Detective Lorgnette Ribbitson wasn’t technically a real detective—he just had a trench coat, a magnifying glass, and an uncanny ability to stare at people until they confessed things that had nothing to do with the crime. So when he was summoned to investigate "a dreadful howling on the island," he packed his travel-sized emotional support lily pad and caught the first boat he could find (which turned out to be a beaver with a drinking problem and a raft made of pizza boxes).

Upon arriving, Lorgnette discovered that the haunting in question was a local marsupial poet suffering from a particularly turbulent case of impostor syndrome. But something else lurked beneath the whimsy—an invisible tremor in the sand, the quiet twitch of time hiccupping. Lorgnette adjusted his hat. “I think,” he croaked thoughtfully, “this case might be slightly above my paygrade.” The palm trees blinked in unison. The island was... watching.

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