EMMA MARTIN'S RESIDENCE
Georgetown University - Off-Campus Housing
November 6th - 11:47 PM
The townhouse was exactly what Zale expected from a Senator's daughter—red brick facade in a historic neighborhood, wrought-iron fencing, security cameras at every angle, the kind of address that cost more per month than most people earned in a year.
Yellow police tape marked the entrance. FBI evidence markers dotted the front steps. Two agents stood watch—one at the door, one by the Bureau sedan parked at the curb.
Catherine stood on the sidewalk, flanked by Secret Service agents, one hand gripping the wrought-iron fence so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
"Agent Rodriguez wasn't happy about this," she said quietly. "He thinks you're a waste of time."
"He's not entirely wrong," Zale replied, voice carrying that lazy, unbothered tone. "I am a consultant. And you did hire me out of desperation."
Catherine's lips thinned. Started toward the door.
"Senator." Zale's voice stopped her. "You should wait out here."
"This is my daughter's home—"
"Which is why you shouldn't see it like this." His tone was gentle but firm. "Whatever I find in there, you don't need that image in your head. Not yet. Let me work."
Catherine looked like she wanted to argue. Then nodded once, jaw tight, and whispered so quietly he almost didn't hear:
"Please find her."
Not Senator Catherine Martin. Not the survivor who'd spent thirty years building armor.
Just a mother. Terrified. Desperate.
Zale held her gaze. "I will."
***
The agent at the door—young, early thirties, federal efficiency personified—straightened as Zale approached.
"Mr. Akula. Special Agent Rodriguez is expecting you."
Inside, the townhouse was frozen in interrupted life. Textbooks open on the coffee table. Half-empty coffee mug on the kitchen counter. Throw blanket bunched on the couch where Emma had pushed it aside before leaving for the library four nights ago.
Everything waiting for someone who would never come home.
Special Agent Marcus Rodriguez stood in the living room, arms crossed, suit immaculate despite the late hour. Late forties. Hispanic. Sharp eyes that assessed Zale the moment he entered.
"Mr. Akula." No handshake offered. "Senator Martin speaks highly of your... expertise."
"Agent Rodriguez." Zale's tone was polite, unbothered by the skepticism. "I appreciate you allowing me access."
"The Senator was insistent." Rodriguez's expression made it clear exactly how much that insistence had been appreciated. "I'll be direct, Mr. Akula. We have a solid investigation underway. Credible leads. We don't need outside interference."
"Understood."
"That said," Rodriguez continued, jaw tight, "if you see something we missed, I'm willing to listen. But I won't have you contaminating evidence. Clear?"
"Crystal."
Rodriguez gestured toward the stairs. "Her bedroom is on the second floor. We've processed everything. Agent Chen will supervise."
***
EMMA'S BEDROOM - SECOND FLOOR
Agent Chen waited at the doorway—late twenties, sharp-eyed, the kind of competence that came from years of federal training.
"Mr. Akula. We've documented everything. No suspicious communications. No stalkers. Emma Martin was, by all accounts, a normal college freshman."
"Until she wasn't," Zale said quietly.
"Until she wasn't," Chen agreed. "You have ten minutes. Don't touch anything."
Zale stood in the doorway and simply looked.
Standard college bedroom. Desk with laptop docking station. Bookshelves. Bed neatly made. Posters on the walls—bands, movies, the usual markers of youth.
Nothing obviously wrong.
But the FBI had already processed physical evidence. Zale wasn't here for fingerprints.
"Agent Chen, when you processed this room, did you notice anything unusual?"
Chen hesitated. "What kind of unusual?"
"Temperature inconsistencies. Electronic malfunctions."
Her expression shifted. "Our thermal camera registered cold spots. Multiple locations. They dissipated before we could determine the cause. Agent Rodriguez attributed it to HVAC irregularities."
"And your equipment?"
"Two cameras malfunctioned. Battery failure." She paused. "My partner requested reassignment after five minutes. Said the room made him uncomfortable. Couldn't explain why."
"And you?"
Chen was quiet. "I've processed dozens of crime scenes. This one felt different. Wrong. Like something had been here that shouldn't have been."
Zale nodded. "Thank you for being honest."
He closed his eyes.
Activated True Sight.
***
The power washed over his vision like a veil being lifted.
The bedroom shifted.
Darkness.
Not absence of light. Presence.
It clung to surfaces like oil—thick, viscous, wrong. Concentrated near the bed, the window, the closet. Handprints on the headboard that glowed with faint, sickly luminescence. Too large. Fingers too long.
But it wasn't just residue.
It was layered.
Weeks of it. Multiple visits. Something had been coming here regularly, watching, touching, marking her like a predator selecting prey.
And beneath the darkness—warmth. Human warmth. Body heat left by living flesh.
But twisted. Contaminated. Like someone had been standing here while something else operated their body.
Possession.
Then Zale noticed something else.
A space near the closet. Not empty space. Not shadow.
Absence.
Like reality had a hole punched through it and something was looking back from the other side. His enhanced senses screamed at him to look away.
He didn't.
The absence flickered. Retreated.
Then vanished.
"Mr. Akula?" Chen's voice, sharp. "What are you doing?"
Zale opened his eyes. Deactivated True Sight. The spectral traces vanished.
"Looking," he said simply.
"You've been standing there with your eyes closed for three minutes."
"Thinking." He turned to face her. "The cold spots you documented. Can you show me where they were concentrated?"
Chen pulled out her tablet. Brought up thermal imaging.
Zale studied the overlay. Cold spots marked in blue—bed, doorframe, window, desk, closet.
Exactly where he'd seen the spectral handprints.
"Something was here," he said quietly. "Multiple times over several weeks. It wasn't just watching Emma. It was marking her. Claiming her."
Chen's expression closed. "I deal in evidence, Mr. Akula. Not ghost stories."
"Then explain the cold spots. The cameras that failed. The feeling that made an experienced agent request reassignment." Zale's voice remained calm. "Seven young women are dead. All killed using methods identical to a serial killer who's been dead for thirty years. Emma sent a voicemail from her phone while that phone was powered off in your evidence lockup. Your techs confirmed it."
He pulled out his phone, showed her a photo—ectoplasmic residue under UV analysis.
"This is spiritual contamination. Compare it to the 'unidentified substance' your forensics documented."
Chen looked at the comparison. Her jaw tightened.
"Even if I believed this, what are we supposed to do?"
"You don't do anything. That's why Senator Martin hired me." Zale turned toward the door. "I need to see the parking lot where she was taken."
***
001GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY - LIBRARY PARKING LOT
November 7th - 12:34 AM
The parking lot was empty. Quiet. Just sodium lights casting orange pools across asphalt.
Chen had driven in silence. Yellow police tape still marked where Emma's car had been found.
"Engine running. Door open. Phone on the ground." Chen gestured. "Cameras failed at 8:45 PM. Came back online at 9:15. Thirty minutes of dead footage."
Zale pulled Emma's jacket from the evidence bag Chen had provided. Baby blue. Georgetown emblem. Still faintly smelling of perfume and normalcy.
"What are you doing?" Chen asked.
"Marking her." Zale closed his eyes, held the jacket against his chest. "I need to know if she's still alive."
He activated Relentless Pursuit.
The power unfurled from somewhere deep—Michael Myers' gift, the unstoppable hunter's instinct.
He reached through the fabric, through the residual warmth, through the emotional imprint.
Find her.
For a moment, nothing.
Then—
There.
A connection snapped into place like a rubber band pulled taut.
West. Distant. Faint.
But alive.
Zale's eyes opened. "She's alive."
Chen's breath caught. "You're certain?"
"The power only works on living targets. If she was dead, I'd feel nothing." He concentrated. "She's weak. Unconscious or barely conscious. But alive. West of here—Ohio direction, roughly three hundred miles."
"Belvedere," Chen said. "Where Gumb lived."
Zale nodded, still holding the jacket. The connection thrummed—fragile, flickering, but present.
"She doesn't have much time. The signal's getting weaker."
He folded the jacket carefully. Kept it.
Then activated True Sight again.
***
The parking lot exploded with spectral traces.
Fresh. Active. Hungry.
Handprints everywhere. Different sizes—the entity switching bodies like changing clothes.
But the heaviest concentration was fifteen feet from where the car had been.
A circle of darkness. Perfect. Deliberate.
A doorway.
Zale whispered something in a language Chen didn't recognize. His breath condensed into frost despite the mild air.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the world had peeled back.
***
Emma's final seconds played like a fragmented afterimage:
She walked toward her car, keys in hand, earbuds in, humming. Young. Alive. Normal.
The lights flickered.
She paused. Frowned.
Behind her, something moved. Not walked. Moved. Jerky. Wrong.
She turned.
Screamed—
—soundless in the echo—
She ran.
Three steps.
Something grabbed her. Invisible hooks sinking into her shoulders, yanking her backward. Her feet left the ground. Her phone flew from her hand.
The thing flickered—half shadow, half human outline. A man's shape. Tall. Thin. Moving wrong.
His face was visible for just a moment.
Dead eyes. Slack jaw. Skin gray and waxy.
The host had been dead for days.
Emma thrashed. Kicked. Fought.
The dead man didn't react. Just pulled her toward the circle of darkness.
She reached out. Clawed at nothing.
Then the darkness swallowed her.
***
Zale gasped. Deactivated TrueSight. The memory vanished.
He stood there, breathing hard, jaw tight.
"Mr. Akula?" Chen's voice, distant. "What happened?"
"The host was male," Zale said finally, voice flat. "Early forties. Dead—had been for days before being used."
Chen went still. "Dead."
"Reanimated. Minimal motor control. Pulled from whatever grave or morgue and piloted like a drone." Zale turned to face her. "Your killer isn't using accomplices. He's using corpses."
Chen's face drained of color. "A dead man abducted a Senator's daughter."
"No," Zale said quietly. "A dead man was driven here by something that refused to stay buried."
He walked to where the circle had been. Crouched.
"And one more thing."
Chen looked at him.
Zale's gaze sharpened.
"This entity isn't just collecting victims."
He stood, staring at the trail of energy leading west.
"It's rebuilding itself."
***
FBI SEDAN - EN ROUTE TO AIRFIELD
November 7th - 1:45 AM
Rodriguez sat in the front passenger seat, jaw tight. Catherine had made the call twenty minutes ago. His career was now tied to a consultant who talked about wraiths.
"Senator Martin is calling in significant favors for this," Rodriguez said finally. "If you're wrong—if we raid private property based on 'spiritual impressions' and find nothing—her career takes the hit. Mine too."
"I understand," Zale said calmly.
"Do you?" Rodriguez turned. "I've got seven dead girls. A Senator's daughter missing. Evidence that shouldn't exist. And now I'm following a consultant who claims the killer is a ghost."
He leaned forward.
"Give me one reason why I should believe any of this."
Zale met his eyes. "Because you already do."
Rodriguez's jaw tightened.
"The phone message bothers you," Zale continued quietly. "Three tech analysts looked at it. None could explain how a powered-off phone in a Faraday cage sent a message. Your equipment fails at every scene. Your people feel things they can't explain. Seven women are dead using methods identical to a killer you know is buried."
He paused.
"You don't want to believe it. But the alternative—that you're missing something obvious—is worse."
Rodriguez stared at him for a long moment.
Then turned back around.
"Three hours to Belvedere. You get one shot."
***
MILITARY HELICOPTER - EN ROUTE TO OHIO
November 7th - 2:47 AM
The helicopter's engine was loud enough that conversation required headsets. Rodriguez and Chen coordinated with the Ohio field office. Catherine hadn't come—too visible, too political.
Zale sat alone in the back, staring at darkness below.
The book manifested in his lap without being summoned.
It fell open to a blank page.
And wrote.
Not elegant script. This was scratched. Hurried. Like claws on parchment.
"Close."
Zale's eyes narrowed. "How close?"
The pages rustled.
"Hungry."
"You're always hungry."
"Weak."
"The entity?"
"Girl."
His jaw tightened. Emma.
"Can you track her?"
The pages flipped rapidly. New words appeared:
"Old ritual. Old hunger."
Then the book snapped shut and vanished.
Old pit.
Gumb had kept victims in a pit beneath his house. When the house was demolished, they'd filled it in.
But spiritual impressions didn't care about concrete.
If the wraith had recreated the pit...
Emma was underground.
***
Rodriguez pulled off his headset. Leaned back.
"If we're wrong, my career is over."
"I know," Zale said.
"But if we're right..." Rodriguez's jaw tightened. "If Emma Martin is in a pit in Ohio and we save her..."
"Then seven dead girls get justice. And one living girl goes home."
Rodriguez held his gaze.
Then nodded once.
"Forty-eight hours. That's what you have."
"I only need twelve."
Rodriguez almost smiled. "Confident."
"Prepared," Zale corrected. "There's a difference."
Rodriguez turned back, put his headset on.
But he glanced back once more—not with skepticism.
With something that might have been hope.
***
The helicopter cut through darkness toward Ohio.
Zale pulled out his phone. Texted Catherine: *She's alive. Weak, but alive. Going in. If you don't hear from me in twelve hours, send backup to Belvedere.*
He didn't wait for a response.
Below, somewhere in cold earth and older darkness, Emma Martin waited.
Starving. Terrified. Running out of time.
And Buffalo Bill—the wraith that wore corpses like puppets, that refused to die, that had spent three years rebuilding what Clarice Starling had destroyed—was completing his transformation.
Seven victims skinned. Emma would be eight.
One more after that, and the ritual would be complete.
Then he'd be free. No longer bound. No longer tied to old methods.
Something worse.
The book manifested briefly.
One word appeared:
"Soon."
Then vanished.
Zale closed his eyes.
And prepared to hunt.
[END CHAPTER 5]