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

The wind shifted, carrying with it a sound—a low, droning hum that pressed against their skulls like a distant, murmuring choir. Ian clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to cover his ears. The underground desert stretched endlessly before them, but it was the black box half-buried in the sand that held his focus.

"Another one," Evelyn muttered, stepping closer. "Like the one we destroyed."

Clara hesitated, her fingers tightening around Eleanor's notebook. "Or worse."

Ian crouched and brushed away the fine grains, revealing more of the box's intricate surface. Unlike the first, this one wasn't inert. The spirals engraved into its sides pulsed faintly, like something inside was still breathing.

"This one isn't dead," Ian murmured.

A whisper rippled through the cavern, skittering along the stone pillars in the distance. Clara flinched, her breath hitching. "We're being watched."

Evelyn pulled her gun free, eyes scanning the horizon. The rock formations ahead weren't just random pillars—shadows shifted behind them, elongated figures moving just beyond the reach of their flashlights.

It was a person—or at least, something that had once been human.

Wrapped in tattered robes, its skin was cracked like dried earth, and its face hidden behind a mask of bone. More of them emerged from the darkness, a silent procession of unmoving figures standing at the edges of the spiraled sands.

"The Watchers," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ian exhaled, rising to his feet. "What are they waiting for?"

The answer came in the form of movement—the black box trembled.

The hum in their skulls deepened, turning into a rhythmic pulse that matched their heartbeats. The spirals on the box began to rotate, shifting like gears in a clock.