The rain hadn't stopped since morning. It had soaked into the streets of Paris, turning them slick and glossy under the failing light of the evening. Isabelle's breath came in shallow bursts, her mind a tangled knot of uncertainty and dread as she stared at the photograph of Lucie. The porcelain mask that covered her face seemed like a terrible omen, its empty gaze reflecting her helplessness.
When Isabelle had first arrived at the precinct, her phone had been filled with messages—none from Lucie. But something had started to unravel as the hours passed. Lucie's phone was still off. No new texts, no calls. Just silence. The kind of silence that felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting.
And then Jean-Baptiste had shown up at her door. His presence was a reminder of how far they'd all fallen from the quiet, predictable life they had once known. He'd insisted on helping, even after his sister's death, even after everything. In some strange way, he seemed to understand the hunt better than most. Maybe it was because he, too, had lost someone—someone close.
"Where do we go now?" Isabelle asked as she locked her car, the weight of the investigation pressing her chest in a way she hadn't experienced before. Lucie wasn't just another victim; she was Isabelle's closest ally in this madness. Losing her now felt like losing her anchor.
"We follow her steps," Jean-Baptiste said, his voice low, serious. "Lucie was always meticulous. She wouldn't have disappeared without a reason."
Isabelle nodded, her hands gripping the door of her car for support. Jean-Baptiste was right. Lucie was methodical—she would've left some kind of trail. And there was something strange about the way the last photograph had been sent to her. The fact that Lucie's face had been hidden beneath a porcelain mask. It felt like the final piece in a twisted puzzle.
They walked toward the station, their footsteps heavy on the wet pavement.
They had traced Lucie's last known location to an old part of the city near the Montmartre district. It was a place steeped in history, a mix of old and new, cobblestone streets leading to buildings covered in ivy and half-faded paint. Isabelle's mind raced with possibilities. There had been rumors about an abandoned bell tower on the outskirts of Montmartre, a place that had been used in secret centuries ago for confessions—whispered sins of the past carried by the toll of the bells. It was said to be a spot for both saints and sinners.
The thought of the bell tower chilled Isabelle to the core, as if she had stumbled upon a forgotten truth.
When they reached the base of the tower, Jean-Baptiste motioned for her to stop. The building loomed over them, its dark silhouette cutting a sharp contrast against the evening sky. The bell tower was a relic of another time, its ancient stones worn and cracked from years of neglect.
"Lucie's last check-in was here," Jean-Baptiste murmured, his voice low as he surveyed the structure. "She mentioned something about old records… but this place doesn't look like anyone's been here in years."
Isabelle scanned the area. There was no sign of Lucie. No movement in the shadows. No flicker of light in the tower. The only sound was the patter of rain against the stone, the quiet hum of the city far below them.
"She must have found something," Isabelle said, her mind racing. "This place—it's not just abandoned. It's… it's too quiet."
They made their way toward the door, which was ajar, its rusted hinges creaking under the pressure. Isabelle felt a shiver crawl down her spine as they stepped inside, the air cold and damp, smelling faintly of mildew and decay.
The staircase leading up to the top of the tower was narrow, steep, and winding. Each step seemed to groan underfoot, as though the tower itself was alive, unwilling to let them pass. Isabelle kept her hand on the wall as she ascended, her mind focused on the path ahead, but her thoughts wandered back to the photo—the eerie image of Lucie in the confessional booth, the mask on her face.
At the top of the tower, the bell room was much larger than she'd expected. Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, holding massive bells that seemed to watch them with their empty interiors. The air was thick with dust, and the faintest whisper of wind brushed against Isabelle's skin. The place was desolate, save for the scattered remnants of old confessional booths that lined the walls, their wood chipped and worn.
But there was something else in the air—a tension, a presence.
Isabelle moved toward the center of the room. Her breath caught as she spotted something on the far side of the bell chamber. It was faint at first, hidden in the corner of the room, but as she approached, her heart sank.
Lucie's jacket.
It lay crumpled on the ground, discarded, as though it had been torn off in haste. The fabric was wet, streaked with dark stains that Isabelle couldn't identify at first. Blood. The realization hit like a punch to the gut. Lucie had been here. She'd been close.
But where was she now?
Jean-Baptiste crouched down beside the jacket, inspecting it carefully. "She was here. She must have left in a hurry. But why? What's going on here?"
Isabelle shook her head, her thoughts scattered. "There's something more to this place. Something… older. The confessions. The masks. Everything feels like part of some twisted ritual."
Before Jean-Baptiste could respond, Isabelle's eyes landed on a large mirror that hung crookedly near the back wall, partially covered by a thick layer of dust. It reflected the room's interior in a way that made everything seem off, as if it was distorting the space itself.
Isabelle walked toward the mirror, her hand reaching out. She swiped the dust away, revealing a hazy reflection of the bell tower—except something wasn't right.
In the glass, she saw a figure standing behind them. A woman, dressed in a flowing white gown, her back turned, facing the farthest corner of the room. Her hair was long and tangled, and in her hands, she held a porcelain mask.
Isabelle's pulse quickened. "Lucie?"
She spun around, but there was no one there. The room was empty. The bell tower, which had once seemed so distant, so isolated, now felt suffocating. She turned back to the mirror.
And that's when she heard it.
A sound, faint at first, but growing louder. A bell, distant at first, then closer, its deep toll echoing through the room.
But the tower had no power. The bells hadn't rung in years.
The first toll shook the walls. Isabelle stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat.
The second toll was closer.
And then the third, sharp and unmistakable, reverberated through her bones. Isabelle stood frozen, her heart hammering in her chest, her mind reeling from the impossibility of it all.
The bell rang once more, and in that last resounding note, everything around her seemed to shift—slowly, like a dream that was unraveling.
Something, or someone, was watching.
The bell had rung for a reason. And the truth, hidden beneath the layers of dust and time, was about to surface.
To be continued...