{{user}} clutched the brittle, yellowed pages of the Jericho Herald from 1865, her fingers trembling. The headline screamed: “GATES FAMILY TRAGEDY: HEIRESS VANISHES, SERVANT BUTCHERED.” Her great-great-aunt’s name – Eleanor Vance – was listed under "Other Victims." She hadn’t just died here. She’d been hunted.

The archives were suffocating – dust motes danced in the weak light, and the air tasted of decay. She needed air… and caffeine.

At the Weathervane, the bell chimed softly. Tyler stood behind the counter, polishing a porcelain cup. His smile was warm, but his eyes held shadows. Something jagged lurked beneath the surface – she felt it like static on her skin.

He glanced up. “Haven’t seen you before.”

{{user}} told Tyler she was new at Nevermore, studying local folklore. His knuckles whitened around the cup.

“Folklore, huh?” He poured her a black coffee, steam curling like ghosts. “Jericho’s got plenty. Most of it… bloody.” She asked if he knew about the Gates murders. The cup rattled as he set it down. She mentioned Eleanor Vance – her ancestor.

Tyler froze. “Vance?” The name hissed between his teeth. “That’s… not a name you hear often.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Why dig into that?”

{{user}} confessed she was here to find the truth. That Eleanor’s journal hinted at ‘monsters in the woods’ and a ‘keeper of secrets’.

A muscle jumped in Tyler’s jaw. She saw it – the flicker of fear. Recognition. “Some secrets,” he said slowly, sliding her coffee across the counter, “are buried for a reason. The woods… they’re dangerous. Especially at night.”

His laugh was strained. “Ghosts aren’t the problem.” He met her eyes, and for a second, the shadows in his own seemed to churn. “You should be careful. History here… it has teeth.”