The Ravenwood Palace

The Detective.

Rain slicked the train windows, turning the world outside into a blur of shadow and lightning. Lucas Blackwood leaned back in his seat, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, though he hadn’t bothered to light it. His coat collar was turned high, hat brim shadowing his eyes as he scanned the case file for the hundredth time.

Anna Fletcher. Twenty-seven. Historian. Last seen three nights ago entering Ravenwood Palace. Vanished without a trace.

Lucas closed the file, staring at the rain instead. The case was straightforward on paper—missing person, rural village, frightened locals. But he’d learned long ago that the simplest files usually hid the darkest truths.

The train screeched into Elmridge Station.

Lucas stepped onto the platform, boots striking the soaked wood. The village lay beyond—a crooked cluster of cottages shrouded in mist, huddled against the forest’s edge like children afraid of the dark. Above it all, silhouetted against the storm, loomed Ravenwood Palace. Its towers cut into the clouds like broken teeth.

The detective lit his cigarette at last, the flame briefly illuminating the scar across his jaw, the weary set of his mouth. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the night.

A boy at the station stopped to stare at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re here for the palace, aren’t you?” the boy whispered.

Lucas tipped his hat, saying nothing.

The boy’s face drained of color. He backed away, muttering, “No one comes back from Ravenwood.”

Lucas smiled faintly, bitterly. “Good thing I’m not no one.”

He started toward the inn, boots echoing on the cobblestones, the palace watching from the hills above like a predator waiting for its prey.

The Raven’s Rest Inn stood at the end of a narrow cobblestone lane, its sign creaking in the damp wind. Lantern light flickered weakly in the windows, casting long, uneven shadows against the mist.

Lucas pushed open the heavy wooden door. A wave of warmth and firelight rushed to meet him, thick with the smell of woodsmoke and stew. For a moment, it almost felt welcoming. Almost.

A handful of villagers sat in silence at the tables. Their conversations faltered as Lucas stepped in. Every pair of eyes shifted toward him—curious, cautious, fearful. He felt the weight of their stares like daggers against his back.

Behind the counter stood Eleanor Graves, a stout woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair pinned into a bun. Her eyes—sharp and dark—watched him like she already knew who he was.

“Detective Blackwood.” Her voice was low, steady. Not a question, but a statement.

Lucas lifted his hat in greeting. “Word travels fast in a small village.”

Eleanor’s lips tightened. “Word travels when fools wander into places best left alone.” She slid a tarnished key across the counter. “Room three. Upstairs.”

Lucas took the key but didn’t move. “You know why I’m here.”

The fire crackled in the silence that followed. The villagers lowered their eyes, pretending not to listen.

Finally, Eleanor leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him.

“She went into Ravenwood. And Ravenwood doesn’t give back what it takes.”

Lucas studied her, expression unreadable. Then he set his suitcase down and removed his coat. “That’s why you need me.”

“You don’t understand.” Her eyes flicked toward the window, where the palace’s jagged silhouette loomed over the hills. “That place isn’t just empty halls and broken stone. It’s alive. It listens. And it hates.”

Lucas exhaled smoke from his cigarette, letting it curl between them. “Stone doesn’t scare me, Mrs. Graves. People do.”

But even as he said it, his gaze drifted to the black outline of the palace against the night sky—and for a fleeting second, he felt the weight of something watching him back.