Because writing horror at 10.30 at night was a great idea. -_-
 |
Dedicated to Silent Hills. Kojima, Del Toro, Reedus
|
“Then what happened?”
Haggard, the detective stared at the disheveled, trembling man across the table. He shook violently, eyes sunken and bloodshot, mouth twitching as he attempted to formulate words.
“924586, 924586…”
“Sir, I’ll ask again, what happened in that house?”
“N…nine…”
Detective Simon gave up.
He left the man to rock himself into insanity, wildly searching about the room. His manic demeanor had refused to cease from the moment they picked him up. He had been repeating that sequence of numbers when they found him, huddled on the porch of his home, covered in his family’s blood.
“What now?”
Leaning by the door to the interrogation room stood Officer Francine Dwyer, a pen poised between her lips, an impatient finger tap, tap, tapping over her notes. There were barely two sentences on the page. Dwyer’s pen clicked to a halt. The detective stared at his feet, his face contorted with frustration. He ran his hands through his hair.
“We’re getting nothing out of that twisted fuck.” Simon spat.
"Forensics said that the bodies are still missing,"
"I know,"
Despite the drifting noise of chatter and phones, slamming doors and printing paper, there was silence between the two detectives. They were both thinking the same thing. What did we miss?
"We cased that house Simon," Dwyer said quietly, brushing a stray strand of light hair from her brow.
"I know,"
"We don't have to go back. We have enough evidence even without the confession or bodies."
“...I know,”
"Simon,"
He reached out patting Dwyer on her shoulder.
"I know."
“Nothing for it then.”
Dwyer was sure the colour drained from them both as the words echoed about the empty hallway.
The crime scene was an hour’s drive from the Central Police Station. They took Dwyer’s car. Beside her, Simon leaned back into his passenger’s seat, eyes closed, a hand resting on the closed, navy bound notebook. It was worn about the edges.
“Have you been home at all Simon?”
“What do you think?” Simon yawned, rubbing his eyes with his palms.
“Hey. When we get back I'll take care of the paperwork. I’m younger than you and definitely better looking. You need your beauty sleep.” Dwyer was relieved when he chuckled at her concern.
“I’m not that old.” He grumbled, though the smirk on his face took the sting from his words.
“Older than me.”
As silence fell between them again, Dwyer began to fidget, her fingers tapping at the wheel.
“Spit it out Dwyer,”
“This case. It’s weird. It’s like those ghost stories girl scouts tell each other around a campfire to creep each other out. I don’t like it.
“You scared?"
“I am neither confirming nor denying that fact.”
“You’re right. I’ve been on that guy since the moment we picked him up. Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. Just those goddamned infernal numbers!
“It’s alright to admit you’re scared you know. I sure as wish to never see that house again.”
“Do you think we missed something?”
The look Simon flashed her left her heart falling, dread snaking it’s way down her spine.
“We have yet to find the wife’s body for one."
“Man it feels weird to be back here again! Hey do you think forensics cleaned it? I mean look at it! They even dusted!” Dwyer chatted nervously. The house felt empty and cold as they entered the crime scene. The floors shone brilliantly, as if someone had waxed the wood recently. Even the air was devoid of must.
“What are we looking for?”
The detective picked up the framed wedding photograph from bureau, the happy couple smiling at him.
“The eye of the wife is gouged out. Here look,”
"That's weird." Dwyer took the photo from him, flipping it in her hand. "Do you think the suspect did it?"
Before Simon could answer her there was a creak.
“Is someone here?” Dwyer tensed instinctively.
“Not that I kno…”
The front door slammed behind them with a bang. They jumped. The chill the detective experienced as he entered the house returned, his spine tingling uncomfortably.
The creaking could be heard again; a strange shuffling noise from upstairs as a foot dragged itself along the wooden floor, the sharp clip of a heel following in step.
Simon indicated to his partner. She nodded, slowly making her way around the corner of the corridor.
It rounded a corner past the bathroom door. She nodded gun in hand. Her body shook as she stepped out…
Into another empty corridor.
“All clear.” She called out quietly.
There was no response.
“Simon?”
Nothing.
“Simon?”
But he was no longer there.
He waited…
She could no longer be heard.
“Dwyer?” His voice tensed.
The detective rounded the corner, gun raised. Nothing. He stepped cautiously, blood resounding in his ears. In an alcove to his left, the digital clock blinked 11:59pm.
“924586, 924586…
The detective froze.
From the entryway, the radio began to repeat those godforsaken numbers, over and over and over again. The shuffling began to grow louder. Behind him, the door to the bathroom shuddered, the small, gurgling squeals of a baby becoming shrill. A frantic pounding from the bathroom door filled the corridor with rhythmic panic, matching that of the detective's own heartbeat.
He whipped around the corner and stalled. Only the entryway was lit. A blood soaked woman, her heelless foot dragging behind her, painstakingly shuffled towards the radio. It clicked off.
The detective tried to speak, but no words came out… only numbers.
“N…nn…nine… t…t…two,”
The woman turned, face veiled in her own blood, a dark pit where her left eye should have been. Her head cocked to one side, a crooked smile cracking over her stained features.
The lights blinked.
The detective awoke to find himself alone in a black room. Lifting himself off the ground he stretched his muscles, unsure of how long he had been unconscious. He wasn’t given time to investigate. A door opened. Beyond the darkened room was the seemingly normal corridor. In the small alcove, beneath the smiling portraits of summer vacations, award ceremonies and birthdays was the digital clock.
It blinked 12:00am.
No comments:
Post a Comment