The Archive and the Anomaly
Willow Shore
Robert pushed deeper into the neighborhood. He was past the imposing iron gate, his confidence renewed with the small victory, his panic buried deeper than his conscious thought. He kept his feet moving, his eyes darting, cataloging everything to prove he had been here.
His heart raced as his subconscious screamed at him to turn and run. All hesitation was filed away as childish nerves; his twelve years were a testament to his bravery and inner fortitude.
The first street was called The Willows. The houses were narrow Victorian style, painted in pristine, muted colors—soft gray and cream. The lawns were impeccably manicured but small, and the windows sparkled without a hint of dust or smudge. The perfection was the problem. The stillness was absolute. It felt wrong, and he involuntarily frowned. It seemed like a stage set just for him. Robert paused, his eyes gliding over what was frighteningly abnormal.
A flash of sparkling blue caught his eye. He spotted something like a blue shadow run between two of the houses, and a thin, childish giggle left on the eerie wind. He shivered, his hand rubbing the skin beneath his ear, then continued on, blaming the unsettling feeling on the fact that he forgot his jacket.
He reached the corner and turned onto Blue Pond Lane. Here, the homes were slightly larger, built with dark stone accents, their yards just as perfectly sculpted but a bit bigger, and they shared the same chilling, flawless perfection. He counted two houses down, pulling his phone from his pocket. He just needed one picture to prove to Michael Simms he'd made it.
He had his camera poised, ready to snap a picture of the scene that seemed frozen in time. Would Michael even believe him? He saw the world clearly through the lens of his phone's camera.
Suddenly, a shift in the air pressure hit him, like walking into a rapidly closing door. The blue sparkling fog rushed him like it had an insatiable hunger. It moved with an eerie intelligence that made Robert's brain stutter. It erupted from a shadowed space between two houses—a glittering, sentient wave of sapphire light and chilling mist. Robert had no time to shout, no time to drop his phone, not even time to blink. His finger involuntarily pressed the camera button a split second before the light engulfed him, silent and absolute.
Less than a second later, the street was clear. The light was gone. The silence of the pristine neighborhood returned.
On the ground where Robert had been standing, lying on the impossibly flawless pavement, was a smart phone, the camera application still open, and a well-worn, faded red baseball cap. Written, with a black sharpie, just above the size tag was the name: Robert Hass.
Allen Developers
The meeting continued, the professional jargon of commercial real estate washing over the table. Kathleen, seated in the chair that still felt uncomfortably warm against her back, ignored the chatter and hammered away at her laptop.
Willow Shore. Willow Shore. Willow Shore.
All the digitized records in Allen Developers' vast archive were frustratingly sparse. She could find current zoning, utility access, and environmental reports, but the historical information was an immediate dead end. Every lead circled back to the Morrison family.
Specifically, two documents—one confirming the property's original purchase by the Morrisons in 1880, and a later record detailing the estate being formally gifted to their daughter, Margret, in 1890. That was it. One-hundred-and-thirty years of history vanished into a digital black hole. It was like the information was redacted or expunged, erased from all digital records.
This is a multi-million-dollar property; there should be boxes of documentation.
"I'll need to go to the County Seat," Kathleen muttered under her breath, deciding to chase the physical paper trail. She needed to look at the original deeds and death certificates. Why hadn't the property ever changed hands?
At that exact moment, Selene Park looked up from her file, a cold dread still clinging to her from the moment the property image appeared. Her eyes drifted to the conference room door just as a woman seemed to casually drift down the hall.
The woman was in her late twenties, early thirties, but her clothes were jarringly out of time—a long, ankle-length velvet dress in a dark, rich color. More disturbing was the faint, pervasive blue glow that seemed to emanate from the fabric itself, the same unsettling hue as the static that had filled the screen moments earlier. Selene felt a spike of icy panic.
"Wait," Selene whispered, standing abruptly, her hands slamming against the conference table as she balanced herself to lunge forward. She registered everyone jumping and abruptly turning toward her, but she had to verify it was no illusion.
Her chunky heels stumped across the carpeted floor as she rushed to the conference room door and peered down the deserted hallway. Nothing. The hall was pristine, quiet, and completely empty.
Selene turned back, her face pale. She tried to steady her voice. "Did anyone—did you see that woman? The one in the strange dress?"
Tomas, still fidgeting in his seat, his eyes wide, shook his head. "See who? You scared the crap out of me! Who did you see?"
Tara looked from him to Selene, thinly veiled contempt in her voice. "Selene, darling, the building is empty, except for us. The office doesn't actually open until 10 am. You're letting Tomas's spookiness get to you."
Selene said nothing more, her heart hammering. She slowly returned to her seat and picked up her chair. Dread filling every inch of her, she looked toward Kathleen and frowned.
Her extra large chair had an odd, faint, blue hue. It twinkled, as if something was saying hello. She blinked several times, her heart racing, cold sweat running down her spine, and it was normal again—chocolate brown and tanned with age and use.
Selene looked around the room. Everyone returned to their casual conversation or menial activity, all except for Tomas. Their eyes met across the table, and something passed between them.
Tomas made the sign of the crucifix and looked away. Selene shut her eyes tight. Both of them knew, their fate seemingly sealed.