Chris sprinted down a desolate road swallowed by darkness. The world around him was a blur. No landmarks, no sky, only endless shadows. He’d been running forever. His lungs burned, his legs trembled, yet something in him refused to stop. Fear drove him onward.

“You can run forever, Tyler. But you’ll never escape me.”

That voice. How is this possible?

“I promised you this game wouldn’t end the way you imagined, didn’t I?” The words dripped with amusement. “The rooftop... remember? Feels like a lifetime ago.”

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. The buildings flanking the narrow road leaned inward like decaying sentinels, their windows watching him like soulless eyes.

“It is a lifetime ago,” the voice said. “It was before I died.”

A figure appeared ahead: small, motionless, standing in the centre of the road. Chris stopped dead.

“Death is a peculiar thing,” Osborne mused. “No one thinks about it… until it’s their turn. Or someone they love.”

Chris’s breath hitched.

“Christie? Sweetheart!”

The figure didn’t move. She looked at him. Eyes vacant and lifeless, just like the decaying windows.

“It’s good to see you again, my dear old friend,” came the calm voice, close now. Chris turned slowly.

“Osborne!”

Richard Osborne stood there — clad in a black suit, like a gentleman, though he was nothing of the sort. Or a corpse, which he ought to have been. Amidst all the impossibilities, one thing sent shivers down Chris’s spine. Osborne’s head was missing.

Chris stumbled back. Then came the laughter; deep, echoing, grotesquely clear despite the absence of a mouth. His analytical mind caught up with him at last. This isn’t real. It’s a dream.

“Thought you’d seen the last of me?” the voice slithered through the dark. “Sorry to disappoint. But be real, Tyler. You are secretly pleased to see me, aren’t ya?”

Chris laboured to breathe. Wake up. Wake up, damn it.

“As I was saying,” Osborne continued, “Death’s a wonderful thing. You don’t need to fear it. Trust me, I speak from experience.”

Osborne began to move, unhurried, gliding past Chris toward Christie.

“Where are you going? I’m right here!” Chris shouted, trying to follow. But his legs sank into the ground. Thick, invisible mud was clutching at him, dragging him down. Each step was agony.

“This is just a dream,” he rasped. “Just a bloody dream.”

“You sure?” Osborne hissed.

“Leave her alone!” Chris roared. “This is between you and me!”

Christie stood motionless.

“Unfortunately,” Osborne murmured, “few see the world as I do. I’d like to share that vision with your little girl. To make her see… to make you see.”

“Christie, run!” Chris shouted, panic breaking his voice.

Osborne raised a revolver.

“Please,” Chris gasped, “take me instead. Kill me, you bastard!”

“Now that would be too merciful, wouldn’t it?” Osborne said. The revolver fired.

The gunshot shattered the silence and the dream.

Chris jerked awake, heart hammering. The road, the corpse, the darkness was all gone. He was in bed, sunlight spilling through the window.

Tiny arms were wrapped around his neck, almost choking him with warmth.

“Merry Christmas, Dad!” Christie said, laughing.

Chris held her tight, trembling with relief.

****

Christmas passed quickly, as all good things do. The time had come for Chris to return to his usual routine. He didn’t want to say goodbye to Christie and go back to his flat, but he didn’t want to impose on the residents by staying any longer either. So, he left the day after Christmas, with Christie crying. Chris promised to visit her again as soon as possible to ease her tears.

Rebecca hugged Chris goodbye.

“Thanks,” she said with a soft smile.

“For what?” Chris asked.

“You know,” she replied, glancing briefly at Christie.

Thomas stepped forward and shook Chris’s hand. “Good to see you, mate. Drop by anytime,” he said.

Yeah, right. Chris could bet his last quid Thomas didn’t mean a word of it. The man’s eyes said what his mouth wouldn’t: Don’t come back. You’re a pain in the ass. And it’s weird you’re still hanging around them. Move on, man. Nonetheless, Chris smiled, bid farewell, and headed out.

Snow was abundant when Chris arrived back at his rented flat by taxi.

Chris lived in Flat 17b, on the first floor of a three-storey building at 17 Harvey Street. The façade bore the weary signs of long neglect. Inside, the flat comprised a small living room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen—functional, but far from luxurious. Stains speckled the walls, and flakes of paint curled away like old paper. Most of the windows had long since refused to open, their hinges rusted and warped. Yet the living room remained bright enough, thanks to a pair of decent windows overlooking the road.

Two others lived in the building with Chris. Upstairs, in 17c, an old widow named Margaret Robinson resided. Her walking stick often banged on the wooden floor as she walked about in her flat, a sound Chris had grown accustomed to. On the ground floor, 17a, lived his friend, Robert McKinley, who worked at the nearest library and was a very pleasant person. On relaxing evenings, Chris enjoyed playing cards with Robert and talking about various subjects. Robert was a walking library himself, often providing help and advice on Chris’s cases. His only bad habit was drinking too much. Some nights, Chris heard the sound of glass breaking and furniture being overturned downstairs. He knew from experience not to visit Robert at such times.

Chris’s flat was as chaotic as the building itself. Case files were scattered across the living room floor, and clothes were strewn haphazardly on the couch. His desk and bed were cluttered with various books and files. When Chris went to sleep, he carelessly tossed everything on the bed to the floor. The next morning, he would dump them back on the bed to clear space on the floor to walk. Whenever Chris found a newspaper article or a piece of paper that seemed important for an investigation, he taped it to the wall. So much of his walls were covered in paper that repainting was unnecessary.

Upon arriving in the living room, Chris threw his luggage onto the couch, raising a cloud of dust. He stared at the room for a moment. It was exactly as he had left it a week ago, as it should be. But something felt different. He quickly scanned the room with keen eyes. He saw the disarray. But it was a meticulous disarray; he knew exactly where each item happened to be, and there they were. Chris laughed to himself. His profession had ingrained a habit of scrutinizing everything with an investigative eye. A habit he couldn’t shake.

It was a holiday for Chris. On days like this, he often strolled around the city, visited the library, or watched television. Though he initially planned to visit the library in the evening, he decided instead to go to the Sherrinford Police Headquarters, curious about what had transpired during his time off.

“Tyler! What brings you here? I thought you were on leave,” Stefan Harper said, smiling as Chris stepped into the police HQ.

“I am on leave,” Chris replied, walking beside him. “How’s everything going? Anything new with you?”

Harper shook his head, a faint shadow crossing his features. “Nothing much. Same old, same old.”

Harper was a twenty-five-year-old constable, dedicated and good-hearted but inexperienced. He was dissatisfied, knowing he had more potential and had yet to make his mark. However, he never complained. Senior officers often pushed him around, assigning him minor duties beyond street patrols. What he truly wanted was to become a detective, like Chris.

“Any new cases?” Chris asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Not that I know of. But this morning, I found a homeless guy dead on Andrew Street. You know the area; thugs, drug dealers… murder isn’t exactly rare there. But this one? The how and why are… strange. Sorry, Chris, I’ve got to dash. Catch you later?”

He turned down a corridor, striding away.

Chris was tempted to ask what was so urgent, but decided against it. It was probably just another minor task assigned by a senior officer, something Harper had no choice but to rush through. Chris felt a surge of anger at how Harper was being exploited.

“Chris!” Harper called back. “If you want to see the body, head to the morgue. You’ll find David there. He’s probably still examining it.”

Unlike most cities, Sherrinford Police HQ kept a small forensic morgue tucked alongside the main building. In a city plagued by violent crime, it wasn’t for routine deaths—only high-priority or delicate cases passed through these cold, steel-lined halls, giving detectives immediate access while keeping everything off the public eye.

As Harper had said, murders on streets like Andrew Street were all too common. Chris doubted this case would truly challenge his mind. However, it had been brought straight to the morgue. Something about it had been deemed important or delicate enough to bypass the usual channels.

What he really wanted, though, was to see David and make sure he was all right. They hadn’t spoken since the day before Christmas.

Chris found David in the morgue, completely absorbed in his work. Gloves and a surgical mask covered him as he examined a body laid out on a steel table beneath the harsh glare of an overhead light. Chris knocked lightly on the door.

“David? Am I disturbing you?”

“Ah! Chris, come in,” David said, smiling under his mask. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

On the steel table lay a corpse, roughly sixty years old, his body, hair, and beard filthy.

“What do you make of it?” David asked.

Chris leaned closer to examine the body.

“Looks like there are two possible causes of death,” he said. “Three wounds to the chest from a sharp instrument, and strangulation marks from a rope around the neck. Most likely, he was stabbed and killed first, then hanged for some reason.”

“And?”

“And the right ear is completely cut off!”

“Aye, peculiar, isn’t it?” David said, his tone thoughtful. “You’re right. He was killed first, then hanged. No petechial haemorrhages in the eyes, minimal bruising around the neck, no defensive injuries. And the lack of blood at the scene makes it clear he wasn’t alive when the rope was tightened. As for the ear… that wasn’t random. It was surgical. A trophy, maybe? We couldn’t find it.”

David’s expression darkened. “And get this, he was hanging from a passenger footbridge. Public execution style. Harper says it was a whole bloody spectacle. Caused quite a stir.”

“Interesting. Seems personal.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the killer wanted to send a message.”

“Exactly. I wonder who it was meant for.”

“What did he do? Why did he have to die?” Chris whispered, almost to himself.

“Criminals these days don’t need a valid reason, Chris. The city’s full of maniacs.”

There was a moment of silence in the room. Both men stared at the soulless body, as if the corpse held the unseen answers they sought.

“Anyway,” David said, breaking the silence, “I don’t suppose there’s much for us to do here. Jeff’s already questioning the neighbourhood. And I’ve got to say, that’s one hell of a neighbourhood.”

“Hm,” Chris nodded in agreement. Then, with a smirk, he asked, “Ah! Dave, you haven’t run into the Count again, have you?”

“No,” David laughed, “This stays between us, Chris! If you spill the beans about my freakout, I’ll kill you. And especially tonight; keep your mouth shut, alright?”

Chris crossed his heart, grinning.

Chris had accepted David’s invitation to join his family for dinner, and by the time he returned home, it was nearly midnight. The building was silent; everyone was asleep. Chris quietly made his way up to the second floor, careful not to step on the planks that creaked. The corridor was pitch dark. All he wanted was to collapse into bed.

As he reached for his key and opened the door, his foot caught something, sending it rolling across the floor.

Chris flicked on the light and looked down at the object. A small cardboard box lay at his feet, neatly wrapped in colourful gift paper and tied with a ribbon. Who would send him something like this? Had it been left here by mistake?

Curiosity piqued, Chris picked up the box and shook it gently. Something inside shifted, making a soft, subtle sound. There was no label on it. Could Mr. McKinley have dropped it accidentally while checking if Chris was home? But that seemed almost as unlikely as Mrs. Robinson coming down with her arthritis. After a brief hesitation, he decided to open it.

Inside the box, nestled on a bed of cotton wool, was a well-cleaned, expertly severed human ear.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3: Hangman