Felix woke up to the sound of his own gasping breath. His chest heaved as if he had just survived a drowning attempt. His pulse was erratic, and beads of cold sweat clung to his skin. He shook his head, trying to clear the darkness that had settled over his mind. The headache was fierce, pounding like a hammer against his skull. He groaned softly, rubbing his temples, wishing he had a bottle of ibuprofen within arm's reach.

He could still remember the nightmare clearly. It had been awful—screams of children, blood spilling onto cold floors, the sharp glint of a knife, and the squelching sound from the flaying of flesh. And then there was him—the man with the pale gray eyes, laughing madly as he carried out the slaughter. Felix squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sound of their terrified cries. But the harder he tried, the louder it became.

Shaking, he stood up, steadying himself with one hand on the wall. As he moved toward the bathroom, he almost tripped over a broken chair leg that the previous tenant had probably left behind. He brushed it off, stepping over the debris and making his way inside.

He went to the sink, splashing cold water on his face, hoping it would help chase away the nightmare. It didn’t. His reflection stared back at him, tired and worn, his amber eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. His hand shook slightly as he reached for a towel, wiping his face dry.

As he lowered the towel, a flash of something new pierced his vision. He froze. There, in the mirror, he saw himself standing over the same man from his dream, but this time, the man was flayed alive on an examination table. His pale gray eyes were lifeless, his body a horrific patchwork of exposed tendons and muscle. Felix was holding a bloody knife.

Ivan.

The man’s name hit him like a blow. Ivan. The butchered corpse on the table was Ivan. He pressed his palms to his temples, trying to shake away the image, but it clung to him.

I didn’t kill him, did I? No, I couldn’t have.

Felix left the bathroom and stumbled into the kitchen. He needed something to ground himself—something simple, something that could push the nightmare back. He filled a kettle and set it to boil. Tea, that’s what he needed. A calming herbal tea. As he watched the water bubble in the kettle, his thoughts betrayed him again. Ivan. His body. The silence as his skin was peeled away.

The kettle clicked off, snapping Felix out of the gruesome images in his mind. Mechanically, he prepared his tea and made his way back to his bed. He sat down, cradling the warm cup in his hands, and took a slow sip. But the tea couldn’t soothe the madness brewing inside him. He looked outside, watching the world go by as the headache slowly subsided.

But the quiet was short-lived. A knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts. His heart skipped a beat, and he considered ignoring it, but the knock came again, more insistent this time. He quickly set his cup down, wiped his palms on his pants, and grabbed his notebook and pen from the bed. He hesitated for a moment before he made his way to the door.

He opened it to reveal a young woman, standing in the hallway. She was around his age, with soft brown hair tied into a messy ponytail, and hazel eyes that held a gentle kindness. She wore a simple jacket over a sweater and jeans, and she was holding a paper bag.

"Hey, I’m Ramona," she said, offering a small, warm smile. "I’m the neighbor down the hall. I noticed you hadn’t been out much lately, so I thought I’d stop by and see if you needed anything."

Felix blinked, surprised by the unexpected visitor. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her before, yet here she was, checking on him like they were old friends. Unsure how to respond, Felix brought out his notebook and scribbled quickly: Um, no. I’m fine. Thanks. He showed her the note, avoiding her gaze.

"You sure?" Ramona asked, lifting the paper bag. "I brought some pastries from the bakery down the street. Thought you might like one."

Felix glanced at the bag, then back at her. She seemed nice, too nice, but he was the last person on earth she’d want to make friends with. Still, he couldn’t just refuse her—it would be rude. He wrote another note: Okay, sure. Thanks. He reached out and took the bag gently from her hands.

Ramona smiled again. "No problem. It’s a small building, so we should all look out for each other, right?"

Felix nodded slightly. The silence that followed felt suffocating, he needed to end this conversation quickly. She didn’t know it, but being around him was dangerous. He scribbled a quick note: I’ve got… uh, stuff to do, though. So I should probably—

Ramona didn’t even let him finish writing. "Oh, of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you." She gave a small laugh, sounding a bit flustered. "Well, have a great day."

She turned and walked away, disappearing down the hallway. Felix immediately shut the door, leaning against it with a deep exhale. He dropped the paper bag onto the floor without even bothering to look inside.

Suddenly, the image of the children screaming flashed in his mind again. And this time, he was the one flaying them. He could smell the blood. Taste it, even. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing them to go away, but the twisted image of himself only grew clearer.

I need something stronger than herbal tea.

Later that early morning, Felix sat at a small, rundown café nursing his fifth bottle of Red Bull. The caffeine and sugar helped keep him awake, more effectively than any ibuprofen he could buy. He needed to stay alert—to outrun the nightmares, the screams of children that haunted him day and night.

Felix gulped down the last bit of his energy drink and set the bottle down, his hands trembling slightly from the caffeine overdose. He pulled out his wallet and glanced at the crumpled bills inside. Still enough for three more bottles, he guessed. A hollow sense of relief washed over him. At least he could afford to keep going a little longer.

"Felix."

The voice from behind made him freeze. Felix tensed. Not many people knew his name. Slowly, he turned around in his seat, expecting a familiar face but finding a stranger instead. A man in what looked like mechanic overalls, though something about him looked off—as if the overalls were custom-made, too clean for someone who worked with their hands. Felix looked closer, and it now looked more like a tactical suit.

"Follow me," the stranger said, his tone flat but casual, like he had all the time in the world.

Felix shook his head gently and turned back to his table, hoping the stranger would take the hint and leave. He didn’t want any trouble. If this man knew his name, that was bad news. Anyone who knew Felix’s name was already too close to the chaos that followed him. He couldn’t afford to get involved with anyone.

But the visitor obviously wasn’t the type to be brushed off.

There was a sigh, then the click of metal, and suddenly Felix felt something cold and hard pressing against the back of his ribs. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. A gun.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up, his heart racing, his muscles locking in fear. Panic flooded his system as his breath quickened. Every inch of his skin tingled with the heightened awareness of danger. Felix knew what a gun felt like, even if it was only through the thin fabric of his shirt. This wasn’t a robbery or some random confrontation—this was personal.

"Wasn’t a bloody suggestion, mate," the man’s voice said behind him, cold as ice but still as laid-back as ever.

Felix nodded without a word. He wasn’t looking for a fight. Slowly, he stood up from his seat, leaving the empty bottles on the table. The man pressed the gun against his back for a moment longer before pulling it away, motioning toward the door.

They walked outside together, Felix glancing around for a potential escape, but the streets were too empty. The man led him to a beat-up Toyota Corolla parked down the street.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Hop in," the man said, opening the passenger door for him.

Felix hesitated for a second, his legs feeling like they might give out. What was this? A kidnapping? But how did this man know his name? Was he being followed?

Hands trembling, Felix tried to open the car door. It wouldn’t budge. He fumbled with the handle, feeling like an idiot under the stranger's impatient gaze.

The stranger sighed heavily. "It’s a push, mate, not pull," he snapped.

Felix tried it again, this time pushing, and the door clicked open. He climbed into the passenger seat, the tension in his body winding tighter with every second. Once inside, he immediately gripped his knees, trying to calm the shaking that had overtaken him. Sweat ran down his back.

The man got into the driver’s seat and started the engine without another word. The old car sputtered to life, and they pulled away from the curb, the soft hum of the road filling the silence.

"Seatbelt," the driver muttered, not really looking.

Felix reached for the seatbelt, his fingers fumbling over the buckle. After several failed attempts to secure it, his kidnapper so to say, with his free hand, grabbed the belt, and clicked it into place.

His heart thudded in his chest. He needed to do something—anything—but he was frozen. He pulled out his notebook and pen, writing a quick message. He held it up to the man: Thanks. Mr…?

"Specter," the man replied.

Felix nodded then finished the note: Thanks. Mr. Specter.

The driver gave a hollow laugh. "Thanking someone who might put a bullet in ya. Can’t tell if you’re a bit slow or just too bloody nice. Could be both, eh?"

The silent passenger said nothing, his eyes fixed forward, trying to stay calm. He felt the urge to speak, but no words came.

"I know you can talk," Specter said, his voice growing colder but still keeping that easy, unhurried rhythm. "So how ‘bout ya say somethin’, mate?"

Felix quickly reached for his notebook again, but the driver slapped it out of his hands, sending it flying across the car.

"You’re not mute," Specter snapped. "No injury, no scars, no damage. Nothin’ wrong with those vocal cords, bro." He narrowed his eyes at Felix, his sharp gaze noticing every little detail. "Ya can talk fine, so go on then."

Felix’s hands shook violently. He couldn’t speak, not without risking everything. His voice, his words, brought destruction. The last thing he wanted was to trigger another disaster, not after what had happened before.

Specter growled in frustration. Without warning, he punched Felix in the face, the force of it slamming his head against the passenger window. Pain exploded through his skull as blood rushed to his temple. The sharp impact left his vision spinning.

"I said speak!" Specter barked, slamming Felix’s head against the dashboard next.

Felix groaned in pain, but he stayed silent. His lips trembled, his breath uneven. If he spoke, if he let even one word slip, the curse would activate. It always did.

Specter pulled his gun from his pocket and pointed it at Felix’s head. "Speak up, mate, or I’ll blow your bloody brains out, no muckin’ around."

Felix’s pulse skyrocketed. Was this it? Was this where it ended? He’d flirted with death before, but this felt different. Part of him welcomed the idea of it—finally, some relief. But the other part of him knew better. The curse wouldn’t let him die so easily. And if he spoke… if he gave in to this madman’s demand…

"Speak, dammit!" Specter yelled again, pressing the gun harder against his skull.

Felix closed his eyes, inhaling a shaky breath. The curse wouldn’t stop, but maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be as bad as the last time. His voice came out in a low, broken whisper:

"Please… it was an accident."

Specter’s anger subsided, and he leaned back in his seat, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "So, ya do have a voice, eh?"

Before either of them could say more, headlights flashed in the rearview mirror. A car swerved out of nowhere, barreling toward them at high speed. Specter barely had time to react before the vehicle crashed into them. The impact was immediate and brutal. Metal twisted, glass shattered, and the world spun as Specter’s car flipped, skidding across the pavement with a screech of tires.

Felix’s heart raced as the car rolled, his body thrown violently against the seatbelt. He could smell gasoline; feel the hot sting of blood running down his forehead. The car finally came to a stop, upside down.

For a few seconds, there was only silence.

Dazed and trembling, Felix pushed the door open and crawled out of the wreckage. His limbs ached, his head throbbed, but he was alive. He turned back to look at Specter, still in the driver’s seat, motionless. Blood pooled beneath him, but it was hard to tell where it was coming from.

He didn’t stick around to find out.

Felix grabbed his notebook, tore a page from it and scribbling one last note: I’m so sorry. He left the note beside Specter and stumbled to his feet, his legs shaky but moving. Without looking back, Felix ran away, disappearing down the street.

The morning sun was finally rising over Briarcliff, casting a pale light over the dreary streets and the old, rundown buildings. Lewis and Sarah stood in the abandoned clinic, watching as officers moved about, documenting the scene, snapping photos, and writing down notes on their notepads. The place was cordoned off with yellow police tape, fluttering slightly in the morning breeze that seeped through the broken windows. The whole clinic felt unnerving, a place where violence had clearly unfolded.

"Frustrating," Sarah muttered, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. Her voice was quiet, but loud enough for Lewis to hear. "It took us a whole day to find him, and the Flayer managed to get to him in a matter of hours."

Lewis nodded in agreement. He glanced around the room, taking in the details of the investigation. Officers were meticulously documenting the scene, placing evidence markers next to bloodstains and discarded medical tools. One officer knelt beside a pool of congealed blood, carefully photographing it from different angles. Another stood near the door, collecting fingerprints from the doorframe, though the chances of finding usable prints in such a place seemed slim.

Lewis walked over to the examination room where Ivan’s body had been found. He paused in front of a broken section of the wall, staring at the deep gouge that had been left behind. "The Butcher was definitely here," he said, pointing to the mark.

Sarah stepped closer, her eyes following the direction of Lewis’s gesture. "Yeah, that’s him all right." She crouched down to inspect the debris on the floor. "Think he was angry?"

"Furious," Lewis responded, his voice calm. He pointed toward the cleaver embedded in the floor across the room. "But he wasn’t the one who threw his cleaver across the room."

"How do you figure?"

Lewis stepped closer, observing the angle and position of the cleaver. "The Butcher values his weapon. He wouldn’t throw it like this. Leave it here, sure. But not throw it. It’s more likely someone else did."

Sarah frowned, taking another look at the cleaver and the damage around the room. "So, a third party was involved?"

Lewis nodded, his eyes scanning the room again. "Someone else was here. But they weren’t here for Ivan or the Butcher. They were just… messing around. Almost like they didn’t care about being caught."

Sarah rubbed her temples in frustration. "Great. So we don’t just have two killers running around in Briarcliff. Now we’ve got a third player involved, and we have no idea who they are or what they want."

"Yes," Lewis agreed, "but for now, we should focus on the Flayer and the Butcher. The Flayer stole the Butcher’s kill. That’s personal. The Butcher isn’t going to let that slide."

Sarah leaned on the examination table, careful to avoid the bloodstains that had dried in place. "If it’s personal for the Butcher, does that mean things are going to get worse? You think he’ll escalate?"

"Not necessarily," Lewis replied. "It just means he’s going to focus on the Flayer for now. We might actually have a break from the Butcher targeting any other criminals in the city." He moved over to the corner of the room, where he spotted a single strand of auburn hair lying on the floor. He crouched down, picking it up carefully between his gloved fingers. "What are the chances this belongs to the Flayer?"

Sarah shook her head. "Not likely. There aren’t many people with auburn hair in Briarcliff. If any at all."

"Unless the Flayer is new to the city," Lewis suggested.

"Or," Sarah added, "It belongs to the third party. Whoever was messing around in here?"

"I don’t think so," Lewis said, standing up. He looked around the room, his gaze settling on several small strands of dark brown hair. "The third party isn’t careful. Whoever they are, they didn’t bother covering their tracks. I’m willing to bet that the fingerprints being dusted belong only to this third party."

Sarah crossed her arms, watching as Lewis examined the evidence. "Well, if they didn’t commit the murders, they might not have any reason to hide," she pointed out.

"Exactly. Which means this strand of auburn hair could either belong to the Flayer or someone we haven’t even identified yet," Lewis said, his mind running through the possibilities.

Sarah’s brow furrowed. "Wait, are you saying we’re dealing with a fourth party now?"

"It’s just a hypothesis," Lewis replied. "But the way things are playing out, it wouldn’t surprise me."

Sarah let out an exasperated sigh. "I hate this. Everything is of control, and we’re still always a step behind."

Lewis turned away for a moment, moving to a more secluded part of the room. He needed a moment to think, to process everything without the noise of the investigation. Quietly, he muttered to himself, "We have to catch up… I have to catch up, if I’m ever going to make that bastard pay for killing my brother."

He pulled out his phone and dialed Thompson’s number. After several rings, the call went to voicemail. He tried again. Same result. Sighing in frustration, Lewis left a message. "Thompson, we’ve got a situation. We found what we think might be the Child Killer’s body, but it’s not just the Butcher and the Flayer anymore. There’s someone else in the mix. Maybe a third party, maybe even a fourth. I’ll fill you in when I get back."

Pocketing his phone, Lewis walked back over to where Sarah was standing near the door. He cleared his throat. "We need to keep moving. Whoever has this auburn hair, they’re sloppy. That means we might be able to trace them."

Sarah glanced at him, her lips curling into a mild smile. "Sloppy, huh? Maybe they’ll just leave us a nice handwritten confession next time."

Lewis cracked a faint smile, too small for even Sarah to notice. "If only we were that lucky."

"Yeah, well, until that happens, let’s hope the Flayer and the Butcher keep each other busy long enough for us to catch up."

Lewis nodded, his eyes scanning the clinic one last time. They had to catch up. Time was running out, and the longer they took, the more bodies would pile up. He wasn’t going to let that happen.