All Forms Of Death

The night was so quiet that its solitude seemed unnatural, almost ominous. Raindrops fell from the dark sky only occasionally, hitting the tin roof of the old warehouse, making a muffled metallic sound, as if afraid to disturb something darker, something that lurked in the shadows. The damp air carried the smell of mustiness and decaying wood, mixed with the metallic stench of blood, which still glistened under the artificial light of the police flashlights. In the very center of the vast, deserted hall lay a body. Its back had been brutally torn open, its ribs torn out and spread out so that they resembled bony wings, stretched and hardened in a grotesque pose. Blood stains reflected in the light of the lamps and the flickering beacons, the raindrops on the metal ceiling seemed to be the only sound that broke the eerie silence.

Detective Owen Hale stood over the body, his gaze resting on the perfectly separated ribs. His eyes , his lips pressed into a tight line, and yet there was a combination of shock and consideration in them—he was wondering why someone could do such a thing, and how he could be so terrifyingly precise. Every detail mattered, every rib, every drop, every torn muscle telling a story that had so far eluded him. After a moment, when Owen had become so absorbed in examining the horror that he had almost forgotten the reality around him, his colleague Asher Keane quietly appeared behind him. His step was almost inaudible, his eyes fixed and filled with seriousness as he looked down at the corpse and said quietly, , "This is the third brutal murder of an innocent person. But the killer... the killer must have had a reason. Or must he?"

Owen thought for a moment, then decided not to answer Asher's question. His gaze shifted to the forensic technician, and his voice, cool and precise, sounded like a command: "Secure the body and prepare it for autopsy. I want the results as soon as possible." He turned slowly, as if something invisible were forcing his eyes to follow every shadow behind him. His step was quiet but tense, every movement filled with caution. The deserted hall was now a scene of horror, but Owen sensed that the real observer was not among the police; someone was watching from a distance—and if so, he would have chosen an angle from which to see the chaos of the police, not the detective trying to stay out of it.

When he reached his car, the smell of wet asphalt and cold iron mixed with the scents left by the blood, and Owen felt the tension tighten in his stomach. With a slightly clenched jaw, he got into the car and headed straight to the office, where he needed to review the photos of the murders again, hoping this time he would find the answer that had eluded him until now.

The first murder had taken place on a cold Friday in October, the air heavy and stuffy, as if the day itself were trying to warn of the coming horror. The smell of a dead body, mixed with the cold and damp, still hung in the air, and the details of the brutal act were horrifying—the victim's eyes had been gouged out and his hands and feet had been surgically repositioned, his heels hanging where his palms should have been, his hands protruding where his heels should have been. Every stitch and cut told of someone who had not only a steady hand but also a perverse eye for detail.

The second murder came a month later, on a cold November Monday. The smell of rotting entrails mingled with the dampness of the morning mist. The killer tore apart the victim and used his own intestinal loops as rope to hang him, transforming the human body into a grotesque and shocking scene. All who saw it felt a chill down their spines and the sour smell of fear and decay.

And now, the third murder—in a deserted hall far from the city, in a space that seemed like it shouldn't exist at all. The smell of mustiness, metal, and the remains of old wood mingled with the blood, creating an intense sensory distress. Owen knew the killer was killing for his own perverse pleasure, but he also sensed something deeper, something only he could uncover.

As he sat in his office, his eyes fixed on the photographs that glinted under the dim lamplight, he felt the need to penetrate the killer's mind. How could someone with such precision, calm, and almost artistic obsession commit such brutality as if it were a game? He had to follow every pattern, every sign of obsession, every detail that would reveal the motive and purpose of these acts - only then could the next victim survive.

While Owen wrestled with the silent testimony of the dead, Asher took on a case that, under different circumstances, would have seemed almost trivial. A noise complaint — the disruption of a quiet neighborhood. And yet, these days, nothing felt trivial. Nothing felt innocent. When he arrived at the scene, he saw the old woman standing exactly where she had been waiting for him, as still as a statue carved out of fear itself. Her wrinkled face was tense, and her eyes remained wide, as though the shadowy figure she had seen moments earlier still lingered in her vision, haunting the edges of her memory.

As Asher approached, she whispered, her voice fragile and trembling: "I heard banging. Screaming. And then... silence. And I saw someone. Tall. He ran away. Into the forest." Her words broke apart like glass, sharp and weak at the same time, each one carrying the weight of terror she couldn't fully express.

Asher gave a slow nod, his fingers unconsciously shifting closer to the grip of his gun. He looked toward the house — a place swallowed by darkness, standing like a forgotten tomb amidst the modern district where history clashed with the present... and history was losing. "Lock your doors and stay inside," he instructed firmly, his voice steady despite the tightening in his chest. "I'll let you know the moment I find anything."

The old woman nodded quickly and retreated into her home, closing the door behind her as if those fragile wooden boards were the only shield between her and the darkness that prowled outside. It was the kind of instinct born from centuries of fear — when night fell, one sought the safety of walls, shadows be damned.

Asher remained alone. The house before him stood draped in an unnatural silence, a darkness that felt less like the absence of light and more like a warning. The dusk around him seemed to thicken, as if the surrounding world was deliberately trying to be small and quiet so as not to attract the attention of something lurking in the black. Only the street lamp near the road — old, rusting, flickering nervously — served as a witness to the scene. Its trembling light cast distorted shapes onto the ground, as though even the electricity felt cold... or frightened. Asher wasn't sure which was worse.

He exhaled slowly. He reached for his flashlight, heavy and cold in his hand, and stepped toward the front door, crossing the boundary where the familiar world ended and the unknown awaited. The darkness inside the house was thick, saturated with the smell of old wood, damp dust, and something stranger, mingled with the metallic tang of blood that still clung to the floor. Every step echoed unnaturally between the cracks in the floorboards, and yet it seemed the house swallowed all sound, so that even his own breath returned to him, heavy and suffocating. The beam of the flashlight cut through the gloom in narrow cones, revealing corners draped with cobwebs, walls scarred by moisture, and drawers left open as if someone had been searching for something... or someone. As he reached the upper floor, his eyes adjusted, and the light fell upon something that made his heart seize – beneath an old, tilted wardrobe lay a woman. Her body was lifeless, her face nearly invisible in the half-shadow, yet she radiated the weight of fear and suffering. Every detail the flashlight revealed was a scream of silence, louder than any cry he had ever heard.

Asher called for Elowen Beaumont, and soon her footsteps echoed down the hallway, light and precise, as if with every step she rewrote the silence around her. "Asher?" Her voice was calm, but the tension in it was unmistakable. He nodded, flashlight still in hand, and together they moved toward the spot where the woman lay beneath the old, tilted wardrobe. "Can you help me move this?" Asher asked. "Of course," she replied, her voice steady, and she began carefully maneuvering the heavy piece of furniture. When they finally cleared the space, the sight that greeted them froze them both to the core. The woman's body was twisted at impossible angles, her limbs contorted as if someone had deliberately sculpted a grotesque statue of suffering. Her skull was shattered, the brain exposed through the fractures, and her eyes bulged unnaturally, as though they might fall from their sockets at any moment. Every detail, every crooked limb and broken bone, was a scream of brutality without mercy. Asher drew a shallow breath. "God... this is..." The words faltered in the gloom, unable to convey the horror before him.

Without hesitation, Elowen pulled out her notebook and began meticulously recording every detail, her eyes fixed on the corpse. "Order of limbs, condition of the skull, blood distribution... everything," she whispered to herself, marking where each injury began and where the force had struck hardest. She laid down a measuring scale, photographed the scene, and collected traces from the floor, her focus absolute. "Asher... every point of contact and deformation has to be documented," she said firmly when he instinctively leaned the flashlight closer to the body. "It's horrifying enough, but we need a complete record."

The sound of an engine and sirens drew their attention — the unit Asher had called arrived. Two fresh-faced officers stepped out, ready but clearly bewildered. "Why aren't there more of you?" Asher asked, still watching the contours of the corpse. One of them shook his head. "Everyone else is still at the warehouse crime scene," he replied. "No one expected two murders in one night." Asher nodded, letting Elowen continue her documentation, and felt the silence of the room close in around them once more. Every movement, every rustle, now seemed both significant and terrifyingly important. In that house, shrouded in dim shadows and rain, it was as if the night itself waited for the next act to unfold.

CHAPTER II. soon...