Omniscient P.O.V.
The faint hum of the coffee machine was the only sound in the quiet apartment as Clara Jennings scrolled through her email on her laptop. It was late, and the rain tapping against the window added a cozy rhythm to the otherwise mundane evening. Her studio apartment was a typical Seattle haven-cluttered yet charming, with houseplants and fairy lights strung along the walls. She glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight.
Clara sighed, rubbing her temples.
Just one more email. She clicked on an attachment, waiting for it to load, when her lights flickered.
"Seriously?" she muttered, glancing up. Her phone buzzed with a weather alert:
Thunderstorm warning in effect for Seattle.
She rolled her eyes, mumbling to herself about the city's constant rain. But when the lights dimmed again and stayed that way, a chill crept up her spine.
The apartment felt... different.
Heavier. She stood, peering around cautiously. Her reflection in the darkened TV screen looked distorted-her features stretched unnaturally, lips twisted into a sinister grin.
Her heart stuttered, and she spun around. Nothing.
She grabbed her phone and dialed her neighbor, Evelyn, but the call didn't connect. The screen blinked to black.
"Hello?" Clara called into the silence, her voice trembling.
A faint scraping sound came from the kitchen. Her eyes darted to the doorway. Slowly, she approached, each step feeling like wading through molasses.
"Evelyn?" she whispered.
The scraping grew louder. When she reached the kitchen, the sight made her blood run cold.
Every knife in the block hovered mid-air, pointed at her.
"What the-"
They launched forward. Clara dove to the floor, narrowly avoiding the blades as they embedded themselves into the wall. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she scrambled backward.
Then she saw it.
A figure stood in the doorway. It was barely human-its skin pale and translucent, with black veins spidering across its face. Red eyes glowed like embers, and a grotesque grin revealed jagged teeth.
Clara screamed, scrambling to her feet and bolting toward the door. But it was too late.
The creature moved impossibly fast, its clawed hand slashing through the air. Blood sprayed across the walls, and her screams faded into gurgles.
The last thing Clara saw was her reflection in the TV screen- distorted and lifeless.
---
The next morning, Damien stood under the crime scene tape, watching the rain soak into the pavement. His coat was buttoned up to his chin, and a paper coffee cup steamed in his hand.
"Lovely weather," he muttered as he stepped into the building.
The crime scene was gruesome, even for someone like him. Blood coated the walls in jagged streaks, the knives still embedded where they'd struck. The victim lay crumpled near the door, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. Damien crouched beside the body, carefully avoiding the pool of blood spreading beneath her.
Adams entered behind him, his face pale. "Damien. Thoughts?"
"Couple," Damien said without looking up. "First, whoever did this really hates kitchens. Second, this isn't your run-of-the-mill psychopath." He gestured toward the knives. "What kind of person can throw this many knives with that kind of precision?"
Adams crossed his arms. "You think it's one of your cases?"
Damien shrugged. "Too early to tell. Might be a regular human. Might be something out of a horror flick. Either way, we've got a mess."
He examined the body closely, noting the deep lacerations. "Clean cuts. Whoever did this knew exactly where to hit."
Adams frowned. "We've seen worse. What makes you think it's anything special?"
Damien gestured toward the reflection in the TV. "Ever seen a TV hold onto a reflection like that? Look."
Adams followed his gaze. The TV still displayed Clara's distorted reflection, the unnatural grin frozen in place.
"I hate it when you're right," Adams muttered.
---
Back at the precinct, Damien sat at his cluttered desk, sifting through the autopsy reports. The wounds were deep but not inconsistent with a knife attack. There was no sign of forced entry, and the neighbors hadn't heard anything unusual.
"Normal, normal, normal," Damien muttered, flipping through the papers. "Come on. Give me something."
His phone buzzed. Adams' name flashed on the screen.
"Got something for you," Adams said when Damien picked up. "Another case. Same kind of wounds. Happened two weeks ago. Sending the file over now."
Damien frowned. "Why didn't we hear about it earlier?"
"It got buried in paperwork. Small precinct, not enough manpower. But when they saw this one, they sent it to us."
The file arrived moments later. Damien opened it, his eyes scanning the photos. The victim, a man in his 30s, had nearly identical wounds to Clara. The attack had been just as brutal.
He leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against his desk. "Could there be any connection between these two victims?"
Adams stepped into the room, holding a cup of coffee. "Anything stand out?"
"Not yet," Damien admitted. "But…" He frowned, flipping through the victims' medical histories. "Wait a minute."
Adams leaned over his shoulder. "What?"
"Both victims were O-negative blood type," Damien said. "That's not exactly common."
Adams raised an eyebrow. "You think that's the connection?"
Damien smirked. "It's a start. Let's see where it leads."
---
Hours later, Damien stood in front of a whiteboard covered in photos and notes. He circled the blood type in red marker, drawing lines between the two victims.
"Adam," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Isn't your blood type O-negative?"
Adams stiffened. "Yeah. Why?"
"I have a plan to catch our culprit."
Adams narrowed his eyes. "I know that look. You want to do something crazy."
"You know me so well." Damien grinned. "I want us to lure the creature in."
"And let me guess," Adams said dryly. "You want to use me as bait."
"You really are a master detective."
"Absolutely not," Adams said, crossing his arms. "I'm not putting myself close to a creature from the pit of hell. No, Not again."
"We have to," Damien said, his tone serious. "If we don't, it'll keep killing people."
"No way," Adams said. "I'm not getting killed yet. I have my whole life ahead of me."
"You won't get killed," Damien insisted. "You know how good I am at things like this. The moment the creature comes for you, you can run. I'll take it from there. It won't even have a chance to attack you."
Adams hesitated, his jaw clenched. "I don't like this."
"You don't have to like it," Damien said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You just have to survive it."
"You say it like it's so easy to accomplish."
"Isn't it?"
---
Damien and Adam picked a secluded location. A location where they could lure the creature in successfully without any civilian getting in a way. So they picked a warehouse not far from the edges of the town. The warehouse was silent, save for the soft drip of water from the rusted pipes. Adams sat in a chair at the center of the room, his face pale but resolute.
Damien stood in the shadows, his blade ready. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp, scanning every corner of the dimly lit space.
"Just remember," he whispered to himself, "don't die. That's the plan."
Adams shifted uncomfortably. "I hate you for this."
"You'll thank me later," Damien replied, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Adams sat in a chair at the center of the room, visibly tense. "You better know what you're doing, Damien.'
Damien leaned against a crate, his silver blade glinting in the moonlight. "Relax, boss. I've got this. If it comes, I'll handle it."
Adams scowled. "That's supposed to be comforting?"
"It's all I've got," Damien said with a grin. "Just remember, if something goes wrong, scream like a damsel in distress. I'll be right there."
Adams glared. "You're hilarious."
Damien left Adam alone and went to a vantage point to scan the area. After a few hours of waiting, when Adam had already slept off, A faint sound of a growl echoed through the warehouse, and Damien's grip on his blade tightened.
"Showtime," he muttered.