UNCONCIOUS

THE WEIGHT OF THE WATER

The rain in Oakhaven didn’t fall; it hung in the air like a damp, gray shroud.

Detective Silas Vance sat in the cab of his rusted '98 Dodge Ram, the engine idling in a low, uneven rumble that vibrated through the soles of his boots. He stared through the sweeping arcs of his windshield wipers at the black, glassy surface of Mirror Lake.

On a normal night, the lake was a tourist escape. Tonight, it was a crime scene.

Silas rubbed his temples, trying to erase the dull ache behind his eyes. He was thirty eight, but his joints felt fifty, rusted by years of graveyard shifts and cheap diner coffee. He reached for the dashboard, flicking off the radio just as a local news anchor began speculating about "the resurgence of the Oakhaven Ghost."

Ghost. Silas spat a bitter laugh into the dark. Ghosts didn't leave tire tracks. Ghosts didn't leave bodies.

He opened the truck door, and the damp cold hit him like a physical blow. Pulling his heavy canvas collar up against his neck, he walked toward the yellow caution tape fluttering in the wind. The mud sucked at his boots, threatening to pull him down with every step.

At the water's edge stood Deputy Miller, a kid barely old enough to shave, holding a flashlight with a trembling hand. The beam of light danced erratically over the water, finally settling on a dark, metallic shape jutting out of the lake’s shallow eastern bank.

It was the roof of a car. A vintage, midnight-blue sedan, coated in green algae and river silt.

"We got a tip from a fisherman, Detective," Miller said, his voice cracking slightly. "Said he saw a bumper sticking out after the floodwaters receded this morning."

Silas didn't answer. He took the heavy industrial flashlight from Miller’s hand and stepped into the freezing water. It soaked through his leather boots instantly, a sharp, numbing bite. He waded out until the water reached his knees, shining the beam through the cracked, mud-caked driver’s side window of the submerged car.

He wiped a layer of slime off the glass with his gloved hand.

Inside, draped over the steering wheel, was a skeletal figure. Around its neck, catching the artificial glare of Silas's flashlight, was a silver locket shaped like a crescent moon.

Silas froze. The breath caught in his throat, turning to a plume of white steam in the cold night air.

He knew that locket.

Twenty years ago, his younger sister, Claire, had walked out of their childhood home and vanished into the night. The only clue she had ever left behind was a missing silver crescent locket a gift Silas had bought her for her sixteenth birthday.

Silas reached out, his hand trembling as he pressed his palm against the cold, wet glass of the car window.

"Claire," he whispered.

But as the flashlight beam drifted lower, illuminating the rusted floorboards of the passenger side, Silas saw something else. Something that made his blood run colder than the lake water.

Mounted to the dashboard was a brand-new, waterproof digital camera. Its red recording light was slowly, steadily blinking.

Someone was still watching.