The Inspector

How the rains pour releases the beasts

I entered the house and began climbing the stairs to the given apartment, when I felt the bizarre sensation of being watched again, but stronger this time. As if the intense glare I was under was causing my very skin to bubble and morph, convulsing over me. But with no windows in the deserted, cramped stairwell, I couldn't figure out where it could be from. I increased my pace up the stairs and opened the already ajar door to the room. Well Mr Asper, I began, what's happened this ti- I broke off as I looked up into the room, I gasped as I took in the unholy sight around me, bodies, strewn and ripped open surrounded me, police uniforms soaked with their own blood. The decaying, deadly stench overwhelmed the damp, rot of the apartment. Retching, I surveyed the scene, moving, carefully through the dead that littered each room, until I came to the final room where, to my dread, a single figure in a dark, hooded cloak, hung by the neck from the ceiling, dark crimson dripped steadily onto the rotting floor below. I began to slowly reach my shaking hand towards the hood, bracing myself for what could be beneath, when I caught sight of a blood stained note pinned between the folds of his cloak. The note was blank as first glance, but on impulse, I turned it over.

Two, very simple words were scrawled across. Two words that caused me to freeze to the spot with an ice cold dread, nothing but; You're next.

I spun around the room suddenly, half expecting the writer to be behind me, waiting for the opportune moment. Met with nothing but the creaking boards and the smell of death, I turned back round. Swallowing my fear, I studied the inscription, the scrawl was oddly familiar, where had I seen it before? I wracked my brains for a clue but no doors opened. Until, that is, I caught sight of a ghostly, white veined hand poking our from beneath the dark fabric. Suddenly, it hit me, choking on my breath as the memories flooded in, drowning me. Images flashed through my mind; chained to a chair, the hand holding a needle, glinting in dim light, blackness, awakening, pure black anger, running, blood spraying, muscles straining with exertion, my own, sick laughter, fleeing from the murders, the nauseating feeling of transforming, back and forth, a glowering grin across my masked face, red string, plotting my next move, and;

Writing that exact note.

Slowly, I began to grin, then, I began to chuckle at the irony, then doubling over, I cackled with laughter. I supposed I would have to get used to the country after all, if I was to escape.