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.

Under the Radar

Photo by Andy Li on Unsplash

“The law of supply and demand is crucial for our understanding of the free market. If the price is too high, supply will exceed demand. But if it’s too low, demand will exceed supply. Remember, the market always seeks equilibrium. Any other questions?”

A female student Professor Ismael recognises from a previous class shoots her hands up in the air. She is one of three female students who wear the symbol of submission, the hijab, and proudly show their religious upbringing.

He waits for a few seconds before addressing her. He knows from his vast experience as a senior professor that students sometimes ask a question they already know the answer to and want to give her a few seconds to come to her own conclusion.

“Yes, you over there.”

“Isn’t the law of supply and demand too simplistic to explain real-world markets, sir? What about markets with monopolies or oligopolies?”

“Good question! The law, of course, helps us understand general trends, but it’s not meant to explain every nuance in every market. In monopolistic or oligopolistic markets, where there is one dominant seller or few sellers, the law of supply and demand can still apply, but it behaves differently. You’ll learn more about how these kinds of markets work in greater detail in your next class. Anything else?”

Silence. This is a good sign. The clock reads 3:57 p.m., and not only is he drained from having classes back-to-back, but so are the students at the University of Baghdad, who have had classes since early in the morning.

“All right, then, that’s all for today’s lecture. Please make sure to pack up your stuff and I’ll see you next time.”

A former fighter pilot for the Iraqi military during the Cold War and an honorary member of the Chair of the Board of Trustees, he is one of the most respected professors at the university. Adhering strictly to the rules, he is described as both “book smart” and “well-rounded” by his colleagues in the Faculty of Microeconomics.

After answering the remaining students’ questions about today’s lecture, he waits five more minutes until the last student finally exits the auditorium.

According to the schedule, however, he still has one more lecture left for the day in the same auditorium, so he briefly leaves his belongings and goes out to grab a cup of coffee before the start of the next class.

It is during this time that the fire alarm goes off.

Given the large size of the Microeconomics department and with no fire or smoke in immediate sight, he decides to return to the auditorium and take his stuff with him. Theft has been a huge issue over the past couple of years, and he can’t afford to lose his lecture notes and slides due to, what he assumes, is a prank at that point in time.

The alarm keeps ringing as he puts his laptop computer into his leather bag and sets off towards the emergency exit staircase, which leads to the faculty emergency exit grounds. But as he descends the emergency exit staircase, he notices a smell he recognises as sulphur from his time as a fighter pilot.

Now this isn’t a smell he’d pay any attention to on any normal day, but the unusual circumstances, coupled with the nostalgic inputs from his subconscious, make him follow the foul and sharp odour as he continues to descend towards the lab floor.

The first thought taking over his mind is a malfunction of the air conditioning system (HVAC) located in the utility room. But when he fails to unlock the room, he decides to return to the main floor and give maintenance a call.

As he inches closer to the emergency exit door, however, he realises that the temperature has risen too abruptly. This prompts him to return to the utility room and follow the sharp odour for a second time. It is also at this point that he notices something he missed the first time. The student lounge room, located farthest back in the corridor, is cracked open.

The student lounge room, as well as all other non-staff rooms, is part of a new system the university has employed over the last few years to ensure the safety of the students after a particular incident occurred back in 2003.

The previous safety system employed a one-way access protocol, where students had to physically bring a staff member, often the administrator or receptionist, to the student lounge to physically unlock the door. The staff were, however, required to register this in the safety log to prevent the system from setting off an “unauthorised access” alarm.

But they weren’t the only ones with a working access card – the professors, as well as all other staff members, also had similar access cards for obvious reasons. These, however, did not trigger the said alarms.

The safety protocols at the time of the accident did not consider these entries as safety hazards. But to err on the side of caution, the professors, as well as other staff members, were instructed to refer the students to the reception in case they requested entrance to the student lounge rooms or other kinds of group study rooms.

The new system, of course, now works vastly differently. Each staff member now has limited access to certain floors, rooms, and areas. A staff member with access to floor 1 thus has no access to floor 2 and needs access to that floor through another staff member’s access card.

What set off this new system, however, is a case that Professor Ismael only heard about through the grapevine in the professors’ office over the years. Although it is an incident that should never have happened or been allowed to happen, the aftermath of the entire ordeal now ensures that better and safer protocols are employed. As they say in the aviation industry, “every protocol and safety measure is written in blood.”

It is the 26th of October 2003, approximately eight years ago from today’s date.

Over the course of a few weeks, the weather has deteriorated severely, and it is the first day of the holy Ramadan. Due to these external factors, the university is unusually empty, and only a third of the students and staff members are present.

An undisclosed female student, referred to as victim K in the official police records, enters the Faculty of Microeconomics around 1:15 p.m.

This timestamp, as well as all others following this, is undisputedly correct. The investigators know this because the student used her student ID card extensively on the day of the incident.

Investigators also later discovered that the victim planned to enter the main auditorium, H134, via section B, after texting a friend that she’d lost her keys, possibly in the auditorium where she’d had a lecture the previous day.

This female friend becomes a huge lead later on and helps the investigators timestamp the victim’s last moments more accurately. But at the time all this happens, of course, neither the investigators nor the said friend knew this.

At around 1:29, the security camera in the emergency exit staircase captures victim K, shaken, as she descends the staircase and keeps going until she reaches the lab floor. Seconds later, the entire faculty goes into a blackout and all subsequent records perish.

The first message that establishes the victim’s whereabouts comes around 1:34. From this message, the investigators know that the victim is now hiding in the student lounge room and urgently asks her friend to call the police.

Half a minute later, at around 1:35, the female friend replies with something along the lines of, “Why?” and shortly afterwards, “You okay?”

To this, the victim does not respond for about five minutes. The time now shows 1:41. But the tone of the subsequent messages after this makes the investigators suspect the victim is no longer the one responding.

“I’m okay” is the victim’s second-to-last message, followed shortly by “Don’t call the police.” Investigators link this to the fact that, at that point, the perpetrator or perpetrators had gone through what the victim had sent to her friend and were beginning to panic.

At timestamp 2:56, power returns to the faculty. All working security cameras show no anomalies. The few people who have been trapped inside the building at this time, both staff members and students, now exit the faculty.

When the timestamp shows 3:18, another blackout occurs and is later noted by the security system as an “induced blackout,” disclosing to the investigators that someone has manually shut down the entire building. This second blackout lasts no more than two hours.

At this point, the victim’s parents contact the police and a missing person search is initiated – but only after seven more hours pass. Due to the faulty policies employed by the Baghdad police force at the time, a 24-hour policy is strictly followed, and no missing person report is accepted.

That’s when the victim’s exchange with her friend reaches the police officers, and a formal missing person report is filed. But it’s too late – by about three hours. The victim’s half-naked body, with her underwear stuffed into her mouth, is found by the dispatched team led by lead investigator, Detective Achmad.

A junior investigator is later reported to have said in subsequent interviews with the press that “the body had deteriorated way more than what it should have” considering the time of death and the time of discovery.

This discrepancy in the rate of deterioration, which the autopsy report describes as “non-normal swelling of the internal organs due to external factors,” leads the investigative team, particularly Detective Achmad, to consider one possible scenario.

The HVAC is now a major lead, and the investigative team sends the output and input data recorded in the system log to Forensics for further analysis. This takes approximately two weeks. The system log records abnormally high temperatures and manipulation of oxygen levels, which aligns with the reported hypoxia symptoms recorded by the dispatched team upon entering the lab floor.

The profile of the suspect or suspects is now clear to the investigative team. They are dealing with someone with vast technical knowledge, who can manipulate both the HVAC and blackout systems, while also having greater-than-average knowledge of pathology and the degree to which the body deteriorates in different scenarios and extreme external configurations.

A thorough background check of the entire staff and attending students available to the investigators at the time, however, does not yield the kind of niche profile they are looking for. The criminal profiler in the US, to whom the investigators sent the translated documents, states that none of the listed individuals could be the perpetrator or perpetrators.

As this lead goes cold, Detective Achmad now decides to focus on the staff and students who were inside the faculty building before and during the two induced blackouts.

They focus their investigation on suspect A, an employee who had been kicked out due to undisclosed reasons, and suspect C, a male student who is the last and only person the victim engaged with before the first blackout.

The investigators know this due to secured footage from the hallway of section B by the main auditorium, which shows the victim trying to unlock the door but fails repeatedly before suspect C appears on screen for approximately half a minute.

During his witness statement, suspect C is recorded saying he had had no interaction with the victim and that he wasn’t aware she was in the building at the time of the first blackout. But the footage shows suspect C engaging in small talk with the victim, which the suspect initially denies during the subsequent hearing – now as a prime suspect – before he finally confesses.

When asked by the lead detective why he denied interacting with the victim during the witness hearing, suspect C does not give an immediate reply and requests a lawyer instead.

This event prompts the press to announce in the local newspaper that the prime suspect is the perpetrator of the case and that the police are trying to secure more evidence to bring forth to the attorney in charge.

This is not an outcome the police expect, and as the public demands the prime suspect’s arrest and trial, this puts immense pressure on the investigative team, who are not wholly convinced suspect C is the one they are looking for.

But why do they think that? As mentioned earlier, the profile they are looking for is someone with an above-average IQ, a vast knowledge of different technological and mechanical systems, as well as an interest in pathology.

Suspect C, however, during his initial health check-up, is reported to have an IQ just below 90 and no other reported hobbies but football and video games, according to his two roommates and family members.

Things, however, are out of the investigative team’s control, and the authorities disregard Detective Achmad’s complaints about the lack of evidence. They now force the attorney in charge to issue a formal arrest warrant. The evidence required for such a procedure is manipulated, resulting in the arrest of suspect C on the evening of 18 November 2003.

Now, this is a time of massive public unrest, and only a few months after the invasion of the US troops to secure oil for Uncle Sam under the code name “Operation Iraqi Freedom” has come to a belated end.

It is in the ruling authorities’ interest to put down any public outrage, arrest the suspected perpetrator, and focus all leads on the capture of The Butcher of Baghdad who’s still on the run.

The investigative team, due to these circumstances, is now pressed to obey orders from their higher-ups, and suspect C is officially recognised as the prime suspect.

Detective Achmad, however, continues the investigation behind closed doors and through his own means. His close-knit team members, consisting of two junior detectives and one investigator-in-training, now focus on suspect A, who has not been interrogated formally as a suspect up until this point.

Suspect A’s witness statement and recorded hearing show high stress levels in his voice and body language, especially when the lead investigator asks about his relationship with the victim, to which he firmly denies having any relationship.

After sketching a timeline of suspect A’s proposed alibi and securing evidence of his whereabouts, they note something the first team of investigators missed – most likely due to the public’s ongoing outrage and demand for the death penalty, as well as the pressure from their higher-ups to conclude the investigation as soon as possible.

At around 1:27, two minutes before the first blackout is recorded on the security log, suspect A is caught heading towards the malfunctioning CAM03, near another emergency exit staircase that is not commonly used by students but is frequented by staff members.

This staircase is therefore not an uncommon route for the suspect in question to use. But the circumstances are abnormal.

Suspect A has been formally discharged from his service as a janitor due to undisclosed reasons by HR and is not supposed to have access to this part of the faculty at any time at this point.

But the system records show that he has used his ID card extensively, a whopping 15 times in the course of half an hour. This unauthorised use later causes the HR department to investigate their failed adherence to the safety protocols. This interim investigation later reveals that the Head of HR at the time of the crime is a friend of suspect A.

These findings prompt Detective Achmad to formally request an arrest warrant from the attorney in charge, but his requests are dismissed and the reasons recorded as “insufficient evidence provided.”

The lead detective, after complaining about this unfounded dismissal, is let go from his position as lead detective and demoted. His untimely transfer and demotion raise eyebrows within the police force, but no one comes forwards to defend the detective.

The case closes.

Until now.

As Professor Ismael enters the ajar student lounge room, holding his breath from the increasingly foul odour taking over, a horrific sight unfolds. A young woman, naked from the abdomen down and her hands bound together with duct tape, lies on the lino floor with her back turned to him.

That’s around the same time he experiences the first signs of low oxygen and the increased temperature that keeps surging. Startled, he storms out and ascends the emergency exit staircase close to the student lounge room. As he fumbles to pull his phone out and dial the emergency services, he forgets all about the fire alarm still blaring in the backdrop.

The entire faculty has been evacuated by the time he reaches the main floor. That’s when the power shuts off and he loses his grip on the phone. He runs towards the nearest exit, but due to the blackout, the automatic doors do not open.

He realises soon, as the sirens blare in the background, that he’s not only in a full-blown lockdown, but that the building is on fire and the smoke is now visible to the naked eye.

He knows from previous experience that it takes the firefighters ten minutes to get to the faculty, but this is not any normal day. It’s the last day of Ramadan and time moves slowly when it’s 33 degrees Celsius outside and with unusually high humidity levels from the Persian Gulf.

He figures soon that it’ll take somewhere between 20 to 30 minutes before the firefighters arrive. But with the heightened levels of smoke he sees, coupled with the low level of oxygen he just experienced, he figures that it’ll take no less than fifteen minutes for the concentrated Carbon Monoxide levels to knock him out.

And from what he observes, the fire originates from the second floor, which means the colourless smoke is more concentrated on the second and third floors of the building but will quickly spread uniformly throughout all four floors as it cools down.

This observation leaves him with two options. He either has to break the bullet-proof glass and flee in no less than fifteen minutes, or he must navigate to the lab floor where the oxygen level is manipulated and hope the firefighters arrive before whoever configured the oxygen levels returns it to a normal level and feeds the fire.

He chooses the latter option.

While this is an unorthodox choice by any means and one that is very much reckless by any normal standard, he knows from his time as a fighter pilot that Carbon Monoxide poisoning is more lethal and immediate than hypoxia.

The lab floor is just as vacant as earlier, only this time he sees that the utility room is cracked open. By then, however, he’s halfway down the corridor and closer to the student lounge room than the emergency exit staircase on the other side of the corridor.

But he doesn’t want to take any chances and decides to take the other emergency exit staircase when he notices that someone’s on the move in the utility room.

This prompts him to quickly enter the student lounge room rather than get caught by whoever is hiding in the utility room, which he now believes could be no one but the perpetrator himself.

After sneaking back into the student lounge room, now re-experiencing the returning symptoms of hypoxia, he studies the victim, whom he recognises as the female student who challenged the law of supply and demand earlier in his class.

But his surprise doesn’t end there.

The victim snaps her eyes open and screams.

He sits on her and covers her mouth, in a state of panic, as she slowly stops moving. Only when she’s completely incapacitated does he realise that he has smothered her to death in the chaos that broke out.

While this unfortunate outcome could’ve been prevented, he acknowledges that his lack of situational awareness is due to the low levels of oxygen as well as the fight-or-flight response of his body, but also due to what he now suspects is Carbon Monoxide poisoning coming in through the vents.

Covering the victim with his blazer, afraid of what his body is now capable of, he recognises that whoever did this to the victim in the first place is probably now approaching to check on her. With this still fresh on his mind, he sprints out of the student lounge room and into the restroom across from it.

But this relief is short-lived.

The blazer.

With his heart in his mouth, he returns to the student lounge room and takes his blazer with him, storming out of the lounge room without once looking back and locking himself into one of the stalls.

The first thing he hears seconds after this quick manoeuvre is footsteps. What he doesn’t expect at this point, however, is how abruptly they stop. He calculates that the perpetrator has stopped in the doorway of the student lounge room, not fully going in to check on the victim.

The footsteps move away soon afterwards and grow fainter with each passing second, until he recognises the thud of the nearest emergency exit staircase opening and closing.

This unexpected event sets off a lot of questions in his mind, and while trying to figure out what’s going on outside, he hears the emergency exit staircase door opening and closing for the second time. All these sequences of events take no less than three minutes in total.

Then, the emergency exit staircase door opens and closes for a third time.

A subtle click reverberates through the empty corridor, telling him that someone has locked the emergency exit door and trapped him in there.

But he has stopped feeling panic at this point.

His sanity deteriorates, and so do his erratic body movements. He recognises that he’ll soon lose all control of his body and needs to act fast.

As the first signs of outside help reach him from the vents, sending blares of sirens all over the vacant lab floor, he takes off his belt and secures it on the tap. It’ll take the Carbon Monoxide to off him somewhere between seven and ten minutes, and the hypoxia will render him unable to control his body in less than three minutes, but keep him alive much longer.

He feels his body stiffen and his lower extremities harden with the surge of blood increasing to his lower half.

After making sure the belt is fast and won’t break on him, he ties a knot around his throat and, after a moment of hesitation, lowers himself.

As the saliva drips down the side of his mouth, the first crack from his thyroid reaches his ears, the only organ now picking up signals. By the three-minute mark, he’s on a full-blown erection, and his body now fully reacts to the effects of the hypoxia before he loses all vital parameters that have kept him alive up until this point.

When the firefighters, the first to arrive at the crime scene, find the victim and Professor Ismael, they soon relay to the investigators in charge the nature of their findings and the semen they’ve found on the tiled floor.

However, due to the rapid and extreme deterioration of the victim’s body, no semen can be secured on her body, although signs of forceful penetration are noticed by the pathologist in the initial autopsy report. The cause of death is recorded as “loss of oxygen to vital organs leading to heart failure.”

When the identity of Professor Ismael as the prime suspect reaches the press, a witness soon comes forwards and recounts the events leading up to what the local press refers to as a “copycat of the sexually motivated rape and murder case of 2003.”

The witness is a reinstated janitor and former military officer who played a key role in leading the democratisation process under the U.S. administration during the 2003 invasion. He had unfairly lost his job that same year following accusations of improper conduct made by a female student.

The key witness tells the interviewing journalist during a TV appearance that he’s witnessed the crime in person and recounts his horrific encounter with Professor Ismael as “bone-chilling” and one which he does not want to “repeat ever again.”

He concludes the interview by saying he hopes “a day will come when the women of Baghdad can live without fearing for their lives at the hands of savage men,” – a statement that gains nationwide recognition and applause, prompting the international media to label the now 66-year-old as “the Guardian of Children and Women’s Rights for Liberation and Equality.”

Meanwhile, mass applause breaks out in a municipal police station outside of Baghdad, cheering as the 66-year-old receives a joint award from two of the most internationally renowned charity organizations.

Detective Achmad looks at the milling crowd of officers applauding all around him with a hardened look on his face before exiting.

This imposed democracy has once again failed to protect women, and instead of holding the perpetrators accountable, those entrusted with upholding the democratic system now celebrate them.

Pulling up a pack of cigarettes, he inhales the poisonous smoke before drawing a last drag and putting it out with his foot. As the cheers continue in the background, he pulls out his Glock 19 and puts the barrel under his chin.

The Boole Reservoir

Photo by Yann Allegre on Unsplash

Part I

The Boole Reservoir stretched across a lush woodland that supported three villages on the outskirts of a snow-capped mountain.

Hikers climbed to the summit to look over the vast vicinity enclosed by a great forest and quenched their thirst with the ice-cold water flowing down to the reservoir.

What the locals knew, but outsiders did not, was the legends that circulated in this godforsaken place shrouded in mystery. This was why the locals never set out into the woods after sunset and warned their children to return home before dusk.

They believed that a lonely spirit roamed this reservoir blanketed in crushing ice. She dwelled in the ominous body of water and lured unfortunate souls to their ill-fated demise.

She preferred unsuspecting children it was believed, and she took her sweet time to gobble them up alive, relishing in their tender flesh and screams for their mother.

But this was only a made-up tale to scare miniature humans. The truth was much more sinister and unsettling.

Like many similar legends passed down from generation to generation, the myth about the lonely spirit haunting The Boole Reservoir was based on a real story – a story long forgotten in the bygones.

And whatever the truth was back in those days, it had now become a faint memory. Like everything else in this mundane life with no purpose, the truth dispersed and only the made-up parts remained as a distant token of its existence.

I first heard about the reservoir and the stories surrounding it through a good friend of mine, Mark Ryder. He and his family were from one of the nearby villages the reservoir provided clean water.

Mark and I both studied mechanical engineering in our early twenties but didn’t become close until the last semester. He was somewhat of a recluse back then and hardly spoke a word unless he was required to.

He said most of the villages in that area were now ghost towns and that only a handful of people remained, most of which were too old to move or too stubborn to leave everything behind and start anew somewhere else.

I asked him why and that was when he told me about the rumours and myths surrounding that place. And to be honest, these rumours failed to deter me from taking an interest in the reservoir – on the contrary, they piqued my interest.

I was a city boy, all right, and grew up as an only child. My parents were both workaholics, so I never set off to the countryside like the majority of my peers.

Growing up, I always imagined myself leading a dull but peaceful life in the country, taking in the pitch-black night sky and watching the twinkling stars too shy to show their head in the city.

Besides, the only thing I was remotely afraid of was the darkness. But not the one that came with the darkening welkin. I’m not sure how to put this into words: like when the temperature plummets without warning during a hike and distorts your thoughts, that kind of creeping darkness that comes out of nowhere is what chills me to the bone.

I led a normal life up until that point in my life, but I didn’t have anything to look forward to. It was the same routine day in and day out. Like a robot without its own will, I slaved through each day without a purpose and goal in life.

It wasn’t that I did not enjoy my life. That wasn’t it! I met my partner, Ann, during work and loved every single moment I spent with her. We had the same taste in music, enjoyed fishing during winter, and even came from the same background.

But something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was; I only knew that my breath became more and more laboured with each passing day.

It’s silly, I know, but these are the reasons I did what I did next. I shouldn’t have, I…

Why couldn’t I just be satisfied with my mundane life and lead a normal life? The answer eludes me, perhaps you’ll figure out the reason by the time this story ends.

Part II

One evening, as we were heading home from the gym, sweaty and exhausted beyond words, I asked Mark something I now regret deeply – I asked if he could show me it. The Boole Reservoir.

Mark didn’t want to at first and droned on about how dangerous it was, but I insisted and he threw in the towel on one condition: he was not coming with me.

I didn’t mind as long as he provided me with a solid address, and he did. I told Ann that I was travelling for work and that it would be hard to reach me. Mark promised, albeit reluctantly, he wouldn’t breathe a word about my whereabouts to Ann should she ask.

Unlike me, she was superstitious and a real hippie gal. I knew she would talk me out of going to the reservoir if I told her. So I packed my stuff – two days’ worth of clothes and whatnot – and set off on my journey in the dead of night.

I worked part-time as a deliveryman on the weekends so driving in the dark was not enough to scare me. But as soon as I approached my destination and turned left into a roadway obscured by trees on either side, I slowed the car down a notch and decided to be safe rather than sorry.

It was pitch-black: no streetlamps, no nothing. I was essentially on my way into the depths of a forested vicinity, and there were no signs of life anywhere.

I hit the brakes and lurched forwards. The roadway came to a sudden end and my car tipped over the edge of an embarkment.

My eyes shifted towards the dark and blank body of water in front of me, and I quickly put the car into reverse and barely managed to move it away from the edge.

I glanced at the GPS before turning off the engine and realised belatedly that I had reached my destination. Visibly shocked by the near-death experience, I hesitated for a few seconds before stepping out.

It was the seventh of August and the weather was chilly, but not to the point where I needed to wear two layers of clothes or a beanie.

I let the doors stay unlocked and closed in on the embarkment. Had I not slowed the pace earlier, I would’ve plunged right into the reservoir and drowned to death.

The strangest part, however, was the fact that the GPS did not say anything. Not a single peep, whatsoever. It usually did, mind, when I neared my destination, but it didn’t breathe a single word this time.

It wasn’t on mute just a few minutes ago when I turned left and continued down the shadow-shrouded roadway. Something did not add up at all, but I didn’t know what to make of these strange occurrences.

I wasn’t superstitious like Ann or as easily frightened as Mark to believe the rumours about this place. But now I wasn’t so sure… I just escaped death by a margin and was still trying to recollect myself and think straight.

I observed the babbling reservoir the entire time, perhaps to make sure I was alone and the rumours were nothing but made-up fairytales.

It did the trick.

My heart calmed down a tad and I drew a deep breath when nothing out of the ordinary happened for the next five minutes.

I fished up my Canon from my backpack in the trunk and captured the serene reservoir to prove to Mark that the rumours about this place were nothing but a hoax. “Look,” I wanted to say when I returned home, “nothing happened to me.”

But the quality was off due to the ridiculous darkness that only seemed to deepen the longer I stayed here. Since I had enough food for two days, I decided to spend the night here and then capture the reservoir in the morning hours instead.

It became colder than I anticipated as the night deepened though, so I placed a chequered quilt over my shoulders, which I had forgotten in the trunk from my and Ann’s last outing a few days ago.

I slept soundly for the most part. I did wake up a few times, slightly confused as to where I was, but then fell right back into dreamland.

But what woke me up? I’m not really sure, to be honest. I thought I heard a faint din come through from the outside, right next to me and on the other side of the window, but when I turned my head towards the din no one was there.

At first, I brushed it off as part of my lively imagination and the biting cold, but then it happened two, three, and all of a sudden six or more times throughout the night. Ignoring it became increasingly difficult.

I spent the last two hours before sunset fully awake and did not allow myself to fall asleep again. These things bothered me so much that I decided to send a message to Mark. I told him to hit me up as soon as he saw my message first thing in the morning.

What I expected would strengthen my disbelief in the supernatural turned out to have the exact opposite effect on me. I just wanted it to be morning and then get the heck out of this place for good.

That was when someone banged on the window. I turned my head to the left, in a daze, and the phone slipped through my fingers.

An elderly man in his seventies stood outside my car and kept banging on the window with his fist.

Purple and brown-grey spots covered his bald scalp where strands of whitish hair hang loosely. He wore a patched-up shirt, a brown vest from the fifties and berry-coloured, striped trousers from god-knows-when.

The stranger slouched forwards and seemed to have a difficult time standing up straight. I rolled the window down, and as soon as I did that, he seized my throat with both of his hands and held me in a chokehold.

I fought him off and rolled the window back up. It was harder than it looked from the outside. The man, despite his old age, was as strong as someone in the height of his youth, and it took a great deal of strength to push him away just enough to roll the window up.

He bared his rotten teeth and hissed like a snake from beyond the window, then he calmed down within a heartbeat and looked around himself before whispering something I couldn’t read from his chapped lips mixed with thick saliva.

I followed him until he disappeared into the woodland and then gasped for air, unaware that I held my breath up until that point. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, ditched my plan to capture the reservoir and did a total U-turn.

For good reasons, I was confused but not to the point where I would hallucinate things. But the harder I hit the gas, the longer the roadway became. It felt like I was going in circles and all roads led to the starting point.

I hit the brakes halfway through the vicinity and reached down for my phone, swearing under my breath repeatedly in the meantime.

Although I nudged something under the seat, it was too far away for me to reach without having to physically step out and get hold of it through the passenger seat.

I glanced at the rear-view mirror, made sure I was all alone and then stepped out.

When I finally found my phone, I noticed it was dripping wet and no longer functioning. I touched under the seat again but it was as dry as could be, and I had not drunk anything inside the car so that could hardly explain why my phone became drenched. Besides, it was dry just moments before that old man started to act like a freak.

Still out in the dark, I tried in vain to revive my phone. For a few minutes, I forgot about the old man and why I was in such a hurry to get out of there.

This would end up being my biggest mistake.

As if by magic or with the help of the Devil Himself, the driver’s door slammed shut and locked me out.

The car key was, of course, inside.

I tried to force the door open, but it did not budge. Several minutes passed like this. When I realised there was nothing I could do, I kicked the wheels and swore out loud. I had just fucked up really badly and was frustrated as hell.

Now I stood there, in the middle of a godforsaken roadway with a useless phone, and my only option was to advance down the lane and hitchhike – if I were lucky.

I strode towards the end of the roadway, determined to get the heck out of this place no matter the cost or consequence when I came to the realisation that I indeed went in circles. I hadn’t hallucinated or lost my mind. Not yet.

There was a logical explanation for this occurrence, and it had less to do with the supernatural than the natural. I was so preoccupied with trying to get the hell out of this place that I missed how close I was to the reservoir at some point along the roadway since it ran almost parallel to it.

The blank body of water was still and the current non-existent, so the roadway was reflected off the surface so clearly that I was seeing a mirror image of the roadway this entire time.

Apparently, there was a two-way fork and the reflection I saw made it look like there was only one path, perhaps due to the dim lightning. This other pathway kept leading back to the embarkment.

I ventured to the left this time and, lo-and-behold, I was back on the highway. It was still too early in the morning hours for cars to pass by, but I knew which direction I had come from and figured it was best to carry on than stay put this close to the reservoir.

I recalled passing by a guesthouse and decided to hit up Mark when I arrived there instead of hitchhiking in some stranger’s car. Again, better safe than sorry.

Time and again, tirelessly, I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was following me in the shadows.

Fifteen minutes later, I reached the guesthouse sign written on a wooden plank on the highway and turned left. Another five minutes passed in the dark like this and I finally reached the two-floor building.

A doorbell gave away my presence as I stepped into the warmth and ambled to the reception in front of me.

This place looked much smaller than from the outside. There was a single winding staircase to the right of the reception, while the entire right side was riddled with old-fashioned settees, ottomans and whatnot. It was as if I had slipped into a time slip and gone back to the seventies.

The atmosphere left a bitter taste in my throat and this sinking feeling worsened as I approached the clerk, who showed up from a cracked door beyond the counter.

The clerk, a middle-aged man from the look of it, sniffed as I closed in and eyed me down. He didn’t look or act surprised despite how dripping wet I was from the downpour outside.

I figured he had seen his fair share of peculiar guests coming in, just like me, and seeking solace in the only place close enough to the reservoir to reach on foot.

He pulled his cowboy hat down a tad and then rested his arms on the counter.

“Your car brok’ down, ye?”

“No, I…” I didn’t know what to say, so I changed the subject. “I’m sorry, can I use the phone? It won’t take long…”

The clerk squinted and leaned forwards. I could tell that he didn’t buy my excuse but still pushed the analogue phone over and let me phone Mark.

As if to make sure I wasn’t trying to pull his legs, the clerk observed me intently as I dialled Mark’s phone number and eagerly waited to hear his familiar voice in this unfamiliar place.

I kept my eyes fixated between the counter and the beat-down floorboards, swearing under my breath as no one answered the phone. Unbeknownst and as time ticked by, I clenched my jaw and grew impatient. Come on, Mark! Answer the damn phone!

But the line was dead.

I excused myself again and was about to dial Ann when I stopped midway and hesitated. She didn’t know about my little adventure and god forbid she should ever know I lied to her! I raised my eyes without meaning to and locked eyes with the clerk.

“You want me to tell you when?”

“I’m sorry?”

He pointed at the phone.

“Do you want me to tell you when your friend calls back? You can stay here until he does. I got an empty room—”

“No… no, that won’t be necessary. Uhm, do you perhaps know where I can get help, sir?”

“Oh, you wanna fix your car, ye?”

I nodded. The last thing I wanted was to return to the reservoir on my own. Besides, I did not have enough cash on me to pay for my stay here, either.

Moreover, Mark had a habit of not answering phone calls from unknown callers, and even if he eventually figured I was the one who called him, it would take far many hours for him to notice this than I wanted to stay here – this close to the reservoir, that is.

“Where it at? That car of yours.”

I gestured in the general direction of the reservoir and he knew way before I opened my mouth where I had been. I could tell right away. Something in his eyes changed – something that made him shudder.

He grabbed his beard and fell into a solemn silence. He wasn’t going to help me. I could almost hear his thoughts: “You brought this upon yourself.”

The clerk was one of the locals and he knew something wicked lay there, in the dark body of water surrounded by towering trees and dense thickets.

I stepped back, dejected, then turned my back to the reception and twisted the doorknob. The doorbell rang again. I barely stepped a foot outside, when the clerk asked a question I did not know the answer to.

“What were you thinking goin’ there, son?”

I stepped out.

There was no point in responding to the man. I was doomed either way. The door never slammed shut behind me, though. The clerk followed me outside and grabbed my shoulder, demanding to hear what made me come here and seal my own fate.

“Speak if you have a mouth! Why? Why did you come here!”

“Will you help me, sir, if I tell you the reason?” I briefly looked away. “Do you… do you think you can help me in that case?” The clerk averted my gaze and I broke into a bitter smirk. “See, you can’t answer—”

I never finished my sentence.

The clerk shoved something in my hand, tugged me closer and whispered.

“Get away from here and never look back. Do you understand? Never… look back.”

I knitted my brows and stared down. A car key? With my heart in my mouth, I raised my eyes to ask the stranger why he was giving me this but ended up watching him return to the guesthouse instead.

My eyes shifted to the only vehicle in the otherwise vacant parking lot. Without wasting more time, I rushed forwards and unlocked the car.

The inside smelled just like I imagined it would, like rubbery leather and people as old as the hills. I didn’t know why the clerk gave me his car keys and helped me, but I was forever grateful to him.

I started the motor and hit the road.

My heart raced out of control. All of this felt like a dream. A bad dream I was now waking up from.

I was going back home! I was safe from whatever lurked in the shadows and lay in wait! Tears of joy welled up in my eyes and trickled down my face.

I let out a cry, then another. Crying and laughing at the same time, unable to contain the mixed emotions taking control over every fibre of my being.

I was miserable.

But still alive…

A wide grin curled up on my dry, pallid lips as I drove through the bustling city and drew a deep breath.

Everything slowed down – even my tears.

Then it all became blurry. The city lights faded away and plunged everything into darkness.

I looked behind me through the rear-view mirror.

Before I knew it, I hit something and lurched forwards. My skull broke in half as I smashed my head on the steering wheel and a gush of blood washed over my face and obscured my view.

I blinked. Repeatedly.

Someone banged on the car window. I raised my half-open eyes covered in crimson and rolled the window down. Slowly. It required all my strength.

The old man did not attack me. He pointed to the left, across the windshield, and to something right in front of me. I never managed to twist my neck and take a look at whatever it was, although its presence was so strong that I felt its icy gaze on me with every fibre of my body.

My Ford tipped over the embarkment and the reservoir swallowed me into the depths.

This place, I never left it. That elderly man wasn't out to get me after all, he was trying to warn me…