crucifyheaven

Detective Ian Wren thought he had escaped the ghosts of his past, but the murder of Eleanor Montgomery pulls him into a web of deceit that threatens to unravel Hollow’s Edge. Eleanor was more than a philanthropist—she was the keystone of the town’s power dynamics. Her death exposes dark secrets tied to the elusive Crimson Hour Society, a shadowy group with ties to corruption and betrayal.

As Ian investigates, he uncovers layers of lies, each piece revealing deeper connections between Hollow’s Edge’s elite and Eleanor’s tragic demise. But the closer Ian gets to the truth, the more dangerous the game becomes. With each passing hour, Ian faces threats, red herrings, and the ghosts of his unsolved case—forcing him to confront his own failure and unravel the darkness hiding in plain sight.

In a town where trust is fleeting and redemption comes at a price, Ian must uncover the truth before the Crimson Hour strikes again.

The Crimson Hour

Chapter 9: Into the Woods

The woods behind the Montgomery estate were silent, cloaked in a darkness that even Ian Wren's flashlight couldn't fully pierce. The chanting had grown louder as he and Sheriff Evelyn Cross approached, a low and rhythmic hum that seemed to echo from the very trees themselves. The air was damp and cold, each breath forming a mist that mingled with the fog curling through the underbrush.

Ian's grip tightened on his flashlight as he stepped carefully over fallen branches and soggy leaves. "We need to be cautious," he said under his breath.

Evelyn nodded, her hand on her holstered gun. "Sounds like there's a group. Whoever they are, they don't want to be found."

The chanting grew clearer as they moved deeper into the woods, the words indistinct yet filled with an unsettling energy. It wasn't loud, but it was insistent, wrapping around them like a living thing. Ian's mind raced as he tried to parse the sound—were these the remnants of the Crimson Hour Society? Was this part of the same ritual they'd found evidence of in the west wing?

Finally, they came to a clearing. Ian held up a hand to stop Evelyn, motioning for her to stay low as they crouched behind the cover of a cluster of bushes.

The sight before them was something out of a nightmare. A small group of figures, their faces obscured by dark hoods, stood in a circle around a stone altar. The altar was old, its surface slick with rain and something darker that glistened in the moonlight. The spiral symbol was carved deep into the stone, its grooves filled with crimson liquid that Ian didn't want to identify.

One of the figures stepped forward, their voice cutting through the chanting. "Tonight, we honor the hour. The blood that binds, the shadows that protect, the secrets that empower."

Ian's heart pounded in his chest as he recognized the voice—it was Mayor Henry Blackwell.

"He's involved," Ian whispered, his voice barely audible.

Evelyn's jaw tightened; her gaze locked on the scene. "We can't take them all down now. Not without backup."

Ian nodded, though every fiber of his being screamed to act. They needed evidence, and this ritual was the closest they'd come to uncovering the truth behind Eleanor's death. He reached into his pocket for a small recording device, pressing it on and angling it toward the clearing.

As the ritual continued, Ian's focus shifted to the altar itself. A familiar object lay at its center—a leather-bound notebook. Eleanor's notebook. The one that had disappeared from her study just hours earlier.

"They have her notebook," Ian said under his breath, his mind racing. "That's why they're here. They're destroying the evidence."

Evelyn's hand tightened on her gun. "We can't let that happen."

Ian nodded, his eyes scanning the clearing for an opening. The chanting grew louder, the figures raising their hands toward the sky as the spiral symbol on the altar began to glow faintly in the darkness. Ian's logical mind dismissed it as a trick of the light, but a deeper, primal part of him couldn't shake the feeling that something far more sinister was at play.

"We wait," Ian said, his voice steady despite the tension thrumming through his veins. "We wait until they leave, then we secure that notebook. It's our only lead."

But as the chanting reached a crescendo, one of the hooded figures turned, their gaze scanning the treeline. Ian froze, his breath catching in his throat. The figure's hood shifted slightly, and Ian saw their face—a flash of pale skin, dark eyes, and unmistakable fear.

It was Clara Montgomery.