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‘Who isn’t home at ten PM on a Tuesday night?’ Ripley asked.
'Could be sleeping, working nights,' Ella said, ever the optimist. She felt a cold finger down her spine as she moved to the side, peering through the curtainless windows at a pitch-black living room. She sought a sliver of movement, a shadow of life. But the darkness inside was a solid barrier, impenetrable and secretive.
Ripley knocked this time, loud enough to draw attention from neighboring houses despite them being a hundred yards away.
The agents waited, but no response came.
‘Check the back?’ Ella asked. ‘In case she’s still inside, in case the killer’s already been here…’
‘No other choice,’ said Ripley.
Ella took the lead, hurrying around the perimeter of the house. There was no fence, just a huge expanse of greenery that connected every house in the row. The only border markers were trees and plants. Ella stepped over them and surveyed the rear of the home; equally lightless as the front. She hurried to the back door, hand paused on the doorknob, her senses attuned to the house's eerie quietude. It yielded to her touch, swinging open with a whispering creak that pierced the silence of the night.
She looked back at Ripley, remembering that they were civilians from here on out, not FBI agents. Such an invasion could be construed as a crime.
Ripley gave her the nod. ‘We need to warn this woman, whatever it takes.’
Ella stepped into a realm of darkness – a kitchen judging by the black and white tiles at her feet – where the only light was the moon's glow filtering through bare windows. The house exuded an uncanny stillness, as if time itself had halted within its walls. Ella had unknowingly walked into countless death sites during her time in the field, and she always had the same feeling every time. The subconscious picked up on death before the conscious mind did, and thus alerted the senses before your brain registered it.
But she didn’t get that feeling here.
‘Matilda Harrison,’ Ella shouted again. ‘FBI.’
Ripley's flashlight beam sliced through the gloom, revealing mundane details – a messy kitchen, a cluster of family photos. Ella's eyes adjusted to the dimness as they moved forward, out of the kitchen and into the living room. It seemed untouched; cushions in a perfect array, blanket perfectly folded. The stillness was almost tangible, pressing against their skin with an unnerving persistence. There was an intangible sense that something was amiss, a subtle distortion in the air that made Ella's skin prickle with anticipation.
Ella's flashlight joined Ripley's, twin beams cutting through the darkness, revealing little but the mundane trappings of a typical home. No dead bodies, no messages, no scent of blood permeating the atmosphere.
Just as Ella was about to call out again, a sudden burst of light flooded the room, momentarily blinding her, prompting her to replace her flashlight with her pistol. Ella spun around, her peripheral vision picking up on the new body in the room.
Standing at the threshold of the living room was a figure, a woman, her hand trembling as it gripped a handgun pointed directly at them.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ the woman demanded, her hand shaking.
A pistol showdown followed. ‘Matilda Harrison?’ Ella asked. ‘We’re the FBI.’
‘FBI? What?’
Ella slowly reached for her badge. ‘We're not here to harm you, Matilda. We believe you might be in danger.’
Matilda lowered her pistol as she peered closer at Ella’s badge. She sheathed the gun in her pajama trousers and cautiously asked, ‘This is about him, isn’t it?’
‘Who?’ Ripley asked.
‘The murderer. The guy killing my old friends.’
***
Lauren's breath was ragged, her lungs burning from the brisk, fear-fueled pace she had maintained to the playground. The night air, cool and sharp, did little to soothe her nerves as she stepped into the desolate play area, a shadowed expanse that seemed to stretch out like a barren wasteland under the pale moonlight. The swings creaked in a slight breeze, their movements like ghostly whispers in the otherwise oppressive silence. A rusty old roundabout, covered in litter, stood eerily still.
She clutched the small can of pepper spray tightly in her hand, her only line of defense in a situation that felt like a descent into madness. Her eyes darted across the playground, seeking any sign of movement, any hint of the presence she feared. Every rustle, every shift in the shadows, set her heart pounding with a ferocity that threatened to overwhelm her.
Lauren positioned herself near the center of the playground, where she could keep a watchful eye on all approaches.
She checked her phone; it was almost ten PM. The killer's appointed hour was upon her.
Seconds turned to minutes. She’d last seen the ghostly figure in her street, she hadn’t heard him or glimpsed his pale features since. Was he still outside her place? She wondered if this was another game, another test by the killer. Would he emerge from the shadows, or was this just a ploy to torment her further?
As the clock inched closer to the hour, her grip on the pepper spray tightened. She wasn't sure what was worse – the idea of the killer appearing or the thought of being left alone in this eerie silence, a victim of her own imagination.
