*Edited: 1/5/16
solstice
paradoxical
i.
Abbie ran a hand through her hair, completely worn before evening rolled around. Humidity and sweat stuck to her like a second skin; mosquitos taking enough blood from her arms and legs to donate. The environmental conditions were less than optimal with this midsummer heat, but alas. Duty calls when trouble arises, and apparently there truly is no rest for the wicked.
The walkie-talkie buzzed to life in her hand, knocking her out of her heat-induced stupor.
"Abbie?" her partner tried again. She felt a faint tickle in her ear and quickly swatted away whatever bug decided to inconvenience her.
"I'm here, Luke."
"Did'ja find anything yet?" She rolled her eyes for must've been the umpteenth time that day—hell, hour even. Luke was even less thrilled than her to be in the middle of Westchester County woods on yet another futile search for a missing person. Her partner loathed the outdoors more so than her—or anyone she knew actually—but his eagerness to be over and done with this search was vexing. They had a job to do, and if there was a slimmer of a chance to understand what the hell's been going on lately, she was gonna' take it.
"No, Luke. If I found anything I would've told you; now please…stop radioing me." Perhaps she was being harsh, but she's since lost her forbearance when she jammed her foot into an ant pile half an hour ago. The forest was no place for anyone to be; she couldn't fathom how her friends and coworkers went camping for pleasure.
"Geez, okay." She'd probably apologize later, but for now, she had shit to do.
Abbie drew the folded paper from her back pocket, reopening it and reading over the victim's credentials once again.
Her name was Sharon Carroll; she was a proud mother of two little girls, coached soccer over summer, had a husband and a job as an elementary school teacher. She volunteered her Sunday's at a soup kitchen and helped fundraise Christmas parades. Everyone the police interrogated said she was happy with her life, loved her children to death and took her job seriously—that she lived the picture-perfect suburban life. And because of this, the police couldn't answer one question.
Why did she disappear?
Frustrated, she crammed the paper back into her pocket. Sharon wasn't the first to disappear into thin air lately. In fact, there's been a random, startling spike of disappearances in New York these past months. Hundreds have vanished into the night with few similarities thinly stringing these cases together.
The generally upsetting connection was that they were all young. Mrs. Carroll was the oldest one to disappear—for she was twenty-seven—considering most of the people who went missing were between twelve and eighteen.
Then there was the fact that all of them were healthy, smart children. Whoever was causing these disappearances truly chose the cream of the crop. Young athletes, honor students, academic geniuses, adolescents with little to no health problems or allergies. This clued in the detectives that whoever was the cause of this did their research and had access to private information.
Though, most baffling of all the evidence was the crime scene—because there was none. In the three-hundred-forty-one cases of missing children and adults, the investigators couldn't find any signs of a struggle. No broken vases, no blood, no scattered objects. It's just as if they just decided to leave and walk out by their own will—but the parents and friends always told detectives "x wouldn't do that." Mrs. Carroll's case was hardly different.
The entire situation made her head pound. Abbie forced herself to stop thinking about it and focus on fending off mosquitos and lord knows what else lived in these woods.
She was lost in her thoughts again when something blue caught her eye a couple of yards ahead. She frowned, walking closer until she could make out the object. It was a night slipper. She licked her lips and swept the ground with her eyes, looking for the other pair to no avail. Mrs. Carroll lived only a couple of minutes away from the woods; it was entirely possible that the slipper could've been hers.
Hope sparked in her chest and she gnawed her bottom lip in anticipation. If they could find her, she could help solve the upsurge of missing-persons cases. Possibly even explain what happened the night she disappeared to give investigators some ground to work with. Abbie called her name loudly, but to her utter disappointment, a loud flutter of wings was her only response. She swore under her breath.
Time ticked by quickly. The sun since moved from the center of the sky and was dipping dangerously low behind the trees. A brilliant golden glow enchanted the thick coppices and bathed the earth in orange. Hadn't she been so consumed by her disconcerting thoughts she might've taken a moment to marvel the sight. However, she was no longer permitted the time, for she still had yet to find the other pair. At this point, she was tromping aimlessly around in wide circles for a slipper. A fucking slipper.
She was going off on a hunch, a baseless theory. If she was wrong—which she's been several times before—she wasted away an entire day's worth of searching.
The thickets rustled before her. Her breath hitched.
Mrs. Carroll?
What emerged from the bushes wasn't the missing woman, unfortunately. Instead, a wolf meandered out ahead of her. She swallowed audibly. Adrenaline surged through her veins, but she didn't run. Running would be pointless; wolves definitely had the upper hand by a long shot. So instead, she stood completely still and hoped he couldn't hear her heart hammering against her ribcage.
Son of a bitch…
Abbie didn't even know wolves lived in these parts of New York—hell, if she'd known that earlier, she definitely wouldn't have split up with Luke and the rest of the search party to cover more ground. She didn't need him to protect and coddle her, but shit she'd be lying if she wasn't terrified of the brawny fiend in front of her.
The wolf—thank Christ—did nothing. He didn't so much as acknowledge her presence as he skirted a couple of inches past her pant leg. The wolf's nose was close to the ground, ears flattened against his skull—his presence was intimidating, but she assumed there was something wrong with this one. His detached eyes, lackluster umber fur and lifeless amble couldn't have meant anything good, but she wasn't going to confront him and see what's wrong; that's for sure. Abbie remained still a few moments after he disappeared before continuing again.
The next time she stumbled across the wolf, she wasn't as fortunate as the first time around. It probably had something to do with her crashing into him when he popped out of the undergrowth, but she chose to ignore that part for now. The abstracted daze was gone and replaced with something electric. Something wild, dejected and addled as he snapped and snarled at her.
If she wasn't so terrified, she almost would've sorry for the poor thing.
But nonetheless, she was mortified and her body left no room for pity. Her options slimmed down from the first time around, seeing that she was backing herself into a crevice between two great oaks and the wolf was advancing. Her hands fumbled around with her holster in a frantic search for her gun.
I swear if I left it in the squad car—
The growling stopped. She blinked.
He took a tentative step back before darting away as quickly as he came. She skimmed her surroundings for the bigger, badder creature that scared him off, but there was nothing. Nothing but her. Hands trembling and blood still rushing in her ears, she decided that she had enough of the forest today.
The third time she saw him, she knows if there was a God, he hated her. Him, His disciples and Christ combined must've had something rotten for her that day. She almost let out a humorless laugh, but dread had her body paralyzed and wracked with nerves. Third time's a charm, right? 'Fucking felt like it; at this point she'd probably just let him eat her—she was tired, it was late and she realized a couple of minutes ago the search party up and left without her.
Today was chockfull of surprises, but the one he had in his mouth was the most unanticipated. There he sat in front of her—tail curled neatly around his paws, previously unkempt fur smoothed back and groomed—with the missing slipper held slack between his teeth. The other one laid on its side next to his foot.
It takes her a minute. It really does.
When her mind started working its way out of its nonplussed state, the wolf already abandoned both shoes on the ground and was nudging her leg with his nose. She stared at him before rubbing her eyes, blinking a couple of times. This had to be a load of bullshit; a product of exhaustion, blood loss, and stress over the past couple weeks coming back to bite her on the ass. But when Abbie glanced at him—he who now pushed her leg impatiently—she realized that he was indeed real and this was really happening.
Fuck.
He pushed her again—hard this time—and she numbly stumbled forward. He let out a huff of air through his nose, trotting out in front of her. He made it only a couple of steps before he swung his head around and eyed her expectantly.
He wants me to follow him, she figured as ran her hands through her frizzy, knotted hair. Fuck it, what'd she have to lose at this point?
So Abbie—esteemed lieutenant, respected citizen, and overall rational person—found herself maneuvering through the woods with a wolf in the dark of the night. It was completely nonsensical—and sounded an awful lot like something a free spirit hippy would say after an acid trip—but yet here she was.
The wolf was a couple of yards away when she heard him yip. Despite the throbbing pain in her feet from her shoes, Abbie picked up the pace to a light trot. She spent an unreasonable amount of time in the forest today—whatever he was calling her for, it better have been worthwhile.
She moved a wildberry bush out of her way, swinging her flashlight around. He barked. She spotted the source of his distress.
She nearly threw up on the spot.
It was a body, or rather what was left of it. Every limb was mangled into unrecognizable pieces. The ribcage was completely exposed and organs it used to hold were gone. And if not that, then it was part of the slop stewing inside of the torso. This was animalistic. Deep claw marks raked and lacerated the entire body, some type of goo or slobber soused around and inside of the wounds.
The person had white skin and bloodied blonde hair; she immediately thought of Mrs. Carroll. But this person was too wide and too short to be her, the gray streaks along this person's roots a clear sign whoever's body this was, they were too old to be the missing person's.
She forced her hands to steady and gripped her phone, calling in for back up.
The wolf let out a deep growl, his nose slickened with the mystery goo, and hightailed back into the coverts.
ii.
The next day, Abbie woke up sweating and twitching in her bed. Sweat rolled from her temple to her jaw and her stomach lurched menacingly. Her heart pounded so hard it could've broken right through her chest.
She would say she felt like shit, but that was a severe understatement.
It felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and slogged it straight through her skull. It felt as if she'd ran an entire marathon while simultaneously being warmed over by the fucking sun. It felt as if—
She ran straight for the toilet.
Abbie's seen bodies several times before; she was a cop after all. She's seen people stabbed, shot and ran over, but never filleted like a goddamn fish. She's never seen somebody mutilated with such fervor she couldn't even imagine who or what did that to the body.
Her stomach leaped again and she retched out whatever was left from yesterday midmorning.
When her stomach finally calmed, she couldn't even bring herself to drink anything, let alone eat. She had to force liquids down her throat along with two Advil pills and an aspirin for good measure.
Abbie stripped down from her clothes and stared at her body, peppered and inflamed with mosquito and ant bites. She had light rings around her eyes, her face sheened with sweat and her hair falling limply around her shoulders. It was unsettling that in this edgy, filthy state, she most resembled her mother. The thought made her throat tighten.
She scrubbed all of the grime from yesterday off with a rag before letting the warm water pour down her face. She ran her fingers through her silky hair and messaged her scalp with the shampoo. The bliss that the shower gave made her run the water until it turned cold. It was only when it started feeling like she was getting doused in slush did she hop out the shower.
She still had to go to work today, much to her demise. After the long stressful night Abbie endured yesterday, Irving would usually let her have this day off, but he couldn't do that now. Resources were being stretched thin over these disappearances. Especially after finding a body yesterday, she could only imagine what sort of outrageous work hours she'd put in.
The day plodded on for hours at the station. It was exceptionally busy, hectic and loud. She swore the phone rung every two minutes and the paperwork piling on her desk was going to tip over and fall. People scurried back and forth in front of her office window, an annoyed or frustrated scowl fixed on their faces. It wasn't the day for anyone—another three people went missing and the investigators were scrambling for purchase.
Abbie yearned for the day this sick son of a bitch would be caught. Them and all of their goons, because the statewide peril simply couldn't be caused by one person.
Six o'clock hit and Abbie was already out of the door. She couldn't take another minute in there, or she swore she was going to lose her shit. Usually, she enjoyed working in the office. She lived for the euphoria of catching baddies and throwing them in jail. She loved helping people find justice and making them feel secure in their homes.
But she couldn't do any of that today. She could only sit around fruitlessly and watch the children go missing; watch the list of missing people inflate, wondering what child would go next.
Nathaniel Baggins, Rachael Myer, and Samantha Pauper—they were this day's batch of unfortunate adolescents. She had to go through the same song and dance with their parents, lies leaden on her tongue nearly every day now. That they'd be found, that the police were trying their hardest, that maybe their child's case was different—but it wasn't. It never was.
When you look at that proliferated list of missing children in this case, you stop seeing individuals. You stop seeing faces and names and hopes and dreams until all you're left with is numbers. Statistics that remained invariable throughout these entire two months. More solid than their hope—more solid than their prayers—were these numbers; and what they told her was that not a single one of them have been found. Their children were the same.
Abbie almost tore her car door off its hinges with the sheer force she exerted. Fuck, she didn't know how long she could keep up with this, but she couldn't quit now. The body had been sent to forensics for identification, seeing that there was no way anybody could classify it just by looking. This had to be related; she felt that same premonition as she did the day before. She knew there was something for her in that forest that day and there was. That body had to be connected someway, somehow.
When Abbie got home, the first thing she did was heat up the Chinese food from two days ago. Not eating this morning was a mistake, and it was an even rasher one to skip her lunch break to finish paperwork. She was emotionally and physically drained today and that half-empty bottle of bourbon was starting to look better than life itself.
She didn't even try to put up a fight as she reached over and took a swig straight from the glass.
She went over to her microwave and grabbed her food. She plopped down on her old couch and flipped the TV onto whatever shoddy, dramatic film aired on LMN that night. It only took her thirty minutes into Celebrity Ghost Stories before she was out like a bulb.
When she woke up again, it was to the obnoxious vibrating in her back pocket rather than her alarm clock. She rubbed her eyes and snatched her phone, looking at the number through a blurry vision. She wanted to bury her face into a pillow and scream until the sun came up. It was Irving. The only time he ever called her personal phone was when there was bullshit arising at an unholy time.
She answered the phone, pressing the warmed device to her ear.
"Yeah?"
"We have two more bodies," He said, his voice clipped and gruff. The only thing she appreciated about his calls were how concise they were. The last thing she'd want at ass o'clock in the morning is some long-winded report. "We need you to the scene as soon as you can get there."
She slid off the couch and stretched. Duty called. "Where?"
"Putnam County, Phillipstown." That was at least an hour's drive away from Westchester. She yanked off her sleep shorts and threw them somewhere in her room, looking for a pair of jeans.
"Address?"
"I'll send it to you." And with that, the phone call ended. Not even bothering to change from her ridiculous unicorn print night shirt—a present from Jenny several years ago—she threw her jacket over her shoulders, jammed her feet into a pair of boots and headed right out. Hair be damned, she was investigating a murder, not auditioning to be a runway model.
The roads were pretty clear, the occasional semi-truck passing her as she made it further out into her county outskirts. The sky was still bleak and gray littered with thick, opaque clouds. It was gonna' rain like a bitch today.
When she finally made it to the address Frank had given her, she'd thought she must've made a wrong turn somewhere. Or that maybe her GPS was fucking up for the first time since she's got it. But alas, she didn't make the wrong turn. The house the bodies were found at was just in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of thick trees and plains. Livestock huddled around in clusters looking like earthy blotches against the dense grass. The only pointer that she was going in the right direction was the jarring, one-way road that led her right to it. If not for that, she would've sworn she took a trip straight to Bumfuck Nowhere, Kentucky. That, or into some cheesy horror novel seeing how a light fog seemed to roll in out of nowhere.
Abbie took her bottom lip between her teeth and bit gingerly into the flesh, a habit she needed to get out of. She passed a couple of low-hanging trees before the house rolled into view. She pulled up and parked outside of its gate. Abbie slid out of her car and waited for the officers on the other side to open it for her. She craned her neck, taking in the structure before her.
The house was huge, so vast to the point it was only something short of a mini-mansion or a manor. Gothic styled gates surrounded the land like a sullen fortress, high and sharp with brambles resting precariously at its base. The entire front of the house was tiled with cracked cobblestone bricks, weeds and thorns overtaking the stone. Unkempt hedge bushes lined the perimeter along with an assortment of weeds and wildflowers.
In the center, a tarnished, marble fountain stood unwaveringly. Three little angles donning harps and an unreadable, pensive expression mounted in the middle of the thick, murky fountain water. Trees loomed over and around the towering building, leading her to believe that the back led straight to the woods.
The house itself was also filled with grandeur, but was in an abandoned, derelict state just like the rest of the land. Vines and weeds ravaged the brick walls like thick, green rivulets. A chunk of the roof sunk in dangerously low and several areas was missing portions of tiles. Nonetheless, there was a hauntingly captivating lure to it that Abbie couldn't deny as she walked fully onto the property.
A detective lead Abbie to where most of the officers huddled. Red and blue lights skittered across the scene. They were gathered around a hedge bush at a corner of the land. Almost as if sensing her, Irving swiveled around and met her eyes with a detached stare.
Something was wrong. Personal.
He wiped his hand over his face and took in a deep breath air, body shuddering lightly despite the humidity.
He was spooked. Irving was never spooked.
"What happened?" She asked, feeling sweat start to prick at her neck and forehead. Irving waved his arm in the direction of the group.
"Take a look yourself." His voice cracked. She swallowed.
Her legs felt cumbersome, but she strode regardless. The cluster of investigators parted for her.
Oh, fuck.
This time, it was a man. She could see his face, unlike the other one. Dissimilar to last time, however, there was nobody. Just a head jammed on one of the many spikes lining the house. His jaw was slack, his eyes were wide open as if he was slaughtered right before he had a chance to scream. There was the same slobber oozing down his stumped neck. She took a couple of steps back, nearly colliding with the officer behind her.
"Captain!" her voice is an octave short of being shrill. He knew this man, she could tell. Irving was always disturbed by odd murders, but this one? This one struck a nerve for him. "Captain!" She sped up to catch his retreating figure.
"What?!" she didn't even care that he yelled at her.
"Who is he?" She wrapped her jacket closer to her body. It was so muggy, but chills raced up her spine like an electric current. He worked his jaw a few times. Abbie could see the lie die on his tongue. He closed his eyes tightly, lips pursed into a thin line.
"James Raymond, Macey's soccer coach. His son—her best friend—disappeared two weeks ago." He stopped for a second. His eyes are glassy. "Whenever I couldn't make it to her games, he'd be there to fill in my place. He made sure he recorded every single second of my little girl running out there on the field for me." He let out a choking laugh. "When his boy disappeared, he spent more time making sure Macey made it home safe than he did himself."
She didn't know what to say, but he walked away before she had a chance to figure it out. Abbie let him go.
These murders were starting to hit closer and closer to home. She couldn't help but think about Macey and her captain's worry for his daughter. She met every criterion for the children who went missing. Young, intelligent, sports-minded with a future in professional soccer already planned out for her. Shit, if Macey vanished, she didn't even know what Irving would do. What kind of damage that would wrack through him if he lost his daughter to the cold numbers and insufferable statics.
The second body was even more mangled than the one she found in the woods. Not a single ligament remained attached. Bits and pieces were scattered all over the cobblestone as if whatever did this played tug-of-war with limbs. Just the same as the other two, there was slobber. That repulsive, sop glinted back at her, reflecting the police lights almost menacingly.
She needed to know what the hell it was, because it was driving her fucking insane.
When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she almost punched whoever touched her. Although, she caught herself a split second before doing so, glaring wildly at Luke. He threw his hands up in defense.
"I'm sorry; didn't know you were in a daze."
She shoved her hands in her pockets. What she would do for that bottle of bourbon right now…
"We need you to ask the yardmen some questions, they're still pretty fucked up after finding the bodies." He pointed his thumb in the direction of the crew of yard workers. "Captain was gonna' do it first, but that's probably not a good idea." He eyed her rigid posture and sucked in air through his mouth. "If you're still out of it, I could do it instead."
She waved him off, shaking her head. She came here to do a job.
"I've got it."
Not only that, but Luke was absolute shit at interrogating people; he just didn't know when to stop asking questions. Last time he probed a recently widowed wife and got smacked. He deserved it that time, but still—she didn't know how he'd fare against men twice his size and armed with garden tools.
She strode around the police tape—poorly—ignoring the bloodstained stones she stepped over. The group sat around by their work truck, chatting solemnly. Upon her arrival, the boss stood, his men following moments behind him. She stuck her hand out in greeting and the man took it wearily between his meaty hands.
"I'm Lieutenant Abigail Mills from Westchester County Police Department, and you are?"
"Joseph Sulley, owner of this lawn management service."
"I need to know exactly what happened. I want to know all the details about what occurred prior to you arriving at the property and before you found the bodies." She forced a smile despite feeling sick to her stomach. Sulley nodded dumbly.
"I got a call yesterday 'round three or four from some guy named Barney Aylmer." he pronounced the name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "It sounded like a pretty bullshit and fake name to me, but he was offering up five grand to mow his lawn. I wasn't gonna' look a gift horse in the mouth, so I took up the offer in a second." His eyes skimmed the large field surrounding the manor. "Had no fuckin' idea this is what he meant by lawn. Coulda' told me that before he hung up, but of course not."
She licked her lips, intrigued. "Anything weird about him that you noticed?"
Sulley let out an obnoxious bark. "Anything weird? This whole guy was fuckin' basket case! First he's got this funky ass British accent, then he sounded like he was out of breath the entire time. Thought he was dying or something; scared the shit outta' me! He called me from a public phone from a different county and the asshole acted like he didn't even know how to set up an appointment. Told us to come around whenever, so we got here as soon as possible. I mean, it's five grand—most we've been paid to manage somebody's shit.
"So we get in the car and start drivin' down this piece of shit road at like three-thirty. A huge ass fog rolled around and it felt like a page straight outta' Goosebumps! We pull up to the house, and the gate's just wide open. We thought he was waiting for us so we drove right in." he shudders, his face pale.
"What happened then?" she pressed on. He threw his hands up in the air.
"What I'mma about to tell you sounds like some Grimm Brothers bull, but I shit you not, officer. I'm bein' completely honest wit'cha." He swallows audibly. A drop of sweat rolls down his neck. "So we get there, and the whole place is crawlin' with beady red eyes starin' at us. First I thought it was bats, but weren't no bat with eyes like them. I tried to put the truck in reverse and get the fuck outta' there when we slam into some creature. The thing bust our window open and tried to grab one of us—but Mark over here wasn't having any of that! Stabs the thing right in the arm with a pair of shears, and it goes off running. Must've been like two of them, 'cause I heard both of them sons of bitches screamin' and howlin' into the night!"
When her expression was incredulous, Sulley turned around, telling Mark to go grab the pair of shears. Sulley shook his head.
"It sounds crazy, officer, but I'm tellin' the truth! Wouldn't have believed it myself if it didn't try to kill me."
Mark whistled and she turned her attention his way. There, in his arm raised above his head for all to see, was the pair of shears covered in the most nauseatingly dark blood she's ever seen. The entire thing was coated in it.
Sulley smacked his knee, pointing at Mark. "See, I told you so! I go huntin' all the time and ain't never seen no land animal with blood like that!"
Abbie felt nauseous. Not even because of the disgusting blood oozing down the side of the shears, but because she couldn't find an explanation for any of this. Not the disappearances, not the wolf in the woods, not the slobber and definitely not the story Sulley told her. The sheer perplexity of this case was going to bury her under each new layer that kept piling up.
One of the forensics detectives took the shears from Mark, putting it in a plastic bag. Half of the team then went about scouring for more DNA samples inside of their truck.
Three hours later, and the scene was cleaned up. Just as if nothing ever happened; like a man wasn't beheaded and spiked, and the other one wasn't torn to shreds. This little fact upset her as she waited for the rest of the crew members to leave the property.
iii.
For the entire next week, she found a new obsession. Jenny used to tell her that one day she'd get hooked on something fierce and wouldn't be able to return from it—but then she was talking about drugs.
Now? It was Barney Aylmer.
Abbie spent an unhealthy amount of time—more time than she'd ever willing admit—trying to figure out who the fuck he was using the little bits of information Sulley provided her. She made some accomplishments, such as getting a hold of the street camera footage where the mystery man called, but some ill-placed foliage had gotten in the way of anything useful.
Then there was the list of past companies that was hired to manage the house. While it seemed insignificant at first, upon further inspection she realized it could shed light on the dilemma.
Apparently the house was made all the way back in the early 1870's. And ever since it was made, the house was manicured four times a month, every month for every year. The owner of the house used the same company for years until they went out of business, and by next week, they'd have another company cleaning and upholding its opulence. However, the last time they had their house upheld was in 1984, when the last business went bankrupt. From then on, the house was basically abandoned, until recently when Sulley's men were called.
Barney Aylmer—she checked that name in the system a ridiculous amount of times and came up mostly dry. The only thing she could find relating to that man was the deed to the house dated to when it was built.
Meaning that he'd been old enough to own a mini-mansion back in the 1870's and was still alive and kicking. That—she knew with solidity—was a load of steaming shit.
Adding yet another complexity to the list, all three bodies have been identified. Initially, it was an accomplishment for the police department, but once they found out it this was another hidden string in the cobweb, their delight was short-lived.
Martha Carroll, James Raymond, and Darla Baggins—all killed ruthlessly; all parents to missing people. The police department tried to withhold the information from the media so the citizens wouldn't indulge in another statewide hysteria, but their efforts were fruitless. 'Some crap about an officer in Putnam County sleeping with a reporter and slipping secrets, she couldn't remember the story anymore.
Forensics had yet to report what animal was responsible for the blood or the slobber. Seeing that this was taking longer than usual, nausea already settled in her chest.
It was just an hour after she arrived at the station when she got a call from Putnam County. Abbie rubbed her eyes, resisting the urge yawn as she answered the phone.
"Lieutenant Mills, Westchester County Police Department," she muttered, still wrapped up in information about the Aylmer house.
"Lieutenant," he greeted tersely. "I have an eye on somebody entering the Aylmer house."
She sat up straighter, pushing the laptop away and pressing the phone closer to her ear. Ever since discovering the bodies, Putnam County police officers camped out at the house, waiting to see if anyone would return. They'd gone a couple of days without avail and were nearly ready to abandon the plan.
"Alright, I'll be over there in an hour. Don't confront him; wait till I get there." She moved to hang up the phone when she heard the officer's voice come again.
"Lieutenant…he's uh..." he scrambled for words. She felt her patience tick away.
"Yes, what is it?" she pressed, careful to keep her tone clipped and mild.
"The man is bare…naked. Covered in dirt and leaves, too. I didn't see him come up from the road, so he must've gotten onto the property from the forest behind."
She pursed her lips and held the bridge of her nose. The man who'd managed to duck completely out of police vision, drive her insane and expertly left little traces behind got caught naked in front of the manor.
Naked.
"Alright. Keep watching him until I show up, stay hidden and only stop him if she tries to leave."
"Yes, ma'am."
And with that, Abbie sped out of her office so fast she heard the pile of papers tip over and fall from her desk. She clenched and unclenched her keys tightly in her hands, weaving her way around people in the office. There was a confident spring in her step. Small bursts of adrenaline streamed through her veins. She pushed the doors open, exiting.
Outside felt like Hell, no surprise there. The sun beat down in hot waves. The wind scarcely blew and not a single cloud dared to float by. However, as she drove down the interstate to the next county, the scenery melded from stark blue skies into darker ones. Here, opaque clouds swirled in the ethers, thick with rain and omens for a particularly shitty day.
Even the light fog that surrounded the house seemed to tenfold its density. She almost drove her car straight into the other officer's, hadn't it been for the fog lights barely penetrating her surroundings.
The Putnam County cop gave Abbie a stiff handshake, obviously crept by whatever environmental phenomena they were encased in. The man shook his head, peering at the scenery through squinted eyes.
"It doesn't make a lick of sense," he murmured skittishly. She scanned what she could see of the house, still unable to get over its ghastly beauty. The thick fog only seemed to add to the premodern allure.
Saying her farewells, she watched as the officer all but raced away from the property. Insects buzzed and the wind howled in her ears, but it all became white noise as she pushed the heavy gate open. It squealed loudly, causing a flock of ravens to scatter from their places on the spikes.
Everything about this place was surreal—incongruous with basically everything else. From the archaic atmosphere down to the abnormal weather, nothing about it seemed commonplace. Even the towering mahogany doors before her came equipped with daunting medieval knockers. For a moment, she questioned if the house was dated even further back than deed stated.
Abbie knocked a few times. She waited a minute. There was no response.
She knocked again, slamming the knockers harder. She waited another minute.
Fuck it, if the guy wanted to play hard, then she'd play right along. She cleared her throat, using the most authoritative, rash voice she could muster.
"This is Westchester County Police Depa—"
The doors swung open with such force Abbie's hair whipped and billowed around her shoulders.
"Bloody hell, what do you want?" was the pissy response she received.
If the man didn't already look beat, she would've considered punching him herself. Instead, she settled for crossing her arms, raising an eyebrow indignantly.
His acerbic, trifling attitude quickly dispersed. Scrambling for purchase, he worked his jaw a couple of times. His face glowed red. His posture went ramrod straight, fingers laced behind his back.
"My deepest apologies; I don't know what came over me…" he drawled, waiting for a name.
"Lieutenant Abigail Mills. You?" she asked deftly, sticking her hand out. There was a glint in his blue eyes as he glanced from her face to her hand, waiting. Hesitating. She met his guarded stare with a disarming smile, tilting her head expectantly for extra effect.
His cheeks turned a shade darker.
His larger hand engulfed hers with a firm shake.
"Ichabod Crane," he finally said.
Bingo.
He moved out of the doorway and invited her in. It was only when she heard the acoustic click did she remember to make sure that he was fully clothed. Although his attire was disheveled and thrown on haphazardly, he was clad.
She eyed him, intrigued. Crane was at least a foot and a head taller than her—much to her displeasure—with a lanky, sinewy build and impossibly long legs. He gave off an air of poise and importance. Even the graceful way he walked oozed finesse. His unshorn hair was tossed back in a half pony-tail, stray locks framing his prepossessing, angular face.
Howbeit, there was something deranged about him that she couldn't pinpoint. Something about the light rings underneath his eyes or his detached gaze that gave off a chilling sense of recognition.
Realizing she was staring, she glanced elsewhere. Crane didn't miss it.
"So what brings you here today, Leftenant?" he chirped while she swept over the grand ballroom. The entire room was classical with its cream white walls, gold lacing and engraving them in intricate, ornamental patterns. A large chandelier hung from the high ceiling, refracting beacons of light flittering through the dusty window. It seemed like she was the only modern touch inside of the house. Hell, even the clothes he wore looked as if it'd gone passé two centuries ago.
"Two bodies were found on your property a week ago. James Raymond and Darla Baggins if you're familiar with either of them. Both were completely brutalized in ways I'm not sick enough to tell you." She watched his face for a reaction, but his expression was schooled and unwavering. "Apparently someone named Barney Aylmer called a yard service to come and fix up the property when they found the bodies." Amongst other wild things, she added in her mind.
She pursed her lips together, posture feigning curiosity as she tapped her chin. "However, upon checking the system, the only Barney Aylmer that came up was the one that owned this house back in 1872. And while I'm no biologist, I'm pretty sure there're not many one-hundred-forty-two-year-olds in human existence. Seeing that you're the only one who we've seen ever come here, I was hoping you'd be able to shed some light?"
At that point, Abbie's voice was saccharine and laced with unbidden cynicism, but her sense of professionalism vanished several minutes ago. She spent copious hours obsessing over a lie; a man who was dead or possibly never even existed; she wanted to see him squirm.
Instead of being distressed like she anticipated, he remained aplomb. Hell, maybe even more so than before if the feral glimmer in his eyes was an indicator. She suddenly became antsy underneath his gaze, ultra-aware of everything. The air felt too stuffy, collar too tight. She licked her lips.
"Have you ever heard of Lycanthropy?"
Her head snapped up, dark eyes wide in astonishment.
"Lycanthropy?" she repeated dumbly. Crane nodded, walking in a languid circle around her. She shifted her hand closer to the holster. With each step he took, an invisible line seemed to follow, enclosing her in a tiny space that only seemed to get smaller and smaller.
"Yes, Leftenant. As in lycans, shifters, werewolves, skin walkers, etcetera," he tilted his head at her. "Surely you've heard of those."
Abbie bit her lip hard. "Of course I have, but what does Lycanthropy have to do with anything?"
He stopped and stood in front of her; far too close. If she wanted, she could count each lash fanning his eyes.
"The best advice I can lend you today is to go back." The glint was back again. Feral. Dangerous, though not inherently malicious. Her trigger finger itched. "You're walking into matters you may not be able to step away from."
She blinked slowly, leaning onto one foot. He sounded like a complete lunatic, spouting flowery drivel about naught and all. She didn't need him going around running his trap to those willing to listen. With the entire state at a standby, there were many patrons to his folly.
Even so—despite the grating ambiguity—there was certitude in his words. Certitude that made the muscles in her jaw and chest coil, although she knew bullshit like skinwalkers and shifters didn't exist outside the YA section of a library.
"And what may that be?" she questioned. He was fucking with her—she could feel it. "The Great Pumpkin King's gonna' pop out of nowhere? Dracula's gonna' hunt me down and drain me in my sleep?"
Crane's lips tugged down.
"You do not heed my cautions."
"Really?" she bit back sarcastically. "You arrive completely naked to an abandoned house, evaded my questions, and now you want me to believe your shit about werewolves?" She opened her mouth, but snapped it shut in resignation. She threw up both hands. "I'm obviously wasting my time here; I need to go."
"Wait," he trailed after her. "Wait."
She stopped a few feet short of the door. Made the honest mistake of turning around to get the last word.
"Lycans do not exist," she said, voice even and slow as if she spoke to a child. "Neither do werewolves and skinwalkers and shifters—they're all fake. They're made up. The world is a fucked up place filled with fucked up people; we don't need some supernatural nonsense to explain things that were caused by people. Humans, like you and me."
He must've been diagnosed with a mental illness. Something like schizophrenia or delirium where his perception of reality was confabulated—just like her mother's. It wasn't the first time she's dealt with something like this; traumatized victims and witnesses who all saw the same event but told a wild array of different stories.
Maybe she could get him checked into a hospital. Get him the help he obviously needed.
His composure was cracking. She could see it in the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. The way his jaw ticked and ground tightly. The way she could almost hear his silent plea in his depths.
"The police will never be able to find these children," his voice was unfittingly icy. So chilled that she felt a tingle run up her spine like a cold finger. "You won't, the detectives won't—literally no one will be able to find these people as long as you all keep thinking they're bloody damn human!"
His voice was a roar. Thunderous. Exasperated. Wild, but so distraught she felt sadness rip through her chest like a knife.
The fraught silence afterward was obnoxious enough to be loud. The rain pattered raucously outside. She could hear his labored breaths. She could taste the blood from her lip on her tongue.
"You're insane." She forced herself to move. It felt like her body was composed of rusty metal. She wasn't going to end up like her mom damn it, and definitely not from listening to some deceitful stranger she just met. "You're insane." She repeated with finality.
She needed to leave. She needed air.
Crane sighed despairingly.
"Miss Mills," she heard him start behind her. Abbie grabbed the knob and pulled the door open. "Miss Mills—"
She didn't even get a chance to stick her foot out the door before it slammed close. She let out a small gasp, the ground seemingly moving away from her she as was pinned up against the door. Her thighs hugged his hips for support. She could feel his chest heaving against hers. Abbie didn't even know when he moved.
"Miss Mills," Crane tried again. His voice was and low restored with patience. She glanced anywhere but his face—the chandelier that shimmered high above, the steady leak in the corner of the ballroom. Having none of that, he lifted her chin with his thumb, willing her to look him in the eyes. And when she did, she decided it was less intense staring into the sun.
Lightning floodlit the room in a pale luminescence, the light surrounding him like a nimbus for a split-second. It went back to the gloom. The thunder rattled the house.
"I'm not insane—" she could still argue against that. "—and I'm going to prove to you that Lycanthropy is not just a bedtime fable."
Crane let her go, and she slid numbly to her feet. She had every reason to shoot him, every reason to get the hell out of there, but—for some inexplicable, goddamn reason—she stayed. Whether or not that decision was a mistake, she didn't know yet. But she didn't run.
Lightning illuminated the room again. This one brighter than the last. Darkness fell.
Crane pulled back the sleeve on his arm, stretching his long fingers. He closed his eyes in concentration. There was a pregnant stretch of silence before anything happened.
Through the gloom, she could see the skin of his fingertips reddening. Soon bulging and splitting as if a knife tore its way from the inside of his body. Black talons replaced nails. The flesh around his hand parted. Blood splattered to the floor.
The lightning's so bright this time it stayed there for a second. It went dark again, but this time, it was her vision instead.
