Welcome to Calico

The sign for Calico was sun-bleached and peeling, like a scab on a forgotten wound. Some wag had put a cartoon ghost on it, a friendly, winking specter that looked like it wanted to sell you a timeshare in hell. The heat wasn't just heat; it was a physical weight, a smothering blanket woven from grit and regret. It pressed down on the roof of my car, on my shoulders, on the part of my soul I’d thought had died with Sarah.

I killed the engine. The silence that rushed in was worse than the rattling hum of the air-conditioning. It was a dead silence, the kind you find in places where bad things have happened and are getting ready to happen again. This was supposed to be a fresh start. A quiet little PI gig in the middle of nowhere, a place to lick my wounds and let the ghosts of my past fade into the background noise of a tourist town. A string of disappearances, the client had said over a crackling phone line. The local sheriff blamed it on Maggie Mine and the restless spirits within. Easy. Tidy. The kind of story that sells souvenir t-shirts and keeps people from asking the right questions.

But I knew about ghosts. The real ones don't rattle chains; they wear three-piece suits and leave behind mounds of paperwork and shattered widows. The real ones had put my wife in the ground. The evil I was running from had a face, a name, a balance sheet. And the feeling crawling up my spine as I looked at the faux-Western storefronts of Calico—a town propped up like a cardboard movie set—was that same kind of evil. It was hiding here, under the kitsch and the ghost stories, breathing in the arid desert air and waiting.

I got out of the car, the door groaning in protest. The air smelled of dust, hot asphalt, and something else. Something sweet and cloying, like overripe fruit left to rot in the sun. My gaze drifted toward the hills overlooking the town, where the skeletal headframe of the Maggie Mine broke the skyline. It didn't look like a tourist attraction. It looked like a gallows. And I had the sickening feeling that I hadn't come here to find a ghost. I'd come here to find a grave.

Now, graves were something that I knew too much about. I had buried my fair share of bad guys, but I had buried good people, too. Sarah was the only casualty that I had yet to accept. I blame myself because I tried to shield her from evil, but that evil always finds a way home, right?

My hand instinctively went to the worn leather of my shoulder holster. The weight of the .38 Special was a familiar comfort, a silent promise of retribution. This town felt wrong, a stage set for a play I'd already seen the ending of. I pulled my gaze away from the mine and focused on the address Vance had given me: a dusty, nondescript office just off Main Street. Time to find out what kind of ghost story I'd been hired to uncover.

The building was a relic, its paint faded to the color of old bruises. A faded sign, barely legible, proclaimed "Vance Geological Surveys." Vance himself was waiting inside, a picture of anxious respectability, his suit a little too sharp for this dusty corner of the world.

"Mr. Draven?" Vance rose, extending a hand slick with nervous sweat. "Thank you for coming. I'm Elias Vance. My brother, Thomas… he's gone."

"Gone how?" I asked, my voice a low rasp. The air in the office was thick with the smell of old paper and desperation.

"He was surveying near the Maggie Mine," Vance continued, his voice cracking, "and he just… vanished. The sheriff here is useless. Talking about spirits, about the mine being cursed. I need someone who deals with facts, Mr. Draven, not fairy tales."

The sheriff's faith in spectral explanations was the least of my concerns. My focus narrowed on the mine, on the silence that clung to it like a shroud.

"Vance," I began, my tone flat, "ghosts don't usually leave footprints." The masses are so eager to blame everything on the supernatural. I never believed in that horseshit. The real monsters don't play dress up or come out on Halloween. No, the real monsters wear designer suits, masks of kindness, and promise you paradise...all for a price, of course.

"And you think your brother's disappearance is tied to this mine, not some spectral hijinks?" I steered the conversation back to solid ground, ignoring the tremor in his voice.

"Absolutely," Vance insisted, leaning forward. "Thomas was meticulous. He wouldn't just wander off. There's something down there, Mr. Draven, something the authorities are either too scared or too complicit to find."

"Your brother was a geologist, you said?" I let the question hang in the air, watching his reaction. The man's desperation felt too performative, too rehearsed.

"Yes, Thomas Vance. A brilliant man. He was charting… mineral deposits." Vance's eyes darted to the window, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

"Near the Maggie Mine?" I pressed, my own gaze now fixed on the street outside, on the shimmer of heat rising from the asphalt, on the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams that slanted through the grimy glass. The air tasted of it all – dust, desperation, and the faint, metallic tang of something far more sinister.

His demeanor shifted. He suddenly took on a nervous twitch. He wasn't telling me something...something important.