In a city where shadows seemed to stretch further than daylight dared go, Elenore van Helsing’s name was legendary in certain circles. Her office on the edge of London wasn’t listed in directories, yet whispers of her abilities had crossed oceans and social spheres, known to anyone who encountered the unexplained. Elenore was brilliant, cool, and keen-eyed to a degree that made strangers nervous; she could read a person’s secrets just by a glance, observing their habits, the subtle wear on their clothing, or the way their fingers danced over their phone screen. She was always one step ahead, and she relished the challenge of the supernatural that others found unbelievable.
Jack Wilson, her new roommate and business partner, was an anchor of reason and science—a former army medic turned med-tech entrepreneur, tall, kind-eyed, and recently disillusioned with life’s humdrum. Though he’d built a small fortune pioneering rapid diagnostics for hospitals, Jack craved something he couldn’t name until he met Elenore. He was drawn to her magnetism, her mind, and, though he’d never admit it, the way she could hold a room with her silence alone. Jack knew he was a little in love with her, and he knew she knew it, but they both played a quiet game of keeping that truth buried.
One damp October evening, Jack was in their shared apartment reviewing designs for a new blood-testing kit when Elenore walked in, face lit with an uncharacteristic spark of excitement. She held up a neatly folded note bearing the crest of the London Metropolitan Police.
“A case?” Jack asked, already setting aside his work.
She gave him a look that said why else?
“Two bodies in Brixton,” she said. “No signs of a struggle, no marks or wounds, and no explanation as to why they’re dead. But there’s something…” She held up her phone to show a photograph of the bodies in question, both men lying perfectly still, expressions eerily peaceful, each with a strange scar on their palm—a five-pointed star.
Jack’s brows knit in confusion. “They look like they’re sleeping.”
“Precisely. A sleeping death.” She pocketed the phone and tossed him his coat. “We’re going to the scene.”
The crime scene was in a run-down apartment building in Brixton. The hall smelled faintly of mildew and damp plaster. Detective Inspector Lestrade—a long-time skeptic of Elenore’s particular talents—stood waiting, arms crossed. He gave them a nod of reluctant respect.
“You’re in for a treat, van Helsing,” he muttered. “First-floor flat, both bodies exactly as they were found. Just… do your thing, alright?”
Elenore stepped in, eyes sweeping the room with laser-like precision. The two men lay side by side on a sagging sofa. She noticed their shoes—scuffed and worn, though they were otherwise immaculately dressed. She ran a gloved finger along a small coffee table nearby, lifting it to show a faint, greasy residue.
“Take a whiff, Jack,” she said, raising her gloved hand to his nose.
He inhaled, squinting in thought. “Ginseng? No… wait—wolf’s bane?”
She nodded. “A trace of something lethal, but not one that leaves an obvious mark.” She turned back to the bodies, eyeing the star-shaped scars on their palms. “Our victims were dabbling in things they didn’t understand. Occult symbols like this usually mean they were part of something. A cult, a pact, some sort of ritualistic bond.”
“What do you think killed them?” Jack asked, unable to hide his admiration for her rapid deductions.
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Her eyes fell to a pile of letters on the floor near the sofa, stamped with a logo for The Scarlet Circle. She sifted through them, pulling out a faded business card: Eileen Addison, Clairvoyant and Life Consultant.
Jack raised an eyebrow. “So, they were consulting with a psychic?”
“Not just a psychic,” Elenore murmured, flipping over the card to reveal a hand-drawn rune symbol. “Eileen Addison is known to dabble in ritualistic charms. If anyone in this city has a reason for these deaths, it’s her.”
The following night, Elenore and Jack arrived at Addison’s townhome. It was draped in the sort of tapestries and flickering candles that screamed “mystic” and “charlatan.” Addison herself was striking, with dark hair that framed her face in waves, her eyes quick and observant. She looked at Elenore with a smirk that bordered on admiration.
“Ah, the great Elenore van Helsing,” Eileen purred. “I’ve heard of you, of course. The monster hunter with a skeptic’s mind.”
“Spare me the charm, Ms. Addison,” Elenore said coolly. “I want to know about the Scarlet Circle.”
Addison’s expression didn’t waver. “The Scarlet Circle is a community—a society of sorts for those seeking power through the forgotten arts. The men you speak of were my clients, yes, but they were dabbling in something dangerous. They wanted shortcuts, paths to power.”
“And you provided them these shortcuts?” Jack asked, his tone skeptical.
“I provided guidance,” she replied. “The ritual they wanted—they wanted power over their enemies. They used the circle without my consent, without knowing the dangers. The mark on their hands? It binds them to the spirit they were calling, forever. They meddled with something they weren’t ready for.”
Jack looked at Elenore, searching her face for a reaction, but she only looked back at Addison with cold calculation.
“So, the deaths were an accident?” Elenore asked, voice low.
Addison laughed softly, shaking her head. “Hardly. When you meddle in the supernatural, there are prices. The spirit they summoned—an old thing, ruthless and unforgiving—it claims them in death if they can’t uphold their end of the bargain.”
Later that night, Jack found Elenore gazing thoughtfully at the evidence in their flat. “So, what’s the next move?” he asked, leaning closer, trying to catch her eye.
Elenore looked up, a smirk on her lips. “We invite our spirit back, give it a new bargain.”
The ritual took place in the dead of night, in the very apartment where the men had died. Elenore, ever methodical, had spent hours recreating the circle precisely as the victims had, with faint symbols etched in chalk. She lit candles, murmured the ancient Latin phrases, her face calm and unreadable.
Suddenly, a shadow flickered in the room, and Jack felt a chill that prickled down his spine. A shape took form—dark, monstrous, with a voice like tearing paper. It glared at them with hunger, bound to the circle but eager for release.
“We have something you want,” Elenore said steadily, holding up a glass vial of Addison’s blood. “The blood of the one who summoned you. You leave these souls behind, and you’ll be free to claim her.”
The spirit considered, its form writhing like smoke, before a gravelly voice echoed, “Done.”
With a final, whispered phrase, Elenore broke the circle, letting the spirit vanish with a hiss.
The next day, reports of Eileen Addison’s mysterious disappearance circulated around London. Elenore didn’t so much as look at the headlines; she was already buried in her next case. Jack, seated beside her, marveled at her cold precision, her brilliance, and the fearless way she’d faced down a force few could even imagine.
“You’re quite something, you know,” he said, unable to keep the admiration from his voice.
She looked up, a rare smile flickering across her face. “Don’t go soft on me, Jack.”
But he could see a trace of warmth in her eyes, and he knew that, for now, that was enough. Together, they faced the darkness of a world filled with things unseen, each case as thrilling as the last. And as long as he was at her side, Jack knew he’d follow her anywhere.