Ray Wingate was not a happy man. Not in general and definitely not at this precise moment, ankle-deep in mud and looking over a pond that had no business existing in his back yard.

"See?" Wingate demanded.

His companion - a shorter, rounder, and generally more contented man by the name of Brant Knoll - nodded vigorously. "Truly amazing, sir!" Wingate's expression darkened. Knoll took an unconscious step back. "I mean - it-s unusual - remarkable, really, so far from the sea-"

"How long until it's fixed?"

Knoll blinked. His ears twitched, disturbing the nest of dark curls atop his head. "Fixed, sir?"

Wingate grit his teeth. "I want it gone."

"Oh." Knoll blinked at him, then at the pond. "Oh, but you can't! Mr. Wingate, they are protected by law!"

"Ponds?" Wingate exclaimed.

Knoll shook his head hard enough to send his velvety ears flopping. "Of course not!" He pointed to the other end of the pond, where a tall willow tree grazed the water with its branches. Something dark lurked there. Wingate squinted, trying to make out its shape. Suddenly, the dark thing bobbed up. Cold blue eyes met Wingate's, glare for glare.

"Merfolk!" Knoll announced happily. "I've heard they can take the sea with them. Always thought it was just a story." Knoll waved at the blue-eyed creature. A silver tail broke the water's surface briefly, making Knoll laugh in delight. Wingate resisted the urge to push the faun into the pond.

"I want it gone from my property," Wingate repeated, slowly and with emphasis on each word. "I don't care what you have to do, or how much it will cost. Just get. It. Done."

Knoll's smile disappeared. The faun drew to its full and inconsiderable height, furry chest puffing out. "The law is the law, Mr. Wingate. If you have a problem, I s-sugest you call a lawyer." Knoll stomped away the best he could, given the mud. His hooves clacked harshly against the stone stairs leading to the elevated patio. Wingate scowled after him; great. Barely moved in, already labeled as the neighborhood bigot.

"This is all your fault," Wingate told the pond.

The silver tail flipped into view again. Wingate was starting to suspect the gesture wasn't a greeting.

***

The rest of the day passed as days in Wicker manor did. Wingate consumed his breakfast of coffee and a cigarette over the sink, not trusting the one remaining chair in the dining room to support his weight. Its brethren had collapsed in various unusual ways over the past few days. Wingate had suffered some bruises and several splinters in rather unfortunate places but had managed to avoid death via impalement, which was all that counted in the end.

Wingate read the morning paper sitting on the living room floor. The sofa tried its best to lure him in with the promise of a plush seat and soft pillows, but Wingate resisted. The thing was yet to return the pair of pants it had swallowed - right off Wingate's person - so he wasn't buying the innocent act. He spent the next four hours sprawled over naked floorboards that had once borne a singularly bloodthirsty Persian rug, poring over old newspapers acquired from the local library.

Noon came and went. The sky was darkening when Wingate finally left his paper nest in search for food. The kitchen rumbled threateningly as soon as he set a foot inside. Wingate had nailed shut all the dangerous cabinets and most of the drawers, but the house was nothing if not persistent. The fridge froze solid at random intervals. The less said about the oven, the better.

Wingate opened the fridge, ever hopeful. Yesterday's Lo Mein stared at him mournfully from behind a wall of ice. Wingate closed the fridge and pulled out his cell. He will have to walk half a mile to the manor's front gate in order to get a signal. The house came with a landline, but the landline came with a persistent background noise that closely resembled the sound a cat would make while being skinned. Wingate preferred the walk, if by a margin.

Nauvoo, Illinois, was a small town. Wingate was not overly fond of their kind. He liked the rude, anonymous bustle of big cities. But work was work, and work had brought him to Wicker manor. Wingate swallowed his distaste for small talk and made for the manor's gates.

As it turned out, he needn't had worried. The delivery boy came and went without a word from anyone. People passed by Wingate and pretended not to see him. The Gordons from across the street went as far as to pull their kids inside the house, ears flicking in agitation. Foxes did not take kindly to their families being threatened. Not that Wingate had actually threatened anyone. The urge to find Knoll and throw him into the pond for the merman to pick apart resurfaced briefly.

The pizza was surprisingly good. Wingate ate four thick slices and stared at the rest. The probability of finding the leftovers intact tomorrow and not, for example, stuck to the kitchen ceiling dripping tomato sauce like blood was not too high. Wingate glanced at the fridge. Upon finding it emitting thin trails of vapor, he picked up the pizza box and set for the garden.

The pond was still there. So was the merman; Wingate could just make out the top of the creature's dark head. It bobbed a bit as Wingate came to stand on the patio, perhaps turning to face his human host.

Wingate pulled his mud-crusted boots on. The merman swam closer as he did. Wingate wondered if it was the smell of the pizza or the smell of human that pulled him. He was certainly only offering the first.

"Have you had pizza before?"

The dark head bobbed up. Blue eyes pinned Wingate in place. The garden was properly dark now and it was too soon for moon and stars, but the eyes seemed to emit their own luminescence. Wingate walked closer. He stopped a good distance from the edge of the pond. "Do you want some?"

The merman cocked his head. It occurred to Wingate that the creature might not speak Common, or could otherwise be physically unable to talk above water. He lifted his free hand and signed, "Do you understand me?"

A pale, clawed hand emerged from the pond. The merman's skin was studded with silver scales, Wingate noticed. It shone softly in the dark.

"You should not be here."

Wingate snorted. "I believe you have me mistaken with yourself."

The silver tail flicked up again. "The house will eat you." Wingate narrowed his eyes.

"What do you know about it?"

The merman disappeared under the water. Wingate waited a while but the creature did not return. Finally, he set the pizza box by the pond and went back inside.

There were five bedrooms on the manor's second floor. Wingate had taken the room closest to the staircase. He stripped as he walked inside, throwing the day's clothing on the floor. His body was strong and sturdy, muscles built for utility rather than vanity. The many scars marring Wingate's skin betrayed the dangers of his profession.

The room was bare save for a king-sized mattress pushed against one of the walls. Wingate checked that the ring of ash around the bed remained undisturbed before ducking into the en-suite bathroom for his nightly battle with the showerhead. He emerged sometime later, clean and freshly scalded. The room was quiet. The street beyond it was quiet, the city too. Nothing like Chicago. Nothing like Wingate's own house where the phone never stopped ringing and cases poured in one after the other.

In Nauvoo, there was only the quiet.

Wingate lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. The silence filled his lungs. Wingate rubbed at his chest, chasing a phantom sting.

The merman splashed in the pond outside. Wingate had taken down the glass panes from the windows, so the sound came into the room unobstructed. Even, strong strokes. Water rising over a gleaming tail to pour above a dark head.

Wingate slept.

***

The pizza box was empty in the morning.

"Did you like it?" Wingate called out.

A hand broke the water's surface. "Heavy. Bad. Stupid humans," it signed.

"You overate. Hardly humanity's fault."

The tip of a silver tail flipped over the water briefly. Wingate laughed. Definitely not a greeting.

Wingate left the manor around eleven in the morning. He returned at six, bearing burritos and two fat, red-bodied salmons wrapped in brown paper. Wingate laid the fish by the pond and sat on the patio with his own dinner.

"Wild," he said. "Freshly caught. Enjoy."

The merman swam closer. Blue eyes studied the fish, then looked up at Wingate.

"Dead."

Wingate grinned. "I'll get you live ones tomorrow. If you tell me what you know about Wicker manor."

One of the salmons disappeared in the pond. Wingate ate his burrito, undisturbed by the soft sounds of flesh being torn from bone.

"Nothing," the merman signed eventually.

"Then why are you here?"

"Bad feeling."

The second salmon disappeared. Soon after, so did the merman.

***

The Nauvoo public library was small but well-equipped for research pertaining to the town's history. Records of Wicker manor and associated news were waiting for Wingate in his reserved study room when he arrived. The pile was sizeable. Wingate thanked the librarian, a small human woman by the name of Shizuko Meeks, and steeled himself for hours of heavy reading.

Several hours later found Wingate on the floor. He had an old journal in one hand, a pen in the other, and the transcripts of yesterday's interviews with Nauvoo's residents spread around him. They rose in the air like a flock of birds when Ms. Meeks barreled into the room.

"There was an explosion," the woman gasped.

Later, Wingate will not remember how he made it to the manor. He vaguely recalled a motorcycle, the wind in his face, dropping the stolen bike by a patrol car. Ducking under yellow police tape. He came to with hands around his upper arm and Knoll's voice in his ears.

"It's too dangerous, detective!"

"Was he hurt?" Wingate tore his eyes from the sight of Wicker manor painted red. "The merman. Did anyone check?"

Knoll shook his head.

Wingate broke away from the faun's grip, the show of strength sudden and surprising. Knoll's voice was joined by several others. Wingate barely heard them over the pounding in his head.

The front door was intact. Smoke choked the living room, rolling in heavy clouds from the kitchen. Wingate ducked low and crawled forward. It had been the damn oven. Most of the wall facing the garden was missing. Pieces of metal and glass dug into Wingate's arms. He pushed on.

The floor shuddered. Wingate turned his head. The fridge was shaking, its doors and sides bulging ominously. There was nowhere for Wingate to go, nowhere to hide.

A rattle, a hiss. The room thundered -

- and the floor opened beneath Wingate, clawed hands pulling the detective into a shockingly cold embrace as the kitchen exploded above him.

Water filled Wingate's eyes. He closed his mouth as soon as he could but some made it in there, too - salt-water, heavy and fragrant. A pale face wreathed in twisting shadows stared at him among coils and coils of silver fins. The merman. His mouth was wide and lipless, his body broader than Wingate's. The tail alone was easily seven feet long and twisted like a snake's around them both.

Cold blue eyes held Wingate's. They were buried underneath, Wingate heard in his mind, the words a rushing song.

Who? Wingate thought.

The merman's tail rippled. Bones floated around them in a macabre halo, disturbed from their graves beneath the house's foundations. Wingate tried to focus; animal remains, judging by the shapes and sizes.

The detective stiffened. No, not animal.

The house is old. It carries old hate. The dead want it gone.

Along with the resident human, Wingate added wryly. His mind drifted.

The merman's nails bit through skin. Wingate shook aware. The pond had not seemed quite as deep from the top. He would not be able to hold his breath for much longer. I will pull it down. They will stop if I do.

How? Wingate thought.

If the merman answered, Wingate did not hear him. The detective's world disappeared in bursts of green water and fire.

Wingate closed his eyes.

***

Wingate woke up in a hospital. He was informed that Wicker manor had collapsed, that he had been found at the side of the ruins, that the pond was gone. No one knew anything about the merman.

It took some wheedling and not a little threatening, but Wingate managed to get himself released the following day. He booked a seat on the first open flight to Chicago and spent the two hours leading up to boarding on his phone, updating his various contacts of his continual survival. Once on the plane, he moved onto checking his email. Over two hundred job-related messages. Wingate exited the mail app without clicking on a single one.

The seat next to Wingate's rattled. Wingate looked up from his phone. His mouth slackened from its persistent frown.

A man sat beside him. A tall, broad-shouldered man with cropped black hair and too-pale skin. Cold blue eyes caught Wingate's and narrowed accusingly.

"This body is too small. Stupid humans."

Wingate laughed hard enough to cry.