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The sight that greeted him sent a shiver down his spine: a worn sleeping bag lay unrolled on the floor, surrounded by scattered cans of food and a few tattered clothes. It was clear someone had been living there recently, though their presence was now eerily absent.
He pressed his face closer to the window, straining to see if there were any clues hidden within the cabin's shadowy corners.
With a deep breath, Jake steeled himself and stepped closer to the door. He could hear his heart thumping wildly in his ears as he slowly turned the handle, pushing it open with a slight creak. The musty smell of old books and clothing hit him as he stepped inside, taking in the details of the small space.
The cabin was sparsely furnished - an old wooden bed frame stood against one wall, with only a thin mattress on top; an oil lamp rested on a small table beneath one of the windows; and shelves lined with tattered paperbacks were scattered around the room. It was clear someone had been here recently, but whoever it was had left no trace of their identity behind.
Jake moved further into the cabin, searching for any clues that might lead him to Matilda’s killer. He checked each corner methodically, looking for anything out of place or anything that seemed suspicious. His eyes fell on an old chest at the foot of the bed which had been hastily pushed aside—he knelt down and opened it carefully, revealing a pile of notebooks and papers within. His heart jumped as he reached in and grabbed one notebook at random, peeling it open.
Inside of it was handwriting... messy, incoherent handwriting. Jake could barely make out a sentence.
He squinted at the page, trying to decipher the words. They seemed to be written in a feverish, frenzied tone, with no clear sense of grammar or punctuation. But as he read on, the words began to take shape and coalesce into a disturbing narrative.
"Alone... I'm all alone..."
He squinted at the page, trying to decipher the scribbles. It was as if someone had been in a hurry, racing to jot down their thoughts before they slipped away. The words were scattered, disjointed, but as he read on, a sense of unease began to settle in his gut.
The more he read, the more he realized that the notebook wasn't just filled with random ramblings – it was a journal of sorts, chronicling the writer's descent into madness. They spoke of hearing voices, of being haunted by someone or something that wouldn't let them rest. Jake's heart raced as he flipped through the pages, the writer's desperation and fear leaping off the paper.
What had driven someone to this point? And why had they been living out here, in the middle of nowhere?
As he closed the notebook and pushed it back into the chest, a sound caught his attention – a faint rustling coming from outside. His hand instinctively went to his gun as he moved towards the door, peering out into the daylight.
But it was only a squirrel scurrying away from a pile of leaves.
Jake let out a breath. "Damn it," he muttered, stepping back outside. The cabin's occupant was a mystery for now, but Jake knew he couldn't afford to ignore this discovery. He snapped a few photos on his phone, making a mental note to return with Fiona later. "Let's hope you're just a hermit and not our killer," he murmured as he turned away.
An uneasy feeling crept up Jake's spine, as if something were out of place. He glanced around the quiet woods, suddenly aware of how alone he was. The mysterious cabin had momentarily distracted him from his primary concern: Fiona. He realized that he'd wandered too far from their meeting point.
Without wasting another moment, Jake retraced his steps, his pulse quickening in worry.
***
Fiona tried to calm her racing heart. She couldn't shake the feeling that the man was still watching her, following her, as she dialed back to the meeting spot with Jake. She tried to text him, but had no bars of service out here.
As she made her way back to the spot where she and Jake had agreed to meet, she saw a figure in the woods again. This time, however, she managed to get a clearer look.
Crystal clear.
Standing before her was a bearded man with wild eyes, an unsettling smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Who are you?" Fiona demanded, her voice wavering slightly despite her best efforts to sound confident. She clenched her fists, preparing herself for a confrontation if necessary.
He didn’t answer.
Fiona swallowed hard, her mind racing. Think, Red. You can handle this. "Stay back," she warned, trying to maintain a firm tone. "I'm with the FBI."
Fiona's eyes narrowed as she assessed the bearded man before her. Her chest tightened, adrenaline coursing through her veins, but she refused to back down. She had faced dangerous situations before, and if this man posed a threat, she would fight him off with every ounce of strength she possessed. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, and stood her ground.
"Last chance," Fiona warned, her voice low and steady. "Walk away now."
But the man showed no intention of backing down. Instead, he smirked, clearly amused by her resolve. "You really think you can take me on?"
"Try me," Fiona challenged, her body tense, her senses alert.
The man took a step closer, his grin growing wider. Fiona could see that his eyes were glittering with a manic energy, and she knew that she had to be careful. She had no idea what this man was capable of or what his intentions were.
Fiona tensed, ready to strike. But before she could react, the man lunged forward, his arms outstretched. She dodged him, stepping to the side and spinning around to face him.
