๐๐๐ ... identification : rafael rivera ( age: 50 / occupation: journalist and writer for the eden gazette / status: deceased )
rafael was born and raised in eden. his father was a bootlegger, and his mother was a seamstress with a soft voice and a sharper hand. rafael fled eden briefly in his twenties, chasing big-city journalism all the way in memphis, but returned when his younger sister went missing in 1978. it was later revealed that she vanished after attending a late-night revival meeting held in a barn outside of edenโs town limits.
her name was elena rivera, and silas jackson was already building his cult in the shadows by then.
rafael knew the circle of ravenous hearts had something to do with her disappearance. but with no body, no witnesses, and an entire town too scared or too complicit to speak, he was left with nothing but questions and a notebook full of silence.
since then, he and martin duvall had been running the eden gazette, but barely. officially, itโs a community paper filled with obituaries, high school football stats, and church bake sale coverage. unofficially, itโs the only local publication thatโs ever dared to hint at the darkness beneath edenโs polite exterior.
over time, he found evidence of multiple missing persons reports that had been filed and then sealed. he discovered photographs of crude altars, strange symbols carved into tree bark near the abandoned eden train station, and an unpublished coronerโs note suggesting bite marks on a body didnโt match any known animal.
most damning of all, heโd begun to connect silas jackson, a charismatic preacher who once held tent revivals on the edge of town, with a land trust that owned undeclared property deep in the woods, near the ruins of the chapel where the circle of ravenous hearts gathered.
in october of 1989, rafaelโs body was found in his home, slumped over his desk. cause of death: apparent heart failure.
but those who knew him said rafael was in good health. strong as a mule, still walking miles every morning, still able to pound out 70 words per minute on that clacking old underwood typewriter. stranger still, the file cabinet in his office had been pried open, and dozens of pages of notes were missing. his most recent tape recording ended with static, followed by a faint voice whispering:
โyouโve seen too much.โ