Agnes Porter stood in the middle of Sheriff Samuel Reeves's office like she owned the space.
Not scared. Not confused.
Just certain — and that was somehow worse.
Her gray hair was pinned back neatly, her coat soaked from the fog outside. She clasped her hands in front of her, knuckles white as bone.
Reeves waited a moment before speaking.
"Mrs. Porter," he said calmly, "you came here saying the deaths have started again. I need you to tell me exactly what you meant."
Her eyes flicked toward the window before settling back on him. "You've been to the Warren property."
It wasn't a question.
Reeves stiffened. "Maybe. Why?"
Agnes stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You felt it, didn't you? The air. The cold… inside that house. It knows when someone enters."
The sheriff kept his face unreadable, but a pulse of unease tightened in his chest.
"You're speaking in riddles," he said. "Tell me plainly."
Agnes let out a shaky breath. "Plainly? Nothing about that place has ever been plain." She paced the room, her fingertips lightly touching the back of a chair, the edge of a shelf. "My grandmother used to whisper about Elias Warren. About the things she saw. The nights she heard crying from the woods. The shadows on the walls that didn't match the people standing there."
Reeves blinked. "Shadows don't work that way."
Agnes tilted her head. "No. They don't. Not unless something's wrong."
Reeves rounded the desk, stopping in front of her. "Agnes… if you know something that can help this investigation, you need to be clear."
"I'm being as clear as the truth allows," she whispered.
She moved toward the file cabinets and placed a trembling hand on the metal surface.
"Before she died," Agnes said, "Elias Warren became convinced that something followed her. Not a person… not an animal… something older than all of us." She turned, her eyes suddenly sharp. "She wrote about it. In a book she hid."
Reeves felt his heart slow. "A book?"
"Yes. She called it her ledger. But it wasn't just records. Not anymore. It became her confession."
"Confession of what?"
Agnes's voice dropped to a hush. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
Agnes stepped closer. Close enough that Reeves could see the fear trembling just beneath the certainty in her eyes.
"She said the land takes what it's owed. And when it can't take it… it sends something to collect."
Reeves stared at her. "Collect what?"
Agnes hesitated. Then, softly:
"The heart."
A silence rolled through the office like a cold wind.
Reeves cleared his throat. "Do you know where this book is now?"
Agnes shook her head. "Lost. Or hidden. Or taken. Elias was smart enough to know some truths shouldn't lie out in the open."
She grabbed his wrist suddenly.
"You need to find it, Sheriff. Before the next one falls."
Reeves pulled his hand back gently. "Who told you there will be a next one?"
Agnes didn't blink. "The land always warns before it feeds."
And before Reeves could stop her, she turned and walked out of the office, leaving behind a silence that pressed deep into his bones.
Deputy Miller entered minutes later, eyebrows raised. "What was that about?"
Reeves rubbed the bridge of his nose. "She says Elias Warren kept a book. Some kind of ledger. She thinks it explains the deaths."
Miller's face tightened with concern. "Sheriff… want me to run a check on her?"
"Yes," Reeves said without hesitation. "Everything you can find."
It took Miller less than an hour.
He returned, holding a small stack of notes, a strange expression on his face.
"Sheriff," he began slowly, "I talked to some folks. The librarian. The pastor. Even old Marcy from the diner."
"And?"
Miller hesitated. "Agnes Porter hasn't been… well… since her husband died. Folks say she hasn't been the same since that car crash. They think she's fragile. Talks about curses and omens and… 'signs' in the sky." He cleared his throat. "Pastor Weller claims she comes to the church sometimes, stands in the aisles whispering to herself."
Reeves felt something cold settle in his stomach.
"She's considered…" Miller chose his words carefully, "…a little unbalanced."
Reeves didn't respond at first.
He looked down at the desk where Agnes had stood just minutes ago. He remembered the look in her eyes — that quiet, haunted certainty. She didn't seem like she was lying. She seemed like she was remembering.
"Mental illness?" Reeves asked quietly.
Miller nodded. "People avoid her. Say she hasn't accepted her husband's death. Some say she talks to shadows, claims she hears footsteps in empty rooms. Sheriff… she's not a reliable source."
Reeves exhaled slowly. "But she knew about the house."
"Sheriff, everyone knows about that house."
Reeves didn't answer.
Miller's voice softened. "She's grieving. Broken, maybe. You can't take her seriously."
Reeves wanted to agree.
He should agree.
But Agnes's warning echoed like a heartbeat inside his head:
"You need to find it… before the next one falls."
Reeves closed the folder slowly.
"Just because someone is broken," he said at last, "doesn't mean they're wrong."
Miller frowned. "Sheriff?"
Reeves grabbed his coat. "I'm going to the Historical Society. If Elias kept a ledger… that's where her belongings would've gone."
"You really think this book exists?"
Reeves looked at him.
"I think," he said quietly, "it's the only thing that might tell us what's happening."
He stepped outside into the thickening fog.
And behind him, unseen through the office window, something in the mist shifted shape—watching him leave.