Femgore Review

Photo by Catalin Pop on Unsplash

I can’t understand females despite being one myself. Sure, you’ve got a kid to take care of and all that, but why endure being beaten black and blue when you can just… feed your abusive partner some pills?

I can’t understand how somebody can be so stupid when ending the misery is so easy. So easy that I can’t phantom why anybody would rather endure the pain and agony than fight back in the most perfect way there is?

Or when you’re raped and lying next to your rapist, why not just take a knife and stab them when they least expect it? It’s so easy that I can’t understand why no female ever does it, why they choose to endure rather than to end it.

I’m no sexist, yet sometimes the very stupidity of my sex gets me worked up in ways no words can truly capture. At the same time, I perceive myself as a feminist at heart, for I’d rather see my sex fight the oppression and the abuse by giving right back to their abusers than stay idle, yet they rarely do.

That lack of action actually made me distance myself from my peers. Like, seriously, you’re just going to get raped and do nothing about it? Your kids? Your poor, poor kids? Well, aren’t they better off at some random orphanage than learning how to treat other people from that partner of yours?

But those kinds of things aren’t even the tip of my disturbing opinions about females and the growing trend of embracing masculinity, which is all about showing similar and violent tendencies as the very sex that puts them in so much misery.

Like, seriously? You think you have what it takes to take on an average man with that build of yours? Sure, steroids will help you get those muscles to look way larger than they are, but are they actually making you strong enough to fight back a man with natural levels of testosterone?

I’m not a man, but I think the answer to this question is pretty obvious, and yet… Nowadays, female authors seem to give my sex the false hope that we can take on an average man with ease, abuse them, and show just as much brutality towards them, as they have shown to us for ages. But just how detached from reality must someone be to actually believe this crap?

I’m not talking about transgenders but cis-people, by the way, even though when the transition has begun plays a subtle part here, like the density of the bone, the levels of testosterone before it was suppressed, and so on. Anyway, so what I am trying to say is that… I’m going to prove them all wrong.

Getting raped? Easy! As long as you have a hole somewhere, there will be dogs barking up across the country. What is hard, the hardest part in fact, is to turn the dog into a bitch and make it howl while you, as the female in this situation, make it immobile, cut off its testicles, and then grind the flesh with a proud smile.

Really, the only realistic way to do all that is to, well, knock out your rapist with a blunt object when they’ve finished their thing or, surprise, feed them some pills. But that would be too easy and wouldn’t prove the theory of how women are capable of doing exactly the same things to their abusers as they have done to them.

So, what do you do in that scenario? Well, the best outcome would be to physically fight off the rapist and then go from there. So… that’s what I decided to do.

Did it work? It did not. But I’m here, writing this, so something must’ve gone right… right? The thing is, I just did what any sensible female would in such a predicament: I tore my abuser’s ear off and then chewed on his nose. A tad too salty and metallic in taste, not to mention the acidic aftertaste of the byproducts produced by bacteria on the skin tissue. Yikes! Why do men never shower?

Overall, this method was a very unfortunate 3/10 – would not recommend. For my next attempt, if I ever should decide to push the limits, I’d definitely prepare more beforehand in case something goes astray during the review itself. And, well, I’d also practise my cutting skills so that the body parts are grounded to perfection before dumping them down the drain.

Also, for my next article, I’m open to new recommendations. So try your worst, and I’ll see you next time in another abysmal review!

Important notice: the procedures outlined in this article were performed under controlled settings and should never be replicated.

A Promise Kept

Photo by Mohammed Ibrahim on Unsplash
”Please reopen the case! My daughters have been hurting for too long,” Chung Mi-Suk collapsed to her knees and clasped her hands together in a relentless, heart-wrenching plea that twisted the onlookers’ stomachs with guilt. “Please! My daughters are hurting! Please help me put them to rest!”

The milling police station was on pause, watching the tragic spectacle of a mother pleading on behalf of her deceased daughters to the police. But no one could quench the fire burning within the poor woman, for the sexual assault case had long since been written off by the attorney in charge, and two decades had gone by in a heartbeat. There was nothing they could do. Nothing but watch. And as Mi-Suk realised that her prayers would fall on deaf ears today as well, as they had done so for the past decade, she staggered back up on her feet and exited the station.

The rain poured down ruthlessly and drenched everything in ice-cold water. She lifted her shoulders and chafed her arms from the cold yet did not try to flee from the rain or seek shelter somewhere where it couldn’t reach her. Instead, she stood her ground at the steps of the police station and watched the world go by before her in a rapid sequence. In those fleeting moments, while watching the common people go about their routine, she broke down and wept from the helplessness.

The evidence she so carefully collected over the years and put on pen to paper, an entire dossier with files upon files, now lay on the wet ground, the paper crumbling and eventually melting away like the seething fire in her heart consuming her resolve.

She was dying. A whole lifetime had come and gone in the blink of an eye, and before she realised it, she had become a mother, a widow, and now just an old lady whose only purpose was to seek justice for the twin daughters she raised so tenderly, whom she shielded from this cruel world, only to see them melt away just like how these papers now faded to the cadence of the heavy rain.

“Hey, ahjumma, you okay?”

She didn’t answer; instead, she looked on without moving as two young men rummaged through her pockets and ran away with the few coins she had, leaving behind her purse and an old photograph of her family before the tragedy took place and everything fell apart. With shaking hands, she picked up the photograph and smiled, wiping away her tears.

“I won’t leave this world until they’ve all paid. Umma, promised you, remember? Even if I have to keep on living and cheat death, I won’t break my promise to you, so sleep tight, my angels. Umma will soon join you and your appa. I promise.”

Rising back up on her feet, she trudged through the crowd of people from all walks of life as they fled the pouring rain, their movements in the background a blur of motion and their presence almost negligible.

The only thing Mi-Suk could see, the only thing that arrested her, was the large LED display with an award-winning movie director and his up-and-coming press conference and subsequent movie premiere for his newest blockbuster. And when she finally was close enough to it, staring up with hollow and detached eyes, her tears blended in with the salty rain and something in her expression changed – one that gave away nothing yet told a chilling story all at the same time.

Then, like the undead, she dragged her feet through the bustling capital, towards the studio where the press conference would be taking place later that night. She saw or heard nothing but the angelic voices of her beloved daughters, the way they called her umma, and those blissful days back in time when this cruel world did not blacken their purity and fill them with hatred and shame.

One and a half hours; the press conference was only one and a half hours away now.

Her eldest said the director was always the last one to arrive on time, that he would let all the filming crew and staff wait for him on purpose to relish in his ego. Such people never changed, only became worse over time. Their ego was so high, their sense of reality so low, yet they actually dared to believe themselves as nothing more than the filth they were, for they had become so used to tramping on and deriding those unable to fight back that they thought they were invincible, that they could stave off justice by paying those willing to accept the money thrown at them like the barking bitches they were.

And perhaps, they were right to think so, now that she thought it through, from where she lay in wait at the underground parking lot of the studio with a metal pipe tightly in her bony, wrinkled hand. Perhaps they were indeed right to think so….

Half an hour passed. Then, gradually, forty and fifty minutes. No one showed up in the parking lot, not even other people. Eventually, she decided to wait the entire length of the conference, approximately two hours or slightly more than that. She spent those hours just waiting and doing nothing else, counting the seconds, getting lost in thoughts and old memories, then restarting from the beginning on a never-ending loop.

At around 10 pm., things started to shift, and the solitude and harrowing memories gave way to other kinds of thoughts, the kinds that only a grieving mother could tolerate without losing her sanity along the way. She followed each person, tracing their movements, while keeping an eye out for the one she was looking for. But even as the minutes ticked away, the director remained elusive. Had he not come to his own press conference? But then she recalled the LED display she saw earlier tonight and knew that couldn’t be the case. Perhaps this wasn’t the parking lot used by the people who attended the conference?

Feeling the pressure of time, Mi-Suk hid the pipe in her bag, her youngest gifted her with her first pay through sweat, blood, and tears – and as she learnt after her passing – with her body.

She started for the stairwell leading to the lobby.

The entire place was filled to the brim with newspeople, overly zealous fans with no regard for their own or other people’s safety, and the few celebrities who were now standing at the centre of the red carpet posing for the paparazzi. Overwhelmed by the blinding lights and recurrent shutter of the cameras in the background, she noticed a young woman screaming her head off a few feet away and quickly made her way through the crowd, showing each one of them aside, and then grabbed hold of her.

“Director. Where is he?”

The young woman cast her a side-long look, judging and eyeing her down, before replying with a hoarse voice. “Director Kim? He’s still backstage, I guess. Why, are you a fan or something—”

Mi-Suk grabbed both of her hands—“Thank you, thank you!”—and slipped past security unnoticed, perhaps due to her old frame and those seventy years of agony that had hunched her back, turned her hair grey, and made her lose her teeth prematurely. After all, what harm could a seventy-year-old pose to anybody?

Only if they knew… only if they knew the fire burning inside her, the one that flared now and then, and ate through the deepest chamber of her heart, body, and soul like she’d entered the inferno even before shutting her eyes shut to this wicked, corrupted world.

Navigating the backstage was harder than she thought it would be. She passed by an entire corridor lined with doors for the third time by the time she heard what she could only describe as the sound of a muffled scream. Before she knew it, she found herself in front of a door with no label on it and perked her ears. She’d gone deaf once due to a vascular issue in her right ear, way before she lost her daughters so untimely, but had managed to get it back after treatment. She still had issues with that ear, but despite her hearing loss, those screams were so loud that she, for a few seconds, was stunned into silence.

Yet, as she looked around the corridor and the passersby, she noticed that no one even cast her a glance or inquired about the screams coming through all the louder with each passing second. She thus grabbed a crew member talking loudly over the phone, trying to bring his attention to the strange sounds.

“Young man, listen. You must call security!”

The young man tried to shake her off. “Ahjumma, how did you get in here? Huh?”

“Someone asks for help, in there, listen,” she tried, pulling the crew member closer to the unlabelled door. “I’m not lying. Listen! You must hurry and call—”

“Shibal!” The young man pushed her away so hard she hurled towards the walls, hitting her head. Gliding a hand through his sleek hair, staring her down with an annoyed look, he crept closer with a look that gave away that he indeed heard something but pretended not to.

“Hey, ahjumma, I don’t hear a damn thing, so stop the crazy act and leave before I call security. Do you hear me? Hey, I’m asking if you heard me? Shibal! Bitch, I said—”

“Always the same thing. It never stops. It never does. Why? Why doesn’t it ever—”

“Huh? What’d you just say? Never—what? You cursed me or something? Fucking bitch—”

Mi-Suk reached for the metal pipe in her bag. She didn’t hesitate, not even as the young man lay in a pool of his own blood, begging for mercy. Instead, she repeated her words, just as he told her to do moments ago, and kept bludgeoning his face until he stopped begging for his wretched existence and lay motionless on the linoleum floor. She then left his body to bleed and turned her attention to the unlabelled door, the pipe dragging at her side, as she twisted the knob.

A young woman lay naked, drugged, on the lap of the director whose wasted life she’d come to take. The filthy perpetrator stood up as he noticed her at the door, pulling up his trousers. She locked the door before anybody could intervene and save the director’s life.

Then… she took one step at a time. Slow and steady. Seeing nothing but darkness before her, hearing nothing but her angels’ voices in her ears, feeling no other emotion but that of a grieving mother who had gone without getting justice for far too many years.

“You want money? I’ll pay you! I’ll give you my entire fortune! I’ll do anything!”

Mi-Suk couldn’t help the smirk playing on her lips. “Then tell me, Director Kim, can you return my daughters to me? Let me see them one final time so I can ask for forgiveness?”

“…What? Daughters? Hey, ahjumma, you,” he pointed at his head, mocking her sanity, “you’ve lost a screw or something?”

“When I kill you, the world will know, finally, the monster you are… the things you’ve done… those horrible, horrible things you’ve done to such pure souls, who wanted nothing but recognition for their hard work, to repay their parents with their first pay, to give back to the world…”

“Huh? What’s this about? I’ve done nothing! Yah, ahjumma, you think I’m the only one who does things like that?” He paused, his eyes darting from the pipe in her hand and the young woman now getting back her senses. “Besides, you think fame at a young age comes at no cost? We all pay the price, in our ways, and bitches like this with their bodies. What’s so bad about it, huh? Nothing’s for free in this world, shouldn’t someone of your age know that the best?”

“That pay!” she snapped, her eyes turning wild with the anger festering beneath the surface, “has cost two precious lives! Tell me, Director, what kind of price tag requires forty counts of rape, derision, and sexual abuse by several men, of whom the majority are married and have kids of their own!?”

“This is just the way of the world! You think killing me will stop the system?”

“Then I’ll break the system, too, until none of it remains, if doing so I must until the very second I cease to exist! For killing people like you… it is not justice. It’s an obligation.”

The door behind them flung open as security entered. By then, however, the director had already succumbed to his injuries. They found Mi-Suk cradling the young woman, wiping away her tears and lulling her into comfort; her face and clothes covered in crimson, and her eyes wet with tears she didn’t know she still had. When she saw the security guards with their weapons aimed at her, she released the young woman and picked up the metal pipe on the table before her, advancing.

“Stop! Stop moving! Stop moving and put the pipe on the floor. NOW!”

But she didn’t stop, nor did she let the pipe fall. Instead, she let it down to the side, letting it drag on the floor, and then brushed past the security and the crowd of onlookers as she continued down the hallway aimlessly. Several people followed her, capturing her movements with their cameras and livestreaming. But the crowd didn’t stop her, not even as the security tried to step in. Instead, they became her live shields and blocked anybody trying to intervene.

She came to a halt at the centre of the red carpet, now directly facing the shutters, those blinding shutters that kept capturing her every single move and livestreaming. For a while, she just stood there and said nothing, not even as the crowd grew larger and the number of cameras only increased. Then she released her grip on the metal pipe, collapsing on her knees, addressing the nation and the police that failed her.

“I, Chung Mi-Suk, hereby plead guilty to the murder of Director Kim, the perpetrator in my daughters’ sexual assault case that was written off before the investigation could even begin. My daughters… my poor angels, when they heard of this, blamed by the authorities for being raped on several occasions by several men, including Director Kim, killed themselves before justice could be served. My husband died not long after, unable to live with the grief, and I tried decades – decades! – trying to make my voice be heard! Yet no one heard my pleas, bought for and paid with dirty money! So, what else could a mother do but kill her daughters’ abusers herself? To make sure they rested in peace, wherever they were, to finally be able to let go of the past, and say: “I did my best, the only thing I could, and kept my promise to you.” I do not ask for leniency but for my daughters’ case to reopen, as well as other similar cases the prosecutors wrote off in return for bribes and lavish gifts, or perhaps, buried secrets. I, Chung Mi-Suk, thus plead guilty to all charges against me…”

A delayed applause erupted through the crowd of people, of whom some couldn’t keep their tears in, while others, infuriated by the prosecutors’ failure to follow proper protocol and capture people like Director Kim, demanded justice and for all cases related to sexual assaults to reopen despite the statute of limitations.

While Mi-Suk never wanted this to be the case, spilling blood was her last resort, and she did not regret it. Not one single second of it. Even the inmates at the prison she was sent to broke out with cheers as she was escorted to her cell by two female guards, praising her strength as a mother and her unwavering love for the children she lost too soon and in such a short time, one after the other.

She died of old age only a few months short of spending a year in the prison, where she became the light of beacon for the inmates and the nation as a whole, recounting her twin daughters’ merry childhood as well as those harrowing years before the light in their eyes shut forever, bringing the whole court to break down and the prosecution to admit to their negligence and failure to follow proper protocol in front of the public, convicting those who deliberately took bribes and wrote off cases to hide their own skeletons in the cupboard.

But this was far from over. As with everything in this world, behind the scenes, new cases of exploitation and abuse occurred. Director Kim was right. There was no stopping the systematic abuse going on in plain sight; this was indeed the truth. But one thing was certain: every unpaid deed resurfaced and justice served sooner or later. No man was safe, and sometimes, all that was needed for that to happen, was someone like Mi-Suk who stared death in the eye with conviction and forced the world to open its eyes and see the ugliness behind purple-tinted glasses, even on the account of her own livelihood and health, for heroes needed neither fame nor comfort, only the will to force the system to reboot now and then.

Whether this deed was the unjustified murder of children, leaving them to rot from hunger, or the atrocities of barbarians with no empathy towards people other than their own, or the numerous world leaders watching a whole population burn yet choose to turn a blind eye like the cowards they were and would forever be as long as yet another innocent life was taken before it has a change to bloom like the flower they were meant to be – neither a terrorist nor a human animal living in open sewages…

 

 

 

 

 

The Taste of You

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

There’s something about the way skin tears that excites me; how it peels away as I put knife to flesh and bare the true face of its host. I can’t compare that feeling to any other, then again, have I ever felt this much and so many conflicting emotions at once before? To feel both mesmerised by Mother Nature’s composition, of what lies beneath the surface, made of several layers of tissue, to feel the edge of the knife gently unravel each layer, yet feel so… disgusted? So vulnerable? Beneath the skin, once it peels off and is gone, we’re all the same. Too similar, so uncannily similar.

I’ve always been an odd person. My obsession with the morbid, however, was not a result of this. You know those kinds of people, the ones who always seem kind and good-natured, yet are the most horrible beings? Only they’re good at hiding their true selves and fooling people into thinking the opposite. People always told me similar things growing up: “You’re such a kind person, so pure and innocent like falling snow.”

Just thinking of myself as “kind” and “pure” makes my skin crawl, especially since I know what I am.

I am a murderer. But not the kind you think of.

I don’t hate people, in fact, I’m not sure I’m capable of feeling anything. I just want to skin people, see what they look like beneath all that heavy, leathery tissue, to see their true forms and relish in the insight that only I have seen them, like really seen them. To stare into those hollow eyes once the skin is out of the way… how can I describe such a feeling? And the way that tissue feels on my skin as I place it over my face, and thinking for a moment, a fleeting moment, that we’re the same. Truly the same.

I like that part of the whole process more than anything, to put on my perfectly peeled mask and pretend I’m someone else. I’d wear the females’ clothes, craft wigs out of their beautiful, glossy hair, and put on some make-up. Then I’d dance the whole night, just dance away and pretend I’m the prettiest girl ever without being called a faggot or perverted loser.

Growing up in an all-boys school, I was used to being called all sorts of names and slurs, yet I didn’t mind any of them. I actually liked it; it made me feel like I was different, unique even. But I hated the idea of being told what to act like or look like. It wasn’t like I was overly feminine, either. Honestly, I received a lot of attention from females, especially in my twenties. They found my shyness cute, my awkwardness as some kind of mysterious attribution, and my effeminate features as a “pretty boy” trait.

Naturally, I chose a female as my first real murder. I’d killed animals before, practised on them to be more precise, and even murdered another human far too many times in my mind. Too many times, actually. And those vivid imaginations only made me even more eager to kill, to peel the skin off another human, and use it as my own.

Kayla was her name. Gorgeous thing. Despite looking so petite and feminine, she put up a real fight. I’d just taken off her bra and kissed her tenderly when I got the urge to taste her. Violently so. But not the kind of urge heterosexual males feel towards females; this was another kind of urge, one that was not sexual. I’ve never once felt sexual attraction to anyone or anything. Even this sudden urge lacked that sort of intimacy. I was just curious. What did this pretty thing look like beneath all those layers? Was she as pretty inside as she was outside? What did she taste like?

So, I pinned her down and punched her against the bed. She kept screaming. Kept telling me to stop. At one point, I wanted to. I really wanted to. But I couldn’t help it. Her soft, peaked breasts, the way her beautiful face distorted in horror, and the way she tried to push me away excited me in ways no words could describe. I guess I did feel some sort of sexual release back then, but it only happened that one time and only with her. I tried to replicate that feeling afterwards, always trying to mimic what I did to her with the others, but couldn’t.

Years later, I realised that I was in love with her, only I didn’t know it. I had never experienced love, and so I didn’t know how to express myself. I just wanted to be part of her and her to be part of me, and I was so sure that I only wanted to taste her, to see her real face beneath the skin, that I failed to recognise my own feelings. But at that point, I was too far gone to stop, too intoxicated by what Kayla had done to me and my perverted sexuality that all I wanted was to feel that way again in the most disturbing ways.

Sometimes, I’d wear her clothes and put on her face over mine, then I’d lie on the bed and slap myself repeatedly to relieve myself. It worked only half of the time, but I kept doing it. Over and over. Screaming, just like she did, then crying, begging myself to stop, saying “I’m sorry”, and then suffocating myself with her bra. It still smelled like the sweat of her soft breasts, which were now frozen solid in the freezer. I once cut up some of it to taste it, but they were so leathery that I just threw them away.

There are times when I look at her dismembered body and feel disgusted by myself, but other times I just use whatever I lay my hands on and try to relieve myself with her. But her hands are so cold that it never works. So, I stopped all that and just came to terms with the fact that I had to find some new hands – softer and warmer to the touch. No one would ever give me the sexual release Kayla gave me, I knew that, but I soon figured I just had to chop the head off and pretend those warm, cut-off hands were hers.

And so, my killing spree began in November of that same year I took this decision. Although I was still socially inadequate and it showed, I had managed to land a decent job at a chocolate factory, and women were still attracted to my pitiful personality, coupled with my above-average looks. There were days when I had two or three women over to my apartment, always of the same age as her, and took my time killing and dismembering them over the week. I didn’t like to rush things and was a perfectionist, and every new face and body required different tools and different care.

I liked especially the ones with some meat on them; that way, I could reserve some for supper and make soap with the fat. Did you know humans have yellow fat, by the way? I never knew until I chopped this middle-aged Somali woman. She’d given birth to six children and had fat in the right places. I must’ve used a great portion of her to make a whole course meal and several batches of fat. Which reminds me of something: she was the one who eventually helped me see my true potential and my innate talent for cooking and craftsmanship.

Long story short, I joined the cast of MasterChef – one of thousands and millions of home cooks, who were lucky enough to impress the judges and begin a new phase in life. Over the course of eighteen weeks, I became a fan favourite and earned the nickname “The Handsome Chef”, and when I came in second, I opened my own restaurant downtown and got people queuing for my dishes. My speciality? Sous vide turkey breast in vanilla and orange broth to enhance the sweet taste and give it a tang, served with a roux-based sauce made with a dash of cinnamon to double the effect of the vanilla without taking too much away from it.

You know, at first, I really wanted to start anew and make things the right way. But although I was making the bank, my urges were hitting an all-time low. Receiving attention from all those females, smelling their intoxicating sweat, seeing their soft and peaked breasts through their deep V-neck shirts, was getting to me. But, miraculously, I was holding on very well despite the temptation. Until a particular incident, that is.

As mentioned, I did not feel sexually attracted to anybody, and so I wasn’t particularly good at picking up the kind of sexual signals and tension people sent me. Not until it was too late. That was what happened on the evening of a party I was invited to by a celebrity couple who’d enjoyed my dishes. I was approached by many people, mind you, of all walks of life and sexes. But I didn’t really pay attention to anyone, in fact; I was actually planning on leaving the party early to keep myself in check, going as far as to avoid drinking altogether since years back.

But then he came. A young fella, no older than twenty. Good looking. He introduced himself as an up-and-coming actor and said that he was a big fan of mine. We exchanged phone numbers, and then I left. I didn’t realise just how big of a star this young man was, not until I looked up his name and noticed that he was a rising star in one of the most-watched coming-of-age, high school television series in recent years.

We kept in touch occasionally. I didn’t put any effort into trying to contact him as he wasn’t female and he wasn’t exactly what I liked to taste. Overall, not my type. But at some point, his messages overwhelmed me and would come at the most random of times. Each message started the same way: “Hey, I was wondering if you might be open to making some plans sometime soon?” or some variant of this. I usually ignored those kinds of messages, and honestly, I was slightly disturbed. That was a first for me – to feel disturbed by someone other than myself. And it was this fascination that eventually led me to accept his invites.

Of course, I knew what the guy wanted. I’d seen him give me those stares, the ones I’d given Kayla before I kissed her that night. But it wasn’t that I was sexually intrigued, only curious. The morbid kind of curiosity. I had never killed a male before. It never occurred to me that I could – or would. But lo and behold, as we made out in bed, I got that strange arousal I got with Kayla, and I just knew I had to take this opportunity.

He didn’t look much different from the others beneath the skin, to be honest. My expectations fell short. But he made me realise something about myself and those conflicting feelings of mine: it wasn’t the people themselves who aroused me, it was the fact that I did something I had never done before, something so perfectly disturbed, that it excited me.

I had to test this theory out, of course. So, I resumed my killing spree and used the flesh in my recipes. With each new dish, the sexual arousal was beyond anything I’d ever experienced, and when I received a two-star Michelin review from an acclaimed critic, I reached climax for the first time.

Today, I work as a judge in the newest season of MasterChef. Already past my sixties and my prime yet seeing those youthful faces look up to me and praise my craft triggers something deeply inside me. Had I the time and energy, especially the opportunity, I’d like to taste them and make a new dish out of them. Just imagining it makes me excited. But for now, all I can do is imagine and create the next best dish, imagining what each contestant would taste like in my mind.

I still wear Kayla’s face regularly and dance in the darkest hours of the night. She’s become some sort of comfort to me over the years. Her bra still smells of sweat, so salty yet delicious, that I sometimes scrape some of the fabric to infuse her sweaty breasts into my dishes. Serving it to customers gives me a kick, and once in a while, I reach climax – to her scent – and relive those beautiful moments of our bodies intertwining, her face over mine, her cold corpse against my skin, and me inside her rotting insides.

A House Built on Bones - Part II

Photo by Derek Story on Unsplash

A groan escaped her as she regained consciousness and tumbled out of the bloodstained Persian rug. Her body was weak and covered in fresh bruises as she pushed herself onto all fours and retched.

She coughed up a thick and grimy liquid – a mix of the mud forced down her throat and oxidised blood from her dislocated jaw, which restricted her movement as she struggled to open her mouth and steady her breathing.

The first thing she noticed, once she calmed down, was the pungent stench emanating from the swollen, dilapidated floorboards. As she tore at the floor with her bare hands, the body of a decapitated corpse greeted her.

Startled beyond belief, she recoiled and crawled away, her dislocated jaw hanging loose as she held it in place with her free hand. Only then did she fully take in her surroundings.

It was that apartment again. Apartment 17.

But there was no time to question how she ended up here. Before she could process anything, a cold hand seized her neck and slammed her down from behind. As she fought to break free, the person who brought her here and dislocated her jaw shoved her into a cardboard box. Folded tightly and with no room to move, she listened intently as the perpetrator sealed the box.

Then – silence.

But not for long.

A foul odour wafted towards her from within the cramped, dark space. Slowly, she turned her stiff neck and locked eyes with a young girl. Her jaw dislocated in the same way, and she… was grinning at her – as if she knew something Jamala didn’t. Then, before she knew it, the disfigured child lurched forwards in the cramped space and held her in a chokehold. 

She screamed – or tried to.

The next thing she knew, upon shutting her eyes, was the steady hum of an engine running in the background. She opened her eyes, only to realise she was no longer trapped in the cardboard. She was on the move, inside a train compartment, and sharply accelerating.

Panic surged around her as passengers scrambled towards the emergency exits, desperately trying to escape the out-of-control train. Seconds later, the first impact – a massive crash from the locomotive – reached her compartment and sent her slamming against the window.

Once again, she found herself hurled out and plummeting straight into the roaring sea below. She shut her eyes. When she reopened them, she was back in the driver’s seat of her Togg, holding her phone to her ear with trembling hands as that familiar voice spoke to her from the other end of the line.

“Do you believe me now, Detective?”

“This… this is…”

“Possible. You witnessed it yourself.”

“Those people I saw, the corpse in the floorboards, the girl in the cardboard, and the passengers of that train… They were real?”

“They once were. And that girl you saw in the cardboard—”

“Hawwa Mirza.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

“I… I couldn’t see his face, I…”

“Neither did Hawwa. What she saw, what she experienced in her last moments, you did too.”

“That corpse I saw on the floor – that was you? Did your niece see you before she… passed away?”

There was no response to this. Jamala switched ears, the anxiety mounting with every passing second as her mind cleared, and she pressed on.

“When did your parents disappear, Mary?”

“I don’t know. I never met them.”

“Your brother, he… Did he do this to you, to Hawwa?”

“He’s not working alone, Detective. Even if you solve this case and prove his guilt, these murders won’t stop.”

“Then why are you telling me all this?”

“That hole…”

“What about it?”

“What did you think of it?”

“What I thought of it? I… I don’t think I understand.”

“I left a clue in the train for you. Maybe you can find it.”

“A clue – what clue? Mary? Mary!”

The line went dead.

This time, it remained silent. Not even Mike called.

She racked her brain, trying to connect the significance of the train crash to the Mirza family murder case, but nothing stood out in her slowly fading memories.

She didn’t recognise the panicked people running around her, nor the vast landscape the train passed through. Yet she was supposed to find a clue? It was madness!

As she pulled into the driveway on Street 19 and turned off the engine, she hesitated to step out of the car. A thousand thoughts clouded her mind. She needed those extra minutes to calm her nerves and put on a fake smile.

James Hopkins, her husband, planted a wet kiss on her cheek as she stepped into the hallway. His hands were loaded with savoury dishes and glasses of wine. She hung her jacket on the coat rack and set her leather bag on the floor before sitting at the round table.

“You’re late…”

“Uh, are the kids asleep?”

“Hmm. You never answered.”

She smiled as he placed the cutlery in front of her, then took a seat across from her with a wide smile. At first, she didn’t know what to say or how to explain what had happened, but she decided it was pointless to reveal the whole truth.

“Been busy. That case I mentioned the other day? It seems like it’s going to be one hell of a ride. There’s just too—”

“Oh, that case with the terrorist?”

“Terrorist?”

“Hmm. I thought I read the suspect had converted to Islam or something.”

“How does that make him a terrorist, James? I was raised in a Muslim household too, you know.”

“But you’re not a Muslim, are you? You didn’t choose your parents. That guy, on the other hand, chose to become a Muslim. Let that sink in.”

“I didn’t know you were an Islamophobe, considering you married me. How did you keep all that pent-up rage inside all these years?”

“Me marrying you isn’t the same as that fucking piece of shit. He’s a human animal; you’re not.”

“Because I chose not to live as a Muslim?” She couldn’t help but smirk as she stood up, her appetite gone. “You must be kidding me…”

“Sit down.”

“I’m tired—”

“Sit the fuck down, bitch!”

As he overturned the table, sending the dishes crashing to the floor, it was the first time she’d witnessed such delirious rage. James had never raised his voice at her, let alone acted this way. They had married after two years of dating back in ’88. He had been her instructor at the police academy, but they hadn’t got involved until after her graduation.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What the fuck’s wrong with you!” She stepped back as he advanced towards her but quickly regained her composure and stood her ground. Her deceased father always told her to never back down or show weakness in front of a man, never to give him a reason to believe she feared him.

“Calm down and speak so I can understand. You’re gonna wake the kids up!”

“You sympathise with those fucking animals, don’t you? What? Why are you looking at me like I’ve lost it, huh? Did those Muslim genes get to your head?”

She turned her face away as he relentlessly jabbed his accusing finger at the side of her head, harder and harder with every passing second. She couldn’t grasp the cause of his sudden shift in behaviour.

How could someone hate another person or group to the point of losing all control? The man in front of her, with his bloodshot eyes, was not the person she married. This was a side of him she’d never seen before, and it terrified her.

As she grappled with these thoughts, Mary Mirza’s voice echoed in her mind. Before she knew it, she was back on the accelerating train, observing the panic rising around her for the second time.

In the chaos, a shrill scream pierced through the air, but it wasn’t a scream of panic – it was the distressed cry of a child in need of help. Through the rushing crowd running in the opposite direction, she followed the cry to an empty wagon and stopped at an occupied WC.

Seconds later, the WC door opened, and a younger version of her husband stepped out. They locked eyes for a brief moment before he shoved her aside and ran off, adjusting his belt and shirt.

When she pushed the door open and stepped inside, she met the lifeless body of a naked child, blood pooling between her exposed legs. Then, the first bang reverberated through the back wagons as the front of the train collided with something up ahead. The force hurled her against the sink, and she fractured her skull. Less than half a second later, another loud bang echoed throughout the train, and she perished.

“What? You’re crying now?”

She stared directly into his eyes as he spoke, his tone dripping with disdain.

“I didn’t know I was married to a monster… How come I never knew?”

“Monster…? You fucking lost it or what? The only monster I know is people like you – human animals who deserve no mercy or forgiveness!”

She wiped away her tears and turned her back to him. But as she did so, her husband yanked her by the hair and slammed her into the wall. Disoriented and struggling to comprehend what was happening, she barely regained her footing when he punched her to the floor and began hammering her head over and over again.

When the punches finally stopped, she found herself unable to lift her head or move her stiff neck. Blood mixed with her hair as her husband dragged her to their bedroom.

He shoved the cabinet aside, then fetched a hammer from the shed outside. With brutal efficiency, he made a thin, narrow hole in the wall. As he removed the debris, she braced herself for what she knew was coming.

He pointed the hammer at her.

The first blow landed, followed by several others that utterly mutilated her face and skull, rendering it unrecognisable. Bits of flesh from her face scattered across the floor, quickly becoming a feast for the creatures to scavenge.

As the hammer continued to break her apart, limb by limb, she remained conscious. But she felt nothing. Her vision blurred with streaks of blood from her exposed brain – or what was left of it.

He aimed the hammer at her neck next.

Then – nothing. For a while.

When she opened her eyes again, she found herself trapped within the remnants of her severed body. The pieces that had once been her now lay scattered on the floor, and the broken cabinet and narrow hole in the wall served as her tomb.

Through the gap in the cabinet, she witnessed her husband, Mr Cohen and Mr Sandersson engage in a grotesque and depraved orgy. They remained indifferent to the bloodstains and pieces of flesh strewn across the floor – even relishing in the horror.

Extending her dismembered hand, her fingers twitched as she sought help, but the horrific moans soon overwhelmed her, drowning out every sound.

She then saw her youngest daughter standing in the doorway, a look of confusion and fear evident in her eyes. Desperate, she reached out to her, warning her to stay away but no words escaped her disfigured lips.

It was too late.

The monsters seized her daughter and dragged her into the bedroom, and as her husband glanced at her one final time, he closed the cabinet door with a suffocating thud.

A House Built on Bones - Part I

Photo by Christian Chen on Unsplash

The overturned car skidded to a halt after ploughing through an acre of land, flattening several wheat fields, and smashing into nearby hay bales. Smoke billowed from the mangled engine before an explosion erupted, engulfing the wreckage in flames.

By 2:34 a.m., nearly two hours after the first fire truck arrived at the scene, the fire finally subsided. The dispatched police officers, however, were unable to locate the driver. The entire area, including the heavily damaged highway, was cordoned off to preserve evidence, but the investigation yielded no results.

Despite extensive CCTV footage coverage and a dedicated search team, however, the driver remained missing, and his whereabouts could not be traced. These unusual circumstances fuelled conspiracy theories on online forums, but the worst was yet to come.

At the scene, an undamaged gift box was discovered containing the folded remains of a young girl, believed to have been around six years old at the time of her death. This prompted the investigators to uncover a gruesome homicide at the suspect’s apartment.

In an apartment block south of the West World Centre on Street 54, police officers discovered the remains of the suspect’s estranged wife and sister during the night between Thursday and Friday.

The gruesome modus operandi was never disclosed, but leaked police cam footage revealed an apartment in chaos, with the ex-wife’s remain on full display. These videos were circulated on the darknet for a hefty price, further amplifying rumours of foul play and dragging conspiracy theories into the public eye.

Meanwhile, the attorney in charge issued a meticulously prepared arrest warrant, and the suspect was added to Interpol’s Red Notice.

Five weeks after the suspect’s disappearance, a crime TV show explored various theories about his escape. It suggested he may have diverted attention with the car accident, based on accounts from undisclosed eyewitnesses. Some claimed to have seen the suspect leap from the car moments before it overturned, while others described witnessing a bluish light in the night sky seconds before the vehicle veered into the wheat field and erupted into flames.

Two decades later, the new owners of the farm near the accident site unearthed the suspect’s remains while digging a well for underground water.

The subsequent autopsy revealed blunt-force trauma to the victim’s body and skull. However, the findings failed to connect him to the car accident. Pathologists concluded that the suspect had not died as a result of the crash.

It was impossible to determine whether the blunt-force injuries occurred before or after death, either. The pathologist was unable to analyse sufficient fluids to assess the concentrations of various components in the deceased’s bloodstream, stomach, or bowel contents at the time of death. The only certainty was the absence of bruises and fractures typically associated with violent traffic collisions.

This unexpected discovery reignited public interest in the long-closed case, sparking demands for a reinvestigation. In response to public outcry, a special task force was assembled. However, they were directed to adhere to the original case as no other viable leads emerged to warrant further inquiry.

Lead detective Jamala Hopkins, with extensive experience in the Violent Crimes Team, was put in charge of the special task force.

Hopkins began her career in the late '80s and climbed the ranks over twenty years, witnessing firsthand how the higher-ups often covered up crimes in exchange for promotions and financial rewards.

Righteous in her own way but cautious not to jeopardise her position as a loving mother of two daughters, she had no desire to re-investigate the case, despite the troubling autopsy report and the deleted files that suggested something was amiss.

Her resolve wavered on the evening of 9 January 2025.

Ring, ring. On the other end of the line was a young woman in her mid-thirties who introduced herself as Celine Mirza.

Jamala, the daughter of a Somali writer and an American businessman, was working late in her office when the first of several phone calls came through. It was a late Friday night, and she had already sent her secretary home. All incoming calls were redirected to her office, as was routine – though not at this time of night.

“Is this Detective Jamala?”

The voice was unfamiliar, one she couldn’t place.

“This is the Southwest Police Station. We’re unable to—”

“Detective, this is the only surviving member of the Mirza family.”

Unable to recognise the voice, Jamala leaned in and pulled out the file she had tucked in her drawer just a few hours earlier.

“I’m not sure if I—”

“I heard you’re re-investigating my family’s case, Detective.”

“Uh, I’m afraid I can’t—”

“He didn’t do it, Detective! He didn’t! He’s innocent! You have to listen to me!”

“Mrs Mirza—”

“It’s Ms And I’m not lying! I can prove it!”

Jamala chewed her lip, casting a glance at the clock on the wall. It was a habit she’d developed over the years, biting her lips whenever stress overwhelmed her, especially when she didn’t like what she was hearing.

“I understand. Would you like to give a witness statement? You can reach my colleagues at this number between nine and—”

“I saw it… with my own eyes.”

Jamala paused, her thoughts clouded with doubt about the case and her inner conflict. She was already beginning to suspect that Jacob Mirza had been framed, but the desire to seek justice was warring with the uncertainty gnawing at her.

“What did you see, exactly, Ms Mirza?”

“Detective… do you believe in the supernatural?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I—can we talk in person?”

Jamala glanced at the clock again, noting that half an hour had already passed, and she was nowhere near finishing the report she had started two hours ago.

“I’m not allowed to speak with witnesses outside working hours, especially not without a partner. I’m sorry. Can you request a formal witness—”

All that remained of the unexpected phone call was the constant static on the line.

As she set the phone down and prepared to continue typing, a sudden thought struck her – one so urgent it made her stop everything and storm out of the office.

She hurried down the stairs, racing towards the empty parking lot, dialling a close friend of hers still working with the Violent Crimes Team.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mike, it’s me, Jamala. I need you to do me a favour.”

“What, at this hour? Did something happen?”

“That case they put me on. Do you think you can find the autopsy report of the girl they found in the box?”

“Why? Is everything—”

“Please, just—can you do it or not?”

She unlocked the car.

“It’ll take me twenty minutes to get back to the station. You got time?”

She briefly put the phone down and checked the time.

“Sure. Hit me up ASAP.”

“Hey—”

She hung up.

Hitting the road at this hour, yet heading in the opposite direction of her home, was not something she was used to. Nearing her fifties in this profession, she hadn’t been out in the field or chasing criminals for a very long time.

But the thrill of a sudden call, of hitting the road no matter the time, and of saving the day was something her younger self would have relished. The older woman staring back at her through the rear-view mirror, however, didn’t share the same enthusiasm for the risks that came with it.

Fifteen minutes into this unusual journey, she got her first call from Mike.

“You got anything?”

“Depends on what you need.”

“Gimme her name.”

“Name?”

A brief pause followed. In the background, the sound of turning pages echoed as Mike realised what she meant.

“Hawwa Mirza.”

“Who identified her?”

“Uh, hold on. From what I can see, it’d be... uh, the stepdad.”

“No DNA tests requested?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“And the attorney in charge?”

Another silence followed, filled only by the rustling of papers.

“Joe Hallberg.”

“The guy who was newly appointed to the Supreme Court?”

“Positive. Why? What’s going on? What does all this have to do with—”

“Check Hallberg’s background, like how many cases he’s handled between 1996 and 2021, and how many of them—”

“You know I don’t have the authority to do that.”

“I know I’m asking too much, but… Mike, please. Help me out just this once, okay?”

A short pause followed this.

“All right, then. Send me a message with everything you need. And, Jamala, be careful.”

She paused. They both knew that in this profession, being careful was never enough, especially when you had to defy the very people who had granted you the authority you were now misusing to seek justice.

“Sure. You, too.”

Half an hour later, she pulled the car over and shut off the engine. Gazing out the window, she studied the apartment that had once belonged to the suspect, now slated for demolition as part of the government’s “reconstruction project” for neglected neighbourhoods.

The abandoned apartment felt unnervingly silent. As she gently pushed open the entrance door, it creaked loudly, the vibration from the unlubricated hinges reverberating through her fingers. The first stench that hit her was the odour of old urine.

From the peeling walls to the uneven staircase, the entire apartment was stained with things she didn’t want to identify. But the brown splatters told her that someone had either lost their life or been subjected to great torture here.

The suspect lived on the third floor at the time of the accident. According to official records, he had recently moved to the neighbourhood after a divorce. From once working a corporate job with a good salary, he lost everything overnight.

His ex-wife cited his heavy drinking as the reason for the divorce, which had developed somewhere between five and seven months before the homicide.

There was no official explanation for why the suspect began his drinking binge leading up to the crime. However, a colleague later confirmed his destructive drinking habits, attributing them to the stress of the cut-throat corporate environment.

This statement, however, would later be contradicted by another colleague, a 21-year-old graduate student working as an intern at the corporate headquarters. She chose to remain anonymous during her testimony and revealed that the suspect believed his ex-wife cheated on him.

When asked how the conversation had come about between the then 21-year-old intern and the 43-year-old suspect, she revealed that the suspect had confided in her after dining out as a team – two weeks before the accident. Unprompted.

While this scenario seemed plausible, especially given the suspect’s heavy drinking and deteriorating mental state, the lead detective at the time interpreted it as evidence of an affair between the two, despite the lack of any concrete evidence to support such a relationship.

This alleged affair, when forwarded to the attorney in charge, garnered far more attention and weight than it should have. With this alleged evidence, it became possible to construct a highly calculated motive for the suspect’s alleged murder of his daughter and estranged wife. However, it revealed little about why the suspect would have killed his sister or taken such extreme measures six months after his divorce was finalised.

While the attorney couldn’t provide satisfactory answers to these questions, the jury and judge, lacking any other evidence, concluded that the suspect was the most likely perpetrator. He was sentenced to the death penalty upon arrest.

Now, standing in front of apartment 17, with all this fresh in her mind, she observed the battered door that had been vandalised. It was then that she received another call from Mike.

“Hello?”

“Jamala, you’re not gonna believe this!”

“Why? What’d you find?”

“Okay, so from what I gathered from the records, that Hallberg guy is hella suspicious. He’s been the attorney in charge of 129 cases, 27 of which have been flagged.”

“Flagged?”

“Yeah, as in, you know, fabricated evidence, for which he’s served—”

“Hold on a second! Are you saying he was convicted of faking evidence?”

“I told you you’d be surprised!”

“But how? Why didn’t they revoke his license?”

“That’s the tricky part. I don’t know how he got away with it, but he did.”

“And the other thing?”

“Oh, yeah, nothing connecting Hallberg to Mr Cohen – the stepdad. But I found something else you might find interesting.”

“Which is…?”

“Do you remember the farmer who lived on the property at the time of the car crash? What his name was?”

She blinked, racking her brain to recall. “Uh, should be Dan Sandersson if I’m not mistaken. Why?”

“Well, that’s what he’s called now.”

“He changed his name?”

“Only the surname. It used to be, wait for it, Hallberg.”

“How sure are you? Could be a coincidence, no?”

“You call having the same parents a coincidence, too?”

“Okay, let’s say that’s the case. What does it prove?”

“You’ve lost your touch, my friend! Listen, what if I told you the stepdad and the farmer have a history?”

“History?”

“Yeah, dating back to the 80s. Dan Hallberg was put on trial for sodomy but was never formally convicted. And the best part? His alleged lover is suspected to be a certain guy, 16 at the time, referred to as minor C in the official records.”

“So, the stepdad is gay?”

“And has, well, some kind of connection to the Hallbergs.”

“When did the accident take place again?”

“1997. A time when people like that weren’t accepted.”

“You think the wife – uh, Mrs Mirza – knew about Mr Cohen’s, uh, preferences?”

“Knew? You mean, did she catch them in the act.”

“You think Mr Cohen killed those who could expose him? And then made it look like a jealousy-driven homicide? But that doesn’t explain why the suspect’s sister was found dead at the scene.”

“Well, that’s the part I don’t get. According to several of Mr Mirza’s colleagues, he hadn’t had contact with his sister for years, dating back to the 70s. She’d been reported missing ever since and had previously been listed as a runaway up until, you know, the discovery.”

Jamala briefly looked away, her eyes lingering on the battered door. A thought crossed her mind then, one that made her shudder.

“Where did they find her remains?”

“Curiously – she was the only one not in plain sight. The cadaver dogs sniffed her out through the decaying walls, which had been hidden behind a cabinet. To give you a mental image, the detectives at the time thought she’d been placed inside a hollow space within the floorboards, likely due to the high amounts of sewer water from the clogged and malfunctioning pipes and then moved over to the hole in the wall later on.”

“And the state of the body?”

“Pretty well-preserved, from what I can see from the pictures in the case file.”

“So, no autopsy was done on her?”

“The attorney didn’t think it was necessary, since the rate of decay matched that of the ex-wife and daughter.”

“So, we can’t say for sure that it’s the sister, can we, or when she passed away?”

“No, but everything points at her, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“They found an identification card on her, but it was like in poor condition – hardly legible. Still, I don’t think the body belongs to someone else. Just a hunch.”

“But you said Mr Mirza moved into the apartment recently? Six months after the divorce was finalised?”

“Correct. But he didn’t buy this place. He inherited it from his parents.”

“So, he would have had access to this place since the 80s – or 70s, even?”

“Yeah, and here’s another rabbit hole for you: Mary, the sister, was rumoured to be working the streets.”

“That’s… new. How old was she when she disappeared?”

“Seven.”

“Her parents sold her off? From what age?”

“According to witness statements from the neighbours, since she could walk.”

“Sick fuckers… Where are they now?”

“There’s no record of them since the missing person report was filed.”

“And the body they found in the wall? How old was it?”

“The tissue development and subsequent damage suggest she was between 30 and 45 when she died. That’d be about 30 years after she was reported missing.”

“She was kept alive all these years?”

“Are we thinking the same thing?”

“Without an autopsy report to confirm, whatever we think is pure speculation. But to answer your question, yes. I think the suspect kept her here.”

“You think Sandersson and Cohen killed the sister and buried her in that hole? Because she witnessed the murders or at least one of them?”

“After putting the others on full display?”

“What if they knew the discovery of her body would change the direction of the murder investigation? They’d want everything hinting at Mr Mirza’s innocence buried as long as possible, and when that failed…”

“They contacted Sandersson’s estranged brother to get rid of evidence?”

“That’s the only explanation I can think of.”

“No, something else is going on. That’s too simple and not in sync with all the other findings at the scene.”

“You think the suspect killed his sister, then?”

“Could be, too early to say. I need to see it for myself – that hole in the wall. I’ll call you again.”

Putting the phone back in her pocket, she crossed the apartment threshold, stepping cautiously. The thick stench of dust triggered a coughing fit, prompting her to quickly open one of the framed windows and inhale her asthma medication.

The cabinet remained in place, untouched. The detectives hadn’t secured it as evidence or demolished it after moving it to access the hole in the wall.

As she approached, she switched on her flashlight and placed it between her teeth, inspecting the hole with both hands. The remnants of the drilling still littered the area. But it wasn’t the state of the hole that unsettled her.

A narrow, thin canal – this could hardly be considered a hole. Even as she tried to squeeze into it, she realised only a malnourished person could fit into such a space. It would require unnatural, forced movements, broken bones, fractures to fit, and a crushed skull.

So why hadn’t Mike mentioned the bone fragments the dispatched team would’ve found at the scene? Why was there no record of the flattened skull, the disfigured and severely malnourished body? Nothing added up.

A phone call snapped her out of her thoughts. She answered it without checking the caller’s name.

“Hey, did you check—”

“Detective, this is Celine Mirza speaking.”

She quickly glanced at the unknown number on her phone screen before placing it back on her ear.

“This is my private number. How did you—”

“What do you think of it? That hole.”

Jamala paused and looked around the dark apartment, her senses on high alert. She slowly moved through the space, trying to determine if she was alone or if someone shared the space with her. Her fingers instinctively brushed the grip of her handgun.

“Now that I think about it, Ms Mirza, I don’t recall you being mentioned in the case report – nor was your existence ever disclosed in subsequent witness hearings. Who are you?”

There was no response to this. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy. She knew this silence was telling – Celine was hesitant, hiding something.

She was getting closer to something significant, but she also knew any rash actions at this point could be dangerous. She thus kept her cool and repeated her question.

“Who are you? Why did you ask me if I believed in the supernatural?”

“Do you, then? Believe in what you can’t see?”

“No. Now it’s your turn to answer mine.”

The line went dead.

Almost simultaneously, a loud noise pierced the silence. It sounded like something cracking in the ceiling. As she looked up, she soon realised the dire situation she was in. The entire building was collapsing on her.

She made it to the corridor just as the ceiling collapsed and blocked the entrance to the suspect’s apartment. With only minutes left to escape, she sprinted down the stairs and jumped out of the first-floor landing window.

The building tilted to the left as it collapsed, sending a storm of debris and dust through the air. Had she not parked her car further down the old parking lot, it would have likely been damaged by the force of the explosion that followed.

When Mike called a few minutes later, she was still not fully herself. But the incessant ringing forced her to get into the car and hit the road. Behind her, as she slowly drove off into the night, several people rushed to the collapsed building to locate the source of the loud bang, which must have felt like an earthquake.

She answered the phone only after she turned onto the highway.

“Hey, is everything—”

“Run a background check on Celine Mirza.”

“Celine… Mirza?”

She slowed the car slightly as she noted the change in pitch of his voice.

“You know her? She’s mentioned in the case report?”

“Uh, yeah, kind of. She’s… But why are you looking for her?”

“She’s called me a few times, saying the suspect is innocent. But something’s off. I don’t think she’s who she claims to be.”

“That’s impossible…”

Jamala glanced behind her through the rear-view mirror as a gust of cold air swept down her neck. Though she couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that she wasn’t alone.

“What do you mean? Mike?”

“Man, I don’t know where to begin… Remember I said Mary worked as a prostitute?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“So, apparently, she went by the name, you know, Celine. The investigators confirmed this through several witnesses – most of them her clients.”

“Are you saying I talked to a ghost? She was strange, I admit that, but the person I spoke to wasn’t dead.”

“Maybe it’s a prank? Kids these days, they’re on a whole different level.”

“Impossible. But even if that was the case, how could some kids have access to information only the police would know? And if we disregard all these strange circumstances, why would Mary use a fake name in the first place? It wasn’t like she was forced to sell herself through a third party, was it? Everyone in the neighbourhood knew and took advantage of her.”

“Beats me.”

She pulled over and rested her head against the headrest. Heavy snow began to fall from the clear sky, blanketing the area in a white veil. A ghost, huh? She smirked at the thought, shaking it off as quickly as it crossed her mind. There was no such thing as ghosts or apparitions.

In the background, the wipers cleared the windshield in perfect sync. The haunting melody held her senses for a few moments as the driving snow continued to cover everything around her.

She unlocked her phone and scrolled through the missed calls until she found the unknown caller displayed brightly on the screen. No phone number, no email address attached. She stared at it, trying to unravel the mystery behind the call. Then her phone rang.

“Celine Mirza?”

“What’s your answer, Detective?”

“My answer?”

“Do you believe someone like me can exist?”

“Someone like you?” She couldn’t suppress a bitter smile. Even entertaining such an idea seemed ridiculous. “I’m not talking to a ghost right now.”

“And if you are?”

“That’s impossible. Ghosts aren’t real, and they never will be. Throughout the history of mankind – whether we sprouted from Eden's garden or climbed down from the branches – no one has ever proven their existence.”

“A woman of science… But what if no science made by men can see us?”

She leaned forwards in her seat, scanning the dark surroundings, trying to detect any sign of someone watching her from the shadows.

“Then why don’t you prove your existence? Right now—”

Before she could finish, the car suddenly jerked forwards, flinging her out of the shattered windshield. She flew through the air for a brief moment before crashing into the frozen ground. Dizzy and disoriented, she blinked, seeing only a blur of motion in her peripheral vision, before she snapped into awareness of what was unfolding right before her eyes.

Unable to hit the brake in time, the oncoming traffic surged towards her badly damaged Togg, showing no signs of slowing down – likely due to the turned-off headlights and the deepening darkness.

BANG!

She squeezed her eyes shut and braced for the impact.