Sarah And The Gastown Monster(Donald Harry Roberts) Sarah
And
The Gastown Monster

Act I
The Case of Shadows

Scene 1
Shadows in Gastown

The rain fell in sharp needles, bouncing off the cobblestones of Gastown and pooling at the base of rusted lampposts. Detective Sarah Shilling pulled her coat tighter as she made her way down the narrow alley. The air smelled of wet dust and something faintly metallic—a smell she had come to associate with blood.
Her boots echoed against the slick stone, melting into the far-off hum of the city. She stopped, staring at the cordoned-off area ahead. Blue police tape flapped in the wind, slicing through the gloom like streaks of lightning. Beyond it, officers moved like shadows around the scene. Sarah’s gut tightened.
“Detective Shilling,” called Officer Simms, stepping away from the crowd. His wide frame loomed even taller in the harsh light of a portable floodlamp. “You made it just in time.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the makeshift tent. “Another one?”
“Yeah. Same as the others,” Simms said grimly. He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
She nodded.
As she ducked under the tape and moved toward the tent, the scent hit her first—a pungent mix of iron and rot. She steeled herself and entered.
The body lay sprawled in the center, the victim’s face twisted in terror. Deep gashes marred their chest and arms, the wounds jagged, as though inflicted by claws. Blood painted the floor in jagged streaks, marking a frantic struggle. Sarah’s eyes scanned the scene, trained and meticulous, but something gnawed at the edge of her mind.
“This makes it three,” Simms said, standing behind her. “Three in two weeks. All in Gastown. All like... this.”
Sarah didn’t respond immediately. She crouched by the body, examining the wounds. “Any witnesses?”
Simms let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’ll love this. One guy claimed he saw... well, a monster.”
Sarah looked up sharply. “A monster?”
Simms shrugged. “Said it was some... beast. Long teeth, claws, fur. Couldn’t give us a clear description, though. Kept rambling about shadows and glowing eyes.”
The corner of Sarah’s mouth twitched, though not in amusement. She stood, brushing her hands off on her coat. “What about real leads? Any prints?”
“Nothing we can trace so far. Forensics is running comparisons, but...” He trailed off, shrugging again.
Sarah stepped out of the tent, needing air. The case pressed against her shoulders. She lit a cigarette, the flicker of her lighter briefly illuminating her sharp, tired features.
“That makes three,” she muttered to herself. “And no closer to answers.”
Gastown was already on edge. The historic district, with its brick facades and cobblestone streets, had always carried an aura of mystery. But now it was suffocating, the charm replaced by an undercurrent of fear. Whispers of the “Gastown Monster” had spread like wildfire, fueled by sensationalist headlines and frenzied speculation. Some claimed it was an animal escaped from the wild. Others spoke in hushed tones of curses and ancient spirits haunting the district.
Sarah didn’t believe in monsters. But she couldn’t deny the unsettling patterns forming around her.
“Detective.” A voice broke through her thoughts. Officer Simms had followed her out, his face creased with worry. “There’s more.”
She exhaled smoke and looked at him, waiting.
“We found fur,” he said, his voice low. “Doesn’t match any animal native to the area. And... there were tracks. Big ones. Not human. Forensics is working on it, but it’s not like anything we’ve seen.”
Sarah stared at him for a long moment, processing. “Fur? Tracks? You’re saying an animal did this?”
“I’m saying... I don’t know what did this,” Simms replied. “But whatever it is, it’s scaring the hell out of people.”
Her cigarette burned down to the filter, and she dropped it, crushing it beneath her heel. “Let’s stick to facts, Simms. Animals or not, there’s a killer out there, and I intend to find them.”
Simms nodded, though his expression was far from reassured.
Later that night, Sarah sat at her desk, the hum of the station around her fading into white noise. Photos of the victims were spread out before her, the wounds, grisly in the fluorescent light. She studied them intently, searching for patterns, for anything that could point to a rational explanation.
Her desk phone rang, jolting her. She picked it up without looking away from the photos. “Shilling.”
“Detective, it’s Chief Whitaker,” came the gruff voice of her superior. “I need an update on Gastown.”
Sarah sighed. “Another victim tonight. Same MO—lacerations, significant blood loss, no clear leads. Forensics found fur and tracks at the scene, but nothing conclusive yet.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Fur and tracks?” Whitaker’s tone was skeptical. “You’re not about to tell me this ‘monster’ nonsense has legs, are you?”
“I’m sticking to the evidence,” Sarah replied evenly. “But the rumors are making things harder. People are scared.”
“Then solve it,” Whitaker snapped. “Put this ‘monster’ crap to bed and find me a suspect. I don’t care who.”
The line went dead. Sarah hung up the phone, staring at it for a moment longer than necessary. Her jaw tightened. She wasn’t interested in quick fixes or scapegoats. She wanted the truth.
Around midnight, Sarah walked the streets of Gastown alone. The rain had eased to a mist, clinging to the air like a ghostly veil. The district was eerily quiet, the usual rush replaced by drawn curtains and locked doors. Even the bars seemed subdued, their patrons whispering over half-empty glasses.
Sarah turned a corner, her eyes scanning every shadow. Her hand rested on the grip of her sidearm, though she knew it wouldn’t make her feel safer. Something about Gastown felt... wrong tonight. The air was heavy, oppressive, the city felt like it was caught in a still shot in a lousy movie.
She stopped abruptly. There, at the edge of an alley, something glinted in the faint light. She crouched, brushing aside debris to reveal a single claw, long and sharp. It looked ancient, almost fossilized, but the edges were fresh and jagged.
Her pulse quickened. She tucked the claw into a bag and rose, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the darkness.
In the distance, a faint howl echoed through the mist, low and mournful. Sarah’s grip tightened on her weapon as she turned toward the sound. She didn’t believe in monsters.
Not yet.


Scene 2
The Lone Witness

Detective Sarah Shilling sat at her desk, methodically flipping through reports on the Gastown murders. The crime scenes painted the same grim picture, mangled bodies, claw-like gashes, and enough blood to flood the cobblestone streets. Yet, no clear leads. No suspect. Just fear, feeding on itself.
She tapped her pen against the desk, lost in thought, when Officer Simms approached her with a hesitant look. His uniform was soaked, his hair slicked back from the rain.
"Detective," he said, voice low. “We’ve got a witness.”
Sarah’s pen paused mid-tap. She looked up at him, her sharp eyes narrowing. “A credible one?”
Simms gave her a dubious shrug. “Depends on how you define credible.”
She stood, grabbing her coat. “Where is he?”
“Interview room one.” Simms hesitated. “I’ll warn you now, though—he’s... rattled. Talking about things you don’t usually hear in police work.”
“I’ve heard everything, Simms,” Sarah said, brushing past him. “Let’s see what he’s got.”
The interview room was harshly lit, its air thick with the faint scent of something indeterminate. A man sat at the metal table, his hands trembling as he nursed a disposable cup. His clothes were disheveled, a thick parka hanging awkwardly on his wiry frame. His eyes darted nervously toward the one-way mirror, then back to his cup.
“Mr. Karlow,” Sarah began, her tone even and calm. She closed the door behind her and sat across from him. “I’m Detective Shilling. You have information about the Gastown murders?”
The man flinched slightly at the word “murders.” His hands clutched the cup tighter, knuckles whitening. “I— I saw it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Sarah leaned forward, her expression neutral but attentive. “What did you see?”
Harlow swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It wasn’t human,” he said finally. “That thing... it—it had eyes like... fire. And teeth. So many teeth.”
Sarah’s pen hovered over her notebook, but she didn’t write anything yet. “Mr. Karlow let’s take this from the beginning. Where were you, and what happened?”
The man’s gaze flicked to the door, as if considering bolting. “I— I was coming out of The Steamwhistle,” he said, referring to a popular Gastown pub. “It was late. Past midnight. The rain was coming down so hard I could barely see, you know?”
Sarah nodded, “Go on.”
“I heard this sound,” Karlow continued, his voice trembling. “Like... a growl. But not like a dog or anything. Deeper. It was coming from the alley.” He shuddered, his hands shaking so violently that coffee spilled onto the table. “I turned to look, and— and it was there.”
“What was there?” Sarah asked, keeping her voice steady. “Can you describe it?”
Karlow took a shaky breath. “It was huge. Bigger than a man. Covered in... fur, I think. Its face was all twisted, like... like something out of a nightmare. And its eyes... they glowed. Red. Like embers.”
Sarah scribbled a few notes, though her skepticism remained firmly in place. “And you’re sure it wasn’t a person? Maybe someone in a costume?”
“No!” Karlow’s voice cracked, and he slammed the cup down, spilling the last of its contents. “It wasn’t a costume! I know what I saw!”
The outburst hung in the air, thick and charged. Sarah waited a moment before speaking again, her tone softer. “What happened next?”
“It—it saw me,” Karlow said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Those eyes... they locked onto me. I ran. I didn’t stop until I was home, and even then, I locked every door, every window.”
“And the victim?” Sarah pressed. “Did you see anyone else in the alley?”
Karlow shook his head, his expression haunted. “I didn’t stick around long enough to see. But it wasn’t a man that did this. It couldn’t have been.”
Sarah closed her notebook, leaning back in her chair. “Mr. Karlow, I appreciate you coming forward. But I need to be honest. What you’re describing sounds... unusual.”
“You don’t believe me,” he muttered, his voice bitter. “No one does.”
“I believe you saw something that scared you,” Sarah said carefully. “But we need facts. Evidence. Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything you remember?”
Karlow shook his head, staring down at the table. “No. That’s it.”
Sarah stood, smoothing her coat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Karlow. An officer will see you out.”
As she left the room, she found Simms waiting in the hallway, arms crossed. “Well?” he asked.
Sarah sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s convinced he saw some kind of... beast. Glowing eyes, fur, the whole works.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think hysteria’s starting to take hold,” she said grimly. “People are scared, and fear makes them see things.”
Simms frowned, glancing toward the interview room. “But what if he’s right? What if there’s something out there?”
“There’s always something out there,” Sarah said, turning to leave. “But it’s not a monster.”
The next morning, the story broke. “Gastown Monster Witness Speaks” blared the headlines, accompanied by sensationalized accounts of Karlow’s testimony. The city, already on edge, spiraled into panic. Talk radio buzzed with callers sharing their own “encounters,” each more outlandish than the last. Social media lit up with amateur sketches of the supposed “beast,” ranging from wolf-like creatures to grotesque hybrids.
Sarah sat at her desk, listening to the chaos unfold. Her phone rang incessantly. Reporters, concerned citizens, even her own family, all demanding answers.
The phone rang. “Detective Shilling,” barked Chief Whitaker. “In my office. Now.”
She stood, steeling herself as she walked into the chief’s cramped office. Whitaker’s face was flushed, a vein pulsing at his temple.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded, shoving a tabloid across the desk.
Sarah glanced at the headline. “Witness Claims Beast Stalks Gastown,” it read in bold, lurid letters. Beneath it was a crude drawing of glowing red eyes peering from the shadows.
“Karlow’s account got out,” Sarah said evenly. “I can’t control what the press does with it.”
“You can control the narrative,” Whitaker shot back. “This ‘monster’ nonsense is making us look like a joke. The mayor’s breathing down my neck, and the public’s ready to grab pitchforks. I need results, Detective.”
“We’re working on it,” Sarah said, though she knew the words sounded hollow. “Forensics is analyzing the claw and tracks from the last scene. We should have answers soon.”
“Soon isn’t good enough,” Whitaker growled. “Find me a suspect, Shilling. A real one. Not some fairy tale.”
Sarah left the office feeling the panic of the city pressing down on her. Gastown, with its shadowy streets and eclectic charm, had become a breeding ground for fear. The line between reality and fiction was growing thinner by the day, and Sarah knew she needed to cut through the noise before it consumed everything…her.
That night, she returned to the alley where Karlow had seen the “beast.” The rain had started again, soft but unrelenting, and the air gripped the night with an unspoken tension. She walked slowly, her flashlight cutting through the shadows. The cobblestones gleamed wetly, the narrow passage eerily silent.
Her beam landed on a dark smear near the wall—blood, not yet washed away by the rain. She crouched, studying it. Near it, faint impressions of claw-like tracks etched the wet ground, barely visible but unmistakable.
She straightened, the flashlight trembling slightly in her hand. The city’s fears might be unfounded, but Sarah couldn’t help feeling that something was watching her. Something just out of sight.
A faint growl echoed from deeper in the alley, low and guttural. Sarah froze, her breath catching. She turned slowly, the light trembling as it searched the darkness.
But there was nothing there. Just shadows, and the rain.


Scene 3
The Cursed Figure

The peculiar strand of fur had been an anomaly from the beginning. Found nestled in the blood-soaked cobblestones of the third crime scene, it defied immediate categorization. Not quite animal, not quite synthetic—its origins teased the edge of possibility. Detective Sarah Shilling knew better than to let an enigma go unchecked. She sent it off to the forensic lab without delay, knowing it could take days for the results to return.
In the meantime, she immersed herself in the undercurrents of Gastown’s streets. Beneath the tourist charm of brick facades and antique shops lay a web of whispers, rumors, and half-truths. Sarah wove her way through the neighborhood, stopping at dimly lit bars, quiet cafés, and the occasional street corner where regulars gathered like crows on a wire. Her questions were met with evasive glances, muttered deflections, and the occasional superstitious mutter about the "Gastown Monster."
It wasn’t until she stepped into a musty antique shop, tucked away from the sidewalks, that she caught her first real lead. The shop was a labyrinth of dusty shelves, its air heavy with the scent of varnish and age. Behind the counter sat an elderly man, his thin frame draped in a threadbare cardigan. He watched Sarah with sharp, wary eyes as she approached.
"Afternoon," Sarah began. She flashed her badge briefly. "Detective Shilling. I’m looking into the recent incidents around Gastown. I was hoping you could help."
The man tilted his head, his expression guarded. "Incidents, huh? You mean the murders."
Sarah nodded. "That’s right. I’ve heard a lot of talk, but not much substance. People seem... reluctant."
The man snorted softly, leaning back in his chair. "Can you blame them? Nobody wants to stick their neck out. Not when it’s about him."
Sarah’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Him?"
For a moment, the man said nothing, his gaze flicking toward the shop’s grimy window as though checking for eavesdroppers. Finally, he sighed. "Piers," he said, the name heavy on his tongue. "Nathan Piers. He’s not all there, you know? Lives right where the city ends, near the old docks. Been that way for years."
Sarah leaned forward slightly, "What do you mean, ‘not all there’?"
The man shrugged, his expression unreadable. "People say he’s... strange. Keeps to himself. Some say he’s cursed. Others say he’s just mad. Either way, he’s trouble, and most folks steer clear."
"Cursed," Sarah repeated. She didn’t press the issue further, but the name lodged itself firmly in her mind.
The conversation stuck with her as she moved through the rest of her inquiries. The name "Piers" resurfaced more than once, each time accompanied by the same hesitation, the same unease. It was as if the very mention of him caused people to shiver.
When the forensic report finally came back, it added a new dimension to the puzzle. The fur sample, while still labeled "anomalous," contained trace markers tied to human DNA—a match to one Nathan Piers, flagged in an old employment record from his time as a dockhand. The pieces tried to align, not strongly, but at least enough to draw Sarah’s attention toward the address listed on the file.
It was the combination of rumors, evasive accounts, and cold forensic evidence that led Sarah a place where the city dissolved into a stretch of abandoned docks and forgotten corners. Standing before the warped wooden shack, everything that had brought her there—the fear in the voices of those she’d questioned, the peculiarities of the case, and the enigmatic figure who had somehow become central to it all gripped her psyche like a vice.
Detective Sarah Shilling stood just beyond the gate, her fingers brushing the cool metal.
Sarah didn’t put stock in urban legends. People always needed an explanation for what they didn’t understand, and more often than not, those explanations were steeped in fear and fiction. Still, something about this place felt... off.
She pushed the gate open, the hinges shrieking like a wounded animal. The sound echoed in the stillness, and she caught herself glancing over her shoulder as if expecting an audience. Shaking her head, she stepped forward, boots crunching against gravel until she reached the weather-beaten door.
Knocking elicited no response, so she tried again, louder this time. The silence inside felt oppressive. The windows gave her no view, the grime too thick to see through. She considered her options and then, with a sigh, leaned into the door, her voice firm but calm.
“Mr. Piers? This is Detective Sarah Shilling with the Vancouver Police Department. I need to ask you a few questions.”
No answer.
Sarah tried the door handle and found it unlocked. She hesitated, her hand resting there as an unease crept up her spine. She wasn’t sure if it was the quiet or the stories surrounding the man inside, but for a moment, she felt... watched.
Her practical mind dismissed the thought, and she pushed the door open. The first thing that hit her was the smell—a musky, almost earthy scent, mixed with something sharper. Not decay, but not far from it. She stepped inside, her flashlight cutting through the dim interior.
The room was sparse, almost barren. A wooden table sat in the center, cluttered with papers and small bottles. Against one wall stood a bookshelf, its contents a mix of tattered books and strange trinkets.
“Nathan Piers?” she called, her voice slicing through the quiet. “I’m Detective Shilling. I just want to talk.”
From the corner of her eye, something moved. Her hand instinctively went to her sidearm, though she didn’t draw it. The movement resolved into a figure stepping from the shadows—a man, taller than she expected, with hunched shoulders and a face that, even in the low light, struck her.
The right side of his face was marred, the skin puckered and scarred as though clawed by something fierce. His left eye was sharp and piercing, a startling contrast to the milky white of his other eye. His hair was uneven, and his clothes hung loosely on a gaunt frame, as though the man had been warring with himself for years.
“What do you want?” His voice was low, almost guttural, yet it carried a strange fragility. He lingered in the shadows, as though the light itself might wound him.
Sarah straightened, her gaze steady but nonthreatening. “Mr. Piers, I’d like to ask you about recent events in Gastown. There have been... incidents. People have died.”
His visible eye widened slightly, but he said nothing, his jaw tight.
“Fur was found at one of the scenes,” Sarah continued. “It was traced back to you.”
Nathan stepped forward then, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said, his voice rising with a tremor that wasn’t quite anger. “Whatever you think, whatever they say—I didn’t do it.”
“I’m not accusing you,” Sarah said, taking a step closer. Her tone remained calm, measured. “I just want to understand. Why would your fur be there? Do you have any connection to the victims?”
Nathan let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a bark. “Connection? No. I don’t need to know them for this... this curse to ruin everything.”
“Curse?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he turned away, retreating to the shadows.
“Try me,” Sarah said, her curiosity outweighing her skepticism.
Nathan hesitated, his hand brushing the surface of the table as though searching for balance. “You think you’re here because of murders. Because of claw marks and blood. But it’s bigger than that. It’s... older.”
He looked at her then, his face half-lit by her flashlight. “I wasn’t always like this,” he said. “I was a man. Just a man. But they did something to me. Made me into... this.”
Sarah stayed silent, letting him continue.
“I see it in my dreams, their faces. The chanting, the fire, the way they looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was already something other than human.” He ran a hand through his uneven hair, his voice cracking. “I fought them. I screamed. But it didn’t matter. When they finished, I felt it... inside. A shadow. A hunger. They cursed me to become a monster.”
He looked at her now, his visible eye blazing with intensity. “Do you know what it’s like to fear your own skin? To wake up not knowing what you’ve done or what you will do?”
Sarah tilted her head slightly, her mind racing. Part of her wanted to dismiss his words as delusions born of trauma or mental illness. But another part, the one that had walked Gastown’s haunted alleys and seen things that defied explanation, wasn’t so sure.
“Why do you think they cursed you?” she asked finally.
Nathan let out a hollow laugh. “Why does anyone curse anyone? Power. Control. Because they could.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Sarah pressed.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice a whisper. “I see flashes—faces, robes, firelight. But it all fades when I try to hold on to it.”
Sarah folded her arms. “If you believe you’re cursed, why stay here? Why not leave Gastown?”
Nathan’s face twisted into a grim smile. “Leave? You think that would matter? Wherever I go, this curse follows. It’s not tied to a place—it’s tied to me.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, Sarah felt the peculiar stillness of the shack more acutely. She studied Nathan, searching for something, anything, that might point to the man behind the scars and shadows. What she saw wasn’t a killer, but a deeply tormented soul.
“Nathan,” she said, her voice softer now. “If you’re not the one responsible for these murders, I need your help. Someone out there is using fear to cover their tracks, and it’s working. People are scared, and they’re pointing their fingers at you. If we don’t stop this, more people will die, and your name will carry the blame.”
He looked at her, his expression wary. “What are you asking?”
“Help me understand,” she said simply. “If there’s any truth to what you’re saying, if this curse has anything to do with what’s happening, then I need you to trust me.”
Nathan hesitated, his hand gripping the edge of the table. For a moment, Sarah thought he might refuse. Then he nodded, though his face remained clouded with doubt.
“I don’t know if you can help,” he said. “But if it means stopping this... I’ll try.”
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Sarah turned toward the door, her mind buzzing with questions. The case had been strange enough already, but now it felt as though she’d stepped into the pages of a fairy tale—one where the monsters were all too real.
As she stepped back into the rain, she glanced over her shoulder. Nathan stood in the doorway, his figure framed by the dim light of the cabin. His scars caught the light, raw against his pallid skin, but his visible eye burned with a quiet intensity.
Whatever Nathan Piers believed, whether in curses or monsters or some tortured truth Sarah knew only one thing. She was no longer hunting just a killer. It was something far more elusive. Something wrapped in madness.


Scene 4
A Day Off

The ferry ride to Vancouver Island was calm that morning, the gray clouds hanging low over the water. Sarah leaned against the railing, a travel mug warming her hands as she stared at the horizon. The cool breeze tugged at her hair, carrying the brine of the Pacific. She had always found the ferry crossings oddly comforting, small pockets of time where the noise of the city, the weight of her cases, and the hum of her own thoughts were dulled by the steady churn of the engine.
Victoria was the kind of place people escaped to when they were ready for quiet. Her father, Tom Shilling, had retired there a decade earlier, trading the chaos of the Vancouver Police Department for a modest bungalow on the edge of Beacon Hill Park. Sarah couldn’t picture herself settling down like that, not yet, but she could see why he had.
When the ferry docked, Sarah made her way through the sleepy streets of Sydney the rhythm of the tires contrasting with Gastown’s cobblestones. By the time she reached her father’s house, the sky had lightened, though the clouds still threatened rain. She knocked once before letting herself in.
“Dad?” she called, stepping into the cozy living room. It smelled faintly of coffee and wood polish, a combination that never failed to feel like home.
“In the kitchen!” came the gruff reply.
She found him there, pouring coffee into a chipped mug adorned with the faded logo of a station long since defunct. Tom Shilling was in his early seventies, his once-imposing frame softened but still solid. His gray hair was neatly combed, and his sharp blue eyes flicked up as she entered.
“Well, look who decided to visit,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thought you were married to that job of yours.”
“Funny,” Sarah said, grabbing a mug from the cabinet and helping herself to the pot. “I could say the same thing about you, once upon a time.”
Tom chuckled, motioning for her to sit at the small kitchen table. She sank into one of the chairs, cradling her mug as he settled across from her.
For a while, they spoke easily, their conversation circling mundane updates, his garden, her apartment, the ferry schedule. But the small talk only lasted so long.
“I’ve been reading about that case,” Tom said eventually, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. “The one in Gastown. Seems like a mess.”
Sarah took a sip of her coffee, her face unreadable. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“Bodies piling up, no solid leads, too much noise. Everyone wants answers yesterday, and no one cares if they’re the right ones,” she said, a bitter edge creeping into her voice.
Tom leaned back in his chair, studying her. “And? Are you close?”
Sarah hesitated. “I don’t know. The clues don’t add up, at least, not in a way that makes sense. There’s this guy, Nathan Piers. People are scared of him, blame him for everything. But there’s something about it... I don’t think he’s our guy.”
Tom nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Doesn’t matter what people think. The truth’s what matters.”
“Try telling that to my boss,” Sarah muttered.
Tom’s mouth tightened. “You’ve always been stubborn, Sarah. Stubborn and righteous gets that from your mother.” He paused, his gaze flicking toward the window before returning to her. “But this case? Don’t lose yourself in it. I’ve seen it happen. One case gets under your skin, and suddenly it’s not just about the job. It’s personal. Dangerous.”
“I can handle it,” Sarah said firmly, though she avoided his eyes.
“Can you?” Tom’s voice softened, but the question lingered like a challenge. “You don’t call. You don’t visit. And when you do, it’s all weight. No light. When’s the last time you took a real day off?”
She bristled slightly, straightening in her chair. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, you’re here,” he said, his tone hardening just enough to cut. “But you’re not. Not really. You’ve been running yourself into the ground for years, Sarah. I know that look. I’ve worn it.”
Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but the words stuck. Instead, she sipped her coffee, letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable.
“I’m doing what I need to do,” she said finally. “It’s not just about me. People are dying, Dad. And if I don’t figure this out, no one will.”
Tom sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Just don’t forget to live your own life in the process. You’re good at this job, Sarah. Maybe too good. But it’s not everything.”
She looked away, her jaw tight. The tension between them had always been like this—warmth laced with barbs, love threaded with frustration. He wanted a version of her that didn’t exist, and she wanted him to stop trying to fix what wasn’t broken.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, standing abruptly. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Tom watched her, his expression unreadable. “You know, your mother used to say the same thing,” he said quietly.
Sarah froze, the memory of her mother flickering briefly across her mind. She said nothing, simply nodding before heading for the door.
Outside, the rain had started again. Sarah pulled her coat tighter as she walked toward her, her father’s words echoing in her ears. She’d come for a moment of reprieve, a chance to step away from the shadows of Gastown. But all she’d found was more weight to carry.


Scene 5
Pressure From Above

The ferry ride back to Vancouver was quieter than Sarah had expected. The mid-afternoon sun fought a losing battle against thick clouds, casting the ocean in a moody gray that matched her thoughts. She stood on the deck near the railing, her hands stuffed in her coat pockets. The faint scent of saltwater mingled with the faint hum of the ferry's engines.
Her father's words lingered in her mind, weaving themselves into the fabric of her thoughts about the Gastown case. Don’t lose yourself in it. I’ve seen it happen. The caution wasn’t new, but she hadn’t been able to dismiss it since leaving Victoria. She knew he was right in some ways, but what choice did she have? When the city’s fears pressed down on her, she was the one expected to carry it.
As the ferry approached the terminal, Sarah turned away from the sea and made her way back to her car. The lower deck smelled faintly of gasoline and damp concrete, and the echoes of footsteps and muffled voices bounced off the cavernous walls. Her sedan was parked near the middle, wedged between a minivan and a rusted old pickup. She clicked her remote key fob, unlocking the doors with a chirp, and slid into the driver’s seat.
The moment she settled, something felt... off. Sarah couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was a faint tickle of unease at the back of her mind. She brushed it aside, started the engine, and waited for the ferry to dock.
Once they were cleared to disembark, the process was familiar, bumpers edging forward inch by inch until she finally rolled off the ramp and onto solid ground. The mainland’s highway home welcomed her back with their usual mix of chaos and rhythm, but she still couldn’t ditch the feeling that had settled in her chest. At the first red light, she glanced over her shoulder toward the back seat. Nothing was out of place, her jacket was still thrown carelessly over the passenger-side seat, her work bag untouched. But as the light turned green and she pressed the gas, her mind replayed a small, troubling detail.
She always locked her car before leaving it. Always. Yet as she walked off the ferry, she’d instinctively pressed her key fob again, and the familiar chirp of unlocking doors had greeted her. The car had been unlocked. How?
She told herself she must have forgotten, but doubt simmered just below the surface. If someone had been in the car, nothing seemed disturbed. But the thought refused to leave her alone as she drove back to the city.
The station was buzzing with tension when Sarah arrived, its usual hum of activity charged with something more volatile. Officers huddled around desks, whispering in tones too low to hear, while phones rang incessantly in the background. The Gastown case had put the entire department on edge.
Sarah dropped her bag on her desk, her thoughts already churning through the list of loose ends she needed to chase. The claw found at the crime scene, Nathan Piers’s fragmented claims about curses, the mounting public hysteria; all of it felt like a pressure cooker teetering on the brink.
Before she could dig in, the sharp bark of her name cut through the din.
“Shilling! My office. Now.”
Sarah glanced up to see Captain Whitaker standing in the doorway of his office, his face stormy and impatient. She exhaled through her nose and pushed her chair back.
Whitaker’s office was an orderly chaos of overflowing file folders, crime scene maps pinned to the walls, and a whiteboard covered in scrawled notes. He motioned for her to close the door as she entered, and she did, the click of the latch somehow louder than it should have been.
“Have a seat,” he said, though his tone made it clear it wasn’t really a request.
Sarah sat, folding her arms. “What’s this about?”
Whitaker didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, his eyes boring into her. “The Gastown case.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
“The mayor’s on my back,” he said, his voice tight.
“You’ve mentioned that.” Sarah responded flatly.
Whitaker ignored her, “The media’s turning this into a circus, and the public’s losing their damn minds. People are calling this thing the ‘Gastown Monster’ like it’s a goddamn horror movie. They’re scared. And scared people do stupid things.”
“I’m aware,” Sarah said evenly. “That’s why we need to handle this carefully. We can’t just—”
“We can’t just sit around waiting for things to get worse,” Whitaker cut her off. He straightened, pacing behind his desk. “We need a suspect, Shilling. Someone we can put in front of the cameras. Someone the public can latch onto.”
Sarah’s jaw tightened. She didn’t like where this was going. “A scapegoat, you mean.”
Whitaker stopped, his glare sharp enough to cut a diamond. “Call it what you want. The point is, we need to give people something. And right now, we’ve got Nathan Piers. The fur, the tracks. It all points to him.”
“It’s circumstantial,” Sarah said, her voice low but firm. “ Like I said before, we don’t have enough to charge him, let alone convict him. And even if we did and again, I’m not convinced he’s our guy.”
“It doesn’t matter if he’s our guy,” Whitaker shot back, slamming his hand on the desk for emphasis. “What matters is calming the public and getting the heat off this department.”
Sarah stared at him, mind reeling. The words echoed her father’s warnings from earlier that day: One case gets under your skin, and suddenly it’s not just about the job. It’s personal. Dangerous.
“This isn’t about public opinion,” she said finally, her voice steady but cold. “This is about finding the truth. And if you want me to arrest Nathan just to appease the mayor, you’ve got the wrong detective.”
Whitaker’s face darkened, and for a moment, she thought he might yell. But instead, he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “Don’t test me, Shilling. I’ve got enough pressure from above without you making this harder. You’re on thin ice as it is.”
Sarah didn’t flinch. “If you want to make an arrest, make one. But it won’t be on my watch.”
The silence between them was static, neither willing to back down. Finally, Whitaker straightened, his lip curling in frustration.
“Fine,” he said, his tone clipped. “But if you’re wrong, and this thing spirals out of control, it’s on you.”
Sarah stood, her expression unreadable. “Noted.”
She left the office without another word, the door closing behind her with a muted thud. Back at her desk, she stared at the stack of files waiting for her, Whitaker’s ultimatum grinding at her nerves.
Her gut told her Nathan wasn’t the killer. But proving that, while keeping her job and navigating the minefield of politics and fear, was shaping up to be gladiatorial. She poked the air with her pen like a sword and laughed softly. “I think you like shit like this.”


Scene 6
Into The Dark

Sarah stepped into her apartment, shrugging off her coat and tossing it onto the back of the chair by the door. The rain had let up during her drive home, leaving behind that earthy scent that seemed to always lingered in the air after a storm. The silence of her apartment greeted her like an old, familiar companion, calm, steady, and indifferent.
She placed her bag on the counter lazily. It had been a long day, filled with too many voices and too many opinions. Now, all she wanted was stillness.
In the kitchen, she opened a bottle of wine, the soft pop of the cork breaking the quiet. She poured herself a generous glass, watching the red liquid swirl as it settled. Dinner was simple, leftover spaghetti reheated in the microwave. She wasn’t in the mood to cook, and besides, the old pasta tasted better now than it had when she made it.
She ate at the small table by the window, staring out at the city lights. Technically she was outside Gastown but only by a couple of blocks, on Powell Street, just up from Main. From her 3rd floor vantage point, Gastown was just a glow stretching into the night, a cluster of yellow-orange lights framed by the jagged silhouette of the downtown skyline. It felt far away and impossibly close all at once.
After dinner, Sarah took her wine to the couch, curling up with her legs tucked beneath her. The quiet of the apartment started to press in on her, a feeling she wasn’t ready to confront. She sipped her wine, letting it warm her chest, and reached for her laptop on the coffee table.
She hadn’t meant to think about him tonight. But once the thought surfaced, it refused to leave. Evan. His name carried with it a thousand memories, each one sharp and vivid. She closed her eyes for a moment, the glass of wine resting against her lips. She hadn’t thought of him in months, maybe a year, but tonight, in the solitude of her apartment, he was impossible to ignore.
Evan had been the kind of man who filled a room. Confident, charming, and endlessly patient, he’d had a way of making Sarah feel like the only person in the world who mattered. For a while, she’d thought he might be the one, the one who could understand her, who could weather the storms that came with her job. But then, as always, the cracks began to show.
“It’s not just your work,” he’d said once, his voice tinged with frustration. “It’s... everything. It’s like there’s a part of you I can’t reach, no matter how hard I try.”
She’d wanted to argue, to explain that it wasn’t about him, that she wasn’t keeping him at arm’s length on purpose. But the words never came. Because deep down, she knew he was right. It wasn’t her job that had pushed him away. It was something deeper, something raw and unspoken. A truth she wasn’t ready to admit, even to herself.
In the end, Evan had left. He’d packed his things and walked out of her life with a twisted knot of resignation and sadness that still haunted her. She hadn’t fought to keep him. Because being alone was easier. Safer.
Sarah shook her head, pushing the memory aside. The wine had loosened her thoughts, and she needed a distraction. She opened her laptop, the glow of the screen cutting into the dim light of the apartment. The Gastown case was still waiting for her, its threads tangled and frayed. If she couldn’t solve it tonight, she could at least try to make sense of it.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, and she hesitated for a moment before typing the words “Gastown history curses” into the search bar. It felt ridiculous, but something about Nathan Piers’s claims of a curse had lodged itself in her mind. She didn’t believe in magic or witches or curses. But she couldn’t ignore the way he’d spoken, the conviction in his voice, the haunted look in his eye. Even if it was all in his head, there was something there. Something real.
The search yielded a mix of results, most of them forgettable. Tourist blogs about “haunted Gastown,” YouTube videos promising ghost sightings, and articles about the district’s colorful past. But one link caught her eye: The Witches of Gastown: A Forgotten Chapter of Vancouver’s History. She clicked on it, her curiosity piqued.
The article, published in a small, independent history blog, detailed a series of events in the late 1800s, when Gastown was still a fledgling settlement. According to the writer, rumors of witchcraft had spread through the community, fueled by unexplained phenomena, cattle found dead with no discernible cause, children falling ill with strange ailments, and sudden fires that consumed entire buildings.
The focus of the rumors had been a woman named Elana Varrow, an herbalist and midwife who lived just east of Gastown. She had been well-known and respected until the strange occurrences began. Then, as fear and suspicion grew, the community turned on her, accusing her of witchcraft. There were no records of a formal trial, but the article suggested that Elana had disappeared shortly after the accusations, her fate unknown. Some claimed she had fled; others whispered that she had been killed by an angry mob.
Sarah frowned, scrolling through the article. The details were sparse, the sources questionable, but the story struck a chord. It wasn’t the idea of witchcraft that intrigued her, it was the way fear had shaped the community’s actions, how superstition had filled the gaps left by a lack of understanding.
Elana Varrow’s story wasn’t unique. It was a pattern repeated throughout history, fear turned to blame, blame turned to violence. It reminded Sarah of the way people talked about Nathan Piers, the way they whispered his name and avoided him. Was it so different? Were they?
She sat back, her wineglass resting against her thigh. She didn’t know why the story of Elana Varrow mattered, but it lingered in her mind, a ghostly echo of the past. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Or maybe it was a reminder that the lines between truth and belief, between justice and vengeance, were far thinner than anyone liked to admit.
The laptop screen dimmed as she stared at it, lost in thought. Outside, the rain began again, tapping like a ghost, softly against the window.


Scene 7
Nathan's Torment

The storm had been building all evening, a restless presence on the horizon, until it finally broke loose with a fury that clawed at the city. Rain lashed the streets, flooding alleys and pelting windows. Lightning illuminated Gastown in glaring flashes, highlighting its weathered brick buildings and the jagged edges of crumbling docks. To Nathan, the storm wasn’t just outside; it raged within him, raw and unstoppable.
He sprinted through the streets, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his clothes soaked to the skin. Each clap of thunder jolted him like a physical blow, a terrible drumbeat that drove him onward. He didn’t know where he was running to. He only knew that he had to move, had to outrun the shadows creeping at the edge of his vision.
The voices came first, faint and taunting, barely audible over the howling wind. “You’ll never escape,” they whispered. “It’s inside you.”
Nathan clamped his hands over his ears, stumbling as he ran. The voices didn’t stop; they never did. They only grew louder, more insistent, until they filled his head like a swarm of demons. He tripped on a loose cobblestone, falling hard onto the wet pavement. Pain shot up his knees, but he scrambled to his feet, ignoring it. The ground felt unstable beneath him, like it might crack open and swallow him whole.
By the time he reached his shack his vision was blurred, not just from the rain, but from something deeper, something fractured inside his mind. He shoved open the warped wooden door and stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind him. The sound of the storm faded slightly, muffled by the thin walls, but the chaos inside him only intensified.
He lit a lantern the weak glow of its flame cast flickering shadows across floor and up the walls towering over him from the ceiling, Nathan gasping for air.
Water dripped from his hair and clothes, pooling on the floor. He felt cold, but it wasn’t just the rain. It was a cold that came from within, gnawing at his bones and twisting in his chest.
He made his way to the center of the room, gripping the edge of the table for support. His hands trembled violently, his knuckles pale and bloodless. He closed his eyes, but the images came, flashes of teeth and claws, of red eyes burning in the darkness. He saw the bodies, mangled and lifeless, and his stomach churned with a sickening mix of fear and guilt.
“It’s not real,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “It’s not real.”
But it felt real. Every image, every sound, every sensation, it was as vivid as the storm outside. He clawed at his hair, pulling as though he could tear the thoughts out of his head. The curse. It was the curse. He could feel it coursing through him, a dark, seething energy that threatened to consume him whole.
The transformation always began the same way. A heat rising in his chest, spreading to his limbs like wildfire. His skin prickled, his muscles tensed, and his breathing quickened. He stumbled to the cracked mirror hanging on the wall, staring at his reflection with wide, fearful eyes.
“It’s happening,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The man staring back at him didn’t look entirely human. His face was pale, gaunt, and contorted with anguish. His scars, jagged, seemed to stand out more sharply in the dim light. But it was his eyes that frightened him the most. One was sharp and piercing, the other milky and dead. Together, they looked demonic, monstrous, as though belonging to a creature caught between two states of being.
The hallucinations began as faint movements at the edge of his vision, shadows twisting and writhing like living things. Then came the sounds: low, guttural growls that echoed in his ears and made his skin crawl. He pressed his hands against the sides of his head, but it didn’t help. The growls became snarls, the shadows became claws reaching for him.
He backed away from the mirror, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His body convulsed, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his chest. The heat had spread to every inch of him now, and his skin felt like it was on fire. He clawed at his arms, leaving red welts, but the sensation only grew stronger.
“No,” he groaned, his voice raw. “Not again. Please, not again.”
He reached for the thing hanging on the wall. Then he fell clutching at it.
He doubled over, his head pressing against the floorboards. His mind felt like it was splintering, fragments of thought and memory colliding in a chaotic whirl. He saw faces, faces he didn’t recognize, yet somehow knew. He saw firelight dancing on rough-hewn walls, heard chanting in a language that wasn’t his own. He saw hands reaching for him, rough and unyielding, and felt the burn of something being etched into his very soul.
And then, he saw her.
The woman’s face was shrouded in shadows, her features indistinct. But her eyes, dark and piercing, burned into him. He could feel her presence, her power, as though she was standing right beside him. She was the one who had cursed him, the one who had turned his life into a waking nightmare. Her voice echoed in his mind, soft and cold.
“You will never be free.”
Nathan screamed, the sound raw and animalistic. He stumbled to his feet, knocking over the table as he lurched across the room. His vision blurred, the lantern light flickering wildly. The walls seemed to close in on him, the room shrinking until he could barely breathe.
He staggered to the door, flinging it open and letting the storm rush in. The rain pelted his skin, cold and relentless, but it did nothing to quench the fire raging inside him. He stepped out into the night, his bare feet sinking into the mud, and looked up at the sky.
The lightning illuminated his face, a mask of anguish and fury. He clenched his fists, his body trembling with the effort to contain himself. The growls still echoed in his ears, but now they seemed to come from within him, reverberating through his very core.
“I’m not a monster,” he whispered, the words trembling on his lips.
But even as he said them, he wasn’t sure he believed them. The curse was inside him, a shadow he couldn’t escape. It twisted his mind, blurring the lines between reality and nightmare or…what…something insane. And in his darkest moments, he wondered if the curse wasn’t just in his mind. Maybe it was real. Maybe he really was turning into something else—something not entirely human.
Nathan sank to his knees in the mud, his head bowed. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, the rain soaking through his clothes and the thing he had crushed his body into, chilling him to the bone. Time had lost all meaning, consumed by the endless cycle of torment that had become his life.
When the storm began to abate, Nathan forced himself to his feet. His body felt heavy, his mind numb. He stumbled back to the shack, closing the door against the night. The room was silent now, the lantern’s glow steady. But the quiet didn’t bring peace. It only reminded him of the emptiness, the void left by the life he’d once had.
He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, and buried his face in his hands. The transformation had passed, for now. But the curse wasn’t gone. It was never gone. It waited in the shadows, always lurking, always ready to rise again.
Another Brutal Murder graced the headlines of every news aper in the city.


Scene 8
A Fragile Trust

The fourth body had been discovered at dawn, sprawled in the narrow alley behind an upscale restaurant on Water Street. It was the same grotesque scene that had been repeated three times before, deep gashes running across the victim’s torso, blood pooling in irregular patterns on the cobblestones.
Sarah crouched beside the body, her gloved hand resting just above one of the jagged wounds. Forensics was already snapping pictures, their cameras flashing in quick bursts that lit the alley like intermittent lightning. Rain still clung to every surface, dripping from the edges of the tarp they had hastily erected to shield the scene.
“Is it going to rain forever.” Sarah groaned.
“Same as the others,” muttered Simms, who stood nearby, his face pale. “Whoever’s doing this isn’t stopping.”
Sarah didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes scanned the ground around the body, tracing the pattern of footprints and faint markings that had been left in the rain-slicked alley. But just like at the other scenes, nothing stood out. No clear prints. No discarded weapon. Just chaos and blood.
She stood, peeling off her gloves with deliberate precision. The fourth murder didn’t bring her any closer to understanding this mess. If anything, it deepened the fog of uncertainty.
“You okay?” Simms asked tentatively.
“Yeah,” Sarah replied, though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself. “I’m done here. Let me know when forensics wraps.”
Simms gave her a nod, but she could feel his concern as she turned and walked away. She looked up as the rain began to fall again, soft and steady, soaking into her hair and skin. But her mind wasn’t on the weather. It was on Nathan Piers.
The drive to Nathan’s shack felt longer than before, the winding roads and relentless rain combining into a bleak, unending stretch. By the time Sarah reached the edge of the docks, her grip on the steering wheel was tight enough to turn her knuckles white. She parked her car and sat for a moment, staring at the warped wooden structure.
She didn’t know what she expected to accomplish by coming here. Nathan was on the edge of being accused of the murders, a figure steeped in mystery and fear. But fear wasn’t evidence. And deep down Sarah knew, like she always did when investigating a murder, that this tortured man was no monster.
She stepped out of the car, the rain pelting her as she approached the shack. The wooden door looked as though it might fall off its hinges at any moment, but it held firm under her knock.
“Nathan,” she called, her voice steady. “It’s Detective Shilling. I just want to talk.”
There was no answer, but she thought she heard movement from within. She tried again, louder this time.
“Nathan. I’m not here to arrest you. But I need your help.”
The door creaked open just enough to reveal a sliver of Nathan’s face. His sharp eye fixed on her, wary and unblinking. The scars on his face seemed more pronounced in the dim light, casting jagged shadows across his features.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice low and raw.
“I need to talk to you about the murders again,” Sarah said. “There’s been another one.”
Nathan’s eye flickered, but his expression didn’t change. “And you think I had something to do with it.”
“I don’t,” Sarah said firmly. “But the people out there? They already do. And if we don’t figure out what’s really going on, they’re not going to stop coming after you.”
Nathan’s grip on the door tightened, his knuckles pale. For a moment, Sarah thought he might slam it shut. But instead, he stepped back, letting it swing open fully.
“Come in,” he muttered.
The inside of the shack was as it was before.
Nathan hovered by the door, his shoulders tense, as if ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Sarah stayed near the center of the room, giving him space.
“There’s been a fourth victim,” she began, her tone even. “Same wounds, same scene. But no evidence pointing to a suspect.”
Nathan snorted softly, though there was no humor in the sound. “And you think I can help with that?”
“I think you know more than you realize,” Sarah said, studying him carefully. “You told me about the curse. About the things you’ve seen. Whether you believe it’s real or not, there’s something happening here. Something bigger than either of us.”
Nathan shook his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You don’t understand. This thing... it’s not just in my head. It’s in me. And I don’t know what it’ll make me do.”
His words hung in the air, heavy and raw. For a second, Sarah felt his torment, the way it shaped his every movement and thought.
“I know what it’s like to feel trapped,” she said quietly, her voice softening. “To feel like the walls are closing in, like there’s no way out. But you’re not alone in this, Nathan. We can figure it out. Together.”
Nathan looked at her, “Why do you even care? Why not just arrest me and be done with it?”
“Because I don’t believe you did it,” Sarah said simply. “And because I think you want to find the truth as much as I do.”
Nathan’s stiffened then his muscles eased. He turned away then moved toward the table. He stood there for a long moment, his back to her, his knuckles tapping the wood.
“If I help you,” he said finally, his voice low, “what happens when the truth comes out? What if I don’t like what we find?”
Sarah didn’t answer right away. She stepped closer, her voice steady. “We deal with it. Together.”
Nathan let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. He turned back to face her, his eye searching hers as if looking for some hidden motive. Finally, he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll help.”
The rain was still falling when Sarah stepped outside. “Damn. Is the sun ever going to shine again.” She muttered. “Maybe.” Came from behind, Nathan following close behind. She glanced back at him as they walked toward her car, noting the way he kept his distance, his movements guarded. It wasn’t trust, not yet. But it was a start.


Act II
Truths Beneath the Surface

Scene 9
The Witch of Gastown

The narrow alleyways of Gastown seemed even darker that night, the gaslit lampposts struggling against a heavy mist that curled through the streets like creeping fingers. Sarah pulled her coat closer, the damp chill seeping through to her skin. She walked with purpose, her boots clicking sharply against the cobblestones, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the silence around her.
The lead had been tenuous at best, a name whispered among Gastown’s underbelly, murmurs of someone who could be both a key and a warning: “The witch.”
Sarah wasn’t sure what she expected. Witches weren’t real. Curses weren’t real. But Nathan believed they were, and belief, she’d learned, could be a powerful thing.
The address she’d pieced together led her to a deep shadow of Gastown, to a section where the old buildings stood as grim remnants of a forgotten past. The streets were quieter and a little darker. The shadows seemed to stretch longer, and tucked between two brick buildings was a narrow door painted black, nearly invisible against the night.
Sarah hesitated for only a moment before knocking. The sound echoed unnaturally, as though the alley itself had swallowed the noise.
No answer.
She tried again, harder this time. The door creaked open on the second knock, though no one had touched it. Sarah stepped back instinctively, her hand resting near her sidearm. She waited, but no voice called out to greet her. The open doorway yawned before her, leading to nothing but shadow.
“Hello?” she called, her voice steady despite the unease twisting in her gut.
The stillness remained, unbroken. Sarah stepped inside, every nerve in her body feeling out for something…danger…hidden, ready to pounce.
The room was filled with a light that felt thin and vague. The air was rank with the smell of herbs, wax, and something Sarah could not name other than thinking it was ugly. A cluster of candles burned on a wooden table at the center, their flames flickering wildly despite the lack of any breeze. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars, books, and objects she couldn’t have identified even in a good l light. Feathers. Bones. Dried flowers tied with twine.
A voice broke the silence, soft and low. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Sarah turned sharply, her hand hovering near her holster. The woman standing in the corner seemed almost part of the room itself, draped in layers of dark, flowing fabric. Her hair, long and streaked with gray, tumbled around her shoulders like a wild tangle of roots. Her face was lined but striking, her eyes sharp and unyielding.
“You’re the witch,” Sarah said, her tone as steady as she could manage.
The woman tilted her head slightly, as though amused by the title. “Some call me that,” she replied. Her voice carried a strange cadence, deliberate and unhurried. “But I am not the one you should fear.”
“I’m not here to fear you,” Sarah said, stepping closer. “I’m here for answers.”
“Answers,” the woman repeated, her lips curving into a faint, almost mocking smile. “And what do you think I can tell you, Detective?”
Sarah’s stomach tightened at the use of her title, but she pushed forward. “Nathan Piers. You cursed him.”
The smile faded, and for a moment, the woman’s face became unreadable. “Nathan,” she murmured, as though tasting the name. “So he told you.”
“He believes you cursed him to turn into... a monster.” Sarah’s voice wavered only slightly on the last word.
“And do you believe him?” the woman asked, her eyes narrowing.
Sarah hesitated. “I believe he thinks it’s real. And I believe it’s killing him.”
The witch stepped forward, her movements slow and deliberate. She stopped just before the table, the candlelight casting her face in sharp contrasts. “The mind,” she said, her voice soft but cutting, “is a powerful thing. Belief can shape reality, twist it. A curse need not be born of magic to destroy.”
“That’s not an answer,” Sarah said. Her frustration bled into her tone, though she kept her stance neutral. “Did you curse him or not?”
The woman reached for one of the candles, her fingers brushing the wax as though testing its warmth. “I did,” she said finally. “But not in the way he believes.”
Sarah stiffened. “Explain.”
The witch’s gaze lifted to meet hers, and for the first time, Sarah saw something in her expression—regret, perhaps, or resignation. “Nathan was already broken when he came to me,” she said. “Haunted by fears he couldn’t name. Truths he couldn’t face. He begged for answers. For release. I gave him what he asked for.”
“Which was?” Sarah pressed.
“Something to believe in,” the witch replied simply. “A story to make sense of the chaos inside him. He needed a name for his torment, a shape to give it. And so, I gave him one.”
Sarah’s breath caught. “You made him think he’s cursed.”
“I gave him what he already believed,” the woman said, her voice tinged with something like sadness. “I merely... shaped it. Guided it.”
Sarah’s mind scrambled, piecing together the implications. Nathan’s suffering, his visions, his fear, it had all been planted, nurtured by suggestion. But then, the witch’s gaze hardened.
“Don’t mistake me for the one pulling the strings,” she said sharply. “I am but a tool, Detective. There is someone else, someone far more dangerous who wanted Nathan broken.”
Sarah’s blood ran cold. “Who?”
The witch’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned away. “I cannot say. There are forces at work in Gastown you do not yet understand. Forces that will not hesitate to destroy you if you get too close.”
“I’m already close,” Sarah said, her voice firm. “And I’m not backing down.”
The witch turned back to her, her eyes narrowing. “Brave words. But bravery will not protect you from what’s coming.”
For a moment, they stood in silence, the conversation hanging heavy between them. Finally, the witch let out a sigh, her shoulders sagging slightly.
“You want the truth, Detective? Then follow the shadows. Look for the ones who thrive in them. But be warned, truth is rarely what we hope it to be.”
Sarah cringed inwardly, but she nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The witch stepped back into the shadows, her form blending into the dim light. “Leave now,” she said softly. “Before you bring them here.”
Sarah didn’t need to be told twice. She turned and left, the door creaking shut behind her.
The night air was cold against her skin, but she welcomed it, the clarity it brought. The witch’s words churned in her mind as she made her way back to her car, her boots splashing in the shallow puddles that lined the alley.
Nathan’s torment wasn’t just his own. Someone had orchestrated it, manipulated his fears for reasons Sarah couldn’t yet see. And if the witch was right, those reasons were darker and dangerous.


Scene 10
The Beast Within

“I wish the storms would stop.” Nathan cried out as the wind clawed at his shack, rattling the warped wood and howling through the cracks. Inside, Nathan sat hunched in the dim glow of his lantern threatening to go out any second, his body tense and twisting his knuckles cracked like popcorn. The air felt wrong, too thick, too heavy and it pressed against his chest like an unseen hand.
The voices had returned, but they no longer whispered. They were louder now, overlapping in a cacophony that Nathan couldn’t untangle. Some mocked him, their tones sharp and cruel. Others seemed to plead, their anguish seeping into his bones feasting on the marrow. It was as though the storm outside had spilled into his mind, a tempest full of fear and fury.
“You think she can save you?” one voice hissed, a low growl that seemed to come from just over his shoulder.
Nathan whipped around, his chair screeching against the floor. Nothing. Just the cluttered shadows of his shack, the familiar outlines of his books and jars and brittle trinkets. He clenched his fists, trying to steady his breathing.
“It’s not real,” he muttered to himself, his voice trembling. “It’s not real.”
But even as he said it, the shadows seemed to shift, flickering in ways that didn’t match the lantern’s flame. He stared at them, his heart pounding. They twisted and stretched, becoming long, clawed hands that reached for him.
“No!” Nathan shouted, shoving himself away from the table. He stumbled backward, his foot catching on a loose floorboard. He hit the wall hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The hands dissolved into darkness, melting back into the shadows, but his chest heaved as though he’d been running for miles.
The curse was tightening its grip. He could feel it, a coiled presence deep within him, waiting to strike. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold it back.
Sarah stood just outside the shack, her hand hovering over the door. The storm had drenched her coat and hair, the rain seeping into her skin. She could see the faint glow of the lantern through the warped boards, but the muffled sound of Nathan’s shout had stopped her in her tracks. Her instincts told her to turn around. But she didn’t. Something stronger, some mix of duty and a growing, inexplicable fear forced her to stay.
She knocked. The sound was sharp against the storm, and she called out, her voice cutting through the rain.
“Nathan? It’s Sarah.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then she heard movement, uneven, shuffling footsteps that grew closer. The door creaked open, and Nathan’s face appeared in the crack. His visible eye glinted in the dim light, and for the briefest moment, Sarah swore it wasn’t just the light. Something in it gleamed, feral and wild.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low and strained.
“You let me in last time,” Sarah replied. “What’s different now?”
Nathan opened the door wider, his fingers gripping it as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. His frame seemed thinner than she remembered, his skin more pallid, more drawn. The scars on his face looked deeper somehow, as though they had grown roots that burrowed into him.
“It’s worse,” he admitted, stepping aside to let her in. “It’s... getting worse.”
Sarah stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over the cluttered room. The air was suffocating, filled with the stale scent of something sharpe, something acrid. She turned to Nathan, who was already pacing, his hands tugging at his hair.
“Tell me what’s happening,” she said, keeping her voice calm.
Nathan stopped abruptly, staring at her. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” Sarah said, stepping closer. “Whatever it is, Nathan, you’re not in this alone anymore.”
He laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “Aren’t I?” He gestured wildly to the room, to the storm beyond the walls. “Do you hear them? Do you see them? They’re everywhere. Watching. Waiting.”
Sarah’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
Nathan grabbed the lantern, holding it up to illuminate the shadows. “There,” he said, his voice rising. “In the corners. The walls. They’re always there.”
Sarah looked where he pointed, her rational mind dismissing the shapes for what they were, shadows cast by the flickering light. But the longer she stared, the more the edges seemed to shift, to blur. She blinked, shaking her head, but the flicker remained in the corner of her vision, like the afterimage of a bright light.
“There’s nothing there,” she said, though her voice felt hollow.
Nathan set the lantern down with a thud, his hands trembling. “I can’t fight it anymore,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s inside me. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. I feel it. It’s... changing me.”
Sarah felt a chill that had nothing to do with the storm. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that this was all in his head. But the conviction in his voice, the raw fear etched into his face, it was impossible to ignore.
“Nathan,” she began carefully, “you’re not a monster. Whatever’s happening to you, we’ll figure it out.”
He laughed again, the sound sharper this time. “You don’t get it,” he said, his eye locking onto hers. “You want to believe this is just trauma, just fear. But it’s not. It’s real. The curse—it’s real.”
Sarah opened her mouth to argue, but the words stuck in her throat. She wanted to believe he was delusional, that his mind was creating the horrors he described. But as she stood in that shack, the air heavy with something she couldn’t name, doubt began to creep in.
“Prove it,” she said finally, though she wasn’t sure she wanted him to.
Nathan’s hands dropped to his sides, his expression hardening. He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers. The room seemed to grow colder, the air pressing against her like dead weight.
“Watch,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
He closed his eye, his breathing slowing. The room fell eerily silent, save for the storm’s muffled howls. Sarah felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise as the shadows seemed to shift again, drawn toward him like dark, creeping tendrils.
And then it happened. His body convulsed, a sharp, violent motion that sent him staggering. His hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. His breathing turned ragged, and Sarah swore she saw his scars writhe, as though alive.
“Nathan,” she said, reaching out, but he jerked away.
“Don’t,” he growled, his voice deeper now, guttural. His head snapped up, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, his face looked different, sharper, more angular, the scars twisting into something unrecognizable. His eye glinted again, and this time, Sarah knew it wasn’t a trick of the light.
The moment passed as quickly as it came. Nathan collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air, his body trembling. Sarah hesitated, then crouched beside him, her hand hovering just above his shoulder.
“It’s real,” he whispered, his voice broken. “It’s real.”
Sarah didn’t know what to say. Her mind raced, trying to reconcile what she had seen with what she believed. But in that moment, as the storm continued to rage outside, one thought settled deep into her bones.
Maybe Nathan was right.
Maybe the curse was real.


Scene 11
The Killer’s Shadow

The cobblestone streets glistened from the storm the night before, reflecting fractured pieces of the surrounding buildings. The air felt cleaner somehow, though the weight of unease still lingered in the corners. Sarah stood by the famous steam clock, her arms crossed as she waited. The clock let out its usual hiss of vapor, though the sound barely registered in her thoughts. She wasn’t even sure Nathan would show up.
Gastown seemed calmer in the daylight, almost picturesque with its antique charm. Yet Sarah’s gaze kept darting to the shadows that stretched in the alleys, the spaces just beyond sight. She had seen too much to dismiss the strange unease that twisted in her gut. Gastown wore its history like a second skin, beautiful and polished in places, but hiding scars underneath.
A shuffle of footsteps drew her attention, and she turned to see Nathan approaching from the far end of the street. He moved with hesitation, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, his head slightly bowed. But as he drew closer, Sarah blinked. He didn’t look the same as he had the last time she’d seen him.
His usually pallid complexion carried a faint, almost healthy flush. The harsh lines of his face seemed softer, less gaunt. And most striking of all, the bad eye, the one clouded and lifeless, seemed brighter, still scarred, but with a faint glimmer of clarity she hadn’t seen before.
“Nathan,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “You look... different.”
He stopped a few feet from her, his expression guarded but not as tense as before. “The storm passed,” he said simply, as though it were an answer.
Sarah studied him for a moment longer, her detective instincts warring with something else, something she didn’t quite know how to name. He seemed lighter, less haunted, and yet the shadow of his torment still clung to him like a ghost.
“Thanks for coming,” she said finally, stepping aside so they weren’t in the middle of the foot traffic. “I need your help.”
Nathan’s lips twitched, not quite forming a smile. “You’re the only one who thinks I can help with anything,” he said, though his tone lacked the bitterness she’d expected.
“Maybe you’re the only one who can,” Sarah countered. She gestured toward a nearby bench, and they sat down, side by side but with enough space to let the air between them settle.
For a moment, neither spoke. Sarah watched the steam clock release another puff of vapor while Nathan stared at the ground, his hands still hidden in his pockets. Finally, she broke the silence.
“There’s a pattern to this,” she said. “The murders. The fear. The stories. It’s not random.”
Nathan looked up, his visible eye narrowing slightly. “You think someone’s behind it.”
“I do,” Sarah said. She turned to face him fully. “And I think they’re using you as a scapegoat. The rumors, the curses, everything points to you because someone wants it to.”
Nathan leaned back slightly. “Why me?”
“Because you fit the story,” Sarah said simply. “You’re isolated, scarred, already feared. They didn’t have to create a monster. They just had to point people in your direction.”
Nathan’s hand emerged from his pocket, running through his uneven hair. “If you’re right, then who?” he asked, his voice low. “Who would do this?”
“I don’t know yet,” Sarah admitted. “But the more I push the closer I can get.”
She reached into her coat and pulled out a folder, handing it to him. Nathan hesitated before taking it, flipping it open to reveal a series of photos—crime scene details, maps of Gastown, and most notably, pictures of a prominent figure Sarah had recently begun to suspect.
Walt Reaves.
He was a well-known businessman in Vancouver, a benefactor of Gastown’s preservation efforts and a fixture in the city’s elite circles. But there were cracks in his polished image. Subtle ones. Financial dealings that didn’t quite add up. Connections to figures who moved in shadows rather than boardrooms.
Nathan’s brow furrowed as he studied the photos. “What does he have to do with me?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Sarah said. “Reaves owns half of Gastown, either directly or through shell companies. He profits from its image, the history, the myths, the tourism. But there’s a darker side to him. He’s connected to people who deal in rumors and manipulation, people who thrive on fear.”
Nathan looked up, his expression darkening. “You think he’s the one pulling the strings.”
“I think it’s possible,” Sarah said. “But I need more evidence.”
Nathan closed the folder, handing it back to her. “And you think I can help you find it.”
Sarah didn’t respond immediately. She studied him, the man who had been painted as the Gastown Monster, the man who carried the weight of his torment like a shroud. Despite everything, despite the fear and doubt that lingered in her mind, she trusted him.
“Like I said before, I think you know things you don’t even realize. And I think if we work together, we can uncover the truth.”
Nathan stared at her for a long moment. The steam clock let out another hiss of vapor, I seemed to be breathing for Gastown.
Finally, he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “But if this goes wrong.” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Sarah managed a faint smile. “Fair enough.”
The evening brought them to a new edge of the city, the sun sinking low and casting Gastown in a coppery glow. They stood outside one of Walt Reaves’s properties, a seemingly abandoned warehouse dominant district. The windows were dark, but Sarah’s sources had suggested there was more to the building than met the eye.
“This is where we start,” Sarah said, glancing at Nathan. “If Reaves is hiding something, this place might tell us what.”
Nathan didn’t reply, but his jaw tightened, and he stepped forward without hesitation. Together, they crossed the threshold into the shadows.
What they would find, neither of them knew. But the air inside the warehouse felt heavy, charged with an unseen energy that sent a chill down Sarah’s spine.


Scene 12
The Burden of Belief

The warehouse loomed over them as they approached the heavy metal doors. Sarah’s hand hovered near her sidearm, though she wasn’t sure what she expected to find. Beside her, Nathan walked with a strange confidence, his posture more upright than it had been just hours before. The change was subtle, but it gnawed at the edge of her awareness like an itch she couldn’t scratch.
“This is it,” she said, her voice low. “Walt Reaves’s property.”
Nathan said nothing. He stood there starring at the doors his hands flexing at his sides. For a moment, Sarah thought she saw the faintest shimmer in his visible eye, a flicker of something alive and unrelenting. She shook the thought away, chalking it up to the way the shadows played tricks in the dim light, especially moon light touched by imagination.
Together, they pushed the doors open, the hinges groaning in protest. The air inside hit them like a wall—damp, stale, and tinged with a putrid tang that made Sarah’s skin crawl. The cavernous interior was lit only by a few flickering bulbs, their light casting jagged shadows that seemed to shift and writhe on the concrete walls.
The sound of their footsteps echoed unnaturally, filling the empty space with a rhythm that felt too fast, too uneven. Sarah scanned the room, her flashlight cutting through the gloom. Stacks of crates and rusted machinery lined the walls, but it was the center of the warehouse that caught her attention.
There, beneath a single, swaying lightbulb, was a circle drawn on the floor. It was intricate and chaotic, a tangled web of symbols and shapes scrawled in what looked like dried blood. Around the circle were objects that seemed almost plucked from a nightmare. Animal skulls, shattered mirrors, and twisted pieces of metal that glinted menacingly in the weak light.
Nathan froze beside her, his body tensing. “Do you see it?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“I see it,” Sarah replied, though her voice felt distant, as though it belonged to some other version of her. Maybe she was going mad.
She took a step closer, her flashlight’s beam trembling slightly. The air seemed thicker here, almost viscous, and with each step, she felt a strange pull, like gravity itself was shifting. The symbols on the floor seemed to writhe under the light, their edges blurring and reforming in ways that made her question her own eyes.
“This isn’t... normal,” she murmured.
“No,” Nathan said, his voice darker now. “It’s not.”
The air around them seemed to ripple, and for a moment, Sarah thought she saw movement in the circle’s center, a faint, dark shape that flickered like a flame. She blinked, and it was gone, but the sense of wrongness only grew stronger.
Nathan stepped closer to the circle, his gaze fixed on the symbols. As he did, Sarah noticed something she couldn’t ignore: his movements were smoother, more assured. His bad eye, which had always been clouded and lifeless, now glimmered faintly in the flickering light. Even his scars seemed less jagged, their edges softened as though they were healing.
“Nathan,” she said, her voice cautious. “Are you feeling... different?”
He turned to her, and for a moment, his face looked almost peaceful. “Stronger,” he said simply. “Clearer.”
Sarah’s stomach twisted. The circle, the objects, the shifting air, it was doing something to him. But was it healing him or warping him further? She took a step back, her instincts screaming at her to leave, to run. But something kept her rooted in place.
“This isn’t real,” she said, more to herself than to him. “It’s an illusion. It has to be.”
“Does it?” Nathan asked, his gaze still fixed on the circle. “What if this is what’s real? What if the world outside is the illusion?”
His words sent a shiver coiling down spine. She wanted to dismiss them, to write them off as the ramblings of a man tormented by fear and belief. But the room seemed to shift around her, the shadows growing darker, the symbols on the floor pulsing faintly with a reddish glow.
Sarah’s breath quickened. She reached out to grab Nathan’s arm, but the moment her fingers touched him, a searing pain shot through her hand. She recoiled, clutching her wrist, and stared at him.
His skin felt... wrong. Too hot, too smooth, almost metallic.
“Nathan,” she said, her voice trembling. “Something’s happening to you.”
He turned to her fully now, and she gasped. His face was almost unrecognizable—no longer pale and gaunt, but fuller, stronger. His scars were nearly gone, and both his eyes shone with an unsettling clarity.
“I feel alive,” he said, his voice steady and calm. “For the first time in years.”
Sarah stepped back, her mind exploding. This wasn’t Nathan. Not really. Whatever was happening in this warehouse, whatever power was emanating from that circle, it was changing him. Warping him.
“This isn’t you,” she said firmly, trying to ground herself in the chaos. “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s not real.”
Nathan tilted his head, his expression almost serene. “Isn’t it?” he asked. “You saw it, Sarah. The shadows. The symbols. The truth. You know this is real. You just don’t want to believe it.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not real. It’s... it’s the curse. It’s what you believe, Nathan. That’s what’s making it real.”
He stepped closer, and she instinctively reached for her sidearm, though she didn’t draw it. His presence felt heavier now, more intense, as though the air around him had thickened.
“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice soft but unyielding. “The curse... it’s not just belief. It’s power. And it’s here, in this room. You feel it, don’t you?”
Sarah’s throat tightened. She couldn’t deny what she felt, the suffocating weight, the shifting shadows, the faint whispers at the edge of her hearing. But she refused to let it consume her.
“It’s not real,” she repeated, her voice firmer this time.
Nathan’s gaze softened, and for a moment, she thought she saw the old Nathan—the broken, tormented man she’d met in his shack. But the moment passed, and his expression hardened again.
“You can’t fight it,” he said. “None of us can.”
Sarah tightened her grip on her flashlight, her mind racing. She didn’t know what was real anymore, but she did know one thing, a thing real, something to cling on to: she had to get them out of there. Whatever was happening in this warehouse, whatever power it held, it wasn’t meant for them.
“Nathan,” she said, her voice steady. “We need to leave. Now.”
He hesitated, his gaze flickering back to the circle. The symbols pulsed again, brighter this time, casting an eerie red glow across his face.
“Nathan,” she repeated, more forcefully. “This isn’t who you are. Don’t let it take you.”
For a moment, she thought he might stay, that the power of the warehouse would pull him into its depths. But then he turned to her, his expression conflicted, and nodded.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly.
Sarah didn’t wait. She grabbed his arm, ignoring the strange heat that still radiated from his skin and led him toward the door. The shadows seemed to reach for them as they moved, the air growing heavier with every step. But they didn’t stop. Together, they pushed the doors open and stumbled into the cool night air.
The warehouse loomed behind them, its presence oppressive even from a distance. Sarah didn’t look back. She couldn’t. All she could do was keep walking, her heart pounding, as she tried to make sense of what she had just seen.


Scene 13
Betrayed

The warehouse was a fading silhouette in Sarah’s rearview mirror, its ominous presence lingering in the back of her mind even as the headlights carved a path through the streets. Nathan sat beside her, silent, his gaze fixed on the darkness outside the window. The tension between them was raw, invisible threads that neither seemed willing to cut.
The strangest thing was how... normal he looked now. As they had stepped outside into the fresh night air, Nathan’s transformation had begun to unravel, melting away with each passing moment. His scars had returned, pale and jagged against his skin. The strange clarity in his eyes had dulled, leaving behind the haunted gaze she was used to. By the time they reached the car, he was entirely himself again, or at least, the version of himself that Sarah knew.
Neither of them spoke as she drove, the rhythmic hum of the tires against the pavement the only sound. Sarah gripped the steering wheel tightly, her mind replaying the events in the warehouse over and over. The pulsing symbols, the oppressive air, the way Nathan had seemed to change before her eyes, it all defied explanation. She didn’t believe in curses, but she couldn’t ignore what she had seen.
“Thanks,” Nathan said abruptly, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, almost tentative, as though he wasn’t sure the word fit.
Sarah glanced at him, her grip on the wheel loosening slightly. “For what?”
“For not leaving me there,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the window. “For... believing me. Even if you don’t.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she didn’t. Instead, she kept her eyes on the road, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across her face.
When they reached Nathan’s shack, Sarah pulled the car to a stop and killed the engine. For a moment, they both sat in silence, the rain drumming softly against the roof. Nathan reached for the door handle but hesitated, glancing at her.
“Be careful,” he said finally, his tone low and serious. “Whatever’s happening... it’s bigger than me. Bigger than both of us.”
Sarah nodded, her expression unreadable. “You too.”
Nathan stepped out of the car, his figure quickly swallowed by the darkness as he made his way to the door. Sarah waited until she saw the faint glow of his lantern through the window before starting the engine again. The drive home felt longer than it should have, her mind heavy with questions she couldn’t answer.
By the time she reached her apartment, exhaustion had set in. She barely had the energy to shrug off her coat and boots before collapsing onto the couch, her mind still turning cartwheels. Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by flashes of red symbols and shifting shadows.
The next morning, the station was rattling with its usual cacophony of voices, ringing phones, and the soft hum of the coffee machine in the corner. Sarah entered with a cup of coffee in hand, her coat slung over one arm. She moved through the familiar chaos, her mind already turning to the next steps in the case.
But before she could reach her desk, a sharp voice cut through the noise.
“Shilling! My office. Now.”
Sarah turned to see Captain Whitaker standing in his doorway, his face dark with anger. The cup in her hand suddenly felt heavier, but she set her jaw and made her way toward him. The eyes of her colleagues followed her, their murmurs barely audible as she passed.
Whitaker closed the door behind her, the sound more final than it should have been. His office, usually a chaotic mess of papers and whiteboard notes, felt smaller somehow, the tension in the air pressing against the walls.
“Have a seat,” Whitaker said, his tone tight.
Sarah remained standing. “What’s this about?”
Whitaker stepped behind his desk, his hands resting on the cluttered surface as he leaned forward. “You know exactly what this is about.”
Sarah said nothing, her eyes locking onto his. She knew better than to speak first when he was like this.
“You went behind my back,” Whitaker continued, his voice rising slightly. “You’ve been working with Nathan Piers. The one person every single piece of evidence points to, and you’re treating him like a damn partner.”
“He’s not the killer,” Sarah said evenly. “You know that as well as I do.”
“What I know,” Whitaker snapped, “is that you’ve jeopardized this entire case by cozying up to a suspect. Do you have any idea how bad this looks? The mayor’s breathing down my neck, the media’s turning this into a circus, and now I find out my own detective is working with the prime suspect?”
Sarah’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Nathan isn’t the prime suspect. He’s a scapegoat. Someone’s using him to cover their tracks, and you’re letting it happen.”
Whitaker’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the desk. “Watch your tone, Detective. I’ve given you a lot of leeway on this case, but this? This is crossing the line.”
“The line?” Sarah shot back, her voice rising. “The line is convicting someone without evidence. The line is throwing Nathan to the wolves because it’s easier than finding the real killer.”
Whitaker straightened, his face a mask of cold authority. “That’s enough.”
Sarah’s mouth snapped shut, but the anger in her eyes didn’t waver.
“You’re off the case,” Whitaker said, his tone final. “Effective immediately.”
The words hit her like a punch to the gut, but she didn’t let it show. “You’re making a mistake.”
“No,” Whitaker said, his voice low and dangerous. “The mistake was letting you run wild on this for as long as I did. This is done, Shilling. Hand over your files, and stay out of it. That’s an order.”
Sarah stared at him for a long moment, her mind racing. She wanted to argue, to fight, but she knew it would only make things worse. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the office, the door clicking shut behind her.
The station seemed louder now, the murmurs and clatter of activity filling her ears as she made her way to her desk. She gathered her files quickly, stuffing them into her bag without looking at anyone. The power of the case, and of Whitaker’s decision, pressed down on her shoulders, but she kept her expression neutral.
As she left the station, the cold morning air hit her like a slap. She paused on the steps, her breath visible in the chill, and looked out at the city. Gastown’s streets loomed before her, a cluster of shadows against the pale gray sky.
“This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”


Scene 14
Nathan’s Capture

Sarah drove toward the station. The images from the warehouse still haunted her, the pulsating symbols, the oppressive air, the way Nathan had transformed before her very eyes. She hadn't shared the details with anyone, not even Simms. She barely believed it herself.
As she approached the station, she noticed the crowd long before she arrived. A sea of faces gathered outside, their voices a chaotic mix of anger and fear. Reporters with cameras jostled for position while officers tried to keep the growing mob under control. Sarah’s stomach twisted as she pulled into the lot, her eyes immediately drawn to the source of the commotion.
Nathan.
He was being marched toward the station, his hands cuffed in front of him, his head lowered but his body tense. His jacket hung awkwardly on his frame, and his hair clung to his face, damp from the morning mist. Two officers flanked him, their grips firm on his arms as they pushed him through the jeering crowd.
Sarah’s heart sank. She climbed out of the car and hurried toward the station, her badge flashing as she pushed through the crowd. The cries of “Monster!” and “Lock him up!” rang in her ears, each word hitting like a hammer.
Inside, the noise of the crowd faded, replaced by the sterile hum of the station. Nathan was being led down the hallway toward an interrogation room, his expression unreadable. Sarah followed, her hands clenched at her sides.
“Wait,” she called out, her voice cutting through the tension. The officers stopped, glancing at her uncertainly. “What’s going on here?”
“He’s under arrest,” one of them said, his tone curt. “Murder suspect.”
“For what?” Sarah demanded, her eyes narrowing. “We don’t have any evidence that ties him to the killings.”
The officer hesitated, but before he could respond, Captain Whitaker appeared, his face stony. “Detective Shilling, my office. Now.”
“This is wrong.” Sarah said through clenched teeth.
Whitaker’s office felt colder than usual, the blinds drawn to block the light. Sarah stood in front of his desk, as Whitaker settled into his chair with a heavy sigh.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he began, his voice low but sharp. “Working with Piers, keeping me in the dark—this is the fallout.”
“I was following the evidence,” Sarah replied, her voice steady. “Nathan didn’t kill those people. You know that.”
“What I know,” Whitaker snapped, “is that the public thinks he did. And right now, that’s all that matters. They need someone to blame, and Piers fits the bill.”
Sarah’s jaw tightened. “You’re throwing him under the bus.”
“I’m keeping this department from falling apart,” Whitaker shot back. “You had your chance, Shilling. You could’ve built a solid case, found a real suspect. Instead, you played detective with the monster of Gastown.”
The words hit her hard. Sarah straightened, her voice cold. “You’re wrong. And when this blows up in your face, you’ll wish you’d listened.”
Whitaker leaned back in his chair, his gaze unyielding. “You’re off the case, Shilling. Effective immediately.”
“You said that yesterday Captain, but I am not quitting. I am going after the truth.”
She turned and left, her steps quick and deliberate. Back at her desk, she gathered her things, her hands trembling with a mix of anger and helplessness. Nathan’s face flashed in her mind, his quiet strength, his torment. She couldn’t save him—not from this.
Another Day Off
Sarah didn’t go home. Instead, she drove to the ferry terminal, the weight in her chest pulling her toward the one person she could talk to, even if he wouldn’t understand. Her father.
The crossing to Vancouver Island was calm, the waters reflecting the gray sky in rippling patterns. Sarah leaned against the railing, the cool breeze cutting through her coat. She stared at the horizon, the city fading behind her, replaced by the quiet promise of Beacon Hill Park.
Her father’s bungalow was just as she’d left it, the neatly trimmed hedges and small garden, his careful routine. She knocked on the door, her hands shoved into her pockets as she waited.
“Sarah,” he said when he opened it, his surprise quickly shifting to concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Can I come in?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.
“Of course.” He stepped aside, letting her in. The warmth of the house wrapped around her, contrasting the chill she’d carried with her. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, and Sarah found herself drawn to the kitchen.
They sat across from each other at the table, mugs of coffee between them. Her father watched her carefully, his sharp eyes studying her face.
“You’ve got that look,” he said finally. “The one your mother used to get when she didn’t know how to say what was on her mind.”
Sarah smiled faintly. “I’m not sure you’re going to want to hear it.”
“Try me.”
She took a deep breath, her fingers curling around the mug. “I’m off the Gastown case. Whitaker pulled me off after they arrested Nathan.”
Her father’s brows furrowed. “Nathan. The man you mentioned before. The one you don’t think did it.”
“Yeah,” Sarah said, her voice tightening. “They’re framing him, Dad. Someone’s pulling strings, making him the scapegoat. And Whitaker’s letting it happen.”
Tom Shilling leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “And you? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Part of me wants to keep digging, to find the truth. But the other part...”
“The other part wonders if it’s worth it,” he finished for her.
Sarah nodded, her thoughts crushing on her. “It’s not just the case, Dad. It’s everything. The warehouse, the things I’ve seen... it doesn’t make sense. And I’m not sure I can make sense of it.”
Her father reached across the table, his hand resting on hers. “You’ve always been the kind of person who needs answers,” he said. “But sometimes, the answers aren’t clear. Sometimes, all you can do is follow what you know is right.”
Sarah met his gaze, the steadiness in his eyes grounding her. “And what if I’m wrong?”
“Then you’re wrong,” he said simply. “But at least you tried.”


Scene 15
Through Hysteria’s Eyes

The square in Gastown was unrecognizable. By midday, it had become a writhing mass of anger and fear. The usual charm of the cobblestones and historic lampposts was eclipsed by the shouting crowd, their voices mingling into a chaotic roar that echoed down the narrow streets. Signs bobbed above the sea of heads, some hastily scrawled with phrases like “Monster of Gastown—Bring Him Down!” and “We Want Justice!” Others carried crude depictions of Nathan, his scarred face exaggerated into a twisted caricature, glowing red eyes glaring from the paper.
Sarah stood at the edge of the crowd, a reluctant observer to the storm she had failed to quell. Her fists were stuffed into her coat pockets, her jaw clenched tightly as she scanned the scene. People from every corner of the city had come, drawn by the rumors, the headlines, and the whispered fears that had taken on a life of their own. The hysteria had reached its boiling point, and Nathan was the one caught in the flames.
A woman near the front of the crowd stepped forward, her face red with rage as she shouted toward the line of officers stationed outside the station. “What are you waiting for? He’s dangerous! Lock him up before someone else gets killed!”
“Yeah!” another man chimed in, his voice rough with anger. “He’s not human! You’ve all seen the stories, the pictures. That thing’s a monster!”
The officers didn’t respond, their expressions stoic as they held the line. But Sarah could see the tension in their stances, the way their grips tightened on their batons. This wasn’t a peaceful protest. It was a powder keg waiting for a spark.
Sarah’s stomach twisted as her gaze drifted to the windows of the station. Somewhere inside, Nathan was being held in a cold, empty cell, the city’s hatred raining down on him. The thought made her chest tighten, guilt and helplessness threatening to overwhelm her. She had tried to shield him, to protect him from this storm. But it wasn’t enough.
The crowd surged forward slightly, pressing against the barricades. A young man near the front threw something, Sarah couldn’t see what. toward the officers. It clattered harmlessly against the pavement, but it was enough to send a ripple of energy through the mob. Shouts grew louder, fists raised high, and for a moment, Sarah thought the barricades might fall.
“Step back!” one of the officers shouted, his voice commanding. “Everyone step back, now!”
The warning did little to quell the crowd. If anything, it seemed to agitate them further. Sarah could feel the heat of their anger, a visceral force that seemed to radiate from their bodies. It was infectious, consuming, like a fire spreading through dry brush. She turned her gaze away, unable to bear it.
Later that evening, Sarah sat in her car, parked just down the street from the station. The crowd had thinned, but the tension remained, hanging in the air like the aftermath of a storm. She stared at the dashboard, her hands resting on the steering wheel as she tried to gather her thoughts.
A soft knock on the window startled her. She turned to see Simms standing outside, his uniform rumpled and his face lined with exhaustion. She rolled down the window, the cool night air rushing in.
“Long day,” he said, his voice weary.
Sarah nodded, her eyes flicking toward the station. “How’s it holding up?”
“Could be worse,” Simms replied. He glanced over his shoulder, his expression guarded. “Whitaker’s inside, trying to keep things from blowing up. Don’t know how much longer he can manage.”
Sarah let out a bitter laugh. “He’s the one who lit the match.”
Simms didn’t argue. He leaned against the car, his gaze distant. “It’s not just Whitaker, though. It’s everyone. People are scared, Sarah. They want something to blame, someone to punish.”
“And Nathan’s the easiest target,” she said quietly.
Simms nodded. “It’s not right, but it’s the way things are.”
Sarah leaned back in her seat, the day’s catastrophe pressing down on her. She thought of the warehouse, the symbols, the way Nathan had changed before her eyes. She thought of the mob, their faces twisted with fear and fury. And she thought of the stories—the lies that had taken root and grown into something monstrous.
“It’s not just fear,” she said after a moment. “It’s belief. They believe he’s a monster. And that belief... it’s powerful.”
Simms looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. “You’re starting to sound like him.”
Sarah didn’t respond. She stared out the windshield, her thoughts turning inward. She didn’t want to admit it, but a part of her did believe—believed that there was something more to this, something beyond her understanding. The warehouse had left her shaken, questioning everything she thought she knew about the world. And Nathan... there was something about him that defied explanation, something that made her doubt her own eyes.
“I need to see him,” she said finally, her voice resolute.
Simms hesitated. “Whitaker’s not going to like that.”
“I don’t care,” Sarah replied, opening the door and stepping out. “I need to talk to him.”
The holding cells were cold and sterile, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the pale walls. Nathan sat on the bench in his cell, his head bowed, his hands resting on his knees. He didn’t look up as Sarah approached, but she could feel the tension radiating from him.
“Nathan,” she said softly, her voice echoing slightly in the empty corridor.
He didn’t respond at first. Then, slowly, he lifted his head, his gaze meeting hers. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but there was a spark of something else there—defiance, maybe, or resolve.
“They’re outside,” he said, his voice low. “I can hear them.”
Sarah nodded. “They’re scared.”
“They should be,” Nathan said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If they really think I’m a monster, they should be terrified.”
“You’re not a monster,” Sarah said firmly. “And I’m going to prove it.”
Nathan laughed softly, the sound bitter. “And how are you going to do that? They’ve already made up their minds. They don’t want the truth, Sarah. They want a story.”
“Then I’ll give them a better one,” she said, her voice unwavering. “One they can’t ignore.”
Nathan studied her for a moment, his expression softening. “You don’t have to do this. You could walk away.”
“I’m not walking away,” Sarah said, her gaze steady. “Not from this. Not from you.”
Nathan’s eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite name—hope, perhaps, or gratitude. He nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
“Be careful,” he said. “They’ll come for you, too.”
Sarah smiled faintly. “Let them try.”
Outside the station the crowd had dwindled further. Sarah stood on the steps as she stared out at the city. The lights of Gastown flickered in the distance.
“I am not wrong Dad.” She whispered.


Scene 16
The Real Killer’s Influence

Sarah began her investigation into the threads she’d unraveled. The deeper she delved, the clearer it became that this case wasn’t about Nathan at all. His torment and the lies surrounding him were a smokescreen, a deliberate misdirection. The real killer was hiding in plain sight, shielded by power and wealth.
The forensics report from the latest murder had been the first domino to fall. A partial fingerprint, smudged but salvageable, had been found on a shard of glass at the scene. It didn’t match Nathan or anyone in the department's database, but a second lead tied it to a private entity—a security firm contracted by Walt Reaves. The same Reaves who owned half of Gastown’s most profitable properties. Reaves wasn’t just a businessman. He was a puppeteer.
Sarah followed the trail methodically, piecing together names and accounts linked to Reaves and his network. He was more than an owner; he was a benefactor, funding everything from restoration projects to exclusive events that catered to Vancouver’s elite. But beneath the surface, his philanthropy masked something darker, a tight-knit circle of influence that extended to city officials, law enforcement, and private contractors.
She combed through financial records, her eyes scanning column after column of figures. It was all there if you knew where to look, payments disguised as charitable donations, kickbacks routed through subsidiaries, the same security firm paid exorbitant sums for work that didn’t exist on paper. Reaves used his resources to protect and enforce his position, ensuring silence where it mattered most.
The deeper she dug, the more she saw the scope of it. It wasn’t just about the murders. Gastown’s hysteria had been fueled with precision, each event and every rumor amplified to distract from what lay beneath. It wasn’t random. It was calculated.
That evening, Sarah parked her car two blocks from the headquarters of Reaves Investments. The building was unassuming, its façade a mix of aged stone and polished metal, blending into Gastown’s historic aesthetic. But Sarah knew better. Inside those walls were answers.
She moved quickly, her footsteps light on the pavement. She’d pulled strings to secure access to the company’s private files—digital breadcrumbs that could either exonerate Nathan or paint an even grimmer picture of who Reaves truly was. As she entered the small café beside the building, a low buzz of voices greeted her. She slipped into the corner booth, her laptop bag resting at her side.
The files loaded slowly, the spinning wheel on her laptop’s screen a maddening dig, how every second mattered. When the directory finally opened, her heart began to race. The folders were labeled with vague titles, Donor Initiatives, Property Holdings, Internal Operations, but Sarah knew the value of careful mislabeling. It was the vague names that often held the darkest secrets.
She zeroed in on a folder marked Riverside Restoration. The Gastown Riverside district had been one of Reaves’s most publicized projects, its derelict buildings transformed into high-end storefronts and boutiques. But hidden within the project’s financial breakdown were discrepancies—payments to subcontractors who didn’t exist, invoices for materials never ordered. One name popped up repeatedly: Erris & Tash, a shell company she’d already connected to Reaves’s private dealings.
Beneath the financial documents were meeting transcripts. Sarah’s breath hitched as she scanned the contents. Discussions about maintaining “public interest,” ensuring Gastown remained a site of intrigue and “mythos.” It wasn’t just Nathan who was being used. Gastown itself had been turned into a stage, its history and rumors manipulated to draw tourism and profit.
The transcripts became darker as she scrolled. Mentions of “cleanup operations” and “erased liabilities” peppered the text. No specifics, no names, but the intent was clear. Reaves wasn’t just maintaining control. He was erasing threats, silencing anyone who could disrupt his empire.
Sarah’s mind churned as she drove back to her apartment. Greaves’s influence was vast, but she had enough to tie him to the murders—not directly, but through the security firm he funded. It wasn’t a smoking gun, but the hammer was cocked..
As she climbed the stairs to her unit, her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket, her thumb hesitating before unlocking the screen. The message was simple.
Stop.
Her blood ran cold. She didn’t recognize the number, but the word itself was unmistakable. It wasn’t a warning. It was a command.
She looked over her shoulder, her gaze scanning the empty corridor. Nothing. No footsteps, no shadows, just the hum of the building. But the message lingered. Suffocating.
Inside her apartment, Sarah locked the door behind her. She deleted the message but couldn’t delete the feeling it left behind. Whoever sent it wasn’t bluffing. Reaves had reach. She knew that now. But to what extent? Was she already in too deep?
The answers lingered in Gastown’s shadows. Something watching.


Act III
Breaking the Chains

Scene 17
Whispers of Power

The rain was back. The reason the city was nick named Raincouver. It fell in a steady rhythm as Sarah made her way back to the witch’s shack where she was sure more answers were waiting. The mist shrouded Gastown in an almost supernatural glow.
The streets were quieter now, the whole city felt like every soul in it was holding their breath. Sarah’s mind churned as she climbed the hill, her thoughts tangled with uncertainty. The memory of the warehouse was still fresh in her mind, the way Nathan had transformed, the way the air had pulsed with unseen power. She didn’t believe in curses, but there was no denying that something was at play, something dark and inexplicable.
The witch’s door was slightly ajar when Sarah arrived, the faint glow of candlelight spilling out into the wet night. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorframe, before stepping inside. The room smelled as it had before, of herbs and wax and something else. The shelves were as cluttered as ever, and the air felt thick, almost alive.
The witch sat at the center table, her back to the door, her long, tattered cloak flowing over the wooden chair like a shadow spilled across the room. She turned her head slightly as Sarah entered, though she didn’t look up from the book resting in her hands.
“You came back,” the witch said, her voice soft but firm.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Sarah replied, shaking the rain from her coat. “Nathan, he’s getting worse. There’s something happening to him, something I don’t understand.”
The witch closed the book and set it on the table, her movements slow and deliberate. Her piercing eyes met Sarah’s, and for a moment, the air seemed to shift.
“I told you before,” the witch said, her tone measured. “The curse is real.”
Sarah opened her mouth to argue, but the memory of Nathan’s glowing eyes and smooth skin silenced her. She lowered her gaze instead. “If it’s real, then tell me how to stop it.”
The witch tilted her head, studying Sarah with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “Stopping it isn’t as simple as you’d like to believe. A curse is not just words or symbols. It’s a bond, a thread woven between the living and the other. Breaking it has a cost.”
“I don’t care about the cost,” Sarah said sharply. “If there’s a way to help him, I need to know.”
The witch’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “You say that now,” she said. “But you should know what you’re asking.”
The witch rose from her chair and crossed the room, her cloak trailing behind her like smoke. She stopped by a shelf lined with small jars and scrolls, her fingers brushing across the objects as though searching for something unseen.
“Nathan’s curse,” she began, “is not his own. It was placed upon him by those who saw him as a tool, a means to an end. They fed his fears, shaped them, until they took root in his soul. What you saw in the warehouse, the transformation—that’s the curse coming alive. It will consume him entirely if it’s not stopped.”
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. “How did you know?”
“You came to me. We are connected.” The witch replied cryptically.
“Ok. I get it, now let’s get real. How can it be stopped?”
The witch turned to her, a small vial in her hand. The liquid inside was dark and viscous, swirling slowly as though alive. “Yes,” she said. “But it requires a ritual. And rituals demand sacrifice.”
“What kind of sacrifice?” Sarah asked, her voice wary.
The witch placed the vial on the table and gestured for Sarah to sit. “The curse is tied to belief,” she explained. “To the power of the mind and the will. Breaking it means unraveling that belief, tearing it from the soul. It will take strength, focus, and something to bind the curse to.”
Sarah sat, her gaze fixed on the vial. “Bind it to what?”
The witch’s expression darkened. “To you.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Sarah stared at the witch, her pulse quickening. “What do you mean?”
“The curse must go somewhere,” the witch said simply. “It cannot simply vanish. To save Nathan, you must take it into yourself. You will bear its weight, its whispers, its shadows. And you may never be free of it.”
Sarah’s stomach churned, a cold dread settling over her. She thought of the things Nathan had described—the voices, the hallucinations, the feeling of something clawing at him from within. Could she endure that? Could anyone?
“I... I don’t know if I can do that,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
The witch leaned forward, her eyes burning with intensity. “You came here for answers. Now you have them. The choice is yours.”
Hours later sat with the vial clutched tightly in her hand. The witch’s instructions had been clear—draw the symbols, speak the words, and offer herself as the vessel. The ritual would tether the curse to her, freeing Nathan but binding her in his place.
The air seemed colder now, icy the mist gripping her like a demon as she approached the station. The building loomed ahead, its pale stone façade lit by harsh yellow lamps. She hesitated just outside, her heart pounding as she clutched the vial the witch had given her. This was her last chance to turn back, to let someone else fight this battle. But the memory of Nathan’s torment, his desperate plea for understanding, pushed her forward.
Sarah slipped inside without drawing attention, her badge and firm nod enough to bypass the officers stationed near the doors. The fluorescent lights of the station burned against her tired eyes, and her footsteps echoed down the corridor as she made her way to the holding cells. Simms was stationed at the far end. He straightened when he saw her approach, his brow furrowing.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low. “You’re not supposed to be on this case anymore.”
“I need to see him,” Sarah replied, her tone firm. “Just for a few minutes.”
Simms hesitated, glancing over his shoulder toward the cells. “Whitaker won’t like this.”
“Whitaker can yell at me tomorrow,” she said, her grip tightening on the vial in her pocket. “Right now, I need to do this.”
Simms studied her for a moment longer before letting out a resigned sigh. “Make it quick.”
He stepped aside, and Sarah pushed past him, her boots clicking against the tiled floor. Nathan’s cell was near the end of the row. He sat on the bench, his head bowed, his hands loosely clasped in front of him. When he heard her approach, he looked up, and for a moment, Sarah swore she saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
“Sarah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “What are you doing here?”
“I found a way to help you,” she said simply, stepping closer to the bars.
Nathan’s gaze drifted to the small vial in her hand, his brow furrowing. “What is that?”
“It’s the answer,” she said, her voice steady. “But it’s not going to be easy.”
Nathan stood slowly, his movements heavy with exhaustion. “You shouldn’t be here. Whatever this is... it’s not going to change anything.”
“Yes, it will,” Sarah insisted. She glanced over her shoulder, ensuring they were alone, before lowering her voice. “This curse—it’s real, Nathan. The witch told me how to break it.”
Nathan’s expression hardened. “You believe her now?”
“I believe what I’ve seen,” Sarah replied. “And I believe this is our only chance.”
Nathan shook his head, his hands gripping the bars tightly. “If you do this, it’ll destroy you. You don’t understand what it feels like, Sarah. The whispers, the shadows... it’s not something you can fight.”
“I don’t care,” Sarah said firmly. “I’m not letting you die for this.”
Nathan opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off, her tone unwavering. “Trust me.”
For a long moment, they stood in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken fears. Finally, Nathan nodded, stepping back from the bars as Sarah retrieved the small notebook the witch had given her. She knelt on the floor, opening the vial and dipping her finger into the thick, dark liquid inside. With deliberate movements, she began drawing the symbols on the cold tiles.
The air grew heavier with each stroke, the faint hum of energy building around them. Nathan shifted uneasily, his hands clenched into fists as he watched her work. When the last symbol was drawn, Sarah lit the single candle she had brought and placed it at the center of the circle.
“Stay inside the circle,” she instructed, her voice calm but firm.
Nathan nodded, stepping into the center of the glowing symbols. Sarah began to chant, the words foreign and entangled. The room seemed to darken, the fluorescent lights flickering wildly as the air crackled with unseen energy. The symbols began to pulse, their edges sharp and glowing with an otherworldly light.
Nathan cried out, clutching his chest as the energy latched onto him, tendrils of darkness wrapping around his body. “Sarah, stop!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“I do,” she said through gritted teeth, her focus unyielding. “And I’m not letting you die for this.”
The glow intensified, and Sarah felt the energy shift, turning its attention toward her. Pain shot through her body, a searing heat that tore through her chest and up her spine. She gasped, her vision swimming as the tendrils of darkness released Nathan and latched onto her instead. The whispers began immediately, their voices cold and mocking, clawing at her mind.
Nathan collapsed to the floor, his breathing ragged, as the room suddenly fell silent. The glow of the symbols faded, leaving only the faint flicker of the candlelight. Sarah knelt on the floor, trembling, the curse settling within her.
“Sarah,” Nathan said weakly, crawling toward her. “Are you okay?”
She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. His torment was gone, his face free of the shadows that had haunted him. But she felt it now—the weight, the whispers, the darkness clawing at the edges of her mind.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “It’s over.”
But deep down.


Scene 18
Gathering Allies

Sarah entered the station. The murmur of voices and the clatter of phones created a steady hum, but for Sarah, the noise barely registered. Her chest was heavy with the burden of the curse, the whispers curling at the edges of her mind like smoke. Every step felt deliberate, each breath purposeful, as if she were holding herself together by sheer will. She needed a plan. She couldn’t do this alone.
Simms was seated at his desk, his expression etched with the same fatigue that seemed to hang over the entire department. He glanced up as Sarah approached, his brow furrowing slightly.
:You look lie crap.” he said, leaning back in his chair.
Sarah didn’t respond immediately. She pulled a chair up next to his desk and sat down, her movements slow and deliberate. “I need your help,” she said quietly.
Simms raised an eyebrow, but there was no surprise in his expression. “This about Piers?”
“It’s about more than Nathan,” Sarah replied. She glanced around, lowering her voice further. “Reaves is involved. The killings, the hysteria—it’s all tied to him. I’ve got enough to prove he’s orchestrating this. But if I go after him alone, he’ll bury me.”
Simms let out a low whistle, his fingers drumming lightly against the desk. “Reaves. That’s a hell of an accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation,” Sarah said firmly. “It’s a fact. He’s been pulling the strings from the start, using Nathan as a scapegoat to keep everyone distracted. And now he knows I’m onto him.”
Simms studied her for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Alright,” he said. “What do you need from me?”
Sarah felt a flicker of relief, but she kept her composure. “I need you to back me up. If we’re going to take Reaves down, we’ll need more than just the two of us. We need people who know Gastown, who’ve seen what’s really going on.”
Simms nodded slowly. “The locals.”
They started in the alleys and corners of Gastown, the places where the city’s history clung like a stubborn shadow. Sarah and Simms moved carefully, their approach deliberate as they sought out the voices often drowned out by the noise of power and influence.
Their first stop was a quiet café tucked away from the main streets, its faded sign swinging gently in the breeze. The air inside was warm, heavy with the smell of roasted coffee. Behind the counter stood Marjorie, a woman in her sixties. She’d lived in Gastown her entire life, her café serving as a hub for locals who didn’t trust the polished façades of the city’s elite.
Marjorie eyed Sarah warily as she approached the counter. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Not every day a cop comes to my door.”
“I’m not here as a cop,” Sarah replied. “I’m here because I need your help.”
Marjorie’s gaze flicked to Simms, who stood silently behind Sarah. “Help with what?”
Sarah leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “Reaves. He’s behind the murders, the hysteria, all of it. And if we don’t stop him, it’s going to get worse.”
Marjorie’s eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of something behind her guarded expression. “You’ve got proof?”
“I do,” Sarah said. “But I need people who know Gastown. People who aren’t afraid to speak the truth.”
Marjorie studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll help,” she said. “But you’d better be ready for a fight. Reaves doesn’t play fair.”
Their next stop was the docks. The waves slapped against the concrete, the sound a steady rhythm beneath their footsteps. Sarah spotted a group of workers huddled near a cargo container, their voices carrying over the wind.
One of them, a man named Luis, stepped forward as Sarah approached. His face was lined with years of hard labor, his eyes sharp with suspicion. “What do you want?” he asked, his tone curt.
“To stop this madness,” Sarah said simply. She didn’t sugarcoat her words, didn’t try to soften the truth. “Reaves has been using this city as his playground, and he’s using people like you to keep it that way.”
Luis snorted, crossing his arms. “And why should I trust you?”
“You don’t have to trust me,” Sarah said, her voice steady. “But if you care about Gastown, about the people who live here, then you’ll hear me out.”
Luis glanced at his companions, then back at Sarah. After a moment, he nodded. “Alright. I’m listening.”
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Sarah and Simms had gathered a small group of people, allies. Marjorie from the café. Luis and two of his coworkers from the docks. A young journalist named Lena, whose articles on Gastown’s history had earned her both admiration and ire. And finally, a quiet woman named Ina, who ran the bookstore and seemed to know more about the city’s secrets than she let on.
They met in the back room of Marjorie’s café, the air thick with tension as Sarah laid out the evidence she had gathered. The group listened in silence, their expressions shifting from disbelief to anger as the truth sank in.
“So what do we do?” Luis asked.
“We confront him,” Sarah said. “We expose the truth. But we have to be smart about it. Reaves has power, influence. He won’t go down without a fight.”
“And what about Piers?” Lena asked. “If he’s the scapegoat, we need to clear his name.”
Sarah nodded. “That’s part of the plan. But first, we need to make sure Reaves can’t cover his tracks. We hit him where it hurts—his reputation, his finances, his connections. Once we’ve stripped away his defenses, we bring everything to light.”
The room fell silent as Sarah’s words settled over them.
Finally, Marjorie spoke. “Then we’d better get started.”
As the group dispersed, Sarah stayed behind, her thoughts heavy. Simms approached her.
“You think this is going to work?” he asked.
“It has to,” Sarah replied. “We don’t have a choice.”
Simms nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he turned to leave. Sarah watched him go, the whispers in her mind growing louder. The curse was a constant presence now, a shadow she couldn’t escape. But she couldn’t let it break her..
She stepped outside into the cool night air, the city stretching out before her like a dark, twisted labyrinth.


Scene 19
Unraveling the Threads

Marjorie’s café. Sarah sat at the center table with a folder packed with printouts, photos, documents, scribbled notes. Around her, the room felt charged. Marjorie stood behind the counter, wiping an already spotless cup, while Luis leaned against the wall. Simms hovered near the doorway, and Lena scribbled furiously in her notebook, her pen scratching over the paper.
“This is it,” Sarah said finally, her voice breaking the stillness. Her words were soft but... She placed the folder on the table and spread its contents out for everyone to see. “Everything we’ve been digging into, all the lies, the fear, the manipulation, it all ties back to one person.”
“Reaves,” Luis growled, his voice low and venomous.
Sarah nodded. “Walt Reaves. The man who’s built his empire on the myths of Gastown, the man whose money and connections have kept him untouchable, who’s orchestrated everything to keep us looking the other way.”
Marjorie stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the documents. “But why? What’s he hiding that’s so important?”
Sarah reached for one of the printouts, a ledger with rows of figures highlighted in red. “It’s not just about power, it’s about control. Reaves has been using Gastown as a front for something far darker. These financial records show millions of dollars funneled into offshore accounts through shell companies tied to his restoration projects. But that’s not all. He’s been paying people to spread the rumors about the curse, to fan the flames of hysteria. The murders? They’re part of the smokescreen, a distraction to keep the attention on Nathan and off of what Reaves is really doing.”
“And what exactly is he doing?” Lena asked, her pen poised above her notebook.
Sarah took a deep breath. “He’s silencing people. The murders weren’t random, they were targeted. Each victim had a connection to Greaves. An accountant who caught discrepancies in the books. A journalist who was digging too deep into his dealings. A contractor who threatened to go public with the truth about the Riverside project. Reaves used the curse, the myths, to cover his tracks and to keep people afraid, distracted.”
Luis slammed his hand on the table, the sound reverberating through the room. “Bastard. And Nathan? He was just the perfect scapegoat?”
“Exactly,” Sarah said. “Nathan’s torment, his isolation, his belief in the curse, they made him an easy target. Reaves didn’t have to create a monster. He just had to point fingers in the right direction and let the rumors do the rest.”
Simms, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. “So we have proof that Reaves is behind all this. What’s our next move?”
Sarah hesitated, her gaze dropping to the table. The whispers at the edges of her mind grew louder, mocking her, testing her. The curse she carried now, its presence unrelenting. But she couldn’t let it stop her. Not when they were this close.
“We confront him,” she said, her voice steady. “We expose the truth. But we have to be smart. Reaves is dangerous. He will kill again and again or use someone to do his killing for him.”
Marjorie placed a reassuring hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Then we’ll fight.”
They moved quickly, each ally taking on a role in the plan. Lena compiled the evidence into a dossier, ready to present it to the press and law enforcement. Luis and his coworkers spread the word among the docks, rallying the locals who had been under Reaves’s thumb for far too long. Simms worked discreetly within the department, gathering support from officers who still valued justice over politics. And Sarah... Sarah prepared for what she knew would be the hardest part: facing Reaves himself.
The meeting was set for midnight at one of Reaves’s warehouses, a place he believed was still hidden from prying eyes. Sarah stood at the gate of the property, her breath visible in the cold night air. The warehouse loomed ahead, its dark silhouette a horror she had uncovered. She clutched her flashlight tightly, the whispers in her mind growing louder as she approached.
Simms was by her side, his expression grim. “You sure about this?”
“No,” Sarah admitted. “But I don’t see another way.”
They entered the warehouse together. The interior was dimly lit, the shadows stretching and twisting like living things. Reaves stood at the far end of the room, his back to them as he studied a row of crates. He turned as they approached, his expression calm but cold.
“Detective Shilling,” he said smoothly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Sarah stepped forward. “Cut the act, Reaves. We know what you’ve done.”
Reaves raised an eyebrow, his hands clasped behind his back. “And what, exactly, is that?”
“The murders. The lies. The hysteria,” Sarah said, her voice rising. “You used Nathan, used the curse, to cover up your crimes. But it’s over. We have the proof, and we’re not going to let you get away with this.”
For a moment, Reaves said nothing. Then he chuckled softly. “Proof? What proof? A few papers? A few whispers? That won’t hold up, Detective. You’re grasping at shadows.”
Simms stepped forward, his voice firm. “It’s not just papers, Reaves. It’s people. People who are tired of being afraid, of being silenced. They’re ready to fight back.”
Reaves’s smile faltered, his gaze flickering between Sarah and Simms. “You’re making a mistake,” he said quietly. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.”
“I understand perfectly,” Sarah said. “I understand that you’ve been hiding behind your power for too long. But it’s over. The truth is coming out, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
Reaves’s expression darkened, his calm façade slipping. “You think you’ve won, Detective? You think exposing me will make a difference? Gastown will still be the same. The people will still believe in their monsters. And you... you’ll still be alone.”
Sarah stepped closer, her gaze unyielding. “Maybe. But at least Nathan will be free. And you... you’ll finally pay for what you’ve done.”
The tension in the room was suffocating. Reaves stood motionless, his hands clenched at his sides. And then, without warning, a low, guttural sound echoed through the warehouse.
Sarah froze, her heart pounding as the sound grew louder, closer. The shadows on the walls seemed to writhe, twisting into grotesque shapes that defied explanation. The whispers in her mind became screams, deafening and relentless.
“What the hell is that?” Simms shouted, his voice filled with panic.
Reaves didn’t answer. He simply smiled, his eyes glinting with something dark and malevolent. “You should have stayed away, Detective.”


Scene 20
Sarah’s Transformation

The warehouse was alive. The shadows danced as though possessed, dark, unnatural, their movements sporadic and uncoordinated, mimicking the chaos spiraling in Sarah’s mind. The air was thick with a low, reverberating hum that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, making it hard to breathe. Every sound seemed amplified, the faint creak of the something vile beneath her boots, the rustling of her coat as she shifted, the tremor of her own breathing. And in the center of it all, Walt Reaves stood, his calm demeanor now cracking at the edges.
“Stay back,” Reaves barked, his voice wavering for the first time. He stumbled backward, the heel of his polished shoe catching on the uneven concrete. His usually immaculate appearance was disheveled, his tie loose and his hair damp with sweat.
Sarah didn’t move. She could feel the curse within her, coiled and writhing like a living thing. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a constant pressure against her skull, whispering truths and lies in equal measure. She wasn’t sure which was real anymore.
“You don’t understand,” Reaves said, his tone pleading now. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t, this isn’t part of the plan.”
Sarah’s head tilted slightly, her lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Your plan?” she echoed, her voice carrying a calmness that felt alien even to her. “You built this, Reaves. You made the monster. Now you’re afraid of it?”
Reaves flinched as she stepped closer, the dim light casting sharp lines across her face. He had seen power before, manipulated it, wielded it like a weapon. But this was something else. There was a darkness in Sarah now, a presence that defied explanation. It wasn’t just her posture or her tone. It was in her eyes—the way they seemed to shift and shimmer, as if something inside her was trying to break through.
The curse. She could feel it growing, unfurling its tendrils like smoke spreading through her veins. It had a name—Umbra. That was the word the witch had used, spoken in a tone that carried equal parts reverence and fear. Sarah hadn’t understood it then, but now it made sense. Umbra wasn’t just a curse. It was a mirror.
Umbra reflected the darkest corners of the mind, amplifying doubts and fears until they became impossible to distinguish from reality. It created monsters, but they weren’t flesh and blood. They were psychological, born from the depths of the psyche and given form through belief. It wasn’t a disease, not in the conventional sense. It didn’t ravage the body. Instead, it planted seeds of paranoia and despair, nurturing them until they consumed everything else.
For Nathan, Umbra had been a shadow with claws, a creature that stalked him in every quiet moment. For Sarah, it was different. It wasn’t external. It was inside her, a voice that whispered in her own cadence, weaving a narrative she couldn’t escape.
“You’re alone.”
The words echoed in her mind, soft but unrelenting. She blinked, trying to shake the thought, but it only grew louder.
“They don’t trust you. They never have.”
Reaves’s voice broke through the fog, sharp and panicked. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with! This thing—it’ll destroy you!”
Sarah turned her gaze back to him. “Destroy me?” she repeated. “Is that what you told yourself about Nathan? That it would destroy him, not you?”
Reaves’s hands trembled as he raised them defensively. “I had no choice,” he said quickly. “Nathan was weak. He believed in the curse. It made him the perfect distraction.”
Sarah took another step forward, her voice lowering. “And now you believe in it. Don’t you?”
Reaves opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. His gaze flicked to the shifting shadows around them, his breath hitching as they seemed to grow darker, more tangible. Sarah followed his eyes, her stomach tightening as she realized what he was seeing.
Umbra wasn’t just in her mind anymore. It was leaking out, shaping the world around her.
The whispers grew louder, their cadence chaotic and overlapping. They didn’t come from the shadows or the walls. They came from within—a chorus of doubt and fear that drowned out everything else.
“You can’t save him. You never could.”
“You’re not strong enough.”
“This is who you are.”
Sarah pressed her hands to her temples, her breathing shallow. She could feel Umbra wrapping itself around her thoughts, pulling memories from the depths of her mind and twisting them into something unrecognizable. The day she became a detective, her first case, the faces of the victims she couldn’t save, all of it blurred together, distorted into a narrative of failure.
Reaves’s voice cut through the noise again, though it was trembling now. “Listen to me! You can still stop this. You don’t have to—”
Sarah’s head snapped up, her eyes locking onto his. “I don’t have to what?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Lose control? Become the monster you made me?”
Reaves took a step back, his hands shaking. “I didn’t make you,” he said weakly. “I—”
“You fed the curse,” Sarah interrupted, her voice rising. “You turned belief into a weapon, and now you can’t even face it.”
The shadows shifted again, swirling around Sarah like a storm. She could feel Umbra’s presence growing stronger, its tendrils wrapping around her mind, her body. But there was something else, too. A clarity that cut through the noise, sharp and unyielding.
Umbra thrived on fear, on self-doubt. It drew its strength from the mind’s darkest corners, feeding on insecurities until they became all-consuming. But Sarah wasn’t Nathan. She wasn’t alone in this fight.
She closed her eyes, her breathing steadying as she focused inward. The whispers grew louder, more desperate, but she didn’t push them away. She let them wash over her, let them pull her into the depths of her own mind.
The darkness was crushing, but she pressed forward, her hands trembling as she reached for the truth at the center of it all. Umbra wasn’t a curse. It was a mirror. And she wasn’t afraid of what she saw.
When Sarah opened her eyes, the shadows receded, their movements slowing until they dissolved back into the dim light of the warehouse. The whispers quieted, their presence fading into the background like a distant echo. She turned to Reaves, her expression calm but resolute.
“This ends now,” she said, her voice steady. “No more lies. No more fear.”
Reaves stared at her, his face pale, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths. For the first time, he looked truly terrified—not of Umbra, but of Sarah.


Scene 21
The Final Hunt Begins

The atmosphere in the station was oppressively still when Sarah entered that evening. Most of the officers had gone home or were on the street, the clatter and hum of their routine work replaced by an eerie silence. Sarah’s desk sat untouched, its surface bare save for a folder and her badge, which she had left behind after Whitaker had pulled her off the case. Now, as she stood before it, she understood the meaning of everything she was risking.
Her badge wasn’t just a symbol of her authority—it was her shield, her identity, her connection to the law. But tonight, she was walking a dangerous line. By setting this trap, she wasn’t acting as a detective. She was moving beyond the rules, beyond the order she had always sworn to protect. And yet, she knew there was no other way.
She glanced at her watch. Midnight was fast approaching, and the plan was already in motion. Outside, Gastown’s shadows stretched long and deep, the alleyways swallowing sound and light. The others were waiting for at the steam clock, gathering of people willing to risk everything to confront Walt Reaves and finally expose the monster he truly was.
Walt Reaves had built his empire on lies, manipulation, and fear. But his true power came from the people he controlled—the officers, journalists, and business owners who owed their success to his patronage. He had turned the city into his playground, he had been untouchable.
But now, the threads of his control were unraveling. Sarah had spent weeks gathering evidence, enlisting the help of unlikely allies. Each piece of information, each whispered confession, had brought her closer to the truth. And now, she had a name. The real killer wasn’t just a pawn in Reaves’s game, it was his most trusted enforcer, the one who had carried out his orders without question.
Lony Rusk.
Rusk was a ghost, a man who existed beyond reach. His name didn’t appear in any official records, but Sarah had found traces of him in Reaves’s financial dealings and surveillance footage. He was Reaves’s fixer, the one who silenced threats and eliminated obstacles. And now, Sarah was going to bring him out of the shadows.
The trap was simple in theory, but execution required precision. Sarah had chosen an abandoned hotel on East Hastings on blocks from where she lived, a crumbling relic of the city’s past that had been left to decay. She had walked past it many times watching fear grow in the eyes of the forsaken. “Drugs. It’s been all about drugs.” She thought.
The stage lobby was still intact, it stretched into the darkness like a graveyard of forgotten memories.
It was the perfect place for the final act.
Sarah stood at the center, her flashlight casting a faint beam over the dusty tiles. Around her, the shadows seemed to press in. She could feel the curse—Umbra—thrumming inside her, its whispers growing louder as the moment approached. She had learned to ignore them, to push them to the edges of her mind. But tonight, they felt different. More insistent. More alive.
The others were scattered throughout the room, hidden in the darkness. Simms was stationed by a post, his sharp eyes trained on the ruined front desk. Marjorie and Luis were near the exits, ready to block any escape routes. Lena was in a derelict phone booth, her camera set to record everything. They were Sarah’s anchors, the ones who kept her grounded even as Umbra threatened to pull her under.
She adjusted the microphone clipped to her jacket. “This is it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Time to end this.”
It didn’t take long for the trap to spring. Reaves arrived first, his footsteps echoing through the empty theater as he made his way to the front desk. He was flanked by two bodyguards, their eyes scanning the darkness for any signs of danger. But Sarah knew they wouldn’t see her allies. Not yet.
Reaves’s expression was cold as he stopped at the edge of the desk, his hands clasped behind his back. “Detective Shilling,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. You’ve managed to make quite a mess of things.”
Sarah didn’t flinch. “The only mess here is you, Reaves. And it’s about to be cleaned up.”
Reaves chuckled, the sound hollow and humorless. “Bold words. But you’re out of your depth, Detective. You think you can bring me down with a few scraps of paper and a handful of misguided allies?”
“I think you’re scared,” Sarah shot back, her voice steady. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Reaves’s gaze darkened, his calm cracking. “I’m here because you’ve become an inconvenience. One that needs to be dealt with.”
It was then that Rusk emerged from the shadows. He moved silently, his tall frame barely making a sound as he approached the stage. His face was obscured by the hood of his jacket, but Sarah could feel his presence, a cold, predatory energy that sent a chill down her spine.
“Sarah,” Reaves said, his tone softening to something almost paternal. “Meet Lony Rusk. The man who’s going to make all of this... disappear. And did you know your friend Nathan was released. It will work perfect. Another murder with him on the loose.”
The next moments were a blur of motion and sound. Rusk leapt into the centre of the room, his movements fluid and precise. Sarah barely had time to react as he closed the distance between them, his hand reaching for her throat. But she was ready. She ducked to the side, her flashlight smashing into his arm with enough force to send him stumbling.
Claws sliced the air.
“Now!” Sarah shouted, her voice echoing through the lobby.
Simms stepped into the light, his weapon drawn. “Freeze!” he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Rusk hesitated, his gaze flicking to Reaves, who stood beside the desk . Sarah took advantage of the moment, grabbing her Billyclub and swinging it like a bat. It connected with Rusks ribs, and he let out a grunt of pain as he fell to one knee.
The rest of the team moved in, their coordinated efforts boxing Reaves and his men into corner behind the desk. Marjorie and Luis blocked the exits, while Lena’s camera captured every detail. Reaves’s bodyguards drew their weapons, but Simms was faster. He fired a warning shot into the ceiling, the sound deafening.
“Drop them!” Simms commanded, his aim steady.
The bodyguards hesitated, then complied, their weapons clattering to the floor. Reaves’s expression twisted into one of fury, his hands trembling as he raised them in surrender.
“You think this changes anything?” he spat, his voice filled with venom. “You think the truth will set you free?”
Sarah stepped forward, her breathing heavy but controlled. “No,” she said. “But it will set them free.”
She turned her gaze to the camera, addressing the people of Gastown who would soon see the footage. “This is Walt Reaves,” she said, her voice steady. “The man who turned your fears into profits, your history into lies. The man who used your trust to cover his crimes.”
Reaves’s face twisted in rage, but he said nothing. The shadows seemed to close in around him finally dragging him down.
And the whispers in Sarah’s mind fell silent.


Scene 22
Breaking the Curse

The witch's shack was dark. Sarah stood at its threshold, her body tense and her breathing uneven. Umbra’s hold had tightened over the past days—its whispers now constant, crawling through her mind like a fever that wouldn’t break. This was the final step. She couldn’t go back.
Nathan was beside her, his presence a steadying weight against the storm within. His face bore the marks of his own torment—lines carved deep into his features, shadows lingering in his gaze—but there was something else there too. A quiet release. He had walked his own dark path and survived. Now, he was here for her.
“Are you sure detective?” Nathan checked.
Her hand pressed the door frame, the rough wood beneath her fingers grounding her. She turned to him, her expression hard to read in the dim light. “I don’t have a choice,” she said finally. “If I don’t end this, it’ll consume me. Just like it almost consumed you.”
Nathan replied. “Then let’s end it.”
Inside, the witch waited, her silhouette framed by the flickering candles scattered around the room. The air was thick with the pungent scent of burning herbs, the smoke curling in lazy spirals toward the low ceiling.
“You really need to clean this place up. This air will give you lung cancer.” Sarah chided.
The witch didn’t look up as they entered, her bony fingers working methodically carving symbols into the floor with a blade as old and weathered as herself.
“You’re late,” she said, her voice carrying a note of dry amusement. “I was beginning to think you’d given up.”
Sarah stepped forward. “I’ve come to finish this,” she said, her tone firm. It’s all in my mind or it’s a drug. Tell me what I need to do.”
The witch looked up at her then. “You’ve carried Umbra longer than most,” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s burrowed deep, entwined itself with your thoughts, your fears. Breaking it won’t be easy.”
“I don’t care about easy,” Sarah shot back. “Tell me how to stop it.”
The witch’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “Very well. But know this: breaking Umbra isn’t just about severing its hold. It’s about confronting what it’s shown you. The shadows it’s drawn out of you, they’re yours, Sarah. You can’t banish them. You can only face them.”
Sarah’s stomach tightened, but she nodded. “I’m ready.”
The witch gestured to the circle she had carved into the floor, its intricate symbols seeming to pulse faintly in the dim light. “Sit,” she instructed. “And no matter what you see, no matter what you feel, don’t leave the circle. Umbra will fight to keep its hold on you. It will show you things meant to break you.”
Sarah glanced at Nathan, who gave her a reassuring nod. She stepped into the circle, the cool edge of the symbols biting against her fingertips as she sat cross-legged at its center. The witch began to chant, her voice low and melodic, the ancient words weaving through the air like a thread being pulled taut.
The room darkened, the flickering candlelight swallowed by a deeper shadow. Sarah’s heartbeat quickened as the first whispers began—not from her mind, but from the air itself. The shadows around her seemed to move, twisting and writhing like living things.
And then she was no longer in the shack.
The darkness enveloped her completely, an endless void that pressed against her chest, choking the air from her lungs. She heard footsteps in the distance, soft and deliberate, growing closer with each passing second. The whispers returned, louder now, a cacophony of voices speaking over one another.
“You’ll fail.”
“You’ll lose them all.”
“You’re not enough.”
The voices twisted into shapes, forming figures that loomed out of the darkness, faces she recognized, faces she didn’t. Her father, his expression filled with disappointment. Whitaker, his glare cutting. And Nathan, his eyes filled with sorrow.
“You can’t save anyone,” Nathan’s voice said, though his lips didn’t move. “You never could.”
“No,” Sarah whispered, shaking her head. “That’s not true.”
The figures advanced, their voices rising to a deafening roar. Sarah felt Umbra’s tendrils tightening around her, dragging her deeper into the void. She closed her eyes, her hands clenching into fists. It was too much. The voices, the shadows, the truth. It was crushing her.
“This is who you are,” the voices said in unison. “You can’t escape it.”
“Sarah!” Nathan’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. It wasn’t from the void, it was real, coming from the shack, from beyond the ritual’s grasp.
She opened her eyes, her breath hitching. The shadows twisted violently around her, but she saw Nathan standing at the edge of the circle, his expression fierce. “Don’t listen to it!” he shouted. “This isn’t you!”
The tendrils of Umbra faltered, their grip loosening slightly. Sarah’s chest heaved as she looked back at the figures looming over her. They were still there, cold, oppressive, but something had changed. The whispers were quieter now, less certain.
She rose to her feet, her legs trembling but steady. “You’re wrong,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “You’re not my truth. You’re my fear. And I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
The figures recoiled, their edges dissolving like ash in the wind. The darkness cracked, a faint light piercing through as Sarah took a step forward. The tendrils of Umbra writhed violently, their last desperate attempt to hold her, but she didn’t stop. She reached into the light, her fingers brushing against it.
And then it was over.
Sarah gasped as the darkness shattered, the light flooding her vision. She was back in the shack, the circle beneath her glowing faintly before fading into the floor. The air was heavy with silence, the Umbra gone.
Nathan was at her side in an instant, his hands gripping her shoulders. “Sarah,” he said urgently. “Are you okay?”
She looked up at him, her breathing uneven but steady. The whispers were gone, the tendrils no longer wrapped around her mind. She felt... lighter. Free.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice hoarse but firm. “It’s gone.”
The witch watched from the corner. “You’ve broken Umbra’s hold,” she said. “But remember—it didn’t come from nowhere. The shadows will always be part of you. What matters is how you face them.”
Sarah nodded. She knew the witch was right. The curse hadn’t created her fears. It had only amplified them. But now, she had faced them. And she wasn’t afraid anymore.
Nathan helped her to her feet, his grip steadying her. “You did it,” he said softly, his voice filled with quiet awe.
“We did it,” Sarah corrected, her lips curling into a faint smile.
Outside, the mist was beginning to lift, the first faint rays of dawn breaking over Gastown. The city was still, its shadows retreating as the light grew stronger. Sarah stepped out of the shack, Nathan by her side, and took a deep breath of the cool morning air.
The curse was broken. The sun was shining brightly. Sarah wondered if the curse had brought the endless storms.


Scene 23
Revelation and Justice

The morning light broke over Gastown like a curtain drawn to reveal a long-hidden stage. The shadows that had gripped the city for months seemed thinner now, retreating in the wake of the truth. The air felt lighter, fresher, even as the streets remained quiet, muted in anticipation of what was about to unfold.
The front page of every newspaper in Vancouver screamed the same headline: “The Monster Unmasked: The Real Killer Behind Gastown’s Nightmare.” Beneath it, a photograph of Walt Reaves, his face gaunt and hollow-eyed as he was led away in handcuffs. The article laid out everything in painstaking detail—his empire of lies, his manipulation of the city’s fears, and the role Lony Rusk had played as his enforcer. But most importantly, it revealed the innocence of Nathan Piers, the man who had borne the bitterness of Gastown’s hysteria.
Sarah stood on the steps of the precinct, the crisp newspaper clutched in her hand. The officers around her moved with a different kind of energy today, lighter, unburdened. There was no more whispering about the curse, no more glances filled with suspicion. They knew now what had really happened. They knew the truth.
She scanned the crowd that had gathered on the street below. Faces filled with curiosity, hope, and guilt watched her, waiting for something, some acknowledgment, some closure. Nathan was among them, standing at the front of the crowd. He looked different now. The weight he had carried for so long had lifted, and though his scars remained, they no longer seemed to define him.
Sarah took a deep breath and stepped forward, her voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. “For months, Gastown has been living in fear,” she began. “Fear of a monster that was never real. Fear of a man who was never guilty. But today, that fear ends.”
The crowd hushed, their attention riveted on her.
“Walt Reaves used your fears against you. He turned this city’s history, its myths, into weapons to cover his own crimes. He made you believe in the curse, in the monster, because it was easier than facing the truth.”
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the faces before her. “But the truth is out now. Nathan Piers is not the monster. He never was. And today, we stand together to prove that Gastown is stronger than the lies that tried to tear it apart.”
A ripple of applause broke out, hesitant at first, but growing stronger as her words sank in. Nathan met her gaze, his expression filled with gratitude. She nodded to him, a silent acknowledgment of everything they had endured together.
Later, in the quiet of her office, Sarah flipped through the remaining files from the case. The evidence they had uncovered, the testimonies they had gathered, it was all there, laid bare in black and white. But it wasn’t the papers or the headlines that mattered most. It was the people who had made it possible. Marjorie, Luis, Lena, Simms, all of them had played a part in bringing the truth to light.
And Nathan.
He had suffered more than anyone, carrying the curse that had been thrust upon him, feeding on his fears and doubts. But now, he was free. And so was she.
The door creaked open, and Nathan stepped inside, filling the small space. “They’re asking for you out there,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “You’re kind of a hero now.”
Sarah smiled faintly, setting the files aside. “A hero, huh? Not sure that’s what I was going for.”
“Well, like it or not, that’s what you are,” Nathan replied. He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “And... thank you. For everything.”
She met his eyes, her smile softening. “You don’t have to thank me, Nathan. You’re the one who faced it. The curse, the lies, all of it. You stood up when no one else would.”
Nathan nodded, his expression thoughtful. “So did you.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Then Sarah rose, grabbing her coat. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s show Gastown what it really means to face the truth.”


Scene 24
New Beginnings

Nathan stood at the docks, watching the water lap gently against the concrete. It wasn’t much, but it was a beginning. The city that had once feared him now passed him by with tentative nods or quiet smiles, a recognition of what had truly happened. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it yet. Forgiveness was complicated, acceptance even more so. But the silence, the absence of suspicion, of hostile eyes, was something he hadn’t realized he needed.
Behind him, Sarah approached. She stopped a few feet away, not wanting to intrude on the moment. He glanced back, offering a small smile, the kind that seemed foreign to him but carried genuine warmth.
“You look better,” she said. “Lighter.”
“I feel... different,” Nathan admitted, turning to face her fully. His hands slid into his jacket pockets, his posture more at ease than she’d ever seen. “The whispers are gone. It’s just me now. Feels strange.”
Sarah nodded, understanding. She had felt the curse’s grip, and its absence still felt surreal. “Strange, maybe. But it’s yours now. Your life. Your choice.”
Nathan tilted his head slightly, his gaze thoughtful. “I wouldn’t have made it here without you.”
“You would’ve found your way,” Sarah replied, her tone quiet but firm. “You had the strength all along.”
Nathan didn’t argue, but there was something in his expression that showed he wasn’t entirely convinced. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, smooth stone, running his thumb over its surface, a token of grounding, perhaps. “What about you?” he asked. “What’s next for Sarah Shilling, monster-slayer and truth-bringer?”
Sarah let out a soft laugh, the kind that carried weariness but also a glimmer of relief. “Back to the station, I guess. Plenty of cases waiting for me.”
“And Whitaker?” Nathan’s question was pointed but not unkind.
The mention of her boss brought a shadow of exasperation to her face. Captain Whitaker hadn’t exactly been thrilled by the way things had unfolded. He had issued a reprimand, made it clear that her methods had overstepped every boundary. But he had also grudgingly acknowledged the results. The truth had come out. Reaves was behind bars. Gastown was healing.
“He’s still the same gruff old bureaucrat,” Sarah said with a smirk. “But I think he respects me now, at least, as much as Whitaker’s capable of respecting anyone. He won’t admit it, of course. But deep down, he knows we did what was right.”
Nathan chuckled softly. “Guess that’s as much of a win as you’ll get with him.”
“Pretty much,” Sarah said, leaning against the railing beside him. She stared out at the water, her reflection fractured by the gentle ripples. “It’s strange. This case... it broke so many things apart. But it also put some things back together. Gastown’s not perfect, but I think it has a chance now.”
Nathan nodded, his gaze distant as he followed her line of sight. “And you?”
Sarah hesitated, the question settling heavily. She had been carrying so much for so long, the case, the curse, the truths she had uncovered. But now, for the first time, she felt like she could breathe.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’m not afraid to find out.”
They stood in silence for a while after that, the city quietly behind them, the water stretching endlessly before them. It wasn’t a perfect ending, but it didn’t need to be. It was enough.

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