The room reeked of mold, a thick musty scent that clung to the damp walls like a haunting memory. The roof seemed to leak, allowing rain to seep into the cracks, filling the narrow space with a palpable sense of unease. Every breath felt heavy, as if the air had forgotten how to circulate.
The windows were boarded up tightly with wooden planks, their fresh sheen suggesting they'd been installed not too long ago. Chris glanced at them, running his fingers along the edges. "This place is supposed to be a normal guest room," he muttered, though the room told a different story. The charred remains of furniture had long since been removed, leaving behind nothing but emptiness and an oppressive silence. Any trace of value, tangible or otherwise, had vanished.
"Of course, it's been five years. Even if there were any evidence, it'd be hard to find now," he said aloud, though the words felt hollow in the echo of the empty room.
Stepping into the dark hallway, Chris carefully navigated the cluttered path. The corridor was filled with discarded items—miscellaneous junk and forgotten trash—making every step a challenge. It was a chaotic mess, but sometimes the trash of others reveals more than they intend.
"People's garbage reflects their lives and habits," he mused, crouching to sift through the remnants. "Maybe I can find something useful here."
His patience paid off after nearly two hours of meticulous searching. Among the debris, he unearthed four ragged stuffed toys. "Why are there so many dolls in a building like this?" he wondered aloud. The apartment had no children living in it, as far as he knew. So, whose toys were these?
The dolls were in poor condition—covered in grime, some even moldy. The slightest touch made clumps of stuffing crumble away. But something about them was... off. Chris couldn't shake the feeling that there was a significance to these forgotten toys.
"These aren't just any random toys. They're all from the same manufacturer, and they look like they were made years ago." His background in toy design helped him recognize the outdated models. In his previous job, Chris had worked for a toy company, and even now, that knowledge paid off in strange ways.
"These probably belonged to the original tenants before the building was remodeled," Chris speculated. "The landlord's family had two daughters... could these have been theirs?"
But there was another question gnawing at him. "The fire destroyed the entire apartment, so how did these dolls survive?"
A chill crawled up his spine. "Did someone move them to safety? Or were they... preserved on purpose?" His mind raced, piecing together a dark possibility. "The only person who could've saved these during the fire is the one responsible for it. But why would the arsonist risk everything to protect four stuffed toys?"
Chris's hands trembled slightly as he ripped open the back of one doll. The zipper was rusted, but with a forceful tug, it gave way. Inside, amid the decaying stuffing, he found a small card. The delicate writing on it oozed with affection, making Chris feel a strange sense of discomfort.
"A love letter... hidden inside a doll? This is subtle, even for someone too shy to express their feelings." The more Chris thought about it, the clearer the picture became. The person who had hidden this letter must have been an introverted man, someone who couldn't express his love directly. He probably gifted the doll, hoping the recipient would discover the message later.
Curiosity propelled him forward. Chris tore open two more dolls, finding similar cards inside, each with nearly identical sentiments.
But when he opened the fourth doll, the air in the room seemed to freeze. Inside, instead of a love letter, he found shredded strips of paper. Each piece had been scrawled with the same three words over and over: "Go die."
A wave of cold dread washed over Chris. What had started as a story of love had morphed into something sinister, a curse of venomous hatred. What could have caused such an intense shift?
These scraps of paper... they had to be from the killer. Chris was sure of it. This was the kind of key evidence he had been searching for. He carefully pocketed the torn pieces, ready to dive deeper into the mystery.
But before he could move further, a sudden noise startled him. The hallway's motion-sensor light flickered to life at the far end of the corridor.
"Someone's coming," Chris thought, his heart racing. He quickly shut off his phone's flashlight and grabbed the dolls. Ducking into a nearby guest room, he pressed himself against the wall, trying to control his breathing. Through the sliver of the door crack, he could just make out the faint echo of footsteps.
Two voices broke the stillness—a man and a woman, speaking in hushed, urgent tones.
"We need to get rid of it tonight," the man said gruffly. "No more delays."
"That new tenant came up to the third floor earlier. He nearly saw me when he got to the stairs," the woman replied, her voice tinged with nervousness.
"I know. There've been too many outsiders lately. We can't risk this getting out," the man growled.
"Right. Call the others. We dig it out tonight and bury it in the woods behind the building," the woman agreed.
As they came closer, Chris saw the man was holding an old-fashioned miner's lantern, its weak glow illuminating their faces. He recognized them immediately—Landlord and Diana, the woman who lived on the first floor. But what were they doing up here at this hour?
"Why are they on the third floor in the middle of the night?" Chris thought, pressing himself further against the wall to avoid detection.
Soon, more people joined the pair. Ollie, the short, stocky man from the second floor, and Mark, the heavily tattooed tenant who always kept to himself, arrived, both clutching tools. Iron rods, sacks, even a kitchen knife—whatever they had been preparing for wasn't something ordinary.
"What the hell are they planning?" Chris felt a creeping unease settle over him.
Ollie's face was pale, and he was clearly distressed. "Are we really doing this? Once we dig it up, our fingerprints will be all over the place. There'll be no explaining it if the police get involved."
"Do you think we're in the clear now?" the landlord shot back, eyes narrowing. "Stop stalling and get to work."
"But... maybe we should just call the cops," Ollie stammered, standing rooted to the spot.
Mark didn't hesitate. He stormed over to Ollie, grabbing him by the collar. "Are you crazy? You want to turn yourself in? First thing the cops will do is look at us! You really want them digging into that hit-and-run you pulled while drunk? Or how we scammed the old man to get this building?"
"Relax, honey," Diana cooed, stepping between them. "We're all in this together. Nobody's clean. Let's just get it over with."
The landlord handed Ollie an iron rod. "You're doing the first hit."
"Me?" Ollie's face drained of color. He hesitated, gripping the rod tightly in his shaking hands.
From his hiding spot, Chris could barely see them. His pulse quickened. "What are they digging up?"
Ollie moved slowly to the far end of the hallway, where a heap of clutter blocked the path. His hands trembled as he pushed the junk aside, revealing a heavy curtain hanging from the ceiling. Beyond the curtain was a thick concrete wall.
The others watched in tense silence as Ollie reached out, trembling, and pulled the curtain back.
Embedded in the wall was a woman's corpse, her back turned toward them.