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They approached the loomingdoorway, their steps careful on the gravel, each crunch beneath their feetpunctuating the stillness. As they drew closer, Finn's eyes caught the darkoutline of something unnatural on the door—a symbol that didn't belong.
"Midnight," Ameliamurmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she traced the outline of theVictorian-style clock face spray-painted across the rusted metal door. Thehands were stark, pointing straight up as though accusing the night sky. "Thewitching hour."
"Midnight is often used torepresent the end times. Could be religious?" Finn questioned, raising aneyebrow as he studied the symbol.
"Common motif," shereplied, her gaze not leaving the symbol. "It signifies a time when theveil between this world and the next is thinnest. When spirits are supposed tohave more power."
"Let's hope we’re dealing withjust a flesh-and-blood killer," Finn said, reaching out to the door."I had enough of ghosts on Huldra Island.”
“Don’t remind me,” Amelia said.
Finn shook the thought. Severalcases prior, he and Amelia had been caught in the mother of all storms on aremote Scottish island. He still wasn’t sure if something he had seen thatnight was otherworldly or not, but the old abandoned mill in front of him nowgave him a similar feeling of uncertainty.
Regardless, it was time to put on abrave face as always. “Shall we go to the dance?" Finn grinned.
"Lead the way, DetectiveWright," Amelia answered, playing along with the pretense
Finn pushed against the door withthe heel of his palm, feeling the resistance of time-worn hinges before itswung open with a groan. They stepped over the threshold together, their sensesimmediately assaulted by the mustiness of decay and the scent of secrets longburied under dust and neglect.
"Time to see what our host hasprepared for us," Finn muttered, his hand instinctively resting where hisweapon should have been. But this was the UK, and neither he nor Amelia wereallowed to carry firearms.
The darkness inside seemed toswallow the light from outside, inviting them further into its depths.
"If we're lucky, this willjust be a wild goose chase," Amelia said, her flashlight piercing theshadows as they moved forward, the beam bouncing off ancient machinery andpiles of debris.
"Hopefully," Finnconcluded, but his mind was already sifting through the possible outcomes ofthis macabre invitation.
Their footfalls echoed in thecavernous space, a rhythm set to the tempo of suspense. The beam of Finn'sflashlight danced across the walls, revealing the skeletal remains of aonce-thriving office. Desks stood like tombstones in the gloom, surfaces shroudedin dust as if preserving the last moments of activity before the mill's hearthad stopped beating.
"Check this out," Ameliacalled from the far end of the room, her voice low and steady.
Finn navigated through the maze offurniture, his eyes adjusting to the dimness that clung to every corner. Thecluttered desk in front of Amelia was a patchwork of yellowed paper and fadedink. He leaned in closer, squinting at the article clippings that lay scatteredlike pieces of a jigsaw begging to be solved. They varied in their origins.Books, newspapers, magazines; they all were discussing one subjectmatter—advances in technology over the last forty years.
"Did the killer leave thesehere or did someone else?" he murmured, thumbing through the articles,each one a litany of questions with no answers.
"Look at this." Ameliapointed to a scrap of paper half-buried beneath the clippings. Scrawledhandwriting beckoned them with a riddle that sent a shiver down Finn's spine:"Time fades like a sun of old, and the killing stroke is fierce andbold."
"Why do we always get theliterary ones?" Finn said, the note's implications twisting in his mind."That’s two poetic samples dealing with the passage of time."
"I doubt the killer sent ushere for an English literature lesson," Amelia replied, her brow furrowedin thought. “Come on.”
They continued deeper into themill, the oppressive atmosphere gripping their nerves, tightly. The heavy airseemed to grow colder as they reached the machine room, where the mechanicaland rusted remnants of industry still lingered.
But something was out of place.
There, in the center of the room,sat an old spinning jenny, its spindles reaching out like the limbs of a metalarachnid. However, it was not the rusted contraption that stole Finn'sbreath—it was the figure seated at it.
"Jesus," Finn exhaled,taking in the sight of a man in his thirties. Bound to the machine, lifelesseyes staring into nothingness, he made a grotesque monument to the decay allaround. His body still looked fresh to Finn's eyes. “I wonder if the killercame here straight from the bathhouse or vice versa. By the look of the body,the two victims died within a few hours of each other.”
“Poor guy… This is sick,” Ameliasaid. “Watch your back. It feels like we’re not alone.”
A Victorian pocket watch protrudedobscenely from his mouth, its golden surface smeared with dark stains.
"I knew it!" Finn said,pointing at the watch. "Now, do you doubt me? Another watch!"
“The watch in the tree looked likeit might have been there for a while,” Amelia said. “It could be acoincidence.”
“Look at what it’s set to,” Finnsaid, gravely.
