Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm a Cop. I found DISTURBING proof that Demons exist | Scary Stories

Episode Date: February 28, 2024

There are TERRIFYING things out there...          Story from Ryan Peacock Make sure to check out more of their work at u/HeadOfSpectre   Cover Art from Dmitry Prozorov    Original Post: The Lovers : r/HeadOfSpectre  Original YouTube link: I'm a Cop. I found DISTURBING proof that Demons exist           For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  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 week, 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!

How do you prove a murder with no body? Even worse, how can you sleep at night knowing whatever took them is still out there? You can never stop being a detective. It's the kind of career that changes the way your mind works. Once you've started to think like one, the switch never really goes off. You start down a path and you can't go back. Not that I would, even if I could. Personally, I've had a very interesting career as a detective both during my years

in the police force and in the years since I left to start my own firm as a private investigator. It's funny, I actually left the police service to take on less stressful cases. In fact, I almost expected it to be boring. I used to work in homicide, and while it can be rewarding work, there is a mental toll. to it. I'd like to claim to have some faith in humanity, but it's hard to do that when you have seen the worst of it day in and day out. As a private investigator, I don't see nearly as much carnage during my work, but it is anything but boring. Last year, I spent two hours being interrogated by American

Secret Service agents, because an adultererer I'd been trailing just so happened to be staying in the same hotel as a U.S. ambassador. They found my parked car suspicious. I suppose part of the reason they even noticed it is because my car tends to stand out. It's a red 1957 BMW 503 coupe. Suttled? No, perhaps not. I have swapped it out from my wife's vehicle when necessary. Her Toyota is far less conspicuous. But a man should be permitted some vice. and my car is mine. A few years before that, I actually pressed charges against a gentleman after he opened fire on my car, causing considerable damage to the body.

He had correctly guessed I'd been hired to look into the suspicious arson of a business he owned. Now one would think that the insurance fraud charges that would likely follow my investigation would be less severe than the murder charges he would have faced, had he successfully killed me, or the attempted murder charges and a property damage lawsuit I charged him with. But I digress. My work does remain exciting, and my psychiatrist has thanked me for switching to a less stressful career. But I must admit that some days I do work missing homicide. I don't miss the bodies or the carnage, no. You know, I miss the feeling of accomplishment, the sense that I'd done something good for some poor, unfortunate strangers by granting the dead some justice and the living some peace.

I suspect that was why I accepted the job from Gemma Shaw. of some good sense of twisted nostalgia for the good old days. Had I known then what would happen? I'm not sure I would have. Would I have chased her out of my office like a stray cat? Or would I have accepted anyways? What I have accepted, knowing that the mysterious fate of Richard Shannon would keep me up at night for what may well be the rest of my life.

I don't know. I really don't know. Gemma Shaw was past 30, but she had aged gracefully, barely looked a day over 21. She had long brown hair, delicate features, and a charming, innocent smile. When the knock on my door came, I was at my desk. I was closing out a report I was going to email to a client regarding an insurance fraud case. Nothing too interesting.

Come in, I said, without looking up for my laptop. Shaw entered quietly, as if she was afraid of disturbing me. Sorry to bother you, she said quietly. Mr. Moore, right? I am, I replied, looking over at her as I closed out my report. And what can I do for you, Miss? Shaw, Gemma Shaw, she said. Okay, Miss Gemma Shaw, I repeated. Getting up and offering her a hand and a reassuring smile.

It seemed to put her a little more at ease as I guided her to a seat. So, what brings it in my doorstep? My father, she began. Trevor Shaw. He passed away around two years ago. I'm sorry for your loss, then, I said. What was the cause of his death? Officially, suicide. But I've had some doubts about that for some time.

Oh? My father wasn't the sort of man to take his own life, Mr. Moore. I believe that there was more to his death. Oh, I see. Miss Shaw, if you have suspicions or evidence suggesting foul play, I'd recommend you bring it to the police, not to me. Not to me. I don't typically take on homicide investigations anymore."

Yes, I've already brought my suspicions to them. She said. I brought them up during the initial investigation after his death. They still deemed it a suicide. Okay, so why are you here two years later? I asked. On cue, she produced a folder from her coat. I have some friends in the police department.

They don't usually make a habit of passing things like this along to me, but given the circumstances, they thought it was necessary. She offered me the folder, and I looked through it. It contained several photocopied pages of some sort of notebook, a list of names and dates. One of those names was Trevor Shaw. Scans from the ledger of one Mr. Damien Scott, she said. Have you heard of him in the news? Damien Scott? The name did sound familiar. He'd been employed by the Morrow Crime Syndicate. It was based out of London. From what I'd heard, he was the lab dog of their current head,

a gentleman with a rather unpleasant reputation by the name of Jack Morrow. When Morrow or one of his mates wanted a man dead, Scott was allegedly the one they sent. No one knew how he operated. By all accounts, the man was some sort of murderous genius. For every kill, he seemed to have some sort of perfect alibi. It had made catching him very difficult. From what I heard, they'd technically only gotten him on money laundering and were trying to build up from there.

Unsurprisingly, they hadn't gotten far with him. Now, supposedly, he'd conveniently hung himself in prison. Although a few of my old mates still on the force had mentioned that he'd still left behind quite a treasure trove of information. Ledgers on victims the Morrow family had paid him to kill. Now, by itself, it wasn't damning evidence, but it opened up a few doors that my mother. would probably have preferred to remain closed.

Doors like Trevor Shaw. Interesting, I said softly, staring down at the name on the ledger before closing the folder. You've brought this to the police, I asked. My father's death was a closed case. They're prioritizing the ones that are still open, the ones they didn't solve, Jemma said. But I always knew that his death wasn't a suicide, and as far as I'm concerned, this proves it. Huh.

It just might, I admit it. Scott was a hired killer. Say he did murder your father. He likely did it on Jack Morrow's orders. My father had no connections to Morrow, Jemma said. You're sure of that. Yes, I'm positive. Then why would he be murdered by Morrow's pet hitman?

Because one of the men he worked with did. My father owned a construction company. After he passed away, one of his partners, Richard Shannon took over. I know that Shannon has ties to Jack Morrow. I just can't prove it, she said. And this is where I come. man, isn't it? I asked. She nodded. Yes, if you can prove Shannon is connected tomorrow, maybe it would be enough to get someone to reopen my father's case. Please, I know that man paid

to have my father murdered. He's gotten away with it for too long. He can't keep getting away with it. Please, Mr. Moore. I don't know who else to turn to. She stared at me, pleading with her big brown eyes, and I knew that she was desperate. And maybe it was that look that finally sold me. As I said before, I'd put my days in homicide investigations behind me. But I'd seen that look on her face before. She wasn't the first person to plead with me to grant them closure. Odds are, she wouldn't be the last either.

All right, if there's a connection between him and morrow, I'll find it, I promised. And the look of relief on her face, it defied expression. Thank you, Mr. Moore, she said. And that tone in her voice reminded me of the good old days, the days where I could give closure to those who were left behind. There is a useful little four-letter word I use in my line of business often, and Richard Shannon was full of it. As I started to dig into the man, it became immediately clear to me that he was an insufferable

prick. Before I even set eyes on him in person, I did some snooping online. I don't personally partake in social media, but it does make my job much easier. You can learn a lot about a person through what. they post online and Shannon could barely go an hour without posting. He was a greasy-looking man with a graying goatee and a cowlick who seemed to fancy himself as some sort of business influencer. His LinkedIn profile described him as Prometheus, igniter of the human renaissance, entrepreneur, advisor, analyst, engineer, investor,

coach, futurist, Disruptor. And I suppose in a way, his little biography told me everything I needed to know about the guy, although maybe not in the way he anticipated. Most of what he shared came down to typed sermons on how to succeed in business. Unfortunately, almost all of it came across as soulless socially incompetent madness. The three most recent post he'd made, Read as follows. I'm just going to say it. Yes, you should be putting your business over your family. Your business provides for your family.

There's countless people out there who will share tear-jurking posts about how you'll regret missing out on moments and milestones. But the harsh reality is that building a foundation for your children's future requires sacrifice. If you will not sacrifice your family for your family, they will not thrive. My son Taylor understands that I might not be there for every moment, but he's why I'm grinding for that future.

So put the business first. Your kids will thank you for it. Agree? That was one post. Another rant followed shortly after. Now understand which employees are assets and which are liabilities. The employees' job is to serve the company. Not the other way around.

I let go of a gentleman who spent five years working for me today after he broke the news that his wife was pregnant. Can you believe that? I let him go because I knew that he would no longer prioritize the business over his family. He lacked hunger man. He lacked the hunger required for success. Now, you listen to me and you listen. and good. If an employee is no longer an asset, then they are a liability. Absolutely, period.

DM me to learn more. That one was great. And then there was one below posted a day before. Okay, I'm just going to say it. If you're making under 80 grand a year, you are not in a position to start a family. Your salary, it is a clear indication of your worth. If it is low, then you are not in a position to have children, period. You are simply setting yourself up for deeper failure. There is no case for argument here. So yeah, this guy was nuts. Completely nuts. And yet his modest amount of followers, they all seemed to just gobble it up. They praised him, as though he was some kind of corporate King Solomon. He spoke of hustling and grinding, as though he was some sort of top-floor executive, someone who

can change the fate of society with just a phone call, as opposed to a small man who's suspiciously inherited a relatively unremarkable company. All hat and no cattle, a friend of mine sometimes says. Now, I rarely feel much of anything for the people I'm asked to investigate, but I will admit that I did feel a profound dislike for Richard Shannon. Fortunately for me, ego often goes hand in hand with incompetence. I imagine that Shannon would prove to be no exception. Now, I imagine that a man like Shannon might keep his secrets in one of two places, his home office, or his company office. The company office seemed to be the logical place to start, and I'd have an easier time getting in there without a warrant. Shannon worked in his office

from 11 to 7, Tuesday to Friday. He was not the first to arrive, but he was indeed the last to leave. I spent a few days trailing him at a distance to get a feel for his schedule, and once I'd figured out his routine, I made my move. Now, in the interest of transparency here, I will admit that some may call what I did breaking and entering. Lock-picking just so happens to be one of my many little skills I've picked up. But if asked, I will tell a judge the door just happened to be unlocked. Either way, I found myself alone in Shannon's office, and I wasted no time looking around. I started with his desk looking through any papers he'd left out, but none of them were relevant to my investigation.

So I moved on to his laptop. As I said, ego often goes hand in hand with incompetence. A startling number of people leave their phones and laptops unlocked, and many use piss-poor passwords that are fairly easy to guess. Shannon wasn't stupid enough for the former camp, but he was stupid enough for the latter. This idiot had even left himself a hint, as if there was any way he could forget this password.

The little pop-up window under the password bar appeared with the words, hint, why grind? My first guess, future didn't log me in, but my second did. Taylor, I typed in. Well, at least he was a little sentimental. I wasted no time in opening up my emails. Like the papers on the desk, most of them weren't relevant to my investigation.

But given the amount of personal correspondence he'd used his professional email for, I had little doubt that what I was looking for would be in there. my focus on his laptop, the sound of footsteps outside of the office didn't escape my notice. I froze, looking up to see a figure out in the hall. Instinctively, my hand dropped my gun. But that instinct quickly faded. The moment I saw who it was, well, well, hope you don't mind mind joining you. The door was unlocked. I almost laughed as he walked into the room as if he owned the place. Neil Rutland, I said.

You following my trail again? Well, a cherry-red BMW is difficult to miss, you know. Rutland said, you really ought to upgrade to something more subtle. Well, what's the point in owning a classic if you don't drive it? I asked. What indeed? He shrugged. He rounded Shannon's desk to see what I was reading, and I did nothing to stop him.

Neil Rutland was a man I'd known for decades. During my days in homicide, he'd been my partner, and I spent a good portion of my career working alongside him. He was one of the few men I trusted with my life. Rutland was a charming man, with a low voice and a mild hint of a Scottish accent. He wore his hair and a bit of a comb over to hide his receding hair line, and he had intense, focused eyes. Despite his charm and the warmth he radiated, he'd always been the less friendly one between us,

which suited me just fine. He'd left homicide shortly before I had. Although he hadn't left the force, he'd simply moved on to the fraud cases. Interesting running into you here, I noted. Watching is Rutland stared down at the laptop. I take it this as in coincidence. Yes and no, Rutland admitted. I imagine you're aware that the former owner of this particular company

was named in the ledger of one Mr. Damien Scott, correct? I am well aware, I began. Trevor Shaw, a suicide, though his daughter doesn't believe it. That's who hired you then. Rutland asked. I didn't confirm it, but my silence said enough. So what brings you here? I asked.

A favor to a friend, working in organized crime. They don't have the resources. to investigate every name in that ledger. But he had some suspicions about our friend, Mr. Shannon. You're looking for ties to the Moreau Syndicate, I asked. Well, whatever I can find, he said. You're after the same, aren't you? And you are kind enough to open the door for me. And you were kind enough to ask for my assistance on this matter, of mutual interest i said redland laughed yes i suppose i was we both look down at the laptop what have you found so far i asked

well aside from being positively mental shannon seems clean divorced lives alone rarely goes out well a man like that wouldn't likely be the center of attention in an operation like Marrows," I said. Rutland stepped aside to let me finish. He focused his energy on a nearby filing cabinet. Maybe not, but he might know who would be. Now your client, she wants evidence that her father's death is a syndicate hit, doesn't she? Enough to reopen the case. Correct, I said. Okay, we'll say you found it. You'd make damn fine witnesses against Mr. Shannon.

How much pressure do you think a man like him would need before he cracked? Oh, him? Not much, I said. Especially if you find just the right... I paused, staring at something down on the screen. An email I'd been looking for. I read over it before calling over Rutland. Hey, take a look at this. Rutland looked away from the folders he'd been going through,

before coming to read the email over my shoulder. It had been sent from an email address that seemed to belong to the late Mr. Scott. It read as follows. Shannon, you've got a chance to do the right thing. One payment. Our business is concluded. You can have a fresh start somewhere else. Well, well, how ominous, Redland said. As I put the email Scott had used into the search bar, and it brought up a whole series of buried emails, each one from the same address.

I clicked into the next one. This is what it said. Shannon, not accusing you of anything, but numbers don't lie. Jack doesn't like it when people get greedy. We don't want to think the worst of you. Check your budget for 192 Gordon Street again, please. Rutland read over the email with narrowed eyes before turning and heading back to the file cabinet. He murmured, before taking out a folder and opening it. Apartments been under construction since 2017.

Completed last month? Really? Quite a long construction, isn't it? I asked. Looking over as Rutland examined the folder. He huffed in amusement. Two fires destroying everything, and resetting it back to zero. 200 plus 200 people on payroll,

high salaries, consultant fees, supply invoices. Somebody pulled these numbers out of their arse. Money laundering, I asked. Most likely. Although I can't imagine every name on payroll was on site putting in work either.

I'll need to go over this in detail. You may not have time, I said. Looks like Morrow suspected Shannon was taken more than his share. Whoever just arrested Scott might have just done our man a favor and keeping his name out of that hit list. But I doubt Morrow will be inclined to forgive and forget. Well, it's not usually how he does business, Rettland admitted. Even was Scott gone, our man Shannon must be watching every shadow right now. Yeah. And a man that scared might be looking for some new friends, I suggested.

Rutland nodded slowly. Yes. He just might be. What do you say you and I introduce ourselves? The headmaster's Steakhouse was one of the more upscale spots in town. I dined there on a few special occasions, although it really wouldn't have been my first choice. Upscale and good were not necessarily mutually exclusive terms. The food wasn't bad, not by any means, but the place had what I could only describe as a pretentious atmosphere. That said, I suppose if I wanted to impress clients and had my head lodged up my own arse, it might just be the place I would have taken them. According to Richard Shannon's calendar, he was scheduled to be dining with a client at 8 p.m. at

the headmaster. I do wonder if we might have done that client a favor by interrupting. Shannon sat at his table, talking loudly. He was eating a lobster and shooting back an expensive bottle of champagne like it was cheap liquor. He looked already drunk. As we sat at a nearby table, Rutland regarded him with disgust. His client didn't seem to think much better of him. He left shortly after. Richard Shannon, Rutland asked. I let him take the lead. Huh, yeah. His words were slurred. My name is Detain. Detective Neil Rutland, and this is my dear friend, Detective Simon Moore. May we sit down?

Rutland didn't wait for an answer. He just sat down across from Shannon, as if he'd been invited. My apologies for interrupting your wonderful dinner here, but this really couldn't wait, Rutland said. I'm sure you understand, considering the borrowed time you're living there. on. Oh, but don't get me wrong, this is a lovely way to spend it. Fine food, fine champagne, dumb perignon, fantastic. What can I help you gentlemen with? Shannon interrupted. His words were still slurred. Oh, I don't believe you can help us, Rutland said. But we may be

be able to help you. Shannon just continued to watch us as Rutland continued. Jack Morrow is a dangerous man to have as an enemy. I'm not here to make any insinuations about your honesty or moral character. But Morrow, well, seems he's already made up his mind about you, hasn't he? You point? Shannon said. Well, my point is, in your shoes, most men might be a tad bit nervous. I certainly would be. Even with Damien Scott out of the picture, I really can't imagine you've got much time left. Those affairs are my business, not yours, Shannon said.

Oh, I disagree. I think they are. Rutland said. Let me make this clear, Mr. Shannon. From where I'm sitting right now, I can see a man in over his head, about to drown. Luckily, I can help. Shannon cracked a dry smile then. Oh, yeah, you must be the ones who were poking around my office last night.

Whatever help you think you can offer me, I don't want it, he said. You may come to regret that statement, Rutland replied. Say you do make it out of this morrow situation with your life. You do realize that with what we found in your office, you're likely to go down with him, right? If morrow goes down, Shannon said. If...

It was my turn to chime in. I would have thought a man in your position would be eager to see Morrow go down. Maybe, Shannon said, but not to the likes of you. Let me put it this way, detectives. I've got the Morrow situation under control. So unless you've got enough to arrest me right here and now, there's really nothing for us to talk about, you got me?" You don't strike me as a man in control," I said.

Then you don't know me? Is there anything else, detectives, or are we done here?" Rutland narrowed his eyes at him, before looking over at me. Neither of us had much more to say. Goodbye, gentlemen, Shannon said. Rutland stood up and fixed his suit jacket. "'Good-bye, Mr. Shannon,' he said, and then turned to leave. I took one last look at Shannon before following.

"'The man's either a damn fool or about to do something damn foolish,' Rutland murmured, as we laughed. Not much of a line between arrogance and idiocy, is there? I agreed. My gut, says arrogance. Mine too. Normally I'd wait for a funeral, but... But he's more valuable to us alive. Rutland interrupted. As we stepped outside, he went for a cigarette.

I lit it. I'll watch him, all right? I promised. Yeah, track his movements. See if anyone else is keeping an eye on him, Rutland said. That would be. be best. But use your wife's car, will you?" I suppose it wasn't surprising that Richard Shannon lived in a fairly nice house. Even without his ties to the Maro syndicate, I would have expected him to live comfortably. He lived in a two-story, Mediterranean-style house with a balcony over the second

floor, a house worth a few million easily. He lived alone. He left only for work and rarely returned later than 8 p.m. He didn't go out otherwise. Even on the weekend, he remained secluded in his home, blinds and curtains drawn, as if he were afraid of anyone peeking inside. Had I not seen how arrogant he was the other day, I might have thought he was a completely different man than the one I met at the Steakhouse.

Rutland and I took shifts watching Shannon. He would watch him during the day. I would watch him during the evenings. Like Rutland had asked, I had switched up the vehicles I used. I used my wife's car, and even a couple of rentals on occasion. I never parked in the same spot either. Rutland had asked I take extra precautions. Although after several days of watching this guy,

I was starting to think I shouldn't have bothered. Nothing seemed to be happening. I was almost ready to say we have another chat with our man when, well, I'm still not entirely sure what happened that night. I suppose this was the moment, this simple investigation turned to hell. I am still not entirely sure how to explain what happened with Richard Shannon next. Each and every logical explanation I've tried to come up with, it just doesn't fit. It was six nights after Rutland and I had first spoken to Shannon at the headmaster's steakhouse.

Four nights since we'd begun to shadow him. Up until then, he'd mostly behaved like a recluse. I truly don't know why things changed on that particular night. Maybe he caught wind, then Marrow was going to make a move on him. Perhaps despite my efforts, he realized he was being watched. I can't say. Either way, six nights after we had approached Richard Shannon, he left his house in a hurry. It was around midnight when I watched him from across the street.

He shuffled out into his car, looking more nervous. than usual. As he took off down the street, I followed him in a distance. I wasn't sure where he was going, but he seemed to be in a hurry. He was heading out of town, following some darkened back road. His headlights illuminated shadowy trees as he sped down the highway. I followed him for 45 minutes down winding back roads leading to seemingly nowhere. At some point, I turned off my headlights, and I could just barely see the distant red glow of his in the distance. He stopped, then, along some unnamed, barely paved road. I did the same, pausing around the bend and turning off my car so he couldn't see or hear me.

I could see movement next to his vehicle. Shannon was clearly getting out. In the faint light that came from his dying headlights, I could see his shadow walking into the forest. I watched him walk in, and then I waited. I kept an eye on my watch. Richard Shannon stayed in that darkness for over half an hour. I saw no flashlight in the trees. I saw no sign that he'd done anything.

but wander aimlessly into the night. He was simply gone. When he came out again, he hurried to his car and threw himself behind the wheel. He started driving before he could even get his seatbelt on, speeding away as fast as he could. I almost lost sight of him. From there, Shannon found his way back to the main highway. When he returned to his house, I saw him step out of the driver's seat, a shade paler than he'd been before, and I noticed him clutching his right hand. I could have sworn he had a rag wrapped around it, like he was injured.

He didn't stay outside for long. He simply ran straight into his house and locked the door behind him. Through the curtains, I could see. that the lights were still on. I could see his shadow pacing around doing something, but I had no idea what. The lights never switched off that night. In that morning, Richard Shannon didn't leave for work. Odd, Rutland sat as he joined me the next morning. We sat side by side in my wife's car, staring at his house thoughtfully. Only one light was on now, up on the second floor.

Some sort of meet-up, perhaps, he asked me. Possible, but unlikely. I didn't see any other cars out there. They'd be easy to miss in the dark, Rutland said. Maybe. But I'm not sure if this was some sort of meeting. There'd be far more practical ways to conduct one, you know. I said,

Yes, there would be. But this lot have all kinds of stupid ideas they'll pass off as smart. Secret meetings at midnight in the woods, though. Well, you and I have both heard stupider things. I nodded. But I wasn't quite convinced. When I came back that evening to take care, my shift watching Shannon's place. Rutland didn't have any news at all for me. I'm not sure

what he's been up to in there, but he hasn't left all day, he said. No visitors either. I noticed that the same light on the second floor was on. Interesting. Maybe you'll have another late-night meeting, I said half-joking. Perhaps. Perhaps. You'll call me if anything comes up, right? Of course, I said. He nodded before saying good night and leaving. I wish I could say that the night after Shannon's little late-night drive was interesting. But it wasn't.

The light on the second floor stayed on. No shadow moved inside the house. Nothing changed. And that didn't sit right with me. When Rutland returned to take over his shift that morning, I was waiting for him outside of my car. And here I thought you were trying to be subtle, he said, half teasing. Although I did see concern on his face.

He took one look at that house, and he knew something was wrong, just as I did. There's been no movement inside that house since the night he went into the woods, I said. There's one light on. It hasn't changed since yesterday evening. Rutland just stared at the house in silence, his expression going dark. We both knew from experience that a man on a crime lord's hit list didn't have a very long life expectancy. And both of us knew there were plenty of ways Morrow's men could have snuck past us. For all we knew, Richard Shannon was long dead.

There was only one way to find out for certain, though. Rutland exhaled before looking at me. All right, let's check in on the old man then, he said, before we walked together towards the front door. Rutland knocked, and predictably, there was no answer. He and I exchanged a look. He knocked again for courtesy's sake. I, on the other hand, was not so polite. When Shannon didn't answer, I picked the lock.

The door swung open and we calmly stepped inside. Mr. Shannon? Rettland called. No answer. I started up the stairs to the second floor, wasting no time on formalities. I spotted a closed door with a light underneath it once I got up there. And I pushed it open. What I saw inside that room defied any rational explanation I could come up with.

Shannon had taken a knife to just about every surface inside of that room. He had carved some sort of ruin everywhere he could. The walls, the door, the window cells, even the floor, the floor. same symbol over and over again. What the hell? I said. Beside me, Rutland just stared in confused disbelief, unsure of what to make of this. It was madness.

That really was the only word to describe it. The room didn't have any furniture at all. The only thing in it was a red leather-bound book on the floor. It had no title on the cover. So I picked it up and thumbed through it. What is it? Rutland asked. It's, uh, it's some sort of grim war, I said softly.

I opened it, and I saw the last page Shannon had read. The Man in the Forest. Rutland got closer to me, reading the book over my shoulder. The section that Shannon had marked off described a ritual to summon some sort of demon. Enter the deepest shadows of the forest at the deepest darkness of midnight. Bring with you no protective charms or weapons. Walk until light has abandoned you. Find a suitable tree, and with a ritual dagger, mark it with your own blood.

He will come, drawn to the scent of blood. Call to him. Make your offering. Should he fall silent, you have his attention. Should he still approach? your death is nigh Offer up an effigy of your despised And in your hatred Pin it to the marked tree

Should the forest be silent still Your contract is sealed Should he draw closer Your life has ended Thank the man in the forest and leave quickly. Return immediately to the sanctuary you have prepared, and pray he hunts your despised before he hunts you.

Pray you're despised does not know how to protect themselves from him, or if they do, pray their sanctuary is weaker than yours. It cannot be stopped. now. At least one of you will be shredded by his claws. Only he can decide which of you it will be. It was insanity. It had to be. Complete and utter madness. Some sort of a cult ritual to summon some sort of demon, to do what? Kill a man? Who? Morrow?" Ruttland stared down at the book. His brow furrowed in confusion. He didn't seem to know what to make of any of this either. As we stared down at the book in disbelief, our eyes were drawn toward something on the floor beneath us. There were marks in the

wood, long trails stretched into it, trails that led toward an air vent in the floor. And if I didn't know any better, I might have said that they were fingernail markings. We called in homicide after that. And they found nothing. No body, no blood, nothing. while I was able to present the evidence that Rutland and I had gathered to Gemma Shaw and earned my payday from her. The case was really never closed. Richard Shannon was eventually listed as a missing person's case. The general consensus is that he went into hiding, either

to hide from Morrow or to hide from us after he realized he was being investigated. An active warrant is out for his arrest. But I know they'll never find him. Richard Shannon is gone. It was a month after his disappearance that I got an email from Neil Rutland. Rutland usually wasn't the type to stay in touch, so I knew that whatever this was, it was likely important. His email contained a couple attachments. One was a PDF of some files from the Damien Scott investigation. I skipped through him. Most of it was details I'd already heard. But Rutland had sent me something else as well. Photographs from Scott's residence in London. Most of these photos were unremarkable, but near the end of the document were several pictures

of a bare room Scott had kept in his basement, a room with familiar symbols carved into the walls, onto the window cells, onto the door, that same ruin everywhere. The very same ones Shannon had used in his summoning room. The second attachment that Rutland had sent me was a video from a porch camera across the street from Damien Scott's house. The footage was dated as being from the exact the same night that Richard Shannon had gone into the forest. In it, I could see a car pulling up in front of Scott's house, and I could see a familiar man getting out.

Jack Morrow. His face is only visible for a few moments, but it was long enough for me to tell it was him. As soon as he got out of the car, he went straight for Scott's house, running inside as fast as he could. At a glance, the footage seemed strange, but mostly unremarkable, but I have watched it a few times now. I have watched it over and over again, looking for any other details I might be able to find. There is one thing in that video. I can't explain. At a glance, Jack Morrow is the only person visible, but looking closer, I swear I can see another figure standing in the shadows

on the left side of the screen. I swear that Morrow looks directly at that figure during the few moments where his face is on camera. And I swear that the look on his face is pure terror. I don't I don't believe I'll be continuing with the Richard Shannon case, or any cases related to it. I'm not sure I want the answers.