“nothing just a fever”. The Sheriff raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but he didn’t push further. “Well, whatever it is, you need to get a handle on it. These deaths—Antonio, now Joshua—it’s bigger than we thought. You’re the best I got on this case, Jacob. I need you sharp.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jacob said, but his voice lacked conviction. The waitress returned with their food, and for a while, they ate in silence. Jacob picked at his coffee, his mind elsewhere. Every now and then, he could hear the faint echo of the trumpets, like a bad song stuck on repeat in his subconscious.
The Sheriff finished his burger, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “So, you still haven’t told me what’s been going on in that head of yours.”
Jacob met his eyes and forced a weak smile. “Like I said, just tired.”
The Sheriff frowned but didn’t press further. Instead, he stood up, tossing a couple of bills onto the table. “Alright, let’s get back to it. We need to see this crime scene before it gets too late.”
Jacob followed him out, grateful the Sheriff didn’t pry further. They climbed back into the car, and the drive continued in silence, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound breaking the stillness of the night. The road stretched out ahead of them, empty and dark, and with each passing mile, the pit in Jacob’s stomach grew deeper. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was waiting for them at the crime scene.
When they finally pulled up to Joshua’s apartment building, the scene was already swarming with officers. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the entrance, and a few officers were milling about, talking quietly. A coroner's van was parked nearby, the back doors open as a gurney was wheeled inside, a body bag zipped tightly over its occupant.
Jacob stepped out of the car, scanning the scene. He could feel the tension in the air, the same gnawing sensation he had felt at Antonio’s crime scene. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t know what, but his gut told him these deaths were connected.
The Sheriff walked ahead, waving to one of the officers who lifted the tape to let them through. “The body’s been packed up, but they haven’t moved anything inside yet. You might want to take a look around.”
Jacob nodded and followed him into the building. The hallway leading to Joshua’s apartment was dimly lit, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor. They stopped outside apartment 207, where the door hung open, a dull light spilling out into the hallway.
Inside, the scene was almost identical to Antonio’s. The same stench of fear clung to the air, a mix of sweat and something far more rotten. The walls were smeared with blood—scribbles, phrases, nonsense that made Jacob’s skin crawl. He moved closer to the walls, his eyes narrowing as he studied the writing. They were ramblings, yes, but there was a pattern. References to the sky, the sound of trumpets, and the Boiled One. It was all there, the same cryptic warnings that Antonio had left behind.
Jacob’s breath hitched as he stared at the bloodied walls, his mind racing. There was something here, something tying these deaths together. He couldn’t explain it, not yet, but the Boiled One was at the center of it all.
The Sheriff glanced at him. “You see something?”
Jacob didn’t answer right away, his eyes still glued to the bloody scribbles. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low. “I think I’m starting to figure it out.”
The room felt heavy, almost like the air itself had turned to lead. Jacob stood still, his eyes tracing the strange, bloody patterns on the walls. His mind was racing, trying to piece together what it all meant. There had to be a connection between these deaths. He could feel it. The Boiled One, even though he wasn’t there physically, seemed to linger in the room, like a bad memory that wouldn’t go away.
Then, without warning, the old television in the corner snapped on with a sharp crackle. The sudden noise made both Jacob and the Sheriff jump. The static filled the room, buzzing loudly, as if the air was humming with electricity.
“What in the world...” the Sheriff muttered, his hand reaching for his gun.
Jacob squinted at the TV. There was something off about it, the way it had turned on by itself, the static filling the screen. Slowly, the picture became clearer. Jacob’s heart dropped as he watched the scene unfold on the screen.
A man was strapped to a chair, steam rising from his body as his skin turned red and raw. He was being boiled alive. The sight was horrific, his skin blistering and peeling, revealing raw, burnt flesh beneath. The man screamed in agony, his eyes wide with terror. The boiling water bubbled around him, and the smell of burning flesh seemed to creep into the room, even though it wasn’t there.
Jacob’s name echoed through the apartment, distorted and low, almost like a growl. The man on the screen—now barely recognizable as human—turned toward the camera, his blistered, ruined face staring straight at Jacob.
lliw uoy tub em ees tnow yeht eroc eht morf tuo gnideelb ydob ruoy dnif yeht nehw ,enips ruoy no deef i sa noos uoy ees lli dairfa eb tnod ,lwarc niks ruoy raeh nac i hhsJacob’s feet felt glued to the floor. He couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. His legs began to pull him toward the TV, his body acting on its own, drawn to the horrifying figure on the screen. The man—now something far worse than human—continued to boil, his body twisting and deforming into something dark and twisted. It was *The Boiled One*.
On the screen, the creature now fully emerged, reaching out toward Jacob with a blistered, twisted hand. Its voice grew louder, more insistent.
“The trumpets are calling, Jacob. The sky will open, and you will hear them. *Join us*!”
The sight on the screen became more grotesque with each passing moment. Flesh tore away, bones cracked, and dark, sticky blood oozed across the screen. The Boiled One’s face twisted into a terrible grin, its eyes burning with madness and cruelty.
Jacob’s legs moved faster now, carrying him toward the TV without his permission. The sound of the trumpets roared in his ears, louder and louder, as if they were coming from inside his head. His fingers stretched out toward the screen, trembling as he got closer.
Just as his hand was about to touch the glass, a gunshot exploded through the room.
The Sheriff had fired his gun, the shot ringing out like a lightning strike. The bullet hit the TV with a loud bang, but the image didn’t fade. The Boiled One on the screen screamed, its voice a mix of rage and deep, awful pain.
The Sheriff shot again. And again.
“Step back, Jacob!” the Sheriff yelled, his voice sharp, cutting through the noise.
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Jacob didn’t move. He was still in a trance, his eyes wide and empty, focused entirely on the monstrous figure on the screen. The Boiled One was screaming now, clawing at its own flesh as the bullets seemed to rip through the broadcast itself. The thing’s voice went higher, more desperate, as its blistered hands tried to tear itself free from the screen.
The Sheriff fired round after round, unloading his entire magazine into the TV. Each shot seemed to hurt The Boiled One. Its distorted form writhed in agony, its screams piercing and frantic. The twisted creature on the screen was no longer menacing—it was writhing, flailing like a wounded animal.
The last bullet shattered the TV screen, sending shards of glass and sparks flying through the room. Smoke curled up from the wreckage, the TV finally dead. But The Boiled One’s screams hung in the air for a few seconds longer, as if they had gotten trapped in the walls.
Jacob blinked, stumbling backward, his trance broken. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked around the room, confused and terrified. His hand hovered by his side, shaking slightly. He couldn’t believe what had just happened.
The Sheriff stood there; his smoking gun still pointed at the broken TV. His face was hard, his jaw clenched tightly. “What the hell just happened?”
Jacob didn’t answer. He kept staring at the shattered television, his mind racing, trying to process what he had just seen. He knew, deep down, that it wasn’t just a nightmare. It was real. *The Boiled One* had spoken to him, had called for him. And for a brief, terrifying moment, he had been ready to follow.
The Sheriff reloaded his gun with a calm but deliberate motion, his eyes never leaving the broken TV. “I don’t know what kind of twisted game this is, but whatever that thing is, it’s not gonna win.”
Jacob’s eyes darted around the room, settling on the bloodstained walls, the destroyed TV. The words of The Boiled One still echoed in his head, the promise of trumpets, the vision of the sky tearing open.
“We need to figure this out,” Jacob muttered, mostly to himself. His voice sounded distant, even to his own ears. “Before it’s too late.”
The Sheriff nodded, his face set in a grim expression. Whatever was happening, they were only scratching the surface. And it was far from over.
Jacob and the Sheriff stood frozen for a moment, the shattered TV still fizzling with broken glass and static. The image of *The Boiled One*, screaming Jacob's name and beckoning him to "join us," haunted the air like an unshakable fog. They had barely survived the encounter, but there was no time to dwell on it.
“We need to get out of here,” Jacob said, his voice laced with urgency.
The Sheriff didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Jacob’s arm and rushed him out of the room. They stormed down the hallway, yelling for everyone to evacuate. Guests peeked out of their rooms, confused, but quickly caught on as the two men screamed for everyone to leave the hotel at once. Panic spread through the hall like wildfire. People began grabbing their things and running for the exits.
Jacob’s heart pounded in his chest. Was *The Boiled One* contagious? Was it something that could spread from person to person, like a plague of nightmares?
They burst out the front doors of the hotel and ran to their car. The Sheriff jumped behind the wheel, while Jacob got in the passenger seat. As soon as the engine roared to life, they sped away from the chaos. Jacob’s thoughts raced just as fast as the car’s tires screeched against the pavement.
“Is it... spreading?” Jacob asked, his voice shaky.
“I don’t know,” the Sheriff replied. “But we can’t take chances. We’ll figure it out back at the station.”
The city lights flashed by in a blur as they raced down the highway. Jacob’s mind was a swirling mess of questions, fears, and fragmented thoughts of the visions he had seen. They had to get ahead of this thing. If *The Boiled One* was targeting people, there was a pattern, a connection they had to find.
By the time they reached the police station, both men were drenched in sweat and breathing hard. Inside, the station was abuzz with activity, officers working to piece together what they could about the strange deaths that had been plaguing the town. But this time, Jacob and the Sheriff were certain: they were going to find a link between all these victims.
“We need everything you’ve got on the victims,” Jacob called out as they entered the station. The team inside had already been working tirelessly, gathering data on the strange deaths that had unfolded over the past few weeks.
The Sheriff wasted no time. He pulled up a chair beside Jacob as they sat down at one of the computer terminals, combing through the information. There had to be something that tied all these people together.
First, there was Joshua Swarrigon—age 34. He was a janitor with a criminal past, specifically sexual assault charges. His death had been marked by madness, ending in a gruesome suicide. Then there was Antonio, another victim. While his death had also been violent, there was something else going on, something that felt like it reached into the supernatural. *The Boiled One* had appeared in visions connected to both men.
And then there were new names on the list.
Jacob found himself staring at the files of three other people, each one more mysterious than the last.
“There’s Mike Phillips,” Jacob said, tapping the screen. “Eighty-two years old. He’s a billionaire, a retired lawyer who was bailed out of prison seven years ago on charges of sex trafficking. But here’s the thing—he’s connected to Lydia Phillips, his seven-year-old adopted daughter.”
The Sheriff frowned. “A billionaire involved in something like this? It’s too big to ignore.”
Jacob nodded. “And Lydia’s adopted, but she’s related to Mike by blood. No one knows anything about her mother, but there’s something strange about her adoption.”
The Sheriff leaned over the screen, studying the information closely. “Mike’s not exactly clean, but how does Lydia fit into all this?”
Jacob’s fingers clicked over the keys as he pulled up another name. “And then there’s Noel—age 22. She used to work as a babysitter. She’s smart, cautious, and she’s been in trouble before. She was jailed for attempted murder, but she escaped. Right now, we don’t know where she is.”
The Sheriff rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Joshua, Antonio, Mike, Noel, and Lydia. Five people, all with something dark in their pasts.”
“And all somehow linked to *The Boiled One*,” Jacob added.
Suddenly, the Sheriff’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, his expression growing grim as he listened. Jacob could tell it wasn’t good news.
When the Sheriff hung up, his voice was low. “We’ve got a problem. Mike Phillips and Lydia were spotted heading to the outskirts of town, near an old farmhouse.”
Jacob’s heart sank. *The Boiled One* was already moving.
“We need to get there now,” Jacob said, standing up from the desk. “Mike and Lydia could be next. If we don’t stop this thing now, it’ll claim them both.”
The Sheriff grabbed his car keys, already headed for the door. “Let’s go.”
They hurried back to the car, the cold night air biting at their skin as they raced toward the outskirts of town. The road ahead was dark and winding, but the urgency of their mission drove them forward. Jacob kept thinking about the other victims—Joshua and Antonio. They hadn’t been able to save them, but they might still have a chance with Mike and Lydia.
As they sped down the road, Jacob felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He glanced down at the screen. It was a message from the research team back at the station. There was something new—something important.
“Mike Phillips was just bailed out of prison seven years ago for sex trafficking,” Jacob said, reading the report. “It’s worse than we thought. He’s not just some old man with a dark past. He’s dangerous.”
The Sheriff tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Then Lydia’s in even more danger than we thought.”
But there was something else in the report. Something that made Jacob’s blood run cold.
“Noel,” he said softly, his eyes widening as he read further. “She used to work as a babysitter. For Mike Phillips.”
The Sheriff glanced at Jacob, his eyes filled with shock. “You’re telling me Noel and Mike knew each other?”
Jacob nodded, the pieces falling into place. “She must have been involved with Lydia at some point. Maybe she tried to protect her. Maybe that’s why she ended up in jail for attempted murder.”
They were getting closer to the farmhouse now, the old structure looming in the distance. Jacob’s pulse quickened. This was it. *The Boiled One* was here, and they were running out of time.
As they pulled up to the front gates of the farmhouse, the Sheriff killed the engine. The house ahead of them was dark, with only a faint glow coming from one of the windows. It felt like the air itself was thick with evil.
“Are you ready for this?” the Sheriff asked, his voice tense.
Jacob nodded. “We don’t have a choice.”
They stepped out of the car and approached the house, the gravel crunching under their feet. The front door was slightly ajar, creaking as it swayed in the wind. Inside, the silence was deafening, broken only by their footsteps echoing through the dark hallways. It won’t stop until it had claimed them all.