Crypt Chick
A cappuccino, a croissant, and a crypt. That’s all it takes to throw Dane Mercer and Indie Locke together on a collision course with the impossible.
Beneath Center Church on the Green, something restless stirs—and when Lady Peeq arrives, danger in her eyes and command in her voice, the crypt itself seems to listen.
Desire, dread, and the dead all wake at once in this haunting encounter.
A Note to Readers from A.P. Meringue
Treats and effects for reading Crypt Chick with style
Mood Snack: Blondies generously topped with crushed chocolate cookies (“crypt dust”).
Optional Effect: Small jar of dry ice nearby creates wafting mist over the treats
Instructions: Consume at leisure, inhaling the faint aroma of both crypt and chocolate.
Crumbs may mingle with fog—this is an expected and scientifically fascinating effect.
A.P. Aside: ⚠️Contact with/ingestion of solid dry ice remains inadvisable. Ghostly “helpers” may attempt sampling; gentle discouragement recommended.
Center Church on the Green Crypt, 2025
Not every corner of the Bleak Reach was frosted with eeriness. Sometimes you stumbled into September sun, crisp as an apple…as in a café that smelled like cinnamon rolls, pie, and good gossip.
That was where he saw her.
Dane Mercer—eyes like a Rubin bronze, steady, almost metallic in their gleam—was halfway through his cappuccino when the café door chimed.
In she walked: dark red hair glossy as wet ink, white blouse sharp as a crease on a legal summons, laptop case scuffed from travel.
Dane was tickled with déjà vu. She was the spitting image of a woman he’d glimpsed once before, fitted jacket, self-assured, cutting through quay mist like she owned both tide and time.
But this wasn’t her. This woman moved quickly, with precision, yet felt entirely down-to-earth.
And hungry. Because before even opening her laptop, she ordered: “Iced Americano, three sugars. And a ham-and-cheese croissant. Toasted.”
Dane grinned into his cup. Definitely not a ghost.
I know we just met but you seem...tense.She took the seat across from him, spread out her laptop and papers like she was mapping a crime scene, and worked with clipped precision. Dane told himself to mind his own business.
He failed.
“Most people would’ve gone for the scone,” he said, nodding at her croissant.
Without looking up she replied, “Most people don’t understand protein is the only thing standing between me and homicide after lunch.”
That earned his laugh. And when she did make eye contact—finally—her smile was quick, sly, and it warmed him better than the coffee.
Her name was Indie Locke, “Indie’s not short for anything, and I’m no philosopher.”
“You are…?” she asked.
“Dane Mercer. Architect. Sort of. I take old bones and give them a second act. Churches, factories, crypts.”
An iota of surprise rifled the landscape of her face. “Crypts?”
“Dead don’t need central air. But tourists do.”
Her laugh startled the couple at the next table. Then her eyes drifted to his hands, scarred and calloused.
“You’ve done more than draw blueprints, Crypt Keeper,” she said.
He smiled. “Demolition. Still knock a wall down if it won’t behave.”
She liked that answer—he could see it.
Then her phone buzzed.
Dane saw the message, reading it upside-down. Her eyes flicked to him but she didn’t bother to hide it.
>Incident escalating in crypt. Proceed only if comfortable.<
“Crypt?” he said.
Indie shut her laptop with a snap, slid it into her bag. “They asked me to consult. Crime-tech crossover. Sometimes I moonlight for the city.”
“You’re really going after getting a text like that?”
She shrugged. “I’m not most people.”
Then she grabbed her croissant, stood, and tossed him a glance sharp enough to cut pastry. “Come on. You said you like finding what’s hidden. And you look like the kind of guy who can yank me out by the ankles if I get stuck.”
“And if whatever’s down there wants to enjoy its lunch in peace?” he asked.
Her smirk was pure challenge. “We’ll find out.” She marched for the door, croissant in hand, daring him to follow.
He did.
Ghost says, pew, pew.Late September air nipped at their jackets as they reached Center Church on the Green. The old brick walls loomed solemn, but the real business was beneath, in the crypt.
The air was cooler there, damp and faintly sweet—like flowers sealed too long in a drawer. Gravestones lay neatly underfoot, names carved into slabs that whispered of centuries past.
Indie pulled out a device—something part med school, part RadioShack—that chirped, spiked, then screamed before dying.
The silence that followed was worse.
Dane touched the wall. Moisture slicked his fingers. “Worked a survey here once. Always felt…off.”
“Not just you,” Indie murmured.
Then came the scrape.
From the far end of the crypt, a stone lid shifted.
Followed by a sigh. Long, low, sad.
“Rats…if we’re lucky,” Dane offered.
“Rats don’t exhale like they’re disappointed in you,” Indie shot back.
The coffin moved again. A stooped figure, shoulders bent wrong, began to rise. The air stank of river mud and iron.
Indie’s face was pale but calm. She tapped a number. “This is when I call backup.”
The phone rang once.
And then—the rhythm of boots on stone.
Careful...I bite.A figure descended from the archway: dark pleather coat, chin lifted, eyes gleaming with command.
Lady Peeq.
The resemblance was uncanny—cherry cola hair, same eyes as Indie, but with authority sharpened by years of bargaining with the impossible.
Dane felt his breath hitch. Indie’s eyes flicked briefly toward him, a small, knowing arch of one brow. She didn’t comment—didn’t need to—but the glance said it all: she had noticed the way his gaze had lingered on Lady Peeq, and filed it away for later amusement.
The crypt hushed, almost paid attention. Something in Dane’s chest hummed—half admiration, half attraction—that startled him. He’d just been laughing with Indie; now here was her double, older and more dangerous, and it pulled at him in an entirely different way.
Indie was sharp, smart, and on point, but Lady Peeq moved like a conductor stepping to her orchestra. The crypt hushed, almost paid attention.
Her gaze went straight to the broken figure rising from the coffin. Her lips curved, not in fear, but in something close to satisfaction. “Of course,” she said softly. “It would be here.”
The creature faltered. Even the shadows seemed to recoil.
I'm just here for the exfoliating facial.Dane realized two things in that moment: the women were cousins, nearly twins—and he had just stepped into a story far bigger, and far hungrier, than any building he’d ever restored.
Later, he would barely remember how Peeq pressed forward, unrecognizable words spilling like molten steel until the figure folded back into its stone bed. What he did remember: the way Indie trusted her cousin’s arrival as if it were a foregone conclusion.
He noticed the text Lady Peeq received just as they reached daylight.
>HalfLight. Body floating.<
Lady Peeq’s eyes darkened, storm weather across her face.
Indie didn’t see it. But Dane did.
Coffee, croissants and a crypt had been the appetizer. Whatever came next promised to be the feast.
