CHAPTER 5: FIRST LETTER
The Lakeview Conservatory of Music loomed like a relic of grief — tall windows veiled in dust, its columns cracked like aging knuckles. The winter wind dragged the faint smell of rain and something older, almost like varnished wood and silence.
Emma stood by the gate for a moment, studying the faded emblem over the door. Harmony Through Devotion.
Devotion. The word sat wrong in her chest.
"Remind me why we're here again?" Markus asked, his voice echoing in the empty hall as they stepped inside.
"Each victim's file mentioned this place. Eleanor Whitmore even donated half her estate to the conservatory in 1986. That's the same year the cult rumor started. There is definitely some kind of connection" Emma replied, flipping open her notebook.
'Creepy,' Markus muttered beside her, shoving his hands in his pockets. 'Why is it always the abandoned ones?'.
'Because no one hides sins in new buildings', she said, walking further down the corridor.
Inside, the conservatory smelled of sheet music and dust. Faded posters lined the hallway — black-and-white portraits of musicians, the years scribbled beneath. A piano sat in the corner, keys yellowed with time.
Behind it stood a young woman, no older than twenty-five, sorting through stacks of old records. Her badge read: Clara Dalca, Archivist.
Clara startled when she noticed them. "Oh! I'm sorry — I didn't hear you come in."
Emma flashed her badge. "Detective Reed, Lakeview PD. This is Detective Hale. We're looking into the recent murders. The victims used to work here, right?"
Clara frowned slightly. "They did, a long time ago. You came because of the rumors, didn't you?"
Emma's eyes flicked up. "Rumors?"
Clara hesitated, twisting a pencil between her fingers. ""You know… the things people say about this place. People used to whisper about a group… a music cult. Strange music at night. Those disappearances in the 80s." She gave a half-hearted laugh. "I don't believe any of that, of course. It's just something the older staff whisper about to scare newbies."
"Right," Markus said, unconvinced.
Clara nodded toward the hallway. "If you're looking for old records, the basement's open. I keep most of our archives down there. You might find something on Eleanor — she was big on organizing everything before she left."
Emma studied her face. "You sure you're okay with us looking through them?"
"Of course," Clara said. "I'll be in the office if you need me."
Her shoes clicked away, leaving behind the faint scent of rosewater and paper.
---
The basement was colder than above. Dust rose in lazy clouds as Emma and Markus pulled open old boxes, flipping through binders and files.
"Got something," Emma murmured. She lifted a small leather-bound journal, the initials E.L. engraved in faded gold.
She opened it carefully — the handwriting delicate but forceful. On the first page, written in black ink, was a single line that made her chest tighten:
"The key to divinity is dissonance.
Harmony is the lie we tell ourselves to sleep."
Markus leaned over her shoulder. "That's… poetic", he said slowly.
She turned the page. Drawings of musical notes filled the next few entries, each dated — 1986, 1988, 1989. The same notations that had been carved into the victim's bodies.
Her throat went dry.
"Fuck," Markus muttered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He dragged his hand down his face. "She knew something. These symbols—they're not random."
Emma nodded, flipping further until a folded sheet fell out — sealed with brittle wax, the color of dried blood. Beneath the seal, faint indents formed a code of notes and numbers.
"D minor, B major, A major" she whispered. 'Each notation etched in the victims skin'
Markus squinted. "Some kind of musical cipher?"
"Maybe," she said, heart racing. "Or maybe a key. There are more notations here, if this is what i think it is, more people will be targeted"
The lights above them flickered once. Twice. Then the sound came — a single note struck from the piano upstairs.
They froze.
Another note followed, soft and deliberate.
Markus's voice dropped. "Did she say anyone else was here?"
"No," Emma said. Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
They climbed the stairs. The hall was empty — but a black rose sat on the piano, tied with a scarlet ribbon. A note pinned beneath it read:
"Do you hear it yet, Detective?,
The melody they left behind.
Find the next verse tonight — at the opera."
Emma's stomach twisted.
Markus looked around, eyes narrowing. "He was here."
Emma touched the rose. A thorn pricked her finger, a small bead of blood gathering on her skin. "He's watching us," she said.
---
That evening, the Lakeview Opera House gleamed with chandeliers and chatter. Emma sat among the crowd, her badge hidden, her nerves taut. Markus was backstage, posing as crew.
The program listed Lydia Hale, soprano — Adrian wasn't performing tonight. When Emma had asked earlier, he'd smiled and said he was "taking a night off to compose."
The orchestra began, strings swelling into a haunting overture. Lydia appeared, radiant, her voice filling the hall like light breaking through fog.
For a moment, Emma almost forgot everything — until the lights dimmed unexpectedly.
Then the stage screen behind Lydia flickered to life.
Three musical notations appeared, glowing in pale red — the same ones carved into the three victims' bodies.
Gasps rippled through the audience. Lydia faltered mid-note.
A low hum came from the speakers — distorted, unnatural.
"Emma," Markus's voice cut through her earpiece. "You need to come backstage. Now."
Emma pushed through panicking spectators. Behind the curtain, the smell hit her first — sharp, metallic.
An older man lay slumped against the wall, lifeless eyes reflecting the stage light. A single rose was pinned to his jacket, tied with the same red ribbon.
Emma's breath caught. "Oh God."
Markus was pale. "That's Clara's dad. He works here part-time. She—she said she'd gone home early."
A phone vibrated in the dead man's hand. Emma reached for it. A message glowed on the screen:
"Four down.
Still not listening, Detective."
Her hands shook.
Markus whispered, "He's here, isn't he?"
She looked at the stage — the screen was blank again. The orchestra had stopped, but the silence felt heavier than sound.
Then, from somewhere above, a piano began to play.
A slow, deliberate melody.
Emma stared into the dark rafters, her voice trembling. "He's not done."