Evan's Search for Answers

  With a heartbeat that he could feel in his throat, Evan jolted awake on his couch. An unsettling blue light from the TV illuminated his living room, casting distorted shadows in the corners. As he forced himself to stand, his hands quivered with the tremors, and his mind raced with the usual disorientation that preceded such episodes.

  A somber-looking newswoman stood behind yellow police tape while the dilapidated Mackenzie Barn loomed over her in the background of the screen.

  "This morning, investigators found the fifth victim with wounds similar to the others. The police are urging anyone with information about these murders to come forward immediately. As of right now, the FBI is also looking into the matter."

  A delicate layer of dust enveloped the remote control as it rested on the coffee table, appearing naive. The television had remained off.

  He never watched the news again, not since the dreams started.

  "You don't want to know the truth, do you?"

  Jimmy's icy and condescending voice slithered through his thoughts, infused with a wicked sense of humor in every syllable.

  Light burst from beneath Evan's eyelids as he rubbed his hands over his eyes.

  "Get out of my head."

  "I, however, am the one who will lead you. I am at your disposal. I entirely agree with you. All the things you insist on denying are true."

  Out of nowhere, the TV screen turned black, mirroring Evan's face in the shadows. His haunted eyes bore the marks of numerous nights of sleep deprivation: deep, dark circles. Sweat saturated his hair, which stood up at awkward angles.

  His stomach twisted as his reflection's eyes appeared to change from grey to a chilling, piercing blue for an instant.

  Unsteady and clumsy, he reached for his phone and awkwardly looked for Dr. Martinez's number. With each ring, his desperation grew as the call went directly to voicemail.

  "Hello, Dr. Martinez. I need to see you as soon as possible. The severity and frequency of the blackouts are increasing. Please get back to me."

  Right before he said it, his voice broke.

  After what felt like hours of shouting, his throat was raw and scraped. He might have been.

  Evan frantically reached for his jacket, his hands trembling from the intense heat of the flat. The walls, pressing in on him, threatened to crush him.

  In the faint light, a black smear caught his attention as he extended for the doorknob.

  In the shadows, a rust-brown, flaking fingerprint marked the metal.

  Blood.

  Dangling precariously on the knob, his hand quivered in the air. His index finger perfectly matched the unique whorl pattern on the print.

  As if his hands belonged to someone else, Evan staggered back and stared at them.

  He didn't see any blood currently, but how many times had he washed them recently?

  In the depths of his thoughts, how often had Jimmy made use of them?

  "Now you're asking about the right things," Jimmy said with a pleased tone. "Keep digging."

  * * *

  Tom's Investigation Takes a Turn

  Tom reclined in his chair, wiping his sleepy eyes as he flipped through another stack of files. The harsh fluorescent lights of the station hummed overhead, throwing glaring shadows on the scattered papers and crime scene images that covered his desk. His neck ached from hours of hunching over documents, and the bitter taste of stale coffee lingered in his mouth.

  A coffee-stained piece of paper attracted his attention---an old medical report from Cedar Grove Children's Therapy Centre. His eyebrows furrowed as he recognized Sarah Mitchell, victim number three. A group therapy session log under her name indicated another patient: Evan Marshall. The yellowed edges of the paper indicated years of storage, but the connection seemed new and alive.

  "Got something?"

  Lisa approached his desk with two fresh cups of coffee in hand. The familiar perfume briefly lifted the cloud from his consciousness.

  Tom spread the therapy records, smoothing the wrinkled pages with his calloused fingers.

  "Twenty years ago, Sarah Mitchell and our suspect crossed paths. Same therapy group and doctor."

  The timing piqued his detective instincts.

  "Could be coincidence."

  "In Mill Creek?"

  Tom took out the crime scene photographs and focused on the blood-stained messages. "Remember what we accomplished" stood out especially, the crimson lettering appearing to throb under the fluorescent lighting.

  "These are not random phrases. Look at this one: 'The truth stays buried.' Someone is trying to tell us something."

  His finger traced the writing, feeling the texture of the glossy image.

  "Or themselves," Lisa said, leaning in closer to inspect the photographs, her perfume blending with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  Tom's phone vibrated. Old Joe Bradley, a farmer whose property bordered Mackenzie Barn, had finally agreed to speak.

  Within minutes, Tom drove his car down the muddy access road to Bradley's farmhouse, the suspension moaning against the rutted path.

  The elderly farmer sat in a creaky rocking chair on his porch, his wrinkled face filled with concern. The wooden boards creaked under his gently rocking motion.

  "I knew something wasn't right that night," Bradley said. "I saw somebody stumbling through my south field, heading towards town."

  "Can you describe him?" Tom took out his notepad, the leather cover worn smooth after years of use.

  "Average height. Dark clothing. But it was how he moved..."

  Bradley's voice fell, his rheumy eyes clouded with remembrance.

  "It was as if he were fighting himself. Stop and restart, like a marionette with tangled strings. Never seen anything like it."

  "What time was this?"

  "Around midnight."

  The moon was high. Bradley shifted in his chair, making the old wood creak.

  "The strangest aspect was his look as he passed under my floodlight. Eyes were wild but also empty. Like he's possessed."

  A shudder ran through the elderly man's body.

  Tom's pen stopped in mid-sentence. The description matched what they saw in the petrol station footage---the same erratic movement pattern. His stomach twisted with the familiar sensation of parts beginning to align.

  Back at his desk, Tom posted Bradley's statement next to the treatment records, the corkboard already overflowing with evidence. His eyes shifted to Evan's driver's license photograph. There was something about his eyes that caught Tom's attention.

  Even in this official shot, they reflected the emptiness Bradley mentioned.

  The evidence should have presented a clear picture. Evan Marshall had ties to a victim. His movements matched the descriptions provided by witnesses. Blood evidence indicated his presence at the location.

  Yet Tom couldn't shake the sensation that they were missing something important. After twenty years of police work, he'd learned to trust his instincts.

  "Why leave a trail?"

  Tom mumbled, tracing the timeline they had created. The cord connecting the evidence points wavered under his touch.

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  "We even observed these messages and precisely positioned bodies near the crime scene. Either our killer wants to be apprehended..."

  "Or?"

  Lisa appeared at his shoulder, her presence familiar and comforting.

  "Or he's trying to tell us something he can't say directly."

  Tom tapped the treatment records, his wedding ring creating a dull thud on the page.

  "We need to explore further in Cedar Grove. Discover what bonded Marshall and Mitchell back then."

  "I'll pull the records." Lisa grabbed her coat, which rustled in the silent office.

  "And tell me everything you can about Marshall's current psychiatrist. Someone named Martinez," Tom added.

  He looked at the murder scene images again, feeling mocked by the cryptic words, which held hidden meanings.

  Twenty years was a long time to keep secrets buried.

  However, whose secrets were they truly uncovering?

  The question persistently tormented him, akin to an unhealed old wound.

  * * *

  Conflict with Jimmy

  Evan sat stiff in Dr. Martinez's office, his fingers probing the leather armrests until his knuckles grew white. Today, the familiar room felt different---smaller, more cramped, as if the walls were gently squeezing closer with every minute. Though the afternoon sun was flooding through the windows, shadows crept up the walls, swirling and wriggling like living beings.

  "These episodes, Evan, you are going through. Blackouts, lost time..." Concern marked Dr. Martinez's face as she leaned forward in her chair, a pen hovering above her notebook. "Have you thought Jimmy might be more than just an intrusive voice?"

  "What do you mean?" Under Evan's hold, the leather creaked; his fingers tightened, and his hands grew moist with sweat.

  "Sometimes the mind generates... other states of consciousness in situations just like yours. Many facets of the self operate autonomously." She chose her words with outstanding accuracy, each one weighing in the quiet chamber. "You could be acting out things your conscious mind finds unacceptable."

  The answer was no.

  Evan jumped out of his chair and paced the room quickly and clumsily. His gaze moved across the wall's framed certificates.

  "Jimmy is not---he is not me. That's all. He was my friend when I was little."

  Sitting alone in his bedroom, chatting to the empty chair across from him, the dust motes whirling in the afternoon light struck him like a physical blow.

  Jimmy had visited there, hadn't he?

  But the chair stayed angrily empty in the recollection.

  "Tell me about those early memories with Jimmy," Dr. Martinez urged, her pen running over paper.

  "I---"

  Evan's head was hurting more and more desperately. More memories surfaced: his mother's anxious voice through his bedroom door, asking who he was speaking to, her footsteps racing away.

  Jimmy was meant to sit at the dinner table, but there were empty seats there. His mother looked worried.

  "I saw him there. He needed to be there."

  Jimmy's laughter rang through his head like broken glass. It was sharp and mean.

  Evan, did you see me there? Alternatively, was I always right here, within you?

  "I have to breathe."

  Ignoring Dr. Martinez's cries and her rising from her chair, Evan staggered towards the door, almost stumbling over his feet.

  As he moved, the streets blurred, and buildings twisted at impossible angles like a funhouse mirror. Shadows teased him with their dance, darting across alleyways always just at the brink of his sight.

  Every window, every car mirror presented a different face: sometimes his own, sometimes Jimmy's nasty smile, sometimes a stranger he didn't know but who seemed hauntingly familiar.

  Evan, you can't keep running away from yourself.

  "Shut up!"

  Many people stopped and stared when Evan yelled. Parents drew their kids closer, while workers crossed the street to avoid detection.

  He ducked into an alley and felt the rough texture ground him momentarily as he pressed his forehead against the chilly brick wall.

  Evan, please keep in mind the barn. Remember how satisfying it was to finally relax and release your burdens.

  Jimmy's voice slinked with evil satisfaction.

  "That wasn't me. I didn't do it---"

  The globe slanted like a ship in a tempest.

  Evan collapsed onto his knees on the filthy concrete. His vision strobed like a broken fluorescent light, revealing brick walls, blackness, and darkness, each flash bringing fragments of memories he couldn't quite comprehend.

  Evan was lying on his back against a skip when the world stopped turning. The metal was cold against his back. His right hand pulsed with a dull, relentless sharpness.

  He looked down and saw that his fingers were broken and swollen. There was fresh blood on the cuff of his white dress sleeve, spreading like a red flower in water.

  "What did you do?" Evan whispered into the growing darkness, but Jimmy didn't say anything back.

  Instead, he was silent, his body language full of unspoken hints of what was to come.

  * * *

  The Game of Cat and Mouse Intensifies

  Tom's phone vibrated against his desk, upsetting his half-empty coffee mug. Unknown number. He responded with the trained caution that came from years of crank calls and false leads.

  "Detective Connors."

  The speaker emitted a distorted, artificially frigid voice. "1247 Oakwood Lane. You will find what you are looking for."

  The deliberate perfection of each phrase made him cringe. The line went dead with a sharp click.

  Tom gazed at his phone, his mouth clenched so tight it hurt. Anonymous recommendations generally led nowhere---he'd spent enough time chasing shadows---but something in that mechanical voice lifted the hair on his neck and reminded him of old nightmares.

  Twenty minutes later, his Crown Vic crunched up the gravel drive of a dilapidated Victorian, its tires breaking weeds that pushed through the stones. Paint peeled off aged walls in long, sick ribbons. Broken shutters hung haphazardly like broken limbs. The front door gaped open like a toothless mouth, welcoming him into the darkness.

  Tom drew his Glock with practiced precision, the familiar weight calming his anxiety as he swept the beam of his flashlight across the door. Decades of dust had covered the entrance floor in a thick grey blanket, except for new footprints flowing farther within, their edges sharp and intentional.

  His breath caught in his throat as he came to a halt against the living room walls. Newspaper clippings covered every surface, yellowing with age and curling at the corners. Missing persons reports extended from floor to ceiling. Some dated back fifteen years, their ink faded but still legible.

  Tom recognized Sarah Mitchell's face among them---one of the barn victims, her grin reminding him of happier times. As he swept throughout the ghastly exhibition with his torch, more recognizable faces appeared. All five victims peered at him from antique headlines, accusingly.

  Red paint dripped down the walls between the trimmings, still wet enough to reflect in his light. A single word repeated in jagged strokes: "Remember." The paint appeared too thick and dark to be ordinary paint, and Tom resisted the desire to check if it was blood.

  A floorboard creaked sharply and deliberately behind him.

  Tom whirled, gun raised, pulse pounding. A shadow flashed through the doorway, felt rather than seen. He charged after it, his boots pounding across the crumbling wood, creating clouds of ancient dust.

  "Police! Stop!" His voice resonated through the empty corridors, met only by quiet.

  The shadow vanished around a corner with incredible speed. Tom proceeded through the vacant rooms, but all he discovered was darkness and rot. Someone had purposefully led him here, staged the entire spectacle, and then faded away like smoke into shadow.

  Back at the station, Tom spread the crime scene photos across his desk for the hundredth time, the sights etched deeper into his brain. The victims' features were preserved in their dying moments. The blood messages became increasingly obscure as they progressed. The twisted game arranged the bodies in a bizarre manner.

  He had gone over every detail until his eyes burnt, but something bugged at him---something important he had overlooked.

  His eyes landed on Sarah Mitchell's hand, half hidden in shadow. The flash had captured something there, just discernible in the low light, a feature that had been overlooked in dozens of earlier investigations.

  Tom grabbed his magnifying lens with quivering fingers and leaned in so close that his breath fogged the smooth surface.

  His breath caught in his chest, like a fist.

  Her palm bore a sign---three intersecting lines forming a rough star, marked by precise and purposeful incisions. The same symbol he had seen on Marshall's wrist in his file photo, inked in black and partially obscured by his sleeve.

  It was easy for Tom's nerveless fingers to drop his coffee mug, which broke on the floor in a spray of hot coffee and broken ceramic.

  The realization struck him, unmistakable and terrifying. He was familiar with the cases of missing persons from the old days. The sign. Marshall. The pieces came together with terrible clarity.

  The story wasn't only about the barn killings. The truth was far older, something that had been growing in the town's shadows for years. Marshall was at the center of it all---a spider in a web of death that went back longer than Tom could comprehend.

  * * *

  The Walls Close in on Evan

  Evan's restless slumber was interrupted by a crisp smack of knuckles against wood. His heart pounded against his ribs as another knock reverberated throughout his flat.

  "Mr. Marshall? This is Detective Connors from the Mill Creek Police Department."

  Evan's attention shifted to the blood-stained garment lying on his coffee table. He grabbed it, stumbling over his feet while looking for a hiding place. The knocking became more relentless.

  "We know you're inside, Mr. Marshall. Open up."

  The shirt. The shirt. His hands trembled as he pushed it beneath the washing machine, wedged deep into the space where the shadows would conceal the dark stains.

  "Just---just a minute!" His voice crackled.

  Evan poured water on his face, attempting to calm himself. The mirror revealed dark circles beneath his eyes and stubble on his jawline. He looked terrible.

  The door opened, revealing Detective Connors' intimidating physique and another cop by his side. Connors' piercing gaze swept throughout the flat.

  "Mind if we come in?"

  Evan moved back, his lips dry. "What's this affair about?"

  "I think you know." Connors strolled through the space with deliberate steps, taking in every detail. "Where were you three nights ago, Mr. Marshall?"

  "I was..." The words remained in his throat. What did he do that night? The recollections faded away like smoke. "I was home. Working late."

  "Anyone who can verify that?"

  "No, I... I live alone."

  Connors selected a framed photo from the shelf of Evan's mother and him at graduation. "You're familiar with Sarah Mitchell?"

  The name froze Evan's veins. Sarah. Sarah was the girl he had met during treatment. Her face flashed in his mind, contorted in horror and covered in blood---

  No. No, that was not genuine.

  "We went to the same therapy centre when we were kids." Evan's voice seemed far away in his ears. "I haven't seen her in years."

  "Interesting." Connors put down the photograph. "Because we found evidence linking you to her recent activities."

  "That's impossible."

  "Is it?" Connors moved closer. His gaze met Evan's. "Where did you get that scar on your wrist?"

  Evan's hand moved to cover the three-lined star mark. "It's just an old tattoo."

  "The identical mark appeared on Sarah's palm. Fresh. Just before she died."

  The room tilted. Evan grasped the wall to keep himself steady.

  "I do not... I can't..."

  "Can't what, Mr. Marshall?"

  Remember.

  Jimmy's voice carried the word into his mind. I can't remember what we did to her.

  "I need you to leave." Evan's chest contracted. "Now. Please."

  "We'll be in touch." Connors gave him a card. "Don't leave town."

  The door clicked closed. Evan sank to the ground, his legs giving out. Jimmy's cold, mocking laugh rang in his head.

  "They're getting closer, Evan." Jimmy's voice was filled with amusement. "What will you do once they figure it out? When will they discover who we are?"

  "Shut up." Evan pressed his palms against his temples. "You're not real."

  "Is it not real? So, how do I know about Sarah's final moments? How did she beg? How she recognised us just before---"

  "STOP!" Evan banged his fist against the wall.

  Jimmy's laughter became louder even as pain flashed through his knuckles.

  "You can't avoid the truth forever. They will soon know everything. And then what are you going to do?"

  Evan stumbled to his feet. The room whirled, and reality bent at the edges.

  He needed to know. He needed to comprehend what was going on before Tom did.

  His hands shook as he took out his phone and searched for Cedar Grove Children's Therapy Centre. His past held the answers.

  The answers lay in the spaces between memories and nightmares. Jimmy dwelt in darkness.

  "That's right," Jimmy said quietly. "Let's embark on a brief journey through our past."