21:00, October 14th, 2057

Jacob had been struggling as he drove in his car to the crime scene, struggling to understand how something as horrific as murder could happen on a night as wonderful as this. The Moon along with stars shone down from above, a silent witness. Wind swept the leaves as he drove through block after block of perfect looking apartment complexes, the white colored walls of buildings giving them the appearance of beauty, of innocence. Now, in Jacob's eyes, they seemed sinister. Each apartment's lights were off, people heeding the warning on the news. Their windows stared out like empty eye sockets, and each building he passed by was a pile of skulls.

Jacob understood the concept of death – his own father was gone when he was just a baby – but he was young then, and his childish ignorance softened the blow. He was yet to face down death on his own, as all men must do. And so when he arrived and found Pete, there was little he could do to console the man, though he did want to. The victim was his half sister.

Peter Coburn was a white man's name, awfully unfitting for the guy. He was African American, adopted when he was a baby and given that name by his adoptive family at suggestion of Liv Coburn, the woman whose body now lay dead and cold just a few feet away from him. Jacob did not know either of them very well; they were very distant family, and family matters always made his head hurt, thus he never really bothered to find out how they were related.

Peter looked ahead, numb, deep brown eyes empty of emotion. From time to time they would stray towards the body surrounded by a small army of cops, but he would stop himself from looking each time they did. Usually every time they met Pete would have some small complaint for Jacob, no matter how trivial. Now, however, he seemed grateful for a distraction. „Jake," he whispered.

Jacob sat down beside him on the staircase. Liv's apartment was on the ground floor. The door was locked, so she had probably been attacked as she was entering. From where they sat they could just make out her silhouette in the dark.

„I'm sorry, man," Jacob said after a while. He restrained himself to those three words; he felt this wasn't the time to be bullshitting, rambling off all those cliches of sympathy that were expected when someone died. But he did feel sorry. Angry, too, that this could happen even with the cameras up. „Look, I'll go join the guys, see what they've found." He patted Peter on the back as he got up. The man did not react, or reply. He did nothing at all.

The faint sensation of nausea settled in as he crossed the threshold and took in the true extent of the deed. Blood. So, so much blood, on the floor, splattered on the bare white walls, not even the ceiling was spared. He never realized how much blood there was in a human body until now. His knees felt weak and he stepped outside the building to take a deep breath, stop himself from vomiting.

The guys on scene were all at least twenty years older than him. One of them followed him outside, a heavy set guy with glasses and a mole near his nose, on the left cheek. Jacob did not know him, but nonetheless the guy lay a hand on his shoulder. The young man nearly flinched.

„Who called you here? This is a job for the old guard," the officer with a mole remarked, overlooking briefly the fact that there hadn't been any murders in Haddonfield in over a hundred years.

„I'll get out of your way, sir, just let me know when I can help," Jacob gasped back in response. He shivered even with his warm uniform on. The officer did not reply but seemed to acquiesce. He went back inside, and Jacob followed.

Liv was not in a good place financially, that much was apparent from the moment one set foot in her apartment. There was no parquet anywhere whatsoever, only bare concrete covered by thin, filthy looking rugs. Still, the little apartment was furnished with love, and the woman was happy with what little she had.

Jacob didn't really know any of these guys – they did not seem very fond of idle chatter. Neither did he. „What do you think is the motive?" he asked one of the guys as he edged nearer and nearer to the corpse, forcing his eyes open, making himself confront death.

The man, taller than him, balding, cleared his throat. „I'd say greed, but nothing was taken out of her purse, so..."

Jacob looked to the hallway outside the apartment, where a camera flashed red in the corner every few moments. „Did you get anything off the camera?"

„We're looking into it."

„Dan!" the officer with a mole hissed at the man and jerked his head to the left. Dan followed him, going to one of the rooms that had been made into a study.

Jacob looked around, at a loss for words and at a loss for purpose. His first thought had been robbery, although even robberies were a rare occurence nowadays. And if it wasn't a robbery, what was it? If only he could find something, some way to help, some small task to do...

He realized suddenly that he was standing on that bare concrete. Several square feet of that ugly yellowish rug had been torn away and tossed into the corner, stained with blood. „Did you guys do this?"

They shook their heads vaguely, not paying attention to him, taking photos, taking evidence. Dan marched past him with a box full of multiple hard-cover notebooks belonging to Liv.

She did not tear away that rug, obviously. And if it wasn't the police, then it must've been the killer. His instinct engaged. Why would the killer do this? Gloves on, he touched the floor, inspecting it. A stray sliver of light from one of the guys' flashlights revealed it. Amid the irregular, hard texture of the floor, a jagged line trailed down to the left, straight right, then down left again.

Hesitantly at first, Jacob took the pen and a small notepad from his pocket. He almost never used them nowadays, but now he tore out a piece of paper and placed it on the floor. Finally, a task. Copying the surface onto the paper with his pen yielded result. Letters. He gazed down at an unfamiliar word. Trying to pronounce it in his mind felt... strange.

No one noticed what he had found. He went to say something, but stopped himself at the last second. He couldn't tell why. Instinct again? He went with his piece of paper to Pete. „Do you know what this means?" He asked. Judging by the slight widening of the man's eyes, he could guess it did, in fact, mean something. A message from the killer.

SAMHAIN