The ride to the police station was short, but it felt like a journey across a vast, empty landscape. Elara sat in the back of the police car, the worn fabric of the seat digging into her back. The younger officer, the one who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, was driving. Detective Miller sat beside her, his presence a heavy weight, even though he wasn't touching her. The silence in the car was thick, broken only by the hum of the engine and the distant sounds of the city waking up. Elara kept her gaze fixed on the passing buildings, a blur of brick and concrete, trying to appear calm, like this was just a normal Tuesday morning. Inside, her mind was a frantic mess, a tangled ball of fear and questions.
The locket in her bathrobe pocket felt like a burning coal against her thigh. It was still warm, that strange, unsettling warmth, and she could almost feel its faint vibration. Every now and then, she'd subtly shift, trying to adjust it, trying to make it less noticeable, even though no one else could see it. It was her secret, her terrifying, impossible secret. How could a locket, one that looked exactly like her grandmother's, appear out of nowhere, perfectly clean, while the real one was supposedly found at a crime scene? The thought twisted in her gut. Someone was playing a cruel trick. Or something far worse was happening.
Miller finally broke the silence. "You know, Elara," he said, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful, "people who try too hard to forget usually have the most to remember."
Elara turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze. "And people who try too hard to accuse usually end up looking foolish, Detective," she shot back, a flicker of her usual sharp wit returning. It was a small victory, a tiny act of defiance in a situation where she felt completely powerless.
Miller just grunted, a sound that could mean anything. He pulled out a small notepad and a pen, flipping to a fresh page. He wasn't writing yet, just holding it, a silent threat.
The police station was exactly as she remembered it: a building of muted grey walls and tired fluorescent lights. The air smelled of stale coffee, old paper, and something metallic, like cleaning solution mixed with faint traces of something else. It was a place where secrets were kept, and sometimes, unwillingly, given up.
They led her to a small interrogation room. It was bare, just a metal table and three chairs. The walls were a pale, sickly green. A single, bright light hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows. Elara took the chair closest to the door, a small act of rebellion, even though she knew it wouldn't matter. Miller sat opposite her, placing his notepad on the table. The younger officer stood by the door, looking uncomfortable, like a kid forced to watch a grown-up argument.
"So, Elara," Miller began, his voice losing its quiet tone, becoming sharp and direct. "Let's talk about the night your family disappeared. The fire. The whole mess."
Elara felt a familiar tightness in her chest. The 'incident.' The night her life had shattered into a million pieces. "I've told you everything, Detective. Multiple times. There was a fire. My parents. My sister. They were gone. I was the only one who made it out." Her voice was flat, practiced. She had recited this story so many times, it felt like a script.
"And the locket?" Miller pressed, his eyes unwavering. "Your grandmother's locket. It was found at the scene of the fire, years ago. But it was never linked to any of the bodies. It was just... there. And now, it's at a new scene. The scene where Marcus Thorne vanished."
Marcus Thorne. The latest disappearance. A quiet, unassuming librarian who had vanished from his home two nights ago, leaving behind only an open book and a lingering sense of dread. Elara hadn't paid much attention to the news reports, trying to keep her distance from the city's growing panic. But now, it was all connected.
"I don't know anything about Marcus Thorne," Elara stated, her voice firm. "And I don't know why my grandmother's locket would be at his house. It's been gone for years." She kept her hand still in her pocket, the warmth of the other locket a silent, burning presence.
Miller leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Our notes from your therapy sessions, Elara. They mention a 'Crimson Playground.' A place of nightmares. A place where childhood innocence was twisted." He paused, his gaze fixed on her face, searching for a crack in her composure. "You said it yourself, didn't you? To your therapist?"
Elara felt a cold dread spread through her. "I told you, I never said that. My therapist must have misunderstood." But even as she said the words, a flash of something red, something metallic, something wrong, flickered at the edge of her vision. The hum in her head intensified, a low, buzzing sound that threatened to drown out Miller's voice.
"Misunderstood?" Miller scoffed. "Or perhaps you're forgetting. Or perhaps, Elara, you're choosing to forget." He pulled a tablet from his bag, tapping the screen. "We have a witness, Elara. A child. Who saw something at the Thorne residence, just before he vanished. Something... unusual."
Elara's breath hitched. A child witness? This was new. This was bad.
"The child drew a picture," Miller continued, turning the tablet to face her. "And what he drew, Elara, looks an awful lot like the 'Crimson Playground' you supposedly dreamt about."
The image on the tablet screen was crude, drawn with thick, childish crayons. But there was no mistaking it. A swing set, impossibly tall, its chains stretching into a dark, swirling sky. A slide, bent and broken, leading into a patch of ground colored a deep, angry red. And in the background, barely visible, a figure. A small, shadowy figure, standing perfectly still, watching.
Elara felt a jolt, a cold shock that went through her entire body. The drawing was almost identical to the image in the email she had received that morning. The one still hidden on her phone. How could a child have drawn this? How could anyone know about that image?
"This is impossible," Elara whispered, her voice barely audible. The hum in her head was now a piercing whine, and the metallic taste in her mouth was stronger, like she was tasting blood. "I've never seen this child. I've never seen this drawing."
"No," Miller said, his voice surprisingly soft now, almost sympathetic. "But the child saw something. Something that made him draw this. And something that made him whisper a name. A name that sounds very much like yours, Elara."
Elara stared at the drawing, then at Miller. The pieces were starting to fit, but they formed a picture far more terrifying than she could have imagined. The locket, the email, the whispers, the missing people, and now, a child's drawing. It wasn't just a game. It was a hunt. And she was the prey. Or perhaps, she was the bait.
A sudden, sharp pain flared behind her eyes, and a new image, clearer than any before, flashed into her mind. Not a dream, not a whisper, but a memory. A real one. A memory of a crimson swing, not just painted red, but soaked in it. And a voice, a child's voice, calling her name. Not from the past, but from somewhere close. Somewhere now.
"Elara," the voice whispered, not in her head, but seeming to come from the very air in the room, just for a second. "It's time to play."
Miller looked at her, his expression hardening. "What was that, Elara? Did you say something?"
Elara shook her head, her eyes wide, staring at the empty space beside Miller. The voice was gone. But the memory remained. And the locket in her pocket felt like it was vibrating with a frantic, desperate energy. The game was no longer just starting. It had been waiting for her, all along.