Windmere III

I stepped onto the dimly lit streets of Windmere, the glow from streetlights casting long, uneasy shadows across the quiet roads. Despite the town's modern trappings, there was something old and oppressive in the air, like the whole place was held captive by secrets no one dared name. For days, I'd been piecing together fragments of truth about Windmere, but the puzzle was far from complete. Somewhere here, in the shadows and whispers, lay the answers.

Rumor had it that the brothel at the town's edge held the darkest of Windmere's secrets. I followed winding streets, alleys barely wide enough to walk through, and finally found myself at the building—a plain, unmarked door beneath a faintly flickering red light. The place was nondescript, almost invisible to an untrained eye, as if it wanted to be forgotten. The glow above it cast a muted light, making the surrounding darkness seem deeper, as if it could swallow anything that stepped inside.

I stepped through the door, and immediately, the heavy scent of smoke and cheap perfume hit me. The air was thick, clouded with incense that mingled with the low hum of voices. Men were scattered at tables and around the bar, each wearing the same blank expression, their eyes averted, lost in their own thoughts. No one wanted to be seen here; no one wanted to acknowledge anyone else.

I moved toward the bar, glancing around as if I belonged. The bartender, a woman with keen, watchful eyes, glanced up as I approached, sizing me up. I ordered a drink, partly for show and partly to keep my cover. She didn't say anything, but her gaze lingered as I paid. She'd seen people like me before, I could tell, and she probably knew exactly what I was after, even if she didn't say it out loud.

I let the whiskey burn my throat as I scanned the room. I wasn't here to drink, and I wasn't here to question the bartender. I needed someone who had lived within Windmere's shadows—a person close enough to the town's horrors to understand but far enough from the mayor's inner circle to talk. One of the women here might just know what I needed to uncover.

Toward the back of the room, a few women stood under dim, flickering lights, each one wearing the same air of detachment that matched the men around them. I caught the eye of one woman who seemed different. She held herself upright, and although her face was expressionless, her eyes held a depth that hinted at experience and, maybe, resignation. She met my gaze with a quiet understanding. Without a word, she nodded toward the back hall, and I followed her up a narrow staircase that creaked under our weight.

At the top, she opened the door to a small, dimly lit room, sparsely furnished but with an unmistakable air of privacy. She closed the door and gestured toward a chair, taking a seat herself across from me, as far from the bed as possible, which suited me just fine. She studied me, cautious but steady, waiting to see if I would speak first.

Once the silence had settled, I leaned forward, keeping my voice low. "I didn't come here for the usual," I said. "I need information, and I'm willing to pay for it. Real information about this town—what's going on with the mayor, and what's happening to the people who disappear."

Her gaze didn't waver, though her jaw tightened slightly. "You think you're the first person to ask about that?" she said quietly, her voice steady but laced with caution. "This town doesn't take kindly to questions."

"I know that," I replied, holding her gaze. "That's why I came here—to you. I'm not looking for gossip. I'm willing to pay if you're willing to talk."

I took a roll of bills from my wallet and placed it on the table between us. She glanced down at it, her expression neutral. After a moment's silence, she sighed and leaned back, her eyes flicking to the door before returning to me.

"Fine," she said, her voice soft, almost reluctant. "But understand this: Windmere isn't like other places. The people here live under… expectations. And those who don't follow them don't stay here long."

I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

She crossed her arms, her gaze drifting as she began to speak. "Every man in this town is bound by a tradition, you see. An 'arrangement,' they call it, but it's nothing like a real agreement. Every year, they have to… offer their wives to the mayor. A night spent as part of some sick show of his power."

I forced myself to stay calm, though the anger simmered under my skin. "And they just… accept this?"

She gave a bitter, humorless laugh. "What choice do they have? The mayor's got this place wrapped up tighter than you'd believe. Those who refuse, who try to defy him… they don't get a second chance. They disappear. And everyone knows why."

"Disappear," I echoed. "You mean they're killed?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "It's worse than that. The men who vanish—they're taken, but they don't die like you think. The mayor has a way of getting rid of people he doesn't like. He doesn't do it himself. There's… someone who handles that for him."

Her gaze drifted toward the window, as if she could see the figure lurking in the darkness. "A creature, if you can call him that. A man, or maybe something less than human. He kills for the mayor."

The revelation settled over me like a heavy weight, sinking into my bones. This wasn't just a corrupted town official throwing his weight around. This was something darker, something bound by blood and fear.

"And no one's ever tried to stop him?" I asked, though I could already guess her answer.

Her lips tightened, and she shook her head. "A few men have tried. They stood up for themselves, tried to fight back or keep their wives away. But they're gone. No bodies, no goodbyes. Just… gone. People here learned a long time ago that speaking up is the quickest way to disappear yourself. Now everyone stays silent, does as they're told. It's survival."

"Does anyone outside Windmere know?" I asked, trying to piece together the enormity of this hidden power.

"Maybe once or twice," she said, her tone bitter. "But Windmere isn't exactly a vacation spot. People here aren't about to go blabbing about it to outsiders, not if they want to see another sunrise. And if anyone gets too curious, the mayor makes sure they're… dealt with."

I met her gaze, anger burning low but steady. "And what about you? Why stay if it's this bad?"

She gave me a long, searching look. "Where would I go?" she replied, her voice almost a whisper. "This town… it has a way of trapping you, of making you think there's nowhere else. And after a while, you start to believe it."

The room felt colder, as if her words had sucked out the warmth entirely. Her expression was guarded, yet her eyes held a glimmer of defiance, a flicker of someone who had once hoped for something better but had been worn down by the weight of the town's secrets.

She leaned forward, her voice dropping even lower. "I don't know what you think you'll accomplish here, but whatever you're planning… you need to be careful. This place isn't kind to people who look too closely."

I nodded, feeling the gravity of her warning. "I understand. But I'm not leaving without doing something. These people deserve better than to live under this shadow."

She looked at me, a mix of pity and respect in her eyes. "Many have said the same. But Windmere doesn't just swallow people. It erases them. And once you're caught in its web, it doesn't let go."

I leaned back, letting her words sink in. The picture she painted was bleak—a town ensnared in fear and silence, ruled by a man who hid behind a facade while turning the people into puppets, each move controlled by strings of terror and control.

Her voice softened, her gaze drifting to the side. "If you're serious… if you're really going to try to take on the mayor, then remember this: he doesn't do it alone. He's got power, yes, but it's the creature who keeps people in line. The killer. He's bound to the mayor in a way I don't understand, but he's the real threat. Without him, maybe… just maybe, people could find the courage to fight back."

I nodded, absorbing every word, committing her warnings to memory. "Thank you," I said quietly. "You've given me more than I could've hoped for."

She didn't reply, only held my gaze for a moment longer before glancing away. There was a heaviness in her silence, a history too deep and painful to share with a stranger, but I could see it in her eyes—the toll this life had taken, the strength it took to endure it.