The biting wind whipped at Frank Morgan’s trench coat as he stepped off the Greyhound bus in Lynde River, New York. The air hung heavy with the scent of snow and something else… something acrid, metallic, that clung to the back of his throat. Lynde River, nestled deep within the seemingly endless expanse of upstate New York, was far from the bustling cityscapes he was accustomed to. It was a place where the silence felt heavier than the snow, where the houses huddled together like frightened children against the encroaching winter. A town that seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
He pulled his collar higher, the worn leather creaking a familiar protest against the chill. His battered briefcase, his only companion on this trip, felt heavier than usual, laden not just with files but with the weight of expectation and a gnawing unease. Jimmy’s disappearance had shaken him to his core. Jimmy, the relentless reporter, the one who always dug too deep, the one who’d been poking around the same government project Frank was now tasked with investigating. A project initially dismissed as a mundane storage facility, nestled beneath the town, in a network of abandoned limestone caves.
The bus station was deserted, the harsh fluorescent lights reflecting off the bleak, snow-covered landscape outside. The only sound was the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of melting snow from the leaky roof, a soundtrack to his growing unease. He hailed a cab, the driver a taciturn man with eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of the town itself. The journey to the modest motel on the outskirts of town was short, the ride punctuated only by the squeak of tires on the icy streets and the driver’s occasional, almost imperceptible, glances in the rearview mirror.