Act 2:
The train rattled west, cutting through pines that looked the same for miles. I leaned back in the seat, coat collar pulled high, hat tipped low. Nobody bothered me, not even the ticket guy. That was fine. I preferred it that way.
Papyrus sat across from me, legs bouncing like springs.
"ARE YOU SURE THIS IS THE BEST WAY, BROTHER? WE COULD HAVE TAKEN A CAR, OR A BUS, OR—"
"nah," I said, smoke curling from my mouth. "train's good. gives me time to think."
He tilted his skull. "TO THINK ABOUT THE CASE?"
I didn't answer right away. Just watched the trees blur together outside the window. Oregon woods. Dense. Old. The kind of trees that kept secrets.
Finally, I cracked open the folder again. William Johnson Jew Smith. Thirty-five. Construction worker. No priors, no paper trail that mattered. Too clean. Almost like somebody had polished his record with sandpaper.
But the folder itself—it bothered me. The paper was stiff, too fresh. The ink hadn't even faded. Didn't feel like it had passed through enough hands to end up in mine.
I shut it and tapped ash into the tray. "papyrus," I muttered. "ever think maybe a case doesn't find you by accident?"
His sockets went wide. "YOU MEAN, LIKE IT WAS… DELIVERED ON PURPOSE?"
"somethin' like that," I said, rising as the train slowed. The brakes shrieked, sparks flying as the car lurched.
Out the window, a peeling sign came into view: WELCOME TO ASHVILLE, OREGON.
The kind of town people only remembered when they had something to bury.
I slung my coat over my shoulder and stood. "alright, pap. let's see what kind of rot's been growing in this place."
Ashville didn't greet visitors; it tolerated them. The streets were thin, buildings hunched like they were ashamed of themselves, and the air carried that stale mix of smoke and rain. Papyrus strutted down the sidewalk like he owned the place, but the way the townsfolk froze told me they weren't thrilled about skeletons in trench coats poking around.
"BROTHER, EVERYONE IS STARING," Papyrus whispered loudly, which didn't help.
"yeah, pap. small towns. they stare at anyone who ain't already on the church registry."
The diner was the only place with lights still buzzing this late. Inside smelled of burnt coffee and fried grease. We slid into a booth, and Papyrus tried to straighten the salt shakers while I let the silence stretch.
She showed up ten minutes later. Same woman who dropped the folder at our office. Mid-forties, face pale like the blood had long since given up on visiting. She spotted me quick and slid into the booth across from us without a word.
Her eyes didn't blink much. She just stared at me like I was her last option.
"You got the file," she said.
"yeah. but i didn't get your name."
Her lips tightened. "Doesn't matter. What matters is you find him. William Johnson Jew Smith. He's here. In this town. Everyone knows it, but no one will speak up. They're afraid."
Papyrus slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cups.
"THEN THEY SHOULD NOT BE AFRAID ANY LONGER! WE WILL BRING THIS MAN TO JUSTICE!"
The woman flinched but leaned closer, whispering fast.
"You don't understand. People here… they protect him. They look the other way. Sheriff, priest, mayor—it's all the same. If you go asking questions, you won't just be chasing him. You'll be fighting the whole town."
I didn't answer right away. Just drummed my fingers on the table and watched the rain drag slow lines down the diner window.
"sounds cozy," I said finally. "pap, pack your optimism. looks like we just walked into a town-sized cover-up."
The woman's hands trembled as she slid a crumpled photo across the table. A little girl, brown hair, faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "She's the victim. Don't let them bury her story. Please."
I tucked the photo into my coat.
"don't worry, lady. i don't plan on lettin' anyone bury anything."
Papyrus nodded, voice booming:
"WE WILL SOLVE THIS CASE, NO MATTER HOW MANY PEOPLE STAND IN OUR WAY!"
The diner lights buzzed overhead, the sound sharp in the silence that followed. For the first time since I'd stepped into town, I felt the case tightening its grip.
This wasn't gonna be simple.
Miller's Creek was the kind of road you didn't take unless you had a reason. Muddy, narrow, no lights except the moon behind thick clouds. The rain slowed to a drizzle, but the quiet was worse. Every step our boots took in the dirt felt like it echoed too loud.
Smith's house came into view just past the treeline — a big, brooding shape on the hill. The windows glowed faint yellow, like tired eyes. Porch light was on, swinging with the wind, creaking out a rhythm that made the place feel alive.
Papyrus stopped dead in his tracks, pointing.
"LOOK, BROTHER! THE HOUSE—IT SEEMS TO BE WATCHING US."
"houses don't watch, pap," I said, though my grin didn't reach my eyes. "but yeah. this one feels like it could."
We stayed low near the creek bed, water soaking through my shoes, rain dripping off Papyrus' scarf. I pulled out a pair of binoculars — don't ask me where I keep them, detective's trick — and scanned the place.
One car in the driveway. Old pickup, rust on the wheel wells. Curtains drawn in most windows. But every so often, one of them shifted. Not like someone moving them. More like someone brushing past.
Papyrus whispered, his voice still too loud:
"THERE IS SOMETHING STRANGE ABOUT THIS PLACE. I FEEL… HEAVY. AS IF THE AIR ITSELF DOES NOT WANT US HERE."
"good instinct," I muttered, lowering the binoculars. "keep it sharp. houses like this? they don't just shelter people. they shelter secrets."
We waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. Rain tapping on leaves, wind moving through the trees. Then, faintly, from inside the house — a sound. Not music, not talking. Something like… dragging. Slow. Steady. A weight moved across a floorboard.
Papyrus tensed, but I held up a hand. "not tonight. we rush in now, we spook whatever's inside. better we watch, learn the rhythm."
He nodded reluctantly, scarf dripping. His eyes glowed in the dark, brighter than the house itself.
"SO WE RETURN TOMORROW?" he asked.
"yeah," I said, lighting another smoke just to give my hands something to do. "tomorrow. but pap…" I looked back at the house, its windows flickering like it knew we were still there.
"something tells me tomorrow might not wait for us."
The rain picked up again. We turned back down the creek, leaving the house looming behind us — watching, waiting.