The rusted gate, a skeletal grin in the perpetual twilight of Aberddu, groaned a protest Rhys ignored. Rain, a constant companion in this city, plastered his dark coat to his shoulders. Ten years. Ten years since Ffion’s death, and the city’s ‘finest’ had finally shunted the case to him, the disgraced detective, out of what he could only assume was a cruel joke. He’d take it. Anything was better than the quiet hum of his own failures. Beside him, Gwyllgi, a hulking mass of shaggy Glas-Hound, pushed his damp snout against Rhys’s hand, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Even the dog, usually stoic, seemed to sense the oppressive sorrow clinging to Tŷ Haearn. “Easy, boy,” Rhys muttered, the words thin in the heavy air. The manor, Ffion’s ancestral home, loomed, a decaying monolith on the banks of the River Mire. Its slate roof sagged like a tired brow, and empty windowpanes stared out, dark and unseeing. Inside, the air was thick, tasting of rot and damp earth. A chill, deeper than the October wind, seeped into Rhys’s bones. He flicked on his torch, its beam cutting through the gloom, illuminating a scene of quiet devastation. Dust motes danced in the light, caught in the eternal dance of abandonment. Furniture was shrouded in white sheets, ghostly forms in a forgotten wake. Every surface, from the polished mahogany of a forgotten console table to the dark, gleaming flagstones, held a sheen of moisture, catching the faint ambient light. “Alright, Ffion,” Rhys said to the silence, his voice rough. “Let’s see what they missed.” Gwyllgi whined, drawing Rhys’s gaze away from the hall. The dog wasn't looking at him, but at a dark corner of the hall, his hackles slightly raised. Rhys followed the hound’s gaze, but saw only shadows and the peeling wallpaper. He knelt, running a gloved hand over the damp timber near the threshold of what must have been the sitting room. The wood was swollen, yielding under his touch. He pushed off the floor to stand, turning to survey the room proper, and that’s when it happened. His left foot, mid-stride, found nothing but empty air. A sharp crack echoed through the house, followed by a sickening splash. Rhys cried out, his body pitching forward as the rotten joist gave way entirely. His leg plunged into the icy cold below, a shock that stole his breath. The water, black and silty, closed around his thigh, dragging him deeper. He gasped, scrambling with his free leg, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the surrounding boards. Gwyllgi barked, a frantic sound, nudging at his shoulder, trying to help. Rhys hauled himself up, grunting with effort, his muscles screaming. He dragged his leg free of the mire’s grip, the cold water soaking his trousers to a leaden drag. He stumbled back, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Mud and decaying leaves clung to his trousers, dripping onto the surrounding planks, an affront to the undisturbed dust. He looked down, wiping a hand over his face, catching his breath. And then he saw her. In a jagged shard of mirror, lying face-up amidst the splintered debris, a woman’s face stared back. Sharp cheekbones, eyes the colour of churned seafoam, and a mouth set tight with a fury that seemed to radiate from the glass itself. Her gaze, fiercely intelligent, pinned him. For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed to that image, to the undeniable, impossible presence in the broken glass. Rhys blinked, shaking his head, convinced the shock of the fall had rattled his mind. He looked directly at the mirror shard. Nothing. Just his own muddy face, distorted and grim. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, shivering, the cold from his soaked leg seeping deeper. Gwyllgi nudged his hand again, a soft whine now, looking from Rhys to the spot where the face had been. Rhys spent the next hour moving through the house with a grim efficiency, his damp clothes a constant, uncomfortable reminder. He documented the water damage, the structural decay, the clear evidence of neglect that had only worsened the cold case. He found the conservatory, a skeletal frame of iron and shattered glass, at the back of the house. It was a ruin, lush with invasive ferns and standing pools of murky rainwater. The air here was even colder, charged with a strange, stagnant energy. He approached a large, rain-streaked windowpane, its surface a canvas of grey and silver. The light was fading fast now, bleeding out of the sky. As he moved closer, his likeness appeared, distorted by the rivulets of water running down the glass. And then, standing right behind his pane-cast form, she was there again. Clearer this time. Her hair, dark and long, framed a face that was still furious, but now etched with a profound sadness. She wasn’t looking at him, but at his reflection, her eyes locking onto his. Gwyllgi, standing beside Rhys, stiffened, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. He didn’t look at the window directly, but at Rhys’s reflected image, his tail giving a single, hesitant thump against the floor. The woman in the glass lifted a hand, pressing it against the invisible barrier between them. Her lips parted, thin and pale. A single, silent word formed, stark and desperate against the failing light. ‘Help.’ Rhys’s phone, tucked deep in his pocket, vibrated with a sharp buzz. He slipped it out, his gaze still fixed on the spectral woman in the glass, who was slowly fading, her form shimmering like heat haze over a hot road. The screen glowed with an unfamiliar number. He opened the message. ‘Get out of my house.’

The Drowned House