The room was dim except for the pale glow of a phone screen.
Allan lay sprawled on the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, phone held inches from his face. The video played quietly, the narrator's voice low and deliberate—one of those crime documentaries that sounded almost respectful, like it knew it was disturbing something dead.
"Today, we are talking about the infamous serial killer known only as Dawn."
Nora sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, listening without looking. She didn't need visuals. The words were enough.
"Dawn dragged his victims directly from their beds. Most of them were girls in their early twenties."
Allan's thumb hovered over the screen. He didn't pause it.
"We don't have an exact count, but police estimate the number could be around fifteen."
Fifteen lives, taken quietly.
"How did he remain unnoticed for so long?"
The video cut to grainy nighttime footage of empty streets.
"He drove his victims' cars—never his own. He avoided cameras by throwing paint-filled colour balls at lenses. Chloroform was used to knock victims unconscious."
Nora frowned. "Careful," she muttered. "Too careful."
"Victims were violently dragged into the forest and taken to an abandoned house deep inside it."
The narrator paused, just long enough.
"They were kept alive—as long as he could manage—in a secondary basement."
The word secondary sat wrong.
Allan finally looked away from the phone. "That's not a term police use," he said. "That's a builder's term."
The video continued anyway.
"Years later, the cabin was purchased by a couple. After the main renovation, the husband's younger brother joined them to help complete the work."
Nora's spine stiffened.
"This is where the case takes a disturbing turn."
The screen showed a photo of a peaceful wooden cabin. Warm lights. Snow on the roof.
"The wife later claimed she began seeing a young girl inside the house."
Nora turned now, eyes on the phone.
"She followed the girl into the basement. What she saw there was so horrific that she could never recall it clearly—only as vivid, repeating dreams."
The narrator's voice dropped.
"Dreams that never ended."
The cabin didn't feel warm anymore.
"Her mental health deteriorated. Her marriage suffered. The place they had lovingly built became terrifying."
The video showed police photos of a perfectly normal basement.
"Repeated searches found no hidden doors. No entrances. Nothing."
Nora hugged her knees.
"Eventually, the wife moved in with her mother."
Allan exhaled slowly.
"Concerned, Mr Finn contacted a young investigator named Allan, who claimed to be a ghost hunter."
Allan snorted. "They always say claimed."
"Allan arrived with a psychic companion. They stayed overnight."
Nora smiled faintly. "That part's accurate."
"Both approached the case differently. Allan from a scientific angle. The psychic through visions."
The video cut to a dramatised reenactment.
"She described a dream—being dragged from her bed, through the forest, into a living nightmare. All from the victim's point of view."
Nora's breath caught.
"She also repeatedly saw a woman in a white nightgown."
The screen flickered.
"The next day, the psychic developed a sudden fever, causing panic."
Allan rubbed his jaw. "Worst headache of my life."
"Later, she realised the woman from her dreams was Mrs Finn."
The narrator paused again.
"A hidden doorway was eventually discovered—in the younger brother's room."
Nora whispered, "Behind the bed."
"What they found was horrific."
The screen went black.
Suspicion immediately fell on Mr Finn and his brother. However, both had airtight alibis. No fingerprints were found—except on stolen food items."
Silence.
"The killer was eventually caught, thanks to information provided by the psychic."
The video ended.
The phone buzzed violently in Allan's hand.
He groaned. "See? This is why my phone hasn't shut up all day. I've got like a hundred requests." He scrolled furiously. "Half of them are nonsense. The other half are people asking why I look like an idiot in that photo."
Nora raised an eyebrow. "So what's the problem? The picture—or the attention?"
"Both," Allan sighed.
"Well," she said, glancing at the papers he'd brought, "at least it works as a PR stunt."
"Yeah. I'm thinking of making a website."
"Sure," Nora said, already reading. "Just leave my picture out of it."
Allan grinned. "Is this one okay? Or this one?"
"Neither. Why are you using old photos? Take a new one."
"Why? Because I look hot now?" He smirked. "No need to deny it. I accept compliments."
She didn't respond.
"What are you reading?" he asked, leaning forward. "Oh. That one?"
"Don't you think this is connected to the three college kids who went missing?" Nora asked quietly.
Allan's expression shifted. "I got that letter a month before they disappeared."
Nora summarised, eyes scanning. "They went on a school field trip. Visited that house. All three had nightmares about it. They stopped talking afterwards. But every no-moon day—they have the same dream."
"Had," Allan corrected. "Police said dreams don't count as evidence. Detective told me she's interested in humans, not nightmares."
Nora shivered. "If it were obvious, it'd be solved. This reminds me of the Knife House. Group disappearance."
"Yeah," Allan said. "I'll look deeper into it."
She folded the letter. "So. What's next?"
Allan scrolled again. "A family is living next to a witch's hut. Suddenly—bad luck. Health issues. Neighbors too."
Nora blinked. "Let me guess. They want to burn it."
"Yep."
"Burning really is everyone's solution."
"But the kid thinks it's a bad idea. Says it could land their parents in jail."
"When are they planning to burn it?"
Allan looked up. "Tonight."
Nora stood instantly, grabbing her car keys. "Then why didn't you start with that?"
She smacked his arm lightly.
Allan smiled, already following her to the door.