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Prologue - Dead Man's Tile

Dawn crept across the Franklin Garden Park with the reluctant gray light of October, casting long shadows that seemed to point accusingly toward the eastern bench. The morning mist clung to the ground like secrets refusing to be told, swirling around a figure who would never feel cold again.

He sat with impossible stillness.

Not the stillness of sleep or meditation, but the absolute absence of life—a vacancy so complete it seemed to absorb the very air around it. His posture was too perfect, too deliberate. Shoulders squared, back straight, head tilted at precisely the angle needed to catch the first rays of sunlight. Sunlight that his unblinking vacant eyes would never bear witness to again.

Someone had arranged him like their masterpiece.

The forest green flannel shirt bore no wrinkles, no signs of struggle. Each button fastened correctly, collar crisp, sleeves rolled carefully to mid-forearm. Work boots planted firmly on the ground, heels aligned with military exactness that spoke of external hands positioning them just so.

But it was what surrounded him that transformed the scene from tragedy into theater.

Scattered across the weathered bench lay the remnants of an ancient game—ivory tiles catching what little light filtered through the morning haze. Most lay face-down in deliberate anonymity, but a chosen few displayed their symbols like actors taking center stage. Dragons in crimson, jade, and pearl formed a constellation around the still form. Wind tiles marked cardinal points with the same precision as the layout of the park..

The lacquered box sat open beside him, its dark wood gleaming with the patina of age and careful handling. This was no random collection of game pieces—each tile had been placed with the reverence of a ritual, the calculation of a message.

In fingers that would never move again, a single tile caught the growing light. Bright red against waxy skin, gold symbols gleaming with an authority that seemed to pulse in the morning air. A wild card. A joker. A piece that could become anything the game required.

Folded paper nestled beneath one of the guardian dragons, its edges crisp with recent handling. Block letters marched across its surface in formation, spelling out words that would soon echo through a small mountain town like a stone dropped in still water:

EAST WIND NEVER LIES.

The tower clock looming above began to chime six o'clock, its bronze voice rolling across the park to where death sat waiting in quiet stillness. Each toll seemed to count down to something inevitable—the moment when this carefully orchestrated tableau would be discovered, when questions would begin falling like autumn leaves.

Who was the dealer in this final hand? What game had ended here? And why did the winner leave their calling card scattered in ivory tiles?

The mist began to lift, carrying with it the last moments before a small town would wake to find that some games end only when someone dies.

Dead Man’s Tile

A Mahjong Murder Mystery Society Story

Franklin, North Carolina |

Smoky Mountain Suspense

In the quiet mountain town of Franklin, where the mist rolls in like secrets and the clack of Mahjong tiles echoes through church basements and back porches, a local game night turns deadly. When one of the Mahjong Murder Mystery Society’s own is found lifeless—his final tile still clenched in hand—the remaining players must swap strategy for sleuthing. These aren’t hardened detectives. They’re retirees, librarians, and lifelong locals with sharp minds and sharper instincts. And they know one thing for sure: the killer is playing by house rules.

As the Society digs into the victim’s past and the town’s buried grudges, each tile reveals a new clue—and a new danger. In a place where everyone knows your name, someone’s betting on silence. But this crew plays to win.

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A view of Franklin Garden Park

in Downtown Franklin

Start reading: Dead Man's Tile - The Prologue

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