Chapter 1 : The vanishing of Lord Whitmore

The carriage rattled down the cobbled streets, its wheels clicking like the hands of a clock counting down to something inevitable. Alistair Lockwood sat inside, fingers absently rolling a silver pocket watch between them. It was a habit, a distraction—one of the few constants in a profession where certainty was a rarity. 

Outside, the city of Blackbridge loomed in the dim glow of gas lamps, its towering buildings standing like silent sentinels against the night sky. The thick fog clung to the streets, swallowing the sound of distant footsteps and muffling the rhythmic tolling of the clock tower. It was a night meant for secrets. 

Alistair adjusted his coat, his breath misting in the chill air. The letter in his pocket crinkled slightly as he shifted. Lord Edgar Whitmore—missing for three days. Last seen in his study, a room locked from within, with no sign of escape or intrusion. The servants swore he had not left. The city guard found no evidence of foul play. The case had baffled them all. 

Which was why they had summoned him. 

He had seen cases like this before. Men who vanished into the night, debts unpaid, enemies waiting in the dark. But something about Whitmore's disappearance was different. The tone of the letter was urgent, desperate, filled with half-formed thoughts and cryptic warnings—unsettled him. 

*Something is watching me. It waits at the edges.* 

*I fear I have gone too far, seen too much.* 

*If I am gone, do not search for me.* 

Alistair intended to do exactly the opposite. 

The carriage came to a halt before Whitmore Manor, a grand estate that stood like a monument to forgotten things. Its towering façade of dark stone loomed over the wrought-iron gate, which had been left open—an invitation, or a warning. The gas lamps lining the path flickered weakly, struggling against the mist that clung to the earth like restless spirits. 

Alistair stepped down, his boots crunching against gravel. The air smelled damp, tinged with something faintly metallic. He ignored the unease creeping at the back of his mind. He had been in far worse places than this. 

A butler stood waiting at the entrance, his face pale and drawn. "Mr. Lockwood, I presume?" 

Alistair gave a curt nod. "You sent for me. I assume the study remains untouched?" 

"As per your instructions, sir." The butler hesitated, glancing toward the darkened hall behind him. "Lord Whitmore was… a troubled man, of late. If I may speak freely—" 

"You may not." Alistair stepped inside, brushing past the servant. "I prefer facts over speculation. Lead me to the study." 

The butler swallowed but nodded, guiding him through the grand halls of the manor. The interior was lavish but lifeless—oil paintings of long-dead Whitmores lined the walls, their gazes following him as he walked. Thick drapes muffled any outside noise, wrapping the house in an eerie silence. 

As they reached the study, the butler handed Alistair a brass key, his fingers trembling slightly. "If you need anything, sir… ring the bell." 

Alistair took the key without a word and stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a dull *click.* 

The study smelled of ink, old paper, and something less identifiable—something faintly bitter, like burnt oil. Heavy wooden bookshelves lined the walls, their spines cracked with age. A grand desk sat in the center of the room, its surface littered with scattered papers and an overturned inkwell. 

And then there was the chair. 

Lord Whitmore's chair, positioned before the desk as if its occupant had merely stepped away for a moment. Yet, something about it made Alistair pause. 

The dust around it was undisturbed. 

His pulse quickened. If Whitmore had left this room, he had not done so by conventional means. 

Moving to the desk, Alistair skimmed the papers, searching for something useful. Most were scribbled notes, the handwriting erratic, frenzied. Several pages bore sketches—symbols and geometric shapes that seemed to twist unnaturally, as if the ink itself refused to settle into place. 

One symbol, in particular, caught his eye—a spiraling pattern that seemed to shift the longer he stared at it. A shape that felt… wrong, as if it did not belong in this world. 

Beneath it, written in a trembling hand: 

"It watches." 

Alistair frowned, a cold unease settling in his gut. He had dealt with paranoid men before, men driven to madness by their own fears. But there was something different about Whitmore's writings—something calculated, something aware. 

He turned another page and found a single line, scrawled repeatedly: 

"There are places the mind was not meant to go." 

A whisper of sound cut through the silence. 

Alistair froze. The lamp flickered, its flame dancing erratically. 

He glanced toward the door. It was still locked. 

His gaze shifted back to the chair. 

It had moved. 

Just an inch. Barely noticeable. But enough. 

Alistair blinked. His mind worked quickly, analyzing the room. The floorboards were old, likely uneven, prone to creaks and shifts. The chair had been positioned near the edge of the rug—perhaps the rug had shifted with a gust of wind, nudging the chair slightly. It was a plausible explanation. 

He bent down, inspecting the floor around the chair. The dust, which had settled into an even layer, remained undisturbed around its base. No new marks, no sign that the chair had moved under its own volition. 

Alistair straightened, exhaling a quiet breath. He had been too quick to assume. It was a natural inclination to jump to conclusions when faced with something unexpected. His mind had played tricks on him—a result of the mounting tension, the cryptic notes, and the oppressive atmosphere of the manor. 

Focus. Analyze. 

He took a step back, reassessing the room with a more critical eye. The movement had been so slight, so imperceptible, it could have been nothing. Yet, something about it lingered. The subtle shift had triggered an irrational gut feeling, but Alistair was no stranger to suppressing such instincts. 

He reached into his coat and withdrew his notebook. There was no point in writing down unsubstantiated theories. Instead, he wrote: 

*Chair position—unchanged. No evidence of external influence. Test weight distribution on chair later if necessary.* 

His fingers tightened around the notebook as he closed it. The logical part of his mind insisted that the mystery of the chair's movement could be explained. Perhaps by something as mundane as a slight draft, or the uneven nature of the manor's old flooring. 

And yet, despite the rational explanations, a lingering unease gnawed at him. Something was wrong here, even if he could not yet prove it. 

He moved back to the desk, his thoughts racing. The symbols on the pages, the warnings in Whitmore's handwriting, the unsettling sensation that the very air in the room had shifted. 

The room felt colder, and the lamp flickered again. But no draft. No explanation. 

Alistair took another deep breath. It was time to find out what Lord Whitmore had uncovered. 

He reached out to touch one of the sketches—a depiction of an impossible, twisting form, like a doorway leading to some other dimension. His fingers brushed the paper, and for a brief moment, the edges of the design seemed to blur, as though the ink itself was alive. 

Alistair pulled his hand back, blinking rapidly. The sensation was gone, but it left behind an unsettling feeling, as though the world itself had subtly shifted. He shook his head. 

*Focus. Analyze.* 

But as he stood there in the stillness, he knew one thing for certain—this was no ordinary case. He had just begun to scratch the surface.