S H A D O W ⊥ O W N:

NIGHT FOLK

• Fiction
• Horror
• Mystery
• Short story
• Fantasy

								
Word Count: 4,366

Cryptopolis: Book One - V|S|✞ORS




The "Welcome to Cryptopolis" sign emerged from the snow covered dusk, a weather-beaten wooden sign bearing the faded remnants of what must have once been elaborate Victorian scrollwork. Someone had recently repainted the population numbers, the original 817 partially visible beneath fresh white paint declaring 814. Ayo noticed small crosses carved into the sign's posts, each no bigger than a thumbprint, arranged in neat rows.


"You sure about this, sweetheart?" her father asked from the passenger seat. Thomas Delaney's once youthful features almost faded, but his eyes remained sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. "We could still turn around, head back to Boston."

Ayo's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "We talked about this, Dad. The teaching position starts Monday, and the rent here is actually affordable." She didn't mention the real reason – that Boston held too many memories of Michael, of the life they'd planned together before the accident.

The radio had started playing Avalanche by Leonard Cohen, but as they passed the sign, then died completely. Ayo frowned, tapping the display, but nothing happened. The snow was falling harder now, thick flakes swirling in her high beams as they drove down Cryptopolis's main street.

Main Street unfolded before them like a museum diorama of mid-century Americana gone slightly askew. Fallon's Hardware still had its original 1950s sign, gold leaf flaking from letters in the dying light.
The window display featured the usual tools and home repair supplies, but Ayo noticed an unusual emphasis on locks, shutters, and reinforcement materials. A hand-painted sign advertised "Night-Safe Home Security Consultations – Ask Inside."

The Cryptopolis Diner occupied the corner of Main and Church, it's old exterior dulled by years of salt air but still gleaming dully in her headlights. Through the windows, she could see the evening rush in full swing – locals hurrying through their meals with an urgency that seemed odd for a small-town dinner service. A waitress was already pulling down heavy metal shutters over the plate glass windows, though it couldn't be past four.

"What time is it?" Thomas asked, squinting at his watch. "Can't be past four, but it's getting dark already."

"It's Alaska in winter, Dad. Short days." But Ayo checked her phone anyway. 3:47 PM. The sky shouldn't be this dark, not yet.

"Look at that," her father murmured, pointing to the town hall. The imposing brick building dominated the square, its copper dome turned green with age – steel plates had been bolted over the ground floor windows, edges softened by decorative molding in an attempt to maintain the building's historic character. The effect was both elegant and unsettling, like baroque armor.

They passed St. Michael's Church, its white spire knifing into the purple-grey sky. The traditional New England church architecture had been augmented with subtle reinforcements – stained glass windows protected by intricate wrought iron screens worked into crosses and angels, their beauty almost hiding their defensive purpose. The parish hall's windows glowed warmly, and Ayo glimpsed people inside setting up what looked like cots and emergency supplies.

The residential streets told their own story. Each house showed signs of systematic fortification masked by careful attention to aesthetic detail. Victorian homes sported custom-made shutters that matched their gingerbread trim while being clearly crafted from reinforced steel. Modern houses had "smart home" security systems alongside ancient-looking door wards carved into their frames. Every porch light was equipped with a motion sensor and backup battery pack.

Gardens featured elaborate wrought iron trellises that could easily double as barriers. Wind chimes hung everywhere, heavy iron bells that barely moved in the winter wind. Salt lines marked property boundaries, disguised as decorative stone borders.

The local children had left their mark as well. Hopscotch patterns incorporated protective symbols. Chalk drawings on sidewalks depicted familiar cartoon characters alongside strange, spiky runes. A playground they passed had equipment made entirely of iron, its bright paint doing little to disguise its fortress-like design.

Businesses were already closing for the night, though the sun hadn't fully set. The methodical process of lockdown had the feeling of long practice – steel shutters rolling down, multiple locks engaging, alarm systems arming. The few people still on the street moved with alacrity, checking watches and sky with equal frequency. They nodded to each other in passing but didn't stop to chat.

Cedar Street was lined with maple trees, the bare branches offering shelter against the darkening sky. Each tree had a small iron band around its trunk, worked with designs that looked decorative but niggled at the edge of Ayo's memory. 

Number 42 stood waiting, it had white Colonial features softened by snow and shadow. Like its neighbors, it bore the signs of careful fortification masked by attention to historical detail. The brass knocker had been recently polished, but Ayo noticed it was actually made of iron, its surface etched with minute symbols. The porch lights clicked on as they approached, illuminating glass panels on either side of the front door – beautiful pieces depicting dawn and dusk, set in frames too sturdy for mere decoration.

Ellen Donovan waited on the porch, keys in hand, watching the sky with the practiced eye of someone who had learned to mark time by more than just clock faces. Behind her, through the windows, Ayo caught glimpses of their furniture arranged in the living room, looking strange and familiar at once in this new space.

A church bell began to toll, its deep vibration resounding clearly through the winter air. The sound seemed to trigger an increase in activity – more lights coming on, more shutters closing, more people hurrying to finish whatever tasks remained before full dark.

"Welcome to Cryptopolis," Ellen said, but her eyes never left the dimming sky. "Let's get you settled in before nightfall."
Ellen hurried down the steps as they parked. She was maybe sixty, auburn hair with a mix of white and grandmotherly in a thick cardigan, but there was nothing frail about her movements. "I was starting to worry. We need to get you settled before dark."

"Is the weather supposed to get worse?" Thomas asked, helping Ayo grab bags from the trunk.

"Something like that. Come on, I'll show you around. The movers got everything inside already."

The house was warm, smelling of fresh paint and furniture polish. Their boxes and furniture had been stacked neatly in the living room. Ayo noticed heavy shutters mounted beside every window, currently folded back against the walls.

"Kitchen's through here," Ellen said, leading them through. "I stocked the basics for you – bread, milk, eggs. The stove's electric, good water pressure." She paused, her expression turning serious. "Now, the important things. Every window has shutters. Steel core, triple-bolted. They need to be closed and locked before dark, every single night. No exceptions."

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