and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder before retreating to his private office. Once the door clicked shut, he leaned against it and exhaled slowly. The threads of Clara's case, the looming specter of Henry's disappearance, and the shadows of the Veil all seemed to entwine around him, growing tighter with each passing day.

He turned his attention to the photograph of Clara and Harrison in his satchel, his mind racing.