I opened my eyes, and the world around me slowly coming back into focus. The head was buzzing, as if I had just leaped from the depths of the ocean onto Mars. My hands were still gripping the revolvers. My mouth was dry, like I had just dined on the contents of a writer’s ashtray, one whose deadlines were burning. My temples throbbed. A drink would have helped, but I was already on the job.

  "Mr Rains," came Woodsworth’s voice. He stood beside me, his hands tense behind his back. His face was as impassive as ever, but in his eyes - there was a shadow of worry. "You... have returned."

  "Not the word I'd use," I muttered, slowly rising from the chair. My legs trembled, I was no longer the young man who could take a morning jog through hell and back.

  "Mrs Longford is expecting you, sir. If you are ready, I shall take you to her."

  I got up. My fingers still didn’t quite feel like part of me, but in my head, a familiar warning was already sounding: never leave a mind too abruptly. I had done it before and lost a part of myself. I can't remember which.

  I nodded to the butler.

  We walked down the corridor. The silence in the house was thick, sticky, trailing behind each step. The windows were drowning in twilight, but outside, it seemed as if the day itself was imitating the night. Woodsworth stopped before a door and opened it.

  She sat in the dimness, like a forgotten portrait on the wall of an abandoned mansion. A black veil hid her face, leaving only a vague outline. Her long mourning dress faded into the room, giving the impression that she was simply dissolved into the shadows. Her hands rested upon her lap, her back held straight as if her spine were a pillar holding up the heavens. The black widow in her lair.

  "Lady Longford," Woodsworth announced, "this is Mr Rains."

  The scent was subtle but persistent - a faint aroma of jasmine, old paper, and something cold, like silver left overnight in the rain.

  "Detective," she said, her voice quiet, lifeless, like the echo of thoughts that had repeated themselves in the void for far too long.

  "May I activate the light, ma’am?" I asked. I needed to read people, their expressions, their movements. Such job. Right now, I was looking at a woman without shape, without rhythm, without motion.

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  "I’m afraid if you want this conversation to take place, you’ll have to be content with the current atmosphere."

  "My condolences," I said, sitting across from her.

  "You are not here for them," she replied without a shadow of reproach. There weren’t many shadows in this half-light.

  "Correct. I’m not here for them. You know why I’m here. Who was your husband behind closed doors?"

  "Oh, behind closed doors," she whispered, as if the words themselves meant something. "He was... ordinary."

  "Ordinary?"

  "For a man who lived with the fog beyond his window," her voice was quiet, but there was uncertainty in it.

  "What do you mean?"

  She still depicted an ancient sphinx:

  "The Fog enters our minds before it reaches the streets, detective."

  I didn’t look away.

  "Your husband built the repellers, didn’t he?"

  "If they worked, we would still be living on the land of our ancestors."

  "I need to enter your mind."

  "What must I do, detective?"

  "Nothing. But I must warn you, my mind is not a surgeon’s scalpel. It is more like a rusted needle. It can leave contamination. Changes in your psyche. For example, an inexplicable craving for bad whiskey."

  "You mean you might leave a part of yourself inside me?"

  "Yes. But not only that." I ran a finger along the handle of my revolver. "I might take something of yours with me. Foreign thoughts stick like wet ash. Sometimes they stay longer than you’d like. It’s... an exchange that cannot be undone. If I die in there, inside your mind, then a dead cynical detective will remain there forever. So do try to keep your demons on a leash."

  She didn’t answer. I drew my revolvers.

  "Weapons?"

  "They’re my anchors. I often forget where the shore is."

  "Isn’t it dangerous - to fall asleep with guns in your hands?"

  "The body locks itself in sleep. Have you ever had that feeling? When you’re asleep, but suddenly realize your body won’t move? You open your eyes, you see the room, you hear the sounds... But something’s wrong. Something is standing next to you, breathing into your ear, tugging at your sheets. That’s sleep paralysis. When the mind has already woken up, but the body is still asleep. And while you’re helpless, your own fears take shape. Dark entities. Only for me, they are real. That’s why I need the guns."

  "I’m ready," she finally said.

  "Then let's begin," I crossed my arms over my chest, the revolvers resting against me.

  At that moment, the door creaked open and the maid entered, carrying a tray. On the silver tray sat a porcelain cup of dark tea, a teaspoon at the perfect angle, a thin cloud of steam rising into the air, blending into the scents of the room.

  "Madam..." she murmured, "I brought tea."

  "Not now, Mary," Lady Longford replied, not turning her head. Her voice was soft, like a towel wiping a kitchen knife.

  The maid hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking to me and the revolvers in my hands. She bowed quickly and careful, to not let the tray rattle, turned and disappeared into the shadows.

  I sighed.

  Closed my eyes.

  And stepped inside.