Asher Banning still mourns his mother after three years. When his friend, Caden, decides to get their group of friends together for Christmas as a way to help Asher not feel lonely for the holidays, things quickly turn upside down.
MATURE: for expl...
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I couldn't fall asleep. Not while wondering if there was someone murdering my friends, or worse, one of my friends going on a happy-killing spree. But it honestly didn't seem too far from the truth. After all the murder documentaries I had watched, all the mystery thrillers I read, how hidden could it be within all the lies? For all I knew, everyone could be in on the murders; their grief a mere act.
I could be next in line to die.
The idea of this nightmare twisting into reality only became worse as I thought about it. But the more the thought swirled inside my head, the more reason I had for finding out the truth. There was an urge I had that needed to be picked at and cared for. Without the facts to guide our way out of here, it would become a tedious journey that may get us all killed. With that thought in mind, I got out of the comforters and made my way downstairs toward the library.
There had to have been something in there to help me solve our problems. My father wrote crime thrillers and murder mysteries, using the knowledge his father, a retired detective, gave him for research. Solving murders and puzzles was in my blood, right?
After going inside and flicking the light switch on, I fumbled through his old manuscripts, hidden in the drawers of his desk. I skimmed through some of the pages, and after finding nothing to use, I put them back.
While scanned around the room, wondering what else I could use, my eyes landed on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. His novel Swimming in Death stood out like a needle in a haystack.
I took it off and examined it. Everything clicked into place as it all sounded just like our situation: Taking a vacation in an isolated area. Machines stopped working. People disappeared or died with no explanations. How could it have been so close?
Despite reading murder mysteries, it wasn't enough. I didn't know what I was doing. I wasn't a detective, nor did I have the skill and wits to figure out the mystery. But if I wanted to solve it, I had to play it smart.
Searching around for a notebook, I found a small, black journal to write in. It had thin pages and a hard, leather cover with the words "Write from the soul" in white cursive letters. I wrote down a few steps my father had used in his book:
Document everything.Nail down the timeline.Follow the clues and leads.Everything is evidence.Be patient.
If Freyja was right about someone in our group being the perpetrator, I had to keep it on the downlow. Investigating at four in the morning might had been the correct time to snoop around.
My first stop was the basement.
My fingers flicked on the light. Everything from that night came flooding back. The thuds making its way down the stairs. The screams and cries of my friends. And imagining her body on the floor smeared in blood like abstract art on a canvas.
