When I stepped into the downtown apartment last weekend, the air clawed at my throat with suffocation.
Decomposition
The thick decay in the air could only be conjured by decomposition.
The stench was grotesque. Horrifying. It clung to my throat dearly and twisted my stomach. Stepping into the living room, amidst overturned furniture and scattered debris, was a body, bloated and pale. The state of the body seemed like a life ended two weeks ago. The stillness of the apartment had been the evidence.
The body was extremely dehydrated, bones stuck out through the skin.
But, it was a shocking, raw, detailed line encircling the neck that drew my gaze—a crimson line drew against the paleness of the neck—and, the heart carved violently out of the chest, leaving a small, deep hole in the chest area.
Adding to the horrific sight was the body laying face down, an obscene message brutally etched into his back. Ingrained deep into his pale, decayed flesh, likely with a sharp calligraphy— suspecting a knife—were the chilling words: "DEAR DIARY, MY TWENTY-FIRST VICTIM." The cruelly formed letters stained with dried blood.
For the other rigid-faced officers cautiously navigating the scene alongside me, the inscription became instantly recognizableattheirfirstgazesatit. Theytestifiedtotheinscription hinting at the signature of the infamous Dear Diary Serial Killer. This inscription had as well been left on the spines of the culprit's twenty other victims.
This pattern had been disturbingly consistent ever since the case was introduced. And, there was always a chilling variety of methods of these murders: the suffocating grip of strangulation with an unknown tool and a nylon bag over their head, suffocating them to their last breath or beheading. Despite over a decade of never-ending investigation and running helter-skelter, the case remained stubbornly cold as it was. Countless hours had been poured over the said case, leads chased down blindly, and theories debates remained endless, all coming to a futile end. The killer remained a myth, an enigma, leaving behind zero solid clues, not even the gender of this killer was a certainty.
It was bad. The culprit's sex was still a debated point among investigators, journalists, prosecutors, lawyers, the whole town. The piece of puzzle remained stubbornly out of reach.
However, for me, Sinclair Chase, barely two month out of college, the gruesome case presented to me an opportunity for my first article. My first solo assignment for the city's biggest newspaper company, DailyNow Newspaper, my choice of subject was instant: The Dear Diary Serial Case.
had received strong waning against it by the newspaper seasoned editors. They had testified to testing the waters and checking it out but it had been but a futile attempt. Their faces etched with concern and a hint of weariness, they had told me it was a waste of time.
"Nothing good comes out of it. All you are ever going to be getting out of it are sleepless nights and endless leads." I stood my ground.
They all predicted a disastrous debut. They spoke of dead ends, of the psychological toll the case had taken on veteran reporters—a reporter had even went for therapy—due to the dangers of tangling with such darkness this case held.
But, the determination in me had only seemed to grow even more, eager to figure what the case was about.
And so, I buried myself in decade-old files of the case, a mountain of yellowed reports following the case, crime scene photographs, and witness statements.
A friend of three on a vacation at a beach house — all their bodies with their hearts missing found floating in the water.
A street singer — body found few blocks away from the bar he had performed that night, his heart missing and a nylon bag over his head.
A police officer on a patrol — body found in the boot of his old car, decayed and smelling and beheaded.
A security man — body found in the parking lot of the building he worked, all ten fingers missing, his eyeballs plucked out.
A fast food restaurant manager — body found in a bag in the changing room of his restaurant, heart carved out, body bruised showed signs of a brutal assault.
A drunk friend of three — body found in the VIP room of the bar they had drank, all of their hearts carved out, two of them had their tongues cut off.
A priest — found stripped off his clerical attire to his boxers, a nylon bag over his head.
A reporter working on the case — found in his home after two months, his body butchered into pieces, tied in a waste bag and dumped on the counter of his kitchen.
An artist — blood spills all around his studio showed signs of a brutal murder. His body was never found.
A politician — had three of his friends over at his vacation house, all four were butchered to death, their pieces displayed all around the vacation house. Their bodies were found five days later.
A psychiatrist – beheaded brutally in his own office during a night shift.
A bookshop keeper — murdered in broad daylight, right by the counter while people shopped for books, his screamed muffled by the soft music playing in the shop, his cry for help deaf to the ears of the customers until his throat was slit and he bled to death.
A popular author — killed during his fan sign event. A machete was sent flying to his direction, drove past his neck and right in front of the group of people gathered for his fan sign, his head came off his neck and dangled to the floor. Few minutes after the police arrived, they found the signature: "Dear Diary, my twentieth victim."
Just like the other victims. No matter how much brutal the murders were, there was always a space for those gruesome words, "Dear Diary,…"
I absorbed every single detail of the case, every discarded theory, every frustrated write-up captured in the investigators' notes. A week blended into another, every day became the frustrating thud of another dead end.
Just as defeat threatened to sip in, a glimmer of hope emerged. A lead. Several interview transcripts read that night, a reference to an odd estate on the outskirts of town sparked an intuition that aligned with the chilling details of the case. I'd identified a possible location, located in a deserted area—a potential hideout for the Dear Diary Serial Killer.
Now, the tires of my Audi A4 crunched on the gravel road as I slowed, my gaze fixed on the rusted remains of a road sign, 'Hellville Estate' it said. Initial intended name was 'Shellville Estate' as seen on the description however, it was missingits"s"hence,theonlylettersleftonthesignboardwas 'Hellville Estate'. That grotesque detail tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The accidental detail causing my stomach to twist.
Several minutes crawled by as I navigated the gory area of the estate. Not only was it deserted, it had a lot of abandoned buildings. The only building that stood out in the midst of these buildings was a mansion, elegant and imposing like an unwelcome guest.
Finally, the low hum of my engine ceased as I pulled over, stopping a short distance from two women who were just stepping out of a battered yellow cab. They wore sundresses and also gloomy faces.
As I stepped out, the scent of damp atmosphere hit my nostrils and the chill air slapped my skin. The sky rumbled.
I had to figure out my destination before the rain started.
I approached the women, the gravel crunching under my steps.
"Excuse me." I began, gauging their confused expressions as they regarded me. "I'm trying to find the apartment complex around here. I seem to be completely lost."
The two women in which one of them was short and stout and the other of average height with a noticeably muscular build regarded me with an unsettling neutral expression as if I had just casually reported the weather to them.
They studied me and gazed back at my car.
Was it the car? Perhaps, I should have trekked my way down here.
"I'm really turned." I tried again, "Any help would be greatly… appreciated."
"Turn around," the plump woman stated flatly, her expression rigid. "You are standing right in front of it."
Iswiveled,lettingmygazefallonthenarrow,windingpathway that disappeared into an area of land covered with a thick growth of plants, trees and leaves. In the distance thereof, partially obscured by the trees, I could make out the structures of a large apartment complex.
A shiver ran down my spine. It was the creepiest structure I have ever seen.
The apartment complex was completely covered by an aggressively ripe vegetation. The forest was closing in around them. Strangely. Like an embrace that left you feeling horribly alone. "You have to hurry," The other woman with an average height said, "The tide is always high at night. Its getting dark." I frowned, totally confused on what she was driving at.
Either way, I jerked out a tight, "Thanks," to the two women, whose non-stop gazes remained accusatory even as I sauntered away, and climbed back onto my vehicle. I killed the engine and gaze deeply at the apartment complex.
It looked abandoned just like the other buildings in the estate.
I got off my vehicle, unease pricking on my neck as I began down the narrow, confining trail.
The trail ended shortly and it was just the eerie structure of the complex and the landscape surrounded with ripe vegetation. It's area was spacious. And the apartment was stationed in a corner, hiding away from the rest of the estate.
I took a peek around. Surrounded by the decaying Victorianstyle apartment complex are trees and other foliage. The area was still. The apartment complex didn't appear like any soul resided in it.
I fished out my phone to confirm I was at the right address and I was indeed at the right address.
But, it said they were 24 tenants. A frail hand resting gently over my shoulder had me flinching.
I turned around, facing an old man with a impeccable scar that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw. It looked very much like a knife cut.
"Are you the new tenant?" His frail voice asked.
I could only nod.
"You must be here for an inspection?"
Actually, I wasn't. I had paid the minute I discovered the complex had a vacancy. The man in charge, Mr Gary, short and plump, had been so shocked when I offered to pay that same hour I figured the complex's vacancy. The only knowledge I had about the complex was the room in which I rented.
"Good day. I've actually arrived with my belongings," I gestured at my vehicle which I realized was packed very far away from the complex, "I'd like to proceed with moving in today, if that's alright."
"Oh. You are a young man, I see. You've quite the looks too." He chuckled.
The sky rumbled.
"Come on," the old man said, starting into the complex, "I'll show you around."
The old man leads us into the complex as the sky rumbled a third time.
The complex had a lounge area with a dusty front desk, a wornout couch and neglected key rack. It looked like it had not been visited in years
"What is your room number, son?"
"Ah," I checked my phone, "Apartment 104."
The man froze, his frail hand stopping mid air as he had set to select a key from the varieties displayed on the rack.
And, he did for way too long until I tapped him.
"Was that the only vacant room?" he asked, plucking out the key for apartment 104 from its varieties.
"No but the agent recommended the room to me."
I had to double check to make sure I wasn't seeing things but he had swallowed hard as he clutched onto the key and began towards a narrowed passage area.
Yet, I didn't question anything.
As we stepped onto another passage area lined with different room doors from either side, I heard the soft pour of rain outside in which gradually proceeded into an heavy pour.
The man stopped before a door like the other ones—this one was rusty and dusted—he plucked the key into its hole, his frail hands suddenly trembling intensely that the key slipped from his grasp. Before he could collect it back off the floor, I leaned down slightly and grabbed them.
"Are you quite alright?"
"Y-yes. Uhm, I just—"
"It's fine, old man. I'll inspect the room myself."
"You will?"
"Yes, please."
"Okay, then."
"If you have any issue, my apartment number is 305 on the last floor."
"Got it." I smiled and watched him exit the hallway, his footsteps surprisingly neat and straight for an old man.
I turned to face the door again, inserted the key into the hole, twisted it and jerked the rusty door open in effortless moves. Its cringes groan in protest and some of its rust crumbled into my palm.
I stepped in, accessing the minuscule room properly. It had a single large window, a single bulb and restroom. The restroom door was locked so I didn't bother checking it.
Instead I inspected the room even more closely.
Furniture dragged over the carpeted floor. Peeled wallpaper. Walls with fading paint.
It could be the perfect place for a criminal's hideout.
It could have been previously occupied by the culprit but had been vacated after I inquired.
Could they have already known my identity? Perhaps, they had escaped before I made a deposit for the rent.
I gazed around again but suddenly stopped in my tracks and made for the restroom door.
I placed a gentle hand over it.
It was warm.
The handle of the main entrance had been a little cold but this was warm.
I twisted the knob gently and pried the door open, stepping into the restroom.
Steam
Someone had just made use of it.
The bathroom smelled of ice berg rose. Clean and precise.
As I twisted my head, a note crafted with red ink had me frowning in confusion.
"H O M E,"
* * *