Moonlight spilled across the streets of New Orleans. The usual hum of life, the distant jazz, the murmur of voices, the rattle of a streetcar, all swallowed by a thick fog that rolled through the narrow streets like the breath of some unseen beast.
Jess Baker ran. Her black dress shoes slamming into the pavement, her legs pumping with everything she had left. Blood dripped from a gash on her cheek. This wasn't how her night was supposed to end. It was supposed to be fun, a way to escape, to lose herself in the music of Bourbon Street. But now she was lost, alone, and running for her life.
A deep, guttural laugh echoed behind her. He was enjoying this.
The fog crept along the street, smothering everything, swallowing her screams.
The moon flickered behind shifting clouds, casting a pale light on a puddle. For a moment, it was still, a perfect mirror of the quiet city. Then Jess's foot hit the water, and the reflection shattered with a loud splash.
"Run little bird," he whispered in her ear. Jess screamed.
She pushed herself harder, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her legs burned, her heart hammered, but terror shot up her spine, driving her forward. She couldn't stop. She knew what would happen if she did.
Her steps were wild, uneven, her body moving on pure instinct. She had to survive, but she knew it was pointless.
Behind her, always behind him, he followed. She always laughed in slasher films when the characters couldn't outrun the killer. It didn't seem so funny now.
She dared a glance back, copper hair whipping across her face, sticking to the sweat, blood, and tears. He was still there.
His figure loomed in the fog, a shadow, his face hidden beneath the brim of a top hat. He moved with slow, deliberate confidence, a predator savoring the chase.
In his hand, the knife flashed in the moonlight, its edge slick with her blood.
She screamed again, her voice cracking, wild, pleading.
"Help me!"
But the fog smothered her cry.
She turned the corner, breath ragged, and froze.
The terror in her spine shifted to hope.
A group of teenagers stood by a car, laughing, passing around a beer.
She stumbled toward them, choking on her breath, desperate for safety.
"Help me," she gasped, "He's coming..."
Her words faltered when she saw them clearly.
One of the car windows was shattered. A boy leaned against the hood, idly twirling a crowbar. Another, younger, held the half-empty beer bottle, eyes glazed.
"Please... please help me."
But she knew it was pointless. She saw it in their eyes, the way they shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze.
They wouldn't risk it for her.
The fog closed in, smothering the last of her hope, making the safety she thought she'd found feel unreachable.
One of the teens, a nervous-looking boy with short-cropped hair, took a half-step forward, but froze, his eyes locked on something behind her.
Jess's heart skipped a beat.
He'd found her.
I can't die she thought.
Who would feed her cat? Water her plants? Who would give her father his birthday gift, neatly wrapped and hidden in her closet?
Jess chuckled bitterly, tears streaming down her face, unable to stop them.
"What the fuck am I thinking?"
A final surge of life shot through her, pushing her to fight, to survive. It tore through her belly, ripping through her lungs, clawing its way to her throat. She would scream. Loud enough to wake the sleeping city. Raw enough to summon help.
She opened her mouth, tilted her head to the sky, and,
A black-gloved hand closed around her throat, cold and merciless.
She was yanked backward, dragged into the alley's darkness, one shoe torn off by the tar. Her breath caught, fingers clawing at the unyielding grip squeezing her throat.
Still, she fought.
She had to survive.
She had to live.
The teens stood frozen, watching in helpless horror as the moonlight glinted off the knife in his hand.
The blade sliced through her skin, and her scream split the night, a sharp, brutal cry that seemed to tear the city apart.
Still he cut, sliced, and tore.
Her screams weakened.
And then... nothing but a frantic plea for the end.
"Make it end. Make it end. Just let me die," she sobbed, her voice broken, trembling.
"Please."
The fog smothered her words, devouring the sound of her screams as it swallowed her whole.
The rhythmic pounding of Ann's feet on the empty asphalt echoed through the early morning stillness.
She pushed herself forward, breath steady, brown hair swaying in time with her stride. The cool dawn air kissed her flushed cheeks, sharp and invigorating, carrying the faint scent of dew and a city still asleep. Music pulsed through her earbuds, matching the beat of her feet striking the ground.
Her sister hadn't come home.
At least, not that Ann had seen. Probably out with some boy. Good for her.
But Ann didn't need boys, alcohol, or clubs to feel alive.
This was Ann's sanctuary, her escape from the noise and chaos that would soon flood the streets. Each morning, before the world stirred, she carved out this small piece of time just for herself. The solitude was intoxicating. With every stride, every breath, the weight lifted, clarity returned.
Her morning jog had become a ritual, a source of both peace and power. She claimed the empty city as her own, and in those moments, she was untouchable.
She jogged past a lone black shoe and frowned. It looked familiar.
Hadn't Jess been wearing those when she left?
Ann shook it off. It wasn't like Jess had the only pair in the world.
A smile tugged at her lips as she turned a corner. She entered a narrow alley lined with weathered brick buildings, their facades crumbling and stained with age. Yet, they held a strange beauty, real, lived-in.
The rising sun barely reached the space, casting long shadows that caressed the walls.
Ann's eyes flicked downward, her steps light as she dodged puddles and piles of trash littering the alley. The remnants of the previous day's bustle had been abandoned, already forgotten by a city that never looked back. She caught sight of a pile of torn clothing, a summer dress, perhaps.
The sight tickled her brain.
She almost tripped, stopping with a sigh. One of her laces had come undone, a good enough excuse for a break.
She kneeled to re-tie the lace, tightening the knot. Her heart still raced, but the rhythm had steadied, and for a moment, she allowed herself to savor the quiet, rare, undisturbed stillness that seemed to belong to her alone.
Sure, it was a trash-filled alley, one overflowing with the scent of metal, but there was a strange beauty in it.
Suddenly, something warm and wet struck the back of Ann's head.
Ann reached up, wiping at the spot, her fingers brushing the dampness. She frowned at the smear left behind on her hand.
Crimson.
Her heart stopped. The smile faded from her face. The bright sun suddenly felt cold and distant. The quiet morning, too still. Too oppressive. Slowly, her eyes lifted, against her will. They followed the rusted lines of a fire escape that clung precariously to the building above.
And there, hanging from the blackened metal railing,
It hung.
Limp, swaying gently in the cool morning breeze. The body was stripped bare, raw muscle and sinew glistening in the light, blood dripping slowly from the wounds.
Ann froze, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. Blood oozed, dripping steadily, each drop forming a growing crimson puddle on the ground, pooling around a single black rose, just a step from her white running shoes.
But it was the eyes that held her captive. The eyes that would haunt her long after.
Bulging unnaturally, devoid of eyelids, wide and staring, directly into her own. The lifeless orbs seemed to lock onto her.
Questioning.
Those eyes, familiar. Too familiar. How could they not be? She had spent twenty years looking into them. She knew them angry.
Happy.
Sad.
And every other emotion in between. But she'd never seen them like this. She knew those eyes like her own. Her sister's eyes.
Jess's eyes.
Ann had always prided herself on her composure. She was the calm one, the level-headed friend who didn't flinch at horror movies, who laughed in the face of jump scares. But this, this was no fiction. No illusion on a screen. This was real. The scent of blood. The weight of the alley closing in around her. The body hanging above like some twisted offering.
The eyes twitched, and the right one slipped from its socket, landing in the growing puddle of red with sick slop.
And in that moment, Ann broke. She took a deep hard breath, and screamed.
He stood alone in the cemetery, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. A bouquet of flowers dangled from his trembling hand, their vibrant petals a scream against the dull gray sky. Gravestones loomed like silent judges, their moss-covered surfaces slick with age. The sky hung low, swollen with a storm that hadn't yet broken.
"You've failed us," the wind hissed, dry leaves scraping against stone.
He shook his head, muttering, "No."
"Yes," came the answer, louder, more insistent. No longer just the wind, it was the earth beneath him, groaning, shifting.
He gritted his teeth, shaking his head harder. "No!" His voice cracked, louder now, forced.
The ground shuddered beneath him. A deep, rumbling tremor, the earth was tired of holding its dead. The grass withered, turning black and brittle, crumbling under his presence. Tombstones cracked, names splintering into illegible fragments. The graves split wide vomiting forth their dead.
Skinless, rotting hands clawed from the earth, pale and bloodied, twitching with half-life. They dragged their mutilated bodies free of their graves, leaving a trail of blood and viscera in their wake. The ground oozed thick crimson, pooling around the gnarled roots of trees, staining the cemetery paths.
Their mouths opened, no lips remaining, only ragged teeth and gaping maws. They screamed, a sound of anguish, betrayal, endless torment. Their voices rose as one, a choir of the damned, each note scraping against his sanity.
"You failed us!" they shrieked, their cries tearing at his skin. E
His grip tightened on the flowers, knuckles white as the delicate stems snapped under the pressure. The petals, once soft and fragile, were crushed in his hand. The bouquet wilted and disintegrated as it fell from his trembling fingers. It hit the blood-soaked earth and was swallowed by the dark ground, as though it had never existed.
"No," he whispered, the strength draining from his voice. His defiance crumbled, replaced by something smaller, weaker, almost pleading. "I didn't fail. Not yet..."
The dead kept rising. More of them clawed their way from the earth, writhing, twisting as they forced their way into the world of the living. Their voices melded into a cacophony of blame and hatred, each word a jagged knife to his core.
"Join us."
"This is where you belong."
"Failure."
"Betrayer."
"Worthless."
His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, the cold, slick earth beneath him. His empty hands hovered uselessly in front of him, shaking. He had nothing left to offer them, nothing but his guilt, his failure.
Red lines twisted around him, forming a labyrinth with him at the center.
"JOIN US!"
William Moore jolted awake, his cheek pressed against the cold, unforgiving wood of his desk. His head throbbed, the remnants of his dreams still swirling in the fog of half-sleep. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee, its bitter sting cutting through the haze. Slowly, he sat up, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes with calloused fingers.
The office was a disaster. Papers littered every surface, photos, yellowed clippings, classified documents from late-night marathons. For ten years, he'd chased the cutter. A serial killer that skinned his victims alive. Yet despite the countless victims he was no closer to catching the killer. Every month a different city was hit, and the victims were chosen seemly at random. The only connection being the wayt hey were killed. And the single black rose left at each scene.
William sank into his chair, fingers running through his unkempt hair. His once-jet-black locks were streaked with silver now. Thirty-five, he thought bitterly. Thirty-five and already greying. His mother, if she were alive, would have something to say about that.
A knock at the door jerked him from his thoughts. Franklin Hansen entered, his white hair sparse and thin, his old body hunched with age.
"Sir?" William asked, still shaking off sleep.
Franklin wasn't just a boss, he was a mentor. The man who'd taken him in when he was young, idealistic, full of hope. The Cutter case had soured both their reputations. Every victim felt like another nail in the coffin of his career.
"William," Franklin said,"There's been another one."
William's heart sank. He jumped to his feet, grabbing his coat, but Franklin raised a hand.
"Not so fast."
"What do you mean? We don't have time to waste."
Franklin's face softened, his shoulders slumping. "The brass wants to pull you off the case. They think it's time for someone else to take the lead."
William slammed his fist on the desk, the thud rattling the papers and sending a mug tumbling to the floor. He didn't even flinch. "They can't!" he growled. "We don't have time to bring someone else up to speed! We're running out of time, Franklin! You know as well as I do, someone else will be dead in a few days unless,"
"I know!" Franklin cut him off, raising a hand. "That's why I've arranged a compromise."
William's teeth ground together. He took a seat, softened his face, and forced his voice calm. "What compromise?"
"You'll stay on the case," Franklin said, "but you'll have to work with a new partner. Gareth Brine. Young, sharp, a vet. He's on his way to New Orleans. You're meeting him there."
A new partner, just what he needed. Someone else to slow him down. But at least he still had a chance. "Yes, sir. And thanks."
Franklin's gaze lingered on him, weighing him down. "William... don't thank me yet. You have to catch the bastard this time. If you don't, I'm under orders to terminate your position. This is your last shot."
He'd known it, deep down, but hearing it out loud still felt unreal. He nodded, his jaw clenched. "I won't fail," he muttered,
"Oh, and William?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Happy birthday."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving William alone in the silence. For a moment, he just sat there.
He slumped back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His eyes scanned the clutter on his desk, the faces of the victims.
"I won't fail you," he whispered, "Not this time."