Chosen

The parking lot was empty. Detective Claire Ross stood by her car, the cold ocean wind tugging at her coat as she looked across the quiet marina. The fading light of dusk cast long shadows over the town, and the familiar hum of waves breaking against the shore was the only sound cutting through the silence. This place—so peaceful, so ordinary—was a far cry from the chaos she’d left behind in the city. But something felt wrong. The stillness of the town held an uneasy weight, and Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just the ocean that hid secrets beneath the surface. Ethan Morrow had disappeared here, and if the rumors were true, he wouldn’t be the last.

A week ago, two officers were sent for a wellness check at Ethan’s studio apartment. When no one responded, they forced their way in to find that the place had been ransacked. Drawers were wide open, ripped sketchbook pages were scattered across the floor, and half-finished canvases sat in a cluttered pile. The officers carefully searched the studio with their flashlights. Tucked into a corner of the bathroom mirror, they found a note reading only: “They come in threes.”

Today, Claire had visited the art gallery where Ethan’s latest paintings had been displayed. She had loved sketching before she was promoted to Detective. She would sit curled up on the chaise in her old room and bring to life figures on the page. Now, all she could seem to draw were figures in distress. Bodies in crime scene pictures. Children crying in interrogation rooms. All the images she still saw when she shut her eyes tight.

Claire walked through the door and breathed in the familiar smell of turpentine. A tall young woman with a mess of curls piled on top of her head walked toward her.

“How can I help you?” She asked cheerily.

Claire pulled out her badge. “I’m Detective Claire Ross. I’m here to investigate the disappearance of Ethan Morrow. I understand he has a few paintings here.”

“Oh, Ethan. Yes, he’s quite prolific. Almost everything you see here today is actually his.”

“Do you know him well?”

“He comes in here pretty regularly with something new for me to hang up. This last batch of paintings is all from the last couple months. Let me show you his work.”

She walked Claire over to a large, dark canvas in the middle of the room. Claire had an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach when she looked at it. They say good art makes you feel something. Claire felt cold, felt dread. She took out her phone to snap a few photos.

Claire looked around and noticed the common theme: each painting looked almost normal if you didn’t look too closely, but when you did, you could see three hooded figures hidden in each one. Sometimes they were hiding behind a tree, or in a reflection in the mirror. The one in the middle was the only one that featured them prominently, three cloaks coming out of a dark void.

Claire could hear her heart pounding in her head. She mumbled thanks to the young woman and hurried out the door. She could barely catch her breath once she was out of there and back in the parking lot. Something about those paintings felt suffocating. Claire stood by her car for a while, watching the gray waves lap at the rocks.

• • • • •

The next day, the Detective met the woman who reported Ethan’s disappearance, his ex-girlfriend, Maria. Maria clutched a tissue that she used to dab away the tears in her eyes. Claire placed a reassuring hand on Maria’s shoulder and let her quietly sob for a minute.

“This isn’t like him. He hasn’t been himself,” Maria cried. “He was acting frantic in the days leading up to his disappearance. Muttering about something coming for him. Not just something, they. They’re coming for him. When I tried asking him about it, he pretended he had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Ma’am, was there anyone Ethan wasn’t getting along with?”

“Everyone loved—loves Ethan.” She blew her nose. “Especially me.”

Claire’s phone vibrated and she stepped away to take the call.

“Detective? Ethan Morrow’s phone records just came in. There have been a lot of calls in the past couple weeks to this one number, registered to Professor Thomas Morton. He’s over at the university, he teaches history. Can you go check him out?”

“Can do, I’ll be there in twenty.”

When Claire walked into the university’s staff wing, the faint smell of old books hit her. Old books with a hint of turpentine. She figured either she still had the scent of the art gallery etched in her nostrils, or the art professor had their studio nearby.

“Hey!” A voice called out down the hallway. “What are you doing here, young lady?”

Claire couldn’t stop a chuckle from slipping out. No one had called her “young lady” since she roamed these halls fifteen years ago. She held out her badge as she walked over. The man was elderly, with a thick tweed jacket and a wiry gray mustache.

“Oh, ma’am, please excuse me. The students love to run around here between classes and muddy up the floors.”

“I’m Detective Claire Ross. I’m looking for Professor Morton?”

The man smiled and reached out a hand. “In the flesh.”

Claire met his hand and he shook hers vigorously. He had a peculiar look in his eye.

“Come, Detective, let’s sit in my office.”

He led her to a small, dark room filled with stacks of old books. The turpentine smell was slightly stronger here. She carefully sat down on the wooden chair in front of his desk as he snaked his way through the stacks of books and into his own chair.

“So, what brings you here?”

The Detective crossed her legs and straightened her skirt. “I’m here to talk to you about Ethan Morrow.”

“Ethan, huh? Smart boy. I was helping him with a little history project. Yes, what sort of trouble did he get himself into?”

“He disappeared. I’m talking to anyone who knows him and might be able to give me some clues to help find him.”

“Oh, he’s a young man, you know how they are. He’s probably off camping or with a new girlfriend.”

“Actually, I spoke to his girlfriend. She seemed pretty concerned. Did he seem… off to you lately?”

“Ethan’s an odd duck. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. He’s probably at home, working on a new painting.”

“Unfortunately, it looked like someone tore his place apart.”

The Professor hesitated and smiled. “These things happen around these parts.”

“What do you mean? Disappearances?”

The Professor got up and gently shut his door. He lowered his voice. “What do you know about them?”

“Know… about what? Honestly, I’m new to this precinct. I just got transferred last month. It was rather… abrupt.”

The Professor leaned back in his chair and shut the blinds behind him. “New in town. So you haven’t been here for one yet.”

“I—I mean, I’ve investigated disappearances before. Usually found them, too. A lot of young people run away. But this seems different.”

The Professor shook his head. “This is different. Seven years ago, a young woman disappeared. She was working on a mural for a local restaurant and then, poof. She was gone. Like she was never even there. Seven years before that, the painter who owned one of the galleries in town vanished.”

“Are you saying there’s a pattern?”

Professor Morton whispered hoarsely. “Yes. Ethan and I were looking into it. But I must warn you. Things are not always as they seem here.”

He stood up and gestured toward the door. “You must leave now, and make sure you aren't followed. That’s all I can say.”

Claire walked toward the door and paused when she reached it. She looked back at Professor Morton and saw how wide his eyes had gotten. His hands were trembling. She knew better than to say another word. Clearly he was sticking his neck out by talking to her, and she didn’t want to wait around to watch it be slit.

The Detective wanted to learn more about the disappearances Professor Morton had mentioned, but she dared not reach back out to him. She didn’t know why, but she felt that it would put him in danger. She decided to head to the town library next to investigate herself, the old-school way.

She exchanged pleasantries with the librarian, who then led her to the archive section. Claire looked through old newspaper clippings until she found them on a shelf almost hidden out of sight: a missing woman seven years ago, another seven years before that, with the line of mysterious disappearances continuing as far as the archives went back. Always an artist. Always a painting of hooded figures or strange symbols completed just prior to their death. Never any closure for the families. These clippings had been filed away in the corner of the room and at the bottom of the file box, almost as if someone didn’t want them to be found.

• • • • •

The Detective headed back to the station. When she got to her desk, she sunk into her chair and rubbed her temples.

Claire felt a shiver up her spine. This was bigger than just one disappearance. This was a pattern. This was almost… ritualistic. What secrets did this town hold? What had Claire gotten herself into when she took this job? Her thoughts were interrupted by a rookie plopping a worn journal on her desk.

“Hey, uh, sorry to bother you, Detective Ross. We found this in Ethan’s studio. It got mixed up in the evidence locker, but I just found it today. I don’t know if you got a chance to look at this yet.”

He scurried away as Claire opened the journal. There were words scribbled manically with mysterious symbols drawn in a heavy hand throughout the pages. She had seen these symbols somewhere before, but she couldn’t place where. She called over the rookie.

“Hey, Murphy! Come over here for a sec. You grew up in this town, right?”

He answered sheepishly, “Yes ma’am, all my life.”

“Have you seen these symbols before?” She handed the journal to Officer Murphy and waited for him to flip through.

“Detective, ma’am, these symbols are carved into the stone and brick around this town. This is above the door to the town hall, and you can find these ones in the stained glass at the church.”

He thumbed through the pages until he reached the last entry in the journal. His brow furrowed. “Uh, Detective? You’re going to want to see this.”

He handed her the open journal. She read Ethan’s last entry:

I know now. How couldn’t I see this before? I know who it is now. I just have to make everyone else know, too. But I have to be careful. They’re coming closer now. I can almost feel their breath on my neck everywhere I go.

She shut the journal and dismissed Officer Murphy. Who was Ethan talking about? Is it the same person the Professor was afraid of? Claire swallowed the fear in her throat. She had no choice but to continue digging. Her mind was screaming at her to turn back now before it was too late. But the Detective in her couldn’t rest without answers.

• • • • •

The next morning, Claire was up before the sun. She could hardly sleep with all the questions swimming in her mind. She was at the town hall just as they were unlocking the doors. She looked up and saw the symbol the rookie had pointed out carved just above the door, like he had said. A man sat in dirty, tattered clothing on a sheet of cardboard right outside with his face obscured by a dark hoodie. Claire squinted and noticed the same symbol drawn on the cardboard, so small she nearly missed it. She hurried inside.

Claire knocked on the mayor’s office door. A voice called out for her to come in. She slipped in and shut the door behind her. There was something familiar about the painting framed above the mayor’s head. Claire gestured to it.

“Is that… an Ethan Morrow?”

The man nodded. “Hello, Detective Ross. Yes, I’m a big fan of his work.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“He’s also a personal friend. Why, Detective, if I didn’t know better, I would think I’m being interrogated. I take it this has something to do with his disappearance?”

“For now, this is just a conversation. But I’m getting pretty tired of going in circles, and something tells me you know more than you’re letting on.”

“What do you know?” The mayor asked nervously.

“I know about the string of disappearances every seven years. I know it’s always artists. I know about the symbols all around town. And I think you have something to do with it.”

The mayor blinked rapidly. “Oh. Well, I guess you know most of it. But you’re wrong on that last part.”

The door creaked open and the man who was sitting outside was standing in the doorway. He smelled of intense body odor mixed with turpentine. There was something familiar about this man. Claire walked toward him to get a closer look, despite the stench now wafting into the room. She was stopped in her tracks.

“It—it can’t be,” Claire said breathlessly.

Ethan Morrow stood before her, a dirtied husk of the once vibrant painter he had been. Claire spun around to look at both men.

“You’re back! But—how? What happened to you?”

The mayor whispered fiercely, “Ethan, what are you doing out of hiding?”

“I just can’t stand back anymore. And you can’t keep me hidden.”

Claire put a hand on his shoulder. “Ethan, it’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’re safe. And we can get you to a very nice hospital.”

He swatted her hand away. “You still don’t get it. I came to warn you. You’re the one who’s in danger.”

She stepped back. The mayor cleared his throat and pressed a button on his office phone.

“Come collect the garbage,” he said coolly.

In seconds, two large men were at the door and hauling Ethan away as he kicked and yelled.

“You won’t get away with this—you can’t! You can’t do this!”

The door slammed shut.

“So, Detective. Take a seat.”

Claire sat down hesitantly. “What’s going on?”

“Curtains, dear. The play has ended. You played your part beautifully. You investigated this case just as we thought you would, went down the very path we laid for you. Since you have about an hour before the ritual begins, do you have any parting questions?”

“What ritual?”

“Those symbols you found are part of how we summon our ancestors. The other part is you, Claire. The thick red essence of life that flows through your veins. Coursing through you as your heart beats out of your chest now.” He inhaled deeply. “It smells so sweet.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Claire screamed as cuffs bound her wrists to the arms of the chair.

“We’re going to… repurpose you. You hadn’t created anything in a while, but the Old Ones were such fans of your prior work. Such energy, such life in your paintings. Your blood will complete the ritual. And with that, we will maintain our pact to continue sustaining our generations of wealth. I, who manage this town during the day, and the others, who rule from the shadows.” He traced a finger across the tear streaming down her cheek. “You were chosen. Your arrival was foretold.”

Claire struggled against the cuffs, her breath quickening as she fought to stay calm. The mayor smiled, watching her panic, his eyes dark and cold. “There’s no use fighting, Detective,” he said softly. “The Old Ones demand a sacrifice. And you—” he leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear, “you’re the final stroke of the masterpiece we’ve been creating for centuries.”

Claire’s mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, for any chance at survival. Her pulse thundered in her ears as her eyes darted around the room, landing on the mayor’s phone. If she could reach it, maybe she could call for help. But with her hands bound and the mayor standing so close, she knew it was a long shot.

“Why artists?” she spat, trying to buy herself time. “Why sacrifice us?”

“Because you create. Your talent, your life, your very essence fuels the town’s fortune. The energy of creation, the spark of inspiration—it’s the most powerful force. And once we drain you of that… we’ll thrive for another seven years.”

The door creaked open again, and a hooded figure stepped in, holding a ceremonial knife. The blade shone in the dim light. Claire’s heart skipped a beat. This was it. She was trapped.

But then, just as the hooded figure approached her, the ground beneath them rumbled. The windows rattled, and the room seemed to shift, as if the very air had thickened. The mayor’s smile faltered.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Ethan Morrow, ragged and frantic, shoved the two large men aside and stormed into the room. “Stop!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “You’ve misunderstood. The Old Ones—they don’t want her. They want you!”

The mayor whirled around, his face twisted with disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

Ethan lunged forward, grabbing the knife from the hooded figure’s hand and pointing it at the mayor. “You’ve misread the symbols. The town’s fortune hasn’t been sustained by the artists’ deaths—it’s been feeding on the corruption of its leaders.” He locked eyes with Claire. “The ritual’s never been about artists. It’s about those who exploit them.”

For a split second, time seemed to freeze. The mayor’s face twisted with rage as the ground beneath them shook again, harder this time. The walls groaned as cracks began to spread. The ancient forces the town had invoked were awakening—angry, hungry.

And they had come for him.