Shadows

Shadows

Jack awoke in the middle of a dark alley, lying in a pool of blood. The last thing he remembered was being hit over the head with a blunt object. He turned over as he fell to try and get a look at his assailant, but all he saw was a troubling darkness; and then, nothing. As he struggled to move when he finally came to, the air smelled of death and sorrow. Jack got to his feet and surveyed his surroundings; there was a dark unmoving shape at the farthest corner of the alley. Now he remembered what had happened to him before he was hit. He had just gotten off duty at the station and was on the way to the parking garage to get his car, when he heard what sounded like a struggle coming from the alley to his left. Gingerly, not knowing who or what he would find, he quietly crept into the vast darkness of the alley. Then he saw the man. He was in a long dark trench coat, holding a surgical scalpel in his left hand and dragging something large on the ground with his right. Jack stumbled back and stifled a soft whimper at this grave and horrific sight, careful to not alert this mystery man. He reached for his gun and inched further into the alley. Up ahead the man abruptly came to a halt. Before Jack could even begin to think, the man appeared to have disappeared into thin air; but the body remained. Suddenly he heard breathing behind him, a harsh wheezing that made him stop dead in his tracks. The blow to his head was instant and debilitating. He crumpled at the excruciating pain. When he tried to get even the slightest glimpse of his attacker, all he saw was shadows.

Back in the present, he was moving further into the alley to get a closer inspection of what appeared to be a body. The person was lying face down, but appeared to be a man in his mid to late forties, about 5’ 10’’. Jack reached down and slowly turned the man over; what he saw was far from good. He had been right, it was a man; but he wasn’t breathing, and it didn’t take an extensive autopsy to see why. He had eight, consecutive stab wounds on his chest, done so that they were in the shape of an “X”. But that wasn’t all. His expression was cut into a smile; and his eyes were gone. Jack jumped backward at the sight, staggering down the alley and almost losing his balance. The man couldn’t have been dead long, maybe an hour or so at most, he was cold, but there were none of the obvious signs of decomposition. Weighing his options, Jack scooped his gun off the ground from where he fell; holstered it, and called the station. Chief Colby answered with his usual gruff undertone. “Sioux Falls Police Station, this is Chief Colby.” “Chief, it’s Jack. I’ve got something you’re gonna want to see.” It didn’t take Colby very long to arrive at the scene, and with him were two other officers, Richardson and Estevez. Jack met them at the entrance of the alley and led them to the scene. “This is insane.” remarked Colby. He was trying to keep it together, but Jack could see through his act; he was mortified. “What kind of sick fuck would do something like this?” Richardson snapped. Estevez remained dead silent, his eyes wider than an owl. They called EMS to take the body away, and stayed until after the scene was cleaned and dusted for evidence. When Jack finally arrived home that night, he was more than troubled. He had never seen anything that gruesome in his life, let alone his entire career of law enforcement. He knew whoever had done that wouldn’t stop at one person. No one does something that symbolic unless they plan on making a name for themselves. This wasn’t just an everyday homicide; they had a serial killer on their hands.

About twenty years ago, a struggling writer was living in the Happy Day Apartments and Townhomes in downtown Sioux Falls; his name was John Craig. He knew he had something special, all his life he could feel it. He was destined to write a bestseller, to be known by millions and sign books for eager fans. All John wanted in his life was for this dream to become reality. He had talent, but one overbearing problem; he was legally blind. He was laughed at by everyone he shared his dream with; even his own parents wanted nothing to do with him. He had written many things, all of which had been turned down by the only place that would even consider his pieces. They kept telling him to keep trying, but every time he was shot down again and again. “The Lucky X Publishing Company” was their name. One day John awoke with an idea in his head. This was the one, he was positive. He wrote it in only three short weeks, working night and day, barely even stopping to eat. It was the story of a killer, a man who murdered his victims with a pitchfork, and then cut their mouth into a smile with a scalpel. The man was a deranged farmer, whose family had all been brutally murdered on their own land. He was the sole survivor, and spent the rest of his life killing anyone who bore resemblance to the man who committed the heinous act. The story was beautiful; it was the best thing John had ever written. But the day before his appointment with the publisher, John committed suicide. Or at least that’s the consensus the investigators came to and told the public. You see, John had a confidant, a man whom he thought his only friend. His room-mate at the apartment, the very man who helped him develop the tale to completion. His name was Michael Rousseau, an immigrant from France who had only recently gained his citizenship. John thought Michael to be a great man who was always supportive of him and his work. He even volunteered to type out all of John’s work for him, since his sight was far from adequate. But this was not the case, Michael had ulterior motives; in reality, he was the one who had put the bullet through John’s skull. He snuck into his room while he was sleeping, slipped on a pair of neoprene gloves, put a .45 caliber pistol to John’s chin, and pulled the trigger. It was a cold and merciless crime, but Michael was a cold and merciless person. He had been deported from France on four counts of fraud, and one count of murder. None of which were ever proven to be true, so instead of serving jail time like he should have, the French government did the only thing they could do. They deported him. Michael was a brilliant con man, and he knew just how to cover his tracks. Three days after John’s murder, he claimed the story as his own and took it to be published. It was an instant bestseller, on a nationwide level. Michael became a very wealthy man, and forgot all about John. All until some very strange things started to happen. He awoke in the middle of the night in sweats, ripping himself from terrible nightmares of John. He was seeing him everywhere, even hearing his voice. Michael was sure he was finally being driven insane by guilt. Then he saw something horrible on the news. A man was found dead in an alley just south of the Happy Day Apartments, with eight stab wounds and a smile carved into his face. He was around the same age as Michael and almost resembled him. The message was clear. John was back, and he was coming for him. It was only a matter of time until he was the next victim. To police and investigators, this just looked like any other copycat killer. But not Michael.

The days that followed were slow and full of paranoia. Each day another victim was found, and it didn’t take investigators long to realize that whoever was doing this got the idea from Michael Rousseau’s bestselling horror novel: Shadows. All the victims were killed in the same way; eight stab wounds to the chest. But one thing didn’t add up. Why were their eyes missing? There was only one man alive who knew the answer to this question; and that was Michael Rousseau himself. It was a sign from John; a sign for Michael. It was telling the police exactly who the killer was. All of the men were around 46 years old, and five foot ten inches tall. Each day the body was found a little bit closer to Michael’s estate; each day Michael was driven a little bit more out of his head.

Then all of a sudden the killings stopped, weeks passed, and Michael’s life returned to its normal schedule of leisure. He was relaxing in his pool one sunny afternoon, when he heard his doorbell ring. He calmly climbed out of the magnificent pool and strode to the door. Assuming it would be one of his adoring fans; he took a quick glance in the mirror to make sure his looks were in order. He opened the door with a smile, but no one was there. One second he was gazing across the street, and the next he was on the ground losing consciousness. He awoke in someplace strange, but oddly and eerily familiar. Then it hit him; it was his old apartment. The one he shared with John Craig. But there was no one else in the room, only him. He walked to the door and tried the knob; it wouldn’t budge. Then suddenly the temperature in the room went freezing cold, and the lights began to flicker. “Hello again, my friend.” said a voice from behind him. He turned around to look, but he already knew what he would find. Standing in front of him was the spirit of John Craig. There was a hole below his chin, and it was dripping blood. Mortified, Michael gasped, “This is impossible, I saw you die!” “Indeed you did Michael. But now it’s your turn.” “You can’t kill me, you aren’t real, you’re all in my head!” “Oh no Michael, I’m not going to hurt you. You’re going to do it yourself, just like I did, don’t you remember?” John motioned to a .45 caliber pistol lying on the floor in the middle of the room; the very same one Michael had used to kill him. “I hope you remember Michael; because I don’t.” Suddenly Michael was unable to control his actions; he reached for the gun and lifted it to his chin. “No, please, please don’t, I’m sorry John!” Michael spat. “So am I.” and just as John said those words, it was all over.