In the Shadow's Grip: An Everett Tornhill story

Chapter 1

Author's Note:
Hi, readers! This is the first chapter of In the Shadow's Grip: An Everett Tornhill Story, a dark supernatural story I'm currently developing. Feedback is welcome, especially since this is a work–in–progress with next chapters coming soon. Let me know what you think of Everett and the world of Shadows. I hope you enjoy it!

CHAPTER 1

Hello, my name is Everett Tornhill, and I died three years ago.

If you're wondering what it feels like to be dead–if it hurts, if there's a God, if I've been judged, or if it all smells like flowers and incense—I can tell you this: where I went, there was no light, no dark, just the absence of everything. Nothing.

It might be different for everyone, I guess. Who knows? But don't worry. We all get our turn eventually.

I didn't mind dying. Honestly, living is a bit of a nuisance. The worst part was coming back—cold, aching, like death had spat me out wrong. And the real kicker? I didn't come back alone.

Just like I wasn't alone that night, either—three years later—standing in a pitch-black basement, tracking an alleged Shadow that had been causing enough disturbances for the police to call me in, unceremoniously as ever.

I'd arrived thirty minutes before dusk, just as the last evening light bled out of the sky. 47 Coldham Crescent. The address sounded quaint enough in daylight but seemed to take on a sinister air after dark. The house I was looking for was wedged in the middle of a narrow row of terraces, all of them slightly stooped and leaning forward, like a line of old men huddled against the wind. It had a worn look, as if it had been sitting there for decades, quietly soaking up the city's dust.

I checked the address on my paperwork one more time, glanced up at the narrow, unlit doorway, and caught sight of the tightly drawn blinds in every window. A familiar knot of unease twisted in my stomach. These quiet houses started stirring after dark. I lingered a moment before ringing the bell, watching my breath fog in the cold evening air, letting the quiet settle around me. It's fine, I told myself. You are helping people, you're doing good. It's worth it.

It took a while for the entrance door to open after the sound of the bell died down somewhere in the bowels of the house. When it finally cracked open, it revealed a sliver of a woman's face. She looked like she'd been pulled out of bed against her will, her mouth a thin line and her eyes narrowed.

'Are you... Mr. Turnwheel?' she asked, sounding less like she wanted confirmation and more like she was accusing me.

Good evening to you, too, I thought. 'Tornhill, yes.' I corrected, keeping my tone polite. 'Good evening, Madam. I'm here about the disturbances. The police mentioned—'

'Yes, yes,' she interrupted, glancing left and right down the street, as though worried someone might overhear. 'Come in, if you must. We're bothering the neighbours. It's late.'

I looked slowly up and down the completely empty street. 'Of course... the neighbours. Thank you.' The moment I crossed the threshold, the woman shut the door behind me with a finality that was hard to miss.

We stood in a dim hallway, surprisingly spacious compared to the narrow exterior. The walls were painted a deep, murky shade of maroon, and the air smelled faintly of old flowers, like violets mixed with dust.

Directly in front of me was a narrow staircase leading up, the bannister polished to a dull sheen that caught the light from a small wall sconce. To my left, an open doorway led into a quiet kitchen, where copper pots hung from hooks. A row of faded ceramic plates lined one wall, painted with countryside scenes in colours that looked strangely off. To my right, I could just make out the edge of a sitting room, cluttered with heavy, old-fashioned furniture—velvet armchairs, a wingback sofa, and a small display case filled with porcelain figurines frozen in overly-cheerful poses. Somewhere inside, a clock ticked unevenly, as if it couldn't quite keep time.