Chapter 1: Salt on the Wind

Saltmere, dusk: the air sharp with brine, the breeze carrying distant clatters of fishing nets and the low coo of gulls. The pines at the edge of town stood twisted, battered by salt-laden winds, their roots gripping the hard-packed earth like ancient fingers. Lanterns flickered to life along the single main road, their light trembling against the encroaching dark. Mira Lorne stepped from the SCU’s battered evidence van, her boots crunching on the gravel lot behind Saltmere’s only general store. The sky was bruised purple, rain threatening. Her green eyes cut across the gathering crowd—shopkeepers, fishermen, and a few children clinging to mothers’ skirts. There was a hush: all hope and suspicion tangled together. A narrow path led from the shop’s rear door into the woods. It wasn’t meant for customers, but everyone in town knew owner Bastian Reekes used it as a shortcut home. Tonight, it was cordoned off with plastic tape, a constable standing stiffly guard, face pale. Yara Novik was already on scene, tall and imposing, jotting notes in block capitals. She glanced up as Mira approached, her voice low. “Body’s in the grove, thirty meters in. Male, mid-forties. Multiple stab wounds—looks personal. No sign of forced entry at the store, but the back office is ransacked.” Dr. Ivo Grell, sleeves rolled and gloves already dusted with dirt, crouched over the body. The forest floor was muddy, churned from a struggle. A single lantern on a pole cast stark shadows. Mira knelt beside Ivo, watching his careful hands. “Time of death?” “Between seven and nine,” Ivo muttered, chewing his glove. “Blood loss was rapid. Wounds are deep, angled—someone strong, maybe left-handed. No sign of defensive wounds, odd given the victim’s build.” His eyes flicked over to Mira. “No robbery—his wallet and watch were untouched.” The sound of the sea was a steady hush behind them, but the woods felt tight, air thick with secrets. Elias Vann trudged up the path, laptop bag slung over his shoulder like a shield. He was fidgeting with his wristwatch, eyes scanning the scene. “Local CCTV’s a joke, but I’ll pull what I can from the shop’s back office. Power cut for a few minutes—someone knew what they were doing.” Yara cracked her knuckles, scowling at the onlookers. “Store’s been a fixture for decades. People here—” she jerked her chin at the crowd—“they’re scared. Won’t say what they saw. One woman swears it was ‘the salt hag’—superstitious nonsense.” “All right.” Mira stood, smoothing her coat, pen tapping gently against her chin. “We start with the shop. There’s something here they wanted.” A chill wind whipped through the trees, and the first droplets of rain began to fall, mixing with the blood on the forest floor. The town of Saltmere had called for help—and the Ghost Hunter had come. —

Chapter 2: Behind Shuttered Doors

Saltmere’s general store, Reekes Provisions, was a patchwork of old shelving and battered counters. It reeked of brine and paraffin. The back office, where Bastian had kept his ledgers and, reportedly, a small safe, was a mess—papers scattered, desk drawers yanked open, an overturned chair smudged with muddy boot prints. Yara secured the perimeter, her blunt voice brooking no argument with the local constabulary, who hovered uncertainly at the threshold. Mira and Elias entered, the beam of Elias’s portable scanner painting the chaos in cold blue. The computer terminal—a battered desktop, salt-scratched, with a blinking login screen—sat at the desk’s edge. Elias knelt beside it, muttering. “Hard drive’s been accessed tonight. Someone tried to wipe files—sloppy. I’ll image it, see what’s left.” Mira drifted, her gaze drawn to a strange arrangement atop the safe: a mound of coarse salt surrounded by twisted bits of dried seaweed, and a crude wooden charm—a rough carving of a fish, painted red. Local superstition? Protection? She pocketed the charm in an evidence bag, frowning. “Celeste will want to see this. Any sign of forced entry?” Yara shook her head. “Back door lock’s old but not picked. Whoever did this had a key—or Bastian let them in. No prints but his and staff. Whoever they are, they knew their way around.” Mira ran her fingers over the battered ledger, noting recent entries. “He took delivery from Marleaux three days ago—overdue payment for a large order of salt fish. And…” she trailed off, finding a note scrawled in the margin: _‘See H. re: shipment discrepancy. Smugglers?’_ Yara’s jaw tightened. “If they’re mixed up with the Marleaux crowd, we’ll need to tread carefully.” Elias’s screen flickered, displaying a list of deleted files. “Someone tried to nuke the shipment invoices, but I’ve recovered fragments. There’s a pattern—recurring payments to a ‘V. Kestel’ in Driftwood Cove, and a flagged message: ‘_You owe us, or it won’t be just stock that goes missing._’” The wind rattled the shutters. Mira tapped her pen, silent, her mind already turning over the pieces. There was more in Saltmere’s silence than in its words. Outside, the night deepened. Lanterns guttered, and the town held its breath. —

Chapter 3: The Whispering Salt

By morning, the rain had washed the blood from the forest path, leaving only a muddy scrawl and the fluttering remnants of police tape. Mira stood by the shoreline with Celeste Arbour, who had arrived at dawn in a swirl of scarves, her pale face unreadable. Celeste circled the evidence bag containing the salt charm, head tilted. “Folk magic. Protection against salt spirits or curses—typical of Saltmere. But the fish, painted red—unusual. In their lore, red wards off betrayal.” Mira watched the gray horizon, gulls wheeling above the salt pans. “But why leave it at the scene? Bastian wasn’t superstitious.” “Not him, perhaps,” Celeste mused, walking in slow circles. “But someone wanted to send a message—or create one. There’s a history of ritualistic symbols used to mask intent. Smugglers have borrowed local folklore before to throw off investigators.” Mira’s gaze lingered on the boats bobbing in the tiny harbor, the fishermen watching from a wary distance. “What about the payments to Driftwood Cove? V. Kestel?” Celeste’s eyes glinted. “Vernon Kestel—runs a rival provisions stall in Driftwood, smaller, struggling. Known to resent Bastian’s success. But the money trail is odd—more than a simple business deal. There’s history between their families—bad blood over a disputed land parcel.” A shout drew their attention: Harbormaster Theora Wells, the village head, striding toward them. She looked harried, wind-burned, worry etched into her brow. “Detective Lorne, the locals are getting restless. They want to help—but they’re scared. There’s talk of seeing a cloaked figure in the woods last night.” Mira met Theora’s eyes, searching. “Is that what you believe?” Theora hesitated. “I believe someone wants us to be afraid. And if word gets out the SCU suspects smugglers, Saltmere will suffer. We rely on Marleaux’s trade. Please—keep the details close, at least until you know for sure.” Mira nodded, weighing the plea. “We’ll do our job, Harbormaster. But I need you to tell your people: the only thing that protects them now is the truth.” Theora’s lips pressed into a line. “I’ll try.” The sea sighed. Celeste, turning the charm between gloved fingers, murmured, “Sometimes the salt is just salt. But sometimes, it’s what you hide in the brine that matters.” —

Chapter 4: Faces in the Fog

The SCU convened in the cramped back room of the Saltmere inn, notebooks and digital screens aglow in the dim lamplight. The air was close, humid with drying rain and suspicion. Yara reported first, her voice even. “Interviewed four staff from Reekes Provisions. None saw anything—claims of early closing, everyone home before sunset. But the delivery records suggest someone stayed late with Bastian. Julia Greer, his assistant. She’s missing this morning.” Elias, bleary-eyed from a night of data recovery, slid his tablet across the table. “I pulled comms logs from the shop’s WiFi. Julia’s phone pinged the network at 7:43 p.m.—long after closing. Also, two texts sent to a number registered to Vernon Kestel: ‘_He’s found out. I’m scared._’ and ‘_Don’t come here._’ Both deleted, but I got them from a cloud backup.” Celeste chimed in, her voice soft. “Julia and Vernon were cousins—estranged, but connected. Vernon’s business has been failing for years. Rumor is, he blamed Bastian for poaching his suppliers.” Yara cracked her knuckles, scowling. “So, Vernon’s a suspect. But he’s in Driftwood Cove. And the only vehicle seen on the road last night was an old green van registered to Jonas Penn—local handyman, former fisherman.” Mira’s pen tapped her chin in long, thoughtful ticks. “Jonas and Bastian argued in public last week, over a missed payment for boat repairs. And he’s known for his temper. But… it feels too neat. What about the salt charm? Anyone with knowledge of folk rituals?” Celeste’s brow furrowed. “Jonas’s grandmother was Saltmere’s old ‘sea-witch’—he’d know the symbols. But so would half the village.” Yara interjected, voice tense. “There’s more. Julia Greer turned herself in. She’s at the constabulary—wants to confess.” Mira’s eyes narrowed, a cold prickling at her spine. “To what, exactly?” Yara shrugged. “She says she killed Bastian. But her story doesn’t fit the timeline.” Mira stood, the air in the room stifling. “Let’s hear her out.” Outside, the fog pressed close to the windows, as if the very night was listening. —

Chapter 5: The Confession

Julia Greer sat in the constabulary’s single holding cell, her hands twisted in her lap, cheeks blotched red. She looked younger than her twenty-seven years, eyes swollen from weeping. Mira entered quietly, closing the door behind her, sinking into a silence so heavy Julia squirmed. Mira’s voice was gentle, but deliberate. “You said you killed Bastian. Tell me what happened.” Julia’s breath came in shallow gasps. “I—I stayed late to finish inventory. We argued. He—he found out I’d been skimming money. I lost my temper, grabbed the knife from the desk, and… I stabbed him. I panicked. I ran. I didn’t mean for it to happen.” Mira studied her, noting the trembling hands, the way her eyes flickered from side to side. “You stabbed him. Where?” “In the side. Once. That’s all.” Julia’s voice wavered. Mira let the silence stretch, then: “Bastian was stabbed multiple times. Deep wounds, left-handed, from behind. Did you move his body outside?” Julia shook her head, tears streaming. “No, I—I just left. I swear.” Mira’s tone became firmer. “Julia, the crime scene says otherwise. You’re right-handed. You don’t have the strength for wounds like those. And you didn’t mention the salt charm left on the safe.” Julia’s face crumpled. “I—I don’t know anything about that. Please… I just want this to be over.” Yara, standing behind the glass, rumbled low. “She’s protecting someone.” Mira’s thoughts raced. Was it guilt, or fear? And who was Julia really shielding—her cousin Vernon, or someone closer? Mira rose, jotting a note in her battered book: _False confession. Motivated by fear or loyalty. Dig deeper—two motives?_ As she left, Julia’s voice called after her, thin as the wind: “Please. Don’t let them hurt anyone else.” The walls of the constabulary seemed to close in, thick with secrets. Mira found herself longing for the open air—even if it tasted only of salt and dread. —

Chapter 6: The Red Herring

Elias huddled over his laptop in the inn’s tiny side parlor, the walls yellowed with age and pipe smoke. The room was claustrophobic, air heavy with the scent of old seaweed soup. Lines of code scrolled as he sifted through the recovered files from Bastian’s hard drive. Yara paced behind him, tension crackling. “Jonas Penn. His van was seen near the woods. He has the know-how, the motive, and a history of violence. Why isn’t he under arrest?” Elias shrugged, not looking up. “His alibi checks out for most of the evening—fixing a generator at the fishing co-op. But… there’s something weird about the CCTV. Look—” He spun his screen. “At 6:32 p.m., someone disguised the camera feed with an old loop—same technique used in Marleaux last spring. Jonas doesn’t have the technical chops for that.” Celeste entered, closing the door quickly. “Jonas was at the lantern lighting—fifty people saw him. The real killer may have gone to great lengths to frame him. And I found something: the salt charm’s paint matches a batch sold at the market last week—to a woman matching Julia’s description.” Yara scowled. “Julia’s being used. Or she’s more involved than she lets on.” Elias brightened, tapping his keys. “Recovered a deleted file—a spreadsheet with names, dates, and cryptic notations. ‘V’ for Vernon, ‘J’ for Julia, ‘P’ for Jonas. But there’s another set of initials—‘A.W.’—and a note: _‘Hold shipment until after festival. Threats from A.W. escalating.’_” Yara’s eyes narrowed. “A.W.?” Celeste’s head tilted. “Adrian Wells, Theora’s nephew. Fisherman, but also rumored to run errands for the Marleaux crowd. He’s got motive—resented Bastian for blocking his expansion into supply contracts.” Elias frowned. “But he’s never met Julia, as far as comms records show.” Yara snapped, “Unless someone’s playing puppet master.” The red herring was clear: Jonas, all rough edges and public arguments, was an easy suspect—but the real threads ran deeper. Mira, entering quietly, spoke: “Let’s talk to Adrian Wells. And watch Julia—her fear is real, but whose hand was on the knife?” The team gathered their coats. Saltmere’s alleys felt tighter, the sea’s roar a warning. —

Chapter 7: The Occult Thread

The pines beyond Saltmere were thick with morning fog, branches dripping with salt. The SCU met Adrian Wells by the boatshed—a broad-shouldered young man, wind-burned, eyes darting. He greeted Mira with a forced smile, hands jammed in pockets. Yara wasted no time: “Adrian, where were you last night?” He shrugged, too casual. “Home with my mother. She’ll vouch for me. Didn’t go near the store.” Mira’s silence, heavy and expectant, made him shift on his feet. “You had a contract dispute with Bastian,” she said. “And you’ve used folk charms before, haven’t you?” Adrian’s face darkened. “I don’t play with that rubbish. My uncle maybe, but not me. Bastian… he was stubborn, but we settled things weeks ago.” Celeste, circling, drew a salt line in the dirt with her shoe. “You know what this means, don’t you?” Adrian flinched, then spat on the line. “It’s just old tales to scare kids. I don’t care about that.” Yara stepped closer, voice low. “You threatened Bastian over the supply contract. And your prints are on the safe.” Adrian sneered. “I went in Tuesday, paid my bill. That’s all.” Elias, at the edge, checked his tablet. “You called Vernon Kestel three times yesterday.” Adrian’s jaw tightened. “So? He’s family.” Mira studied him, searching for cracks. Finally: “Tell us what you know about the arrangement between Bastian, Julia, and Vernon. And don’t lie. Saltmere’s tired of lies.” He hesitated, then, in a rush: “Vernon wanted to buy Bastian out. Julia was supposed to convince him—she owed Vernon money. I said it was a bad idea. I tried to help, but… I didn’t kill him.” Yara didn’t relax. “You’re not leaving Saltmere.” As they walked away, Celeste murmured, “He’s hiding something. But not murder. There’s a ritual here—but it’s all surface. Theater to hide something more ordinary—jealousy. Greed.” Mira felt the noose tighten. The folk magic, the threats, the network of debts—every clue layered to confuse. Someone was orchestrating misdirection. Cold logic would be needed now, not faith. —

Chapter 8: The Shadow of Driftwood Cove

The Serious Crimes Unit’s battered van rumbled north along the Coastal Route, rain streaking the windows. Driftwood Cove’s rugged silhouette appeared through the mist, houses clinging to the cliffs like barnacles. The town’s insularity was palpable—their arrival watched from shuttered windows and narrow alleys. Vernon Kestel’s stall was a forlorn structure, battered by wind and neglect. Vernon himself was a wiry man with a pinched face, eyes darting from Mira to Yara as they approached. He tried to bluster, but the presence of the SCU cowed him. Yara’s tone was iron. “Vernon Kestel, you know why we’re here.” He glanced at the evidence bag Mira produced, containing the salt charm. “Never seen it.” Celeste, lurking nearby, spoke softly. “You bought red paint last week. Enough for two dozen charms. And you received payments from Bastian Reekes.” Vernon’s mask slipped. “Bastian owed me. He stole my suppliers, ruined my business. I wanted him gone, but… I didn’t stab him.” Mira pressed, letting the silence stretch. “You and Julia plotted something. She tried to warn you off last night. But you drove here anyway.” Vernon’s fists clenched. “I came to talk sense into her, that’s all. Her brother’s sick—she needed the money. I never set foot in those woods. Ask anyone.” Elias checked his tablet. “Your van was caught on a traffic camera leaving Driftwood at six. Arrived here at seven. You had time.” Vernon’s face twisted. “I waited in the van. I never went inside.” Yara pressed in. “You’re lying.” He broke, finally, sobbing. “I wanted him gone, but I didn’t kill him. Someone else did. Someone who wants us to tear each other apart.” As they left, Celeste whispered, “He’s telling the truth—at least about the killing. But he’s hiding something else.” The cliffs loomed high, the sea below roaring. Driftwood Cove held its secrets tight. —

Chapter 9: The Digital Ghost

By evening, the unit was back at the Saltmere inn, exhaustion palpable. Elias and Mira huddled over the battered laptop, the recovered spreadsheet open between them. Elias hovered, muttering lines of code under his breath, cross-referencing logs. A sudden realization flashed in his eyes. “Wait—this file? It’s not just a ledger. There are hidden columns.” He typed rapidly. “Encrypted. But if I—yes!” A new section appeared, filled with time-stamped notes—many labeled ‘AW’ and ‘JK’. Elias frowned. “AW for Adrian Wells, JK for Jonas Penn, VK for Vernon Kestel, JG for Julia Greer, and—BR for Bastian Reekes himself. It’s a record of meetings—mostly about disputed shipments, missed payments, and threats. But this one—” He pointed. “Yesterday, 6:41 p.m.—‘JG met with AW. Tempers high. Saw knife.’ Then 7:01—‘AW left, JG alone with BR. Commotion heard at 7:14. Then silence. At 7:20, VK called JG, no answer.’” Mira’s eyes narrowed, the logic crystalizing. “So Adrian and Julia argued, she stayed behind, Bastian confronted her. But the wounds—deep, left-handed, multiple. Not Julia. Someone was waiting.” Elias nodded. “There’s a last entry. 7:29—‘JK seen near back door. No sign of forced entry. Knew the place.’” Yara, listening by the door, grunted. “Jonas. But his alibi—” Elias shook his head. “Only for the early evening. After the lantern lighting, he could’ve slipped away. He knew the woods, had the strength, knew the ritual marks.” Mira’s mind raced. But the spreadsheet was written in Bastian’s style. Had he been keeping tabs on his enemies? Or…? Celeste’s voice, cryptic as always: “Someone wanted the SCU to believe in jealousy. But the real motive was layered—resentment, business rivalry, and something more: fear.” The pieces slid into place, cold and precise. —

Chapter 10: The Choice

Night in Saltmere felt suffocating. The SCU gathered in the mobile van, tension thick. Jonas Penn was brought in, sullen and silent, hands cuffed. Yara began, her tone a battering ram. “Jonas, your van was seen near the forest. Your prints are in the office. Explain.” Jonas glared. “I was fixing the generator. Went for a walk after. Needed air.” Mira’s voice was soft, but sharp. “You argued with Bastian about money. You know the local rituals. And the wounds—deep, left-handed. Like you.” Jonas’s fists balled. “You think I’m a killer? I fix boats, not people.” Elias slid a tablet across. “The digital ledger has you at the shop. Bastian wrote that you were seen at the back door after the others left.” Jonas looked cornered, sweat beading on his brow. “He owed me. But I didn’t hurt him.” Mira leaned in, her voice grave. “Maybe you snapped. Or maybe you covered for someone. Julia’s confession doesn’t fit. Vernon’s grief is real. Adrian’s hands are clean. It comes back to you.” Jonas trembled, eyes wild. “You want a killer, fine. I did it. Happy?” Yara slammed the table. “That’s not good enough. Tell the truth.” He broke. “I found him already dead! I—yes, I hated him. But I swear, I didn’t kill. I saw Julia running, so I dragged the body out to the woods, tried to make it look like… like the old stories. Thought it’d scare everyone off. I didn’t kill him!” The SCU exchanged glances. A false confession—born of fear, guilt, or loyalty? Then Mira’s phone buzzed. Elias, looking pale, held up a new file. “Recovered from Bastian’s drive—hidden, encrypted. He was blackmailing Julia and Adrian both. Had photos from a drone. He threatened to expose their smuggling connections if they didn’t pay up.” Celeste, quietly: “Double motive. Jealousy—and survival.” Yara exhaled heavily. “So who killed him?” Mira’s gaze was distant. “Someone desperate. Someone who knew the blackmail would destroy them. Julia was the last to see him alive.” The moral dilemma weighed heavy. Do they arrest Julia on circumstantial evidence, or keep digging and risk missing the real killer? There was no satisfaction—only cold logic. —

Chapter 11: The Ambiguous Truth

Saltmere’s dawn was a thin gray line on the horizon, the air damp and metallic. The SCU’s final interviews were brief, tight-lipped. The town was closing ranks, the communal hush oppressive. Julia, released from her cell after a night of sobbing, met Mira on the empty dock. She looked hollow, her words thin as sea mist. “I wanted to stop him. He was ruining lives—mine, Adrian’s, so many. But when I left, he was alive.” Mira nodded, searching Julia’s eyes. “Someone else finished it.” Julia shook her head. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just lying to myself.” Elias’s recovered files showed the drone footage Bastian had used to blackmail his rivals—grainy images of boats rendezvousing at night, crates moving from van to wharf. Enough leverage to drive anyone to desperation. Celeste lingered by the salt pans, murmuring to herself. “Blackmail, jealousy, threats. The killer is part of Saltmere, even if we never see their face.” In the end, there was no arrest. The evidence pointed toward Julia, but left gaps—a missing ten minutes, a lost set of prints, a shadow on the drone footage that matched no one in the records. Jonas’s staged ritual had muddied the waters. Adrian’s threats were real, but his alibi held. The case closed on paper: “Death by person or persons unknown.” Saltmere’s ritual had worked—obscuring truth in a swirl of salt, secrets, and dread. The SCU left town with no closure, only questions. Mira stood at the edge of the forest, watching the lanterns flicker in the gathering dusk, her notebook heavy in her pocket. Behind her, the Serious Crimes Unit packed their van, ready to return to Greyhaven. She looked back once, the air thick with salt and unspoken truths. Somewhere, the real motive—jealousy, fear, survival—lay buried, as tangled as the roots beneath the pines. —