The steam train's whistle sliced through the leaden dawn fog like a final warning cry.
Inside the second-class carriage, where the faded crimson upholstery bore witness to countless feet, Elias Crane sat hunched over scattered papers. A journalist in his twenties, his intelligent eyes scanned a tattered report with a curiosity akin to an archaeologist's fervor upon grasping a rare relic. The smell of lamp oil, cigar smoke, and aged wood hung in the air, mingling with the train's rhythmic jolts that rattled the passengers' bones like distant hammer blows.
Outside the window, England's green plains dissolved into thick yellow fog, as though the earth were wrapping itself in poisoned cotton wool. Elias lifted the report to the dim lamplight. Its title:
Adgeford The Town That Swallows Its Secrets – By Jonas Phelps.
Phelps' handwriting was elegant and sharp as a blade, but the words were dark prophecies written in a surrealist style, as if torn from a Lovecraft novel:
"...Adgeford is not on the tourist map, but on the map of myths. Its people are hunters, harsh as the rocks they shelter behind; their eyes follow the stranger like wolves scenting weakness in their pack. No hotels, no notable taverns, nothing links them to the world but their wooden boats defying the mad North Sea...
It's said they shun marriage to outsiders and slaughter those who dare intrude upon their lunar rituals on the shore.
Whispers say their cellars hide human bones among fishing nets, and their prayers are directed to dark powers fed by human sacrifices...
Science, of course, rejects this, but the silence here... a silence that weighs on the soul like stone."
Elias set the report aside with a wry smile.
Phelps' death? A tragic carriage accident in bustling London, just a week after he left Adgeford. The papers called it an unfortunate mishap.
The police closed the case. But Elias saw beyond the words of the press and the police.
Why had Phelps written his "report on Adgeford" days before his death? And why had he burned his secret papers?
This was the mystery that ignited his curiosity—not fear, but the passion to uncover hidden truth. Like any ambitious young man refusing a dull, routine job until retirement or death, he sought glory and fame.
A violent jolt made the lamp sway. The train slowed.
A rusty iron sign appeared on an empty platform bearing a single word:
'Adgeford. '
No buildings, no people, no sounds. Just a wooden platform fading into the yellow fog, like a tongue of land licking a sea of mystery. No one disembarked but him. The silence after the engine's roar ceased was jarring, flooding the ears like heavy water.
Elias stepped down, his leather travel bag light on his shoulder like an explorer's weapon. The cold, salty air stung his face, carrying whiffs of rotting seaweed and rust.
He turned to look back. The great steam train was moving backward in ghostly silence, its black smokestack dissolving into the fog like ink in water. Then it vanished.
He was alone.
The wooden platform groaned beneath his feet. Before him, a single dirt path plunged into the wall of fog, like a road to a parallel world. He pulled out his notebook and wrote in swift, eager script
"Adgeford, dawn. The station empty as a white skull. Fog is a fine jailer. The sea whispers secrets beneath the waves' roar. Phelps... were you wrong, or was what you saw silenced? I will know today."
He closed the notebook, his eyes alight. He wasn't afraid. His heart burned with excitement like a child finding a new toy.
He stepped onto the dirt path, his shoes making the only rustle in the silence.
Elias vanished into the fog-shrouded dirt path, like a swimmer in a sea of narcotic dreams.
The cold wind carried notes of the nearby sea—a deep, intermittent roar like the sigh of a colossal sleeping beast. Then suddenly, it emerged, a phantom materializing from nothingness: Adgeford.
It wasn't a town. It was a stone corpse of a forgotten era. Ancient buildings, carved from black, eroded sea rock, arched like the backs of beached whales.
Narrow streets twisted like cold intestines, clinging together with rusted iron bars and rotting wooden beams.
Arched windows, small as monkey eyes in the gloom, watched him with unnerving emptiness. A pungent smell enveloped everything: sharp salt, decomposing seaweed, and... a faint odor of rotting fish flesh floating in the air.
People? There were only shadows. Three distant figures, wrapped in thick brown cloaks, walked with quick steps, heads bowed to their chests as if following invisible tracks on the ground.
No one lifted their head.
No one made a sound.
A silence imprinted with the distant rustle of waves.
"Sir!"
Elias called. His voice rolled down the narrow street like a glass ball on stone.
The nearest shadow turned for a moment.
Elias saw eyes as dull as a dead fish's—no emotion, no fear, no question. Then... the man bolted like a terrified rabbit.
"Wait! I..."
He didn't finish. The shadow abruptly bent into an angle between a crooked house and a crumbling wall, vanishing as if the earth had swallowed him.
Elias followed quickly, his feet clattering on the pebbles in an even narrower alley.
The smell here was denser: damp mold, rust, and something sour. He looked right, then left.
The alleyways tangled like a spider's web. No trace of the man. As if he'd ceased to exist.
He stood gasping, gulping air into his lungs. He pulled out his leather notebook. He made a habit of writing down every strange thing he encountered. Moving the pen calmed his nerves, turning dread into "notes." He wrote with slightly trembling script, but with eagerness
"A town weeping salt from its stones. Inhabitants are shadows fearing light (or fearing me?). Man vanished like smoke. Eyes... cold as oyster shells. Strange smell: rotten flesh? Or special seafood? I will know soon."
He closed the notebook, feeling anxiety pound in his chest for the first time. Not fear, but a need for shelter. Standing alone in Adgeford's foggy streets frayed his nerves.
A hotel. Was there a hotel in this desolate place?
He didn't know, for the town was famous for its lack of visitors.
He walked on, following the strongest scent of salt.
The streets began to widen slightly, but the yellow fog remained sovereign.
Then he finally saw it: a slightly taller house, less ancient than the others.
A warped wooden sign hung on an arched door. A faded drawing was discernible
"The Rock Salt Inn"
Elias knocked on the heavy wooden door before entering.
As the heavy wooden door closed behind him, Elias found himself in a warm lobby.
The smell of aged wood and faint wild mint mixed with sea salt.
Before him stretched a simple tavern with polished wooden stools, clean tables, and a neat row of bottles.
There were no patrons but him.
Behind the bar stood a man. Tall—nearly six-foot-three—with clear muscle mass under his linen shirt and a belly hinting at a love for good food.
His face was etched with sun wrinkles, his thick beard the color of salt.
His movements were calm as a sailor accustomed to waves.
"What a pleasant surprise! A new face in Adgeford?"
His deep voice carried genuine welcome.
Elias approached, smiling.
"Elias Crane. I've heard about your town... and some exciting stories."
"Ah, rumors!"
The man laughed, wiping the counter with a cloth.
"I'm Salim, owner of this humble place. Don't believe everything you hear—here, it's nothing but hardworking fishermen and a quiet town."
He pushed a sturdy chair toward Elias.
"Sit. You must be tired from traveling."
Elias took his seat.
"I heard some rather interesting things about your town."
Salim shook his head as he filled a glass with clear water from an earthen jug.
"Baseless stories! Spread everywhere."
"If you believed all that's said, you'd think we dance with mermaids! But the truth is boring: fishing, mending nets, and early sleep."
Elias tried to change the subject, not wanting to seem like he'd come to verify rumors.
"The Rock Salt Inn—an odd name."
"An inheritance from my grandfather."
He nodded toward a window overlooking black rocks.
"He used to say salt preserves everything... even memories."
"Is there anything I can do to please my dear guest?"
"I'd be grateful for a hot meal and a room to stay. Three nights here."
Saying this, Elias drew some silver coins from his pocket and offered them to Salim.
Salim smiled and handed him a simple brass key.
"First room up the stairs. I'll have hot food ready in minutes."
Minutes later, he returned with a steaming plate.
"Today's fish stew—fresh tuna from this morning's nets."
"And a welcome gift."
He poured him a mug from a golden-hued tap.
"Local ale."
The food was simple and delicious. Even the ale was refreshing with a light herbal taste. While eating, Elias asked:
"Any places worth visiting?"
"North Shore at sunset."
Salim answered, washing mugs at the bar counter.
"But beware the tide. The currents are treacherous."
Elias pulled out his notebook and wrote:
"Salim - Innkeeper. Seems straightforward and friendly, though I suspect he hides something about the town. What normal town has streets empty but for a few suspicious figures?"
When he finished, Salim accompanied him to the wooden stairs.
"Room directly to your right. Sleep well."
Upstairs, the room was clean and simple
a beechwood bed, a desk, and an oil lamp. Through the small window, he saw lights of fishing boats winking on the sea.
He extinguished the lamp and surrendered to sleep, for the train journey had exhausted him as a man of little travel.
In the darkness, he heard only the rustle of waves... and the whisper of wind passing through the rocks.