Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep71: Episode 71: Criminal Profiler Horror

Episode Date: March 3, 2022

Today’s phenomenal feature-length story is ‘I'm a criminal profiler, but not even I can’t explain the gruesome events taking place at Fever Cabin’, a wonderful work by Daria Vasileva, kindly shared with me via NoSleep so I could read it here for you all with the author’s express permission. https://www.reddit.com/r/peculi_Dar/

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Psychology can be applied to help catch criminals through the act of criminal profiling. Perpetrators not only leave behind physical evidence of the scene when they commit a crime, they also leave behind clues about their behavior and personality. Originally introduced to investigate violent serial killers, where catching the perpetrator is a matter of great urgency.

profiling is a popular form of entertainment, as we shall see in tonight's feature-length story. I am a criminal profiler, but not even I can explain the gruesome events taking place at Fever Cavan, a phenomenal work by Darya Vasilebe. Now as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's story may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, and let's begin the silence in the car was stifling

a tight constricting rope of a marriage in shambles as we drove to my little uncle's cabin with a trunk full of food it was hard to believe that mere weeks ago things between Camilla and I had been fine only one thing seemed certain now and that was the fact that this damn lockdown

was the worst thing to happen to our relationship in over nine years of marriage We'd spent three weeks quarantined together in our apartment. I stared at walls while dealing with the sort of paperwork I usually handed off to subordinates, when Camilla tried to paint, with me inadvertently hovering. The confinement was driving us insane, causing us to lash out at each other in ways we'd never done before. When I could no longer stand all the insults and eye-rolls aimed at my general direction, I suggested a change of scenery.

What better cure for cabin fever than a stay a natural cabin out in the woods? The ultimate social distancing. Nature would give us some space from each other as well as the freedom to roam and stay active. Can you look at the fucking road, Paul? My wife waved an arm over the dashboard. It feels like you've caught every pothole on the way over here. Sorry, dear, I said, mentally counting the crimes of passion that had crossed my desk over the years. Nine out of ten times the victim knew the perpetrator. Eight out of ten an ex, a boyfriend or a

husband had lost control of their age. It didn't take as much as you think. Did she know that? No, they never did. My job as a criminal profiler took up 80% of my life. With never-ending business trips, overtime and lecturing gigs, I was almost never home. It hadn't been a problem in the past because we chose not to have kids and Camilla had her paintings and art shows to keep her busy. We enjoyed the odd evenings and weekends we got to spend together,

but our careers always came first. Initially, this common ground had made us a true power couple. Now, however, this was a fucking stupid idea. Camilla threw herself against a seat, folding her arms and pouting at the road in front of us. She always looked like a little girl when she did this, a prissy doll

with light wavy hair and large blue eyes. Her temper tantrums were one of the many things that had been endearing at first, but now drove me up the wall, all that and the swearing. I had enough of that at my job. I didn't need to hear fuck this and fucking that, every other word at home.

The GPS had cut out a good 20 minutes back, but luckily Camilla hadn't noticed. I was hoping we were heading down the right dirt road. I'd been up to my uncle's place every summer as a kid, and I thought I knew the way well. Everything seemed familiar enough, even the heavy fog from the nearby lake that gave the woods that signature dark, ominous vibe.

Paul, what the fuck is that? Camilla bolted upright, staring out her side window. Shit, lock the doors, lock the fucking doors, don't slow down, she cried. What is it? I demanded. driving steady and jerking my head to the right to see what she was shouting about. We were driving through a particularly sandy patch of road and the wheels on the pickup struggle with some of the dirt piles and pits.

A man stumbled out in front of the car, throwing two hands onto the hood. I hit the brakes, even though we were hardly moving at that point and stared at the stranger. The man looked a mess, covered in filth, grime and what looked like blood. His clothes were torn as though he'd just been more by a bear. There was true terror in those red-brimmed bruised eyes as he began beating his hands on the hood of our pickup.

A low, guttural moan filled the car as the man opened his mouth. It sounded more like a large machine grinding gears than a human voice. Jesus! I gasped, watching streaks of blood streaming down the man's chin as he continued wailing. His mouth was a gaping hole. filled with mucus and blood, but no tongue. Fucking drive! My wife screamed, grabbing at the wheel as I batted her away. Can you stop? I shouted back.

I'm not about to drive over this guy. I needn't have worried since the wounded stranger was already on the move, leaving a puddle of blood on the hood. He stumbled past my side window, twisting his neck to look back at the other side of the road. His whales grew louder as he lunged himself. with each step, hurrying to get away. I wanted to call out to the man, tell him to stay so that we could call him an ambulance, but Camilla was completely out of control in the seat beside me, screaming at me to drive, trying to push my leg down on the gas pedal. So I peddled it. After a couple

of false starts, we sped the rest of the way to the cabin. I had no time to think about directions as adrenaline course through my body and muscle memory took over. We arrived half an hour earlier than expected. I ushered a distraught Camilla inside and brought in our bags before heading back to the one spot of land that always got at least three bars of cell reception. I called 911 and told the dispatcher about the man we'd seen, the approximate location of the sighting, as well as the coordinates of my uncle's cabin. The operator let me know that a local officer might stop by later in the evening to question us. I took my time walking the perimeter before returning to the cabin.

The initial shock and fear had worn off, and a professional curiosity had started to blossom. I ran back through the scene in my mind, combing over all the details my visual receptors had passively documented. There's a lot of our brains process on a subconscious level that we don't know about, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to piece it all together after a traumatic event. What was the victim wearing?

It was hard to see under all the dirt, but the clothes had seemed ordinary enough, loose-fitting pants and a jacket, dark colours. What was the extent of the man's injuries? Again, hard to say. He was definitely stumbling a lot when on the move, but that could have been caused by exhaustion, not a limp. The only visible wound was the bloody mouth with a missing tongue. Why hadn't I helped him?

Well, it was all too easy to blame my wife's reaction, but the truth was that I'd panic too. I was meticulous in my analytical work, but had many more field training. That injured man was out in the middle of nowhere, with night approaching. It would have been entirely my fault if anything had happened to him before emergency services found him. I heard the cabin door open and closed, as I walked around to the front to see Camilla standing on the old wooden porch, staring at the pink sky as though searching for answers in the crinkled sunset. Did you get through on the phone? She asked.

Her voice raspy and tired. Yeah, they might send someone over to talk to us about what we saw. I walked up to her, attempting an embrace, but she shrank away from me, her tired eyes narrowing. We shouldn't have fucking come here. Her lips trembled as her voice grew accusatory. "'We're out in the middle of nowhere. "'Fuck, Paul. "'We're at how far from the place we saw that man?

"'Maybe twenty, thirty miles. "'How screwed a we if whoever did that to him comes for us to... "'Camilla, you need to calm down,' I said, "'al already knowing it was the wrong thing to say "'before the words were out of my mouth. "'No, we need to get the fuck out of here,' "'she snarled and we both winced at the malice in her voice. This wasn't us.

How did we become the stereotypical, bickering couple we swore we'd never be? All right, I snapped back. Do you want to get in the car and drive through that same jacked-up road? Only in the dark? We can go right now if that's what you want. Camilla hesitated, hugging her body defensively before giving me a resign shake of the head. Most likely the man that we saw was involved in some freak accident,

but less likely but also possible he had an unfortunate encounter with a wild animal least likely of all he was running from another human being i didn't see any ligature marks on his wrists and it's pretty damn near impossible to mutilate a live victim without restraints if you really can get over this we can head home around midday tomorrow that's when the fox settles but i swear camilla if we're going back to the city one of us needs to check into a home hotel room or something, because I cannot spend another day fighting like this. I was hyperventiling by the end of my speech, but it felt good to finally bring up the topic of separation, however temporary. Camilla opened her mouth in stunned silence, with pure heard written on her face. I'd never spoken to her so harshly before. Hi there, folks, a deep voice interrupted us. I turned to see a tall, used to her. You uniform police officers strolling down the road to the cabin. The man looked to be in his early forties, with grey flakes speckling his trim beard and dark sideburns poking out from his

police cap. He wore aviators, even though it was nearly dark, and it hadn't been sunny earlier in the day. There was a plight, duty-like smile plastered on his face, the type you might expect from a cashier informing you that your credit card had just been declined. My right-hand instinctively went to my side, grazing the concealed semi-automatic through my jacket. Oh, hello, officer, I replied. My name's Paul Fever, and this is my wife, Camilla. We weren't expecting you this soon. I'm sure you weren't, the man replied in a manner so artificially cheerful that I shuddered.

My name is Officer Harry Bullock. I may have to take your statement about the man you saw on the road today. Sure thing, officer, Camilla piped up, extending an arm to the cabin door. Perhaps you'd like to come in to discuss things further. Officer Bullock's false smile widened, exposing a thin line of yellow crooked teeth. He raised a hand up to his sunglasses and slid them down his nose, revealing two expressionless black eyes that ran down my wife's body. Why, thank you, ma'am, he said, taking a step forward toward the cabin.

Wait, stop. I cut him off. Could we please see your badge and ID officer? I don't mean to be rude, but an officer showing up to a secluded cabin on foot is a little lard. I know for a fact the nearest police station is about 30 miles up north. I went up there to consult on a case not too long ago. The man claiming to be an officer took a step back, readjusting his aviators and losing the false smile. I part my patrol car farther up the roll because I didn't want to get stuck in the sand, he said, turning to walk back. If you follow me, Mr. Fever, I can show you all my credentials.

No, I think I'll wait here for you to go fetch them. I called after the man who was already halfway up the path. You just knock on the door when you get back, officer. Turn into Camilla. I quietly said, Let's get back inside the cabin and check the locks on the windows and doors. I don't think that man was a cop. My wife's eyes grew wide with fear

As she looked from me to the retreating figure And then back at me again Fuck, Paul, what are we going to do? Don't panic, I said Guiding her inside and securing the dead ball behind us Old Johnny Fever built this place to be safe Against just about any threat you could imagine We'll ride out the night and head back as soon as the fog clears tomorrow

There's too much art stuff going on Camilla nodded and couldn't help thinking how beautiful she looked just then. The years had not taken away much. Her skin was still clear and smooth. Her eyes blue, playful and bright. Wavy strands of hair partially covered the side of her face and I instinctively moved to tuck them behind her ear. She didn't pull away this time,

allowing me to take her into my arms and hold her for several minutes. Do you think the man will come back? She mumbled into my shoulder. I don't know, I admit it. I don't think so. Well, not in disguise anyway. I thought to myself, not wanting to scare her. We set about unpacking the food, clothes, and other stuff we'd brought with us.

There was a lot of it since we'd intended to stay until the lockdown was caught off. We were both very quiet during this time, probably straining our ears to hear any knocks on the door. Part of me hoped I'd been wrong about Officer Bullitt, but after he'd not come back for over an hour, I was forced to accept that my suspicions were right. Something very strange was going on. I stared out the small kitchen window and finished up the dinner dishes, my mind heavy with the implications of that day. Paul, are you finished with those? Camilla stood in the doorway, wearing a negligé, or the negligence,

I should say. The light beige one that had practically hardwired my body to respond in anticipation. Yep, I replied. Why don't she come to bed? She said, her voice, a soft croon of tone so tender and seductive that I unwillingly felt my urgent fears slipping away. They came back when we'd finished making love and Camilla dozed off in my arms. It was a good feeling knowing the cover of my body was making her feel safe.

enough to relax. Having spent most of my adult life diving into the minds of the country's most sadistic killers, however, I knew just how flimsy of a shield limbs could be. I wanted to protect her, us, but the weight of our predicament lay heavy on my shoulders. We were miles away from help with only aged wooden walls between us and whatever was going on in the woods outside. I still have my Glock 19 semi-automatic, but that wasn't all that reassured. assuring. Truth be told, I didn't feel all that confident in combat. I'd done all the training, sure, but everyone knew us behavioural science guys were hired for brainwork, not muscle. I tried to stay awake, but it was difficult. My muscles were already relaxed, and the smell of Camilla's

hair had me drifting in and out of sleep. That's when the dream started, a hazy mix of the day's events, but amplified. The man on the road was there again. only this time with a long black tongue and no eyes or fingers. He tapped all ten bloody fingerstumps on the hood of our car, grinning. I expected Dream Camilla to scream in the seat behind me, but when I turned to look, my wife was missing her head. Officer Bullock was in one of the dreams too, standing just outside the second-story bedroom window,

tapping on the glass and smiling at my sleeping wife. I awoke at dawn, covered in a cold, sticky sweat that made me desperately crave a shower. Camilla slept soundly at my side, unfazed by the drenched bedsheets. Slipping out of bed, I quickly rinsed off in the bathroom and dressed before heading downstairs to the kitchen. I really needed some comfort food after my night of feverish dreams. I laid up the gas stove and popped on the coffee pot before scavenging for sandwich supplies. A wave of nausea hit me as soon as I opened the fridge. There it was, right in the middle of the top shelf,

tastefully staged in front of the ham, cheese and pickle jar, a freshly severed human tongue on a tea saucer. Suppressing a dry heave, I grabbed a napkin and carefully moved the saucer to one of the bottom shelves, obscuring it behind a stack of buttersticks. I knew I shouldn't be tampering with evidence I didn't want Camilla seeing the gruesome scene and freaking out As soon as I hidden the nasty thing

I turned off the stove and went out back to call for help There was no time to bother with 9-1-1 I still had the number of the police chief The nearest department and called him directly Oh, who's this? Chief Crawford's groggy voice barked into my ear Sorry to bother you, Earl, but this is an emergency. It's Paul Fever.

We worked together on that machete killer case a couple of years back. Oh, I had some shuffling. Then, more coherently. Yeah, of course, Agent Fever. What can I do to help the FBI? Did you happen to work late last night and get the report about the man with a missing tongue? I asked. You mean the call from the other day?

I was just leaving when I heard. one of the offices on duty calling in to say it was a false report. False report, I asked, bewildered. What do you mean by that? Well, the call gave very vague directions to the spot that supposed victim was seen. Chief Crawford replied, attempting to muffle a yawn. So why didn't anyone go out to interview the witness? I demanded, angered by the evidenting competency of the local police.

There'd be a big fuss once they'd realize they'd. They'd screwed over an agent. Hey now, Crawford's voice was defensive. My guys went out to the specific coordinates the witness left with the dispatcher. They found the cabin, but it was abandoned, bought it up shut. They tried to call the guy back, but his phone was disconnected. What the hell are you talking about, Earl? I'd begun pacing the perimeter again, staring into the depths of the forest as I tried to

wrap my mind around the chief's blatant lies. I'm the one who called in the report I'm currently at the cabin with my wife Some guy claiming to be an officer showed up today but he didn't have a badge and left This morning I woke up to find a goddamn human tongue in my fridge And you're telling me your people really came up here to check things out There was no reply on the other end

Only static I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the screen To see that it had begun flickering I shook the phone in an exasperation, not really thinking it would help but desperately hoping it might. After a few more flickers, the screen went black. I cursed the stupid device and headed back to the cabin, trying to wrap my mind round what I just heard. Something made me slow my stride. It was a feeling of being watched.

That familiar tickle at the back of my neck that, given my current predicament, made all the hairs on my body stand on end. I jerked my head left and right, straining to see in the thick, dark forest beyond my uncle's old vegetable beds. No, nothing there as far as the eye could see. This feeling wouldn't give, though, so I turned back to look at the house

and felt my lungs and hearts simultaneously freeze in my chest. Someone was watching me from the upstairs bedroom where I left my beautiful wife asleep by herself. Officer Harry Bullock looked down at me, just as I'd seen him in my dreams, only on the other side of the window. For once, his smile was genuine as he lifted his right arm and waved to me.

Part two, I sprinted up the rickety cabin stairs and barged into the bedroom, frantically searching for my wife. To my deep dismay, she was no longer dozing peacefully in bed. The uniform man claiming to be Officer Harry Bullock stood at the window, peering out into the woods. Camilla! I cried out, my voice bouncing off the wooden walls of the otherwise silent cabin. She's not here, the fake officer said, turning to face me. He hadn't changed his clothes since the previous evening and still wore the aviator sunglasses.

and police cap that obscured so much of his face. Where is she? I roared at the man. She was here just half an hour ago. What do you do to her? Was it really half an hour, Paul? That crooked leer again. That would be understandable, wouldn't it? Stepping out quickly, leaving your wife alone for a few minutes while you call for help.

What in the hell are you talking about? I spat back. "'clenching my sweaty palms into fists. "'I knew I had to calm down and act rationally. "'Bulloch's gun was visible in a holster "'comfortably perched on his hip, "'and I'd be of little use to Camilla "'if he turned this into a bloodbath.

"'Ah, time works a little differently "'round these parts, Paul,' "'Bulloch said, turning back to the window. "'It's a lonely sort of place sometimes. "'I'm glad to see a familiar face. "'Your face of all. people imagine my surprise we've met before then i said knowing that even if we had the disguise would prevent me from recognizing him oh only once the man grimaced not nearly enough time to get to know someone well is it

what do you want why nothing much paul i'd only stop by to check in on the misses gorgeous one she is oh you're a a lucky man. What did you do to my wife? I spoke, gritting my teeth as I tried to keep my cool. Oh, I was nowhere near quick enough, Paul. We all have scores to settle in this place. She's out dancing with the skeletons in a closet of her own. And with that, bullet warp past me and out the bedroom door.

I followed him downstairs, trying to think of something to say, Without so much as a nod in my direction, the intruding fake cop undid the deadbolt on the front door and walked out of the cabin. I stood at the kitchen window, watching him walk up the dirt road and out of sight. I could have followed him, screamed and shot at him, demanded to know where he'd taken Camilla. For better or worse, that wasn't how I operated under pressure. I had made a living thinking, processing and systematic. advertising before taking action. The best thing I could do was stay put for a bit and gather my thoughts to assess the situation.

I looked at the refrigerator, remembering the bloody tongue inside, and wondered if this was the cause of my lack of hunger or thirst or what? Something else. I hadn't eaten since lunch the previous day, and it was now, what, late morning, noon? I wasn't sure. I sat down at the old kitchen table and stared at my clasped knuckles, trying to tally up the facts. I had no phone, but I still had my handgun and car. My wife was missing, but it was unlikely she was taken by the stranger who seemed to come and go as he pleased.

A gruesome thought crossed my mind, sending waves of panic through my body. What if Camilla was missing, but her body was still somewhere in the cabin? It was an awful thought, but... I couldn't push it away. I had to investigate. I went back upstairs, processing my surroundings the way I would a crime scene. I checked behind the old furniture my uncle Johnny had crafted,

dropped to the floor to check under the bed, scrutinized the portable shower and sink for any signs of blood spatter, sniffed the air for bleach. Logically, I knew that I'd not been gone long enough for someone to kill my wife, dispose of her body, and cover up the evidence. but logic was no longer the cornerstone of my thought process.

Finally, I rummished through Camilla's things, hoping to find her phone, but it wasn't there. Giving up, I went downstairs to the only other bedroom, my old room. While the rest of fever cabin had only been abandoned for a couple of months since Uncle Johnny's death, a thick layer of dust that coated my childhood belongings indicated that no one had used the guest's room in years. I stood in the doorway, indulging in the fleeting pang of nostalgia that my old Superman bedspread and paperback detective novels evoked. Even in my current state of anxiety, flashbacks from my childhood summer days filled my mind with happy, tender thoughts. I realised I'd been standing there a while, grinning at my old bed like a fool, when what I really needed was to learn how Camilla had disappeared.

snapping out of it I repeated the diligent process of searching the room for traces of my wife nothing anxiety crawled its way back up my spine as I threw one last a praising glance at my old summer dwelling alarm bells went off as I finally registered the slight discrepancies I'd failed to pick up on while reminiscing I'd love Superman as a boy but I'll distinctly remember that my uncle had actually bought me Captain America sheets "'Ah, these were on sale, Polly,' Uncle Johnny had explained. "'It's practically the same thing.' "'Well, it wasn't, and I remember my nine-year-old self

feeling slightly disappointed, even though I appreciated my uncle trying to get something he thought I'd like. I'd never owned the Superman sheets that were now on the bed. Walking over to the desk, I picked up the pile of detective paperbacks. I'd love crime stories as a kid. Probably one of the reasons I ended up pursuing a degree in criminal justice, but most of the titles didn't ring any bells. These weren't my old books.

It was like some AI computer program had downloaded my childhood memories, crunched the numbers and produced this near-carbon copy of a room with a few of the blanks filled in wrong. I went back to the kitchen, scrutinizing every last detail. Had the table been square or round? Hadn't Uncle Johnny and I painted those stores white when they'd started to splinter? Was the man at the foot of the stairs supposed to be red or green? I could have driven myself insane,

running around the cabin playing a mentally ill version of Spot the Difference until I ended up banging my head on the wooden panels, muttering something about fake walls. That may have been the case if the school, screams from outside didn't snap me out of my impending psychosis. I ran out the back door, straining my ears to hear better. Paul! A distant cry.

Paul, come get me. Camilla. Paul! Followed by hysterical sobs, growing faint in the distance. I blindly follow the noise, stumbling into the forest, the tall grass pinching my ankles as I tripped over hidden branches and rocks. My surroundings grew dark as the trees thickened, closing in around me. All the while, Camilla's distress voice grew quieter and quieter,

until all I heard were the sounds of my own footsteps and frantic, panting breath. I stopped for a moment, realizing how stupid it was to run blindly into a forest without a compass or supplies. Even if I had caught up to whoever had taken Camilla away, what would I do to them? I had my gun, but what if they did too? If someone even took her, that is. Of course someone had. My wife wouldn't just wander off into the forest on her own, crying for me to come save her as part of some elaborate scheme.

Or would she? The train of suspicious thought made me turn around and slowly start making my way back. I could no longer hear Camilla's cries, and I was going to get lost if I kept at my fool, journey into the thick of the woods. The tiny patches of sky above me were fading to purple. Could it be night already? No, it must be clouds or something. I hadn't been running for more than 20 minutes. I was sure of it. I found the way out of the woods to be much more challenging than

my way in. Though I followed my footprints carefully, there was less and less room to walk between the trees. I was at the point of squeezing through a triangle of birches when my mind. I was at the point of squeezing through a triangle of birches wing my nose nearly brushed a black leech on the tree bark in front of me I shuddered jerking my head back, hitting on the trunk of the tree directly behind me

I cursed reaching to rub the back of my skull in the hopes of soothing the sharp collision pain to my horror something that was definitely not my hair grazed my fingers something cold and slippery

squishy, a fucking leech. Panicking, I gripped the vile thing with my fingers, desperately trying to claw it off the back of my head, but it wouldn't budge. I hopped around in a manner befitting a tribal dancer, wincing and moaning as hysteria rose in my throat. The parasite wouldn't dislodge its tiny teeth, and the spot where it latched on was beginning to ache.

In the end, I resolved to just get out of it. of the dam forest and deal with the creature back at the cabin, where I could light a match and set fire to the thirsty sucker's head. When I snapped out of my anxious leech haze, I realized that the woods had grown significantly darker. If I didn't get out of there soon, I'd be stuck outside in the merciless pitch black of night. I squinted at the ground, hoping to retrace my footsteps. When I saw, my heart turned to stone before dropping to the bottom of my own. already churning stomach. Thousands of small black shapes were slowly making their way toward my feet.

Fat, slithery, hungry mouths, ravenously seeking out a patch of free skin to latch onto. The closest leeches were already at my boots. I staggered back, the ground beneath me no longer a crunchy patch of grass, but a nauseating carcophony of squish. And then it started raining leeches. The slimy bodies hailed down on me from the branches above, latching onto my head, face and neck.

At the same time, the forest floor swirled in black as the tiny predators came for my shoes and legs. I reached for my weapon as a last ditch effort, hoping the noise of gunfire might scare the army away, but had barely managed to pull back the slider when a particularly thick leech bit down on the skin between my fingers, causing me to drop my semi-automatic. The swarm of leeches had me covered head to toe, and I was entirely powerless to stop them.

The ones on my head busied themselves with sucking on my closed eyelids, crawling inside my ears, up my nose and filling my screaming mouth. I let out muffled cries, flailing around blindly, trying to rid my throat and eyes of their sharp, jelly-like bodies. It was getting harder to breathe. My mind flashed back to all the times I sat at my desk, pouring over strangulation cases in a calm, orderly fashion. Now that I was one of those victims, I felt the helplessness, all-encompassing pain and pure terror of a human body struggling for air. Just when I was on the brink of losing consciousness, the bloodthirsty bugs began screeching. It was the strangest sound I ever heard, a choir of tiny vocal cords vibrating in shrill

unison. I took another shot at batting away the leeches on my eyes, surprised to find they fell away with ease. I opened my aching, swollen eyes, and saw a purple light filling the dark forest around me. The glow grew brighter as the screams of the leeches bombarded my eardrums. My vision cleared enough for me to see that I'd been enveloped in a painless fire that seared the remaining bugs on my body to ashes, silencing them forever. The purple blaze didn't burn me all my clothes. Instead, the longer I stood in the fire, the better I could see, the less pain I could feel.

I stretched my bloody arms and torn sleeves out in front of me, watching the wounds on my skin healing beneath the warm, flickering flames. Once the lacerations had scabbed over, the flames dimmed to a soft purple glow that radiated from my skin and illuminated the woods around me. "'Polly, what did I tell you about wandering in the woods on your own boy?' I'd recognize that voice anywhere. But it couldn't actually be—could it? "'Uncle Johnny?' I uttered. My voice bewildered, but also hopeful, childlike.

There he was, casually leaning against a nearby tree trunk. Johnny Fever, not the iconic TV show DJ, but a definite fan of his, only younger than I'd ever known him to be. This must have been what he'd looked like in his 30s. The younger version of the uncle I'd known and loved wore a red plaid shirt, a pair of Levi's, and a polished set of brown cowboy boots. He was lean and muscular, with a sharp face, clean shave, and a mischievous glint in his eye. I could finally see the family resemblance my aunts had always fussed over. Uncle Johnny and I looked like we could be brothers.

"'Pauly, don't expect me to come bailing you every time you get into trouble,' he chuckled, spitting chewed tobacco on the forest floor. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. "'Am I dreaming?' I asked. "'I wish you were, Sonny. I wish you were.' "'What is this place?' "'And you?' "'I hesitated.

"'You're dead.' "'Ah, some sort of dead, buddy,' he grinned. "'Pauly, look. "'I love to stay in Chattanoa, "'but it's not easy for us just to show up for the living like this. "'I always had a soft spot for your kid, "'so couldn't let you parents. without a chance to fight, you know, but, well, I can't stay much longer."

Uncle Johnny stood up straight and turned his back to me. I'll show you the way out of the woods, but you're on your own after that, champ. Ask me what you need to know while we walk, and I'll do my best to help you understand. Wait, I exclaimed, searching the tall grass for my issued weapon. I need to find my gun. "'It's not here anymore. "'Whichever bastard you pissed off made sure of that,' "'my uncle said, already walking away from me.

"'With the purple glow lighting out path, "'my uncle and I started making our way out of the murderous woods. "'We walked in silence for a while "'as I gathered my thoughts into semi-coherent questions. "'What is this place?' I finally asked. "'Ah, poorly, I can't pretend to know something like that. Uncle Johnny sighed. But if I had to guess,

it's a place where the walls between the world of the living and the world of the dead are paper thin. In the cabin? I had to know. It's not really ours, is it? Is that what you see? Uncle Johnny turned to me, smiling ear to ear. Whenever a mortal stumbles into a place like this,

they have some sort of anger, a safe spot that keeps them rooted to the world of the living. living. Closer you are to that anchor, Polly, the less power they have against you. Who do you mean? I asked as the trees started to clear and I caught a glimpse of the cabin in the distance. Spirits, Polly, restless, cruel, vile souls. You've gathered the whole lot, haven't you? I can't pretend to know everything, but I sense they'll do anything to get you back inside these woods just to tear your limb from limb. They have Camilla.

I felt my stomach not up. If the cabin's a safe spot, how did they take her from there? The cabin is your safe spot, Polly. Uncle Johnny replied. She has to find our own anchor to the living world. If she has one, you have to understand something. Everyone experiences this place differently. This isn't the gate to heaven or hell, but it's a path somewhere in between.

Morals are not usually welcome, but sometimes they're not given much choice. We were out of the woods now. I continued walking, but Uncle Johnny didn't follow. When I turned to ask him if this was as far as he could go, he was already gone. I still had so many questions. I walked back to the cabin, mulling over the events of the day. The fake officer, Camilla's disappearance, the leeches.

and Uncle Johnny. Oh, and let's not forget the damn tongue in the fridge. If logic was to help me navigate my way out of this place, it'd have to be a different kind, one that accepted the impossible as reality. The first thing I did when I got to the cabin was march upstairs and find my laptop. I was afraid it had to stop working like my phone had,

but it seemed to be functional. Perhaps trying to connect to the outside world was what had fried my phone in the morning, so I quickly ejected my 4G modem from the laptop. I might need it more later on. I brought up my work files and located the folder for the machete killer I profiled when working with Chief Earl Crawford's local police department. How could I have not pieced it together sooner?

Women had started disappearing from their tents at campsites not far from these very woods. The victims all fit to certain type. Petit, light-haired women with blue eyes. Just like Camilla, I thought, feeling my inside's churn. Their bodies would show up weeks after the disappearances. The killer would stage the bodies near campsites, using handcuffs to hang the victims from trees. The corpses were always found to be long dead and heavily mutilated.

My team had come up with a profile that helped law enforcement bring three men in for questioning. Chief Crawford had called in a personal favour, asking me to interview all three men to see who best fit the profile. It had taken me approximately half an hour to say with almost complete certainty that Henry Briarwood fit the profile to a T. A 47-year-old delivery man who lived with an overbearing mother, who had two prior charges for impersonating a police officer and attempted rape. Henry Briarwood, who'd been seen lurking around the crime scene campsites, Henry Briarwood, who had hung himself in prison the day after the jury ruled him guilty on five counts of murder and sentenced him to life in prison. I now knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the true identity of the mysterious officer Harry Bullard.

Part three was growing light outside the cabin. I hadn't slept and I didn't need to. No hunger, no need to use the bathroom. I stared at the time on my laptop, realizing it was stuck on 5pm of the day my wife and I had arrived at the cabin. If I was to guess, that was around the same time we saw the man without a tongue. I shut the laptop and put it away. I was now armed with information, but little else.

My mind hummed with the realization that fake officer Bullock was actually the spirit of Henry Briarwood, a very dangerous man I'd helped put behind bars. The fact that he was just one of the hundreds I'd testified against chilled me to the bone. How many had ended their lives in jail cells or died in prison fights. Were there nefarious manifestations also dwelling in the woods outside fever cabin, just waiting for me to come out? Both of Briarwood's disguised appearances made sense now. On the first day he'd tried to lead me away to a non-existent patrol car

and on the second he'd hoped I'd chase him out of the cabin demanding to know where he'd taken Camilla. He definitely wanted me out in those woods. I wasn't sure if it was really Camilla I'd heard screaming in the woods or yet another ploy. In any case, I didn't have time for theories. I needed to find my wife and to do this, I'd have to leave the safety of the cabin and face whoever or whatever was waiting for me. in those woods. I did something then that I can't quite explain, a purely intuitive action performed with no real thought behind it.

I went over to Uncle Johnny's old closet, which Camilla hadn't yet utilised, and began sorting through my dead uncle's clothes. His 80-year-old self was a much heavier man with a simpler taste of fashion than the cerebral Uncle Johnny from the woods. It took me quite a while to find some of his older things. and finally I found it.

The worn, patchy denim jacket my uncle had worn during the summers I'd come to stay with him. He would always put it on when going out into the woods, even on the hottest days. The denim had grown soft over the years and I was careful to put the jacket on without ripping it. I walked over to the mirror and noticed a faint purple glow radiating from the fabric. Somehow that made sense in this bizarre other world. I couldn't stay in my safe spot, but I could bring a totem with me when I went out looking for Camilla. I scavenged the cabin for more useful supplies or weapons, finding one of my uncle's rusty old folding knives in a wind-up flashlight. I was really hoping to find a compass, but there wasn't one in sight.

Perhaps things like time and direction just don't matter here. Maybe if you just walk long enough and far enough, you get where you needed to go. With these thoughts in mind, I stepped outside into the bright daylight. I worked on winding the flashlight as I walked toward the woods. If time kept hopping around the way it had before, nightfall would come sooner rather than later. I held my breath upon crossing the threshold of the forest, half expecting to see something or someone lurking about. Maybe more of my childhood phobias would pop up, I thought, shuddering at the thought of a murderous clown stalking me through the woods. Nothing of the sort happened. The woods were as I'd always known

them as a boy, tall, dark, and mysterious. The sounds of fluttering leaves and birds chirping chirping lulled my anxieties, but only a little. As I walked on, my thoughts were on the briarwood case from two years ago. I would never forget the violent jolt of sitting down at my desk and seeing Camilla's face staring back at me from the fat case file on my desk. That raw stab of fear still burns in my memory, the terrifying flutter of, what if? The girl in the photo had not been my wife, but a local student by the name of Katie Reeder, a beautiful, talented young woman who was finishing up a degree in wildlife conservation when she first went missing from a campsite not far from these woods. Local news had lapped up the story,

and I felt uneasy seeing Katie's pictures on my newsfeed during my newsfeed during my. in those first couple of weeks that she'd gone missing. The resemblance was uncanny. The same light, wavy hair as Camillas, those blue eyes, always slightly doe-eyed with wonder, faint crow's feet hinting at her life spent smiling and laughing. It made me sick when they discovered Katie's nude, mutilated body,

hoisted up in a tree with cheap handcuffs. A bloodstained machete wedged in a patch of trunk below her dangling feet. Katie was the second victim to be disposed of in this signature manner and the behavioural science guys were brought in to draft a profile of the unsub. As always, there were so many creeps that fit the bill. The police felt overwhelmed trying to figure out exactly which prior sex offender, stalker, or jealous ex, actually committed the crime. They'd narrowed it down to three guys,

and Henry Broward was the last of the interviews. I was positive he could be. the perpetrator the moment I saw him. The other two men had been timid, fidgety, and ultimately ashamed of the prior convictions that had landed them on the suspect list. Briarwood was the essence of cool as he talked about himself with unrestrained delight. After learning all I could about his background, domineering mother, absentee father figure, problems maintaining a healthy relationship with women, so on. I got him talking about the crimes. "'Have you been following the machete killer case?'

"'I'd asked in my most dismissive tone. "'I needed Broward to think I was just going through the motions, "'to feel slighted at my ambivalence to his performance as a killer. "'I baited the very core of his narcissism, "'secretely registering every twitch, every stir of body language. "'Well, it's hard to miss it. "'It's on the news and everything. "'Nothing like that ever happens around.

here he said trying to read my face those poor girls you know hmm I nodded taking out my phone pretending to answer a text don't know why they brought me in though Raiward offered growing visibly tense he'd enjoyed the first half of the interview more talking about his background had made him feel important oh you know routine check-up stuff I replied, my eyes still glued to the phone. "'It's very gruesome. Slid in their throes like that, no,' he half-mumbled to himself. After a few more questions, I bid Henry Breyer would goodbye, allowing the interrogation team to take over. They got plenty of useful information out of him, but that wasn't my job.

More popular movies and books have always depicted my career as this all-encompassing obsession with serial killers, but in truth, I was mostly an analyst. I learned everything I could about the unsub, running through an internal database of a hundred similar cases. When I showed up in court for the Briarwood case, they asked me only one question. Did the defendant fit the profile? Well, Henry Briwood fit the profile to a T, and two years ago, I let the court know it. A couple of days after the conviction, he hung himself in his prison cell. Predictably, the woods grew darker the further I walked. As I squeezed through a narrow path in a thicket of birches,

all around me the sounds of nature began to die down. Soon I was walking in silence, listening to my hammering heart and uneven footfall. I took this to me that I was getting far enough from my safe spot for enemies to start trying their luck, and slowed my pace to a halt in a small clearing. "'Camilla!' I called into the forest, flinching at the haunting echo that ran through the stillness. "'Camilla!' I cried out again, louder this time. "'Why did you betray me?' A voice whispered in my ear, and I jumped forward, spinning around, to see my wife's naked corpse staring at me with tears in her eyes.

"'Camilla!' I gasped. "'Oh, no, God, no, no! cried, gripping my head at the sight of my wife's swollen, decomposing flesh. She was all black and blue now, her limbs covered in bruises and cuts, a pair of handcuffs hanging off her left wrist. There was a deep horizontal gash in her throat, with streaks of dry blood running down to her chest and stomach. I cannot rest, she said. Because of you, I cannot rest. After a double-take, I realized that it wasn't actually my wife.

The resemblance was striking, but as the initial shock wore off, I was able to spot the slight difference in chin, nose length, and ear shape. The eyes, though, those deep pools of sky were next to identical. I was about to respond when another voice whispered in my ear. We cannot rest, because of you we are trapped here. Horrified, I staggered back to see another light-haired dead woman beside me. She was beaten so badly that both her eyes were swollen shut. We want to rest.

A new voice. A different dead girl had stepped into the clearing. Her new body a canvas splattered with torture and pain. More and more deceased women stepped out of the woods, chanting variations of, It's your fault, and let us rest at me. A dozen corpses that looked like my missing wife had encircled me. Some were in the earlier stages of decomposition.

Others had already lost parts of their skin. One victim was almost entirely skeletal, with maggots swarming the crevices of her skull. The victims of Henry Breyerwood. Katie Reader, I croaked, turning back to the first girl who continued staring at me with Camilla's sad blue eyes. I am so sorry. Katie's expression was vacant as she approached me,

bringing her hands up to my neck, clasping it gently. The other victims followed suit, and soon I was completely enveloped by dead women, gripping at my neck, shoulders and wrists. Their touch was cold and devastating. I felt all of it then Every single one of their death experiences The shock

The horror, the desperate will to survive their imminent deaths The stabbing pain of every bruise and cut Their thoughts were the worst My mind spun with flashes of mothers Fathers, friends and pets Katie's last dying thought Had been that she hadn't called her mother enough he drug me and took me to his shed not far from here katie spoke her broken gaze locked on mine he waited for me to wake up before he started i was so scared oh god

I swallowed as countless ice fingers strengthened their grip on me. One of the girls began tugging on the sleeves of Uncle Johnny's old jackets. I knew I had to resist, pushed them away, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from Katie. She moved in close enough for me to smell the early stench of death on her breath. He never said a word. I cried and screamed and cursed and tried to kick him, but the restraints were two ties. Then he brought out the knives, and I fell silent. More hands were pulling at my jacket now, desperately trying to claw it off my back.

I held on to it with both hands, elbowing some of the victims who began moaning as they drew in closer. Suddenly, Katie's grip on my throat tightened, a menacing snarl contorting her features. You're the reason we're trapped here, reliving the horrors of these woods, every single day. We cannot sleep, we cannot rest. We are trapped in our living nightmares, beaten, killed and hung from trees over and over and over. I tried to say something, but Katie's chokehold was tighter than a noose. For the second time since arriving at fever cabin, I was dying from exfixiation. I had to act fast. I pulled my uncle, old folding knife from my pocket, closing my eyes before I jabbed it inside Katie's stomach.

I opened them once she'd loosened her hold on my neck. It was the leeches all over again. The moment the blade pierced the skin, the apparition began screaming as purple flames enveloped her body. I watched the once beautiful face of Katie Reeder turned to charcoal. The other corpses kept coming, clawing at my face. neck. Their eyes were feral, faces contorted, bodies capable of remarkable strength. I went into a panic frenzy, slashing the knife left and right in an attempt to defend myself. The screeches were deafening as, one by one, the victims of Henry Broward lunged at me,

impaling themselves on the knife-blade and combusting in purple flames. When the last of them had burned up, I fell to the ground. My body convoyed. It, vulsing its sobs as I ran my hands through Katie's pile of ashes. I hadn't wanted to inflict any more pain on those girls. Every one of them, a life stolen away. Ah, it's good to see you actually have a conscience. Briarwood stepped into the clearing. He was no longer wearing the ludicrous disguise,

and was dressed simply in a grey sweater and jeans. You fucking monster! I screamed at him, jumping to my feet with my knife at the ready. That knife won't do much against me, Paul. I'm already dead, remember? He laughed. I'm not even here to hurt you.

You just need to understand some things. What have you done with Camilla? I demanded, desperate for some sort of hint at my wife's whereabouts. Hmm, funny you should mention her. Briwood grinned, raising a patch of legal pad pages. Ran into her earlier. She asked me to pass these along. He walked up to me and placed the pages in my hand.

You should probably go back to the cabin for now, Paul. Don't want to try your luck in these parts twice in one night. What do you want for me? I cried in exasperation as Henry Briarwood turned to walk away. Look over my case again, he replied, throwing me a final glance. You taught to me for 20 minutes, Paul. Is that really long enough to get to know somebody? And with that, Briarwood disappeared into the woods.

I considered chasing after him, but for the first time since sleeping two nights ago, I felt exhausted. Was there a hidden logic behind this as well? Did I need to be near the cabin to reach out? Uncle Johnny's jacket glow brightly as night descended on the silent woods. I sat down on a tree stump in the clearing,

trying to gather my thoughts. Shadows creep the forest floor as tree branches swayed in the silent wind. With bated breath, I waited for whatever came next. I'd face another thousand corpses and swim in a pool of leeches if it meant I could get my wife back. Camilla! I looked down at my shaking fist to see I was clenching the sheets of paper briar would have given me. The torch was lying on the ground not far from my feet.

Picking it up, I wound up the lever and turned it on. And relief hit me like a rain shower after a hot summer's day. It was a letter in Camilla's handwriting. She's alive, I whispered into the dead of night, holding the papers to my chest. Part 4. Camilla's letter. I'm sorry I went away. I woke up and you weren't there, but someone else was. I should have felt some sort of panic, maybe caught out for you. I could hear you walking around downstairs, rummaging through the fridge. I couldn't move, though.

It was as though a tiny hundred pins were holding me in place, gently prickling my spine. But I wasn't afraid. All I could think was how much the girl sitting at the foot of the bed looked like me. He had the same eyes, nose, even her thumbnails were short and stubby like mine. She was much younger, however, a teenager. Her face was alive with emotion, tears pooling in her eyes. The way she looked at me with so much silent affection made me feel like a child who'd just learned to tie their shoelaces.

It's going to sound strange, but something inside my head glicked in place and I knew who she was. "'mom?' I mouthed. "'Not quite able to produce a sound. "'I never talk about my adoption, "'and most people would never guess how often I've lain awake, "'staring at the ceiling, just wondering who she had been, "'where she had gone. "'I suppose all adopted kids secretly hope

"'that there's a justifiable reason "'for being denied the love and care of the person who made us. "'Still, there was no relief in knowing "'my biological mother was dead. and again I can't explain how I knew this to be true but I did downstairs I heard one of the doors slam as you went outside and the girl reached for my hand the moment my mother's soft pale skin greys mine the bedroom disappeared within a blink of an eye I was no longer sitting on

bed sheets but a knitted blanket on the ground beside a lake in the woods despite the fog I felt no chill "'Johanna.' "'The woman still sat at my feet, holding my hand. "'That's what I named you when you were just a bean.' "'What happened?' I asked, "'trying to stif all the emotions bubbling at the back of my throat. "'I can't blame them for not telling you about it.'

"'My mother sighed. "'I was already seven months into the pregnancy, "'though it barely showed. "'I was only sixteen, and my parents wanted me to abort or to give you up for adoption, and so I just packed up and left my hometown behind. Well, my parents never so much as acknowledged my adoption, though I was the only light-haired member in a giant family of second-wave Italian immigrants.

I'd try to ask questions, but they were always met with defensive, guilt-inducing retorts. How could you think that, Camilla? Well, I had no idea where to go or what to do. My mother continued. I was very hormonal when I left home, and already seriously doubted I'd be able to keep you, and me off the streets.

I didn't have much in the way of money, only enough for three or four meals. I'd hitchhite my way to an off-road diner. My mother's eyes never left mine as she spoke. Even though the things she was telling me were incredibly sad, there was an air of removal about her, like she was telling the story of someone very distant, a friend of a friend.

I still couldn't say anything, not until she finished her story. I took their cheapest meal, some eggs and toast. I refused the coffee because I'd read to somewhere it was bad for the baby. I was sitting there trying to come up with a plan, figuring I should get one last ride to the nearest city and find a women's shelter. I'll be safe there until after the berth. That's when he slid into my booth and introduced himself as Jack.

He wasn't much older than me, early twenties at most. Not handsome by any means, but not about. sad looking either. He was confident and well-spoken, asking if I was okay. It was kindness from a stranger, and I took it. Not long after that, I was in his car. I didn't register it at first, that subtle transformation that had taken place when we were no longer in a public place. Jack was no longer cheerful, and his voice had lost its softness. It made me uneasy, and I stopped making small talk, wishing the city lines would appear. That's when he turned off the main road and into the woods.

Though a part of me knew what this meant, a hopeful sight tried to ask what he was doing, where he was going. He only roared at me to shut up. He was sweating and agitated him. After maybe 20 minutes of awful bumps and swerks, he stopped the car near a remote wooden shack in the woods. At this point, I knew I was in a lot of trouble,

and fear had made me irrational. I jumped out the car and I tried to run, but I was carrying low, and every lunge forward felt as though my pelvis would shatter. I got as far as the edge of the woods before he pushed me belly first to the forest floor. The pain of the fall was nothing compared to the horror of knowing it hurt not only me, but you inside me. Instead of getting up to run, I rolled over on my back and stopped screaming. I think I even stopped breathing as I waited for you to give me a kick to let me know you were okay. Just as I finally felt your movement, the man grabbed my legs and grabbed me back to the shed. I resumed screaming and tried to jerk my legs away by kicking, but he was too strong.

He lifted me onto a wooden table, restraining me with rope and shoving rags in my mouth so I wouldn't scream. I struggled to breathe through my nose, which was filling up with mucus because I was crying. I watched Jack fumble with something in the corner of the shed. He didn't say a word But I could see he was tense I wished I could talk to him Plead with him to spare me Spare us

He didn't look as though he wanted to go through with it When he turned around I saw he had a butcher's knife in his hands He held it awkwardly and he stepped forward Then hesitated And came up to my head Every time I tried to scream The rag in my mouth seemed to suck more air from my lungs

Then he brought down the knife and the right side of my head erupted in pain. Through water-filled ice, I saw him holding my bloody ear in his left hand, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched me writhe in agony. That's when a different, all-encompassing pain exploded in my midsection. It was my first contraction, and it was enough for the water to break and spill out of me, pooling between my legs before running down the sides of the table. A look of horror crossed the man's face, and he sat aside the knife. He ripped open my blouse and stared at my hardened belly.

He were kicking, and when he saw one of your legs jab at my belly button, he cursed. He began pacing the shed, muttering something to himself and running his hands through his hair. I could see large, dark sweat stains on the underarms of his sweater. The second contraction, combined with my limited air supply and steady blood loss, knock me out cold. The fur brought me back, and I saw that I was no longer in the shed, but in the back of the car with a rag still in my mouth. My body was in shivers, and my eyes couldn't focus. I wasn't sure if it was the fall, ear removal, or something else, but I knew then I was dying. The next and final time I came to

I saw a woman and felt water being splashed on my face Cars zoomed past and the woman was shouting something I let go then knowing you were safe allowing myself to slip into the sweet unconsciousness of death Once I was removed from the torches of the physical world

I watched them lowered my limp body into an ambulance where the paramedics performed an emergency C-section to get you out. I could tell by their faces they didn't think you'd live, but you were a fighter. I wanted so much to go with you to make sure they took care of you in the hospital, but I couldn't. Not long after the ambulance drove off, I was back inside the shed,

watching the man who claimed to be Jack, sitting in a corner, crying. Ever since then I've been trapped in these woods, never making it far from the shed. The man was gone for a long time and I think he moved away after what he did to me. It's hard to tell how much time passes in these woods, but when he came back with another girl, he was at least 20 years older and entirely cool and collected.

After his return, girl after girl died in that shed, joining me in these woods. We all look the same, and we all feel the same thing. We spend our days walking this forest, mourning our lost lives, wishing to see our loved ones out in the world of the living. But we can't leave and we can't rest. Not until the man who did this to us continues to roam free, eyeing his next victim.

After my mother had finished her story, we sat in silence for a long time. I had so many questions, but couldn't quite phrase a single one of them. After a while, my mother asked me about my life. So I've been telling her, little by little. It was more of a dialogue when I told her about my childhood and teenage years, since my mother would keep interrupting, wanted to know if my favourite ice cream had been mint chip like hers, or if I like drawing as she'd done.

It's been a little sad since I've caught up to the adult years. She just listens, but she has nothing to compare it to as she essentially died a child. When we're not talking, she watches me. me paint. Sometimes she'll sketch with me and I can see that had she pursued the challenge, she would have grown into a great artist. Oh, Paul, I felt you in the woods the other night. I felt you dying and wanted to help you, but no matter which way I ran, your cries grew more distant. I beg my mother to take me to you, but she just shook her head, suddenly serious. Your husband is the only one that can help us, she said.

He got it wrong once, but he won't this time. I believe in him. Paul, I held my breath as you teetered on the brink between life and death, and cried with relief when I felt you safe again. I've passed along this letter in hopes that it will find you. I don't know if you feel it, but I do. I think the girls here feel it too. The trees are a buzz with it.

The water ripples carry it onto the shore of the lake. We're nearing the pinnacle of whatever this entire journey has been about. There's a reason we ended up in these woods, and it wasn't just our constant quarrels over the past few weeks. In a twisted way, this entire thing started with me, or more precisely with my biological mother, Leanne Somerson, dying 32 years ago on the day of my birth. It started with me, Paul, but it can only end with you.

I love you. Camilla. I read the pages of Camilla's letter over and over until sunrise, stopping only to wind up the flashlight. Eventually, I tucked the letter away into one of the pockets of Uncle Johnny's jacket and started making my way back to the cabin. The forest was alive with the sounds of birds, insects and leaves ruffling in the wind. Combined, the noises sounded like a consistent low hum, almost a cheer. The woods were egging me on, sending me off on a mission, but also eagerly anticipating my return.

Could I pull off what they were asking? I'd already been mistaken once. The new information about the machete killer's timeline had just blown the case wide open. How did the investigators and my team get it so wrong with Henry Briarwood? The true unsub's reign of terror had spanned decades and probably involved several different states. Both his Emo and Signature had evolved over the years, and I wouldn't be surprised if this guy staged the bodies in trees, not as an act of some quick, twisted fantasy, but as a distraction. Henry Briarwood had been tried on five counts of murder, and suspected of maybe another two victims. There had been far more women in that clearing.

Some were skeletal, which probably meant their remains had never been found. I had a choice. I'd have to leave Fever Cabin and go back to the city to access the full case files and process the suspect list from scratch. Part 5 I often think about the last summer I stayed with Uncle Johnny. We made quite the pair.

Me, a sulky 17-year-old, denied the company of his peers for two months and him, a wheezy 60-year-old man who liked smoking, watching TV, and occasionally building things out of wood. There were a few things more dull to my teenage self than nature and hearing an old man talk about how much bigger herring were back in the day though I'm sure it wasn't exactly the best company with all my eye-rolls and sarcastic remarks either. One day we were out on the lake when he heard gunfire. It wasn't uncommon in these parts of the woods.

There were multiple campsites on one end and a popular hunting lodge at the very heart of the forest. Damn little man gonna scare away all the day. "'Uncle Johnny grumbled, throwing another fist of crumbs at the water as he shifted his weight. "'He gained quite a few pounds over the years, and I was surprised the old wooden bench he constructed still held up so well. "'Little man?' I raised an eyebrow watching the ducks fighting over the crumbs. "'It takes a little man to feel big when he kills something, poorly.' Uncle Johnny had this way of nodding as he spoke, a visual underscore to a point he was making. A smaller man feels the more blood he's willing to spill to feel bit.

I think that was the first time I really started thinking about why people killed anything, a thought process which eventually led me down my chosen career path. Even today, with all the different correlations and conclusions we've drawn from criminal behavioural patterns, at the back of my mind I still hear Uncle Johnny talk about little men and what they'll do to feel big. The lockdown took me by surprise. So much had happened since Camilla and I left the city that I was hardly prepared for the empty streets,

closed shops and occasional mass pedestrians scurrying in and out of buildings like rats. The GPS had started working again. I let it guide me down the shortest route to our apartment. As much as I wanted to grab some things and keep going, the limits of the normal world were starting to kick in. I barely made it to my bed. before knocking out. I don't know how long I slept,

but the world felt very different when I finally woke up. I was ravenous enough to find an old can of beans in one of the cupboards and gobble it down straight from the tin. As I ate, the events of the past few days played back in my mind,

each one more bizarre than the last. Was I going crazy or was my wife really hanging out with a bunch of dead girls in the woods? I laughed then. first a nervous laugh then a full madman's roar there had been too much nervous energy constricted in my chest and it felt good to let go after calming down i got out my laptop and connected to the wi-fi the time and date updated showing me impossible numbers a month that was how long it had actually been since camilla and i packed up our things and rode off in the late afternoon bickering like a married couple from the panels of a boomer comic. I guess that's what snapped my mind back in place. Despite the absurdity of it all, the mere fact that so much time had passed proved the otherworldly. If I was only a

crazy man stumbling around in the woods, hallucinating a supernatural crime drama, how would I not starve to death in that time? I grabbed my backup semi-automatic, plenty of ammo, and drove to my office. The entire building was in lockdown. The sleepy guard, shook his head at me, pointing at his face mask. After a frustrating back and forth through the glass, with me waving my badge and claiming urgency, the guy let me in. I headed straight to the storage room where I kept all the files for the machete case. I had a lot of the scans on my laptop, but not all. The storage box contains something of immediate importance to me now, a timeline of the crimes. According to the lead investigators on the case,

The first machete victim had been killed in late 2016. That timeline had factored into my profile, no doubt, as did the signature staging of the victim's bodies in trees. Having learned about the death of Camilla's biological mother, however, I realised just what sort of cunning individual we were dealing with. My initial profile had indicated a man with an average to lower IQ, who struggled in relationships with women, had a menial job, prior convictions of sexual assault,

and so on. Well, that was Henry Breyerwood all right, but it was not the profile of a killer who'd managed to evade capture for three decades, evolving as he went along. No, we were dealing with a chameleon, someone who'd started young and honed his craft over the years, someone who'd kept a low profile for most of his life,

and knew how to make women feel comfortable around him. A man who probably had a wife, kids, maybe hosted some little league games, someone who was meticulous and fully in control of his urges, never letting mishaps get in the way of his work. Something must have happened in the man's life in 2016, something that triggered a killing spree that he disguised with a new machete killer signature. As much as I wanted to hole up for the next three weeks, reading over every crime scene and coming up with a new profile from scratch, I knew that time would not allow for it. there were greater forces at play here, forces that had Camilla. So I pulled up the documents on the other two suspects,

the two men I'd dismissed almost instantly for not fitting the original profile. One was a 30-year-old campground peeping Tom. Too young, I thought. The second, however, was starting to look more probable. Richard Sutton was a 54-year-old local freight company owner. He was a native to the area but had moved west for country. college, where he met his wife and settled in her hometown. He'd moved back to the area following a messy divorce in 2016 and set up a new office branch in the city. The cops had

pulled him in for questioning in 2017 due to harassment complaints from women who'd seen the local media coverage of the case and feared that they could have been potential victims. This guy did fit the rough new profile, and I wished I could remember questioning him, but my mind kept drawing blanks. There'd been nothing remarkable or memorable about Sutton. Nothing I could put my finger on, especially after it had been so obviously overshadowed by Briarwood. I couldn't remember what he even looked like, or sounding like. A perfect chameleon. My next move was purely intuitive, but a total breach of protocol. I pulled up the guy's address and took off to go see him. I didn't know what I was expecting to find, or what I'd

do when I saw him. Honestly, at that moment I felt like a mere marionette with an invisible puppet master tugging me along on a blind adventure. I brought up to Sutton's house, a neat two-story in one of the city's nicer suburbs, and rang the doorbell. No one answered, but I thought I could hear feet shuffling on the other side of the door. This is Agent Fever with the FBI, I called out. The door opened a sliver, with the chain still in place.

and a bloodshot eye peered out at me. Mr. Sutton, I'm here to ask you some questions, I announced, flashing the man my badge. I promised to remain a safe social distance and not touch anything

if you let me inside. I was pushing my luck and I really hoped Sutton would bite. He didn't. The door slammed with a crash and I heard footsteps hurrying away. Drawing my weapon, I jumped a gate

and made my way to the back of the house, scanning the windows for signs of activity. Nothing. I tried the back door, not really surprised to find it locked. This was the moment where my action stopped being questionable and became downright illegal. There was no time to think, only act,

as the surreal urgency of my mission crept up my spine. I could lose my job for this. The whole vigilante arc rarely fared well for agents, but there was no turning back now. I shot the lock and the door swung open. I darted indoors, not waiting to see the curious heads of neighbours popping out to see where the noise was coming from. A disturbing scene greeted me inside as I realised the wealthy suburban façade only spread to the exterior.

Sutton's kitchen was absolutely disgusting. There were dirty plates scattered on every surface and take-out containers littered the floor. Countless empty vodka bottles lined the walls, The smell of rotting food and stale booze made me cover my nostrils with my left elbow as I moved further into the house with my weapon drawn. The living room was much the same at first glance, a typical hoarder's dwelling with more booze bottles, old newspapers, and random piles of trash scattered about.

A second look revealed a more sinister truth behind the stack of old newspapers on the coffee table. I walked up to the yellowing pile of papers and felt my stomach sink, as I saw that they were actually a gathering of carefully selected articles. The top one was a well-preserved two-page spread about the tragic death of a pregnant girl by the name of Leanne Somerson, an out-of-town hitchhiker who had mysteriously died on the side of the road 32 years ago. Unable to help myself, I leaped through the other pages. Dozens of light-haired, blue-eyed dead women looked up at me, different ages, a variety of counties, and states, a broad spectrum of deaths, some suspected of foul play, others simply missing persons'

reports. My trembling hands dropped the newspapers I struggled to keep my breathing steady. I'd stepped into the monster's den only half expecting this to actually be the guy. I threw another appraising glance at the room, trying to find potential hiding spots, but couldn't see any. So that left. upstairs I took careful, deliberate strides as I ascended the steps cursing every squeak

my old leathers produced without backup the odds were in Sutton's favour and I could easily be walking into a trap I stopped before reaching the top of the stairs wiping sweat off my face as I gather the courage to face a man who practically killed for a living

Richard I'm just here to talk I caught out into the silence, trying to garner some sort of reaction, a hint of the subject's location. Look, we can sod this out. I know you've been going through a rough time. The state of the house indicated a major lapse in control, which meant sudden was spiraling, probably experiencing some sort of mental breakdown. Nothing, no response, not even a creek from a floorboard. The first room to my right was the master bedroom, and I threw the door open,

rushing inside with my back to the wall and gone at the ready. I didn't see him, well, not at first. He looked so small, crouching down in the farthest corner of the room. His bloodshot eyes half glazed, glued to mine. He stared intently, raising the shotgun with trembling hands until he'd pressed the tip with a sword-off barrel to his quivering and lower jaw. I knew I'd seen him before, recently at that, but couldn't quite place the face of this reduced, disheveled man

until he opened his mouth, releasing that signature moan that will forever haunt my dreams, that guttural, mechanical wail that escaped a gaping, dark hole of a mouth. I'd recognise it just about anywhere. "'You!' I gasped as a tongueless man shoved the shotgun in his mouth and fired, painting the walls of the bedroom and nauseating mix of blood and brain matter. There is no logical explanation for what happened next. I didn't call an ambulance. I didn't call any of my superiors, attempting to explain the circumstances

under which I discovered Richard Sutton's last act of defiance. Oh, only one thought ran through my mind as I wrapped up his mostly headless cause, corpse in sheets. You don't get away that easy, you son of a bitch. Though he was surprisingly heavy for his lean frame, I still managed to carry Sutton's body outside and dump it in the back of the pickup. I hope the sheer fact of broad daylight and my confident matter wouldn't arouse too much suspicion from the neighbours,

though honestly I was past caring at that point. Hitting the gas pedal, I barreled through city streets until I was on the road leading back to Uncle Johnny's cabin. I slowed down when I got closer to the place where my wife and I first spotted Richard Sutton running out of the woods. I didn't know how we'd cross from one world to another, and the last thing I wanted was to show up at the real fever cabin with a dead body in my pickup and no evidence of any sort of paranormal activity.

Again I wondered if I was just a raving lunatic, and again my intuition told me that no, I wasn't. I was never one for supernatural stuff and always snickered at the psychics who were sometimes called upon in cases. But even I, with my limited views on these things, could see how decades of inflicted pain and terror could thin the divide between this world and the world of the wrongs. After an hour of driving, I started losing faith in finding that same dirt road that had started this entire ordeal. Frustrated, I looked at the GPS, which was still working. another sign of failure. Finally I decided to just turn off the road

and try driving down the next dirt road into the woods. Within five minutes, the GPS started lagging before turning off altogether. I kept driving, vaguely acknowledging that I'd taken a turn to one of the many lakes Uncle Johnny and I used to visit all those summers ago. I thought I'd escaped it,

an unremarkable voice said at my side, and I nearly swerved off the road when I saw a young Richard Sutton sitting in the passenger seat. Panicking, I hit the brakes and turned to face the man who'd brutally murdered dozens of women across the country. I reached for my weapon, knowing full well how futile of a thing it was against a dead man. Don't worry. Sutton emitted a small chortle. You're not exactly my time. I stared at the youthful monster as he peered into the thick forest around us.

He was just as Camilla's mother had described. Neither handsome nor unattractive. Not short or tall, just average. There wasn't a single detail to latch onto, not a mole or a twitch, a funny-looking sweater and old haircuts. Nothing. Everything about Richard Sutton was forgettable, and I realised this was deliberate.

Curiosity stirred in my temples, and I found myself wishing he had more time to talk. I wanted to dig around in Sutton's brain and learn the hows and wise of his life, but that's not what this was all about. It's really not that interesting. Sutton offered a response to my thoughts, and it doesn't matter now. I don't want to tell you that your job isn't important, because in some ways I'm sure it is, in other ways it completely misses the mark,

since it doesn't account for the fact that some of us are just born this way. I know you'll be looking into my life, agent, and I can tell you now that you'll find nothing. You won't find any problems with my mother or father. You won't find any hints of me abusing animals as a child, or being socially awkward with my peers. I'm the average Joe on paper, and my compulsion to kill has roots in something that a data scientist can hardly hope to explain. At the end of his speech, the young Sutton opened the car door and jumped out of the pickup, leaving me with the following words. I should really get going. I'm not sure I want to stick around for what happens next.

You just keep going until you reach the lake agent. It all ends there. So that's what I did, as shaken as I was. I just kept going, my mind racing, but also going ever so slightly numb. I guess at that point I just didn't know what to expect anymore, and if anything, that gave me the advantage of accepting whatever came my way. The lake was still and high. haunting, a soft mist playing on the surface of the water. The forest trees assembled round the

shore in dreary attendance. Their tall shadows moving on the ground beneath my feet as I walked with Sutton's lifeless body in my arms. I'd left the sheets behind and it was hard to look away from the remaining half of the face of the man who caused so much devastation in these very woods. Upon reaching the shore, I let his body drop into the shallowest part of the water, sending ripples across the lake i took some steps back distancing myself from the body waiting some emerged from the woods others rose out of the water there were too many to count though i did get to the number seventeen before giving up or together they were all beautiful and young dressed in a variety of fashions that reflected the trends of their time blue eyes glimmered in the the twilight. Some with tears, others with vengeance. The victims of Richard Sutton approached

his body. Some kicked at it, others screamed. The spirit of Katie Reader, the one who looks so much like Camilla that I recognized her immediately, spat right into what remained of Sutton's gaping, tongeless mouth. I took his tongue, you know, Katie said to me, smiling. He'd driven up here with his last victim just before you and Camilla came. She was so much younger than the rest of us. Only 11. When he killed her, our mutual rage grew into a force that helped us permeate the physical world. I tore that towel right out of his sick face.

The youngest victim appeared beside Katie, her eyes pleading. Please, Mr. Fever, please find the shed. My body's still there and my parents need to know. "'Of course,' I murmured. "'Then louder. "'All of you. "'I'll find every one of your cold-case files "'and make sure the world learns the truth about your deaths.'

"'Many women smiled at me. "'Others nodded in appreciation. "'To my side I heard footsteps "'and turned to find Camilla walking out of the woods "'with a girl that looked like her younger sister. "'Fucking took you long enough,' Camilla laughed, "'running up to me for a kiss. "'A lot more eloquent.

in your letters, you know, I teased, wrapping her in a tight embrace. This is my mother, Leanne. Camilla pulled away to take the young girl by the hand. Nice to meet you, I nodded, feeling the familiar pang of anxiety that always accompanied seeing an in-law, and shaking my head at the absurdity of that feeling, given the current circumstances. The Anne Somerson gave me a shy smile as she shook my hand, but said nothing, nothing, turning instead to Richard Sutton's body. The other girls drew back and fell silent as the very first victim approached the corpse. Camilla's mother bent down and put a hand on Sutton's chest.

I will never forgive you, but now I can forget you. As soon as she said it, the sky above the forest exploded in a bright, purple glow, the same tinge of colour that had saved me and healed me from the leech. The victims of Richard Sutton stared up at it. Some were laughing, others smiling. Many cried tears of relief. One by one they floated up into the sky, letting the purple flames envelop them in eternity.

Camilla's mother was the last to go. After her, the glow began to fade until it transformed into a beautiful, otherworldly purple sunset. I can't go. until you clear my name. A familiar voice sounded from the woods behind us. I turned to see Henry Briarwood watching Camilla and me from a distance. I'll reopen the case as soon as I can,

I promised him, feeling the all-encompassing guilt of having cost an innocent man not only his freedom but his life as well. I'm so sorry. Briarwood gave me a brief nod before disappearing back into the woods. I really screwed that up, I told Camilla as we walked back to the pickup. No one's perfect, Polly. You did the best you could. I heard my uncle's voice ring through the woods. I stopped dead in my tracks, peering into the dark trees to either side of me.

Did you hear that? I asked Camilla, who kept walking in front of me. Hear what? She threw me a questioning glance. Nothing, I said, shaking my head and smiling as I followed my wife out of the woods. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you.

Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.