What The Dark Remembers

The house burned until there was nothing left. Smoke curled up into the night, thick and choking, turning the stars to smudges. I remember standing there, barefoot on the pavement, watching the flames eat through every piece of my life. The heat on my face. The taste of ash on my tongue. Somewhere inside, something collapsed—wood, maybe, or my father. Hard to tell over the crackling fire and the sirens still too far away to matter.

And in the dark, just beyond the glow, it watched. Eyes like dying embers, or maybe that was just the reflection of the fire—I tell myself that sometimes, when it gets too heavy. But I know what I saw.

I always know what I saw.

Then the world tilts, like falling through the floor, and suddenly I'm awake—gasping, drenched in sweat, the smell of smoke still clinging to my mind.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Like it knows I brought something back with me. I looked around, still on alert from the nightmare, breath unsteady, hands clenched. But reality settles in again, slow and heavy. No fire. No screams. Just my dead apartment, where the only company I have is bad neighbors and a stormy morning.

Rain patters against the window, soft but steady. The kind of weather that makes the city feel even smaller. Somewhere down the hall, someone's yelling—probably the couple in 4B, still tearing each other apart one argument at a time. A car horn blares outside, long and angry, then fades into the distance.

I exhale, running a hand down my face. Another night, another nightmare.

And the day hasn't even started yet.I walk to the counter, grab the bottle of brown rum, and pour a full cup. No hesitation. I down it like it's fresh water, like it'll wash the taste of smoke out of my throat. It doesn't. I take down one more shot, letting the burn settle in my chest before my eyes flick to the clock.

12:35.

Shit.

Panic kicks in, cutting through the haze. I'm super late for work, and I already know Madam Yaga is gonna chew my ear off about this case. Probably threaten to set me on fire, too—just for the irony.

I set the glass down harder than I mean to, grab whatever clothes smell the least like regret, and start getting my ass in gear. As I step into the hallway, the couple in 4B is still going at it. Voices sharp, accusations flying. Same old story. I don't even slow down—by now, their fights are just background noise.

I take the stairs down to the car level, and that's when I see them—The Parkers. The old married couple who seem like they wandered in from a different world, one where love still means something. Mr. Parker gives me a nod, the silent, knowing kind. Mrs. Parker, on the other hand, lights up when she sees me.

"Oh, dear, you look exhausted," she says, the way only a grandmother can. "Rough night?"

I force a tired smile. "Something like that."

She tuts, already reaching into her bag. "I just made a fresh batch of muffins. Take one for the road."

She presses a warm chocolate muffin into my hand, and for a second, the world feels a little less heavy. I swear, you must be a saint in disguise, Mrs. Parker," I say, taking the muffin with a nod. "I appreciate it."

I fast-walk past them, still in a rush. "Sorry, I'd love to chat, but I'm late for work again."

As I push through the door leading to the garage, I hear Mr. Parker call after me, telling me to take it easy on myself. His wife, of course, has other priorities.

"And make sure you're eating properly! And getting some rest!"

I step outside, greeted by the cool bite of fresh air and the sight of something that actually makes life worth tolerating—my car. A classic Challenger, old school, with midnight leather seats and an engine that could make a grown man whimper.

I take a deep breath, tearing a piece off the muffin as I lean against the door. "I'm already late... might as well try to relax my head," I mutter to myself.

Sliding into the driver's seat, I fish out a joint I saved from last night, flick my lighter, and take a slow drag. The world settles just a little. Not much, but enough.

Then I start the engine and head toward Madam Yaga's Voodoo & Crystal Shop.

It takes me about 45 minutes to get to the shop—longer than usual, but I wasn't in a rush. The weather made sure of that. Rain smeared across the windshield in lazy streaks, the wipers barely keeping up.

At certain stops, I flip open the file on my latest case. A woman reported her husband and son missing three weeks ago. The police handled it, closed it fast. Found them at a park near the mall, safe and sound. Case closed.

So why the hell was she coming to someone like me?

People don't knock on my door unless they're desperate. Unless they know something's wrong, even if they can't explain it. And the way she looked when she came to me... yeah, something was wrong.

I take another drag from the joint, exhale slow, and set the file aside. The answers aren't in the paperwork. They never are.

Up ahead, the neon glow of Madam Yaga's Voodoo & Crystal Shop flickers through the rain.

Time to get chewed out. "Well... time to know what marriage feels like," I mutter to myself, taking one last hit of my joint before killing the engine.

The rain's coming down steady now. I push open the door and make a run for it, dodging puddles and trying to avoid getting completely soaked. The moment I step inside, the scent of vanilla and incense wraps around me—warm, thick, and just strong enough to cover up the staleness of the place.

I take a second to glance around at the usual mix of knickknacks and overpriced "authentic" voodoo trinkets, but my appreciation is cut short.

Because Madam Yaga is already staring daggers at me.

Jaguar eyes, sharp and deadly.

"You must have been fighting the devil himself if you think it's okay to keep me waiting on your decrepit ass!" she snaps. "Three and a half hours, Daniel! I should start taxing you for every damn minute I waste entertaining your clients!"

I side-eye her, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. Fear? Definitely. But that doesn't mean I won't try to butter her up.

I sidestep around her, hands up in mock surrender, already laying it on thick. "Come on, Yaga, you know I'd never keep you waiting on purpose. And might I say, your hair? Looking absolutely divine today. The shop? Radiating nothing but elegance and—"

She's not listening. Well, not completely—I see the slightest twitch of approval, but it's buried under the weight of her irritation.

Before I can stack on more nonsense, she cuts me off with a sharp glare. "Enough of your damn tomfoolery, Daniel. Be serious for once and talk to the client. Start earning your keep and paying me back some of that debt."

She waves a hand dramatically at the shop, sighing. "I swear, if it weren't for sad widows, no-talent middle-aged moms, and hipsters, this place would've shut down ages ago. So get to it, Captain Chronic."

"Alright, alright, fine, I'm going..." I throw up my hands, dragging out my steps just to annoy her. "Geez, you've been pushing me off more lately. Is it because you have a fat crush on—"

I barely get the words out before a giant book comes flying straight at my head.

"Shit—!" I duck just in time, the book whizzing past like a missile, knocking over some poor unlucky crystal skull.

Yaga clicks her tongue, already grabbing something else to throw. "Keep running your mouth, and I'll make sure you need real voodoo to fix your face!"

I don't stick around to test that theory. Moving like a damn street cat, I hurry up the stairs, straightening my tie, slipping back into something almost professional.

Yaga lets me rent out one of her fancier rooms for private conversations and investigations—beats meeting people in dingy diners or out in the rain. And more importantly, it keeps me away from other investigators who have no idea what real horror looks like.

I take a breath, push open the door.

My client sits stiffly in the chair, red hair unkempt, probably somewhere between 40 and 50. The first thing I notice? She hasn't been sleeping much. And that's coming from me.

The second thing? Dirt. Caked under her nails, smudged on her dress, even streaked across her hands.

She's been digging.

Or hiding.

Either way, she came to me for a reason.

I step inside, closing the door behind me. "Rough night?" I say, leaning against the desk. "I know a brand of rum you'd probably like."

I try to ease the tension, but I can't tell if it worked.

She stands, reaching out a hand. Her smile is small, sad, but there's something else behind it—hope, maybe. Or at least the last scraps of it. Her eyes, though, are drowning in worry.

"My name is Elizabeth Wilder," she says.

I shake her hand, firm but measured. "Detective McLean."

I motion for her to sit as I take my own seat behind the desk. She hesitates, then asks, "Do you mind if I smoke?"

I glance at the door—Yaga's slapped a No Smoking sign right in the center. Real subtle.

I ignore it.

"Go ahead," I say. "Might help the nerves."

She nods in thanks, pulls out a cigarette, and lights up. Takes a long, slow drag, holding the smoke in her lungs like it's the only thing keeping her together.

Then, exhaling, she looks at me and asks—

"Tell me, sir... do you believe in folklore? Or the supernatural?"

I pause, raising an eyebrow.

Now she's got my attention.

I raise my hands a bit, rocking my chair inch by inch, playing up a carefree attitude.

"I mean, I know a little bit," I say, tilting my head toward the stairs. "Mostly from the wacky toucan downstairs. But go on, ma'am."

Elizabeth rolls her eyes, taking another slow drag from her cigarette. The smoke curls around her like a veil before she finally speaks.

"A few weeks ago, my husband came home late from work. I didn't think much of it—he's always home in time for dinner, but sometimes things run late. Except this time... he never came back."

She pauses, gripping the cigarette between her fingers. Her voice tightens, like she's reliving it.

"Three days later, he showed up. Just like that. Early morning, standing over me as I slept."

I don't move, just lean back a little, letting her words settle.

"He gave no explanation," she continues. "Didn't say where he'd been. Didn't even act like it mattered. Just... stood there. Staring. And after that, he was different. A blank sheet."

I lean in now, hands clasped together, listening to every word.

"He started copying me," she says. "Not just little things—everything. The way I moved, how I set the table, even how I breathed."

The cigarette trembles slightly in her grip.

"He stopped making his morning coffee. Stopped walking our poodle. And then it got worse."

She swallows, her gaze darkening.

"With our son, Jason... One night, while he was in the shower, my husband—he started creeping into the bathroom. Standing in the doorway. Watching."

My breath stills.

My eyes widen.

"The hell do you mean by watching?"

Her breath shudders, and she tries to hold back the tears, but it's overwhelming.

I lean forward slightly. "How old is your son?"

She wipes at her eyes, voice cracking. "Fifteen. And he had no idea he was being watched."

A cold weight settles in my chest.

"I called out to him," she continues, swallowing hard. "I wanted to know what the hell had gotten into him. Why he was just... standing there."

She shudders. "He just stared at me, like I wasn't even there. And those eyes—so grey, so soulless—they weren't my husband's anymore."

Her body shakes, and for a moment, I think she's about to break completely. I open my mouth, maybe to say something, maybe just to let her breathe, but before I can, she sits up straighter, wiping her face.

"It might already be too late for Jason."

My stomach tightens.

I don't interrupt—I just nod, letting her continue.

"I've been watching Jason like a hawk ever since his father started acting... wrong," she says. "But I can't—"

The words choke in her throat. She presses a hand to her mouth, lets out a small, trembling sob. But she doesn't let herself fall apart.

She breathes in, then out. Steadies herself.

"Then I got a call," she says, voice quieter now. "From my sister. She said she saw my husband taking Jason out of school. Said they were going on a fishing trip. A bonding moment."

My brows knit together.

She shakes her head. "Eli never took Jason fishing. Never. The last time they hunted anything was when Jason was eleven."

A long silence settles between us.

Something is very, very wrong here. Now that I think about it... I've been seeing more missing person flyers. Not a huge spike, but just enough to feel off. Too many cases stamped "closed" when they shouldn't be.

I lean forward, voice steady. "Did Jason start acting differently after their bonding time?"

She nods, finishing her cigarette with shaking fingers before lighting another.

"I'm so... so scared and tired," she whispers. "Everyone in my neighborhood thinks I'm crazy. But I know—in my heart, in my soul—those aren't my boys."

I stay quiet, letting her get it all out.

"I can't go home," she continues, voice breaking. "I've been sleeping in my car for two weeks now. I already caught them watching me. Separate occasions. And every time... they were closer."

A slow, crawling chill settles over me.

At this point, I know they'll target her next.

I exhale, thinking. "Does Jason have any hangout spots? Friends? Maybe a girlfriend—anyone I can talk to?"

She takes a long drag, staring at nothing. Then, finally—

"He goes to the mall food court every Wednesday. Always stuffs his face with pizza with his buddy, Eddy."

I glance at my phone and grin a little. "Well, look at that. It's Wednesday. And school's about to let out."

I push back my chair, standing. "Alright. I'll take the case."

She looks up at me, something between relief and exhaustion flickering in her eyes.

I pull open my desk drawer, grab a stack of bills—about $400—and toss it onto the table in front of her.

Her brow furrows. "What... what is this for?"

I lean against the desk, arms crossed. "Trying to ease your mind. Get a hotel. Take a shower. Eat a real meal. I need you strong for this."

Her breath hitches. She wipes at her eyes again, standing slowly.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I nod, watching as she heads for the door.

As soon as she's gone, I grab my coat.

Looks like I've got a mall to visit.

Before she fully steps out of the shop, I call after her.

"Stay to yourself until I call you. If you see either of them, keep your distance—at all costs."

She stops at the door, nods once, then disappears into the storm.

I sigh, rubbing my temples. This case already stinks, and I haven't even seen the damn kid yet.

I turn, heading back to my room to grab my journal—

WHACK.

Pain explodes across the back of my skull, and before I can react, a hand yanks my ear like it owes her money.

Ah, yes. The punishment from a Latina woman.

Some men would probably enjoy being in this position. But not me. Not when my ear feels like it's about to be violently ripped off my damn head.

"Soooooo," Yaga drawls, twisting my ear even tighter, "you wanna ignore my rules too now?"

I grunt, trying to pry her fingers off. "It's a no smoking rule, not a no sympathy rule!"

"I'm sure I can use this ear for a stew I've been dying to whip up," she muses, twisting it again for good measure.

"Okay—ow, ow—point made! You can let go now before I have to wear a damn bandage like Van Gogh."

She finally releases me with a scoff, muttering something under her breath about stubborn, rule-breaking gringos.

I sigh, rubbing my sore ear.

Just another day at the office. Yaga leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with that sharp, knowing glint in her eyes.

"So?" she drawls. "What'd the lady say? You better take the case—even if you gotta fight zombie alligators."

I stop mid-step, narrowing my eyes. "Is that... even a real possibility?"

She grins, winking.

I shake my head. "Y'know what? I don't even wanna know. Nightmare fuel already overflowing, thanks."

I go over everything Mrs. Wilder told me—her husband disappearing and coming back wrong, the son starting to change too, the creeping presence outside her car every night.

Yaga listens in silence, expression unreadable as I finish.

"So," I exhale. "You got any idea what the hell I'm dealing with here?"

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she taps her nails against the counter, thinking.

"...Maybe," she finally says. "But I need to check something first."

That does not make me feel better.

I glance out the window—the rain's letting up, but the sky's still a miserable shade of gray.

"I'll see ya later, Madam. Maybe grab drinks? Swap some more of your wild stories?" I smirk, then shift into an exaggerated soap opera accent, rolling my r's and moving my hips like I'm in some dramatic telenovela. "Or perhaps... you could teach me the ways of Latino o' passion?"

Yaga watches my ridiculous display for a second, then lets out a chuckle, shaking her head. "I swear... go do your job, and maybe—maybe—I'll show you how it's done." She rocks her shoulders back and forth, playing along.

I laugh, heading for the door as the shop bell jingles behind me.

Back in my car, I let the engine hum beneath my fingers before pulling into a quiet alley to do some research.

Three hours later, my eyes are sore from staring at my phone, and I'm running on fumes. But I've scoured every bit of info I can find on the Wilders.

And damn... nothing. No red flags. No weird histories. No tragic backstories.

Just a normal, typical, boring family.

The dad? General manager of a supermarket. The mom? A small-town overachiever—won awards for baking, crochet, and even fencing. Fencing. Not bad.

Jason's school pops up in my search, along with their home address.

Might be worth checking both before heading to the mall.

Because right now, something about this case doesn't add up.

And I hate loose ends.

I pull up to the school and kill the engine, watching as kids pour out in waves.

"Alright... let's see if Jason shows up."

Ten minutes pass. The lot empties out. Two school buses idle, ready to leave, but most of the kids are already gone. No Jason.

I sigh, start the car back up, and circle the school just to be sure. Still nothing.

"Well, alright then... Plan B it is."

I swing back around to the front, about to head for the mall—when something stops me.

Out by the field, beneath the bleachers, a kid stands completely still. Watching.

He's hiding. Or... trying to.

But the way he's crouched—barely lowering himself, like he doesn't quite know how to hide—makes my stomach twist. And his back... something about it looks wrong.

I narrow my eyes, gripping the wheel a little tighter.

"Well... that's not creepy at all."