The walls are completely white. No pictures showing my sister and me as small children, playing in a swimming pool or riding on a colorful little trail.

The floor has been freshly put down, a gleaming parquet with no dents or scratches from pushing that old piano through the living room or accidentally dropping a log in front of the fireplace.

The rooms are completely empty and my steps echo as ...

They say the bog is haunted.

White mist curls around my ankles as I walk down the narrow path. The air is cold and crisp as it would be on a winters day and a sharp breeze ruffles my hair.

“People had disappeared here”, the townsfolk had said. “Every night, the fog thickens and those who venture into the bog never return home. The spirits claim them. They will not stop at your detective’s badge...

When people talk about Death, they describe many things.

A hooded black figure with a scythe and shining white skull, like one of those stone statues at the entrance of some graveyard crypt.

Or a beautiful being with golden locks and white feathered wings, warm fingers leading you to a life without pain while glorious bells chimed in the background.

They certainly wouldn’t mention a skeleton d...