A little girl was walking down her cellar steps. She had one hand on the railing to support her as her 8 year old legs carefully located each step. The only sounds that could be heard are the creaking of the wood beneath her and the low buzzing hum of machinery she was too young to understand the functions of.
Despite the pitch blackness, she made her way down without much dilemma, except for when the sleeve of her jammies got caught on a loose nail. As she reached the final step her left hand immediately found the wall and she ran it along the exposed brick to try to find the light switch, as she kept walking.
The humming grew louder. Her other hand was clutching her stuffed dolphin so she couldn't feel around in front of her by the time she bumped into the object making all the noise. She let go of the wall and switched her doll to her free hand to feel the metal of a generator.
It dawns on her that she completely missed the switch, as she recalled the machine being in the corner of the room, she turns around to make another pass along the wall. Amidst the darkness, two glowing eyes now stare at her from the opposite wall, right by the stairs leading out to her only exit. She clutched her dolphin and took a step back, pushing herself up against the generator.
"M-Mommy," she called out. The hum of the machine against her back almost distracted her from her rising heartbeat. The eyes only blinked at her.
She took two steps to the side. Clear of the obstacle she could know step back all the way the wall. She presses against the brick and now both hands are clutching onto the stuffed toy.
"Is-Is this where you've b-been all this time mommy?" she asked the figure. The eyes blinked again, but this time it made its way towards her, each step making the tapping of long unkempt nails against concrete floor.
With the clinking of what could be chains, the figure falls short of the girl. It was tall; its eyes made its height to be about 6 feet tall if not more. Despite the distance, the girl could smell the stench of its breath, and she knew that even from there the creature could reach her.
They only stared at each other, the little girl and the tall thing in the dark. For a good minute and a half, it was only two pale glowing eyes, a buzzing hum, and darkness.
"Yiieeeeeeeeee..." the creature made a drawn out noise in an effort to communicate.
Before it could finish articulating, the lights to the first floor turns on and the silhouette of a man appears in the doorway. The man's face looked horrified at the sight, but just as quickly it turned to disappointment.
"Sweetheart, I told you never to come down here," Daisy's father said.
With the light now pouring in, she could make out the grotesque form before her: A crooked torso with drooping breasts, lanky arms that reached the floor, and a long droopy face, with gaps between rotten teeth.
"Yiieeeeee yieeee, you should go to bed honey."
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EEEEEEK-EEEEEEK-EEEEEEK-EEEEEEK
Daisy McCarthy awoke with a jolt. By the time she was fully conscious she realized she already had her hand on her phone, muscle memory alone allowing her to turn off her alarm. She sighs to herself, it's been years since she's dreamt of the cellar. Why she remembers that particular event today, of all days, she doesn't know, so she allows her mind to place the memory in the safe where it belongs.
She sits up, stretches and blinks the sleep out of her eyes. The first thing she sees in the morning is the cork board nailed over her work desk. A red string connects images of victims and cases to one another. The path outlined the locations where murders that followed a certain theme occurred. Repeated murder methods usually pointed to one thing; the activity of a serial killer.
For a whole month, Daisy and her partner have been tracking down one particular killer, the Jacksonville Killer, who has since been moving south of Illinois. The killer always seemed to be one step ahead of them, but Daisy knew that this was the day she would finally catch her quarry.
Daisy smiles at the board, gets out of bed and starts her day. As she moves out of the covers, she nearly knocks the case files she was reading the night prior off the bed.
Her bedroom served her two purposes: it was where she could gather her thoughts and work on her cases outside of the office, and it was her workspace for preparing minor rituals and spell components. If she was feeling too tired to make her way to the sofa, it was a good enough place to sleep.
The bedroom opened directly to the living area and continuing forward lead to the kitchen. Going right after exiting the bedroom lead to the bathroom, and to the exit to the main hall.
As she finishes her shower, she immediately heads to the kitchen to prepare her to-go coffee. She idly listens to the TV playing the current news story discussing the recent political setting. Daisy was a registered voter, but the popularity contest some would call an election couldn't be further from her mind right now, which was probably why she didn't notice the shift in topics.
"-is currently leading the elections. In other news, another body was found-" said the anchorman.
Amidst the news, Daisy's phone rings on the kitchen counter. "Richard Fuller," her partner's name, displayed on the screen. She answers the call and sandwiches the phone between her ear and shoulder.
"What's up Rick?" asked Daisy, tightening the lid on her thermos.
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"-young Latino male in his home the previous evening-"
"Daisy! Are you watching the news right now?" asked Rick.
"-sliced his face from ear to ear-"
"Yeah, I am," said Daisy. She turns around to face the television. "What's going on?"
"-we believe this to be some type of signature-"
"It's out Zee, must have been leaked or something." Daisy stares at the screen horrified.
"-the Jacksonville Killer, here in our city-"
"Daisy I'll be right over. What are we gonna do?"
"..."
"Hello?"
"Fuck"
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The light turns red just as the silver Pontiac makes it to the intersection.
Rick puts the car on park and checks his phone. He had 5 missed calls and a text. The calls all came from numbers belonging to VASCU supervisors, and the text came from Daisy: "Don't talk to anyone, don't answer any calls. Just come pick me up."
Daisy was always the one taking the lead in their partnership, and Rick was completely fine with that. By all means they were both rookies, but Daisy just seemed to take all this monster stuff in stride.
The Vanguard Serial Crimes Unit is a department within the FBI that employed psychic individuals to identify and catch serial murderers. They vet agents for latent psychic tendencies, and through a clandestine process, bring out their potential.
The procedure itself was classified, but it was common knowledge that different individuals developed different abilities. Rick developed heightened empathic perception, making him ideal for interrogation.
Rick used to think the gifts were amazing, and phenomenal for police work, but it's since proved to be a double edged sword. After all, who would want to get inside the hell scape of a killers mind?
A movement within the periphery of Rick's vision catches his eye. Directly to his right, he sees a pasty white man emerge from behind a tree. The man is wearing dry fit joggers attire and shades. The man wasn't holding a phone or anything that could justify his being there in his hand, and the other was being obscured by the tree.
Rick couldn't tell where the man was looking through their shades, but he stoo still, like he was waiting for something. Rick wasn't a coward, but he shortly felt himself getting more anxious as the red light drew on, and the man just quietly and unmovingly stood there. He reached over to his glove compartment and flipped it open. The service pistol he keeps in his car slides down. In one swift motion, the gun is in his hand and clocked, all out of the stranger's line of sight.
A beat passed and the vehicle behind him blasts their horn. In his shock, Rick almost discharges his firearm, but instead opts to drop it on the passenger seat. A quick glance at the light shows that it had already turned green. He slams his foot on the gas and accelerates out of there.
Looking at his side mirror, he spots a fluffy lapdog pissing on the tree, attached to the man's hand by a leash. Rick sighs to himself in relief and mentally kicks himself for getting scared enough to pull his gun on a man walking his dog, but as he speeds along he notices his pulse isn't going down.
He could feel his skin breaking out in sweat as his breathing gets heavier. He pulls over to the side and puts his gun back in the compartment. Before closing it, he grabs his zoloft and pops a tablet in his mouth. Rick's heart feels like it's trying to break out of his ribcage, but he tries to stabilize his breathing and waits for it to subside.
It wasn't uncommon for agents to be diagnosed with PTSD, anxiety, depression and the like. He was told that they were just side effects developed by psychics new to the procedures. Rick knew better, he knew it was all bullshit.
It wasn't just serial killers and murderers the FBI had them chasing. There was something else out there, whether they used to be people, or something wearing human skin. There were things out there that just were too far gone in the other side that that was what they became, "other."
The term VASCU used for them was "slasher," superhuman killers that relished the act. He thought they were joking at first. Who would send green agents, just barely new hires, to go after living slaughterhouses.
It wasn't the psychic powers that made you crazy- it was the job. Still, it was better to suck it up, and finish the mission. No one lasted long enough to prove his theory anyway.
When he could finally breath again; Rick threw his pills in with his gun; texted Daisy, tell her he'd be there soon; and sped on his way.
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Later that day.
"We're home Mrs. Wheeler," announced Jeffrey, opening the door with his shoulder. A silky terrier walks in ahead of him. He lets the leash drop from his fingers as his hands were to full at the moment to remove her harness. "I bought some food for a few days and gave Cookie a walk while I was out. Hope that was alright."
He watches Cookie's green leash disappear into the dining room. He follows after her. He passes by portraits of Mrs. Wheeler and her family. Most depict her with her Grandkids, but a few pictures showed her in her youth. She was a looker, he had to admit, but all that was in the past and that pretty face was taken by time. This was something that worried him deeply.
It wasn't that he was the most beautiful person in the world, Jeffrey wasn't that vain, but he did know he had a face people liked. He was sure of it. Jeffrey knew every single person that has seen his face, even through pictures and videos, and he knew exactly where they were at any given time too.
In this town, he knew there were exactly thirty-four people that have seen his face, not including Mrs. Wheeler of course. During his walk he even encountered one such individual. Although, that guy turned out to be one of the more unfriendly sort. Meeting him in the street during the day like that almost gave him a heart attack.
Upon entering the dining room, he sets the bags full of styro takeout containers on the dark wood table. The terrier is nowhere to be seen, but he does spot Mrs. Wheeler napping on the rocking chair where he left her. She seems to be having a pleasant dream with that smile on her face.
He walks over to her and closes the drapes on the window. He covered the rest of the windows in the dining room while he was at it. He then walked over to the mirror on the opposite wall that encompassed the entire span of the table.
He took off his shades and two beady eyes stared back at him. He reached for the side of his face, just below the earlobe, and found a seam in his flesh. He digs his fingers into it and pulls hard. The synthetic skin covering the bottom of his face rips off.
The act produces a grin that reaches from ear to ear. Where his nose should be is only a slight bump on the pale leathery skin that covers his face.
"That's much better," Jeffrey says to himself, smiling and prodding his face. In that moment, the small brown lapdog barrels into the room and begins barking at the old lady.
"Stop that," Jeffrey said, trying to placate the dog. "Mrs. Wheeler is trying taking a nap right now Cookie, so we need to be quiet."
The dog now turns to him and begins barking even louder.
"I told you to stop," said Jeffrey. His eyes display annoyance despite his perpetual smile. "Maybe it's time for you to also take a nap doggie."
He takes a step towards the terrier, but right before he could get his hands on her she whizzes beneath the table. Jeffrey springs up onto the table, he leaps over the takeout and lands right in front of the doorway that Cookie would have escaped through. As the dog emerges from beneath the table, his hands shoots down and grabs her by the scruff of her neck. It seems that she was able to squirm her way out of her harness while she was out of sight.
He takes the dog by its head in his other hand and begins to squeeze. The dog is whimpering and biting his fingers, but he doesn't cease. Warm mushy flesh begin to ooze through his fingers.
"Cookie, I think it's time for you to go to sleep."