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I fought to keep my expression neutral at his improvised cover story. University archive? But Martha seemed to relax slightly, the lie more palatable than whatever she'd imagined.

“Well, he lived over on Maple Street. That big Victorian with the wraparound porch. Moved in about three years ago. Quiet type, but polite enough when he came in.” She slid our coffees across the counter. “Though if you're asking around, you might want to talk to Sheriff Miller first. He doesn't much like people poking around without introducing themselves.”

Sean flashed a winning smile. “We'll be sure to do that. Thanks for the tip.”

As we collected our coffees, I noticed a bulletin board crowded with community notices. Among faded flyers for yard sales and lost pets, a peculiar pattern caught my eye, several missing pet notices clustered together, all from the past month, all from the same neighborhood.

“You see that?” I murmured as we took a table near the window.

Sean's gaze followed mine. “Missing pets. Classic sign of something supernatural settling in. Next comes the cattle mutilations, then missing hikers. Same song, different verse.”

“All from the area around Maple Street,” I noted, sipping the surprisingly decent coffee.

A man in faded overalls at the next table cleared his throat. “You folks asking about the professor?”

Sean turned, interest sharpening. “You knew him?”

“Did some carpentry work in his house last summer.” The man lowered his voice, leaning in. “Strange job. Wanted his basement floor reinforced with concrete, walls soundproofed. Said it was for a 'home laboratory.' Paid cash, triple my usual rate to finish in two days and not ask questions.”

“Did you see this laboratory?” I asked, my research instincts kicking in.

The man shook his head. “Never went back after the job. But I heard things. My nephew delivers groceries, said the professor started ordering weird stuff. Salt by the bagful. Iron filings. Specialty herbs you can't get around here.”

Sean and I exchanged glances. Protection supplies.

“Anyone else have contact with him?” Sean pressed.

“Marge at the hardware store. Professor bought out all her silver items about a month before he disappeared, candlesticks, picture frames, decorative stuff. Said he was collecting.”

I made a mental note. “And when exactly did he disappear?”

“About three weeks ago. Sheriff says he probably just moved on, professors do that, you know? But...” The man glanced around the coffee shop, then back to us. “His car's still in the garage. Mail piling up. And there've been lights in that house at night. Sheriff says it's just kids messin' around, but...” He trailed off, taking a long sip of coffee.

“But you don't believe that,” Sean finished for him.

“Something ain't right with that house.” The man's weathered face creased with genuine concern. “Never was, if you ask me. Built in the 1890s by a doctor who got run out of town for his 'experiments.' Place has a history. People avoid it.”

Martha appeared with a coffeepot refill. “Don Wilson, stop filling their heads with ghost stories,” she chided, though her expression was tense. “These gentlemen are here on university business.”

“Just making conversation, Martha.” Don stood, leaving a few bills on the table. “You boys take care if you're heading to the O'Brien place. Something about that house...” He paused, seeming to reconsider his words. “Well, some places just feel wrong, don't they?”

After he left, Martha lingered. “Don means well, but he loves his stories.” She fidgeted with her apron. “Though... if you are going to that house, maybe go during daylight.” She caught herself, forcing a laugh. “The porch steps are rotten. Wouldn't want you taking a fall in the dark.”

We finished our coffee in thoughtful silence, piecing together the unspoken concerns beneath the townsfolk's carefully edited warnings. As we headed back to the street, Sean's expression had hardened into focused determination.

“Salt, silver, soundproofing,” he listed off. “Looks like he was preparing for something.”

“Or hiding from it,” I countered, my mind already working through possibilities. “The question is what was he hiding from, and why here? Small towns like this usually don't attract supernatural activity without a reason.”

We walked down Elm Street, where pristine colonial homes gave way to Victorian monstrosities as we approached Maple. Each house seemed to watch us pass, curtains twitching, shadows moving behind glass.

“You know what doesn't make sense?” I kept my voice low. “If O'Brien was preparing defenses, why would something still be in his house after he's gone? Shouldn't it have moved on?”

“Unless it's looking for the same thing we are,” Sean replied. “Whatever O'Brien was doing, whatever he found, it was worth killing for.”

The houses grew more imposing as we turned onto Maple Street, their ornate gables and turrets looming against the cloudy sky. The neighborhood felt frozen in time, preserved in amber and slowly rotting from within.

The houseat 1482 Maple stood slightly apart from its neighbors, as if even the other buildings wanted to maintain their distance. Victorian architecture gone to seed, with gables that looked like raised hackles against the pale sky. But it wasn't the decay that made me stop at the gate, it was the wrongness that radiated from every weathered board.