The house was now swarming with activity. The jarring blue and white of police uniforms contrasted violently with the domestic chaos of the entrance hall.
A senior police officer, notepad in hand, engaged Jonas, who stood rigid and pallid amidst the intrusion.
"Mr. Lockwood, how much time do you estimate has passed since your last meaningful contact, prior to you discovering your mother's disappearance?" the officer inquired, his tone measured and professional.
Jonas cleared his throat, the lie already prepared but tripping on his tongue. "I don't... I work in Seoul, and I only returned today to visit her. It has been quite a long time since we last saw each other face-to-face."
"And when, precisely, was the last time you spoke to your mother?"
Jonas hesitated, his gaze briefly flicking away. He was calculating the acceptable margin of neglect. "I don't correctly know. A while ago. Quite a long time."
The officer pressed gently. "Sir, we require more specific details; it is crucial to the investigation."
With a sudden, forced finality, Jonas offered the enormous lie: "Around a year."
Meanwhile, in the small, horrific space of the bathroom, a uniformed policeman was performing the evidence collection. He used gloved hands to carefully retrieve the object from the blood-tinged bathwater.
The goat head was completely putrid, the flesh a mass of corruption. He could see worms squirming, feeding greedily on the decayed tissue. With a visible wave of profound disgust, the officer dropped the horrifying biological specimen into a large plastic evidence bag. Other officers swept through the rest of the house, meticulous and detached in their search for clues.
Back in the hall, the first officer concluded the discussion. "Please come to the station tomorrow with a recent photograph of your mother, and we will finalize the necessary paperwork for the official missing person report."
"Wait."
Jonas bolted toward his mother's bedroom. He returned instantly, clutching her mobile phone. He thrust the device into the officer's hand. "Please. Start your electronic investigation immediately. I will come in tomorrow for the paperwork."
The officer's brow furrowed, but he accepted the phone. "Very well, sir." The team turned to leave.
One of the officers paused at the door. "Excuse me, Professor. Does the phone have a password?"
"No," Jonas replied. "My mother never bothered with a password."
As the last officer exited, Jonas sank onto the nearest couch, the adrenaline draining away, leaving him exhausted.
The scene cut abruptly, plunging the viewer into suffocating darkness.
A solitary, weak light bulb hung from a frayed wire, swinging faintly in the exact center of the room. The only furnishings were a crude wooden chair and a table. Seated at the table was an indistinct man, whose attention was consumed by the task before him: writing laboriously in a black book.
The book's cover was utterly matte and marked by a crude symbol—an insignia identical to the one Jonas saw in the bathroom—crafted from dried, crusted blood. The man continued to write, oblivious to the outside world, his dark, sinister record growing line by silent line.