I've always hated the sound of seagulls. They circle over the harbor like scavengers, shrieking and diving for scraps, and their cries carry across the town like warnings. Some people romanticize it—the call of the sea, the voice of the coast—but to me it always sounded like mourning. Maybe that's because I grew up in Greycliff, where everything, even the ocean, seems to grieve.
The town looked smaller as I drove in that morning, though maybe it was just me that had grown. Fifteen years had passed since I left, and I hadn't planned on coming back. I told myself that Boston had more to offer, that working homicide there was worth the sleepless nights, the bodies, the city grit under my fingernails. But the truth was simpler: I ran. I ran from the whispers, from the shadows of this town that always seemed to be watching.
Yet here I was, my tires crunching over cobblestones still slick from last night's rain, the smell of saltwater clinging to everything. Greycliff hadn't changed much. The fishing boats still leaned tiredly against the docks. The old cannery still loomed abandoned, its broken windows staring out like blind eyes. The fog clung to the cliffs like a shroud, hiding the edges of the world.
The call had come just after dawn. I'd recognized Sheriff Marcus Hale's voice immediately, though it had deepened, roughened since I last heard it. He hadn't wasted words: "Ward, it's bad. Hollow Point Road. Body at the cliffs. We need you on this one."
I'd almost laughed. We need you. As if Greycliff had ever needed me before. As if Hale hadn't been the one to tell me to get out while I still could, years ago. Still, something in his tone cut through my hesitation. It wasn't just that a woman was dead. It was the edge of fear beneath his words, the kind of fear Hale didn't wear easily.
So I came.
The drive out to Hollow Point was long enough for me to wonder whether I'd made a mistake. The road coiled around the cliffs, slick with mist, the guardrails rusted and bent where storms had kissed them too roughly. I remembered riding my bike here as a kid, daring myself to get closer and closer to the edge, until the wind whipped at my hair and my stomach dropped at the thought of falling. Greycliff kids grew up with the cliffs the way other kids grew up with playgrounds. We tested our courage against them, like idiots daring fate to blink.
Now, years later, fate had blinked. And someone had lost.
Sheriff Hale's cruiser was parked crooked near the turnout when I arrived, its lights pulsing faintly through the fog. A strip of yellow tape fluttered in the wind, strung between two splintered posts. A handful of deputies clustered together, speaking in low voices that stilled as soon as they saw me step out of my car. I could feel their eyes on me—the outsider, the one who left, the one who came back only for blood.
And then there was Hale, standing by the cliff's edge, his coat snapping against the wind. His hair had gone steel-gray, his face weathered, but his stance was the same: broad, immovable, as if the ocean itself couldn't shove him off balance.
"Ward," he said when I approached, his voice carrying the gravel of too many cigarettes and too many unspoken words.
"Hale." I tugged on the gloves I'd stuffed in my coat pocket. "You made it sound urgent."
"It is." His eyes flicked toward the rocks below. "See for yourself."
I followed his gaze, and my stomach tightened.
The woman lay sprawled against the jagged stones, her body bent at angles no living thing could manage. Her dark hair fanned out around her head, tangled with seaweed. Her skin was pale, almost luminous in the morning fog. For a second, I thought she'd simply fallen—one slip of the boot, one gust of wind, and down she'd gone, like countless others before her. The cliffs were merciless.
But then I saw it.
The ribbon, stark white against her bruised wrist. The crimson on her lips, painted deliberately, too neat to be an accident of death. And, worst of all, the word carved into her skin just below her collarbone.
REMEMBER.
The letters were jagged, cut deep, as though someone had wanted the message to bleed into her, to scream through her flesh.
"Christ," I whispered.
"Not your usual fall victim, is it?" Hale muttered, but there was no satisfaction in his tone. Only weariness.
"No," I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. I crouched lower, scanning the body the way I'd been trained, cataloging details—livor mortis setting in, bruising on the knees, ligature marks faint along the throat. "This wasn't the ocean. This was someone's design."
One of the deputies shifted nervously behind me. Another crossed himself. I caught the movement in the corner of my eye and almost smiled, grim and humorless. Greycliff's deputies weren't prepared for this—not the ritual of it, not the message carved into flesh. This wasn't a bar fight gone too far or a drunk who wandered off the pier. This was something else.
"Who is she?" I asked finally, rising.
Hale hesitated, then said, "Caroline Mercer. She taught at the elementary school."
The name hit me like a stone to the chest. Mercer. I knew that name. Everyone in Greycliff did.
"She was Daniel's sister." Hale's eyes locked onto mine, hard and unflinching.
Daniel Mercer. One of The Four.
And just like that, the shadows I'd tried so hard to outrun closed in around me again.
The wind whipped harder, carrying the smell of salt and rot up from the rocks below. It stung my eyes and made them water, though I wasn't sure I could blame it entirely on the weather.
Caroline Mercer. I remembered her, though only faintly. She was younger than Daniel by five years, maybe six. I used to see her trailing behind him when we were all kids, her braids bouncing, her eyes sharp with curiosity. She must have been ten when everything happened—when Daniel and the others vanished. A child in a town that preferred to bury its questions.
Now she was thirty, and her life had been carved open like a message in stone.
I turned back to Hale. "Does her family know yet?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. I wanted you to see first."
"You think this is connected." It wasn't a question.
His jaw worked as if chewing on the truth. "You know I do."
I looked again at the carved word: REMEMBER. The letters were deliberate, almost ritualistic. Whoever had done this wasn't just killing; they were making a statement. And the statement was aimed at us—at anyone who still carried the weight of the past.
"I told myself this day would come," Hale muttered. His eyes were on the sea, but his mind was far away. "Fifteen years of silence. Fifteen years pretending it was over. But the past doesn't rot away here, Ward. It lingers. Like the tide."
I didn't reply. Because he was right.
I stepped closer to the edge, peering down at the rocks. "Any witnesses?"
"None willing to talk." Hale's tone suggested he didn't expect that to change. "A hiker found her around five. Called it in. Beyond that…" He spread his hands, helpless.
Typical Greycliff. Secrets wrapped in silence, silence bound in fear.
"Let me see her up close," I said.
We had to rappel halfway down the cliffside to reach her, the ropes creaking, my palms burning through the gloves as I steadied myself against the rock. It wasn't the first time I'd hung like this over the ocean, but the sight of her body splayed on the stone made my stomach churn. I forced myself into the calm rhythm of observation.
Caroline's eyes were half-lidded, glassy. A deep bruise bloomed across her temple, suggesting a blow before the fall. Her nails were broken, dirt embedded beneath them. Defensive struggle. She hadn't gone down quietly.
The carved word was raw, the edges jagged. Not surgical. A knife, maybe, or something serrated. The kind of cut made by anger, not precision.
My gaze traveled lower, to the faint marks around her ankles. Rope burn. She'd been tied at some point.
"This wasn't where she died," I said aloud.
Hale, braced against the ropes above me, grunted. "You're sure?"
"She was brought here. Staged." I pointed to the word on her chest. "This is a message. They wanted her found."
The deputies shifted uncomfortably. One of them muttered a curse under his breath.
I could feel the tension tightening around us like a noose. Everyone here knew what this meant, even if they refused to say it aloud. Greycliff had lived under the shadow of The Four for too long.
Daniel Mercer. Leah Crowe. Jacob Vance. Naomi Holt. Four kids who vanished without explanation. Four families left broken. Four graves without bodies.
And me—the girl who had known too much, seen too much, and left before the shadows could swallow her whole.
I shut my eyes for a moment, memories flooding in like the tide. Daniel's laugh as he balanced on the edge of the cliffs, daring us to follow. Leah's quick grin as she whispered secrets that tasted like rebellion. Jacob's quiet sketches, the way he captured the town's darkness in charcoal lines. Naomi's sharp tongue, her refusal to be cowed by anyone.
And then the night they disappeared. The night Greycliff changed forever.
I shook the images away, focusing back on the body at my feet.
"She fought," I murmured. "Whoever did this, she fought them. Hard."
"Which means they'll be marked," Hale said grimly. "Scratches. Cuts."
"Maybe more." I slipped off one glove, carefully lifting Caroline's hand. Under her nails were thin strands of fabric. Black. Nylon, maybe.
Evidence. Proof she hadn't gone quietly into the dark.
My chest tightened. Caroline Mercer hadn't just been killed. She'd been used—to send a warning, or a threat, or maybe both.
"Bag the fibers," I said, passing the detail to the nearest deputy. "And get me any trace off the rope burns. I want to know what kind of rope we're looking at."
Hale's eyes met mine, steady but troubled. "You're really back in this, aren't you?"
I didn't answer. Because I wasn't sure if I'd ever truly left.
As we climbed back up, the fog thickened, curling around us like smoke. I pulled my coat tighter, shivering despite the effort to stay composed.
At the top, I caught sight of the ocean again, endless and indifferent. It stretched out to the horizon, as if mocking us. People vanished here. They always had. The water took them, or the cliffs did, or something darker still.
But Caroline hadn't vanished. Caroline had been made into a reminder.
When we stripped the harnesses away, I wiped my palms on my coat and asked the question I'd been avoiding: "Where's her family now?"
"Parents moved years ago. Couldn't stand this place after Daniel. Caroline stayed, though. Bought a little house on Hollow Point Road. Taught school, lived quiet. No enemies we know of."
"Everyone has enemies," I said.
Hale gave me a look. "You think this is about Daniel."
I held his gaze. "Don't you?"
For a long moment, the only sound was the crash of waves below. Then Hale exhaled smoke from a cigarette he must have lit without me noticing. "Yeah," he said finally. "I do."
The drive back to my apartment felt longer than the trip out. The fog had thickened, curling around the curves of the cliffs and swallowing the road behind me. The headlights barely cut through it, the yellow glow painting the mist in a sickly hue. I kept glancing at the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see someone following. Of course, no one was. But the thought clung to me like wet wool.
My apartment was small, perched above the harbor. A relic from my father's fishing days, with peeling paint on the windowsills and the faint, ever-present scent of salt and rust. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, letting the silence of the place wash over me. Quiet, except for the distant creak of a rope on one of the old piers and the occasional gull. My apartment smelled like memories and dust, like a place that had been left alone and forgotten—much like me.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, strong enough to bite through the chill, and sat at the small table by the window. The harbor stretched out before me, fog concealing the boats and docks in a gray haze. I stared at it, thinking about Caroline Mercer. Thinking about Daniel, Leah, Jacob, Naomi. The Four. The memories were sharp today, slicing through the haze as if the cliffs themselves had whispered them back to me.
I opened the file I'd brought with me—the one I had quietly requested from Boston months ago. Old case reports, yellowed photocopies, police notes, and photographs. I had kept them tucked away, almost like a talisman, something to remind me why I had left in the first place. And yet, now, they felt like a weapon.
I spread the pages across the table, running my fingers over the photos of the Four. Daniel Mercer, his hair dark, eyes wide and laughing. Leah Crowe with that sly grin, daring you to say no. Jacob Vance with a sketchpad under his arm, his quiet, observing presence. Naomi Holt, sharp-tongued and fearless. Their faces stared back at me, youthful and unaware, and I felt a pang of guilt twist in my chest.
And then I looked at the dates. Their disappearances were all clustered in that one cruel summer. One by one, they had vanished, each under circumstances that the town had accepted too readily. Accident. Fire. Fall. Overdose. The official reports were neat and tidy, but I had known better. I had seen the whispers, the looks people gave each other. Secrets that stretched farther back than anyone admitted.
Caroline Mercer's murder was different, though. Different in a way that made my stomach tighten. Someone wasn't just killing her—they were sending a message. The word carved into her skin wasn't just a warning. It was a summons. A challenge. A reminder of something the town had tried so hard to forget.
I rubbed my temples and leaned back in my chair. Part of me wanted to call it in, to hand the case off to Hale and walk away. Part of me… couldn't. I had left Greycliff to escape its shadows, but the shadows had followed me anyway. And now they were dancing closer, daring me to step into the light and face them.
I walked over to the window, staring at the fog-shrouded harbor. My phone buzzed—a message from Hale. Just one line: "Check the archives. You'll understand."
Archives. The thought sent a chill down my spine. I had spent years avoiding Greycliff's old records, town council minutes, newspaper clippings, anything that reminded me why the Four had vanished. But now, it seemed, the past wasn't waiting for me to be ready. It was demanding to be unearthed.
I set the cup of coffee down and dug into my drawer, pulling out a box I had kept hidden beneath old papers and photo albums. Inside were the remnants of my previous investigations, notes I had taken back when I first suspected the town was hiding something darker. Names, dates, rumors, scribbles in the margins of newspapers—everything that might explain why the Four had disappeared, why their families had stayed silent, and why Caroline Mercer had been chosen.
I spread the contents across the small table. My eyes caught the name Daniel Mercer again. Caroline's brother. One of the Four. And now dead.
Somewhere in the shadows of the files, a pattern had begun to emerge, though I couldn't see it fully yet. The Four weren't just random kids caught in misfortune—they were connected in ways no one had dared speak of. And whoever had killed Caroline wasn't acting in isolation. They were part of a longer, more deliberate story.
The knock at my door came suddenly, shattering the quiet.
I froze, my hand hovering over the papers. The clock read past midnight. Who would be here now? I wasn't expecting anyone.
Another rap, louder this time, reverberated through the apartment. I grabbed the baseball bat I kept under the bed, moving toward the door cautiously. My heart thumped so loud I thought Hale would hear it over the fog and waves.
I cracked the door open, bat raised, eyes scanning the darkened hallway outside. Empty. Just the hallway, the peeling wallpaper, the hum of the radiator.
I looked down at the floor and saw it. A folded piece of paper, damp and curling at the edges. I picked it up with trembling hands.
In black ink, jagged and hurried, were the words:
"You left. You forgot. Now you will remember too."
A cold shiver ran down my spine. The past had found me. And it wasn't finished yet.
I closed the door slowly, pressing my back against it, trying to steady my breathing. Outside, the fog thickened, swallowing the harbor and hiding the world in gray. The cliffs, the ocean, the town—all of it seemed to lean closer, listening, waiting.
Somewhere in Greycliff, a shadow smiled.
I sank into the worn chair by the window, the folded note still clutched in my hand. My pulse was hammering, every beat echoing in my skull. The words weren't just a warning—they were a promise. Someone knew I had returned. Someone knew I couldn't run anymore.
I stared out at the fog, the harbor now just a shadow of shapes and outlines. The sea stretched infinitely, dark and indifferent, but I could almost feel the cliffs below, waiting. They had swallowed children, secrets, lives, and now a warning had been carved into flesh. Greycliff was alive in its own way, pulsing with danger, and I was standing in its center.
The note burned in my fingers. "You will remember."
I remembered.
I remembered the laughter of the Four on the cliffs, the way Daniel had dared us to lean closer to the edge. I remembered Naomi screaming when Jacob fell on the rocks, how everyone pretended it was an accident. I remembered the fire in Leah's house, the overdose that no one wanted to investigate properly. I remembered my own guilt for leaving, for not doing more. And now, fifteen years later, the sins of the past had returned to demand attention, dragging me into the center of it all.
I spread the old files across the table again, running my fingers over the photographs, the annotations I had scribbled in the margins. Names, dates, places, whispered connections—threads that might tie the Four's disappearance to something larger, something someone had killed to hide. Caroline Mercer's death was the first ripple. I could feel more waves coming, each one heavier than the last.
I picked up my phone, scrolling through Hale's messages, trying to find some guidance. The last one was simple: "Check the archives. You'll understand." The archives. Town records, old newspapers, council minutes… places where secrets slept quietly until someone disturbed them. That someone was me now.
I set the phone down, pressing my forehead against my hands. Fear sat heavy in my chest, but beneath it, something else stirred: determination. I couldn't leave. I couldn't ignore this. Not after Caroline. Not after the Four. Not after everything I had tried to escape.
The fog pressed against the windows like cold fingers. Outside, the gulls cried, a harsh, lonely sound that reminded me that no one in this town could hear you scream. The cliffs below seemed to wait, and I imagined someone watching from the shadows, waiting to see what I would do next.
I knew one thing with certainty: the past had been patient. But patience has limits. And someone—someone with blood on their hands—had chosen now.
I grabbed my coat, slinging it over my shoulders, and moved toward the small bookcase in the corner of my apartment. There, tucked between old law books and a cracked photograph of my father's boat, was the journal I had kept all those years ago. Notes, scribbles, sketches of timelines. Observations no one else had bothered to make. The Four, their families, odd disappearances, rumors of fire, water, and shadows in the fog.
I flipped it open, the pages smelling of ink and dust, and traced the words with my fingers. Every note, every observation, suddenly felt alive again. I was not just investigating a murder now. I was stepping back into the story I had left behind, the story Greycliff had hoped I would forget.
A sound made me freeze. The creak of the stairs outside my door. Too deliberate to be the wind. I clutched the journal like a shield and crept to the window. The fog swallowed everything. I couldn't see the street below. But I could feel it—the presence. Watching, waiting. Patient. Calculating.
I took a deep breath and straightened. Fear was a luxury I couldn't afford. I had left Greycliff fifteen years ago to save myself, but this time, I wouldn't run.
I would remember.
I would uncover the truth.
And I would survive.
The fog rolled thicker across the harbor, swallowing the light from my window. Somewhere beyond it, a shadow moved, deliberate and slow. Greycliff had started its reckoning. And I was standing right in the middle of it.
CONCLUSION:::
Evelyn fully internalizes the threat. She resolves to investigate the archives and confront the past. The shadow outside her apartment adds suspense for Chapter Two. Ends on a strong cliffhanger: reader knows the danger is imminent, and Evelyn is stepping into it knowingly.