As I stepped onto the wooden stairs to the second floor, the creaking beneath my feet resonated through the darkness like horror. Father John trailed behind noiselessly, the stairwell like a claustrophobic tunnel. The walls closed in around us eerily. It was more creepy than I thought.
We stepped onto the hallways of the next floor, dark and gloomy. The only light was the dim glittering of daylight through a small hole on the landing.
The hallway stretched out before us, narrowed and darkened, apartment doors lined in a single file on each side.
It was still as if no soul lived on the floor.
"Are all the room vacant?" I voiced out my curiosity as we slowly reach the apartment right above mine.
"The only room vacant on this floor is the one which you speak of."
"Have they all gone to work?"
The door to an apartment at the far end flew open and a bulky man with messy hair and sleepy eyes pinned a death glare on us, "Can you stay quiet? I'm trying to sleep?" he barked and stuck his head back in, banging the door noisily behind him.
I raised a brow. I was being noisy?
"I guess that answers your question?"
"Absolutely."
We finally stopped before the very apartment. Father John inserts the key into its hole without hesitation and twisted it, throwing the door open.
Daylightfilteredin, showingusallwecouldpossiblybecurious about the apartment—an empty, minute room, dusty and deserted. Cobwebs hanging in every corner.
Father John cocked his brow.
"It definitely was your hallucination, young man."
* * *
I pushed open the creaky glass door of the restaurant—one of those tucked-away diners only locals knew about. It was the only restaurant in the area which made it mostly deserted. A soft chime rang above my head, loud enough to remind me I
was the only person in the vicinity disturbing the quiet. Inside, the place looked like it hadn't changed since the late 80s. Vinyl booths, flickering pendant lights, and that nostalgic scent of grilled onions and over brewed coffee.
Empty. Good. I liked it that way.
I made my way to the corner booth—the one by the frosted window with peeling tint—and slid in. The leather squeaked under me as I settled. I hadn't even taken off my coat before I noticed someone approaching.
He was a large man, his stomach stretching the buttons of his uniform shirt, cheeks flushed and jiggling slightly with each step. But it wasn't the bulk that caught my attention. It was the way he walked—cautious, deliberate—and the way his milky eyes didn't quite meet mine.
"Evening, sir," he said with a warm smile. "Would you prefer something light today… or something heavy enough to chase the gloom?"
The way he said it—his voice too practiced, too calculated— gave it away. He wasn't looking at me. He couldn't. The man
was blind.
I blinked. "You serving heartbreak on the rocks, or should I settle for the existential dread sandwich?"
He chuckled—a low, throaty sound. "We ran out of heartbreak yesterday. Got a fresh batch of regret, though."
I smiled faintly. "I'll take coffee. Black. And… whatever your best mistake is today."
"Coming right up." He turned, slowly retracing his steps toward the counter with that same careful shuffle.
The door chimed again.
I didn't have to look up to know it was Oliver.
"Wow," came his voice, smooth as ever. "You weren't lying about the place. Feels like a mafia deal's about to go down in here."
I glanced up. Oliver was dressed like he was about to shoot a Netflix segment—black shirt over a white tee, sleeves rolled to the elbows, black pants, and in one hand, a lapel mic dangling around his neck.
"You look like you're about to interview a cult leader," I muttered.
He slid into the booth opposite me, grinning. "Or maybe I already did. How else do you explain your hair?"
I smirked, brushing my fingers through the mess on my head. "Someofusprefersubstanceoverstyle, Oliver. Butkeeptrying. One day your mic will get a Pulitzer."
He snorted, setting it aside. "If I get one, I'll name it after you. 'To Sinclair, the only man who left journalism for depression and still looks like a noir detective.'"
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was meant as an intervention."
I rolled my eyes. "Speaking of substance… did you bring it?"
He raised a brow. "The file?" I nodded once.
He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a thick manila folder, sliding it across the table like we were passing state secrets. "You're lucky I still value friendship more than HR policy."
I flipped it open. On top, typed in bold: HANNAH ROSEBUD — The Florist Serial Murder Case and its History.
Oliver sipped from the water the waiter had placed earlier.
"You sure you want to dive back into that mess? You've been out of the game for, what, six weeks? A serial killer's history isn't the gentlest reintroduction."
I didn't reply. My eyes were already moving over the words.
Rosemount Home for Children. That's where it began.
Iscannedthroughthereport. Hannahwasthefirstchildplaced there. The orphanage was founded by her father's best friend. According to interviews and scattered case notes, the man had molested her for years. The records were hazy—most of it swept under decades of silence—but there were hints. Enough to sketch the picture.
Sixteen years later, everyone at the orphanage vanished. Children, staff—gone. No bodies. No answers. Just silence. And Hannah?
She was found seven years later, wandering in a forest seventy miles away, barefoot and unhinged.
And then, thirty-four years after the she was found, she became The Florist—leaving flower petals before the doorsteps of her victims.
The air in the diner felt thinner. Or maybe that was just me.
I didn't hear Oliver at first. Not until he started tapping the table. Then my arm.
"Hey. Sinclair. You're doing that thing again—where you stop blinking and forget you're human."
I blinked hard, pulling out of the trance. "Sorry. It's just…"
"Yeah, I know," he said gently, before his tone shifted. "Also, Saavni's back."
That name hit differently.
I sat up straighter. "She came back to the office?"
"Today. Said she just got back into town last week. Oh—and get this—she told me she lives around here. This estate." My fingers tightened on the edge of the file.
Ididn'thavewords. Icouldn'tfindone. Whatwerethechances that my colleague lived in the same creepy neighborhood with me where I had come only for the purpose of fishing out a brutal serial murderer?
* * *
Approaching my flat finally, the sudden quiet felt like a blessed relief after the confrontation with those UN-intimidating men and the complaint to Father John that had ended up making me appear stupid.
As if I wouldn't be able to tell a hallucination from reality.
As I moved to lock my apartment door, the lock wouldn't catch, stiff as ever. I struggled with it for five minutes straight, twisting and turning with every strength summoned. I had certainly locked the apartment before stepping out, how had it managed to be tampered with?
I stepped in, a shiver running down my spine as I took in the room carefully. Everything seemed as it should be, exactly the wayIleftit. Thehumantrackerwhichwasseatedexactlyinthe spot I had left it had only a single silhouette. Everything felt normal but the moment a faint, lingering scent of iceberg rose brushed my nose, I knew they weren't. The same fragrance from the night I moved in. The same that had clung to the walls of this apartment on my first night.
A knot of unease tightened in my gut, my senses suddenly on high alert.