Trace #006 — What the Dead Left Behind
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The paper in my closet remained untouched.
I didn't trace it. Not yet. Something about it felt different — older, deeper. As if whatever emotion it held wasn't meant to be disturbed.
I left it where it was, shut the door, and sat on the edge of my bed until the sun began to rise through the smog.
Then Rey called.
His voice was clipped. Low.
> "We've got another one."
"A smile?" I asked.
"Worse."
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The apartment was in District 2 — an upscale building lined with trees and mirrored windows. It didn't match the others. Too clean. Too expensive.
But the elevator was broken.
We took the stairs to the 10th floor, where a uniformed officer stood waiting. He nodded at us like he'd been told not to ask questions.
Inside the unit, everything was... pristine.
There was no blood.
No signs of forced entry.
But the air was off — dense and too warm. Like grief clung to every surface.
The body was in the kitchen.
Female. Mid-thirties. Leaning against the fridge. Eyes wide open. Smile intact.
But her hand was pointing.
I froze.
It wasn't limp, or resting by chance.
Her entire arm was stretched toward the floor vent near the oven.
Rey noticed it too.
"She died pointing at something."
We got down low. The grate was loose. Rey pulled it off carefully, using gloves.
Inside, wrapped in black cloth, was another piece of folded paper.
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"I'm starting to hate these things," Rey muttered.
But we both knew we'd trace it.
I sat down on the floor, paper in hand.
And then I touched it.
---
Flash.
The room blurred.
But it wasn't empty this time.
There was movement — frantic, quiet.
Someone running their hands along the floor, whispering under their breath.
"Where is it, where is it—come on, come on…"
A man. Late twenties. Thin build. Panicked. He wasn't supposed to be here.
He wasn't the killer.
He was scared of the killer.
He knew what the paper meant.
He'd seen it before.
Then a knock at the door.
Sharp. Measured. Like a ritual.
The man froze.
And instead of hiding — he dropped the paper into the vent.
As if hiding it would stop it from happening.
As if that ever worked.
---
I came back gasping.
Rey crouched next to me.
"You okay?"
"He saw it coming," I said. "Someone else left the paper for her. He found it. He hid it. Thought he could stop it."
"But it still got her."
I nodded. "And she knew it was coming. She was pointing at it. Like a warning."
Rey stood up and rubbed his face.
"This isn't random anymore," he muttered. "It never was. But now it's coordinated. Targeted."
I looked at the woman's smile again.
It didn't look peaceful.
It looked… resigned.
---
Back at HQ, Rey and I sat in the evidence room going over everything.
The apartment had no cameras inside. Hallway footage was missing from the previous 24 hours.
And the neighbor had seen nothing.
But.
A building maintenance log showed a service request the night before.
Unusual heating patterns.
Unit 10B had called about heat spikes and strange electrical flickers — around 3:12 a.m.
Exactly when the trace would've been left.
---
"Think the killer messed with the system?" Rey asked.
I shook my head. "No. I think the killer doesn't need to."
He looked up.
"You're saying this thing… whatever it is… it causes energy shifts just by being near?"
"I'm saying the fear leaves marks," I replied. "And not just in people."
---
I went home late.
The paper in my closet still waited.
I didn't trace it. Not yet.
But I sat near it, letting the air settle. Listening.
That night, I dreamed of a hallway with no doors.
Just paper after paper, folded and blank, lining the floor like stepping stones.
And at the end of the hallway — a child.
Not me.
Someone else.
They weren't scared.
They were waiting.
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To be continued…