The Revenge of Mr Aurthur

The night was unusually quiet. A thin layer of mist covered the empty streets, and the wind whispered softly through the broken streetlights. The smell of rain floated in the air, but no drops had fallen yet. Most people had already returned to their homes, and the city slowly sank into darkness.

At the corner of a wide road stood a tall, old building. Its walls were cracked, and its windows looked like dark eyes watching the empty street. On the third floor, in the last apartment, a dim yellow light flickered.

Inside the room, Mr. Aurthur sat in his wooden chair, his fingers tapping slowly on the table. His sharp eyes were half-hidden under the shadow of his fedora hat. Smoke from his cigar curled toward the ceiling, forming strange shapes in the air.

Across the room, Walter sat quietly on a worn-out sofa.

"Sir," Walter finally spoke, breaking the silence, "it's been two months since we got any case. Maybe people stopped believing in detectives."

Mr. Aurthur smiled faintly.

"Patience, Walter," he said in a calm voice. "The night always brings something unexpected."

At that exact moment, the old dusty telephone on the table rang loudly.

TRRRRING… TRRRRING…

The sound echoed in the silent room.

Walter looked at Mr. Aurthur. Mr. Aurthur slowly picked up the receiver.

"Mr. Aurthur speaking," he said.

A cold voice answered from the other side.

"Are you really the detective… Mr. Aurthur?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"I need your help… my son… he is dead."

The room suddenly felt colder.

Mr. Aurthur leaned forward. "Tell me everything."

"No… not on the phone," the voice whispered. "Come to my house. I'll explain."

"Send me the address."

The call ended.

Mr. Aurthur stood up immediately.

"Walter," he said, "we have a case."

Walter jumped to his feet. "Finally!"

Mr. Aurthur opened his closet and took out his dark blue trench coat. He placed his fedora hat carefully on his head. His eyes looked more serious now.

They stepped outside into the cold night.

The streets were empty. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The streetlights flickered as if they were about to die.

"Sir… why is the city so quiet?" Walter asked.

"Firework ceremony," Mr. Aurthur replied. "Everyone is there."

After walking for ten minutes, they reached a large dark house. No lights. No sound. Just silence.

Mr. Aurthur pressed the doorbell.

Nothing happened.

He pressed it again.

After a long pause, the door slowly opened with a creaking sound.

A thin man stood there. His face was pale. Dark circles surrounded his eyes.

"Mr. Aurthur?" the man asked weakly.

"Yes."

"Please… come in."

Inside, the house smelled damp. A woman sat silently on the sofa. Her eyes were swollen as if she had cried for hours.

"I am Mr. Robin," the man said. "This is my wife, Rose."

Mr. Aurthur nodded. "Tell me."

"Our twelve-year-old son… was found dead near the pond," Mr. Robin said, his voice shaking.

Walter froze.

"How?" Mr. Aurthur asked calmly.

"His throat was cut."

The room fell silent.

Mr. Robin brought photographs and handed them to Mr. Aurthur.

Walter turned his face away.

Mr. Aurthur examined the photos carefully. His expression did not change, but his eyes became sharper.

"Can I take these?" he asked.

"Yes… please catch the killer."

"We will," Mr. Aurthur said.

They left the house.

On the way back, Walter spoke nervously. "Sir… something feels wrong."

Mr. Aurthur did not answer.

Back at the headquarters, Walter left for home. Mr. Aurthur stayed alone.

Midnight arrived.

The wind outside grew stronger.

Mr. Aurthur placed the photographs on the table and looked at them again.

Minutes passed.

Then suddenly — he noticed something.

A small cut on the boy's shoulder… shaped like a cross.

Mr. Aurthur leaned closer.

"This… is not random," he whispered.

He grabbed his coat.

"I'm going to the library."

The streets were darker now. Clouds covered the moon. The city looked dead.

After walking for a few minutes, he reached the old library.

Inside, a short man greeted him.

"I need books about ancient symbols," Mr. Aurthur said.

He searched for hours.

Twenty-nine books… nothing.

Then, in the thirtieth book, he froze.

The same symbol.

A cross… with strange markings.

He read quickly.

"Decades ago… a secret clan… they killed people… believed they were feeding devils…"

Mr. Aurthur's heartbeat slowed.

"But the clan disappeared…"

He closed the book.

"Or did they?" he whispered.

He stepped outside.

The wind howled louder.

Somewhere in the darkness… someone was watching him.

And Mr. Aurthur did not know… that this case would soon personal.

The night deepened as Mr. Aurthur walked back from the library. The wind grew colder, and the fog thickened around the empty streets. Every step he took echoed louder than usual, as if the silence itself was listening.

He felt something strange — a feeling that he was not alone.

Mr. Aurthur stopped.

He turned slowly.

Nothing.

Just a broken lamp post swinging gently with the wind.

He continued walking, but now his hand rested inside his coat pocket, gripping his small revolver.

When he reached his apartment, he locked the door and placed the book notes on his table. He stared at the cross symbol he had drawn on a piece of paper.

"A secret clan…" he murmured.

The clock struck 2:00 AM.

Finally, he lay down, but sleep did not come easily. The image of the boy's shoulder and the strange cross kept returning.

The next morning, sunlight barely entered the dusty room. Walter knocked and entered with his usual cheerful expression.

"Good morning, sir."

Mr. Aurthur looked tired.

"Walter," he said, "I need you to go to the pond where the boy was found."

Walter nodded immediately. "I'll leave now."

"And Walter…" Mr. Aurthur paused.

"Yes sir?"

"Be careful."

Walter smiled. "Don't worry. One day I'll become a great detective like you."

He left.

The door closed.

The room felt empty.

Mr. Aurthur returned to the library to search for more information about the clan. Hours passed. He flipped through pages, but there was very little written.

The only thing he found was a line:

"The clan marks their sacrifices with the sign of the Silent Cross."

Evening arrived.

Walter had not returned.

Mr. Aurthur looked at the clock.

6:00 PM.

Then 7:00 PM.

Then 8:00 PM.

A strange uneasiness filled his chest.

He stood up immediately.

"Walter never takes this long."

He grabbed his coat and called a nearby police officer.

"Come with me," he ordered.

They rushed toward the pond.

The road leading to the pond was narrow and surrounded by tall trees. The wind passed through the leaves, creating a whispering sound.

When they reached the pond, the officer stopped.

"Sir…" he said softly.

Mr. Aurthur stepped forward.

His heart froze.

Walter lay on the ground near the water.

His shirt was torn.

His face pale.

There was a cut across his throat.

Mr. Aurthur slowly knelt down. His hands trembled slightly — something that had never happened before.

Then he saw it.

The same cross sign carved on Walter's shoulder.

The world seemed to go silent.

Mr. Aurthur closed his eyes for a moment.

The officer spoke, "We should report—"

"No," Mr. Aurthur said quietly.

His voice had changed.

It was colder.

Harder.

"Take the body," he said. "And seal this area."

The officer nodded.

Mr. Aurthur stood alone near the pond. The water was still. The moon reflected on its surface like a broken mirror.

"Walter…" he whispered.

The wind blew harder.

Leaves fell into the water.

That night, Mr. Aurthur did not return home. He climbed to the roof of his headquarters and stood there, smoking silently.

The city lights looked distant.

At midnight, he spoke softly to himself:

"They killed an innocent child… and now… Walter."

His eyes narrowed.

"This is no longer just a case."

Rain began to fall.

Mr. Aurthur did not move.

"I will find you," he said into the darkness.

"And I will end this."

Somewhere below, in the shadows of the street, a hooded figure stood watching the building.

The figure slowly turned and disappeared into the night.

Morning came, but the sky remained gray. Heavy clouds covered the sun, and the air felt thick and cold. The rain from the previous night had turned the streets muddy, and the city looked tired.

Mr. Aurthur had not slept.

He sat at his desk, staring at Walter’s notebook. The pages were wet — perhaps from rain… or perhaps from something else. He slowly opened it.

Inside, he found a rough sketch of the pond area. Walter had drawn small circles around certain trees. At the corner of the page, Walter had written:

"Strange footprints… leading toward old temple."

Mr. Aurthur’s eyes sharpened.

"Temple…" he whispered.

He grabbed his coat and immediately left the building.

The temple was located near the edge of the city, surrounded by dense trees and broken stone walls. Very few people visited it now. Some believed it was cursed.

As Mr. Aurthur walked closer, he noticed something unusual — the air felt colder near the temple. The sound of birds disappeared. Even the wind seemed quieter.

He stepped through the cracked gate.

Inside, the temple looked abandoned. The walls were covered with moss, and the roof was partly broken. But something felt wrong — it did not feel empty.

Mr. Aurthur moved slowly.

Then he noticed it.

A small red symbol drawn on one of the pillars.

The same cross.

He touched it. The paint was fresh.

"They are still here…" he murmured.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps behind him.

He turned quickly.

No one.

But he sensed movement.

He quietly moved behind a broken wall and waited.

After a few seconds, two men wearing dark robes entered the temple. Their faces were partially covered. One of them held a small lantern.

"We must prepare tonight," one whispered.

"The next offering?" the other asked.

"Yes. The master wants it before the full moon."

Mr. Aurthur listened carefully. His heart beat faster, but his face remained calm.

"The detective is searching," the second man said nervously.

"He will not find us. Just like the others," the first replied.

Mr. Aurthur’s fists tightened.

After they left, he carefully followed them at a distance. They walked through a narrow path behind the temple that led to a hidden underground entrance covered with stones.

Mr. Aurthur memorized the location.

He immediately went to the police station.

"We need officers," he said firmly.

Within an hour, a small group of police surrounded the temple.

Mr. Aurthur led them to the hidden entrance.

"Be ready," he whispered.

They pushed the stones aside and entered.

Inside, the underground chamber was dark. The smell of smoke filled the air. On the floor, there were candles arranged in circles… and the same cross symbol drawn repeatedly.

A group of people stood in the center, wearing dark robes.

One of them turned.

"Who are you?" he shouted.

"Police!" Mr. Aurthur replied.

Chaos erupted.

Some tried to run. Others froze.

Within minutes, all of them were arrested.

As they were taken outside, Mr. Aurthur examined their hands.

Every single one had a cross tattoo on their left hand.

One of them suddenly laughed.

"You think it's over?" he said.

Mr. Aurthur looked at him coldly. "It is."

The man shook his head.

"You stopped only the followers… not the master."

Mr. Aurthur’s expression changed slightly.

"Who is the master?" he demanded.

The man smiled and remained silent.

The rain started again.

The prisoners were taken away.

Mr. Aurthur stood alone in the temple courtyard. The wind blew through the broken walls.

He felt it again.

Something unfinished.

Somewhere… someone still alive.

And watching.

The arrests made the city feel safer — but not Mr. Aurthur.

Something was still wrong.

The words of the robed man echoed in his mind:

"You stopped only the followers… not the master."

That night, Mr. Aurthur returned to his office. The rain had stopped, but the streets were wet and silent. He placed all the evidence on his table — the photographs, Walter’s notebook, the symbol, and the library notes.

He stared at them for hours.

Then suddenly, he noticed something strange.

The cross symbol… was slightly different in one place.

On the boy’s shoulder, the lower line of the cross was longer.

On Walter’s shoulder, it was shorter.

Mr. Aurthur leaned forward.

"This is not just a symbol…" he whispered. "It's a code."

He compared the marks carefully. The differences looked like directions — almost like arrows.

He placed them on a map of the city.

The lines pointed to one location.

Mr. Aurthur’s eyes widened.

"The house…" he murmured.

Mr. Robin’s house.

The same house where the case had started.

Without wasting a second, he grabbed his revolver and rushed outside.

The night was darker than ever. Clouds covered the moon, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

When he reached the house, the lights were off again.

He rang the bell.

No answer.

He pushed the door — it was unlocked.

Inside, the house felt colder. The air smelled strange, like burnt candles.

"Mr. Robin?" he called.

No response.

He stepped deeper into the house. The living room was empty.

Then he heard something… a whispering sound… coming from the basement.

Mr. Aurthur moved slowly down the wooden stairs.

Each step creaked.

At the bottom, he saw candlelight.

And there… stood Mr. Robin.

He wore a dark robe.

On the floor was a large cross symbol drawn in red.

Mr. Aurthur raised his revolver.

"So… you are the master," he said quietly.

Mr. Robin slowly turned. His eyes looked calm — too calm.

"You are intelligent, detective," he said. "But too late."

"Why?" Mr. Aurthur asked. "Why your own son?"

Mr. Robin smiled faintly.

"The clan requires sacrifice. Blood of the innocent brings protection."

"You killed Walter too."

"He came too close."

Mr. Aurthur’s hand tightened around the revolver.

"You used me," he said.

"Yes," Mr. Robin replied. "You removed the weak members. Only the strong remain."

Suddenly, footsteps echoed behind Mr. Aurthur.

He turned — three more robed figures blocked the stairs.

Mr. Aurthur quickly moved aside.

One of them rushed forward.

A shot echoed.

The figure fell.

The other two attacked, but Mr. Aurthur fought back, pushing one into the candles. Fire spread across the cloth.

Mr. Robin tried to escape.

Mr. Aurthur chased him into the backyard.

Rain started pouring again.

They stood near the pond.

The same pond.

"You lost," Mr. Aurthur said.

Mr. Robin laughed.

"The clan never dies."

He tried to run, but slipped on the wet ground.

Mr. Aurthur caught him.

Police sirens approached in the distance.

Minutes later, Mr. Robin was arrested.

Months passed.

The case closed.

The clan destroyed.

One year later, on a rainy evening, Mr. Aurthur stood before Walter’s grave.

He held a cigar, but it remained unlit.

Rain soaked his coat.

"Walter," he whispered, "you really were a great detective."

He placed Walter’s notebook on the grave.

As he turned to leave, the wind blew the pages open.

On the last page… something new appeared.

A faint cross mark.

Mr. Aurthur froze.

The rain fell harder.

And far away… in the darkness… a hooded figure watched.

The revenge… was not over.