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.

010101-010101 Limited Edition itch.io

Photo by Carl Raw on Unsplash

Part I

What was supposed to be the last day of the weekend turned out to be more than that. I never saw it coming. Honestly, I don’t think any of us did. Who am I talking about? You’ll figure it out soon enough.

For now, don’t ask any questions and just listen to me. The things I’m about to recount, even I have a hard time believing them. It feels like a dream – a nightmare if you will – and one that feels too surreal to be true. But I assure you, it is. Every single word you’re about to hear. 

I sat on the sofa, scrolling through my ex’s social media page, when a notification popped up on the screen. Julie and I were engaged, and while preparing for our wedding she broke things off over text two weeks ago. 

She wouldn’t tell me why. It was driving me up the wall. Julie was the one. We hit off almost immediately the day we met through a mutual friend, and I really believed that she felt the same way about me. 

When I contacted who was supposed to be Julie’s bridesmaid, however, I finally found out the truth. Julie wasn’t in love with me – she never had been. That mutual friend I talked about? She was in love with him, not me. Like a piece of paper, she used me to get closer to him.

Want to hear something funnier? Those two got together the day Julie broke up with me. But I don’t believe that shit. I’ve been scrolling through her social media page for hours now and the bigger pictures only get clearer. How could I be such a fool?

Julie and that guy worked in the same department. Whenever she told me she was working late at night to finish a report, that guy was working too. Even their social media pages looked identical, as if they had planned it all out beforehand. 

“Hi, this is JackTheReeper folks! I’m live at 1:20 am! Y’all been waiting for this moment, amirite? Hit that notification button and let’s goooo!”

JackTheReeper was my favourite YouTuber. He played all sorts of games, but I subscribed to his channel solely for the horror content. Although he was easily scared and preferred RPG games, he’d still take on some horror games now and then. 

Since we were nearing Halloween week, he posted all over his wall that he’d be doing a surprise livestream a few days before October 31st. People kept suggesting the same horror games, such as Silent Hill, Resident Evil, Outlast, Ju-On, and Evil Within like way too many times.

At some point, however, a viewer called username103-ww345 suggested an indie horror game none of us ever heard of. I looked up this guy’s profile, but it didn’t look like he was actually a subscriber.

He had no videos or comments – no nothing. It seemed as if whoever created this throwaway account did it just hours after JackTheReeper announced his surprise Halloween livestream. We figured he was the creator of the indie horror game he wanted us to try in an attempt to promote it.

You’ll find a snippet of how this conversation went down below. For privacy reasons, I won’t attach the actual names of the other subscribers. These comments, along with the entire channel, have already been deleted and cannot be found on the Internet anymore.

[My Username]: Hell yeah! How long since it been, dude? I thought you’d quit playing horror games! 

[JackTheReeper]: Halloween special for my loyal fans only! You guys been telling me to play horror games like forever, lol

[Viewer 2]: Whatcha playing, Reeper?

[JackTheReeper]: Dunno, maybe Outlast? Did I ever finish the first one? Hey [My Username], what do you want? 

[My Username]: You kidding me, dude!? LOL Try something new! I heard there’s some good stuff on Steam from [viewer 4]

[Viewer 4]: Did someone summon me, lol

[JackTheReeper]: [My Username] did

[My Username]: lol 

[Viewer 4]: You doing live stream for Halloween, Reeper?

[JackTheReeper]: Not the day of, but yeah. You joining us, right? 

[JackTheReeper]: Suggest me some horror games! 

[My Username]: [viewer 4] knows some good stuff on Steam

[Viewer 4]: What am I, God of Steam? 

[Viewer 2]: More like God of Stream, if you know what I mean *wink*

[JackTheReeper]: [viewer 4] you doing OF, dude LOL

[My Username]: [viewer 4] logged out. 

[Viewer 2]: P*ssy

[JackTheReeper]: you guys trying to demonetize me or what? C’mon, suggest me some horror games! I’m open to whatever!

[Viewer 2]: So, there’s this dating simulator…

[My Username]: Where’s [viewer 3]? Seems like he deleted his channel 

[JackTheReeper]: dead

[Viewer 2]: *sweet dead child o’mine*

[My Username]: Like, I’m serious guys! His channel is like deleted or some shit 

[JackTheReeper]: Heard he dead

[Viewer 2]: as he should be. F*cking ass*hole he nuked my [redacted]

[My Username]: Heard that too, but like, is it true? 

[Viewer 2]: dunno

[Viewer 2]: i heard he played a cursed horror game

[My Username]: WTF, cursed? Lol

[JackTheReeper]: Okay, guys, shut the fuck up and lets get down to business, alright? 

[Viewer 2]: only if [My Username] shuts the fuck up first lol

[My Username]: play ‘who kills [viewer 2] first wins’

[Viewer 5]: Damn! late to the fun, again!

[My Username]: Reeper just got offline

[Viewer 5]: lol

[Viewer 2]: he’s avoiding [viewer 5]

[Viewer 5]: lol haha

[My Username]: he’s back

[JackTheReeper]: sorry guys! Wifey things lol *wink* Anyways… any suggestions [viewer 5]?

[username103-ww345]: 010101-010101 limited edition itch.io

[Viewer 2]: what the fuck is 010101-010101? Lol

[Viewer 5]: your mum

[JackTheReeper]: okay, I’ll check it out

[My Username]: no self-promo allowed [username103-ww345]

[Viewer 2]: says who?

[My Username]: fuck off asshole

[Viewer 2]: I’m genuinely asking asshole-you-too

[JackTheReeper]: okay looks good. Are you the creator [username103-ww345]

[Viewer 5]: hes not a subscriber

[My Username]: guys logged out

[Viewer 2]: Anywho, game looks lit! LIT

[Viewer 5]: looks like the game [viewer 3] played. the aesthetics I mean

[Viewer 2]: oh no it’s cursed! [My Username]’s gonna piss himself

[My Username]: *herself, asshole

[Viewer 2]: wait you a girl? why didn’t say sooner, sweety? Wanna hang out tomorrow? I’ve got a new bed

[My Username]: learn grammar first

[JackTheReeper]: Imma log out now guys! Keep it civil! Happy FUCKING Halloween!

Part II

The following conversation happened during the livestream itself. When I clicked the notification button and the stream flickered on, the first thing I saw was a drained JackTheReeper. 

He’d been talking about having some marital issues with his wife Rebecca for a few months now. I even gave him some pieces of advice about women to help him resolve whatever was going on with him and his spouse, but it seemed like things weren’t getting any better. 

I brewed myself a mug of black coffee while waiting for the actual live stream to start and made up my mind to focus on the present and shut off all other thoughts about Julie. It was easier said than done. 

JackTheReeper started the stream by introducing the game, briefing us on the theme, concept and main character, before actually playing the thing. I must admit that something about the vibe the game gave off arrested me in more than one way. 

The plot was crazy good, like it was so plausible. I like that sort of stuff. The more realistic it is, the scarier it is. Like a ghost haunting me is unlikely to happen, but getting chased by some fucked-up serial killer? Yeah, the chances of that happening were like way higher than the former alternative.

Here's a brief description of how JackTheReeper introduced the game. The home screen showed a wooded area shrouded in moving shadows and towering corn fields. Some eerie music played in the background but it was hardly noticeable. Through the corn fields, a narrow trail could be traced to god-knows-where. 

My first thought was that this game was about some scarecrow coming alive and chasing the main character. But as JackTheReeper began his introduction, I soon figured this wasn’t the case. Moreover, we learnt that this was indeed the game [viewer 3] played before disappearing from the face of the earth.

[JackTheReeper]: Whatssup guys! This is your guy Reeper at it again! Since you guys like to see me piss my pants, I’m back with another indie horror game!

[Viewer 4]: first

[My Username]: you playing that game? 010101- something?

[JackTheReeper]: Yeah wish me good luck!

[My Username]: Everything’s okay? You look down, man

[JackTheReeper]: I’ll text you after the stream

[Viewer 2]: [My Username] is ma girl, dude. Back off

[My Username]: Who called this fucker

[Viewer 2]: Your love lol

[Viewer 4]: What’s up with the flirting lol

[Viewer 2]: [My Username] likes me

[JackTheReeper]: Okay, listen up folks! 

[My Username]: Is this the game [viewer 3] played

[JackTheReeper]: Jaap 

[Viewer 2]: [My Username] you can hold my hand if your scared Imma protect you

[Viewer 4]: lol

[JackTheReeper]: so, here’s whats up: this game was created back in 2009. We don’t know who created it but it’s actually quite well known on Reddit. apparently it’s haunted

[My Username]: never heard of it before lol

[Viewer 2]: hello sweety whats your handle? Let’s talk

[Viewer 4]: it’s famous on Creepypasta.org too. [Another famous Youtuber]actually talked about it on his channel two years ago

[My Username]: Ah, the one who makes creepy videos?

[Viewer 4]: yeah

[JackTheReeper]: Anyways… so, we’re like searching for our sister who got lost on her way to some asylum

[My Username]: what’s the year?

[JackTheReeper]: 18…89? Yeah, something like that

[Viewer 4]: Doesn’t sound scary, though

[JackTheReeper]: We’re William and our grandmother sends us a letter saying our sister has gone missing. We know that shes supposed to arrive at this asylum in the countryside, but it never arrives. Police finds the bus two miles from the asylum near some woodland, where they find some footprints going deeper into the woods. 

[Viewer 2]: and then they meet Big Foot lol and die

[My Username]: So, like we’re on this trail looking for our sister or…?

[JackTheReeper]: No, from what I’ve read the game starts inside the asylum 

[Viewer 4]: now that’s creepy

[JackTheReeper]: but the asylum is abandoned. like, even if the bus arrived, all those patients had nowhere to go.

[Viewer 2]: But who alerts the police then

[JackTheReeper]: I dunno. Maybe a relative?

[My Username]: Okay, so we’re just going to search this asylum and find clues? Doesn’t sound half as bad as I thought.

[Viewer 4]: maybe its haunted

[Viewer 2]: someones got no balls lol ^^

[JackTheReeper]: Okay, so are you guys ready or what? Cause I’m not

[My Username]: let’s goo

[Viewer 2]: to my place or…?

[Viewer 4]: lol chill dude

[JackTheReeper]: Alright, here we go! 

Part III

The harrowing backdrop of a walled asylum enclosed by barbed wire appeared on the screen, along with a shot of JackTheReeper in the far-right corner.

Chilling sounds of grasshoppers doing their thing in the dead of night, hooting owls and whatnot were enough to send a chill down everyone’s spine. 

I drew the curtains and sank into the soft fabric of the sofa with a cup of black coffee.

Through the thin walls, the moans of my fornicating neighbours filled my bedroom, so I put on a pair of headphones Julie gifted me on my 30th birthday. 

When JackTheReeper finally unlocked the steel gates after looking for the clover-shaped key for more than half an hour, the echoing footsteps against the gravelled driveway blared so loud that I lowered the volume.

It was during this time that I thought I heard something come through from the kitchen. As I briefly put away the headphones, I perked up my ears to catch any sound out of the ordinary. 

Julie had a spare key. I copied my keys after she moved in with me because it was getting tiring to keep descending the stairs from the fifth floor to open the door for her. 

It wasn’t until I readjusted the headphones and turned the volume up that I found out where the noise came from. 

[JackTheReeper]: Did you guys catch that!?

[Viewer 4]: WTF was that dude

[Viewer 4]: think someones in there with you

[Viewer 2]: The door just unlocked on its own lol 

[JackTheReeper]: sounded like a whimpering cat or something

[Viewer 2]: cat? It was the door lol. How did you hear a cat?? [My Username] did you hear a cat or door?

[Viewer 2]: hello? [My Username]?? Where’d you go, lol

[Viewer 4]: Hey, try to open that door. The green one

[JackTheReeper]: only brown doors lol

[Viewer 4]: Are we seeing the same things? LOL

[Viewer 4]: Wait, you serious dude? You don’t see the green door? 

[Viewer 2]: I only see brown doors too, lol. He’s fucking with you Reeper

[JackTheReeper]: K, Imma head in

[JackTheReeper]: where’s [My Username]? 

[Viewer 2]: In my heart lol

[JackTheReeper]: [My Username]???

[JackTheReeper]: Omg did you hear that guys? The cat!

[Viewer 4]: isn’t it like a creaking door? 

[Viewer 2]: you call that a creaking door? Screaming door lol

JackTheReeper entered the cracked door. 

After pointing the flashlight all over the place, he settled on a redwood desk. There was a sealed envelope on it. The letter was addressed to William, the main character, and was handwritten by a nurse called ‘Madeleine’. 

[JackTheReeper]: whats this?

[My Username]: can’t see the letter, what does it say

[Viewer 2]: hi, pretty. Did you miss me?

[JackTheReeper]: it says something happened to the patients, but…

[Viewer 4]: Ayo spill the beans, dude!

[JackTheReeper]: weird

[Viewer 4]: ?

[JackTheReeper]: do any of you know someone called Julie? 

Coincidence. That was my first thought. But as the conversation continued and JackTheReeper carried on, I knew something was off.

[My Username]: what does the letter say?

[JackTheReeper]: I don’t know, man… like, wtf? Hey, who said this game was cursed?

[Viewer 4]: [Viewer 2] did

[JackTheReeper]: he’s not here

[My Username]: He logged out I think

[Viewer 4]: Hold on a sec, are you guys being real? Lol Hes in chat lol

[My Username]: no, he’s not

[Viewer 4]: He is. Hes literaly writing as we speak

[JackTheReeper]: cant see. what does he say?

[Viewer 4]: he’s not done. 

[My Username]: Like, we’re only 3 online are you sure [viewer 4]?

[JackTheReeper]: where’d he go?

[My Username]: we’re only 2 now. What did letter say, btw

[JackTheReeper]: you don’t wanna hear

[My Username]: C’mon dude

[Viewer 2]: omg sorry ‘bout that, lol! The wifi just went poof

Even though I asked JackTheReeper to clarify the content of the letter repeatedly throughout the game, he wouldn’t. 

It was first when we got enough clues and could head to the overturned bus that he opened up a little. 

The towering cornfields span several miles on either side in the distance ahead. As the makeshift trail through the field got narrower and the shadows deeper, we found ourselves in the middle of fucking nowhere. 

JackTheReeper saw what look like a scarecrow surrounded by cawing ravens and came to a sudden stop.

[JackTheReeper]: what…?

[Viewer 2]: why’d you stop, bro

[JackTheReeper]: I can hear them, like, literally IN MY FUCKING ROOM

[Viewer 2]: chill dude. Whatcha hearing LOFL

[My Username]: you okay Reeper? You don’t move.

[JackTheReeper]: can someone tell me who the fuck Julie is?? feels like I’mma go insane!

[My Username]: are those birds?

[Viewer 2]: ravens or some shit lol

[JackTheReeper]: hello who’s Julie??

[JackTheReeper]: like for real I’m serious guys! Who’s Julie

[My Username]: hey, it’s coming!

[Viewer 2]: What the hell is that thing!? Looks so real!

[JackTheReeper]: [My Username]

[My Username]: dude run! It’s literally in front of you!

[JackTheReeper]: [My Username]

[My Username]: ?? gotta run, dude!

[Viewer 2]: he’s gonna die lol not moving

[JackTheReeper]: [My Username]

[My Username]: you good Reeper

[JackTheReeper]: [My Username] is your name Madeleine?

[My Username]: ...

[JackTheReeper]: Madeleine where’s Julie?

I shut down the computer. 

For the record, yes, my name was Madeleine. My parents met in history class and hit it off because of their mutual passion for all things Victorian. My name reflected their silly attempt to return to the 1800s. 

I say ‘was’ because that’s no longer my name. After twenty decades of being made fun of, I legally changed my name and moved on with my life. Not even Julie knew my birth name.

Being an agnostic for over ten years and an atheist for five years, the last thing I wanted to believe in was some made-up fairytale about curses and whatnot. But how could I explain something like this just by reasoning?

JackTheReeper wasn’t exactly an Internet sensation at the time all of this happened, and his subscribers were just a little over 4,000. Even so, only a few of us actually watched his gaming stuff.

The rest subscribed to his horror story narration videos, which is what got him all the fame and money in the world a few years before this livestream.

I unsubscribed when his YouTube career skyrocketed. He stopped playing games altogether and focused on his narration videos instead. [Viewer 4] once asked during one of his last gaming live streams why he wasn’t playing horror games anymore.

He blocked him instead of replying and turned off all comments in his other videos before deleting them all and starting anew under a different channel name. 

Now that I think about it, I never saw what happened after I shut off the computer. Figuring [viewer 2] would be open to having a chat with me, I sent him a direct message, which he hasn’t read to this day. 

Fast-forward three years and I hear that the remains of [viewer 2] have been found near a sewer twelve miles from his home. It was all over the news.

His death was ruled as an unfortunate accident after a night out, although there was no trace of alcohol in his blood. The police found some empty bottles in the wrecked car and the forensics guys concluded that the body had been so decomposed that all traces of alcohol poisoning were no longer detectable.

But how am was so sure the guy they found is [viewer 2]? The police couldn’t identify him so they did a composite sketch of what he probably looked like before, well, he became liquefied. Although not exactly a carbon copy, the composite sketch looked almost identical to the profile picture still uploaded on [viewer 2]’s account on YouTube. 

I spent a good hour and a half studying the picture and comparing it to the composite sketch. It had to be him! The police even got the slightly uneven and awkward neck tilt right and the crooked teeth.

After sending messages to JackTheReeper over the course of several weeks after they found [viewer 2], he finally replied to me. The first thing he asked was whether everything was okay with me. 

Here’s how our conversation went:

[Reeper]: You sure it’s him?

[My Username]: I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. How you been?

[Reeper]: Fine I guess

[Reeper]: hey, theres actually something I always wanted to ask you

[My Username]: which is…?

[Reeper]: Why did you do that?

[My Username]: do what exactly? 

[My Username]: hey, Reeper, you there? 

[Reeper]: Nevermind.

[My Username]: No, tell me what’s on your mind

[Reeper]: you lied, remember? 

[My Username]: ?? no ?

[Reeper]: When we played that game, you told me to run

[My Username]: so? I didn’t lie

[Reeper]: then why did you log out? 

[My Username]: Because you kept saying stupid things!

[Reeper]: What stupid things? The two of us never chatted! You were the one who kept saying nonsense!

[My Username]: are yo u being real 

[My Username]: dude, you literally kept telling stuff about my private life!

[My Username]: Reeper, hello??

[Reeper]: No? 

[My Username]: Madeleine, Julie…? Those names weren’t about me?

[Reeper]: Your name’s Madeleine? Like, how the fuck am I supposed to know that!

[My Username]: then who were you talking bout?

[Reeper]: You said those things! You kept droning on about some envelope on the study room

[My Username]: yeah, the one you found?

[Reeper]: WTF you talking about

[My Username]: that’s weird, all this

[My Username]: it’s like everything I thought you did, you tell me I did

[Reeper]: was there even a letter to begin with?

[My Username]: you think it was really cursed, that game?

[Reeper]: if [viewer 2]’s dead then… maybe

[My Username]: you talked with [viewer 4] recently? 

[Reeper]: haven’t heard from him since that live stream

[Reeper]: he said he was gonna send you a dm and ask if you’re okay

[My Username]: Wait, you never blocked him??

[My Username]: hurry answer!

[Reeper]: Nope

[My Username]: But I saw him comment on your last live stream before you deleted your videos

[Reeper]: lol that wasn’t him. Imposter

[My Username]: Im… poster???

[Reeper]: yeah, some dude contacted me on Discord and, well, long story short, he wasn’t [viewer 4]. Now that I think about it, his name on Discord look kinda familiar

[My Username]: What do you mean

[Reeper]: hold on, I’ll go check it

That’s where my conversation with JackTheReeper ends. He never got back to me. Like the others, he disappeared from the face of the earth. 

I have a theory. 

Those who figure out who the creator of the cursed game is end up either getting killed or going missing. This is what keeps me from going down the same rabbit hole and exploring whatever the fuck is going on with this game and the mysterious account who suggested it. 

If I one day find myself in a similar situation or figure out the real deal with the cursed game by accident, I might post an update. But for now, I’ll end things here and carry on with my life. 

Sometimes, being in the dark is better than knowing the truth. I think this is the case here as well. Someone created that game for a purpose and I may never know what it was, but if you’re reading this and are in a similar situation, here’s a piece of advice: don’t let curiosity get the better of you.