Chapter 3: Echoes and Heirlooms

As Kaelen’s gaze remained locked on the ornate silver box on the mantelpiece, Death performed his own grim work. He didn't approach the covered bodies. Instead, he simply stood in the center of the room, produced a thin, obsidian stylus from an inner pocket of his suit, and drew a single, complex symbol in the air. The symbol flared with a light that seemed to absorb all other light, and for a moment, the oppressive, spectral dampness in the room receded, the humming in Kaelen's ears fading to a whisper.

Two faint, shimmering forms, barely recognizable as the elderly couple, rose from the white sheets. They looked confused, their translucent faces turning towards Death not with fear, but with a kind of dawning recognition, as if meeting an appointment they had forgotten they’d made. Death gave a slight, formal nod. The two forms bowed in return, then dissolved into motes of silver light that were drawn into the tip of his stylus. The process was silent, efficient, and profoundly impersonal. Bureaucracy.

“The transition is now official,” Death said, his voice cutting the silence as he pocketed the stylus. “The local authorities will spend weeks debating implausible theories. We do not have that luxury. Your investigation, Agent Vance?”

Kaelen tore his eyes away from the mantel. His new senses, the sight gifted by the Sigil, showed him the Stygian residue pouring from the silver box like a wound. But his old senses, the ones that had gotten him through twenty-eight years of a stubbornly normal life, were screaming at him too. This was a crime scene. He couldn’t just walk up and start touching things.

“Right. Investigation.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt. He took a slow walk around the perimeter of the room, forcing himself to see beyond the supernatural stain and look at the life that had been lived here.

The Pembrooks were clearly people of means, but their taste was eclectic. A modern flatscreen TV sat near a Victorian-era fainting couch. Shelves were filled not with paperbacks, but with leather-bound books, glass display cases of polished stones, and framed maps of places that no longer existed. They weren't just homeowners; they were curators of their own small museum.

His eyes fell on a small, tidy writing desk in the corner. Unlike the rest of the house, it was an island of modern practicality: a laptop, a neat stack of papers, a leather-bound ledger. While the forensic team was busy documenting the area around the bodies, this corner seemed to have been overlooked. Keeping to the edge of the rug, Kaelen moved closer. The top document on the stack was an insurance rider, listing dozens of items with arcane descriptions: ‘Etruscan Divination Bowl,’ ‘Scrimshaw on Leviathan Tooth,’ ‘Pre-Diluvian Fossilized Amber.’

These people didn't just collect antiques. They collected artifacts.

He opened the ledger. It was a meticulous record of their acquisitions, with dates, prices, and a short note on each item. He flipped through the pages, his heart beginning to beat faster. Three weeks ago, an entry caught his eye.

Item: Ornate Silver Casket (Victorian). Purpose: Containment for Locket. Source: Curios & Echoes. Proprietor: E. Vance.

Kaelen froze. Vance? No, that couldn't be right. He squinted. E. Thorne. The cursive was just a bit sloppy. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The address for the shop was listed below, a place downtown in a neighborhood known for its old, pre-war buildings and narrow streets. A concrete lead.

“I may have something,” Kaelen said, turning to Death. “A shop. It’s where they bought the box.”

Death was standing by the window, looking out at the flashing lights with an expression of profound boredom. “An anchor must be acquired from somewhere. It is rarely born in a place like this. Proceed. I will finalize the paperwork here and observe.”

“Observe? You’re not coming with me?” The thought of going alone sent a fresh spike of anxiety through him.

“This is your assignment, Agent Vance,” Death said without turning. “I am management, not your partner. Do try to keep up.”

Stepping back out into the night felt like surfacing from a deep dive. The air was blessedly normal, free of the spectral chill and the phantom taste of salt and sorrow. He ignored the questioning looks from a few police officers, his strange immunity holding as he slipped back under the tape and walked to his car.

The address led him to a part of the city that seemed to be actively resisting the 21st century. The shop, ‘Curios & Echoes,’ was wedged between a shuttered bookstore and a laundromat. Its bay window was dark, crammed with dusty taxidermy, tarnished silver, and stacks of yellowed books. A small, hand-painted sign on the door simply said ‘Open,’ though it was well past nine at night. A tiny bell chimed as he pushed the heavy wooden door inward.

The air inside was thick with the scent of beeswax, old paper, and something else… lavender and a faint, electric tang of ozone, like the air after a thunderstorm. The shop was a labyrinth of towering shelves and narrow pathways, every surface cluttered with objects that seemed to watch him from the shadows.

“We’re closing soon,” a voice called out, smooth and melodic, from behind a tall cabinet.

A woman emerged, wiping her hands on a soft cloth. She was older, perhaps in her late sixties, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed far younger than the fine lines on her face. Her long, silver hair was tied back in a simple knot, and she wore several intricate silver rings on her fingers. She moved with a quiet, confident grace.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” Kaelen said, his customer-service persona kicking in again. “I was hoping to ask you about a couple of your regulars. The Pembrooks.”

The woman’s expression didn't change, but her eyes sharpened, taking in his worn jeans and simple t-shirt, lingering for a fraction of a second on the back of his right hand. A flicker of recognition? He couldn’t be sure.

“George and Eleanor,” she said, her voice softening with what sounded like genuine sadness. “I heard what happened on the news. A terrible tragedy.” She leaned against a display case filled with antique eyeglasses. “They were wonderful clients. A discerning eye for items with… a strong history.”

The phrase hung in the air between them. Kaelen felt a subtle shift in the conversation. This wasn't just a shop owner talking about customers.

“They bought a silver box from you,” Kaelen said, deciding to be direct. “About three weeks ago. An ornate, Victorian-era casket.”

“Ah, the Sorrow Casket,” she corrected him gently. “It’s not meant to be a decorative piece. It’s designed to quiet things. To contain an object with a powerful emotional resonance.” Her gaze was steady, probing. “An unusual thing for a man like you to be asking about. You aren’t with the police, are you?”

“No. I’m a… consultant,” he said, the lie feeling flimsy in the charged atmosphere of the shop. “I’m investigating the circumstances of their death.”

The woman, E. Thorne according to the ledger, let out a soft, knowing sigh. She walked over to a small, cluttered counter and began tidying a stack of books. “The Pembrooks were brave, but they were amateurs. They collected things without fully understanding the… attachments they came with. The casket wasn't the problem, Mr…?”

“Vance. Kaelen Vance.”

Her hands stilled for a beat. She looked at him again, a long, appraising stare. “Vance,” she repeated softly. “Of course. The casket was the solution. The problem was what they intended to put inside it.”

She reached under the counter and pulled out a sales receipt, a carbon copy. “They bought the casket to contain another purchase they’d made from me a week prior. Something they said felt… loud. Unhappy.”

She turned the slip around for him to see. The item listed was simple: One (1) Silver Locket, c. 1890.

“A locket?” Kaelen asked, his mind racing. The residue was pouring from the box, not a locket.

“That’s what they came back to buy the casket for,” she confirmed, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “They said it was for the locket they had at home. The one they found at a flea market. They said it wouldn’t stop… weeping.”

Kaelen stared at her, the pieces falling into a dreadful new alignment. The Pembrooks had brought the problem home first. They’d bought the casket as a cage, but they were too late. The thing wasn't in the box. The box was just where the residue was thickest because that's where they had tried, and failed, to fight back.

As he turned to leave, his mind reeling, the shop owner’s voice stopped him at the door.

“Mr. Vance,” she said, her tone no longer that of a simple shopkeeper but of someone issuing a warning. “Be careful. Some echoes don’t just carry a history. They are the history. And they don’t like to be disturbed.”