13 Feb The Disappearance of Daniel Caldwell

PART I

Detective Simon Harding had been on the force for over two decades, long enough to know when someone was lying and when they were just scared out of their mind. James O’Connor, the cabbie sitting across from him in the station’s interrogation room, looked like a man who had seen something he wasn’t ready to believe. His hands were clasped so tightly on the table that his knuckles had gone white. A Styrofoam cup of coffee sat untouched in front of him.

“I already told the uniforms,” O’Connor said, his voice low and raw. “Told ‘em three times. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“I want the truth,” Harding said, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. The room smelled like old coffee and sweat, the same scent every interrogation room in the city seemed to have. “From the beginning. One more time.”

O’Connor shook his head. “Fine. But you won’t believe me.”

Harding didn’t answer; he just waited, giving the man a moment to collect himself. O’Connor licked his lips and started again.

“Picked the guy up on the corner of 8th and 44th. Little after eleven. He was standing right by the curb, waving me down like he’d never seen a taxi before. I pull up, and the guy—he looks off, you know? Clothes were old-fashioned, but not in a hipster way. Real, real old. Black wool suit, pocket watch chain, one of those hats guys used to wear back when my grandfather was young. Thought maybe he was one of those reenactment types. Tourist. I dunno.”

Harding made a note. “And he got in the cab?”

“Yeah,” O’Connor nodded. “Slid into the back seat, real stiff-like. Told me he needed to get to Pier 54. Gave me the street name and everything, like he wasn’t sure I’d know what he meant. And his accent, man. Like some old-timey movie, real proper, kinda British but not exactly.”

Harding frowned. Pier 54 hadn’t been an active passenger terminal in decades. “What happened next?”

O’Connor’s hands gripped the table again, his nails scraping against the wood. “I started driving, that’s what. Guy didn’t talk much. Kept looking out the window like he didn’t recognize anything. Then, about halfway there, he takes out this pocket watch. Stares at it. Flips it shut real fast, like he saw something he didn’t like.”

Harding watched him carefully. “And then?”

O’Connor swallowed hard. “And then he was gone.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Harding studied the man’s face, waiting for him to crack, to admit to some embellishment or misunderstanding. But O’Connor just sat there, staring down at his hands like he wished they belonged to someone else.

“Gone?” Harding repeated.

“Yeah.” O’Connor laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Like he was never there. I looked in the mirror, and the back seat was empty. No door opening, no sound, nothing. I slammed the brakes, jumped out, and checked around the cab. But he was just… gone.”

Harding tapped his fingers against the table. “And that’s when you called it in?”

“I wasn’t gonna at first,” O’Connor admitted. “Figured I was overtired, losing my mind. But then, not even ten minutes later, I hear about the guy getting hit.”

He finally looked up, and the expression in his eyes made Harding uneasy. “You got no reason to believe me,” O’Connor said. “I wouldn’t believe me. But that guy in the street? The one they scraped off the pavement? It was him. Same suit, same pocket watch, same damn face. But you know what the freakiest part is?”

Harding didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

O’Connor leaned forward, lowering his voice as if he feared someone else might hear. “The news says he got hit before I even picked him up.”

By the time Harding arrived at the scene, the body had already been bagged, tagged, and sent off to the morgue. The intersection was mostly clear, save for a dark stain on the asphalt where the victim had landed. The crime scene techs were packing up, their work done.

Harding waved down the uniformed officer on duty. “What do we have?”

Officer Ramirez flipped open her notepad. “Male, late twenties to early thirties, no ID, no wallet, no phone. Witnesses say he just… appeared in the middle of the street. Driver didn’t have time to stop.”

Harding glanced up at the surrounding buildings. It was Times Square—cameras everywhere. “We get any footage?”

Ramirez hesitated. “Yeah, but… it’s weird.”

Harding raised an eyebrow. She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, and handed it over. “This is from one of the traffic cams.”

Harding hit play. The footage showed the crosswalk, the traffic, and the blur of city life. And then, just like that, there he was. There was no build-up, no approach from the sidewalk. One frame, the street was empty. The next, a man stood in the middle of the road, staring around in confusion. His mouth moved, but no sound came through the video.

The next second, the taxi hit him.

Harding let out a slow breath and handed the phone back. “Jesus.”

Ramirez nodded. “Yeah.”

Harding ran a hand over his jaw, then turned back toward his car. He needed to see the body.

The morgue was quiet when Harding arrived, the kind of sterile quiet that made his skin crawl. Dr. Evelyn Marchand was already waiting for him, standing beside the sheet-covered corpse on the exam table.

“You’re gonna love this one,” she said dryly, pulling back the sheet.

The dead man was young, no older than thirty. His features were sharp, his hair neatly combed, and his clothing immaculate—save for the places where blood had soaked through. His suit was too pristine, the fabric rich and expensive but old-fashioned in a way that was neither ironic nor deliberate. A gold chain stretched from his waistcoat pocket, leading to a watch clutched in his rigid fingers.

Marchand tapped the watch. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Harding leaned in as she pried it from the corpse’s grip. The hands had stopped moving. The glass face was cracked.

The time read 2:20 AM.

Marchand crossed her arms. “Recognize it?”

Harding frowned. “Should I?”

She nodded. “2:20 AM. April 15, 1912.”

A cold chill crept over him. He didn’t need her to spell it out. That was the moment the Titanic slipped beneath the Atlantic.

Harding looked at the body again, at the flawless fabric of a suit that should have been a century out of fashion, at the untouched gold of a watch that should have been rusted over with time. And for the first time in a long while, he had no idea what to make of what he was seeing.

PART II

Detective Simon Harding sat in his car, staring at the grainy black-and-white photo in his hands. The photo had been buried deep in the city archives, tucked away in a file that hadn’t been touched in decades. It showed a group of men standing on the dock, posing in front of a massive ship. Their faces were sharp, their clothing crisp and formal—collars stiff, shoes polished to a mirror sheen. RMS Titanic, April 1912. And there, on the far right, half-turned as if he had been distracted by something just off-camera, was the man Harding had seen in the morgue: Daniel Caldwell.

The same face. The same neatly combed hair. The same suit—no wrinkles, no signs of wear or aging, as though he had stepped straight out of 1912 and into the middle of Times Square without losing so much as a stitch. Harding tossed the photo onto the passenger seat. It didn’t make sense. None of it did. He picked up his phone and dialed.

After three rings, Aaron Finch answered. “Tell me you’ve got something good.”

“That depends,” Harding said. “You ever hear of a guy named Daniel Caldwell?”

There was a brief pause on the other end. “Caldwell,” Finch repeated. “Hang on.” The sound of typing filled the line. “Doesn’t ring a bell off the top of my head, but let’s see… huh.”

“What?”

“Well, I found a Daniel Caldwell. Born 1884, died 1912. Third-class passenger on the Titanic.” Finch let out a low whistle. “Yeah, he went down with the ship. No body recovered.”

Harding tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Run it again. Find me a Daniel Caldwell after 1912.”

More typing.

“Nope,” Finch said. “Nothing. No records, no marriage certificates, no employment history. Like he never existed past the sinking.”

Harding reached for the photo again, rubbing his thumb over the glossy surface. “Then how the hell did I just see him in a morgue?”

An hour later, Harding and Finch met in front of an old brick building on West 57th. The place had been a tenement back in Caldwell’s time, but these days it was a bookstore—one of those independent shops that smelled like dust and candle wax, where the floorboards creaked underfoot and the walls were lined with shelves so tall they practically touched the ceiling. The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside.

A woman at the counter looked up from a book. Her gray hair was pulled into a bun, and her round glasses made her eyes seem larger than they were.

“Detective Harding, I presume?” she said.

Harding exchanged a glance with Finch. “That’s me. You must be Margaret Elridge?”

“Call me Maggie,” she said, closing her book. “Now, you said you were looking into a man who used to live here?”

“Daniel Caldwell,” Finch supplied.

Maggie frowned, tapping her fingers against the counter. “Caldwell… Caldwell… Oh! Yes, I do remember that name. Not personally, of course—I’m not that old—but I’ve seen it in the old property records. He rented a room here before he sailed on that dreadful ship. I remember because his rent was paid in full after he was supposed to have died.”

Harding stiffened. “What?”

Maggie nodded. “The records show payments made under his name well into 1913. After that, nothing.”

“Who was making the payments?” Finch asked.

“No idea. No forwarding address, no contact information. Just a name on the ledger.”

Harding turned, looking around the shop.

“You ever hear anything strange about this place?”

Maggie hesitated. “Strange how?”

“You ever see anyone up there?” Harding tilted his head toward the narrow staircase leading to the second floor. “Anyone who shouldn’t be there?”

Her fingers twitched on the counter. “People have said things,” she admitted. “Footsteps upstairs when no one’s renting the space. A shadow in the window after closing time. Nothing concrete, but enough that I’ve had more than a few employees refuse to close alone.”

Harding glanced at Finch. “We need to see that ledger.”

Maggie led them to the back of the shop, where an old wooden desk sat covered in stacks of yellowed paper and ledgers so thick they looked like they belonged in a museum. She pulled one from the bottom of a precarious pile and flipped it open. “There,” she said, tapping a faded name scrawled in elegant script. Daniel Caldwell.

The payment records were neat and consistent—monthly installments listed under Caldwell’s name, paid in cash. Then, abruptly, the entries stopped.

“March 1913,” Finch murmured. “That’s the last one.”

“Why would someone pay his rent if he was dead?” Harding muttered.

No one had an answer. The lights above them flickered. Maggie stiffened. “It does that sometimes,” she said, though there was an edge to her voice.

Harding flipped to the back of the ledger, running his fingers along the frayed edges of the pages. The final few were blank—just empty space. Until, at the very bottom of the last page, a faint imprint of something that had been written and then erased. A name. Not Caldwell’s. Something else.

Finch leaned in, squinting. “What the hell does that say?”

Harding traced the letters with his thumb. The ink had faded, but he could still make it out. Pier 54.

A cold knot formed in Harding’s stomach. “You ever hear of anything weird about Pier 54?” he asked.

Maggie frowned. “Nothing weird. It used to be a major terminal for transatlantic ships. The Titanic survivors were brought there after they were rescued. But it’s not used for that anymore. It’s just ruins now.”

Harding replied, “Caldwell told the cabbie that’s where he was trying to go.”

Maggie’s expression darkened. “Detective, I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but I’d be careful. There are stories about places like that. Some doors close forever. Others just…” She hesitated. “Just stay open, waiting for something to come through.”

Harding didn’t reply.

Back in the car, Finch tapped at his phone, pulling up an old newspaper article. “Here we go,” he said. “Pier 54. March 1913. A dockworker named Henry Vaughn went missing. Last seen walking toward the end of the pier late at night. Witnesses said he looked… dazed, like he was in a trance.”

Harding clenched his jaw. “They ever find him?”

Finch scrolled further, then stopped. “No.”

Harding didn’t like where this was going. He started the car. “We’re going to the pier.”

PART III

The dream came in pieces. Harding stood knee-deep in black water, the cold sinking into his bones. All around him, voices whispered and cried out, muffled as if trapped beneath the surface. A dull, rhythmic creaking filled the air, the strained sound of metal groaning under pressure. The water rose to his waist, then to his chest. The voices grew louder, a chorus of the lost, as something brushed against his leg.

Harding woke with a start, his fingers curling around the edge of the motel nightstand, grounding himself in reality. The room was dark except for the neon glow from the sign outside, pulsing red against the walls. It was just a dream—that’s all it was. But when he sat up, his palm brushed against something cold. He looked down to find his bedsheets damp.

The night shift was in full swing when Harding arrived at the morgue. Dr. Evelyn Marchand stood beside the exam table, her expression unreadable. The body of Daniel Caldwell lay precisely where they had left it, untouched since Harding’s last visit. But something was wrong.

“The hell happened to his hands?” Harding asked. The corpse’s fingers were stiff, curled as if they had been gripping something tightly before death. Harding swore they had been relaxed earlier.

Marchand shook her head. “I don’t know. I noticed it when I came in for a final review before the paperwork went through.”

Harding reached for his notepad, flipping through his scribbled notes. “I need you to check something for me.”

“Already ahead of you,” Marchand replied. She pulled the pocket watch from its evidence bag and laid it on the metal table between them. The glass was cracked, the hands had stopped—but the time had changed.

“That’s not what it said before,” Harding murmured.

“It wasn’t,” Marchand confirmed. “The last time we checked, the watch was frozen at 2:20 AM. Now it’s—”

“2:17,” Harding finished. Three minutes earlier. A shift. A reversal. For a tense moment, neither of them spoke.

Harding exhaled sharply and rubbed his face. “Okay. Maybe someone tampered with it.”

Marchand scoffed. “Detective, do you really believe that?”

No. He didn’t.

Harding straightened. “Check the security footage.”

Marchand frowned but walked over to the computer, pulling up the feed. The screen flickered to life. They watched in silence as the hours rolled past, nothing moving, no one entering the room. Then, at 3:14 AM, the screen glitched—a full second of pure static. When the feed resumed, the corpse’s left hand had moved.

Marchand hit pause. Harding stared, his stomach sinking. Daniel Caldwell’s fingers had curled inward, as if tightening around something unseen.

Harding clenched his jaw. “That’s not possible.”

Marchand didn’t argue. They had just watched it happen.

Harding stepped outside to clear his head. The night was damp, a light drizzle coating the pavement. The city was never truly quiet, but at this hour, it was as close as it ever got. His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but he answered anyway.

“Detective Harding?” The voice was rough, worn at the edges.

“Who’s this?”

“James O’Connor,” the cabbie said. “We talked the other night. About that guy I picked up.”

Harding felt a chill creep down his spine. “Yeah, I remember.”

There was a pause. Then O’Connor exhaled shakily. “I saw him again.”

Harding’s grip on the phone tightened. “Where?”

“In my backseat,” O’Connor said. “Again. Just now. He wasn’t there when I got in, but the second I looked in the mirror—” He stopped to take a breath. “He was sitting right there, staring at me. Same suit, same pocket watch. Like nothing had happened.”

Harding’s mouth went dry. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t even get a chance to do anything,” O’Connor said. “He was there for maybe two seconds, and then—”

Static crackled through the line. “O’Connor?”

The call cut out. Harding cursed under his breath, dialing back immediately—no answer. He pocketed his phone, jaw clenched. First, the hands had moved, then the time on the watch, and now a dead man was appearing in the backseat of a cab. Something wasn’t just wrong. It was escalating.

Finch was waiting for him when he got back to the car. The journalist’s expression was bleak, his phone still clutched in his hand.

“You’re not gonna like this,” Finch said.

“Try me.”

Finch turned his phone toward Harding. It was another old photo. This one wasn’t of the Titanic. It was a grainy shot of Pier 54, taken from a newspaper article dated March 1913. The dock was wet, the wood slick with rain. A single man stood at the edge, facing away from the camera.

Harding felt his stomach drop. “Tell me that’s not him,” he said.

Finch didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to. Harding already knew the truth.

PART IV

James O’Connor wasn’t answering his phone. Harding tried three more times, pacing beside his car, the cold night air making his skin prickle. Each call went straight to voicemail—no ringing, no delay, just dead air and a mechanical voice telling him the number was unavailable. He turned to Finch. “You still have his address?”

Finch nodded. “Yeah. It’s in Queens. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That we need to check on him?” Harding muttered. “Yeah.”

Finch climbed into the passenger seat. Neither of them spoke as Harding pulled onto the nearly empty road, heading toward O’Connor’s place. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken possibilities. Harding didn’t want to say it aloud, but if Caldwell was seen again… then who—or what—was in the morgue?

O’Connor’s apartment was on the second floor of a narrow brownstone. The lights were on inside, casting a warm glow onto the sidewalk, giving Harding a flicker of hope. He knocked. No reply. He knocked again, harder this time, but still nothing. Finch stepped back, eyeing the window. “He’s home,” he said. “Or at least, he was.”

Harding tried the doorknob. It turned easily. Finch shifted uncomfortably. “That’s not a good sign.” Harding stepped inside. The apartment was small and cluttered but lived-in. A couch with a blanket draped over it, half a pizza sitting in an open box on the coffee table. The air smelled faintly of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

“O’Connor?” Harding called out. No answer. Finch pointed to the hallway where the bedroom door was ajar, the light flickering. Harding moved cautiously, his hand hovering near his holster. The bed was unmade. The nightstand drawer hung open, its contents spilled onto the floor. And the window was open. A cold gust pushed through the curtains, rattling the half-empty glass of water beside the bed.

Finch swallowed. “You think he ran?”

Harding didn’t answer right away. He stepped toward the window and looked out onto the fire escape. And then he saw it: a pocket watch, faintly glinting under the streetlights. It lay just outside the window, resting on the metal grate of the fire escape. Harding crouched and picked it up carefully. The moment his fingers touched the metal, something twisted in his gut. It was still warm.

Finch took a step back. “That’s… not the same one from the morgue, is it?” Harding didn’t answer because he already knew. The time on the watch had changed again. 2:14 AM. Another three-minute shift.

They drove in silence. Finch kept glancing at the watch in Harding’s hand, as if he were waiting for it to do something. Harding kept his eyes on the road, his mind racing. The pattern was clear now. The watch was counting backward—every shift, three minutes closer to something. O’Connor had seen Caldwell again, and then he’d vanished. Was he taken back? Or had he simply ceased to exist? Harding didn’t know which answer was worse.

And then, as they neared the waterfront, something happened that made every hair on the back of his neck stand up. The watch in his hand ticked—not a broken tick, not a glitch, but a single, crisp movement. 2:13 AM.

Pier 54 was nothing more than a ruin now. The old archway still stood, rusted and skeletal, but the dock itself had long since fallen into decay. Wooden planks jutted out over the black water, some half-rotted, others missing entirely. Harding killed the engine. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Finch let out a shaky breath. “Tell me we’re not actually walking out onto that thing.”

Harding opened the door. “Stay here if you want.”

Finch muttered a curse under his breath but followed. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of salt and old wood. Waves lapped gently against the pilings below. A fog rolled in from the river, thick and low, swallowing the distant city lights. Harding stepped carefully, boots pressing into the worn boards. Somewhere beneath them, the remains of a century-old terminal rested at the bottom of the Hudson, buried in silt and time.

The watch ticked again. 2:12 AM. A shiver ran down Harding’s spine. They reached the end of the pier. And then they heard it. A deep, echoing horn, low and mournful, drifting across the water. Finch tensed. “That sounded—”

“Like a ship,” Harding finished.

They both turned, staring out into the fog. There was nothing there—just the empty, black water. But then, a faint light appeared. Distant. Flickering. Moving. A reflection shimmered across the surface, distorted by the rippling waves. The shape was massive, stretching out of the darkness, growing sharper by the second. It was impossible. A ship. Emerging from the fog. Not just any ship. A transatlantic liner.

The air around them went still. The sounds of the city faded into nothing. And then, from behind them—footsteps.

Finch grabbed Harding’s arm. “We’re not alone.”

Harding turned slowly. A figure stood at the edge of the pier—tall, silent, and watching. The pocket watch ticked once more. 2:11 AM.

PART V

Harding’s hand twitched toward his gun, but he didn’t draw it—not yet. The figure at the edge of the pier was barely visible through the mist, but Harding could make out the details: tall, dressed in a dark wool suit, posture stiff as if he were waiting for something—or someone. The pocket watch in Harding’s hand ticked again. 2:10 AM.

The figure took a step forward, the old wood groaning underfoot. Finch let out a slow breath beside him. “Tell me that’s not—”

Harding didn’t answer. He already knew.

Daniel Caldwell stood before them, his face pale. His suit was still immaculate, untouched by time or decay. His eyes, however, were different—dark and hollow, as though he had already seen what was waiting for him.

Harding swallowed. “Caldwell.”

The man’s lips parted slightly, as if hearing his name stirred something in him, but he didn’t respond. Another sound broke the silence—a distant splash. Something moved beneath the water. Harding ignored it, keeping his eyes locked on Caldwell.

“You were in the morgue,” Harding said. “You died.”

Caldwell blinked slowly, as though processing the words. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice calm but distant, as if it was being pulled from somewhere far away. “No,” he said, “Not yet.”

Finch shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean, not yet?”

Caldwell didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his hand and pointed to the water. Harding followed his gaze. The fog had thickened, swirling over the river’s surface. The ship was clearer now—a massive shape emerging from the mist, its lights flickering like dying lanterns. But there was something else—dark figures, barely visible, stood along the railing, watching and waiting.

A deep, echoing horn rumbled through the night, vibrating through Harding’s chest. The ship was coming in.

Caldwell turned back to Harding, his face eerily calm. “It’s almost time.”

The pocket watch ticked again. 2:09 AM.

Harding tightened his grip on the watch. “What happens at 2:07?” he asked.

Caldwell didn’t blink. “I go home.”

Harding’s jaw clenched. Home. Back to 1912. Back to a sinking ship.

Finch took a shaky step backward. “This is insane.”

Caldwell’s gaze flickered toward him. “I don’t belong here.”

Harding’s mind raced. None of this should be possible— a man appearing out of nowhere, his body found in a place he shouldn’t have been, a pocket watch counting down instead of forward, and now, a ship that had sunk over a century ago waiting at the edge of the fog.

But the worst part was that some part of him believed it.

Caldwell exhaled slowly. “It’s already begun.”

Harding barely had time to react before the sound of rushing water and splintering wood filled the air. Beneath them, the pier shuddered and groaned. Something massive was rising from the water.

Finch staggered backward as the dock trembled. “What the hell is—”

The water near the pier boiled, waves crashing against the pilings. A shape broke the surface—long, black, like the twisted remains of something ancient being pulled from the depths.

For a split second, Harding thought it was wreckage—a sunken piece of the Titanic finally surfacing after all these years. Then it moved. A long, skeletal hand, slick with water, reached onto the pier, and the wood buckled under the weight. Another hand followed.

Finch swore. “That’s—that’s not human.”

Harding didn’t respond—because he knew. This wasn’t just about Daniel Caldwell. Something else had come back with him.

The thing hauled itself upward, a dark, twisted form dragging itself onto the pier. It wasn’t a man; it wasn’t even close. Its body was long and gaunt, its skin stretched too tight over its frame, slick with water. It had no eyes—just a smooth, pale face, the skin where its mouth should have been twitching as it breathed.

Harding took a step back. Caldwell, however, didn’t move.

“This is what happens,” he said, his voice even. “When someone isn’t where they’re supposed to be.”

The thing shifted, water dripping from its elongated limbs. It was waiting—for Caldwell.

Harding’s grip tightened around the pocket watch. 2:08 AM. A single minute left.

Caldwell turned back toward the water. His movements were unhurried, as if he had already accepted what was about to happen. The ship’s lights flickered. The fog thickened. The figures on the deck remained motionless, their faces unreadable.

The thing standing on the pier didn’t react to Harding or Finch. It only watched Caldwell. It had come to collect him.

Caldwell exhaled softly. “I tried to stay,” he admitted. “Tried to outrun it. But some things don’t let go.”

He turned, meeting Harding’s gaze. “It’s not just the ship. It’s the place.”

Harding frowned. “What do you mean?”

Caldwell looked down at the watch in Harding’s hand. His expression softened, just for a moment. “You’ll see.”

The watch ticked again. 2:07 AM.

Caldwell stepped forward.

The thing waiting for him twitched, its mouthless face shifting. As Caldwell moved, so did it—its arms reaching, its long fingers curling.

Finch took a step back. “Jesus.”

The moment Caldwell reached the edge of the pier, the ship’s horn sounded one last time.

He paused and looked at Harding again. Then, he stepped forward—and vanished.

The thing went with him, pulled backward into the fog, its form twisting as it sank beneath the surface. The ship’s lights flickered once. Then it was gone.

Silence.

The fog began to thin, rolling back toward the river. The pier was empty again. There was no ship, no figures on the deck, and no Caldwell. Harding exhaled slowly, his fingers uncurling from the pocket watch. The time had stopped. 2:07 AM.

Finch let out a shaky breath. “What the hell just happened?”

Harding didn’t answer, because he wasn’t sure.

The watch in his hand was still warm.

The pier was still intact, with no sign that anything had ever been there at all. But as Harding looked out over the water, a terrible thought settled into his mind. Caldwell had called it the place—not just the ship, not just the moment in time, but the place itself.

Harding tightened his grip on the watch. Something told him this wasn’t over. Not yet.

PART VI

Harding stared at the empty water. The fog had thinned, the ship was gone, and so was Caldwell. But the pier still felt wrong.

Finch exhaled sharply beside him, rubbing his arms as if shaking off a deep chill. “That just happened, right? I didn’t imagine that?”

Harding flexed his fingers around the pocket watch, the cool metal against his palm the only proof that any of this had been real. The watch hadn’t moved since Caldwell disappeared. 2:07 AM. Time had stopped the second Caldwell was taken back.

Harding forced himself to turn away from the water. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything that had happened. He gestured to Finch. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

The drive back was silent. Harding kept his grip firm on the steering wheel, his mind racing through every angle, every piece of evidence. None of it added up. Caldwell had reappeared. The ship had manifested out of nowhere. The thing that had crawled onto the pier—

Harding gritted his teeth. Some things didn’t belong in the world as he understood it.

He’d been in homicide for years and seen brutal crime scenes—bodies torn apart in ways that haunted him long after the cases closed. But this? This wasn’t something he could explain away. And worse, it wasn’t over.

Finch tapped his fingers against his knee, breaking the silence. “So… what now?”

Harding didn’t answer right away. His thumb ran over the pocket watch, feeling the smooth metal beneath his skin. He had a bad feeling. Caldwell had called it “the place.” Not just the ship. Not just the time. The place itself.

Harding’s grip tightened. Whatever had happened at Pier 54, whatever force had pulled Caldwell back—there was no guarantee it was done with them.

By the time Harding got home, the weight of exhaustion had settled deep into his bones. He tossed his keys onto the counter, shrugged off his jacket, and sat heavily on the couch. The pocket watch was still in his hand. He stared at it momentarily, then slowly reached for his phone.

The clock on the screen read 2:06 AM. His stomach clenched. That wasn’t right. It had been past three when they left the pier. He checked again. 2:06 AM. The same time. One minute before Caldwell had vanished.

Harding swallowed hard, an icy dread creeping up his spine. The watch was still frozen at 2:07. But time itself—everything around him—was shifting backward.

His apartment was too quiet—not city-quiet, not the usual late-night stillness of a place winding down for the night. Something was missing. Harding stood slowly. The streetlights outside flickered. He moved to the window, peering out onto the sidewalk below. At first, nothing seemed out of place—the same parked cars and closed storefronts sat in the distance, bathed in shadow.

Then he saw them—figures standing on the corner, unmoving, not looking at anything in particular. Just there. His mouth went dry. They weren’t people. Not really.

Harding stepped back from the window. The watch ticked. Not forward. Not backward. Just once. A hollow, metallic sound. Like something letting go.

The apartment lights flickered. The hum of the refrigerator faltered, and then cut out entirely. Harding’s phone screen dimmed, then shut off completely. He wasn’t alone.

His hand moved to his gun, but he didn’t draw it. Not yet.

The sound of footsteps, steady and unhurried, drifted from the hallway—and they were coming closer.

He was confident the door to his apartment was locked—but the footsteps didn’t stop. They passed right through the threshold and kept coming.

Harding turned. A man stood in his living room—not Caldwell, but someone else. He was dressed in the same style, from the same era. Harding knew that face. He had seen it in the archives, in the old photos—it was Henry Vaughn, the dockworker who had disappeared from Pier 54 in 1913.

The man’s expression was blank and unreadable. Harding didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Vaughn lifted his hand and pointed to the pocket watch. Harding’s fingers curled tighter around it. The ticking started again.

Before his eyes, the clock on the wall—his normal, everyday clock—shifted. It now displayed 2:07 AM, the exact moment Caldwell had vanished.

Time was looping.

Harding took a slow step back. The walls of his apartment seemed farther away now, stretching as if the space itself was pulling him somewhere else.

Vaughn lowered his hand and spoke. His voice was wrong. Not distorted, not inhuman—just hollow. Like it was coming from somewhere deep under the ocean. “You don’t belong here.”

Harding clenched his jaw, replying, “Neither do you.”

Vaughn blinked, as if the answer surprised him. Then, slowly—so slowly it made Harding’s stomach turn—he smiled. It was a knowing smile, as if he understood something Harding didn’t, like he had been here before.

The walls of the apartment shuddered. The window rattled in its frame. The lights flickered again—this time staying out. And then he heard the sound of a foghorn, distant but growing closer.

Harding’s grip tightened on the watch. Because now, he understood. This wasn’t about Caldwell. This wasn’t about one man disappearing, or even the ship itself. It was the place. Something beneath Pier 54. Something pulling people back.

Vaughn took a step closer. His smile widened. Harding’s vision swam. His body lurched forward. Like something was pulling him back, too. The clock on the wall flickered. 2:06 AM. And dropping.

PART VII

Harding’s stomach churned as the world around him tilted—not physically, but in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Vaughn didn’t move; he just stood there, watching, the weight of his gaze unbearable.

The foghorn groaned again, closer this time.

“What do you want?” Harding asked, his voice tight with tension.

Vaughn’s expression didn’t change. “You shouldn’t have taken it.”

Harding’s fingers curled around the pocket watch. “It was his,” Vaughn continued, voice flat, emotionless. “And now it’s yours.”

A cold pressure built in Harding’s chest. “Caldwell’s gone. The watch doesn’t mean anything now.”

Vaughn tilted his head as if listening to something just beyond the range of human hearing. “You think this is about him?”

Harding didn’t answer. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure. Vaughn’s gaze flicked toward the window, and the air in the apartment felt wrong—not thick, not heavy, just unstable. The walls no longer felt solid, like they could dissolve if he reached out.

“You kept it,” Vaughn said softly. “That’s all it takes.”

Harding glanced down. The watch sat in his palm, its gold casing reflecting the dim light. The hands were moving again. Backward. 2:05 AM. A deep sense of unease settled over him.

“Give it back,” Vaughn murmured.

Harding’s grip tightened around the pocket watch. It was the only thing tethering him to the reality of what had happened. If he let it go—

He shook his head. “No.”

Vaughn’s expression didn’t change, but something around him did. The shadows in the corners of the apartment deepened. The hum of the city outside dulled to an almost imperceptible murmur. It was as if the world was fading, peeling away.

“You don’t have a choice,” Vaughn said.

The foghorn roared, impossibly close. Then, the floor beneath Harding shifted. Not the normal movement of an old apartment settling, but a lurch, as if the entire building had moved.

Harding’s apartment was changing. The walls darkened, the paint peeling in uneven strips. The floor lost its stability, boards warping under his feet. The air smelled of salt, rusted iron, and damp wood. The apartment was becoming something else—something older, something wrong.

Vaughn stepped forward. The light in the room flickered—not from the ceiling, but from outside, as if the city’s glow had been replaced by something dimmer. Harding didn’t need to look to know what was happening. The apartment wasn’t in New York anymore. Or rather—New York wasn’t here anymore.

Vaughn’s voice was quieter now, almost gentle. “You should have left it.”

The walls shuddered. The ceiling groaned. For the briefest moment, Harding saw through them— not wood and plaster, but metal. Rivets and beams. A long, endless corridor lined with bolted doors. Faint, flickering lanterns. And water—just beyond the walls, waiting to rush in. A ship.

Harding’s stomach twisted. “No,” he murmured. But it was already happening.

He moved fast, lunging for the door and twisting the knob, but it didn’t budge. Vaughn didn’t react. He simply watched, standing unnaturally still as Harding yanked at the handle. The door should have led to the hallway outside his apartment, but when Harding glanced through the peephole, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Water. Not a flood, not a leak. Just a wall of water, stretching into the distance. No surface. No bottom. Just an endless black abyss.

The foghorn bellowed. A vibration ran through the floor, a distant, echoing groan. Harding had heard that sound before—in his dreams, in the recordings of ships breaking apart under pressure. He turned back to Vaughn, his voice tight. “What is this?”

Vaughn didn’t blink. “You know what it is.”

Harding’s fingers curled into a fist. “How do I stop it?”

For the first time, Vaughn smiled. “You don’t.”

The room lurched again. Harding lost his balance, stumbling back against the couch. The walls continued to shift, the wood splintering, darkening—transforming. A hallway stretched before him where there had been none, the same long, narrow one he had glimpsed before, lined with bolted doors. One of them was open. A single lantern swayed beside it, casting a weak, golden glow.

Vaughn turned toward it. “It’s time.”

Harding’s jaw clenched. He had seconds to decide. He could let this happen, let whatever force was trying to pull him back win, or he could fight it. He tightened his grip on the watch. The hands were still moving. 2:04 AM. Two minutes until—what? Until he vanished? Until he became Vaughn? Or worse—until he was dragged to wherever Caldwell had gone?

The walls groaned again. Water leaked through the seams, dripping onto the floor. Harding didn’t have much time—and he wasn’t going quietly.

PART VIII

Harding took a slow, measured breath and weighed his options. The ship—the place—was trying to take him, the pocket watch in his hand counting down, dragging him minute by minute toward something he wasn’t meant to survive. But he wasn’t going to just stand there and let it happen. The open doorway loomed at the end of the shifting corridor, the flickering lantern light casting shadows in the damp air. The hallway itself felt unnatural—the walls breathed, and the wood beneath his feet groaned as if it remembered what it had once been.

The watch ticked. 2:03 AM.

Harding exhaled sharply. “No.”

Vaughn tilted his head slightly, the movement too deliberate. “You don’t have a choice.”

Harding’s fingers flexed around the pocket watch. He forced himself to take in everything—the shifting walls, the warping space, the creeping sense of water pressing in from the edges. There had to be a way out. A real way out.

Vaughn studied him for a moment, then took a slow step forward. “None of us did,” he murmured.

Harding stood motionless. For the first time, he saw something under Vaughn’s expression—something like regret.

The watch ticked again. 2:02 AM.

Harding turned, his eyes scanning the distorted remnants of his apartment. He could still see it—his couch, his bookshelf, the window overlooking the street. But the edges were fraying, unraveling into the dim corridor beyond. If he let this go on, if the countdown hit zero—would there be anything left?

He gritted his teeth. He had to break it. Whatever this was.

“You stayed,” he said, his voice level. “Didn’t you?”

Vaughn hesitated, and Harding took a step closer. “That’s what happened to you. You didn’t disappear. You stayed.”

The shadows in the hallway deepened. The walls groaned under the pressure.

Vaughn’s jaw tensed. “I wasn’t supposed to,” he admitted.

Harding clenched his fist. “But you fought it.”

“I thought I did,” Vaughn murmured. His eyes darkened. “But this place doesn’t let go. It just waits.”

The watch ticked. 2:01 AM.

The lantern by the open door flickered, casting an eerie light. The hallway was shifting again, the doorway pulling farther back as if it were drawing him in, beckoning him to chase it. Harding knew that if he went through, he wouldn’t come back. His grip on the watch tightened.

“I’m not going with you,” he said, his voice firm.

Vaughn’s expression remained neutral, but something behind his eyes shifted. “You already are,” he said, his tone almost final.

The foghorn bellowed, the pressure in the air changing with it. The pocket watch ticked. And then, everything stopped.

Silence. Not the kind of silence Harding was used to—the quiet hum of the city at night or the distant murmur of life beyond his walls. This was absolute. He glanced around. The walls had stopped moving. The air had stilled, frozen in place. Even the flickering lantern outside the open door had gone still—its flame suspended in time, unmoving.

And Vaughn—Vaughn wasn’t there anymore. The pocket watch was cold now, and the hands had stopped. 2:00 AM. A full stop.

Harding tensed. This was his chance. If he was ever going to break free, it had to be now. He stepped toward the window. The glass was distorted, rippling like the surface of a deep lake. He could still make out the street beyond—familiar and real—but it wasn’t connected to where he was anymore. Not fully. He needed to reattach himself to his own time, his reality.

Harding lifted the watch. It had started this. It had counted him down, tried to drag him to a place he was never meant to see. And if it had the power to take, it also had the power to undo. He didn’t think or hesitate. He gripped the pocket watch in both hands—and snapped it shut.

The moment the latch clicked, the world lurched. Harding staggered back as the room twisted—folding in on itself, unraveling into something else. The hallway collapsed. The open door vanished. The walls of his apartment shuddered, then— a snap. Like a rubber band pulled too tight suddenly letting go. And then—it was just his apartment again. No corridors. No lanterns. No Vaughn. Just four walls, a locked door, and a city that had never stopped moving.

Harding glanced at the watch in his hand. It was dead. No movement, no ticking—just a useless hunk of gold. He loosened his grip, letting it drop onto the coffee table. He didn’t need it anymore.

He sat heavily on the couch, staring at nothing. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Maybe minutes. Maybe an hour.

Eventually, his phone buzzed. The screen was back to normal. Time was moving forward again.

Finch’s name lit up the screen. Harding picked up. “Jesus, man, I’ve been calling you for hours!” Finch said, his voice strained. “What the hell happened?”

Harding rubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t know where to start, so he settled for the only thing that mattered. “It’s over.”

Finch hesitated. “…You sure?”

Harding looked at the watch, unmoving on the table. The timepiece that had once dictated his fate was now nothing more than an object. It had no power, no pull—the countdown has ceased. Harding exhaled. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Outside, the city continued as it always had. Traffic lights flickered from red to green. People walked the sidewalks, unaware of how close one man had come to slipping through the cracks of time itself.

Harding stood, stretching his stiff muscles. His body still felt off, like it was recovering from a distance he couldn’t explain. But he was here. And that was enough. He picked up the pocket watch one last time, studying its blank, silent face. Then he tossed it into the trash. It didn’t belong to him, and it never would.

* * * * * *

The case was officially closed. Harding had filed the necessary reports—an unidentified male had been struck by a vehicle in Times Square, with no next of kin and no known history. The body had disappeared under unexplained circumstances, but without evidence of foul play, it was written off as a procedural anomaly. Paperwork moved through the system, the watch was no longer in his possession, and his apartment remained exactly as it always had been. But that didn’t mean he was done with it. Some things, he realized, didn’t end; they just lingered.

It started with small things—a sensation, a flicker at the edge of his vision, the faintest impression of movement when nothing was there. But it was worse at night. He’d wake up at odd hours—2:07 AM, without fail. And when he did, the air would feel wrong. He barely slept, and when he did, it made little difference.

Finch noticed. “You look like hell,” he said one afternoon, stirring his coffee. “You getting any shut-eye at all?”

Harding didn’t answer. He took a slow sip from his cup, watching the street outside. Finch exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Look, man. I get it. It’s the weirdest case I’ve ever seen, too. But it’s over. Caldwell’s gone. Vaughn’s gone. You broke whatever the hell was happening.”

Harding nodded. He knew that. And yet—

“Did I?” he muttered.

Finch frowned. “What do you mean?”

Harding’s grip tightened around the ceramic mug. “I stopped it from taking me. But whatever it is… it’s still there.”

Pier 54 wasn’t just a place. He now understood it was a door—which meant that someday, somehow, it could open again.

Harding stood by his window that night, staring out at the street. Outside, in the city, life went on as usual. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t normal—not anymore. Something had changed, even if no one else could see it. Even if he couldn’t explain it, the feeling never left. He felt as though he was still on the edge of something, a fraction of a step from slipping away entirely.

He turned away from the window. His apartment was quiet. Too quiet. His gaze drifted to the trash can near his desk, to the thing he had thrown away. The pocket watch. It wasn’t ticking. It wasn’t counting down. But it was still there, waiting.

Harding exhaled slowly. Maybe Finch was right. Perhaps it was over. Or maybe—maybe some doors never really close.