One
Winter came early that year, and with it the darkness. All over the country all the news talked about was how the crime rate had increased as the nights grew longer.
They are hiding in the cover of darkness, they had said. Some even went as far as calling this the winter of death for the small village of Trentberg, just south of Cambridge. The village did not have many residences, yet suddenly, out of nowhere, the killings had begun. The police were doing as much as they could but they just couldn’t keep up. The march of the devil, the villagers called it, trying to hide the fear that they might be next.
It had all begun with the murder of home-wife Susan Staley who was up ducted from her home in the middle of the night with her husband and daughter sleeping upstairs. She was found at 5: PM the next day at the old lake not far from the old Millers’ farm. She was discovered by old Miller himself. He was on his weekly fishing trip with his two boys Jack and John when he saw her floating in the water. She had been stripped naked, her body was obviously abused, but there were no signs of rape. The most gruesome part was, however, the fact that her head had been turned 180 degrees. Even though her body was facing down, her head had been facing up. What was even more disturbing was that her eyeballs had been carved out. They were never found.
From there it just grew. Every week a new person had fallen victim to evil. The strange thing was, however, not the fact that the killings were regular, nor the fact that they seemed to have been done in a ritualistic manner, but the fact that the villagers still didn’t want to leave.
When Detective Sarah Falcón – the detective assigned to lead the case – had asked the villagers why they simply shook their head and said:
‘Trentburg is our home. We can’t abandon it.’ Shocked by the answer, and the lack of evidence, Sarah decided the case wasn’t going anywhere and asked to be reassigned. To fill her place they brought in a younger detective. They thought that his fresh thinking might be helpful in this case. Even though he was young he was respected. He had solved numerous of tough cases before being assigned the Trentberg case, and he wasn’t going to let himself fail this one.
At the age of 28, Jack Harper was a tall man with great ambitions. His classical features were legendary amongst his female colleagues. As he stepped out of his black Nissan 350Z he put his fingers through his thick, brown hair. He reached for his cell phone in his jacket pocket. 10: PM, he thought. Better get some rest. Walking toward the local hostel he thought about the big day to come. Rumour had it that the Detective preceding him had gone mental with this case, claiming that it was unsolvable. Nothing was unsolvable. Harper knew that from experience. You just need to know where to look.
The atmosphere within the hostel was that of warmth. It reminded him of his childhood home in the country. It was there his interest for law-enforcement, or rather crime-solving, had grown. It was all thanks to his father, Clyde Harper, who had sparked his interest by giving him a description of a crime scene – of course leaving out the gruesome details – and letting young Harper ask him questions to solve the mystery.
Shaking of the memories he started walking toward the front desk. The elderly woman sitting behind it was reading a book. Harper couldn’t help grabbing a glimpse of the author as it was his favourite. He found it quite ironic that she was reading an Agatha Christi novel when murder haunted the village.
As Harper approached she put the book down and looked up at him.
‘Yes?’ she asked. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I would like a room, please,’ he answered her.
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More to come soon!
