AI The faint stench of iron and ozone hung heavy in the air , clinging to the damp earth like a shroud. A patrol officer, young and pale, pointed his torch at the newly dug hole, its edges disturbingly neat against the uneven floor of the old warehouse.
"Here, Detective Quinn. Just as the caller described."
Detective Harlow Quinn stepped over a coil of forgotten rope, her worn leather watch glinting under the harsh work lights. She moved with a military precision, her salt-and-pepper hair catching the grime that settled on everything. The warehouse, long abandoned to the elements and urban decay, offered little in the way of warmth or comfort. Broken skylights above cast weak, watery moonlight onto the scene, mingling with the yellow glow of the police floodlights.
"Caller named it out, did they?" Quinn's sharp jaw tightened . "Or did they just describe a hole in the ground?"
"Anonymous tip, ma'am. Sounded... breathless, like they'd been running." The officer shifted from foot to foot, avoiding her gaze. "Said there was a body unearthed here last night. Ritualistic, they said."
Quinn knelt, ignoring the grit that immediately embedded itself in her trousers. The hole yawned at her, a dark void against the grey concrete. It wasn't deep, barely enough to cover a small animal, let alone a man. She ran a gloved hand over the disturbed earth. Too clean, too precise. She’d seen gravediggers with less finesse.
"So, a ritualistic body. And where is this body, then?" Quinn scanned the immediate area, her brown eyes missing nothing. The dust, thick with years of neglect, remained undisturbed save for the footprints of the first responders and the anxious young officer. No drag marks, no sign of struggle, no discarded tools beyond the patrol's own equipment.
A figure emerged from the deeper shadows of the warehouse, their silhouette momentarily blocking one of the floodlights. DI Davies, a man whose career had seen too many late nights and cold coffee, approached with a sigh. His heavy boots scuffed the concrete, stirring up more dust.
"No body, Quinn. Just a hole. And a rather creative anonymous tipster." Davies gestured around them, the sweep of his hand encompassing the vast emptiness of the warehouse. "Some kids playing pranks, more than likely. Or a homeless chap trying to make a shelter."
"A shelter with a freshly dug, empty grave ?" Quinn stood, turning to face Davies head-on. "And a tipster who knew exactly where to find it? In a decommissioned warehouse on the fringes of Camden? That's a rather specific prank, isn't it, Davies?"
Davies shrugged, already looking bored. "People hear things. See things. This part of town, you get all sorts. Runes on walls, strange symbols painted on shop fronts..." He trailed off, waving a dismissive hand. "Witchcraft nonsense. Nothing for us."
Quinn ignored him, her gaze falling back to the hole. The earth within it looked different, a darker, richer brown than the surrounding dust. Almost like it had been transported from somewhere else. She bent down again, sniffing the air near the opening. The metallic tang of copper, faint but distinct, reached her. Not blood, not exactly, but something akin to it . And something else, an earthy, almost mineral scent that she couldn't place.
"This isn't just dirt, Davies," she murmured, pulling a small evidence kit from her bag. She carefully collected a sample of the soil, placing it into a sterile bag. "And it isn't 'nothing'."
"It's soil, Quinn. From the ground. What do you expect, gold dust?" Davies chuckled, a dry, grating sound. He walked over to a stack of collapsed crates, pulling out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. "Look, the lab boys will tell you it's garden variety loam. We'll file it as a hoax, and that'll be that. I've got a real murder to chase in Southwark, one with an actual body."
"Garden variety loam doesn't smell like this." Quinn’s voice was low, but carried an edge that made the young patrol officer visibly flinch . She picked up a small, dark object from the lip of the hole. It was smooth, almost polished, and shaped roughly like a coin, but thicker, heavier. Bone. Her stomach tightened.
"What's that?" Davies, midway through lighting his cigarette, paused, a flicker of something, perhaps curiosity, in his eyes.
"A bone token," Quinn said, her voice flat . She had seen these before, whispered about in hushed tones by colleagues who dismissed such things as urban legend. But she knew better. Three years ago, she had learned better.
"Bone token? What in blazes is a bone token?" Davies scoffed, shaking his head. "Next you'll be telling me we've got a goblin problem."
"It's an entry pass, or so the whispers go," Quinn explained, holding the token up to the light. It wasn’t just a random piece of bone; it had a distinct shape, some kind of intricate carving etched into its smooth surface, too fine for human handiwork. "For places you shouldn't be."
She looked up, her gaze sweeping around the cavernous space. The warehouse stretched endlessly into the gloom , a skeletal monument to forgotten industry. Dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight, swirling around massive support pillars that rose like ancient trees. High above, rusting cranes hung suspended, their chains swaying slightly in an unseen breeze. This wasn't just a derelict building; it felt like a waiting room for something far older.
"So, our prankster managed to dig a perfect grave , leave behind a magical item, and then disappeared without a trace, all to report a body that mysteriously vanishes before we arrive," Quinn continued, her voice laced with an implied accusation. "Or maybe... the body was never meant to be found in the first place."
Davies snorted, puffing on his cigarette. "You're stretching, Quinn. Ghosts and ghouls. That's your problem, always looking for the otherworldly ."
"And your problem, Davies, is you stop looking when things don't fit into your neat little box." She walked away from the hole, letting her eyes drift over the vast concrete floor. Her boot scraped against something. She knelt again, revealing a faint impression in the dust, a circular mark, barely visible. Nearby, another. And another. A pattern, almost.
"See anything interesting yet, Sherlock?" Davies drawled, leaning against a rusty support beam, his cigarette smoke curling upwards into the dimness.
"More interesting than an empty hole," Quinn retorted, pressing her fingers against one of the faint circles. It wasn't a footprint, not exactly. More like the impression of something heavy, something with a slightly rough texture. She followed the trail, a subtle series of almost invisible marks, leading not towards the warehouse doors, but deeper into the shadows, towards a section of the wall where the brickwork seemed newer, less weathered than the rest.
"These aren't natural," she concluded, examining the faint indentations. "Something was dragged through here. Something heavy. And not on the surface, but just above it . Hovering."
Davies finally pushed himself off the beam, a frown creasing his forehead. "Hovering? Now you've really lost it. Hovering bodies? This isn't a sci-fi flick."
"Something moved low to the ground, leaving these impressions," Quinn clarified, her voice sharp with irritation . She reached the section of newer brickwork. It looked to be a repair, clumsily done, mortar still flaky in places. But it was more than that. The air here felt colder, denser, a prickle on her skin.
She pressed her palm against the brick. Cold. Unnaturally cold. A shiver ran down her spine , but it wasn't from the chill . It was the same sensation she'd experienced three years ago, just before she lost Morris. That sense of something fundamentally *wrong * with the fabric of reality.
"The soil in the hole, the bone token, these marks," Quinn said, her voice quiet now, almost a whisper . "And this. This wall shouldn't be here. Not like this. Not with this temperature drop." She glanced at Davies, whose face was now a mixture of skepticism and a dawning, unwelcome understanding. "Someone tried to hide something. Not *in* the hole, but *with* the hole ."
She looked at the wall, then back at the small, precisely dug excavation. A diversion. A misleading signpost. They wanted the police to find the hole, to dismiss it, to look away from the true entry point.
"It's a cover. A performance," Quinn said, the pieces clicking into place . Her gaze hardened, fixing on the newly repaired brickwork. "They didn't unearth a body. They *moved * something. Through here. And whatever it was, it wasn't meant to be discovered."
Davies stared at the wall, then at Quinn, his earlier bravado replaced by a reluctant unease. "Moved something? What, exactly, could be moved through a solid brick wall in the middle of a derelict warehouse?"
Quinn didn't answer right away. She extended a hand towards the cold, unyielding brick, her fingers brushing against the rough surface. She felt a faint vibration, a tiny hum that resonated deep within her bones. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer caught her eye, just at the edges of the repair. Like heat haze, but cold.
"It's not a wall, Davies," Quinn whispered, her eyes widening . "Not anymore, not truly . It's a door. And they just sealed it behind them."