12. Sir, this is an Emotional Crime Scene
Sir, this is an Emotional Crime Scene
I ’m thankful for the authority the Hellcat gives me.
Her beautiful light rack and reflective text label me as a police officer while I drive through the unfamiliar mated housing section.
Unlike the free mateless accommodations, these homes vary in style and size.
Some have sprawling front yards and others have purple picket fences.
I drive for nearly an hour; the homes getting further and further apart until the navigation insists I have arrived.
The headlights illuminate the gravel when I slowly turn into the driveway and start toward the house shielded behind large trees up ahead.
The path curves around before revealing a two-story home in need of serious repairs.
Vines grow up the side of the once-white siding.
It’s more of an off-putting shade of gray with decaying brown shutters in various states of clinging, and some have already fallen to the ground below.
Everything about the place screams creepy abandoned haunted house, then a light turns on in one of the upstairs windows. It’s missing a shutter while the other hangs askew, partially blocking the view. Despite the obstruction, the dark silhouette of a person appears.
I press a button to turn off the engine before twisting the keys free from the ignition. The headlights cut off, plunging me into an eerie darkness. The house is faintly lit in the moonlight, surrounded by the pitch-black of the trees’ shadows.
There is a slight tremble in my hand as I reach into the passenger’s seat and grab the remaining rose.
I might be delivering this message to the source.
Either that or I am about to scare the hell out of some stranger.
I open the door and get out of the car under the full guise of my police officer persona, shutting the door with extra zest. The sound echoes through the trees, earning a moment of quiet before the birds resume their nightly chatter. I glance at the window, but it’s dark.
The stone gravel crunches under my boots with each step I take up the driveway until I see the cracked sidewalk leading to a door on the side of the house. A few feet away from the door is a dark shape and I turn on the flashlight on my phone, shining it in the direction. It’s a black motorcycle.
I found him. I must have.
With a surge of determination, I turn and stride towards the door, straightening my spine before knocking loudly three times.
Then I wait, acutely listening for a sound other than the pounding of my heart.
Several minutes drag on, but all I can hear is the chatter of wildlife discussing the fact that there is a strange person on their property.
Or at least I imagine that’s what they are talking about. City birds aren’t as chatty.
Impatience gets the best of me, and I reach out to grab the handle of the door and give it an experimental twist. It opens easily, but groans as I push it inward.
“Arkadia police,” I shout into the darkness.
A set of light switches sit on the wall just inside the door and I flick them both but remain in darkness. The house is silent, and I strain to hear any movement from the floor above.
“I’m coming in,” I yell before taking a cautious step inside.
Once I make it past the threshold, I shut the door behind me and shine the light from my phone.
The surrounding space illuminates into an antiquated kitchen.
It looks like a larger version of the one I had growing up with my parents.
There is a countertop to my right with a sink in the middle, just beneath a window looking out toward the motorcycle. The counter continues in an “L” shape.
I place the rose next to the sink then turn the light around the room. A small round table meant for four, with matching wooden chairs, fills the middle of the space and I skirt around it with cautious steps on my way deeper into the house.
Since the light originated from an upstairs bedroom, my top priority is to locate a stairwell.
As I explore the house, memories of my childhood home flood back.
The similarities in the layout are striking, except for the absence of a second floor in my memories.
I find the stairs where I expect the guest bathroom and place my hand on the wooden railing.
I wait, hoping to hear any sound at all.
If I hadn’t seen the shadow, I wouldn’t know that I’m not alone.
The house is quieter than the graveyard.
A faint creak sounds above, and I race up the steps.
The moment I reach the landing, a door shuts to my left.
My head turns toward the sound and my feet follow with confidence despite the thrumming of my heart.
Tingling sensations race across my skin as if it expects the rush of my kit.
It’s like my entire body knows I am close to the other part of my soul, and it aches to be reunited.
“I know you’re here,” I call out, but my voice wavers. Goosebumps cover my arms, so I hug them to me, needing a sense of warmth. The light from my phone directs a beam toward the far end of the hall to guide my steps.
I reach the door at the end of the hall, my hand trembling as I grasp the handle.
I don’t care that he’s a killer. He’s mine and I am his. We were made for each other.
The door opens with a slight push, and I shine my light inside.
A single-size bed is pushed against the wall beneath a window.
I shine the beam around the mostly empty room.
Other than the bed, there is a table shoved against the far wall next to a skinny door.
Despite the size, I head over and open the door. A metal hanger sits alone on the rod.
No Ghost.
Turning, I stop to glance underneath the bed. There is no way he could have fit beneath it, but I figure I should check anyway.
I hear another door closing outside the bedroom and race back into the hall.
There are three doors, and I head to the nearest one.
The humming of my blood is heating with each minute that ticks by while I’m forced to play this juvenile game.
It’s just like the game he played during the raid.
Thoughts of that night make my blood heat in an entirely different way.
“I’m getting bored with this,” I call out after opening the door and finding another empty bedroom. Two doors sit further into the room, and I consider turning and heading back down the stairs.
Let him come after me.
But part of me wants to see what he has planned. This time, I don’t have to worry about other police officers barging in. I am caught in a web of annoyance and excitement, unable to distinguish which emotion is stronger. I decide to continue with Ghost’s game, for now.
The bedroom is plain, though more decorated than the last one.
A large bed sits in the middle of the far wall, a rotting mattress atop a wooden bedframe, with matching side tables flanking it.
A tipped over lamp sits on top of one. Two doors sit next to each other, one thinner than the other, and I correctly guess the first as the closet.
A handful of hangers remain, housing stale dress shirts and suits.
Daddy Ledger’s clothes, I’m guessing.
The other door leads to a bathroom. I test the switch on the wall, but again, nothing happens. I shine the light of my phone toward the bathtub. It sits empty; the curtain falling partway into it over the last decade.
I puff out a breath before leaving the small bathroom.
I head for the next door down the hall, opening it with a flourish, only to find yet another empty bedroom. A heavy, earthy smell hits me, causing me to cough.
This room is the same size as the first, but this one holds more remnants.
The bed is still made, though mold covers the once floral design.
A vanity sits beside the skinny door that I assume to be the closet.
The mirror is broken, and the shards have fallen to cover the top of the vanity.
A small square of paper remains lodged in the frame’s corner.
I step into the room despite the heavy smell of mold and decay, making my way toward the vanity desk.
The paint along the walls and ceiling is cracked and bubbled, showing dark spots and mold where water has seeped in.
I reach out and grab the delicate item wedged into the frame, gently wiggling it until it’s free.
It's thick paper folded over itself several times, and I carefully open it, hoping it won't fall apart the whole time. I sigh when it remains in one piece. It’s a picture.
I shine the light directly on it, but it’s hard to make out because of the damage.
I squint and adjust the angle of the light and make out a tight-lipped woman with dark eyes and light hair.
She holds what looks like a baby in her arms. Turning the picture over, I hope to find names or even a date written on the back, but find nothing.
Carefully, I fold the image back into its original arrangement before slipping it into the back pocket of my pants.
A noise sounds downstairs, a large door slamming shut.
The house rattles for a moment and I scramble from the room and head for the stairs.
The familiar layout helps me race for the kitchen while the light from my phone bounces across the walls.
A kitchen table comes into view as I pass through the small hallway and I skirt around it, my eyes trained on the window above the sink.
Heart pounding, I rush to the counter, my hands slapping down as I lean in to check if the motorcycle is still there, the dusty marble cool beneath my palms. It is.
A weight crashes into my back and my stomach presses into the sink while my hands slip. My phone falls into the bowl, the light shining down. A foreign hand snakes around me, coming up between my breasts to wrap around my throat.