The day is reminiscent of when Sloane lost her job. It is overcast, a light rain keeping her short ashen hair plastered to her neck and forehead. Her hands clutch the small bag containing her Polaroid camera, her notepad, wallet and the other essentials needed for staying anywhere that is not her home. She has to do this, not like she could turn back now, halfway across the ocean. She has something to proof here, to her boss who never appreciated her journalism, to her parents who look at her with mostly pity and maybe also to herself, just so she can certain she is not insane for believing the small isle of Mawbrook holds dark secrets. People have disappeared there over the span of centuries, or came back to the mainland utterly terrified of something. Sloane knows that if she cracks this mystery she will have proven herself to every great newspaper there is. They will be lining up to offer her jobs.

Though for that she has to get off this boat first. It lurches as another wave sweeps into it, nausea roiling somewhere deep in her stomach. Maybe she should have spent a bit more money to rent a boat instead of picking the first dingy fisher boat that would take her if only she asked nicely. Well, mistakes have been made and she will be able to leave with her pride intact. As long as she does not share her breakfast with the fishes that is.

When she finally steps foot on the isle of Mawbrook her legs feel only the slightest bit like jello. Even with the sun high, a thin layer of fog is still layering the ground, swirling with each step she takes.

"Huh, spooky.", Sloane chuckles to herself.

It is exactly what she has expected of the isle, tucked away somewhere in the ocean like a hidden, slightly ominous jewel. She follows the thin winding pathway from the docks upwards to the higher streets. The main street is not nearly filled with as many people as she expected, though perhaps that is just standard for a place with only as many as about 600 inhabitants. The people she sees dress as if they had missed the last two centuries at least, even the buildings and vehicles seem to have endured the same treatment. It has a certain charm. Sloane suspects this is what draws tourists to this place, amidst the other mysteries Mawbrook holds.

A quick search on her phone, on ten percent battery and with barely any signal, tells her that a B&B should be somewhere around. Just about when her shoulder starts aching from the weight of her bag she spots the old, wooden sign. The Owl Lodge sounds nice enough, even though the facade of the building looks like it might crumble if one were to look at it wrong. Well, beggars can't be choosers and she certainly doesn't have anybody else here with whom she could conveniently stay. The counter is manned by an older woman who is smiling up at Sloane from beneath her round glasses that swallow half of her face. She looks kind in the ways that make people deeply uncomfortable.

"What can I do for you, dearie?" She smacks her lips with every croaking word. Sloane tries her best nod to shudder in mild disgust.

"I would need a room to stay for a while."

"Oh splendid, dearie. I haven't had a guest in such a long time. Here, make yourself at home." The woman smiles, presses a rusty old key into her hands.

Sloane digs a few bills of cash from her pockets, sets them down on the counter and, when the old woman does not protest, makes her way up the worn stairs. The key in her hands does have one of these wooden tags tied to it, Though instead of a number, there is an animal carved on it. A butterfly? Maybe a moth. It makes finding her room needlessly difficult as she steps past doors with neither a butterfly or a moth on them. It feels more like a labyrinth than a lovely B&B, but complaining won't help her here.

Finally, after she has dragged herself and her bag to the darkest corners of the halls, she finds the door to what is hopefully her room. The key slides in, catches without turning. Sloane briefly contemplates if sleeping somewhere on the streets would have her fare better, before she gives the key a few 'loving' wiggles until the lock finally clicks. The door creaks open, revealing the quaint room behind it. it is nothing to write home about. There is a bed, with one of those old quilts thrown over it, an oak wardrobe and a small desk.

Sloane hurls her bag onto the bed, doesn't bother unpacking properly. For now she only needs her camera and her notepad. First things first, she will have to ask any local willing to talk to her about the disappearances of the tourists. Determined, she leaves the B&b, steps certain until it once more filters through just how little people seem to be stepping foot outside of their owns homes today.

To the local convenience store it is then. Lack of possible witnesses will not deter her, not today. The store clerk, Cody his name tag reads, looks like all will of life has already been sucked out of him. His tired eyes track her movements when she sidles up to the counter.

"Good afternoon, miss. How may I be of help today.", he says it with forced kindness, though even that wavers on a slow, tired drawl.

Sloane takes a breath, takes on her nicest journalist persona.

"So, Mawbrook. A nice little isle. It sure is strange how some tourists got lost. You wouldn't by any chance happen to know anything, any rumors or folktales maybe?"

The clerk, Cody, meets her gaze, not a single emotion flickering across his features, not even a hint of recognition.

"Listen miss, I am the clerk of this establishment. It is not my job to remember who comes and goes, or who doesn't for that matter. So are you gonna buy anything? Otherwise I kindly ask you to leave."

She sighs, snatches a random pack of gum from the front lineup and slides it across to him. Cody looks at her with something akin to warmed over annoyance.

"That will be 0.49. Anything else?"

"Some information on the tourists, if you wouldn't mind." She grins at him, notepad held at the ready.

Cody mutters something to himself, throws his hands up in a weak sign of defeat.

"Didn't know any of them personally. Some bought some things here, but I never made small talk. They liked to visit the manor by the forest, all that old time charm or something. Ask the lady of the house, maybe she knows more. Can I go back to my work now?"

She nods, satisfied, and makes her way to wherever she needs to be next now. Which ends up being a small trek down main street and along the forest border to find the manor. It sits nestled atop a hill, smoke trailing from its chimney. It looks nice, with its dark stone and darker roof. Ivy has claimed half of the building, winding across wall and window alike. The shadow it casts is long, almost likes it is reaching out.

Sloane feels a bit like she just stepped into one of these regency dramas, albeit of a darker tone. The moment she steps closer to the manor a cold shiver runs down her back. The hairs on the back of her neck stand, the wind picks up and for a moment it feels like she is being watched. This reaction has to be nerves. She hasn't really talked to anyone who, by the looks of this manor, comes from very old money. Nevertheless, she knocks and waits, somewhat nervously toying with the buttons of her camera. As surprise to no one, she startles when the door opens, the shutter going of with soft click and a flash of light.