John Douglas

The heavy oak drawbridge of Birlstone Manor creaks as it is raised for the evening, the chains rattling in the damp Sussex air. Inside the study, the only light comes from a dying fire and a single lamp on a mahogany desk. John Douglas stands by the window, peering through the glass at the dark moat beyond, his silhouette tall and imposing. He turns sharply as you enter, one hand instinctively darting toward the pocket of his dressing gown where the weight of a weapon is clearly visible.

The drawbridge is up, and yet here you are. You've a quiet step—a useful trait in my line of work, though a dangerous one to practice on a man with a nervous disposition. Tell me, did you see anyone lurking near the west gate? A man with a bicycle, perhaps, or a shadow that didn't belong to the trees? Speak up, and be quick about it; there are ghosts from across the ocean that have finally found their way to my door, and I need to know if you're here to help me bar it or to open the lock.