What unsettled me the most wasn't just the photo's age and how the person had a photo of me from two years ago but the fact that I had thought that moment was private, lost to my memory. Yet, here it was, captured by someone who had been watching me, someone I had been ironically trying to expose. The realization made me shudder in fear - a serial killer had been closer than I thought, silently documenting my own life.
A sudden, ear-shattering creak pierced the air in the room, followed by a loud, noisy bang that made my heart skip a beat. I spun around swiftly, expecting to see the door shut close, but it remained still, opened as I had left it. My gaze frantically scanned the room, searching for the source of the sound. That's when I saw it, right in the center of the room. A dark shapelikeatable. Theroomwastoodark, thelightilluminated from the TV still playing that clip from his interview was not enough.
My curiosity got the better of me, and before I knew it, my feet carried me forward, cautiously approaching the object, my heart racing with anticipation. I crouched down, my fingers tracing the contours of the shape. It felt more like a coffin rather than a table.
A chill ran down my spine as I fished out my phone and flickeredontheflashlightapp,myfingerstrembling. Theweak beam of light illuminated the object immediately, confirming my worst fears - it was a coffin. A half-nailed coffin.
With trembling hands, I slowly lifted the lid, my heart threatening to burst out of my chest from the frantic pounding. The lifeless body of a headless man peaked within the coffin, laid out in the coffin like some gruesome sacrifice.
Jet black hair and jet black goatee. I would have failed to recognize him if not for the familiar tattoo that took up the entirety of his diamond-shaped face in which I had encountered at the cave. His eyes were lifeless as they stared awake. Fear gripped me.
We had only interacted for a few minutes which had turned out to be an ugly one but I still felt the sharp stab in my heart. He was beheaded.
I took off my black t-shirt, shill air biting into my skin almost immediately and wrapped it around my hand. I ran the wrapped hand over his still figure and slowly peeled his shirt open. He still had the same plain white shirt from earlier on, stainless and untouched, no form of struggle or bleeding. He had to have been strangled or suffocated…
I slowly turned him around with my wrapped hand and let his weight shift to the side until I caught a glimpse of it.
It was a different message…
It ended with "present" just right above his ribs. I twisted with every summoned energy until I flipped him over completely.
The message stared right back at me, carved into his back, "Do you like my present?"
* * *
I bolted.
From the room. I hurtled down the stairs to the first floor, tripping over my own step and bumping into someone. I didn't bother to check who they were. They screamed at me to check where I was going. The voice sounded like it was from one of those men from earlier that morning but I didn't bother to confirm. I ran as fast as I could, desperate to ease the turbulence in the deep pit of my stomach.
I threw myself through the entrance door, retching violently into the bushes as my body convulsed. My stomach churned withatoxicmixoffearandrevulsion. Mymindreeled, flashing through the grotesque tableau I'd just witnessed. The old interview clip, my own face staring back at me from countless photographs, the chilling presence of the coffin, the headless, lifeless body, – a constant, haunting reminder of the worst nightmare I had just witnessed. Not only had I discovered the possible lair of the Dear Diary serial killer, I had also discovered that they knew me and had been stalking me since my internship days. I threw my gaze back at the complex.
Father John had in no way acted suspicious when I informed him about the hammering. I went deep in thought, scrutinizing the memory of my time with him to fish for any move he had made that had been quite out of the ordinary. There was none. It was easy for me not to suspect a thing— The key.
Hadn't he fished it from his drawer? The collection of keys for vacant apartments was displayed on its board in the lounge, whyhadthatparticularonebeenreservedforhisdraweralone?
I climbed back onto the porch of the building and flocked back into the complex, making it back to my apartment.
My heart skipped when I stepped into the hallway leading to my apartment.
The door was ajar. Yet again. A prickle of dread danced across my skin.
I burst inside, my eyes frantically scanning the room for any sign of intrusion, any flicker of movement. But there was nothing. Just a strange stillness and that cloying, sickly sweet scent of iceberg roses, hanging heavy in the air.
My fingers danced across my laptop keyboard. Just one name occupied my thoughts as I rummaged around, the letters forming "Darren Cole" in the search bar. Three long minutes crawled by. The network was terrible.
I adjusted my glasses whilst waiting for the result to pop up. When it finally did, a stab pierced through my heart.
The screen displayed a digital deluge of information. Darren Cole's birth date, his profession and most importantly, the grim details of his death.
I navigated through news articles recounting the Darren's tragic death and the subsequent, ultimately fruitless, investigation.
I failed to put my finger on what I was looking for, but a clue was the essential thing. Hours of poring over articles, punctuated by the consumption of five mugs of coffee, eventually paidoffafterstumblinguponanarticleaboutDarren'smurder, noting it had generated considerable interest.
"The Gruesome Death of a College Student with a Promising Future: A Chilling Adventure of His Murder." Penned by Larry White. I clicked, the page loading slowly. I began to scroll through the hundreds of comments, the overwhelming quantity making me consider abandoning the search. Then, I froze.
There it was. The evidence I sought after. Lurking amidst the digital chatter: "Dear Diary, my first victim", the comment had said, penned down on June 12, 2022 10:35pm, a minute after Darren was confirmed dead in the hospital he was admitted into.
The username read "DeepCanva," devoid of a profile picture. Almost instinctively, I clicked onto their profile.
The profile page was defunct, but the link in the address bar was enough.
I snatched my barely charged phone and speed-dialed Oliver as fast as I could. The call connected on the second ring.
"What happened, man? You just went off like that—" Oliver's voice held a note of concern.
"I need you to track down an account for me, Oliver."
A brief pause hung in the air. "What is this about? The 'Dear Diary' case?"
"You could say…" I hedged.
"Okay. Send the link."
I put him on hold, my gaze swept the room with a newfound alertness as I copied the link, sent it to my messenger and forwarded it to Oliver.
Minutes ticked by before his phone buzzed. Oliver was back.
"I've got it."
Iswitchedtomymessagingapp, anewnotificationfromOliver already waiting. I clicked it open.
Theaddressthatappearedonthescreensentajoltofconfusion through me. It was my old apartment, Miss Karen's house, a mere few blocks from the newspaper company.
"What is this?" I murmured, my brow furrowed at the address in disbelief.
Oliver's voice, now laced with a question of its own, echoed in my ear. "You tell me. What is this about, Sinclair? And why does that profile trace back to your house?"
I clamped down on his lip, my fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the cool metal of my laptop. The IP address tracing back to my old apartment was a knot of confusion tightening deep in my gut.
"Oliver?" I asked, my voice a little bit strained. "Can you pull up the full details on the person behind that link?"
A sigh shot through on the other end of the line. "I'm not sure I can, Sinclair."
My eyebrows shot up anxiously. "Why not?"
"Because you won't freaking tell me what this is about!" Oliver retorted, his patience clearly wearing thin.
"It's a troll, Oliver. Now, help me fish them out," I insisted, my tone urgent.
"It's not a troll, Clair. You and I both know that," Oliver countered, his voice firm. "I already have their details right here."
I straightened in my chair. "You do? Please, can you forward them to me?"
"No, I won't. Because those details belong to you."
A chill wave of unease rushed in me, my stomach churning with a sickening lurch. "Make me understand," I pleaded.
"My search indicates that the person behind the profile link you sent me… is you."
"Thatdoesn'tmakeanysense," Istammered, mymindreeling. "Sure as hell doesn't," Oliver agreed grimly.
I disconnected the call and frantically returned to the profile page on the article. It had changed.
The profile picture was now of me. I was in this current apartment, my phone pressed to my ear as if in mid-conversation, wearing the very clothes I had on at that moment.
The angle of the shot suggested the picture had been taken from behind a thin veil…
Behind my curtain. I froze, a terrifying realization dawning. They were in the room with me.
Myeyesdartedtothebiosection. Thewordssentashiverdown my spine: "When I was young, my favorite TV show used to be Tom and Jerry. I always wanted a live-action version. Since I didn't get to see it, I'm making one for myself with you, Sin."
I swallowed hard, the air suddenly thick and my lungs hungry for air.