Knock.
The sound barely stirred the stillness. The silence was thick—too thick. Deliberate. It settled in the narrow hallway like a presence of its own.
Detective Colhoun stood unmoving. His trench coat, heavy with the city's filth, clung to his weary frame. The dim light above flickered, stretching his shadow long across the rotting floorboards.
Beside him, the uniformed officer shifted uneasily, his boots scuffing against the wood. A nameless man, another pair of eyes in a case already drowning in horror. His fingers twitched near his holster, though instinct told him—told them both—a gun wouldn't help against whatever lay beyond that door.
Colhoun tested the handle. Unlocked.
A glance at his partner. A nod.
The door yawned open. The darkness inside breathed.
They stepped in.
The smell hit first. Rot. Blood. Something burnt and bitter. The scent clung to the walls, the floor, their very lungs. Decay had taken root here.
"So no tea no coffee such a cold welcome ,hm"
Dust swirled in the dim light, disturbed only by their presence. A lone bulb swayed above, its dull hum the only sound in the room.
Colhoun's eyes swept over the wreckage.
A living room—but only barely.
Newspapers stacked like forgotten tombstones. A chair overturned, its fabric torn, stuffing spilling like exposed innards. A television, cracked. The screen black.
Colhoun allowed himself a grim smile.
"A living room with so many dead. Yup—goes in the notebook."
The clock on the wall had stopped.
A small detail. An insignificant one. Yet unease crawled up his spine. Time had abandoned this place.
They moved deeper.
The kitchen. A rusted fridge stood slightly ajar. Colhoun hesitated, then nudged it open with the tip of his pen.
Maggots.
So many maggots. Writhing through rancid meat. Crawling over something once recognizable. The uniformed officer gagged but held it down.
The bedroom.
A mattress, sagging, stained. Clothes, shredded beyond recognition, scattered like shed skins. The walls—marked. Deep. Jagged. Desperate.
As if someone had tried to escape.
But there was nowhere to run.
Colhoun's eyes swept past the destruction, searching. He knew what he was looking for.
And then—
A door.
It blended into the wall, no handle, no seams. But he knew it was there. He had been waiting for this.
Colhoun pulled out his knife, pressed it against a groove only he saw, and—click.
The hidden door swung open.
Inside, the air was heavier. Wrong.
The sigil sprawled across the floor, the walls, the ceiling.
Deep carvings. Jagged strokes. Black ink. Old blood. The lines twisted into grotesque shapes, forming something ancient. Something hungry.
At the center of it all—
A picture.
Taped to the wall. Framed by ritualistic scrawls.
A child's heart.
Not real—but detailed. Gruesome. Grotesque. The image was raw, flesh torn, arteries curling outward like grasping fingers. A cruel mockery of life.
Colhoun's fingers twitched. He had expected horror. But this? This was something else. A message, meant for him.
His eyes lowered. Beneath the picture, scrawled in a trembling, uneven hand—
Jasmine, mother.
A sharp inhale behind him. The uniformed officer whispered, barely audible.
"Jesus Christ."
Then—
Buzz.
Colhoun's phone vibrated against his chest. A small sound, yet it sliced through the silence like a blade.
Instinct took over. He pulled it out.
One glance at the screen—
And the world stopped.
A child has been kidnapped.
A small child.
Colhoun said " ah the fragrant boy hits again."
No hesitation. He moved.
They tore through the apartment, boots slamming against the rotting floor.
As the living ones left the room there was something on the floor.
A nameplate.
Simple. Unassuming.
Eric Wallace.
Colhoun assistant's name.
Behind the antique plate , the shadows stirred.