Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work As A Detective. Something Is Leaving Bodies Along The Hudson River | Scary Stories

Episode Date: September 9, 2023

I'm on the case. Story from Head of Spectre Make sure to check out more of their work at u/HeadOfSpectre                            Original Post: I’m The Warden Of A Prison For Monsters, I Finally Found The One I’m Looking For : r/HeadOfSpectre                                    Original YouTube link: I Work As A Detective. Something Is Leaving Bodies Along The Hudson River           For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Darren Curtis Music - YouTube Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every day, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

They found a girl in the Hudson River the other day. Nancy Lynch. Twenty-four years old. Too young to die like that. They say her throat was cut. She bled out long before her killer tossed her like garbage into the water. Now telling where the body was dumped. Even if they did find it, something tells me it'd be just another dead end.

An old colleague of mine passed her picture along to me, in case I had any friends who might know something. He does that from time to time. When I left the force, I made a lot of friends in low places. Sometimes I see or hear things that my old co-workers don't. People might not always talk to you when you're a cop, but lose the badge and suddenly you can get a lot further in some circles. Look, I'm not going to say that this city is diseased or something like that.

Far from it. New York's got its problem. sure, but there's good people here. People just trying to get by. If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't do what I do. P.I. work isn't as glamorous or dangerous in real life the way it is in the movies. I could probably count on one hand the number of murders I've dealt with ever since I left the force, and that's the way I like it. Most of my days now involve spending hours in my car, watching buildings from behind the tinted windows and taking pictures. Usually, I'm looking for evidence of fraud, embezzlement, affairs,

signs that someone's keeping secrets. I've got a bunch of guys on the street I talk to. Guys who will tell me a thing or two if I grease their palms. But I don't chase down the perps anymore. I'm not the one who makes the arrest. I've got guys who will do it through the proper channels. For all intents and purposes, I'm retired and I'm better off that way. Once upon a time, I was a cop, but that was in another life.

Back then, I joined the force because I wanted to help people. Plain and simple. When the opportunity came knocking, I joined the homicide division because I knew what it was like to have someone taken from you. I thought that maybe it would make me feel better to give other people some closure. I was right. It did. But homicide is a tough business. Not to be poetic, but you see the war sides of people there. You see the rage, the cruelty, the lust. After a while, it started weighing on me. I started having nightmares. Some of them were about the job, but most of them were about my

sister, seeing her waterlogged corpse on the morticians table. Being asked if I could have identify her and looking at what was left of her face. Unsure and unwilling to believe it was really her, but terrified of the growing possibility that it was. Eventually that weight became a little too much. I told my captain that I couldn't do it anymore. I handed in my resignation and struck out on my own. I figured I'd be a hellful out happier with less exciting cases.

I was right. I sleep better these days. For the most part. Not so many nightmares. But every now and then, some of my old friends got to ask for a second opinion. Off the record, of course. Sometimes, if I find something relevant to them, I'll pass it along. No finders fear anything. Just a friendly, working relationship. It's a good thing to have in case I ever need a favor in return. They don't usually bug me about murders. But Nancy Lynch was an exception. Blonde, mid-20s, a frequent visitor of various nightclubs. They found some THC and alcohol in her system, and scars from bite marks on her arms

and shoulders. Most of them inflicted long before death. Although the bite marks matched no known dental records and the DNA didn't lead us anywhere either. Whoever did this was unknown, but that was nothing new. Nancy Lynch wasn't the first person they'd pulled out of the river, and it turned my stomach thinking that she probably wouldn't be the last either. They'd been finding girls like her for a while. Almost 30 years now. By my count, there have been about 47 victims, probably more.

I worked a lot of those cases back in the day, same M.O. each time. Cause of death was exanguination from a cut throat. The bodies were covered in bite marks, usually on the arms and shoulders, but sometimes on the inner thighs. All the bodies showed signs of sexual activity having occurred shortly before death. In most cases, a lack of defensive wounds indicated that it was consensual. But there were a few exceptions. Maybe it was a mistake to volunteer myself for those cases. I look back on my ears in the NYPD and none of the other cases I worked were quite so personal. Some people might think a personal stake would be a good thing. They'd say it drives you.

They're not wrong. But it's just as likely to be a liability as well. It can just as easily blind you to the truth. I told myself I was going to find that son of a bitch responsible and send him to the deep deepest, darkest cell I could find, where he'd never see the damn sunlight again. I told myself that I was going to do it for Dakota. And that was the problem. See, I always figured that I knew who killed my big sister all those years ago.

And since she turned up in the Hudson, just like all those other girls, it'd be easy to assume that the same guy was responsible for the rest of those deaths. But killers aren't caught on assumptions. No. You need evidence. You've got to have rock solid proof and I didn't have a damn thing. Just a name that led nowhere. Roman Spencer.

Dakota had started dating Roman back when I was around 14. We'd lost our parents a few years prior, and she was all I had left in the world. She took care of me as best she could. dropped out of school, took odd jobs to scrape by, sacrificed her chance at a future for mine. One of those odd jobs was a gig at a local bar. It was a more upscale place, kind of ritsy. Dakota was young and she had her looks. Some of the guys were inclined to tip her a little more just for that, but she was never

actually interested in any of them, up until Roman at least. I only ever actually met him once. He had stopped by our house to pick Dakota up for a date. She'd been in the middle of getting ready when he'd come to the door. I almost thought he was at the wrong house. He was tall, pale, a little wiry, and handsome, with long wavy, dark hair and a suave goatee. He was dressed immaculately in a pressed burgundy suit underneath a dark red overcoat.

He wore a black boater hat with a bright red band around it. It was hard to get a read on his age, but he didn't seem that old. Older than Dakota, yes. But not by much. He tipped me a winning smile when he saw me and said, Well, hey there, sport. Your big sister around. I told him she was just getting ready and let him inside.

I already knew his name at that point. Dakota had told me all about him, describing him in a dreamy tone of voice. She never said it out loud. But I wonder if she might have secretly hoped he might be our salvation from poverty, like a handsome prince riding in to grant her a fairy tale ending. He'd looked around our home, his hands in his pockets, and a half smile on his lips. Hell of a nice place you got here. It's Mark, right?

Your sisters told me a lot about you. I'd nodded and offered him a drink. He'd just declined with a wave of his hand. I'm all good sport, don't you worry about me." Around that time, Dakota had come downstairs. I remember that she was wearing her nicest little black dress. She'd smiled at me, told me not to wait up, and then they'd left together. As he'd stepped out the door, Roman had looked back at May and given me a parting smile.

It was nice meeting you, kid. He'd said. And that was that. I would have said he seemed nice if Dakota hadn't disappeared about a month later. Two weeks after that, they fished what was left of her out of the river. The rest is history. Back then, I'd told the police about Roman. I know they'd questioned him, but nothing ever came of it.

I'd seen her leave on another night out with him, the night she'd disappeared, and after she was gone, Roman didn't lift a finger about it. He didn't come by the house looking for her. He didn't even go to the police on his own. They only found him through me. It didn't matter, though. Dakota's murder was left unsolved. She was buried beside our parents before I ended up in the foster system.

I suppose it could have turned out worse for me. I pulled through in the end. But I never stopped thinking about Dakota or Roman Spencer, which of course leads me back To Nancy Lynch. When my colleague stopped off at my office, I had half a mind to put the copy of the file he'd given me in the trash, wait a few days, and tell him I'd come up with nothing. Truth be told, it probably would be just as wise a use of my time than actually looking for something. Fifteen years in homicide, and I'd never even heard the name Roman Spencer in reference to the bodies found in the Hudson River. Sure, a lot of the dead girls

had allegedly had some sort of unknown boyfriend at the time of their deaths, but we'd never gotten anything on the guy. The only possible eyewitness was from an older case, and unfortunately, I already knew exactly what he'd seen. But in the end, I couldn't bring myself to throw away another shot at finding Dakota's killer. Assuming this was even him? After thirty years, one might wonder if the original killer was even still active. But I wanted to poke around anyways.

The file said that she'd been a frequent visitor of a nightclub in town, the summer rain. I figured it was as good a place to start as any. Some people might tell you that the summer rain is a good spot to drink and dance. Personally, I disagree. I've heard a lot of rumors over the years about the place being owned by one of the local crime families. Supposedly they mostly do gambling and drugs, nothing that big. But I figured I'd brave the place to grab a drink and chat up the bartenders. So long as I tipped well and didn't ask about what was going on in the back rooms, I figured

they might be willing to talk. They didn't disappoint. Nancy was in every now and again. One of the bartenders said, after I introduced her to my friend Benjamin Franklin, her daddy had a tab, so she put her drinks on that, when she was the one buying them. I take it that she usually wasn't. I'd replied. The bartender had scoffed. Not usually. Had a guy with her the last few times I saw her. Not a regular, but I've seen him

around before. I raised an eyebrow. I don't suppose you could give me a description. No, I'm sorry. It gets busy in here. Faces sort of blur together. She replied. I reached into my pocket for my wallet and took out another hundred dollars to set on the bar. This jogger memory? She snatched the money away and pocketed it. Not much. Like I said, I don't remember his face. But he was well dressed.

Had a beard? Not like a full beard. She stroked her chin. Go tea. Is that it? But not a full one. Then there was the hat, black, flat top, wide brim, red band. I finished.

You know him? She asked. I might. You ever heard the name Roman Spencer? She thought for a moment. I was almost ready to reach into my pocket for my wallet again, when she spoke. Maybe. I know the guy you're looking for used to come around looking for a girl who used to work here

a few years back. She might know his name. I don't know where she is now, but her name's Laura. Laura Watson. Laura Watson. Unfortunately, I knew the name. They'd pulled her from the river three years ago, not too long before I'd left the force. I appreciate it, I said, before giving her my last hundred as a tip.

You have a good night. I didn't hang around for long after that. I left in a hurry, my heart still racing a little. A black hat with a red band. That sounded an awful lot like Roman. Maybe it was just a coincidence, maybe not. What I'd gotten was pretty far from concrete, but it was still more than I'd gotten in the last several years, and it sent a chill through me. Two dead girls, both tied to the man with a red hat.

If it was really him, and he was still out there. Well, it wasn't much of a lead, but it was a start. And if it wasn't Roman, I owed it to all those girls to still look. As I walked down the street, I reached from my cell phone to call one of my friends on the force. I wanted to take a look at the other case files, the older ones. Maybe there was something I'd missed before. Looking through the old case files took the better part of a day, and it didn't give me a lot.

But it wasn't exactly a waste of time either. I managed to put together a list of bars and nightclubs. where the victims had last been seen. After eliminating the ones that were currently closed, I had my set of targets. I spent the next few nights on a sober bar crawl, visiting each one to ask some questions. Most of them didn't know anything about a man in a red hat. Most of them. From what I could gather, he'd visited several upscale bars and nightclubs in the past six months. His visits were never consistent. He didn't operate on any schedule. He'd He seemed to go where he pleased, but I at least had a list of places to look.

Now all I needed was some bait to lure him. Justine Taff and I met back when I was working the streets before I became a detective. She was trouble. I'd busted her a few times back in the day. She was a grifter, a fast talker who knew that a fool and his money were easily parted. But as con artists go, she was a grifter. That wasn't that bad. Clearly, despite our history, she'd liked me enough to hire me on when an ex-boyfriend

of hers had made off with some of her money. I kept my mouth shut about the irony of her of all people getting swindled and was happy to track the bastard down. After that, we stayed in touch, and every now and then we did business. Nothing illegal, but she'd go looking for juicy gossip that I might be interested in and walk away a little richer for her trouble. She had a million-dollar smile, that she'd probably stolen off a cherub, and was better at making people talk than most cops I knew.

So she was the obvious person to go to, about looking for my friend in the red hat. We met up in a bar we both frequented. She walked in, dressed in a black crop top and yoga pants, with a grayish sweater hanging loosely off her. Her dirty blonde hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, and she looked grungy. But then again she wasn't dressing to impress. I'd seen her turn the charm on. I didn't doubt she'd mix flawlessly in with the folks at those high-end bars.

She pulled up a stool beside me and ordered a beer before fixing me with a cocky grin. Detective Saar! She crooned. Fancy meeting you here. Yeah. Hell of a coincidence, I said. How have you been? Not as busy as I'd like.

but I'm taking it easy for a little bit. You know, some well-earned vacation time." That was Justine's slang for, I've just had a big score you don't want to hear about. The less I knew, the better. I hope you're not too relaxed, I said. I could use a favor. Oh, I bet you can, she teased. What kind of favor, if you don't mind me asking. I'm looking for an old friend of mine. He likes bars and nice. night clubs that cater to a more upscale crowd. And blondes. The bartender set a drink down in front of Justine, although she didn't touch it.

Her brow just furrowed slightly. I hate to say it, but that sounds a little too hot for me, she said. What exactly are you asking me to get into here? Because last I heard you were done looking for murderers. I am. This isn't business, not entirely. It's personal, I replied. You're not inspiring a lot of confidence in me, Mark.

I laughed. No point in beating around the bush. Fine. I might have tied up at least two, maybe three murders to this guy. Far as I can tell, he picks his victims up in bars, romances them for a few months, and when he's done, I drew my finger across my throat. Justine flinched before shuddering. At last, she took a swig of beer.

Jesus, she murmured. Mind if I ask what stake you have in this? If I'm right. This is the guy that killed my sister. Look, I'm not asking you to go in alone. I just want to lure him out. Get some info on him and hand him off to the police so they can close the net on him. Justine nodded.

Look, I can respect that mark. But you're asking me to go looking for a freaking serial killer. You do understand just how dangerous that sounds on paper, right? I do. I'll understand if you say no. But this is the first lead I've gotten on this guy in over 30 years. Assuming it's him, he's probably in his 50s or 60s at this point. I'll be watching your back too. No way in hell am I sending you in alone. He makes a move, He deals with me. Assuming I don't drop him first, Justine murmured, before sighing. Oh, my God.

I'm not saying yes, but let's say I did. What's in it for me? You help me get this man to my old friends at homicide, and I'll pay you a grand up front. If it's really him, then you name your price. Whatever the hell you want. She paused again. Watching me out of the corner of my eyes. I, to see if I was joking. When she realized I wasn't, she finally broke down into laughter.

You're serious. All right, fine, you got me. On two conditions. First, you're paying for my drinks. Second, I get to be armed. I probably wouldn't be in any position to argue even if I wanted to. Done and done, I replied, before clinking my beer against hers. Pleasure doing business with you, as always, Justine. She offered a weak smile in return, before polishing off her beer. Justine and I got to work a few nights later. We started meeting up at nightclubs. She'd hang out by the bar, watching for a man in a red hat, and I'd keep my distance and watch

her. As I said before, she cleans up well when she turns on the charm. She mixed and mingled flawlessly with the richer crowd, and though I couldn't be sure, I suspected that she'd made a few extra bucks on the side from a few of them. Our first couple of weeks didn't turn up much. We'd get together every few nights, stake out a bar, and when we'd got nothing, we'd move on to the next one. Rinse and repeat. I won't pretend that it was the worst set of stakeouts I've ever been on booze, girls, music. Not my usual scene, but I've been in shittier places. And despite her initial hesitation, I started to get the distinct impression that Justine was enjoying her chance to mingle with some dumb, rich, easy marks.

But as not terrible as the whole experience was, I found it hard to let myself get as sucked into it as she did. This was just business for her. For me. This was a shot at revenge. As our first few weeks turned into a couple of months, I started to question if we'd ever find anything. We had a couple of false alarms, but when I sent Justine to chat them up, none of the men

seemed interested. One was pretty clearly gay, and the other was just a dumb kid with a group of friends. Neither was a likely suspect. I started watching my bank account a little closer. I was still working during the days and still brink. bringing in some income, but Justine in those bars didn't come cheap. I started crunching the numbers, trying to figure out how long I could keep doing it. Then I started thinking about how long I should keep doing it.

By the third month, Justine seemed to treat these outings of ours less like stakeouts, and more like an excuse to go clubbing. By the fourth month, I was starting to wonder if I was just wasting my time. we got lucky. I never saw him come in that night. The bar we were in was one of the quieter ones. Justine had been chatting up the bartender, and I'd been debating whether or not to call it a night, when I noticed that someone knew was in the seat beside her. Though I only ever saw the back of his head, my heart almost skipped a beat when I saw the hat he wore. A black boder hat with a red band. His waist.

Heavy dark hair spilled out from underneath it. He wore a dark red sport jacket, and I could see he wore several ornate rings as he took the odd puff from a lit cigarette, hanging limply between his fingers. Justine was smiling as they talked. I don't know if she'd realized who he was yet. However, as they spoke, I saw her eyes drift over to me, asking a wordless question. The look on my face gave her the answer she knew. needed. I watched the two of them talk for the better part of an hour. He bought Justine drink

after drink before finally calling it a night. When he left, he kissed the back of her hand before he got up to leave. When I saw his face, I felt my blood freeze in my veins. I only ever met Roman Spencer once, but I've never forgotten his face. I'd thought that after all these years I would still recognize him, but I never expected him to look exactly the same. The man who left the bar hadn't aged a single day. He looked the same as he had the day he'd come to pick up my sister. As he made his way towards the door, I saw his head turn slightly for a moment. I was certain that he saw me. But if he did, he never acknowledged me. He just kept walking as nothing was wrong.

As soon as he was gone, Justine quietly got up from the bar and headed over to my table. I expected her to look more shaken than she did, but then again she was a very good actress. She sat down across from me and took a swig of her beer. She glanced at the door one last time to make sure he was gone before she spoke. You look like you've seen a ghost. Maybe I did. I replied. That was him.

She looked back at me, raising an eyebrow. It was? I'd know that face anywhere. I thought you said this guy was in his 50s. Clearly, he's aged gracefully. I replied. She just shook her head. No, no, no, no, no.

I was talking to him for the better part of an hour. He might be over 30, but not by much. Did you get a name? I asked hopefully. What do I look like a chump? I've got his name and where he's staying. She reached into her purse and took out a napkin with the name of a hotel written on it, followed by a room number.

Roman Spencer. Staying at the Manhattan International. Room 625. Roman Spencer. The look on my face, probably said more, I ever could have. Justine's expression softened a little. You recognize the name, she said. I nodded. Yeah, yeah, I recognize it.

I looked up at her. I looked her dead in the eyes. It's him, Justine. It's him. I stood up, heading for the door and out into the lightly drifting snow. Justine got up to follow me. Mark, come on, it can't be him. You said it's been thirty years. Thirty years ago, this guy was probably in diapers. He fits the description perfectly, Justine. Black hat, red band, he dresses the same.

He looks the same, and his name is Roman Spencer. You want to tell me that's a coincidence? She paused for a moment. sitting in the snow and staring back at me. What are you going to do? What we agreed on. I'm calling the police. We've got his name.

We've got his room number. I've got eyewitnesses. Do you? Eyewitnesses doing what? Placing him at a bar where some girls got killed? Justine replied. Come on, Mark. You're the detective here.

Don't make me spell this out for you. That's not evidence. So he's got the same name and looks like your sister's old boyfriend. It's weird, I'll give you that. But if you go to your buddies saying it's the same damn person with no other evidence, they're going to think you've lost it." I didn't reply for a moment, staring silently back at her before sighing. Unfortunately, she probably had a point.

I thought for a moment, choosing my next words before I spoke. You don't believe it's him, do you? I asked. I don't know, she said before sighing. You know, I know the hotel he's in. I've been there a couple times. There's a few other hotels nearby. You might be able to get a room that'll let you keep an eye on him in 625,

and if you're right and he's up to something, maybe you'll manage to get some solid evidence. Yeah, maybe. I replied. before sighing and reaching into my pocket for my wallet. I took out the last cash I had, $500, and offered it to her. Justine stared at it before pushing it away. You can pay me when we're done, she said.

Shit, you've probably already paid me more than what you owe and booze anyway. I might still be able to help you out here. I raised an eyebrow. How? Well, clearly he liked me. Enough to give me an invitation. I don't exactly deal with a lot of murderers, but maybe since he's staying in a hotel, he won't be as likely to try anything.

I can get a look around. Absolutely not. If I'm right, then he's dangerous. You could get hurt. Or worse. Mark, we both know I've done stupider things for less. I'm volunteering. Besides, from the way you described it.

He likes these affairs of his to drag on for a bit before he does the deed and I'm not exactly going in defenseless." She opened her hand back, showing me a pistol nestled inside. My answer is still no, I said. Yeah, well, screw you. My answer is yes. Tomorrow night. Are you in or are you out?

You want to catch this son of a bitch or not? She asked. I bit my lip. I didn't like this plan of hers at all, but she knew I couldn't say no. I finally just grunted and turned to walk away. Tomorrow night, I repeated. I'll be in touch. Room 625 of the Manhattan International Hotel was on the south side of the building.

I got lucky enough that there was another hotel across the street. Not quite as fancy, but it would work for my purposes. I took a room on the seventh floor that night and brought what I need over the next morning. I had my camera, a pair of binoculars, and in case of an emergency, a hunting rifle, and my old service pistol. Call me paranoid, but I didn't want to take any chances if I didn't have to. I'd gotten lucky. 625 was a corner room and one of the more spacious as well, looking more like a penthouse.

In the morning, the curtains were closed, but sometime around. around noon. I saw them open. Roman Spencer stood on the other side of them, naked from the waist up. His body was not the body of an old man. Justine had been right. He looked to be comfortably in his 20s or 30s. His skin was deathly pale, but otherwise he looked healthy. I watched him do his morning stretches before showering and getting ready for the day. Then he donned his boder hat and sauntered out the door as if nothing was wrong. He didn't come back until later in the evening. While he'd been out, I'd studied his room with my binoculars.

From my vantage point, I couldn't see much of interest. Roman had not left much of a personal touch on his room, and anything of interest was probably packed away. I did consider trying to get in there, but getting past hotel security to break into his room would have been easier said than done, I decided I'd be better off waiting on Justine. She texted me around six that evening. You good to go for tonight? I texted back that I was, and added a photo of Roman's room from my window.

All right, heading out. Wish me luck, detective. I did. I really did. Roman was in his room when she arrived. About half an hour later. I took out my binoculars to watch them. The lights in my room were off.

I should have been all but invisible in the darkness. I watched as they talked for a bit. Roman fetched a bottle of wine and poured them each glass. He sat Justine down by the window, and I watched as he made his move on her, kissing her neck and uttering quiet, flirtatious jokes. I had my camera on hand, but there wasn't much worth photographing. I took a few shots with my long-range lens to confirm that they were together, just in case, but without anything more damning, those photos were useless.

Justine let him flirt with her. Although I noticed she carried her handbag dutifully everywhere she went, even when they started kissing, she left it on the chair within arm's reach. As their embrace became more intimate, I felt inclined to give them some privacy. But knowing what I knew about Roman made me think better of it. Besides, it's not the first time I've had to watch people have sex. I photographed more than my fair share of unfaithful spouses. Roman kissed her with a raw animal confidence,

and I saw Justine's facade crack just a little. I don't know how far she'd intended to go with us. Maybe this had been her plan all along. Maybe she'd wanted to draw the line at wine. Uninstinct. I reached for my rifle just in case. I'd rather just shoot him than let him hurt her. But after that initial moment of shock, Justine didn't seem to fight it.

He pressed her against the window as if he wanted the city to see her. And then his eyes shifted in my direction. And he stared for a few moments. My heart stopped cold in my chest as I realized that he was looking right at me. me, through the flurries of early winter snow and the darkness of my room. He was looking at me. And then he bit. I didn't hear Justine scream. And perhaps that's better off. Her eyes widened in pain as he sank his teeth into her neck. Blood gushed from the wound as she started to struggle. She tried to push him off of her, but no luck. Roman was too strong.

He kept her pinned against the glass as he tore into her, and when he finally pulled away, a chunk of her throat was missing, and blood gushed out of the wound and down her body, smearing along the windows. As the horrible scene unfolded in front of me, I remained frozen to the spot. Time seemed to move so slowly all of a sudden, and yet it moved too fast at the same time. I had a choice. Grab my camera and photograph this moment or grab my rifle and try to save Justine. It wasn't much of a choice. I went for my rifle and took aim at the window. As Roman went in for another bite, I fixed his head in my crosshairs, and I pulled the trigger. The bullets left a hole

in the glass before flying straight and true into Roman's head. I saw the blood and brain matter erupt out of the back of his head as it jerked backward from the impact. He swayed a little on his feet, but he didn't fall. I saw his lips curl into a cold, knowing smile as he fixed me back in his gaze, standing despite the fact that he should have been dead. This shouldn't be possible. The blood seemed to flow back into his body. Roman let Justine's body hit the floor as his wound healed away and did nothing.

And then he raised a finger up to the window, and he wagged it at me, like he was scolding a child. My heart was racing. I felt sick to my stomach and my hands trembled with terror and rage. This was impossible. It couldn't be possible, but I'd just seen it with my own two eyes. Roman wiped his lips with the back of his hand and turned away from the window. I could see him laughing at me, mocking me.

My hands were still shaking. Justine's blood was smeared all over the window and she was dying. I couldn't leave her like that. I wouldn't. I had to do something. I still had my old service pistol with me. It was in my holster. It was all I needed. I tossed the rifle onto the bed and stormed out of the room, racing downstairs and out of the street. As I made my way to the Manhattan International, my blood was boiling.

I pushed past other guests on my way to the elevator, my mind racing a thousand miles per minute. I didn't think about calling the cops or calling an ambulance. I only thought it. about getting into that room as fast as I could. As the door was open, I stormed down the hall. I could see room 625 ahead of me, and the door was open. Just a crack. But it was open. I burst through it, drawing my pistol as I did.

My eyes locked on Roman Spencer, sitting comfortably in a chair across from me, and I aimed the gun at his head. I would have pulled the trigger if it weren't for the fact that the room had changed within the handful of minutes it had taken me to get there. The bullet hole was still in the window, but the smears of blood were gone, as was Justine's body. What the hell is this? Where the hell is she?

Oh, she's nestled safe in bed. Don't you worry, Roman said. His voice half mocking. He gestured to his bed, and sure enough, there she was. She was tucked in as if she were asleep, although her skin looked impossibly pale, almost as if all the blood had been drained from her. I ran towards her, touching her shoulder, only to feel that she was already cold and limp. Her eyes were still open. With that vacant stare, I'd seen a thousand times before. She was past my help now.

I looked back at Roman. He'd stood up and was smiling at me. Just a little quick housekeeping, he said. It's never a good idea to make too much of a scene. You don't want to be sloppy with these things. Although I couldn't do anything about the bullet hole. That's new, he said. Then maybe you'd love.

like another one. I growled, taking aim at his head again. Roman's smile faded. You can pull the trigger if you'd like, Mark. But it won't do you any good, he said. You remember me? I asked. Not really, no. I didn't recognize you at the bar if that's what you're asking, but I caught on when I noticed you spying on me. Called some friends. Check some records, recognize the name. You were Dakota's little brother, right? When I didn't reply, his wolfish grin grew wider. Ah, Dakota.

She was a sweet one. Just the right age. The hard life hadn't worn her down too much yet. There was still so much of her laughed. She was one of my favorites. I pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through his skull, but like before it did nothing. Roman's smile faded as the wound healed and the blood flowed back into it.

He moved suddenly, faster than I thought anyone could ever move. I saw a blood-red tendril engulf his arm before he swung it at me. It struck me across the face and sent me flying. That red tindril reached out and snatched my gun off the floor before hurling it aside. Let's not cause a scene here, Mark. Roman tried it. I'm a little bit beyond a regular vampire, so save your ammo, sport. It can't hurt me.

As I tried to pick myself up, he seized me by the throat and lifted me up. His smile slowly returning. Mark my words, you piece of shit. I'll find something that will, I spat. However long it takes, I will find a way to kill you. You know, you're not the first man to say that to me, Roman said softly. You won't be the last either.

I'm not a man you kill, Sport. I'm the one who kills you. Then do it, I said, looking him dead in the eyes I spoke. Get it over with already. He stared back at me, still wearing that smile. Before at last he tossed me aside. I hit the ground hard and landed in a crumpled heap. A tempting an offer as that may be.

It'd just be a waste of blood. He said, I've already fed tonight. Besides, I think I like you right where you are. I mean, you were looking for me, weren't you? All these years, and you've had my name on the back of your mind. I like that. Slowly. I started to pick myself up. Roman watched me, still grinning as I did. You know, why change anything? He asked, we can just update it. Not one dead girl on your hands,

but two. How do you like double jeopardy sport? He chuckled, before sauntering back over to Justine's body. Ah, but what makes it better this time is that now you're always gonna know. You were right. You're always gonna know it was me. And there's not a goddamn person on earth. Who's gonna believe you, is that? I didn't respond. I couldn't.

All I could do was stare at him in horror. Roman's eyes locked with mine, and I knew that was all he needed. I'll be seeing you around, Sport. He said, till next time. I saw the red tendril appear around his arm again. As he lunged for me the last time, I just closed my eyes and prayed that it would kill me. But he wasn't going to let me off that easily.

When I woke up, I did so on the couch of. at home. He took me home. I heard about Justine on the news a few days later. They'd found her in the river, just like the other girls. Just like Dakota. I'm going to close my office. Leave Manhattan. I can't do this anymore. I found my sister's killer, and I know now that I can't stop him. I don't know if anyone can.