A Fog in the Flashlight (Episode 3)

The Lost & Foundry: Where Shadows Whisper Secrets

Have you ever wandered through a metaphorical fog, uncertain of the hidden path ahead? What mysteries do you imagine lie concealed within the swirling depths of reality?

Don’t miss a bit of the story:

The Lost & Foundry ✍️ Table of Contents

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“You didn’t call me over here for that, did you?” Finn says of the worn brass compass sitting on the edge of the old pine plank table that spans the length of the former kitchen, now the keeping room of Cassandra’s second-hand store, The Lost & Foundry.

“Just humor me, that’s all I’m asking,” she replies, blowing onto her morning cup of black tea and taking a tentative sip. She’s been sleeping well now that the way finder has stopped weeping, it being the most recent item from her inventory to demand her extrasensory attention. As a medium, Cassandra can hear the echoes left behind by the objects’ former owners and, in some cases, finds herself compelled to assist with a bit of unfinished business. “Everyone who touches it says it points somewhere else.”

“Fine,” Finn grumbles, tipping open the lid to read the inscription. “‘To E.T. from E.V. Find your north star.’ You think that’s Edwin Thorne? As in Thorne Forest?”

“It was in the box of things Chet brought by, and, like I told you, I heard it crying.” The friends have tried to have this conversation before, but each time Finn Harrison’s mind can’t seem to open wide enough to accept the truth of Cassandra Wilkins’ second sight. “When I listened closely, it told me where to send the sheriff.”

With a roll of his eyes, Finn picks up the way finder and watches the needle swing, “Works fine, points towards you and that’s due north.”

“You don’t say,” Cassandra smiles, her suspicions about her friend confirmed.

When she arrived in the small coastal town three years ago, Finn’s construction firm converted her grandfather’s home into the retail space that is now her livelihood. Despite her meager budget, he helped her get much more than she could afford, including a well-appointed flat on the second floor. More than six feet tall, tattooed, and built like a Clydesdale, his bullish exterior obscures the butterfly heart that beats within.

“Yep, look here,” he says, comparing it with his cellphone’s compass app. North, of course, just happens to be the same direction she’s sitting across from him. She knows his skepticism will not accept coincidence as proof of anything. “Who’s E.V.? Do you think that’s your grandfather?”

“My what?” Cassandra is taken aback.