Chapter 1 - The beginning
The town of Shettsfield was not one of great interest, it was as boring as a town could get, overcast clouds that make the town always feel like it was on the verge of rain, which it did most times, black lamp posts, gray asphalt roads lined with white paint and concrete, to the gray and red bricked houses all identical to the rest, the only thing colorful was the red mail-posts and of course the blood that paints the innocent victims faces.
Shettsfield was known for one thing and that was the one and only Shettsfield serial killer, known the the locals as the whistler, how he got his name you will soon find out…
Victim #1- Clara Franklin
The first victim was a young woman -Clara Franklin, 21 years old, fresh out of university with a promising future ahead. But the body found bore little resemblance to the vibrant person described. Her face was scarred with deep gashes, her pale skin devoid of blood haunting . Crimson streaks settled around her mirroring angelic wings, and her clothes were torn, soaked, and grotesquely stained with the remnants of her own organs.
Her hands were placed neatly at her sides, arms arranged in a way that resembled a twisted version of angel. It was as if someone had tried to make the scene "nice," but the effort only deepened the horror. She looked like a corpse not yet decayed, but disturbingly wrong—too still, too unnerving, and reeking of nothingness.
The police arrived with sirens blaring, but their movements were hesitant. They had come in response to an anonymous tip. Two officers stepped out of the car, unsure of what they were walking into…
The officers stepped cautiously onto the scene, boots crunching against gravel slick with dew and something darker. One of them Detective Josephine Carlo paused at the edge of the clearing, her breath catching as she took in the body. She'd seen death before, but this was different. This was curated.
She knelt beside Clara, eyes scanning the arrangement. The symmetry was deliberate. Too deliberate. Whoever did this wasn't just trying to kill—he was trying to communicate.
"Do we have ID?" she asked, voice low.
Her partner, Officer Myers , shook his head. "No wallet. No phone. Just the tip. Said we'd find her here."
The Detective frowned. "Anonymous?"
"Untraceable. Burner."
She looked back at Clara, her gaze lingering on the way the arms were posed, the absence of struggle. "She didn't die here," The Detective murmured. "She was placed
A silence settled between them, broken only by the distant hum of the city waking up. Detective Josephine stood, scanning the perimeter. No footprints. No drag marks. Just Clara, perfectly positioned in the center of the clearing like a grotesque offering.
"Start canvassing, I want a list of missing people on my desk when i get back" she said. "Someone saw something. And get forensics here. I want every inch of this place combed."
"Yes Detective" He said already walking away, not wanting to be near the body a moment longer.
As Myers moved to make the call, the Detective remained, staring at Clara's lifeless face. There was something in her expression calm yes, uncanny definitely but not empty. Not yet. This wasn't murder it was a performance.
A white van rolled slowly down the narrow street, its engine humming low like a whisper. Bold black letters stretched across its side: "Coronary." In a town this small, that word carried weight.
People emerged from their homes and shops, drawn by instinct more than curiosity. In a place where everyone knows everyone, a van like that didn't just signal tragedy—it named it. Mothers clutched their children a little tighter. Old men leaned on fences, eyes narrowed. Teenagers stopped mid-scroll, suddenly aware of the somber atmosphere.
Detective Josephine watched the crowd gather, their faces a mix of dread and recognition. She knew what they were thinking: 'Who was it?' And worse, 'Was it someone I knew?'
The van came to a halt beside the clearing. Two coroners stepped out, their movements practiced but solemn. One opened the back doors while the other approached the Detective with a clipboard and a quiet nod.
"She's ready," he said.
The Detective nodded, but didn't move. Her eyes drifted back to Clara's body, still untouched, still posed. The crowd kept their distance, but their presence was palpable like a hanging raincloud waiting to drop.
zipper's rasp cut through the hush as they sealed Clara away.
"We've run every test DNA, fibers, trace evidence. Nothing. No foreign material, no signs of contact. It's as if she was never touched," said Dr. Grey, her voice calm but clipped.
"There has to be something," Detective Josephine insisted. "A hair, a fingerprint , something."
Dr. Grey raised an eyebrow, her tone sharpening. "Are you telling me how to do my job, Detective?"
Josephine held her gaze. "I'm telling you a girl is dead, and there is no trace of a killer."
A tense silence settled between them, broken only by the soft hum of lab equipment. Dr. Grey sighed, setting the clipboard down.
"I'm not saying it's impossible," she said. "I'm saying whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. This wasn't sloppy. It was surgical."
Detective Josephine exhaled slowly rubbing the corners of her eyes, the weight of the case pressing harder on her shoulders. "Then we're not dealing with a rookie."
Dr. Grey nodded. "No. We're dealing with a killer."
"I'll send over the autopsy report," she added, turning back to her desk. "But I'll save you the summary she died from blood loss. A single, deliberate cut to the chest."
Josephine's jaw tightened. "Deliberate?"
Dr. Grey glanced up. "Clean. Precise. No hesitation. Whoever did this knew exactly where to strike."
Detective Josephine stepped closer, her voice low. "So we're looking for someone with anatomical knowledge. Medical training, maybe?"
"Possibly," Dr. Grey said. "Or someone who's done this before."
Detective Josephine stared at the report in Dr. Grey's hand, her mind already racing. "Then we need to find out who Clara trusted enough to let them get that close."