"How many cups did you took?" Laughter mixing with hiccups echoing the night streets.
"2 Hennessy, asshole Alvin trying to mix it with Vodka—hiccup—hella shit I will die if he pour that shit in my mouth!"
The night should have ended in glitter and laughter. The girl's dress still carried the faint shimmer of the prom lights, and the boy's tie hung loose, undone during the drive home. Their steps were uneven as they cut across the damp grass toward the back door, whispering jokes and promises in the hush of after-midnightS.
But then—something broke the rhythm. A smell, metallic and sour, lingered faintly on the night air. The boy frowned first, his eyes catching on the half-open wooden door of the storage shed behind the garden. Usually it was bolted shut. Tonight, it gaped like a mouth left mid-scream.
He tightened his grip on her hand, instincts pricking like static.
"Stay here." He muttered. She didn't listen.
They moved closer, curiosity laced with a rising unease. The girl's heels sank into the soil, slowing her, while his hand reached out instinctively to shield her. The weak yellow of the porch light didn't stretch far, but it was enough to catch the outline inside.
Together they edged closer. The smell hit them first—sour, rotten metal—and then the sight. A body. Crumpled inside, neck bent at an angle no living man could hold. A smear of dark, drying blood marked the wood, running in thin rivulets across the floor.
"Holy shit!". He retching hard on the ground, clutch his belly tightly.
The girl stay stunned, her body completely freeze .
"Roberta…—..". Her voice trembling. How unfortunately, the one who dead and waiting for them to be the ones to find—is her friend just went missing one month ago.
——§——
Red and blue lights splashed over the garden, throwing their long shadows across the wet grass. Officers jumped from their vehicles, radios crackling, voices sharp and clipped.
The night exploded into controlled chaos. Officers tore through the garden, setting up the signature yellow tape across every conceivable exit. "Stay back! Everyone back!" they shouted, voices sharp, commanding, barking orders over the hum of engines and flashing lights.
At the center of it all stood Chief Bulvok, broad-shouldered, eyes scanning the scene with the precision of a predator. He wore the weight of the city's Special Task Force like armor, moving with authority that brooked no argument.
"My team will handle the rest from now on," his eyes sharply, fixed on the young couple now looking pale, the girl shaking uncontrollably.
"He—he is my friend—he…". Her voice shaking, the boy trying to calm her down.
"This is the 30th body we've found since spring break began. ," his voice low . His team fell into place around him, notebook and flashlight sweeping the shed.
The forensic team moved in with practiced efficiency. Gloves snapping into place, masks covering their faces, they lifted the body onto a narrow plank, the wood creaking under the weight.
They start to taking note—angle of limbs, state of clothing, any marks that the victim struggled, fought against something or being sexual abuse. Anything that can give him a first idea of what happened here.
Time of death could be one month ago as his friend said—no signs of forced entry in the main house, but there are marks here," an officer murmured, pointing at scratches along the wooden walls of the door of storage house.
"Could be using axe or something hard to open the storage door.". He tapped the wood near the hinge where the paint had been crushed inward.
"Multiple blows. The splinters flew inward." He gestured inside.
A forensic photographer took macro shots of the fractured wood, then of a smear across the lower plank: rust-tinted streaks that had soaked into the grain.
"Hold it," Bulvok said sharply, stepping forward. The forensics team froze as he leaned in, flashlight beam cutting across the splintered wood of the storage door.
There it was—half-hidden in the cracks of the grain. A bloodstain was wiped away, but broken because the perpetrator was not careful when cleaning.
"Well," he said, examining. "This is not a professional one in his first job in his career.". He thought it will be like that.
"I need some light up in here, Ms. Evelyn, would you help me with your special Luminol?" . He gestured to a twenty—girl, standing beside the door.
"Well", she stepped in the room, her hands trembled only a little as she tugged a small, battered canister from the tote at her feet — the silver spray nozzle glinting in the forensic lamps. "You said — you said you needed the Luminol, Chief."
Bulvok's jaw was a hard line. "Yes. One quick sweep. Keep it tight and even." He handed the plank to a tech and motioned the couple back behind the tape. "Everyone clear the shed. No flash photography. Hold positions."
She clicked the safety off and, with methodical calm that belied her age, began to mist the wood. The spray hung in the humid air, a pale haze that settled into every crack and splinter.
For a moment nothing happened. Then, as though someone had hit a switch, a faint blue bloom started to crawl across the grain—ghostly and wrong.
For a moment nothing happened. Then, as though someone had hit a switch, a faint blue bloom started to crawl across the ground —ghostly and wrong.
"This is not the only scene—must be somewhere else." Bulvok crouching down and observing.
Ms. Evelyn can't hide her surprise, she cover her mouth. "My God," she breathed. "It looks… like someone dragged something. Or someone."
Bulvok's eyes narrowed. He traced the luminous streak with his fingertip hovering above it, not touching, reading the motion frozen in chemical light. The arc of the handprint — the angle of the smear .
"Collected all of these, even the tools in here, I want all of it all gathered in my office." He gestured to his team.
He stepped out from the shed's shadow, his voice deep, deliberate.
"Do you two have a basement?"
The boy blinked, caught off guard. "A… basement?"
"Or any other place," Bulvok pressed, his stare unblinking, "something on your property, or nearby. A spot people don't use anymore. Old cellars, garden houses, storm shelters. Abandoned structures. Anything."
The girl swallowed, shaking her head quickly. "No, nothing like that. Just the shed."
Bulvok studied them a long moment, measuring their fear against their words. His instincts told him fear could lie, but it could also reveal truths. He leaned slightly forward, tone sharpening.
"Think. Not just yours. Neighbors'. Anything in this area where someone could hide… or keep someone."
A hush fell across the garden. Even the officers holding the tape turned, waiting for the answer. The boy hesitated, then spoke slowly.
"There's… an old root cellar. Down past the fence line. Belonged to the house before ours. My father said it collapsed years ago. Nobody goes there."
Bulvok's jaw clenched. He glanced back at his team.
"Light it up," he ordered. "I want men at that cellar now."
" I hope it won't be like the previous case that I anticipated," Ms. Evelyn talked, with her eyes widen and terrifying face—she new in this job.
Bulvok stepped back from the shed, tugging a cigarette from a battered pack. He lit it with a flick of his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face. Inhaling deeply, he let the smoke curl into his lungs, holding it for a long beat as if drawing patience and strategy from the acrid burn.
"Evil doesn't hide where it wants… it hides where we least expect it, waiting for the night to tell its story, or being buried completely . And tonight, it's begun speaking."