Disclaimer: All stories, songs, plots, characters, places, poems, etc. that you recognize in this story from any of J.R.R. Tolkien's works belong strictly to J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not own any of them.
Chapter One
"A dead man, a broken body, and a dark-haired stranger. Is this correct, Ms. Andros?" The man raised a quizzical eyebrow, reaching for a cup of coffee that had long since lost its heat. Exhausted, he discreetly slid his shirt sleeve up until a well-worn watch was revealed. Midnight, he sighed mentally, absent-mindedly rubbing his temples. All day, and still no answers.
The woman before him studied his face blankly, her own devoid of all expression. With her messy hair, pallid features, and white, hospital gown, she appeared more suited for the mental hospital than a police station. Yet, here she was, without any rhyme or reason; the only witness to a mysterious death.
That took place fifteen years ago, he thought in irritancy, wanting nothing more than to go home, sleep, and spend time with his wife and infant daughter. Instead, he was locked away in this small, gray room with a young woman who obviously knew nothing about this particular case. Damn, she couldn't have been more than six years old. How could she remember much more? "All right, Ms. Andros," he sighed, stuffing the murder scene photos into a well-worn envelope. "I'm sorry to have kept you here. You're free to go—it's obvious that neither you nor I know much about this case whatsoever."
Attempting to smooth her unruly, dark hair, she replied, "I'm sorry if I seem difficult, Detective Hill."
That would be an understatement, he thought in response, inwardly rolling his eyes.
"It's just that—" she paused, adding, "I've been extremely shaken up these past few days, let alone my entire life." Growing irritated, she continued, "My father disappeared when I was seven, leaving no note, no clue of his whereabouts. My mother barely held the family together, until to come down with ovarian cancer when I was fourteen."
He cringed, remorseful for dealing so harshly with this witness. I need to get more sleep, he reasoned, or I will end up exploding at one of them someday soon. "I am sorry for your loss, Ms. Andros, and—"
She held up her hand, interrupting his apology. "I don't need sympathy, apologies, or explanations for your actions," she answered coldly, pursing her lips and scowling. Her morbid expression highlighted the hideous dark circles resting beneath her eyes, giving her the appearance of a corpse recently returned from the grave. "Things have never been great, you see, but they were manageable. Until three days ago, when that Thing . . ." Her voice trailed off, eyes centered on something that only she was capable of viewing.
He frowned, studying the woman concernedly. What is wrong with her? he wondered, closing his eyes and once more rubbing his temples. "We've been through this several times, Ms. Andros," he began, speaking in a calm tone more suited for a small child. "The doctors have explained this, the investigation team has confirmed it, our surveillance footage of the store has confirmed it: there was nothing there that attacked you."
She focused on him momentarily before bursting into a fit of bitter laughter. "You see this," she demanded, pointing toward the numerous cuts and scrapes lining her face and the large bruise over her left cheek. "Don't tell me that "nothing" gave me these wounds. Granted, I don't know what gave them to me, but something most certainly did, whether that something is an intangible entity or not."
Once more sighing, he reopened a binder, and said, "Fine. We'll go with the assumption that something really did attack you. But you have to understand me when I say this, Ms. Andros: in order for us to protect you and find out what murdered your father, we need to know what happened to you all those years ago, when you claim this episode first began. We also need to know who that 'dark haired man' is. Do you understand?"
Nodding, she swallowed, and added, "All right. I'll try to remember, and I will try to help you the best that I can. Just remember, though: I was seven-years-old and fifteen years have passed."
The house we moved into is really big. Mom said it used to be a castle a long time ago. There are holes everywhere, and she says we'll have to get some guys to fix them for us. Everything is silver-colored and the stairs are really long. Mom said my room is on the top floor, right over hers and Daddy's. I went in there today, and I didn't like it. There was red stuff on the wall, and when I asked Mom what it was, she just said it was red paint left from the last people who lived here. She thinks I'm stupid and that I don't know what that stuff really is, but I do. It's blood. I don't know how it got there, though.
Jeez. I'm seven, not a baby.
I don't like this house, though. It's sad here. Last night, I heard somebody crying outside my window. I looked out, but no one was there. I got really scared and hid under the covers. When Mom came in this morning, I told her what happened, and she just gave me a hug and told me to be really quiet. She seemed scared, and that made me even more scared.
Daddy's been really weird. He went to look at the other part of the castle and when he came back, he was all different. He talks in this really strange voice and is really mean to Mom. He doesn't talk to me at all, and just stays up in his office all day, looking through weird books, or looking at the other part of the castle. Mommy seems really scared, and just stays in her room all day. Last night, I heard her praying. But Daddy wasn't in there. He was out, looking at stuff, but I don't know what.
"And in those ruins dwelt a ghost,
Of a past and time unknown;
And do you know what he wanted most?
To claim your body for his own."
Detective Hill glanced up. For reasons unknown to him, the words of her poem sent chills down his spine, echoing into the dark recesses of his mind and unleashing a terror that he had long repressed. Whispering, he asked, "What is that poem from?"
Her eyes turned toward his, reflecting the terror he now felt. "It was my mother's. She was a lawyer before she met my father, but quit working after she had me. She was always a very talented writer, especially in the area of poetry. She started to write more often, though, after we moved into that . . . place. This was just one of her poems." She began fiddling with a bracelet on her arm, studying the ground.
Hill's interest was peaked. "What place?" he asked, a bit more assertively than he intended.
"I really don't remember much about it," the woman answered, meeting his gaze once more. "My father was an architect. Actually, he was an extremely well-known architect, from what I was told, and made a great deal of money from whoever it was that he designed for. When I was seven, he bought a rather large piece of property and we moved into the ruins that were spread out all over the grounds."
"What kind of ruins?" Hill asked, the previous sense of foreboding returning. He felt as though he was about to unlock a dreaded and ancient secret that had been intended to remain locked away forever for the good of mankind.
"Old, very old," the woman answered, pursing her lips in a thoughtful manner. "When I was twenty, I studied abroad for a semester in Greece, and I visited all kinds of temples and buildings that were estimated to be several thousand years old. But now, when I think back, I realize that wherever it was that we lived when I was seven was substantially older than anything I ever visited in Europe. So ancient that I couldn't even begin to imagine who or what built the place. I just know my father fell in love with the idea of remodeling everything, and so we went."
Pausing, she continued, "I just remember that one day, he went to survey the area at the far corner of the property that we had not yet remodeled. He was gone for several hours, and when he came back, he was gone. I never saw him again."
"In your report," Hill countered, perplexed, "you stated that your father disappeared when you were roughly eight or nine years old. How could he have been 'gone' when you were seven?"
"I mean 'gone,'" the woman explained, "in the sense that while my father's body was still there, it wasn't him. The person who came back was not my father by any means. I don't know who or what it was, but when I looked into his eyes, there was something icy there, something filled with more pain than I think I could ever know. And it was old, whatever it was, it was ancient. Like the ruins themselves. And deadly." She stopped, adding, "And intelligent. Incredibly intelligent. My father was a smart man, but this thing, this thing was beyond the scope of human knowledge."
Hill raised a skeptical brow. All right, maybe she does need a mental hospital. "So, what you're saying," he began, "is that some spirit or creature took over your father's body?"
"Yes, exactly," the woman answered, appearing relieved.
"I have one last question before we take a break," Hill began, absent-mindedly twirling a pen in his fingers, "Do you think you could remember the name of this place if you thought hard enough?"
The woman frowned and closed her eyes briefly. Opening them once more, she replied, "The Thing said it once, I think. He mentioned something about a 'Doriath.'"
And with her words, Hill admitted that he had officially fallen over the deep end into insanity.