Prologue

The rain hadn’t fallen on Whitcombe Hollow in nearly four months.

Every morning the air grew heavier, clinging to the thatch and stone walls like breath held too long. Even the crows, black sentinels perched along the sagging fences, seemed to watch in a silence that felt older than the fields themselves.

At the edge of the hollow, Ned Whitcombe stood alone, cap turning damp in his hands though the sky offered no rain. The road before him looked harmless enough — a narrow, rutted track lined with dying thistle and browned hedgerow — but beyond the final bend waited something the village dared not name.

The letter had come folded tight, the ink smudged as if by an anxious hand. Steady work, good pay, housing provided. Nothing more.

It hadn’t mentioned the blindfold. It hadn’t promised return.

A van sat idling near the end of the lane, its windows blacked and body dulled to the colour of wet slate. Beside it stood a man in a dark wool coat, collar turned high despite the warmth, gloves clasped behind his back. His eyes were pale and oddly still, as if they belonged to something carved from stone.

“Mr Whitcombe,” the man called, voice even, unhurried. “Are we ready, then?”

Ned’s hand tightened around the cap. Behind him, almost hidden by hedgerows and the gentle roll of land, lay the crooked-roofed cottage. Inside, Catherine would be pouring hot water into chipped cups. Mara — seventeen then, sharp-eyed even as a girl — would already be awake, listening for the sound of his boots on the path. Little Lizzie, barely thirteen, still tangled in half-remembered dreams.

Ned swallowed, tasting the dry morning. “Aye,” he said. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The man stepped forward. “Blindfold, if you please.”

The cloth came from a pocket, grey and coarse, smelling faintly of dust and something sharper — iron, or old blood. Ned hesitated just long enough to feel the thud of his heart before he tied it around his own eyes, plunging himself into blackness.

Hands, polite but firm, guided him into the back of the van. The doors closed with a dull finality that echoed in his chest.

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The van lurched into motion. Ned counted the turns at first: right, left, another left. The road grew rougher, the air colder despite the blindfold. A branch scratched along the side like fingernails on wood. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled — one note, then silence.

In darkness, the mind fills itself. Ned saw Catherine’s face as he’d left it that morning, pale in the half-light, her lips pressing words she hadn’t spoken aloud. He saw Mara’s sharp grey eyes narrowing in suspicion, and Lizzie’s hopeful green gaze, still too young to understand what men sometimes must do.

Outside, the road changed again. The van climbed, dipped, rattled over stones. The smell in the air shifted — from wet earth and sheep-dung to something stranger: acrid smoke, oil, the sour tang of metal heated and cooled too many times.

He strained to hear voices, engines, anything. But beyond the rumble of wheels, there was only the rhythmic drum of his pulse.

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At last, the van shuddered to a halt.

The door opened, spilling a wash of cool air that tasted of fog and soot.

Hands guided him down. His boots landed on hard-packed gravel instead of soil. Somewhere ahead, Ned heard low voices — clipped, hushed, foreign to his ear. Metal creaked under strain, a dull clang echoing off unseen walls.

The cloth slipped, just enough for a sliver of grey light to burn across his eye. Shapes loomed: dark roofs, heavy gates, smokestacks half-swallowed by drifting mist. But before he could see more, the cloth was tightened again.

“Mind your step,” the gloved man murmured.

Ned stumbled forward, the air pressing close around him, heavy with secrets.

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They led him through what felt like a gate. The clang of iron behind him sounded oddly final, like the lid of a coffin settling into place.

Somewhere beyond the blindfold, he sensed the beating heart of the place: the hiss of steam, the quiet shuffle of feet, a sharp cough cut short. Life, but muffled — as though the walls themselves swallowed sound.

They stopped. A door opened. “Inside,” the voice commanded.

Ned stepped through, felt the warmth of an oil lamp on his face. The door shut.

At last, the blindfold came away. The man’s pale eyes met his across the small room.

“Welcome,” he said softly. “You’ll find your work here… necessary.”

Ned opened his mouth, but the words caught on his tongue.

Through a grimy window, he saw only fog curling around black chimneys, and the faint glow of lamps beyond.

Somewhere behind those walls, others had come before him.

None had returned.

In the silence, Ned Whitcombe wondered if he had just stepped out of his life forever — and what price his family might pay for the hope he’d carried into the mist.

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