DAGON MANSION

CHAPTER TWO: THE FIRST RITUAL MURDER

One Year Later

It was Rogers' day off — though, for a man like him, rest had become a stranger.

His doctor had ordered thirty minutes of exercise daily after his cholesterol levels climbed alarmingly high. Rogers thought it absurd. A walk could not compete with the chaos of police work. Still, he obeyed — grudgingly.

He parked his car on the outskirts of town, where few would notice him. The afternoon light was dim and grey, mist hovering low over the grass. The ruins of Forestvale Manor pulled him the way a riptide pulls a swimmer—sideways, inevitable, long after he'd meant to turn back.

There was nothing left but charred earth and silence.

"There's nothing left of the blasted house," he muttered. "Not even the pals could figure out who started the fire."

The wind stirred the tall grass, whispering secrets. Rogers shoved his hands into his coat pockets and walked closer to the blackened foundation. Then his boot caught on something. He fell hard, cursing.

"What the hell—?"

He pushed himself up and looked down. A small metal handle protruded from the ground — half-melted, but intact.

"A handle... for a gate?"

His pulse quickened. The earth smelled of soot and rot. Grunting, he grabbed the handle and pulled. At first it resisted, then groaned open with a slow, ancient sound. Beneath him, a dark passage gaped like a wound.

"Fuck it," Rogers whispered. "Might as well take a look."

He fetched a rope ladder and a lantern from his car. Any sane man would have called for backup — Brady, for instance — but pride was louder than reason.

"She's probably too busy being a detective now," he muttered, lowering himself into the pit.

The ladder creaked under his weight. Below, the air grew thick and cold. His flashlight beam danced across bookcases, a bed frame, old shelves, and the skeleton of a forgotten room.

Then came a sound. Soft. Breathing?

Rogers froze. "Who the hell's there? I'm a cop!"

No answer. Just the echo of his own voice.

Then — a flash.

Light—violet, venom-green, arterial red—poured into his mouth like liquid glass. It seared him, threw him backward. For a moment, there was only silence.

When Rogers stood again, his face was blank — his voice no longer his own. It was feminine, melodic, and cruel.

"Now," the voice said, "I can take my revenge. Forestvale Manor has returned."

The glow faded. Rogers blinked, confused. His mind was empty. He didn't remember what had happened. With a dull headache and no explanation, he climbed out and left — never mentioning the incident to anyone.

Elsewhere, in the North Woods...

Her name had been Sia Roux — seventeen, bronze-skinned, bright-eyed, admired by everyone.

She had a secret crush on Dan, but hid it from her best friend Alisha, who had just gotten a boyfriend.

Alisha didn't want to feel lonely, and Sia — ever loyal — kept her envy locked away.

Until that night.

A couple found her first. They were out for a secret rendezvous and stumbled upon horror instead.

Sia lay naked in the middle of a clearing, her body surrounded by a circle carved into the dirt. The circle's edge pulsed faint violet, as if the earth itself had a heartbeat. Her throat and chest had been torn apart — ritualistically precise.

When Rogers and Brady arrived, even they froze. The scene felt wrong — not just criminal, but ancient.

Brady whispered, "This isn't human."

Rogers said nothing. He only knew that Alisha — his daughter — would have to be told. And he had no idea how.

Ablington Island — Two Weeks Later

Mia stepped off the ferry with her fourteen-month-old daughter in her arms. Scarlett's hair gleamed darkly in the sea breeze, her blue eyes filled with wonder. Mia couldn't help but smile — her daughter was her anchor, her light.

"I need to see Ryan," Mia thought.

As she walked through the cobbled streets toward the café, a familiar voice called her name.

"Mia! Over here!"

It was Theolinda Brady, now wearing the confident look of a detective. She embraced Mia warmly.

"Good to see you," Theolinda said. Then, turning to the stroller: "And this must be Scarlett. She's adorable."

"She's a handful," Mia admitted with a grin, "but she's worth everything."

Theolinda studied the baby's striking eyes — blue like glaciers. "Scarlett's a Dagon. The mansion's loud enough."

Mia nodded quietly. "Yes... she's his."

They began to walk together.

"Anything new in town?" Mia asked, eager to change the subject.

Theolinda sighed. "Nothing pleasant. There's been a murder in the North Woods. A teenage girl named Sia — Alisha's friend."

Mia froze. "Oh no. Alisha must be devastated."

"She is. And Rogers is barely keeping himself together. The case looks ritualistic. The girl was found naked, lying in a circle with symbols written above it."

At the word symbols, Mia's breath stopped.

"I don't know what to think," Theolinda whispered. "I've seen strange cases, but nothing like this."

Mia hesitated, then said softly:

"You should talk to Ryan. He knows more about rituals than anyone on Ablington Island."

Theolinda nodded slowly. "Then I'll visit him. I have a feeling the past isn't finished with us yet."

As they parted ways, a cold wind rose from the direction of Glouminster —from Dagon Mansion, where the new stone lions had already learned to blink.