But the longer I look, the more the details begin to unravel the illusion.
The Victorian houses aren’t painted in cheerful pastels. They’re all variations of gray, from dove to charcoal to the color of storm clouds, broken only by the occasional house with scarlet red shutters or a crimson front door that looks like a splash of blood against the monochrome backdrop. The gingerbread trim that should be decorative and welcoming instead looks like carved teeth, shadows pooling in every curve and corner. Windows stare out like dead eyes, and I notice that many of them have iron bars or wooden shutters that may be more defensive than decorative.
The flower boxes I can see are there, but the flowers themselves are wrong. Even from this distance, I can see they’re all deep purple-black, as if someone decided regular flowers weren’t gothic enough for Grimlock’s aesthetic.
“What kind of flowers are those?” I ask.
Hans follows my gaze. “Nightshade,” he says matter-of-factly. “Very popular here. People say it keeps away unwanted visitors.”
“Nightshade. As in, the poisonous plant.”
“Ja. Is very effective.”
We descend into the maze of the town proper, and I feel like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. The main road splits into three smaller streets, each one diving between buildings at different angles. Hans navigates the labyrinth like a man who has done this a million times, turning down alleyways barely wide enough for the sedan, past stone archways that frame glimpses of courtyards where laundry hangs like colorful flags between iron balconies.
The cobblestone streets are uneven, worn smooth in some placesby thousands of footsteps, cracked and jutting in others where tree roots have pushed through from below. Water runs in narrow channels along the edges—not storm drains, but actual canals no wider than my arm, carrying seawater and rain through the town in patterns that must make sense to someone but look random to me.
And the people are... vibrant in ways I wasn’t expecting. A woman in a flowing burgundy dress dances as she sweeps her porch, her movements so graceful she could be performing ballet with a broom. An elderly man sits on a bench feeding ravens—actual ravens, not pigeons—while having a full conversation with them, complete with hand gestures and pauses as if he’s listening to their responses. A girl with wild curls bounces a yellow ball against a brick wall in complex patterns, her timing so deliberate it’s like she’s following some invisible choreography.
Three women with identical silver hair sit on rocking chairs outside the post office, knitting the same endless scarf in different shades of evergreen. A man with arms like tree trunks tends a garden where every single flower is a different variety of rose—red, white, pink, yellow—all blooming impossibly perfect. Near the stone fountain carved with mermaids and sea serpents whose tails intertwine around the base, a group of children chase soap bubbles that float far longer than physics should allow, their laughter gunning off the stone walls that close in around the small square.
Everyone appears completely absorbed in their own world, living their lives with an intensity and joy that makes my New York existence look gray by comparison. No one pays any attention to our car; they’re too busy being magnificently themselves.
We wind through two more narrow streets before emerging into the main square, and I understand why Hans took such a circuitous route. The layout makes no logical sense. Streets branch off at odd angles, some ending in walls, others opening onto courtyards or disappearing under archways. It’s designed like a puzzle box, meant to confuse anyone who doesn’t know the secret.
The town square is dominated by a clock tower that should be the heart of the community but instead feels like its dead center. The structure is beautiful in a Gothic Revival way—all pointed archesand flying buttresses—but the clock face is wrong. The hands are frozen at midnight, and the numbers around the dial aren’t standard. Instead of 1 through 12, they’re symbols I don’t recognize. Runes, maybe, or some kind of alchemical notation.
“How long has the clock been broken?” I ask.
“Is not broken,” Hans says. “Is exactly right twice each day.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. Hans might be a man of few words, but when he does speak, he’s got a point.
The buildings surrounding the square are a mixture of architectural styles that shouldn’t work together but somehow do. There’s a bakery with Gothic windows squeezed between two taller buildings, like a book pressed between bookends, next to a Tudor-style curiosity shop that leans so far over the street it nearly touches the medieval forge across from it. Each building leans slightly toward its neighbors, creating the impression that the entire square is slowly collapsing inward toward the clock tower.
The signs hanging from the buildings are hand-painted in script: The Upper Crust Bakery, Wonders & Oddities, The Iron Rose Forge. They’re the kind of atmospheric names that fit Grimlock’s mysterious vibe perfectly.
But it’s the shop windows that really get to me. They’re all lit from within by warm, golden light that should be welcoming. Instead, the glow illuminates displays that are just slightly off. The bakery window shows delicate cakes and pastries, but they’re all decorated in shades of black and deep red. Wonders & Oddities’ display features an eclectic collection of antique curiosities: ornate music boxes, vintage tarot decks, crystal balls on brass stands, and what appears to be a taxidermy raven wearing a tiny top hat. The forge window shows ornate metalwork—gates, door knockers, weathervanes—all depicting scenes that tell stories I’m dying to understand but can’t quite decipher from a moving car.
“People actually live here?” I ask. “Like, raise families and go to PTA meetings and complain about property taxes?”
“Is home,” Hans says simply. “People make homes where they can.”
This place is... I need to get out and explore at a slower pace.
“Hans, can you drop me off somewhere? I want to walk around, maybe get a drink.” I need out of this car and away from his nervous energy. “I promise I won’t run away to join the circus or anything.”
He checks his watch. “Is only ten in the morning, Miss.”
“Hans... don’t be the judgy judge. It hasn’t been that long since I climbed out of an antique steamer trunk after being drugged and kidnapped. Cut a girl a break.” I give him my best innocent smile. “Besides, mimosas are perfectly acceptable morning drinks. It’s practically fruit juice.”
Hans glances at me in the rearview mirror, clearly weighing his options. “There is good place. Local bar. Owners are friendly women.”
He navigates us through another narrow alleyway, this one so tight I could touch the stone walls on both sides if I rolled down the windows. We emerge onto a street I haven’t seen before. They all look different but somehow the same, like variations on a theme. He pulls over in front of a building that somehow manages to feel welcoming despite Grimlock’s overall atmosphere of beautiful menace.
The sign reads Toil & Trouble Apothecary Bar in deep burgundy paint, and the building itself is a converted Victorian house painted in charcoal gray with black trim that makes it look like it’s perpetually in shadow. Wind chimes hang from every available surface on the wraparound porch. Dozens of them in different sizes and materials, creating a constant chorus of soft, melodic chaos.
I climb out, immediately struck by the sound. The wind chimes create a symphony that’s both soothing and unsettling, melodies that shift and change depending on which way you turn your head. Some are made of metal, others of bamboo, a few of glass or crystal. Together, they create a soundtrack that feels both magical and slightly sinister.
