The sheriff's records room was like a tomb, cold and forgotten, filled with the smell of stale paper and old ink. Dust lingered thick in the air, settling over boxes, cabinets, and forgotten relics of cases long past. The shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, weighed down with the accumulated history of Durn Hill—a history that was better left untouched.
Mara's flashlight beam flickered over the rows of metal cabinets, their once-bright labels now faded and barely legible. The town's secrets were buried in here, each drawer a coffin containing a story that might never be fully told. The very air felt thick, as though the weight of the unresolved cases pressed down on her, slowing her thoughts.
She stood still for a moment, letting the stillness of the room settle over her. She hadn't expected to find much, not after the cryptic warning from Sheriff Grady. But this was the next logical step. If she could find the right file—if she could make sense of the mismatched dates, the disappearing information—maybe she could piece together what was really happening to Samantha Leigh.
The drawer labeled "MISSING – 2020s" groaned as she slid it open. She barely had to glance inside to know it was empty. Nothing.
Her stomach twisted. She moved to the next drawer, labeled "MISSING – 2010s," and pulled it open.
There it was.
The file. Same name. Same photo. Same case, but with one glaring difference. A big red stamp across the front, declaring it CLOSED.
Her fingers trembled as she flipped through the file. The date was the same—Samantha Leigh, missing three nights ago. But something was wrong.
The file had been closed, but why? The case hadn't been solved. Not in her timeline. No one had found Samantha.
There was a note on the margin of the first page, written in smudged ink. "Case resolved. Remains never recovered." The name of the investigator was written underneath: Carter Hayes.
Mara's breath caught in her throat. Carter Hayes?
She knew him. Or had known him. She'd trained with him at Quantico. He'd been a rising star in the bureau, sharp as a tack and known for his cold, methodical approach. But that had been years ago. He had disappeared from the radar after a high-profile case had gone south.
What was he doing here, in Durn Hill?
She flipped through the rest of the file, each page more unsettling than the last. Everything about this case seemed to fit into the same pattern—but it didn't make sense. Samantha Leigh was still missing in her timeline, but this file, from a decade ago, had been closed. The two versions of the case didn't line up, and yet they were identical. The same girl. The same details.
And the signature at the bottom—Mara's signature.
Her heart skipped a beat. She pulled out the case file she had brought with her. The one with her own handwriting. The one from yesterday. She held both files side by side, comparing the photos, the names, the dates.
Same photo. Same signature.
Two different timestamps.
One file, stamped closed in 2015. The other, marked open in 2025. The same girl. But why?
Mara stepped back from the shelves, her mind racing. This couldn't be real. It couldn't be happening. The dates were wrong. The files had crossed time, like the past and present were bleeding into each other. Something was wrong—deeply wrong—and she could feel the walls of the sheriff's station closing in on her, suffocating her.
Then came the whisper.
It was soft. Almost imperceptible. But it came from behind her.
"Wrong drawer."
Mara's head snapped around, the flashlight in her hand trembling as she swung it toward the source of the sound. The beam flickered and sputtered, casting long, trembling shadows across the shelves.
There was nothing.
Just empty space.
But the room—the walls—felt too narrow. The shelves closed in on her, and the air grew denser, heavier. The ceiling seemed too low. She could barely breathe. The room had become something alive—something oppressive. Something that had changed.
A cold chill ran down her spine. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she couldn't move. The whisper—where had it come from? Her throat felt tight, like someone was choking her from the inside.
The files in her hands began to feel heavier, more oppressive. She shoved them back into the drawer, their contents burning with a strange energy. She didn't know what she was running from, but something told her to leave—and fast.
Without looking back, she stumbled out of the records room, the door slamming behind her with a resounding thud. Grady was waiting outside. His arms were crossed, his face set in that grim expression she had come to know all too well.
"You went down there alone?" he asked, his voice flat.
Mara nodded, her throat dry. "It's just a records room."
Grady's expression remained unchanged. "Nothing in Durn Hill is just anything," he muttered, his gaze flicking toward the hallway behind her. "You might want to remember that."
She showed him the two files. Her fingers were still shaking as she handed them over, unable to hide her confusion. "I don't understand," she said, her voice tight with frustration. "Why are the files different? Why is there one from 2015, closed, and another one from last week?"
Grady's face didn't change, but his eyes narrowed. "I've seen this before," he said slowly, his voice low. "Not just with her. It happens every few years. The paperwork rewrites itself. Or vanishes."
Mara blinked, her heart skipping. "That's impossible."
"No," Grady corrected, his voice colder now. "It's worse. It's consistent."
Her head spun as the implications of his words settled in. Rewrites. Vanishing. What did that even mean? How could something like that happen? Was the town manipulating the records? Was it some kind of government cover-up? Or was it something even darker, something beyond their control?
She shook her head, the questions mounting like a storm she couldn't outrun. "But this doesn't make any sense. None of this makes sense."
Grady didn't offer an explanation. Instead, he turned and walked down the hallway, his footsteps slow and deliberate.
Mara stood there, staring at the files in her hands. She needed to figure this out—before it was too late.
That night, she returned to the motel. The oppressive fog had returned, wrapping itself tightly around the town like a suffocating blanket. Mara didn't even bother to close the curtains. She sat on the floor, surrounded by papers, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.
She spread the two case files out, photographing each page. The lingering dread she had felt earlier had become a cold, clammy sweat on her skin. There was no service. No Wi-Fi. The upload bar on her phone flickered briefly, then stopped altogether.
No connection.
She tried again, but the result was the same. Nothing.
Frustration gnawed at her, but she refused to give up. This case—it had to be solvable. She had to find the truth.
Then, just as she was about to shove the files back into her bag, something strange happened.
The lights flickered. Again.
Mara cursed under her breath and got up to check the switches. But when the lights came back on, her breath caught in her throat.
On the table, beside the two files, was a third folder.
She hadn't brought it in. She hadn't touched it. Yet, there it was, its label handwritten in neat, precise lettering:
MARA ELLISON — CLASSIFIED.
Her fingers trembled as she opened the folder. It was thick, filled with papers. She began flipping through it quickly, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of this new addition. But nothing prepared her for what she found.
It wasn't a case file. It wasn't a report.
It was a file about her.
About the case she had failed three years ago.
The girl who had died. The case that had haunted her for years, the one that had cost her career, her reputation. She had left that case behind—had buried it in the deepest recesses of her mind.
But now, it was right in front of her.
The last page was blank, except for a single drawing.
Her own face. Her face, split open down the middle like a cracked mirror. Dark roots threading from her skull like veins, pulsing with a life of their own.
Mara's heart slammed into her chest as she stared at the drawing. It was her, but not her. It was a distortion—an abomination. The roots were alive. They were reaching for her. Tethering her to something.
Something dark.
She dropped the file. It fell to the floor with a dull thud.
She stood up, her hands shaking as she turned toward the mirror.
This time, her reflection was smiling.
Not just smiling. Grinning.
Mara's blood turned to ice.
Her own reflection—a stranger's reflection—stared back at her with eyes full of malice.
And the mirror, as if it had a mind of its own, didn't blink.