Chapter 2: The Police Investigation Begins

  Detective Tom Connors stepped out of his car, the crunch of gravel underneath breaking the silence. He examined the barn, a dilapidated building that stood stubbornly against the October sky. A chill raced down his spine as he smelt the pungent air, laden with the metallic scent of blood mixed with the earthy smell of hay and rot. Officers milled around, their features pale, their gaze drawn to the shadows that appeared to cling to the walls.

  "Can you believe this?" his partner, Detective Lisa Moreno, queried as she joined him. Her voice quivered slightly—a rare fracture in her normally controlled demeanor.

  Tom's eyes remained fixated on the scene ahead. The bodies lay unnaturally on the cold ground, some partially covered by dirt and trash. He took a step closer, instincts taking over when he noticed how precisely they had been organized.

  "It wasn't random," he murmured to himself instead of Lisa.

  "Looks like someone wanted to send a message." She pointed at a person lying across another. "This isn't just murder; it's ritualistic."

  Tom nodded. The small town of Mill Creek had long taken pride in its low crime rate—families knew one another by name, and children roamed freely until dusk fell over fields drenched in moonlight. But this? This felt like a nightmare lifted from a headline intended for large cities only.

  "What do we have so far?" Tom looked at an officer who rushed over with a clipboard.

  "Two males and three females, all identified, but... it's messy," the officer said, returning his gaze to the barn's entrance, where the shadows swirled ominously.

  Tom scowled as he knelt beside one of the bodies. Torn clothing revealed bruises and cuts, implying an increase of violence leading up to their deaths. His stomach knotted as he read the strange phrase scribbled in blood nearby. It screamed intent.

  "It's crucial to exercise caution," Lisa cautioned, retreating from a disturbing scene near an ancient, corroded instrument adorning the wall. "Whoever did this is still out there."

  Tom stood up and rubbed his hands on his slacks, feeling dirty despite having not touched anything yet. "Yeah." He squinted his eyes and looked around—the old barn creaked under its weight, echoing long-forgotten tragedies.

  "You've seen your share of horrible stuff," Lisa remarked gently, her gaze remaining fixed on the scene in front of them.

  Tom's jaw clenched at her words; she was not mistaken. Years of homicide work had thickened his skin, but he had never completely lost touch with reality. This case had a deeper impact on him, triggering memories he preferred to forget.

  "This one feels personal." He rubbed his temples briefly before returning his gaze to her with a firm resolve. "The arrangement of these bodies... Whoever did this knows them."

  Lisa observed him for a time before responding. "Do you think there is a relationship between them? Maybe someone from town?"

  Tom whispered in agreement and moved away from the bleak scene. He needed space to clear his mind—a brief break from the terror chewing at him like an insatiable beast.

  "We need to talk to families—friends—anyone who might shed light on their lives." He returned her gaze, his dark brown eyes brimming with intensity.

  She nodded eagerly but paused for just a beat longer than usual, anxiety in her countenance as she took in what lay before them. "Do you think they'll even talk?" she enquired gently, looking around uneasily.

  "Once they hear what happened here..." His voice trailed off briefly as he gazed at those lost souls lying beneath dirt and dust—a quiet had settled over everything around them, except for murmurs carried by autumn breezes whispering through surrounding trees.

  "That's assuming they haven't already heard." Lisa waved to officers assembled at improvised barriers further out as TV teams began to set up across the pitch outside town borders, ready to broadcast this tragedy across every screen in America.

  "No sense hiding it," Tom said sharply, annoyance seeping into his tone—the hurry pushing him onwards against rising fear tightening its hold like a noose.

  He steeled himself against the ache that stirred memories of another time when violence swept through lives indiscriminately. His family had been fractured by fate's cruel hand years ago—but it was no longer about him or past failures; it was about justice and uncovering truths hidden behind shadows lurking beneath the veil of daylight.

  As new officers arrived, they were greeted by familiar faces and knowing looks from veterans who had been through storms together over countless cases, like invisible threads that linked hearts through shared pain and determination in the face of loss. But nothing could have prepared any of them for what awaited them today inside these death-laden walls.

  This was not just another case; it felt like a reckoning was imminent as Mill Creek's tightly knit fabric slowly unraveled into chaos.

  The screen lit Evan's face as he slumped on the edge of his couch, his mind blank while a reporter discussed the deaths at Mackenzie Barn. Her voice was sharp against the stillness of his flat.

  Her tone was sombre.

  "The victims have been identified as residents of Mill Creek," she said. "Authorities are looking for a suspect thought to be related to the graphic scene."

  He clutched the remote, knuckles white against the plastic. Every mention of the barn ignited his heart, with memories flickering just beyond his reach like enigmatic fireflies. His thoughts flashed—faces contorted in pain—but they vanished before he could completely grab them.

  "Don't you already know the truth?"

  Jimmy's voice slithered into his mind, silky and taunting.

  Evan muttered through his teeth, shaking his head as though it would silence Jimmy's taunts. "I have no knowledge." But the uneasy reminder that he could be nearer to understanding than he wanted to accept persisted—like smoke following a fire.

  The room seemed too quiet, an oppressive silence weighing against him. He looked about at the mess—the unwashed dishes stacked in the sink, clothes scattered on the floor—everything felt off-kilter, like a dream teetering on the brink of dreamlessness.

  The reflection in the glass revealed a stranger: pale skin stretched tightly over cheekbones that seemed too strong and eyes that had lost their common brightness.

  Evan shoved himself from the couch and towards the window. The darkness enveloped Mill Creek like a thick blanket. The lighting fluttered hazily; shadows swirled along crumbling pavement from years of neglect. He forced clarity to arrive by pressing his forehead against the cool glass.

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  "Why challenge it?"

  Jimmy purred from inside him. "Embrace your own."

  "Shut up!" Evan snapped, but his voice sounded hollow in the void.

  Tightly closing his eyes, he concentrated on inhaling in and out—a basic rhythm meant to anchor him. But a rapid blackout enveloped everything around him, not soothing him.

  Darkness swallowed sound and light until he found himself alone in front of an unexpectedly appearing mirror. But something was off.

  It was him… but something was wrong.

  Confusion seized him. A shake ran through his fingers—until he saw a knife gleaming in his hand.

  As he examined it closer—a blade tarnished with something dark spreading across its surface—his heart thumped violently in his chest. Had it arrived as expected?

  Panic seized him. He battled the need to throw it away or yell for help.

  From deep inside Evan's head, Jimmy cooed mockingly, laughter bubbling just under his composed front.

  Now Evan shook fiercely. Sweat ran across his brow as adrenaline shot through him. He could almost hear whispers urging him to succumb to the buried memories.

  "What do I do?"

  He whispered to himself but heard only quiet and distant echoes of anarchy playing back behind closed doors someplace inside him.

  His hands grasping bleeding instruments next to dead bodies flashed through his mind—but before he could concentrate on it completely, it slid away once more, like sand through fingers.

  No…

  The word came out fractured from his mouth as fear enveloped him like dark vines strangling hope.

  "I did not kill anyone."

  Nevertheless, doubts encircled each concept he grasped, and reality continued to deform with each breath he inhaled.

  How, then, could anyone believe him?

  The evidence presented a negative picture: the blood on his clothes reflected someone else entirely.

  Jimmy laughed gently now. Evan felt the weight fall squarely on his shoulders once more—the alter ego waiting to strike when weakness crept through the gaps left open by fear.

  "I'm not weak," Evan said angrily, even if doubt permeated every word.

  Shadows started flickering at the margins of awareness, laughter whirling just beyond reach as Evan's grip tightened naturally around that accursed knife—an anchor connecting two worlds together, where light met darkness amid uncertainty.

  The knife seemed to be taunting him even more.

  Once more, the need to escape—to flee this warped reality—surged through him. But even those impulses twisted beneath layers created by memories buried yet familiar enough for terror to churn ceaselessly beneath flesh and bone…

  Until all seemed lost within turbulent tides, ready to swallow what little remained whole.

  Tom looked at the evidence board, which was a disorganised mass of images and scribbled notes. Five faces peered back at him—two males and three females—arranged with calculated brutality that made his stomach turn. He looked at the photographs, searching for patterns that could indicate a motive. The victims had no known links and no overlapping circles.

  Why them?

  A chill ran through him as he brushed his finger over the words inscribed in bright red beside the dead. The sentences had a strange familiarity, like an old song he couldn't recall. They felt personal.

  "Detective Connors?" Lisa's voice interrupted his thoughts. She approached with a forensic analyst in tow, her forehead furrowed with worry.

  The analyst cleared his throat and looked at the evidence board before focusing on Tom. "I've reviewed the autopsies," he began. "No forced entry into the barn, no defensive wounds on any of the victims."

  "What are you saying?" Tom drew in closer, his tone more urgent.

  "The victims didn't resist," he explained. "It's as if they knew their killer."

  Tom's gut constricted. That pointed to someone in their lives—someone who had sneaked past their defences without raising suspicion. A friend? A neighbour? The idea sparked an uneasy fire in his chest.

  Lisa crossed her arms to consider the ramifications. "That complicates things."

  "Complicates?" His voice rose with annoyance. "This is more than complicated—it's a nightmare." He returned to the evidence board, running his hand through his hair in frustration.

  Outside, murmuring resonated around the precinct as news stories appeared on screens throughout Mill Creek. The town was alive with rumours and anxiety; every shadow was questionable, and every whisper contained possible threats. Reporters sold conspiracy ideas like sweets, each one more absurd than the last.

  "They're transforming this place," Lisa whispered.

  "They'll tear it apart if we don't find something," Tom said sadly. His mind raced; every second spent inactive meant more opportunities for panic to spread among residents.

  Just then, a uniformed officer entered the room, holding a tablet aloft as if it carried valuable treasure. "Detective Connors! We acquired security footage from Jack's petrol station near Route 7."

  Tom stood up and took the iPad from him. A fuzzy image filled the screen: a hooded figure hovered over one of the pumps, their walk unsettlingly familiar.

  "Zoom in," he said tersely.

  The officer tapped multiple times until the figure occupied the majority of the screen. As Tom observed it closely—the broad shoulders and confident stride—an electrifying thrill went through him.

  "That's… that build…" he said quietly.

  "Who is it?" Lisa drew in, her gaze narrowing as she studied Tom's reaction.

  "I can't place it yet," he said unwillingly, but he was confident this was not new to him or this community.

  The individual walked into view before retreating behind an aisle of snacks, just as another car approached to fill its tank. The footage ran on repeat; he watched it again and again, as if each loop would reveal new information—a fracture in the armour of obscurity that hid whoever this man was.

  "We need to get the word out to everyone," Lisa insisted after several moments of silence fell between them.

  "Not yet." Tom shook his head sharply, considering what would happen if they revealed too much too soon—the mayhem that could break out in Mill Creek if citizens saw someone they knew represented as dangerous.

  "So we just sit on it?" Lisa questioned Tom's hesitancy.

  "For now." He met her stare squarely before returning his focus to the TV. "Let me gather my thoughts."

  He could already feel something tightening around him—the familiar sensation of obsession seeping in like fog on a cold morning, each thread tangled deeper around memories long buried and newly unearthed.

  A nagging sense poked at him, as if something else lurked just beyond reach; perhaps it was intuition developed over years on these streets, or perhaps paranoia spawned by too many late nights spent chasing shadows under the lamps' glow—but whatever it was, caution was advised above all things.

  With rising tension radiating across Mill Creek—fear growing like ivy over brick walls—the pieces danced just out of reach, some twisted connection threatening clarity but staying shrouded inside shadows only Tom could completely comprehend.

  Evan grabbed the coffee mug from his kitchen counter with shaking hands. The ceramic surface felt improper, out of place. Last night, he had left it in the washbasin; he was sure of it.

  He found other items he had forgotten to wash on the dish rack.

  His eyes moved to his forearms. Purple bruises, arranged like finger marks, covered his skin.

  His hold on the mug slipped. It shattered against the vinyl floor. Coffee splashed over his naked feet, but he hardly felt the heat.

  "What else is happening to me?" The words surfaced in a whisper.

  A brief glance at his phone revealed 10:47 AM.

  He had checked just 8:15 last time.

  Two and a half hours—vanished.

  His stomach turned over.

  The path to Dr. Martinez's office passed in a whirl of autumn hues and worried expressions. The receptionist's gaze lingered longer than normal as she waved him through.

  Although Dr. Martinez's office smelled of leather and vanilla, today, the familiar perfume did not soothe him.

  Evan dropped onto the old armchair, his fingertips probing the armrests.

  "Tell me what bothers you, Evan."

  "I'm missing time." The words came out in bits. "Things in my apartment move when I'm not around. Unbearable bruises greet me when I wake up."

  Pen scratches on Dr. Martinez's notepad.

  "Have you been sleeping well?"

  "That's not—this is not about sleep." Evan rolled his sleeve to show the purple marks. "Examine these. I did not do this to myself."

  "Given current occurrences in town, one is naturally more anxious. Stress can show up in physical—"

  "Stop." Evan stood, pulse hammering. "Jimmy's real. He's getting more robust."

  "Your lifelong friend?" Dr. Martinez's voice stayed steady. "We have talked about this issue previously. Jimmy was a coping strategy—"

  "He is more than that nowadays." Evan pushed his palms against his temple. "He's gaining control during my blackout. Moving objects. You're causing me pain."

  "Blackouts brought on by stress could be what these are. The way your mind handles tragedy."

  Evan let out a sharp, sour laugh.

  "Trauma?" He shook his head. "You misinterpret. He's not in my brain anymore. He is."

  A stinging agony shot through his skull. The room veered to the side.

  "Evan?"

  Dr. Martinez's voice seemed far away, fully submerged.

  He blinked—

  Then, he was staring out the window. Forty minutes had gone by.

  Dr. Martinez watched him from behind her desk, her expression filled with concern.

  He needed to leave.

  Evan exited the office, grabbed his jacket, and ignored her calls.

  His phone rang in his pocket.

  Unknown number.

  His blood froze at the message.

  "You're running out of time."

  The phone slipped from his grip.

  When it hit the concrete, the screen cracked.