Bzzzt...
The static hum of a television broke the silence of a dark living room. A pale blue glow trembled across the furniture, the only light in the house. A middle-aged news anchor stared out from the screen, her voice steady but slightly strained.
"Good evening, everyone. We have some unfortunate news tonight. The Cold Valley serial killer is still at large, and another family has been found dead. This marks his one hundred and fifty-seventh victim. Authorities are urging everyone to stay indoors and not open their doors to strangers until the suspect is caught."
"Oh my," a young man murmured softly from the shadows. "Scum is such a strong word."
He turned his head slightly, smiling toward the bound man on the couch. "You hear that, Greg? She's talking about me. You really should pay more attention to the news."
"Mmph!" Greg thrashed, the gag muffling his cries.
"Oh, right. Where are my manners? Allow me."
The young man, dark-haired and hollow-eyed, leaned forward. The air seemed to thicken around him, and the faint glow of the television bent strangely across his features as he loosened the gag with deliberate care.
"You piece of shit," Greg spat, gasping for air. "They'll find you. Do you have any idea who my father i-"
A fist cut through the air. The wet crack that followed echoed off the walls. Greg's head snapped sideways, blood speckling the couch.
"I don't care," the man whispered, smiling wider. The television's light shimmered across his face.
"D-Daddy..."
A little girl sat tied to a chair, eyes wide and glassy, tears streaking her cheeks.
"Oh, sweetheart," the man said, his voice suddenly soft. "I'm sorry I hurt your daddy. He was just a bit too noisy."
He knelt in front of her, smoothing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Get your hand off her! You'll regret this!"
The man chuckled, a dry, childish sound that did not belong in the dark. He tilted his head, studying Greg with quiet fascination.
"What can you even do? Do you know how many times I've heard that same line?"
"Please," Greg pleaded, his voice shaking. "Please, just leave her alone. I'll give you anything. Money, property, anything. Just don't hurt her."
"Paternal love. Sure is beautiful. It almost makes me believe in something," the man quipped.
He rose to his feet, the knife glinting faintly in the television's glow.
"Unfortunately, I don't want anything from you."
"Wait! Do you want money? I can give you m-millions, billions, anything you want! Just leave my daughter out of this!"
"D-daddy, I'm scared."
"I can give you access to our company files, you could bec-"
The knife moved once, a single, practiced motion.
Shink.
The blade slid deep into the girl's chest. A gasp. A whimper. Then silence, broken only by the soft drip of blood onto the floor.
Greg's body convulsed. The scream caught in his throat and refused to come out.
"I told you," the killer said. "I don't care."
"Wh-why?" Greg choked. "I said I'd do anything."
His breath came in ragged bursts. His eyes fixed on the lifeless body of his daughter, her small fingers twitching. The man tilted his head again, as if considering the question.
"No reason," he said at last. "I just felt like it."
Greg's face twisted with rage.
"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!"
"Hooray. So enthusiastic. That's why I love you."
He walked toward Greg, slow and deliberate.
"BASTARD! BURN IN HELL, YOU FUCKING DEMON! I'LL-"
The rest dissolved into a wet gurgle as the knife slid across his throat.
The killer watched as Greg's final expression froze somewhere between fury and disbelief. When the body went still, he sighed.
"So passionate. I almost hate to waste you."
Then came a sound. A thin, trembling wheeze.
He turned. The girl was still alive. Barely.
"Oh," he said softly. "You're tougher than you look."
Without hesitation, he flicked his wrist. The knife spun through the air and struck with a dull thunk. The chair toppled backward.
"Now," he murmured, stretching lazily, "dessert."
He walked toward the door. The television was still on. The news anchor's voice continued, calm but urgent.
"If you suspect someone is following you home, go directly to the nearest police station. Do not show them where you live. Please, stay safe."
The killer chuckled.
"Why would I follow them? They always let me in."
He paused at the doorway, glancing back at the bodies, shadows still twitching in the flickering light.
"Lara Jane," he whispered, reading the anchor's name on the screen. "Such a lovely name. I think I'll visit you next."
The door creaked open. Cold air swept through the room. Then silence.
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Next morning.
The sunlight slipped through half-drawn blinds, thin and cold. The room was quiet except for the low murmur of the television.
The same news anchor from the night before was speaking, her voice weary.
"Police arrived at the Cold Valley residence early this morning. Authorities believe the killer entered through an unlocked side door."
A man sat on the couch, hair still damp from a shower, a faint smile touching his lips. He hummed a slow, tuneless melody as he stirred sugar into a cup of coffee. Each click of the spoon seemed to match the reporter's words.
"…Neighbors report hearing nothing. Investigators are asking anyone with information to come forward…"
He lifted the cup, watching the swirl of steam rise and curl.
"People should really start locking their doors," he said softly to the screen, as if the woman inside could hear him.
The anchor's image flickered. For a moment, the signal blurred, her face stretching and twisting before snapping back to normal.
Outside, the street was calm. A dog barked somewhere far off. The ordinary sounds of morning felt oddly distant, as if they were happening behind glass.
He leaned back, humming again. The tune was the same one that had played faintly from the television the night before.
The edges of the room began to shimmer faintly. The hum of the refrigerator deepened into a strange vibration, a low tone that made the air feel heavy. He rubbed his eyes, assuming he hadn't slept enough. The television's colors brightened until they were too vivid to look at.
"…If you recognize this man, do not approach…"
The voice fractured, repeating itself in a distorted loop.
He set down the cup. The world tilted slightly, as if gravity had shifted.
"Hm. That's not normal," he muttered.
The television kept stuttering, words overlapping, screeching and warping until the man's own humming seemed to echo them back.
Colors bled from the screen across the walls, pulsing with a strange, hypnotic rhythm. Then the looping stopped. Silence.
The anchor's eyes were different now. Dark holes swallowed light. A smile split her face from cheek to ear, skin patchy and peeling like old paint.
"Sorin," she said. Her voice was an amalgam of a hundred others, layered and discordant.
He blinked, lips curving into that same serene smile.
"Oh? Now this is interesting," he murmured to the empty room. "I didn't know I was popular in the demon realm. For you to even know my name, I feel special."
He giggled behind his hands, almost like a shy, innocent schoolgirl. Well, as innocent as a serial killer could get.
The anchor's grin widened, skin splitting further. It almost seemed to flake off.
"You don't seem scared? Well, doesn't matter. I came to warn you. You should be prepared. From now on nothing will be as it seems. Not the streets, not the people, not even yourself."
He leaned forward, intrigued.
"Prepare for what exactly? And don't you usually start with an introduction?"
"You are not worthy of knowing who I am, yet," said the news anchor.
"Quiet, full of ourselves, aren't we now? Well, it's not like I'm not prideful myself," said Sorin, a finger tracing the air lazily. "Anyway, what exactly should I prepare for?"
"You will understand on your own in due time."
"You're calling me smart? I'm blushing here. Any extra rules I should know?" he said with his ever-present smile.
Her lips moved again, slower this time.
"There are no rules. What you know cannot guide you. Expect nothing. Trust nothing. And do not resist what is coming."
The words didn't come from the speakers anymore. They came from the room itself, woven into the air. The walls quivered. The light deepened until it burned white.
He tilted his head, intrigued rather than afraid.
"How mysterious," he said with a small laugh. "I quite like games, you know."
"Then play, and don't disappoint me," said the now-deformed news anchor. Her face sagged like melting wax, and her once hollow eyes now burned with green fire.
The world pulsed one last time, then dissolved into an impossible whiteness.
He closed his eyes, still smiling. The hum of the television, the voice of the anchor, and the pulse of the light merged into one. A strange warmth spread through his chest as the whiteness swallowed him.