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Finn stood beside her and could hear the words.
"Inspector Winters, one of the officers on the mainland passed me your number, it's Bill from the Fair Folk Inn," a raspy voice said from the other end. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news. We've found a body."
We've failed again, Finn thought.
Amelia's face blanched, and she shared a troubled glance with Finn. Whatever tranquility remained in Huldra House seemed to have been shattered completely. Finn looked out of a window to the bleak pitch-black storm, feeling utterly dejected. Wherever the body was, they were going nowhere that night.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The storm had raged all night, but the killer had slept soundly. As dawn broke, a deceptive calm settled over the island. The fury of the tempest was now replaced by a chilling silence, punctuated only by the distant cries of seabirds and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the rocky shore.
Perched on the cliffs beyond Old Miller's cottage, the killer observed the scene below. The vantage point offered a clear, unobstructed view of the windswept shoreline. Clad in a worn brown jacket, the killer's hat pulled low, their eyes were sharp and calculating, studying every minute detail below.
The wild night had unveiled his secret. The once hidden cove now bore the testimony of the killer's deeds—a lifeless body lay sprawled on the shore. The waters had been ruthless in their assault on the corpse, but the telltale signs of the struggle from the previous day remained evident.
Two figures had ventured down below the cliffs to this remote part of the island, watched by a crowd of fascinated and horrified islanders from above.
From their current position, the killer recognized them—a man and a woman, not locals, but two investigators, perhaps. They stood over the body, their faces etched with shock and frustration. The woman leaned down, her hand gingerly reaching out to touch the cold, wet skin of the deceased. The man, meanwhile, seemed to be scanning the area, perhaps searching for clues or signs of what had transpired.
A grim satisfaction swelled within the killer. The discovery was inevitable, but the killer had hoped for a little more time. Now, watching with glee, the killer was observing reactions, gauging the next steps of those who stumbled upon his dark secret. The thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of a plan executed perfectly—it was intoxicating. But alongside the thrill was a rising tension, an awareness that the net was tightening. More deaths and more police officers would come if they hadn't been called upon already.
The killer knew that revenge had to be dealt out swiftly before that happened.
The memories of the kill flashed before him. The confrontation, the struggle, and then the final, fatal push that had sent the body plummeting down the cliff. The killer had been so sure that the stormy seas would carry away any evidence. But nature, it seemed, had other plans.
As the two figures below continued their somber examination of the scene, one of them looked up and so the killer retreated slowly, ensuring that they remained unseen. The cliffs had been a refuge, a place from which the killer could watch and plan. But with the discovery of the body, they might also become a trap.
The killer needed to move, to think, to plan the next move. The game had changed, and the hunter might soon become the hunted. But for now, the shadows of the cliffs offered concealment, and the rising sun cast long, dark silhouettes that felt fitting for a funeral by the sea.
The crowds gathering on the cliff sides grew larger and louder with each passing minute. The commotion was palpable—a mixture of curiosity, sorrow, and increasing fear. It would have been safer to leave, to vanish into the thickets or the dense woods that bordered the cliffs. But the pull was too strong for the killer. The compulsion to see, to hear, to drink in the results of their own deadly actions was too overpowering.
Stepping closer to the edge, careful not to be seen, the killer weaved in and out of small clusters of people. The murmurs became more distinct. Words like "murder," "curse," and "plague" floated to his ears. And, as the killer had hoped, the name most frequently uttered with hushed suspicion was "Lady Ferguson."
"Ever since she's taken over Huldra House, things haven't been right," said one elderly woman, her voice thick with accusation.
"We should have known, with all her strange ways and that old mansion of hers. Bringing this death and horror upon us," a burly man with a thick beard concurred, shaking his head. “She should never have sided with Lord Carmichael. Now we'll all pay for it!”
Listening to these whispered speculations, a smile slowly crept over the killer's face, hidden beneath the shade of a thick hat. Lady Ferguson and her precious Huldra House had become the epicenter of blame, and this suited the killer just fine. Let them point fingers at her, let them ostracize her, and in their fear, they'd tear her and her legacy apart. It was almost too easy.
The air grew chillier, but it wasn't just the sea breeze; it was the frost of fear, spreading its tendrils amongst the townsfolk. People held one another close, eyes darting in fear. Old friends whispered, speculating on who or what could bring such terror to their peaceful isle. And every hushed conversation, every trembling word, every teary-eyed gaze brought the killer pure, unbridled delight.
For the killer wasn't just a taker of lives; the killer was a weaver of nightmares. To know that they lived in terror, always looking over their shoulders, jumping at shadows, and suspecting one another—it was a satisfaction like no other. The taste of their fear was sweeter than the finest wine.
However, as the satisfaction swirled within, so did a burning desire—a vision of Huldra House, engulfed in flames, its great silhouette illuminating the night sky, with the shrieks and cries of its inhabitants trapped within its walls. To watch it burn, to see it reduced to ashes and rubble, with everyone inside—Lady Ferguson, her son, and those who worked there—all paying the price for their intrusions and betrayals. Their connection to the terrible wrongs that had been committed. Wrongs the killer could never face, never mind forget.
With that vivid, fiery image etched in his mind, he slipped away, leaving behind the anguished cries and murmurs of a terrified town. The work had been fruitful, but the killer's masterpiece was yet to be painted—a masterpiece where the guilty would be punished forever more, in pain and misery.
The last thought as the killer vanished into the shadows was a whispered promise, "Soon... very soon."
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The sharp scent of saltwater filled Finn's nostrils as he stood alongside Amelia on the rugged shoreline, observing the scene of another grisly death. The cold wind rustled their clothing, yet the chilling atmosphere had more to do with the body sprawled at their feet than the weather.
Finn couldn't quite believe what he was looking at.
The previous night, they had dragged Alistair Logan out of the green loch and to Huldra House. They still couldn't discount him as a suspect, but despite Finn wanting to lock him up and throw away the key, after their interviews it became clear they really had nothing on him. It galled Finn, but they had to let him go, for now.
Huldra's locals, a tight-knit community where everyone knew everyone, watched from a distance and from above. Their faces ranged from expressions of shock to despair, their whispered murmurs hinting at the fear that gripped them. Among them were islanders who had never witnessed such a scene, clutching each other for comfort. The deceased was clearly well loved. And Finn understood why.
