The Smoke House Vanishing by Olha Hrybivska

The rain came sideways in the fishing town of Grey Hollow,

where salt lived in the cracks of every windowpane, and locals trusted no one who didn’t drink black coffee and curse the sea. That morning, when the fog lifted for a moment, Eleanor Finch was gone.

Detective Vicky Ellery was already on the road when the call came through. Eleanor - a sharp-tongued, widowed librarian - hadn’t shown up to open the Grey Hollow Public Library. Her front door was open, the kettle still warm, and her dog, Peat, whimpering outside the fence.

Disappearance. No sign of a break-in. No signs of a struggle.

Vicky parked her rust-stained Volvo outside Eleanor’s seaside cottage. The scent of wet kelp hung thick in the air. Sergeant Gregor stood at the garden gate.

“No blood. No forced entry. Just gone,” he said puzzled.

Inside, the house was neat, the air still steeped in lavender and lemon polish. One teacup on the table. One slice of toast bitten once, left abandoned.

Mara knelt by the kettle. Still warm. She looked at the calendar by the fridge. A red circle marked the previous night: “7 pm - Smoke house.”

The Smoke house was not just a restaurant. It was the restaurant in Grey Hollow. Eleanor dined there every Thursday, like clockwork. That night was no exception. She was seen by the hostess, the waiter, even a couple of the town’s drunks. But nobody remembered her leaving.

Vicky interviewed them all. Then wrote down information in her diary:

Suspect #1: Bart Lomax, the waiter. Nervous. Reeked of peppermint and stale gin.

“Yeah, I served her. She had her usual - clam stew and cider. Left around nine… I think?”

Vicky raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“Well… I had a lot of tables. She didn’t say goodbye or anything. Just vanished.”

“And where were you after that?”

“Washing up in the back,” he muttered. “Ask the cook.”

But the cook didn’t remember seeing him until almost ten.

Bart had been caught stealing tips more than once. Known for little white lies. Not exactly dependable.

⸻

Suspect #2: Annie Vale, the hostess. All charm and pearls. Too polished for Grey Hollow.

“I checked Eleanor in myself. She had her book, as she always does. She sat by the window. Left a generous tip. No idea when she went.”

“You didn’t see her go?” Vicky asked.

“I was on break. Around 8:30 to 9:15. Just a coffee run.”

“In the middle of dinner rush?”

Annie’s smile faltered. “It was quiet.”

Annie had been fired from her last job in Boston. Falsifying hours.

⸻

Suspect #3: Blake Dane, the local fisherman. Bar regular. Seen arguing with Eleanor two weeks ago about a property line.

“She was mad because I put crab traps too close to her dock. So what?”

“You were at the Smoke house last night?”

“I was. With the boys. Saw her there. Didn’t speak to her.”

“Did you leave before her?”

“I don’t remember. Might’ve.”

He’d had three DUIs in five years, and once lied about finding a wallet that mysteriously reappeared empty the next day.

Vicky didn’t trust any of them.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Then came the letter.

Found slipped under Eleanor’s library door, the note was penned in shaky, black ink:

“She found out about the papers. You need to check the lighthouse.”

That same night, Vicky drove to the Old Grey Hollow Lighthouse which was long abandoned since the storm. Locked and boarded. But she picked the lock easily enough. Inside, salt-damaged stairs creaked underfoot, and a sour wind howled through the broken top window.

The third floor had once served as a keeper’s quarters. Now it was dust and mold.

But behind the old dresser, detective found a trapdoor - ajar.

Down there, in the cellar, damp and cloaked in shadows, was Eleanor.

Alive. Bound, dazed and gagged.

The town buzzed for weeks. Vicky got her name in the paper, a free drink at the tavern, and a lot of people suddenly interested in her business. But what stuck with her was this:

Eleanor had been kidnapped - and knew exactly why.

Owen Fitch was the true antagonist. 

He wasn’t a villain. Not exactly. Just someone who believed the world owed him something.

A failed historian turned local archivist, Owen had been cataloging Grey Hollow’s forgotten deeds, documents, and maps in the library basement for months. Quiet, polite. Wore corduroy jackets and corrected your grammar mid-sentence.

Eleanor had stumbled upon a record Owen was trying to keep buried: a land deed, over 150 years old, showing that a massive chunk of the town’s coastline, including where the new luxury condos were being built, never legally belonged to the developers.

The paper trail would’ve stopped everything. Lawsuits. Fines. Loss of jobs. The town council furious. The developers ruined. Owen? He’d lose everything too - his new job, his only reputation.

So he panicked. Drugged her cider at the Smokehouse. Paid Bart to carry her out the back under the guise of a passed-out drunk. Bart needed the cash and didn’t ask questions. Owen stashed Eleanor in the lighthouse, thinking he’d destroy the papers, then release her and claim she got lost on one of her “fog walks.”

But Eleanor didn’t go quietly. She scratched part of a message into the cellar wall with her shoe buckle. And she convinced Peat, her dog, to bark like mad until someone noticed. That someone was Vicky.

After the incident, Eleanor kept the library job. Refused interviews. Refused pity.

When Vicky asked her why she didn’t press more charges, Eleanor just said:

“He was scared. Quite cowardly, yes. But not exactly evil. Anyway, I have enough paperwork in the library already.”

Week later, after solving the case, detective stood outside the lighthouse, watching the tide slam against the rocks. She thought about the truth  - how it hid under floorboards and behind lies and old paper.

In Grey Hollow, everyone had secrets. But only some of them were crimes.

And some? Just fear, dressed in desperation.

But Vicky knew she will face all kinds of challenges soon.