Read Trust No One Here free: the opening chapter

Echoes in the Mist: Arrival

The rain tasted of salt and something older, something the sea kept hidden. It wasn’t a driving rain, more a persistent mist that clung to everything, turning the world shades of gray and green. The ferry churned through the choppy water, leaving a foamy wake that quickly dissolved into the gloom. I pulled my collar tighter, the damp wool offering little comfort against the chill that seeped into my bones.

Oakhaven. Even the name sounded weathered, worn smooth by time and the relentless ocean. I’d seen pictures, of course, researched the town for weeks before coming. But photos hadn't captured this… weight. The way the cliffs loomed, not as protectors, but as silent judges. The way the trees pressed close, as if trying to swallow the town whole.

I was here for a story. Old Man Hemlock, gone missing a week ago. The sheriff called it a likely accidental drowning. A solitary man, lived alone, walked the beach every day. Case closed. But Hemlock’s niece, Sarah, hadn’t believed it. She’d reached out to me, Lena Hanson, journalist with the Coastal Chronicle, desperate for someone to look beyond the easy explanation. Something about her voice, a fragile desperation, had pulled me in.

The ferry bumped against the dock, jolting me from my thoughts. A handful of locals waited on the weathered wood, their faces etched with the same quiet resignation as the landscape. They barely glanced at the disembarking passengers, their eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the swirling mist.

---

A battered pickup truck was waiting for me, driven by a woman with hands as rough as barnacle-covered rock. “Lena Hanson?” she asked, her voice gravelly.

“That’s me.”

“Martha Bell. Sarah sent me. Your room’s ready at the Seabreeze.” She didn't offer help with my bag, just nodded towards the truck bed.

The Seabreeze was less a hotel and more a large, rambling house converted into rooms. It smelled of damp wood and stale coffee. The woman at the front desk, a thin, pale girl with tired eyes, handed me a key without a word.

“Room seven,” she mumbled, then returned to staring out the window, seemingly lost in a world of her own.

My room was small, but clean. A single window offered a view of the harbor, where a few fishing boats bobbed in the gray water. The furniture was old, worn, but solid. It felt like a place that had seen a lot of storms, both literal and figurative.

I unpacked quickly, eager to start. I needed to talk to Sheriff Brody, see what he’d told Sarah. And then, I wanted to walk the beach, see where Hemlock had last been seen. The air felt heavy with unspoken things, and I had a feeling the truth wasn’t lying on the surface.

---

Sheriff Brody’s office was in the town hall, a squat, brick building that looked like it had been built to withstand a siege. The sheriff himself was a large man, with a face like weathered leather and eyes that missed nothing. He wasn’t hostile, exactly, but definitely guarded.

“So, you’re the reporter,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Sarah Hemlock contacted us. Told us you were coming.”

“I just want to understand what happened to her uncle,” I said, keeping my voice even. “She seems genuinely concerned.”

Brody sighed, a sound like air escaping a punctured tire. “Old Man Hemlock was a loner. Kept to himself. Went for his walks. One day he didn’t come back. We found some of his things washed up on the beach. A cap, a scarf. The sea takes what it wants.”

“Did you search the area thoroughly?”

“We dragged the harbor, the beaches for miles. Nothing. It’s a dangerous coast, Miss Hanson. Lots of currents, hidden rocks. Happens every year.”

“Did he have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”

Brody’s eyes narrowed. “Oakhaven’s a small town. We don’t get much in the way of violent crime. Hemlock was… eccentric. Kept to himself. Some folks thought he was odd. But enemies? No.”

I pressed him about Hemlock’s routines, his habits, anything that might shed light on his disappearance. But Brody remained stubbornly vague, offering only the same tired explanations. He was stonewalling me, and I knew it.

“Thank you for your time, Sheriff,” I said, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I uncover anything new.”

---

The beach was even more desolate than I’d imagined. Gray sand stretched for miles, bordered by towering cliffs and a churning sea. The mist had thickened, reducing visibility to a few hundred feet. I walked along the water’s edge, scanning the shoreline for any sign of Hemlock.

Broken shells, tangled seaweed, driftwood bleached silver by the sun. Nothing that seemed out of place. I shivered, not entirely from the cold. There was something unsettling about this place, a feeling of being watched.

I found myself drawn to a small cove, hidden between two rocky outcrops. The waves crashed against the rocks, creating a constant roar. It was a beautiful, but lonely place. I imagined Hemlock walking here, lost in his own thoughts.

And then I saw it.

Tucked between two rocks, partially buried in the sand, was a small, wooden box. It was weathered and worn, but still intact. My heart quickened. This wasn't something the sheriff had mentioned.

I knelt down and carefully lifted the box. It was surprisingly heavy. I opened it, my fingers trembling.

Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a collection of old photographs. Black and white images of people I didn’t recognize. A young woman with long, dark hair. A group of men standing in front of a fishing boat. A faded portrait of a stern-looking man with piercing eyes.

And then, one photograph stopped me cold. It was a picture of a lighthouse, perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Not just any lighthouse. The old lighthouse, the one that had been abandoned for decades.

Scrawled on the back of the photo, in faded ink, was a single word: “Evelyn.”

---

Back at the Seabreeze, I spread the photographs out on the small table in my room. I examined each one carefully, trying to piece together a story. The people in the photos were all connected, somehow. But how? And what did they have to do with Hemlock’s disappearance?

I needed to know more about this Evelyn. Was she someone Hemlock had known? Someone he’d loved?

As I was sorting through the photos, a knock came at the door. I opened it to find a man standing in the hallway. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to absorb the light. He looked like he belonged on a movie set, not in a small coastal town.

“Dr. Aris Thorne,” he said, extending his hand. “I believe we have a mutual acquaintance.”

His grip was firm, his touch cool. There was something about him that made me uneasy, a sense of hidden depths.

“Lena Hanson,” I replied, shaking his hand. “And who is our mutual acquaintance?”

“Old Man Hemlock,” he said, his voice smooth and low. “I was called in to consult on his case. Forensic psychology. I specialize in missing persons.”

I stared at him, my mind racing. A forensic psychologist? What was he doing here? And why hadn't Sheriff Brody mentioned him?

“That’s… interesting,” I said, cautiously. “I’m a journalist. I’m investigating Hemlock’s disappearance myself.”

A flicker of something crossed his face, a shadow that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“Perhaps we can compare notes,” he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I have a feeling this case is more complicated than it appears.”

He stepped into my room, his presence filling the small space. He glanced at the photographs spread out on the table. His eyes lingered on the picture of Evelyn.

“Those are… intriguing,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Where did you find these?”

I hesitated. Something told me I shouldn't trust this man. But I couldn't deny the pull of his gaze, the unsettling feeling that he knew more than he was letting on.

“They were in a box on the beach,” I said slowly. “Hidden between some rocks.”

Aris Thorne's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. “The beach gives up its secrets slowly, doesn't it?”

He reached for the photograph of the lighthouse. His fingers brushed against mine, sending a shiver down my spine.

“I think,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, “we're both about to find out just how many secrets Oakhaven is hiding.”

“I think,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, “we're both about to find out just how many secrets Oakhaven is hiding.”

He lifted the photograph, turning it over and over in his hands as if searching for something beyond the image itself. The lighthouse, stark white against the bruised twilight sky, seemed to hold a silent warning.

“You’ve been here long?” he asked, his gaze finally meeting mine.

“Just arrived this afternoon,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Hoping to get a handle on things before they… escalate.” I intentionally used a neutral word, testing his reaction.

He didn’t react, simply nodded. “Escalation is inevitable in cases like these. Especially in a place like Oakhaven.”

“What do you mean, ‘a place like Oakhaven’?” I pressed, needing to understand what he saw that I didn’t.

He gestured around the room, a sweeping motion that encompassed the entire town visible through my window. “Isolation breeds secrets, Dr. Hanson. And the sea… the sea has a way of keeping them.”

The sea. It was omnipresent here, a dark, restless entity that dominated the landscape. Even from my room, I could smell the salt and hear the relentless crash of waves against the jagged cliffs. It wasn’t a comforting sound; it felt predatory, like the ocean was always waiting to reclaim what was lost.

“You sound like you know this town well,” I observed.

“I’ve consulted on a few cases here over the years,” he said, carefully avoiding a direct answer. “Oakhaven has a… history. A peculiar one.”

“Peculiar how?”

He turned from the window, his dark eyes assessing me. “Let’s just say there’s more to the families here than meets the eye. Generations of interwoven relationships, old grievances, and buried resentments. It’s a tight-knit community, Dr. Hanson. And they don’t take kindly to outsiders.”

“That’s certainly what I’ve gathered,” I said dryly, thinking of Sheriff Brody’s initial reluctance to speak with me.

Aris Thorne walked towards the small table, his movements graceful and deliberate. He picked up another photograph, this one of a group of people standing in front of what looked like the town hall. Evelyn was among them, her face partially obscured by the shadow of a larger man.

“Who is Evelyn?” he asked, his voice low.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I admitted. “I found the photos with no other identifying information. She seems to be a common thread in these images, but I have no idea who she is or what her connection to Hemlock might be.”

“She was… significant,” he said, his gaze fixed on the photograph. “A long time ago.”

“Significant how?” I urged, feeling a prickle of frustration. He was holding back information, and it was infuriating.

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Evelyn Blackwood was a local woman. She disappeared almost thirty years ago. The case was never solved.”

My breath caught in my throat. Thirty years? Another missing person? Oakhaven was quickly becoming a far darker place than I’d initially imagined.

“Another missing person?” I echoed, my voice barely a whisper.

Aris Thorne nodded grimly. “Evelyn’s disappearance cast a long shadow over this town. It changed everything. People whispered about curses, about the sea taking her. Some said she ran away, others that she met with foul play.”

“And the investigation?” I asked.

“It stalled. There were no witnesses, no leads. The case went cold.” He paused, his eyes meeting mine again. “Until now, perhaps.”

“You think Hemlock’s disappearance is connected to Evelyn’s?”

“It’s possible,” he said cautiously. “Oakhaven has a way of repeating its patterns. Old wounds have a habit of reopening.”

He moved closer, his presence looming over me. I instinctively took a step back.

“Tell me, Dr. Hanson,” he said, his voice a husky murmur, “why are you really here? You said you’re a journalist, but I have a feeling there’s more to it.”

His question caught me off guard. He was right, of course. I hadn’t been entirely truthful. My brother, Ben, had been researching the Blackwood case for years, convinced that Evelyn hadn’t simply run away. He’d sent me to Oakhaven hoping I could uncover something he’d missed. He’d asked me to look for a specific symbol, a stylized wave, that he believed was connected to a local cult.

“My brother was researching the Evelyn Blackwood case,” I admitted, deciding that honesty, or at least partial honesty, was the best approach. “He thought there was something the police missed.”

Aris Thorne’s expression didn’t change. “Your brother is… persistent.”

“He is,” I agreed.

“And what exactly was he looking for?”

I hesitated. Telling him about the symbol felt like revealing too much.

“He believed Evelyn was involved with… unconventional groups,” I said vaguely. “He thought there might be a cult operating in the area.”

Aris Thorne’s lips curved into a sardonic smile. “A cult. How original.”

“Don’t dismiss it so quickly,” I retorted. “Ben is a good researcher. He wouldn’t pursue this if he didn’t think there was something there.”

“I’m not dismissing it, Dr. Hanson,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “I’m simply pointing out that Oakhaven attracts its share of eccentrics. There have been rumors of strange rituals and secret societies for generations. But most of them are just local folklore.”

“Maybe,” I said, unconvinced.

He walked back to the window, gazing out at the darkening coastline. “This town… it’s a fragile ecosystem. A delicate balance between the land, the sea, and the people who live here. Disrupt that balance, and things can unravel quickly.”

“You make it sound like Oakhaven is cursed,” I said.

He turned back to me, his eyes filled with a strange sadness. “Perhaps it is. Or perhaps it’s just a place where secrets are allowed to fester. Either way, it’s a dangerous place to search for the truth.”

He picked up his coat, signaling that he was leaving.

“I’ll be staying at the Cliffside Inn,” he said. “If you uncover anything, anything at all, please let me know. And Dr. Hanson…” He paused, his gaze lingering on mine. “Be careful. Oakhaven doesn’t give up its secrets easily. And some secrets are better left buried.”

With that, he was gone, leaving me standing alone in my room, feeling more unsettled than ever.

I returned to the table, staring at the photographs. The faces in the pictures seemed to mock me, their stories lost in the mists of time. Evelyn Blackwood, Old Man Hemlock… what secrets did they hold? And what role did Oakhaven play in their disappearances?

I walked to the window, drawn by the hypnotic rhythm of the waves. The Obsidian Coast lived up to its name. The cliffs were black and jagged, the sea a swirling abyss of dark grey. The air was thick with the smell of salt and decay. It was a beautiful place, in a haunting, unsettling way.

But beneath the surface beauty, I sensed something dark and dangerous lurking. Something ancient and malevolent. Oakhaven wasn’t just a town; it was a labyrinth of secrets, and I had a feeling I was about to get lost within its walls.

I needed to find Sheriff Brody. I needed answers, and I needed them now. But a part of me wondered if the truth would be more terrifying than the unknown.

The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. The sea crashed against the cliffs with renewed fury. Oakhaven was holding its breath, waiting. And I was beginning to suspect that whatever was about to happen would change this town forever.

The sample ends here.