Between Shadows

Between Shadow: Chapter 01-B (The Raven-Haired Writer)

“You made it,” he said. “Good. I was beginning to think the Filigree had swallowed you whole.” He nudged a second cup across the desk toward her, still warm, covered with a paper sleeve branded with the shop’s nightjar sigil—a little bird with a crescent moon for an eye. “You look like you could use it.”

He was younger than she’d expected, maybe mid-thirties, with tousled dark hair and a shadow of stubble that managed to look intentional. His eyes were bright, dark gold or hazel depending on the light, and she had the unsettling impression that he was already reading her, cataloging details she hadn’t offered aloud. Evelyn closed the door behind her.

“Rich, coming from the reason I skipped coffee in the first place. Thanks anyway,” she said, taking the cup as she sat, resting it on her knee. She didn’t give him a chance to respond. “So this is about Filigree, I assume, since I’ve been here all of three days and you already know how to reach me. You said you had something for me?”

“I said I had a lot of somethings for you,” Lorian said, lifting a heavy binder from a desk drawer. “You’re working the Filigree archives for a while, right?”

“I am, at least for a few months. Maybe less—I did my homework ahead of time.”

“Which means you’ve probably already noticed what's missing.”

“You’ll have to be more specific. A lot is missing.”

“At least a dozen people disappeared in late 1925 and early 1926 without so much as a death notice, and the hotel suddenly lost months’ worth of guest ledgers in the same span.”

She said nothing, but her silence must have confirmed something, because he nodded.

“Now, nearly a century later, something similar. Guests checking in, then ‘checking out’ without a trace. And it’s so clean—no security footage. No signatures. No receipts. It’s like they never existed.”

“How do you know all this, exactly?” she asked.

“I’ve been following the Filigree for years. I have a history with previous management. And now,” he said, flipping open the binder, “officially, I’m writing a piece on its ‘haunted history’ for a local paper’s Halloween edition. Unofficially, I want to know why no one ever talks about what happened right before that flood, and fill in some gaps in our own archive.”

“That’s sure to go over well.”

Lorian heaved a sigh. “Look, I get it. The hotel doesn’t love the angle. But they’re part of the local lore.” He sat forward, arms folded over his desk, dropping his voice. “And the bookstore gets a bump from it every year.”

She sipped her coffee. “And what do you want from me?”

Lorian smiled, like he’d been waiting for that question. “Access.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

“Temporary,” he clarified. “Just for tomorrow. I’ve been barred from the Filigree for reasons that are…” He trailed off, as if searching for the right words before giving up, waving a hand. “...personal and complicated.”

“Barred by who?”

He hesitated. “Management.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Technically not lying,” he said with a shrug. “But look—I have something you want, too. My private collection includes blueprints, renovation schematics, guest interviews, and salvage records from the hotel’s original demolition crew. Even a few photos that I’m pretty sure even Filigree doesn’t know exist.”

“And you’ll give me access?”

“In exchange for a single day in the archive. You can list me as your assistant. I’ll help however you want—digitizing, carrying boxes, staying out of the way. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Except you’re a writer,” Evelyn said, slowly, “working on a Halloween advertorial piece.”

“Fair.” Lorian raised his hands. “But the thing is already done. I just need to confirm a few dates. And I don’t name sources without permission. If you let me in, I won’t mention you or the library, not even obliquely.” He paused. “And I have a story, even without the recent disappearances.”

She crossed her arms, unconvinced. “You’re telling me the guy locked out of Filigree just happens to be writing about it? Right as the disappearances ramp up again?”

His smile widened. “Would you believe me if I said I started before things got strange?”

“Not a chance.”

“Then believe this—I think the story matters, even if it is just an advert.” He hesitated. “And yes, maybe I’m petty enough to want to piss off whoever decided I’m persona non grata.”

That, at least, sounded honest.

Evelyn tapped her fingers against the side of her coffee. “I want full access to the documents you have. Originals. No omissions. And if I find out you’re twisting anything I say for your article—”

“You’ll haunt me.”

“Worse. I’ll haunt your editor.”

Lorian laughed, low and warm. “Deal.”

“One day only, preferably early.”

He paused, thinking. “It’ll have to be tomorrow. The weekday staff won’t recognize me.” Then, “Anything I should bring?”

“Just stay out of trouble and don’t get me fired.”

Lorian stood, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a small velvet-lined folder. “I’ll be there at seven. Here’s your down payment.” He placed it on the binder, pushing it toward her.

Evelyn hesitantly reached for the folder. Inside were three sepia-toned photographs: one of the hotel’s original dining room—intact and gleaming, chandeliers identical to the ones she’d seen in her dream. Another of a mezzanine, a group of people leaning over the railing, holding champagne flutes together. And the last—a blurry figure at the edge of a mirror, too faint to be anything but a suggestion. Yet somehow, Evelyn felt the hairs on the back of her neck lift.

He held her gaze. “Let me in, Evelyn. We might both find what we’re looking for.”

She closed the folder slowly, not entirely trusting him.

“Seven a.m.,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

—

That night, Evelyn dreamed of the sea again.

The water was dark and impossibly heavy. She sank fast, lungs burning, silk dragging at her ankles. Somewhere above, light fractured across a distant surface. A hand broke the surface of the water, gently catching her arm.

For a moment, she stopped struggling.

Silas—but as his features came into focus, she realized something was wrong. Too smooth and still, she got the feeling this was a painting of a man, obscuring something monstrous, brushstrokes slipping. His mouth began to open, far too wide, as if to devour her.

Evelyn felt something snap.

She twisted, trying to wrench free. Her nails scraped against his arm. She wanted to be as far away from the creature as possible. But its grip only tightened, pulling her to the surface as panic mounted.

Just as she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself back to sleep or to wake from the nightmare, he let go. She sank toward the abyss and, suddenly, she didn’t know which creature was worse—the creature above or the inky darkness below.

“Fuck."

She woke up with a jolt, heart pounding. She didn’t try to sleep again.