Page 12 of Tenebrous

Old family photos crowd the walls, though, which eases my anxiety slightly. At least something seems normal in this house.

“Didn't know Deadfall pays their cops so well,” I murmur, turning in time to catch Paula throwing the deadbolt in place. I swallow hard as she smirks at me. “You boys at the mill get awful jumpy after sunset.”

“Can you blame us?” I mutter, shifting my shoulders uncomfortably.

The smile instantly drops from her face. “No,” she says softly. “I guess not.”

And just like that, the teasing edge disappears.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” My fingers thread through my curls as I blow out a breath. “About your son. Losing people is tough.”

“Yes… tough.” Clearing her throat, Paula moves toward a mahogany staircase. “I'll just freshen up real quick. You can wait down here or in the bedroom if you'd like.”

Feeling like an asshole, I silently follow her upstairs . She disappears down the hallway without looking back, her bare feet padding softly against the hardwood while I linger awkwardly on the landing.

To my right, the primary bedroom door stands open. Inside, I can see a massive bed and wedding photos hanging above the headboard. No doubt the room Paula intended for me to wait in. Which, I should. Definitely should.

Instead, the nosy homewrecker in me pushes open the door to my left.

It's smaller than the main one, but cleaner somehow, like someone just dusted and vacuumed. Another large bed sits neatly against the wall, made with a pristine evergreen comforter. There isn’t a wrinkle in sight, the corners tucked in military-style. Dennis's room, I think, though I'm not sure how I know.

Everything seems spotless, even the overflowing bookshelf stacked beside the desk. My stomach tightens as I step forward to look at the titles.

Pacific Northwest Legends

The Mythos of Appalachia

Folklore of the Forgotten Wild

The further I scan the spines, the weirder the collection gets. Books on ancient forest spirits, indigenous stories. One ancient cloth binder labeled Mine Incidents: 1882.

A chill prickles across my skin.

“Okay,” I whisper, crouching to get a better look at some of the books on the bottom shelf. “Dennis was definitely smoking more than weed.”

One particular book catches my attention—small, black leather, with no title on the spine. My eyes might have passed over the thing had it been perfectly straight like all the others, but it’s wedged on top like it was thrown there in a hurry.

Every instinct screams at me to leave it alone, exit the room, flee the house. But as always, the part of me that thrives on trouble ignores the warning bells.

Glancing over my shoulder, I listen for the shower, checking that Paula's still occupied before pulling the book free.

Its leather feels soft, the edges worn from use. A few loose pages stick out between sections, covered in cramped handwriting and messy sketches. My thumb brushes over the word “journal” embossed in gold on the cover.

This has to belong to Dennis.

Something about touching a dead man's journal feels strangely intimate. Wrong, even, like reading it means crossing a line I won’t be able to uncross. There’s no coming back from this.

But I've never met a boundary I couldn't barrel through so naturally, I open it up anyway.

The first page crackles softly. Most of the writing is rushed and chaotic, a stark parallel to how neat the rest of the room is. Some of it is too hard to read, but a few words stand out among the ramblings: darkness, monster, underground. A lot of question marks.

From what I gather as I leaf through, Dennis must have used the journal for whatever crazy shit he was researching. And he didn't have it for long, either. Maybe six months or so, given the dates of entry, which doesn't make much sense considering its near-crumbling condition.

When I flip closer toward the back, the content only seems to get worse. Sentences that barely seem literate, odd symbols and ripped pages. My pulse quickens at the final entry, dated only two short months ago.

“It's not an animal.“

The words are scratched so hard into the paper that they nearly tear through. Beneath the sentence sits a rough sketch of something towering among trees—broad shoulders, long arms, glowing round eyes.