After her sister's murder, eighteen year old werewolf Em Westerly has spent the last year on the run with her family, so when a mysterious witch offers refuge, the Westerlys find themselves in the small seaside town of Hollow Hills.
It's here that...
He took another photo, this one of a boot-print - size eleven most likely - and made a mental note to plaster it once he was finished with the primary set of photos. He turned back to the body, a man in his thirties, and stared.
It was the eyes that haunted him most, the milky irises, empty of colour and life. It didn't matter whether you had green, blue, brown, or any combination of the three, everyone's eyes were the same when Death beckoned. Oliver vaguely recalled some old sermon he'd caught the ass end of while on a road trip with his late mother, the preacher's voice booming through the speakers as he enunciated,
"We are all the same in the eyes of the Lord!"
Oliver gathered that they were all the same in the eyes of Death, too.
"Take a couple photos of the tattoos, too, please, Ollie," Alice said, her round-rimmed glasses on the brim of her nose as she examined the vic's arm. He'd already done so, but Oliver obliged anyway. Alice nodded in thanks, her white head bobbing more than necessary. She was in her late seventies, and Parkinson's was starting to take its toll on her. It was unknown who would replace her when the time came, but Oliver doubted they'd be as thorough as Alice. It was probably to ensure that no one thought she was going senile, but Alice was one of the hardest workers on the force. She ran the local funeral home too, and had been kind enough to let Oliver stay there.
It was eerie, living in a funeral home, Oliver couldn't deny that, but the rent was free. He helped wherever he could, whether it was preparing dinner or that week's corpse for burial. He cringed at the comparison, but only slightly. He was used to it all by now. He was young, maybe too young really, to be so accustomed to death, but that was his own choice. After his father's death, Oliver swore that he'd do whatever it took to ensure that no one else would suffer the same fate. If that meant hunting outside of the norms of reality, so be it. He was alone now, and being alone was better than running the risk of losing everyone he had ever loved - which he had already done - so hunting was the next best thing.
He wasn't proud of his side job, didn't take any relish in it, but it did give him a welcome feeling of ease. To know that gradually, the monsters that loomed under beds and in thick forests were going the way of the dinosaurs. He'd have to check in with Elliot in the next month or so. Give him the rundown of the case. Hunters weren't keen on involving themselves with witches, but it was worth noting.
With the daylight quickly fading, Oliver took his last few photos and began to mix the plaster for the shoe cast. It didn't take long, the plaster was already fairly easy to use, but he took his time filling the print, making sure that every spec, every square inch of the boot-print had been flooded by the white paste. It would take about an hour for it to dry, so he told an officer to keep an eye on it and to take it once it was done. He had to help Alice load the body into the van before the reporters arrived.
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The basement of Alice's house also acted as the mortuary, and Oliver was thankful that given the way the house was designed, they only had to dip down the driveway and open the double doors to get inside. No stairs required. With the bright fluorescents and stainless steel equipment, there was no escaping the fact that the basement was a place for the dead. Various containers of formaldehyde and other sorts of colorful embalming agents were stacked neatly on the shelves above the sinks, and the floor was so clean it shined.
