The rain hit the cobblestones like a drumbeat.

Silas walked.

His boots were wet.

He kept his head down.

The fog was thick.

It swallowed the streetlamps.

He smelled coal smoke.

And rot.

He was a constable.

He carried a badge.

It was cold metal.

It felt heavy.

He was going to the Mill.

The old wool mill.

It was closed.

Or so they said.

The town was quiet.

Too quiet.

The houses watched him.

Brick eyes.

Dark windows.

He knew this street.

He had walked it for ten years.

Every crack.

Every stain.

He knew the men here.

Or thought he did.

There was a whisper.

A rumor.

About the mill.

About the noise.

Screams.

In the walls.

Silas ignored it.

He was a man of law.

Not of ghosts.

He reached the gate.

Iron.

Rusted.

Locked.

He had the key.

It was in his pocket.

He pulled it out.

His hand shook.

He did not know why.

Fear?

No.

Duty.

He turned the key.

It stuck.

He jiggled it.

The lock screamed.

The gate opened.

A creak.

Long.

Slow.

The door was ajar.

Darkness inside.

He stepped over the threshold.

The floor was wood.

It groaned under his weight.

Dust.

Thick air.

Silas lit a lantern.

The flame flickered.

It danced.

He walked forward.

The shadows moved.

They stretched.

They bent.

He saw a shape.

By the window.

A figure.

Still.

Silas raised the lantern.

The light hit the face.

It was pale.

Waxy.

Dead.

Silas gasped.

He dropped the lantern.

It rolled.

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

He looked up.

The figure was gone.

The window was open.

Rain poured in.

Silas ran.

His heart hammered.

He checked the room.

Empty.

Just a chair.

And a coat.

He touched the chair.

Cold.

He turned.

The door was open.

The night stared back.

He went out.

He locked the gate.

His hands were steady now.

He walked to the station.

The clock said two.

He sat at his desk.

The rain tapped on the glass.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

He drank tea.

It was bitter.

He thought about the face.

The wax.

The eyes.

Who was it?

He did not know.

He filed a report.

Incident at the mill.

Unexplained.

No body.

No evidence.

His superior, Major Halloway, read it.

Halloway was old.

His face was stone.

He looked at Silas.

His eyes were flat.

"You were alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"In a closed mill?"

"Yes, sir."

Halloway laughed.

A dry sound.

Like leaves skittering.

"Alone."

He tapped the paper.

"You are a good man, Silas."

His voice was soft.

But cold.

"Very good."

He pushed the paper back.

"Go to sleep."

Silas stood.

He saluted.

He left.

The corridor was long.

The light was dim.

He felt watched.

Not by ghosts.

By men.

Halloway.

The others.

They did not believe.

Or they did not care.

Silas went home.

His house was small.

Stone walls.

A fire in the hearth.

He lit a candle.

He sat.

He stared at the flame.

It wavered.

He thought of the figure.

The wax.

The cold.

He touched his cheek.

It was cold too.

He remembered his friend.

Elias.

Elias was gone.

Five years.

Elias had worked at the mill.

Before it closed.

Silas had argued with him.

About the work.

About the pay.

About the silence.

Elias had smiled.

"It's just the wind, Silas."

He had been right.

Or so Silas thought.

Now Silas was not sure.

He looked at the window.

The rain blurred the glass.

He saw a shape.

Outside.

Standing in the yard.

Silas stood up.

He grabbed his gun.

He opened the door.

The yard was empty.

Just rain.

Just mud.

Just the dark.

He closed the door.

He locked it.

He sat back down.

His hands were shaking.

He looked at the clock.

Three.

The hour of the wolf.

He closed his eyes.

He tried to sleep.

But the sound was there.

The drumbeat.

The rain.

The wood groaning.

In his mind.

He saw the mill.

The dark hall.

The figure.

It was Elias.

It had to be.

Why would the dead come back?

To warn him.

To show him the truth.

Silas opened his eyes.

The candle was out.

The room was dark.

He could not see.

He could only hear.

And feel.

The cold.

The wet.

The fear.

He got up.

He put on his coat.

He put on his boots.

He took his gun.

He went out.

The night was cold.

It cut his skin.

He walked to the mill.

The gate was open.

He had not left it open.

He had locked it.

He pushed it.

It swung wide.

The darkness waited.

He stepped in.

The wood groaned.

He walked.

The lantern was on the floor.

Dark.

He lit a match.

The flame flared.

He saw the wall.

There was a mark.

A scratch.

Fresh.

Silas touched it.

It was deep.

Wood chips.

He looked around.

The room was empty.

But it felt full.

Heavy.

Like a held breath.

He went to the door.

He pushed it.

It opened.

The rain was inside.

Not from the window.

From the walls.

Water seeped through the brick.

Dripping.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Silas backed away.

His gun was raised.

He saw the figure again.

By the window.

The wax face.

It was looking at him.

Silas fired.

The shot echoed.

Loud.

Deafening.

The figure fell.

Silas ran to it.

He knelt.

He touched the face.

It was soft.

Warm.

It was not wax.

It was clay.

A statue.

Made by hand.

Silas looked up.

The window was closed.

The rain was outside.

The walls were dry.

The statue sat in the chair.

Silas looked at the statue.

It was Elias.

The face was his.

The eyes were empty.

Silas picked it up.

It was light.

Hollow.

He heard a voice.

Behind him.

"Put it down."

Silas turned.

Halloway stood there.

He was not alone.

Two men with him.

Guns drawn.

Halloway’s face was calm.

His eyes were hard.

"You have a problem, Silas."

"I found a body," Silas said.

"No," Halloway said.

"You found a lie."

Silas looked at the statue.

He looked at Halloway.

"What is this place?"

Halloway stepped forward.

His boots were clean.

Dry.

"The mill is empty, Silas."

"Then why the rain?"

"Condensation."

"Then why the statue?"

Halloway smiled.

It was a thin smile.

"Art."

"Art?"

"A warning."

Halloway pointed at the door.

"Leave."

Silas did not move.

He held the statue.

He held his gun.

"I am a constable."

"You are a ghost," Halloway said.

"Your mind is sick."

He gestured to the men.

"Take him."

The men advanced.

Silas fired.

One man fell.

The other ran.

Halloway did not run.

He stood still.

His face was sad.

"He is dead, Silas."

"Who?"

"Elias."

"I know."

"The mill is haunted."

"No."

"It is not haunted."

Halloway’s voice was quiet.

"It is filled with shame."

Silas lowered the gun.

The statue slipped from his hands.

It shattered.

Clay pieces.

On the floor.

Silas looked at Halloway.

"I don't understand."

Halloway shook his head.

"You were supposed to stop."

"Stop what?"

"The truth."

"What truth?"

Halloway looked at the broken clay.

"The truth is that we killed him."

Silas felt the room tilt.

The air left his lungs.

"We?"

"We all did."

Halloway’s eyes were wet.

"He knew too much."

"About what?"

"About the workers."

"About the children."

Silas remembered.

The rumors.

The missing boys.

The silence.

The town kept the secret.

Silas was part of it.

He had looked away.

He had closed his eyes.

He had chosen comfort.

Over truth.

Now the truth was here.

In the clay.

In the rain.

In the dark.

Halloway reached into his coat.

He pulled out a gun.

He pointed it at Silas.

"I am sorry."

Silas did not move.

He did not fight.

He let the gun stay.

He let the fear stay.

He looked at the broken statue.

Elias’s face.

Shattered.

Gone.

Silas thought of the rain.

It stopped.

The silence was loud.

Halloway fired.

The bullet hit the wall.

Dust fell.

Halloway’s hand trembled.

He could not do it.

He lowered the gun.

His face crumbled.

"We are trapped, Silas."

"Trapped?"

"Yes."

Halloway looked at the door.

The night.

The rain had stopped.

The stars were out.

Cold.

Bright.

Indifferent.

Silas picked up a piece of clay.

It was sharp.

He held it.

He looked at Halloway.

"Take me with you."

Halloway nodded.

He walked out.

Silas followed.

They left the mill.

The gate was open.

The town was asleep.

The houses watched.

Silas walked.

His boots were wet.

His hand was bloody.

He held the clay.

He held the truth.

It was heavy.

It was sharp.

It cut his skin.

He did not let go.

He walked to the edge of town.

The road ended.

A cliff.

Below was the sea.

Black.

Churning.

Silas stood.

The wind blew.

It tore at his coat.

He looked at the sea.

It was dark.

It was deep.

It was waiting.

He looked at the clay.

Elias’s face.

Broken.

Silas threw it.

It flew.

It hit the water.

A splash.

Small.

Silent.

The sea took it.

The rain started again.

Soft.

Gentle.

Silas closed his eyes.

He felt the cold.

The wet.

The end.

He stepped forward.

The dark took him.

The sea rose.

It swallowed the town.

The mill.

The stone.

The silence.

Gone.

Only the water.

And the rain.

And the sound.

A drumbeat.

Fading.

Into the night.