It’s fancy. The houses tend to look prettier the more you get close to the center. Well lit up, big, and very comfortable.
Her living room is a whole library itself. It smells of faint vanilla and old paper. The high ceiling makes me feel a bit of vertigo.
I tap on my knee impatiently on her couch.
She’s been sitting in the same way on her armchair for long minutes now...scanning the book page by page, while sipping on tea.
“It's not everyday law enforcement asks a writer for help for an investigation," she begins speaking suddenly, carefully looking at me, "this book, Detective. May I know where you found it? Why is it so important?” She finally speaks,
“At several crime scenes. Multiple murders, made by a particular individual.”
Her eyes waver, “murders? What does murder have to do with a book?”
“Well, as far as we know, the killer uses it as a way to manipulate their victims. Every dead body has a copy at the crime scene, opened at a certain page. It had different effects on different victims, and I’m trying to understand two things: The first is why the killer loves this book so much that they included it in their M.O...the second is why it seems like this book makes people go crazy.”
“I see. So you’re trying to make a psychological profile of the killer...interesting,” she sets the book down on her lap, looking at me, “do you think you might predict her moves by understanding the thought process behind the killings?”
“Indeed. I’ve read that book countless times, but I still can’t seem to understand anything about it. Maybe a writer like you can help me analyze the whole story and understand important details.”
“Hm...well, Detective,” she breathes in and looks at the book for a few more seconds, “I am certainly interested, but I can’t promise you that I have the necessary skills to help you catch a murderer. Moreover, should I be concerned about my own safety?”
“So far, the murderer has chosen girls under 25 years old, alone, isolated. Not your type, if you don’t mind me saying.”
She chuckles at my comment, closing the book, “do I look like an old woman?”
“You don’t look frail and easily manipulable,” I correct her.
“I understand,” she says with a complacent smile, “I may help you. Yes. You’ve intrigued me and...nowadays I can’t focus on my own writing. This might be a good mental exercise.”
“Really?” I ask.
I didn’t expect a direct ‘yes’.
“Of course,” she says, her voice soft but deliberate, “the fact that a book, of all things, could push someone to extremes such as taking another’s life...well, that’s the kind of thing I’ve always written about, even if indirectly. It’s not like I’ll be analyzing crime scenes.”
“I just need you to tell me if this book has some deep lesson or meaning. If there’s any insight you can provide, any angle I’ve missed, it could mean the difference between life and death of another innocent."
“That’s what I’ll do,” we both stand up, she puts the book under her arm, “I’ll read through the novel multiple times, I’ll analyze the story, the author’s intentions behind it, and everything else that I can find. May I have your number, please?”
“How long will it take?” I take out a business card. I always keep a few in my pocket, they’re always handy.
“I’ll have a lot of free time nowadays, so...give me a week or so. That’s all I need.”
“Okay,” I nod as she takes the card, “just to be clear...this is not an official collaboration with law enforcement. I’m with the FDRE, but what we’re doing right now is my own call. If you ever want to stop what you’re doing, you’re free to do so. You have no obligation to cooperate.”
She smiles softly, “understood, detective. Thank you for your honesty.”
Well, that was easy...too easy.
Her gaze lingers on me as I try to read her.
She’s intrigued, but I can’t tell if it’s a genuine interest.
Either way, she’s going to help...and that’s more than I was hoping for.
“Alright, contact me when you get something.”
In my office, I call Kaeron’s number. After a while, someone answers.
“
“Agent, it’s me. It was about time you contacted me. It’s been four days.”
“
“So? I’m down here working my ass off. Still at the office figuring out stuff,” I reply with a tone, furrowing my brows, “what are you even doing up there?”
I hear an apologetic sigh, "
I furrow my brows, “is there a problem?”
She hesitates for a second, I hear a small but deep breath through the nose, “
“Why didn’t you tell me something sooner? I’m still working down here, waiting for you.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“”
Her voice is unnervingly emotional. I pinch my nose and pace around with the receiver up to my ear.
“Fix it?”
“
“Okay, Agent. I did some more digging while you were up there anyways, so we’re not wasting time. I’ve made some progress, additional thoughts, and a potential breakthrough.”
Kaeron’s next sigh on the other side of the line is deep, almost weary. Her voice cracks for a moment before she steadies it again.
“
I lean against the desk, gripping the receiver, “I’m not doing this for your kind, I’m doing this for Elima.”
“
“It’s okay.” I sigh, tired.
“
“I contacted and experienced writer, Angelique Armann. She offered help with the book.”
“
“She’s going to analyze the book and tell us about it. It may allow us to understand why Elaine likes it so much.”
“
“Yes, under my supervision.”
“
“Did we get crazy upon reading it? Me and you?”
“
“I’m using her expertise to understand the book better. That’s it. She’s not going to run away with it, and she’s a respected figure...she’s not a target. We know Elaine wants the lonely and desperate."
A thick pause. Then she speaks again.
“
“Thank you. I won’t let you down. Let’s both do what we gotta do.”
“
She hangs up.
“Fuck…” I sigh, rubbing my face.
She’s hiding something. I can feel it through her voice. Something’s going on, and she’s not letting me into it.
I’m gonna have to pull it out of her.
I put on my coat and turn off the lamp at the desk.
I need to get home, I’m too sleep deprived.
I let out a groan after stretching and sip on my beer. I’m out of the apartment, against the railing. I watch as my neighborhood sleeps soundly, my brain keeps chewing on the same questions, gnawing them to the bone, spitting them out, starting again.
My eyes dart towards the exact spot where she was when I saw her.
“I’m just visiting someone. A new friend.”
“Oh, I see. Have a great day.”
I still don’t understand what she meant. I asked everyone in the building and the neighbors next door. No one knew her.
I go back into the apartment and jump straight into bed. I don’t have enough willpower for a shower.
I’m in an abandoned, barren city. There’s a faint light in the sky, dark clouds crying over my body.
I wander around, looking at each building. Destroyed, overrun by nature, empty.
I see a bigger building, I approach it.
‘’The Blackened Theatre’’ is written right above the entrance.
I walk inside, eager.
No audience, no lights. Just empty red seats and a thick silence, interrupted by the faint sound of the rain outside.
Suddenly, a spotlight flickers on.
Elaine stands on the stage, faceless.
I can only recognize her thanks to her peculiar hair. They look amazing.
“Edward.”
She utters my name, her voice carried through a freezing current, brushing my ears like cold, inhuman fingers.
I try to speak, my throat’s dry, sewn. I can’t move anymore either. My eyes are glued to the faceless girl, and the curtains behind her move further, revealing a second character of the act.
Myself.
I’m standing right beside her, my beard longer, my eyes emptier. I stare at my decayed reflection with pure horror.
No. It’s not me.
I don’t recognize the eyes that once held warmth, even if broken by a long, tumultuous life.
My beard is long, dark, and patchy, like the shadows of what I used to be. The reflection stares back at me like an empty shell, unrecognizable.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
“You were never chasing her. You were running away from yourself.”
The lights flicker on. The theatre is suddenly crowded. Their faces empty.
Some people cheer, some laugh, some cry, some are rotting corpses.
One of them is Kaeron. She crosses her arms at the stage with a blank expression, at the entrance of the theatre.
But before I can talk to her, I feel it. The cold hug of someone behind me.
I turn around, and I see her.
The White Maiden embraces me, she holds my warm and frail human skin with her cold and divine hands.
From the ceiling, ropes descend. Thick, black, coiled like snakes.
I try to flee from the Maiden’s grasp, but she kisses my lips, locking me in with a pure paralysis.
The lights start fading, the ropes snap toward me, squeezing my neck into pulp.
I hear Elaine’s voice coming from the stage one last time.
I shoot up in bed, heart pounding like it wants to jump out of my throat. The sheets are twisted around like vines, my throat is dry, my body drenched in sweat.
I run out of my apartment, gasping for fresh air. The city’s lights start to ground me, little by little.
As I slow down my breathing, I look at my hands, shaking.