I arrive in a sleepy coastal town. I don't know why I'm here, except that I have to solve the mystery of a series of killings that have occurred here recently. The fog rolls in. I'm alone, walking the main street of the town, and I notice a road leading up a hill to a sea-cliff. There is a young girl playing nearby, and a house not too far off from the peak of the cliff. I don't see anyone else around, and so settle on surveying her for information. She tells me a local girl had been crucified recently; called it suicide.
Suddenly an image flashes into my mind: a dark haired girl, not unlike the one I am speaking to. She is bruised, bloody, and limp, nailed to the cross 'of her making', betrayed and hanging on the crest of the hill overlooking the sea. Her long hair whips tattered in the wind, her eyes are vacant.
I know immediately that her soul must not be at peace, for all it has endured, and for the injustice of her death(her 'suicide'). I vow to see her killer brought to justice.
I don't remember much else from the case, except interviewing the townspeople. though one instance does stand out. I met an intimidating fisherman with piercing blue eyes who I'll not soon forget.He was tall and white, balding and thick with muscle, his handshake was firm, overpowering almost.
Our meeting played out like this: He welcomes me to their town, though he gives off no warmth in the greeting. He states that he is devastated by his daughter's suicide, and his eyes make contact with mine at this time as if to drive the point home that suggestions of foul play will not be entertained. Inexplicably I fear this man, and seek to leave his company as soon as I am able. I understand now, that this man is the deceased's father, and an agent in her death.
I continue my investigations, and a slow fog rolls in. My memory from this time is spotty, although I am cognizant of the girl at play rolling in and out of my peripheral knowledge; I get the feeling she knows more than she has told me. Concluding my investigation I call a town meeting, really a wake of sorts. Something close to 200 people crowd into a barn so converted for the purpose. the meeting time is 8pm, when the last traces of light have fled the sky and a chill has crept over the land in lack of sun.
As I enter, my eyes survey the room: a podium up front for the berieved to eulogize the lost girl, and a seated populous in fold-out chairs below. That podium would also be where I was to make my final speech (an event which would never come to pass). Two sets of heavy wooden doors stood on either side of the waiting and seated congregation, providing convenient exits at the conclusion of our wake, and yellow-brass lights hung from an unnaturally grand ceiling.
My tension at this point was tenable, although I could provide no reason for this feeling, nor explanation as to its origin.
The girl from before greets me at the door with a solemn face, and I realize at once that the whole of this sleepy town has congregated to hear this night's drama.
My stomach knots, and my eyes turn back to the girl. She warns me most gravely to leave when she 'starts messing with the lights'. Feeling entirely unsettled, I take my seat in the front row beside Jake.
The first speaker begins; the victim's father. He plays the perfect part of the berieved man, though I am inclined very strongly to believe otherwise. The over-head lights dance, and fear floods through me. I grab Jake by the hand and we flee without a word to the congregation. To hell with them, I think.
The girl at the door smiles at me with a perfect serenity I would not have, in a thousand years expected to see, and like an executioner before the slaughter
she turns to them grimly. We lock eyes, and she whispers a "thank you" before we part. The doors slam behind us, her doing I'm sure, and almost immediately their shrieks begin, and then the flames, those God-awful flames. Her smile haunts me even as the barn shrinks with distance.
Several meters down the road and Jake demands explanation, but I can't give him one.
What can be said?
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