Detective Sergeant Hargrave sat in the back of the hackney, his gaze fixed on the rain-slicked streets of London sliding past the window. The gaslights blurred in the glass, casting long streaks of gold through the gloom. He said nothing. His mind churned through the day''s events—two different crime scenes. Both unsettling. No clear motives. No easy answers. And something about them both that gnawed at his instincts.


    Across from him sat Constable John Brim, his eyes closed, arms folded tight against the damp chill of the carriage. They hadn’t spoken much since leaving Acton. Neither had eaten since morning, and now, dusk crept toward night. Their hunger was a distant concern. Darker thoughts occupied both men.


    Brim was young, sharp, and, in Hargrave’s estimation, too clever by half. Newly minted from school, ink still drying on his certificate, he’d stepped into the Metropolitan Police without ever walking a beat. He hadn’t wrestled drunks in the gutters of Whitechapel or waded into the thick of an angry mob. He’d never had to peel a frozen corpse off a doorstep before sunrise or pry the truth from a frightened suspect.


    In short, Brim had no scars that seasoned a proper detective.


    He did have an education—a rare thing in a department that drew its ranks from the city’s roughest edges. That alone had secured him a fast-track position, leapfrogging over seasoned officers who’d earned every stripe the hard way. The resentment, Hargrave knew, ran deep. It always did.


    Still, there was something in Brim—some flicker of potential. Hargrave wasn’t sure whether it was bravery or foolishness, but the boy asked questions most would not. That, too, was dangerous, particularly after what they’d seen at the farmhouse.


    They would file reports, of course. Two, to be precise. One for the department and another for eyes that never met the public’s gaze. Hargrave already knew the official version wouldn’t—and couldn’t—match what they’d witnessed.


    You couldn’t walk into Scotland Yard talking about ghouls and grave-robbing and things that bled through the veil of death. Not unless you wanted a permanent desk assignment or a quiet dismissal.


    Brim hadn’t yet learned the wisdom of keeping his mouth closed. Hargrave only hoped the boy wouldn’t learn that lesson the hard way.


    Hargrave broke the silence.


    “There’ll be two reports for the farmhouse. One official. One for the classified files.”


    Brim turned, brow furrowed. “Two reports? Why?”


    Hargrave didn’t look at him. “Because the Lieutenant doesn’t want the Captain reading about things that raise uncomfortable questions. Questions no one wants to ask, or answer.”


    Brim frowned. “Then why bother writing it at all? If no one’s going to read it—”


    Hargrave cut him off, voice dry. “Because you’re a good copper. You saw something, you recorded it. That’s what we do.”


    Brim sat back, uncertain. “So… who reads the second report?”


    “Me, then it gets filed. There’s an old clerk named Reaves. If you need the report again, he’ll pull it from the vault. It might take a day. Longer if it suits him.”


    “Sounds like throwing it in the fire would be easier—or not writing it at all.”


    Hargrave smiled. “Tempting, but not how it works.”


    Brim nodded. “So… we don’t discuss the unofficial report?”


    Hargrave’s gaze flicked toward him. “Only with me. Not with Mercer. Not with Smith. Not with anyone in the department. And for the love of God, Constable, leave the monsters out of it.”


    Brim was quiet a moment.


    “Ghouls,” he muttered.


    “What?”


    “If I had to guess… those things. They were ghouls. Maybe.”


    Hargrave’s eyes narrowed.


    “The two bodies in the farmhouse match the general description of the prior owners. Except they died months ago. And yet… you think they were alive when the fire consumed them.”


    “Their faces twisted in agony. Hands shielding their faces. Corpses don’t do that, Sergeant.”


    A long pause.


    Hargrave sighed, rubbing his temple. “The graves were disturbed. Coffins broken. The bodies were removed. The house burned to the ground. Those are the facts.”


    “And the bodies were placed in the house? Why?”


    “Your guess is as good as mine. Some deranged soul dug them up, staged the scene, and either set the fire or fled when it started.”


    “And the handprint on the face?” Brim pressed.


    “A whim of nature. Nothing more.”


    Brim wasn’t convinced. “A third desecration—the boy’s grave. His body is gone. Same night, different place. Doesn’t seem like coincidence.”


    “No, it doesn’t,” Hargrave said. “But we’ve got no proof they’re linked. Until we do, separate cases. Separate reports. Mercer and Smith keep the Wright case. We handle the farmhouse.”


    Brim exhaled, frustrated. “So our official report says someone dug up two graves, placed the bodies in the house, shot them, and then burned it down?”


    Hargrave gave him a sidelong glance. “Now you’re learning.”


    Silence stretched.


    Then Brim spoke, voice quiet.


    “Sergeant?”


    “Yes, Constable?”


    “Tell me what you really think.”


    Hargrave stared out the rain-slicked window.


    What did he really think?


    This case—the ghouls, the graves, the fire—it wasn’t the first time he’d smelled rot that didn’t come from corpses.


    He wasn’t green like Brim. He’d seen too much and stopped believing in coincidence a decade ago. Over time, he’d learned the truth others refused to see. There were things in the city that went far beyond reason.


    There were things that go bump in the night.


    But he wouldn’t say it. Not to Brim. Not yet.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Still watching the rain, he answered Brim''s question.


    “No.”


    Darkness had settled when their hackney rattled into the Yard''s narrow courtyard. Rain drizzled from the eaves, collecting in pools among the pitted cobblestones. Hargrave stepped out first, grimacing as he stretched his legs and pulled his coat tighter against the cold.


    Inside the building, something felt wrong.


    Officers huddled in the halls, speaking in hushed, urgent tones, while others rushed papers from desk to desk. Candlelight flickered across uniformed figures moved with purpose. The air hung heavy with the smell of wet wool, smoke, and ink.


    "Like someone kicked over a hornet''s nest," Brim muttered, falling in beside Hargrave.


    Hargrave grunted. He felt it, too—the tension hung thick and heavy. Something had happened.


    Under the gas lamp''s glow near the east wall, Mercer paced with his pipe clenched tight in his jaw. His troubled gaze flicked toward the Yard''s entrance as if anticipating more bad news.


    "Mercer''s still here," Hargrave said. "Let''s brief him on the Widdershire incident. Professional courtesy."


    Their boots echoed against the slick stones as they crossed the courtyard.


    "Evening, Mercer," Hargrave called.


    Mercer turned, his eyes lighting with recognition—and something else. Relief? Worry?


    "Hargrave." He drew on his pipe once, then removed it, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. Though he didn''t address Brim directly, his glance carried professional warmth.


    "Didn''t expect you back so soon. Thought you''d be in Acton all night."


    Hargrave shook his head. "We wrapped things up in the later afternoon. Two graves disturbed and the bodies stolen—looks like they were placed in the farmhouse before they set it ablaze."


    Mercer blinked. "Bloody hell." His frown took in both men.


    "We also stopped by Widdershire. There''s been a development in the Oliver Wright case."


    Mercer''s brow furrowed. "As if I haven''t enough on my plate after this morning. Smith and I were set to close that case."


    Now, it was Hargrave''s turn to look puzzled. "What happened this morning?"


    Mercer’s eyes went wide, and the grim expression on his face deepened.


    “You don’t know, do you?”


    Hargrave raised an eyebrow. “Know what?”


    Mercer gestured toward the Yard''s doors with his pipe. "Three bodies found in Shadwell early this morning—an absolute bloodbath. A pair of constables stumbled upon it, and the place erupted into chaos. The press is swarming all over it, along with two MPs from Whitehall. The Commissioner''s buried up to his ears in it."


    Brim swallowed hard. “What happened to them?”


    “Dead. Two men torn apart. One had his throat ripped out, and the other—”


    Mercer stared at his pipe, words stuck in his throat.


    “The other had a hole in his chest as large as my fist, like someone reached in and tore his heart out. Most god-awful thing I have ever seen.”


    Mercer fell silent, and Hargrave gave him time to collect himself.


    "You said there were three. What about the other one?"


    Mercer nodded slowly, his eyes distant with horror. "Yes... yes. A woman—found alive, but she died shortly after—had puncture wounds in her neck. Teeth marks—fangs, I suppose. She was pale and cold. Nothing could be done to save her."


    Hargrave glanced at Brim, but the Constable''s expression remained carefully neutral. He''d receive a thorough dressing-down if he dared mention the word vampire before Mercer.


    "The higher-ups are trying to pass this off as an animal attack. The sheer brutality of it all—and now the press and locals are nattering about vampires and werewolves. Such nonsense when there''s another predator far more dangerous than both."


    Brim waited, curious what Mercer meant.


    Meeting the young constable''s gaze, Mercer spoke.


    "Humans, lad. Never underestimate the wretched brutality that man is capable of."


    <hr>


    Hargrave and Brim made their way towards the central atrium of the Yard, where a steady churn of officers moved in and out of the main doors.


    Sergeants barked orders over the clatter, assigning constables to hastily formed patrols. Maps of East London, stained with ink and sweat, lay spread across tables, with Shadwell and the surrounding parishes circled in red. Names were called, and orders snapped: Cannon Street, Cable Street, and Ratcliff Highway. A visible show of force to calm nerves, though every man knew they were grasping in the dark.


    As the patrols filed out through the Yard’s gate, lanterns swinging from their hands, a hush fell over the courtyard. In their wake, anxious whispers took root among those left behind. Fear had settled over the city like the thick, choking fog rolling in from the river—and no one knew when, or if, it might lift.


    Inside, the noise hit them like a wave—boots clattering, voices echoing, and the clink of metal cups against desks.


    “Bloody hell,” Brim murmured. “Feels like half of London’s constables are here.”


    Hargrave nodded. “Shadwell’s got them stirred.”


    A clerk brushed past, arms full of reports, and nearby, a young policeman flipped through a stack of sketches, each more grotesque than the last.


    “Is that from the scene?” Hargrave asked.


    The young man looked up. “Yes, Sargent. Shadwell. You hear?”


    “We heard,” Hargrave said, brushing past. “Get those sketches to Mercer.”


    They made their way through the maze of desks, passing Smith and Mercer’s office, its door ajar. Smith’s voice carried, strained, speaking with someone inside—likely the Commissioner.


    Hargrave paused long enough to glance inside. A gentleman in a fine coat, too well-dressed for a detective, leaned over the desk, speaking urgently. A Whitehall man, no doubt. Trouble. Hargrave didn’t linger.


    They passed Reaves, the Yard’s records keeper, who sat sorting through a bundle of ‘unclassified’ files. He gave them a nod, but his usual dry smirk was gone.


    “Evening, Reaves,” Hargrave said. “Long night?”


    The older man grunted. “Longer tomorrow. Shadwell’s turned this place upside down. Two journalists tried to bribe me for autopsy notes.”


    Hargrave raised a brow. “How much?”


    “Three pounds.” Reaves chuckled dryly. “I considered it.”


    They reached their desks in the far corner of the main room. They were separated from the chaos but close enough to hear the low murmurs of those piecing the Shadwell murders together.


    Hargrave sat, cracking his knuckles, while Brim fumbled for pen and paper.


    For a moment, neither spoke.


    Then Brim broke the silence.


    “We’ve been out all day. We find a burned house and two dead bodies, a boy’s body missing from its grave, and when we get back—three more corpses in Shadwell. Different place, different method, but… it feels connected.”


    Hargrave nodded slowly, his voice low.


    “It is. But we’re a step behind. Come morning, we stop looking for suspects and start looking for a pattern. Our reports can wait.”


    He stood, pulling his coat tighter.


    “All right, Brim, grab a fresh notebook. It’s time to take a trip to the morgue.”


    <hr>


    The cold air struck like a punch as Hargrave and Brim stepped into the morgue''s stone corridor. Gas lamps sputtered along the walls, casting wavering shadows that made the place feel more crypt than clinic.


    “I’ve always hated this place," Hargrave muttered, pulling his coat closer.


    He stopped and turned to Brim, his voice dropping low.


    "I hope you''re ready for what''s waiting in there."


    Brim stared down the hallway at the double doors leading to the morgue. Though he''d been here before, that experience offered little comfort for what tonight might bring.


    "I''ll manage," he said, feigning confidence.


    Hargrave studied him, and Brim sensed unspoken words hovering between them—something his superior struggled to articulate or hesitated to share.


    “Look, Brim, there are aspects of this case that make me uncomfortable, and given your predilection towards supernatural explanations—”


    Brim cut him off, anger flashing in his eyes. “I have a predilection towards not glossing over the unexplained because it’s inconvenient.”


    Hargrave gave him a hard stare. He could feel the tension rising between them but knew it was the day’s events, not the two men.


    His expression softened.


    “John."


    It was the first time he had used the constable''s first name. Hargrave hoped the familiarity would shift their dynamic—from Sergeant and Constable to two men who, while not quite friends, needed to trust each other when things turned dark.


    "That''s a good quality for a detective, but it can bring unwanted trouble. In all my years on the job, after everything I''ve seen, I''ve hit my head against that wall more times than I can count."


    Brim said nothing, but the anger subsided.


    "Over time, I found an unorthodox way of handling the unexplained cases—things the department wouldn''t touch."


    “On your way home, pick up some less prominent papers. Scour the back pages for advertisements. Look for the name ‘Greaves.’ Tomorrow, you find her, see what she knows. Share what you have to, but keep the details blurry. If anyone can shed some light on this, she can.”


    Brim nodded. He wasn’t sure how this woman could know anything about their case, but something told him to trust the detective.


    “Greaves,” he whispered.


    “Greaves,” Hargrave confirmed.


    Then, after a long look toward the morgue''s doors, Hargrave warned him.


    “Be careful with her, Brim; the woman’s a witch.”


    Brim stared, uncertain if Hargrave was joking.


    He wasn’t.


    Hargrave’s gaze remained fixed on the doors, his jaw tense.


    “She operates outside the law, outside reason. But when the world starts slipping sideways, she’s the one people turn to. She helped me once when I had no one else to turn to. Now I’m asking you to do the same.”


    Brim hesitated, then nodded.


    “I’ll find her.”


    Hargrave gave a tight nod of approval.


    “Good. I’ll handle the dead. You go after the living.”


    With that, Hargrave walked down the hallway and pushed open the morgue doors, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges. The cold inside the room rushed down the hall like a wave. Brim watched him vanish into the flickering gaslight, the doors thudding shut behind him.


    He stood alone in the corridor, the echo of Hargrave’s words still ringing in his ears.


    A witch.


    He wasn’t sure what he believed anymore—but if this Greaves woman held any answers, he intended to find them.