The Watcher in the Snow

The Watcher in the Snow

Written by: Danni Lynn

Commissioned by: Zeroth17

Word Count: 10,000 words

February 22nd, 2023

 The Watcher in the Snow series pt. 1 “The Watcher in the Snow” and pt. 2 “The Murderer’s Sister.”

Synopsis: Redmond "Red" Miller has been suffering from a string of reoccurring nightmares where a figure approaches him at night in the snow. Struggling to pay attention at work and terrified at the local news of a serial killer roaming the wintery town of Mayfield, can Red figure out who the strange Watcher in the Snow is? Can he survive the winter and all its darkness? 

Content/ Trigger Warnings: Violent imagery, suicidal thoughts, murder, scary situations

Rated: R

Snow pelts the window like a thousand pebbles bouncing against the pavement. The tap-tap-smack reverberates in a dark hallway in counterpoint to heavy footsteps as Redmond “Red” Miller sprints down the hall. Red’s feet tangle with a crumpled runner carpet and he slams into a wall before catching his balance and dashing down the remaining length of the dark hallway.

Red’s heart hammers in his chest and his breaths tear out of his throat. His eyes are wide, the white around his pupils are illuminated in the dark, and his shoulder-length brown hair whips around his face as he succumbs to panic. 

In the hallway behind Red, out of sight, another set of footsteps slam onto the ground, approaching closer and closer. The snowfall grows louder as a howling wind picks up outside. Red is dressed in only a T-shirt and boxers as he reaches a door at the end of the hall, grabs the handle, and opens the door. A winter wind blasts Red but he rushes outside without hesitation as if he can’t feel the cold, and slams the door closed behind him. The door behind Red rattles as someone runs into it and then, as Red hazards a look over his shoulder to the solid door, all falls silent.

Red sighs and leans over to catch his breath, with his hands on his knees.

“Hah, that was close,” Red mutters. He wipes his brow, his hand coming away wet with sweat. Red stands up and wraps his hands around himself instinctively as snow falls onto his shoulders, head, and bare feet. Only a sprawling winter forest stretches out before him. The snow provides a little light in reflection under a waxing gibbus moon, but heavy darkness lurks between every branch and trunk.

A snowbank crunches just outside of Red’s sight. Red squints his eyes, his fingers digging against his arms, nails biting his skin. A cloaked figure wrapped in shadow steps out of the woods and the snow-laden wind worsens.

***

Red leaps upright out of bed in a rush. The snow, the darkness, and the howling wind are all gone as he sits up in his bed at home, in his apartment. There are no trees, no woods. Red’s eyes are red, his skin slick with sweat, and his bedsheets are tangled around his arms and legs. His chest heaves up and down as he gulps in the air, looking around his room to anchor himself in his familiar setting.

A small table and lamp sit by Red’s bedside. The lamp is on and casts light over a black-painted dresser, a rickety desk, and an office chair. Red swallows and wipes his face with a shudder. He swings his legs out of bed, pulls off his bedsheets, and drags them behind him as he stumbles to his utility closet, flicking on light switches as he goes. Red stuffs the sheets into his washing machine, pours a heavy helping of bleach and vinegar, and switches the machine on. Red gets ready for work, pours some cereal into a bowl, sits down at his dining table in the kitchen, and begins to write in a black-leather journal with a title scrawled across the front in silver-sharpie: “Dream Journal.”

***

Red stands in the middle of Thyme Fresh Market’s produce section with a box of apples in his hand. Dressed for work in a cornflower-blue polo shirt, khakis, and a name tag that says, “Red.” A box of apples is balanced on the display rack as Red places fresh fruit in an orderly stack while customers move around him, picking and selecting prime samples. A woman in a long coat picks up an apple that Red just sat down, but draws back and steps away from him, miming looking at the corn selection instead.

Red moves methodically, stacking, organizing, and fixing until his eyes become unfocused and his movements slow as if he is not present in the task. For a moment, he stands unmoving, much to the frustration of a customer who is trying to pass by with a cart but is unable to do so as Red stands in the way. The customer twists her hands on the cart’s handle, moving back and forth minutely before giving up and going another way. Red, not noticing the inconvenience he caused, clutches an apple, his thumb and forefinger bruising the fragile skin.

A nearby radio plays with an undertone of static. It sits behind the manager’s station along the store’s back wall where Red’s boss, Ted Ralph, is on a computer running through inventory and sales.

“—a victim was found Thursday morning, at 7:30 AM by an early jogger. Currently, no identity has been shared with the public, but the body’s condition was so bad,” a female news reporter says with a groan, “that a veteran police officer supposedly threw up after discovering the scene.”

“What a grisly discovery,” a male news reporter adds. “The City of Mayfield is up in arms over the recent death and is claiming this is the most recent attack from the still-active serial killer, the Mayfield Mutilator.”

“The Mayfield Police Department has not officially released a statement connecting or speculating on how similar this recent murder is to the other victims of mutilation over these last couple of months, but the style seems uncanny.”

“I would not have wanted to be that jogger this morning,” the male news reporter says with a shudder. “I don’t think I’d ever leave my house again after seeing something like that.”

“I don’t think I’m going to leave my house now!”

Red’s thumbnail punctures the apple in his hand. A drop of juice trickles down to his wrist.

“The victim is reported to have been found dismembered, with their head and limbs removed from their body. No name is available at this time, but they were found in an abandoned industrial park just inside the city limits. Police are continuing to increase patrols and recommend everyone to remain indoors after sunset. If you do have to go somewhere in the evening hours or at night, go in groups of two or more.”

Red cringes at the news and flinches, his eyes darting to the juice on his hand. Red puts the apple back in the box and wipes his hand on his shirt.

“Redmond Miller!” Ted barks from the management station. Ted wears a plaid shirt with a cornflower-blue tie, khakis, and blue shoes. His hair is gray and receding, nearly bald on top of his head. Ted approaches with a meaty finger jabbing in Red’s direction. Red jumps and nearly loses his grip on the box of remaining apples. “Am I paying you just to stand there? Stop staring off and get back to work.”

“Yes, sir,” Red responds dryly. Red quickly dumps the rest of the apples on the display and busies himself arranging yellow pears beside them.

“That news, how horrible. I wonder how old the victim was?” a customer asks another. Two women stand near the avocados with shopping baskets on their arms. They keep their eye on Red as he frantically tries to catch back up on his work, both his feet and hands tapping the boxes and displays around him at odd intervals.

“I’m scared to go outside. I used to go for walks in the park, but I don’t trust anyone anymore,” the other shopper whispers back.

“I hope they find the killer soon.”

Red finishes replenishing the displays and gathers up his empty boxes and carries them into the backroom.

“In new news this week, listeners have reported that potholes are already appearing across our newly paved I-271. It’s only been a year since construction has completed but with the winter weather…” The news report continues onto local traffic and weather in Mayfield. Red dumps his boxes in the back and shoulders the backdoor back open as he returns to the floor.

Stepping through the door, he feels a burst of cold air as a new customer enters the store from the entrance nearby. The chilly air teases Red’s heart as it skips a beat in primal fear. The bright lights of the grocery store keep him rooted in reality but last night’s nightmare returns to him like a bead of sweat rolling down his back. The Watcher waits for him out in the snow—Red shakes his head and slaps his cheeks. He is okay, nothing is going to happen. He is just at work. It is just a dream. Red takes a deep breath and opens his eyes to two customers, a man and a woman who are dressed heavily for the cold weather, staring at him with wide eyes. The woman side-eyes her partner with a concerned look and then the two back away, whispering to each other. Great. Way to look weird. Just try to get through the rest of the day without freaking out, Red thinks to himself.

***

Around 5:30 PM, Red steps out of a McDonald’s fast food across the street from work. After a quick dinner, he hurries over to the sidewalk with two bags of groceries in his hand as he begins his walk home. In late January in Mayfield, snowstorms and dark nights still dominate the skies. Cars and buses rush by on the pitted Mayfield Road, and the streetlights are too far and in between along the main road. Red steps quickly, alternately holding his breath as he crosses the dark patches between the lights and lets out a breath of relief as the streetlights accept him into their halo of comfort.

Red turns onto Lander road, a slightly darker street that is a mix of businesses, houses, and apartments, shivering in the cold. He looks over his shoulders and glances at everyone who passes him with an uneasy look. A man stumbles by, his face hidden in scarves, and his arms tucked tightly to his side. Red leaps aside, stepping into the snowdrift along the sidewalk, and scurries past him. Red passes a bus stop full of people waiting for a ride. The mile-and-a-half walk that used to pass by simply stretches out into a pitfall of dangers. Strangers, darkness, and the whispering cold all crowd around and press in on Red as he begins to panic and shake, twisting his fingers around the handles of his grocery bags and into his gloved palms. Red steps forward to cross the street but slips and falls with a crash. Red’s groceries tumble out of the bags and roll away from him.

“Shit,” Red mumbles. He sits up and scrambles to gather his belongings when a woman approaches and crouches to pick up an apple he dropped.

“Oh no, are you okay?” the woman asks. With her back to a streetlight, the light curls around her form like a halo. The woman is beautiful with long blonde hair sticking out from a scarf loosely wound below her heart-shaped face. She wears a beige long-coat over a red shirt, denim jeans, and black shoes. She picks up a box of rice and a carton of milk and presents them to Red with a smile. “Falling is bad enough, but dropping everything isn’t that fun either…”

Red snatches the food from her hands and stuffs them back into his bags but he slows down, recognizing his rough movements. “Ah, th-thank you…” Red manages to say.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“N-no, I’m fine.” Red stands up. The woman begins to stand but Red lurches forward and offers his arm, with an awkward dip in his posture. She accepts and stands upright.

“Thank you. Make sure you walk a little slower to avoid tripping—it looks like you were in a hurry,” she says.

“I just want to get home,” Red says. The woman nods, smiling again as if it is a nervous tick of hers.

“That makes sense. Everyone is a little on edge these days with all the mutilations going on.” She whispers “mutilations” as if saying it out loud can summon an act of bad luck. “My name is Alice; do you want to keep walking together? I think I’ve seen you before—you live in the Lander Tower Apartments, right?”

“Yes, why?”

“I’m one of your neighbors, I live there too! If we are going in the same direction, let’s walk together. Strength in numbers. Right?”

Red laughs awkwardly. “Right. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Red and Alice walk toward Red’s apartment together at a slower pace.

“Are you coming from the grocery store?” Alice asks. “What’s your name, so I know what to call you? Or I can just refer to you as, ‘howdy neighbor,’ each time I see you.”

“Everyone calls me, Red,” Red answers. He swings his bags a little faster as they cross a dark stretch of pavement. He lifts one of the bags for Alice to see. “I work at Thyme Market over in Gold Plaza.”

“Ah, I think I’ve seen you there too. What department do you work in?”

“Produce.”

“Very nice. Did you just get off work? It must be nerve-wracking to walk this late. Really though, thank you for agreeing to walk with me, I was about to be so nervous if I had to do this alone any longer,” Alice says.

“Why don’t you take the bus?” Red asks. Alice shrugs and steps over a pile of salt on the ground.

“It is cold out, but I would not have any other opportunity to get outside with my work schedule as it is. Crazy serial killers be damned, I need my fresh air.” Alice giggles and makes a face with her bold comment.

“Serial Killers?”

“You’ve heard the news, haven’t you? The Mayfield Mutilator strikes again?” Alice asks.

Red nods. “It seems like everyone is talking about it.”

“It doesn’t take much to stir up talk in this town… but it is terrifying.” Alice wraps her arms around herself. Their apartment building is coming into sight. “But, again, thanks for walking with me.”

Red gives a stiff smile, unused to the feeling. He lifts his grocery bags in response. “Thanks for the help.”

Alice heads inside first, pushing through the front doors of the apartment complex and into the lounge. Red hovers outside for a moment, breathing in the night air and wondering about her. If he’s lucky, maybe he can walk home with Alice again tomorrow, that would be nice. A little conversation helps the dark feel a little lighter.

Red turns to go inside but notices a homeless man sitting on a corner near the complex’s driveway. The man looks at him, his eyes are dark under heavy eyebrows. He sits on a sheet of cardboard and wears a mound of jackets around his body. The man eyes him sternly, watching Red’s every move with a cynical glare. Red shivers and hurries inside away from the man. He does not break stride until he is up the elevator, down his hall, and safely in his apartment.

***

Red is in a dark room, standing before a full-length mirror. His hands are twisting as he curls his fingers with worry. Unable to close his eyes or look away, Red’s eyes are glued to the dark mirror as the darkness presses in on him from all sides. He stares at his reflection until the reflection splits from his reality and begins to cry. His reflection’s expression crumples and reddens as its lips pull back revealing red gums and bright teeth. Wrinkles snake around its eyelids, brows, and mouth as ink begins to pour from its eyes. The reflection continues to cry until it suddenly bursts into laughter and breaks into a face-splitting grin. Red is shaking, veins appear on his forehead and neck as he tries to move away or to get up and run but he is frozen in this spot. The reflection reaches forward out of the mirror and wraps its fingers around Red’s neck.

***

Red is sitting alone in his apartment on his red leather couch. The ceiling light, and two lamps are on. His TV is on mute, the silent images casting additional light into the bright room. Wind beyond the curtain-covered windows rattles the glass in its frame. Red is wrapped up in a blanket on the couch with his iPhone pressed against his ear. Red’s foot is tapping aggressively, and he picks at his bare leg with his free hand.

A voice speaks on the other side of the line. Red nods and shakes his head rhythmically before answering curtly.

“No, I haven’t seen them. Have you tried calling him? Texting?”

Red rocks, now tapping the arm of his couch.

“If it’s been a few days, you should call the police—why are you asking me?”

Red mm-hmms into the phone a few more times before hanging up. He sits still with the phone in hand for a few minutes, his entire body rigid. After a long moment, Red gets up, goes over to the kitchen, then gets out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and paper towels. He splashes the rubbing alcohol onto the paper towels and begins to wipe down his phone, pressing the towel into the cracks of his case with his fingernails and cleans it meticulously. Once done, he puts everything away and wipes down the kitchen counter. Red sits down again, his foot bouncing, and looks at his dream journal that is now sitting across the room on the table.

***

The old stereo radio at work cuts from playing a 2000s throwback to a new report.

“A new victim was found in their home this morning by a co-worker when they didn’t show up to their morning shift at work. Their body was found in a similar state to the other recently mutilated victims. The Mayfield City Police are enforcing a city-wide curfew starting at 9:00 PM. Patrol cars will be on the streets, and anyone seen outside after that hour will need to provide proof of their work or destination. If you must go outside after dark between the hours of 5:00 PM and 9:00 PM, you are urged to not go alone,” a male news reporter says.

“Creepy. I say the curfew should be at 5:00 PM sundown so everyone can get off work early,” a female news reporter responds.

Red is standing in the middle of the backroom surrounded by a pile of boxes he has yet to break down. Dole fruit boxes and white Sirna’s Farm boxes stand high but his hands are unmoving. Red’s knuckles are white, the very cuticles of his fingers blood red as he grips a box in his hand, pressing his fingertips into the pliable cardboard. His eyes are focused on the direction of the radio in Ted’s office when Ted appears from his office door.

“Redmond!” Ted’s face turns scarlet, and he puffs out his cheeks with a shout. “What have I said about keeping your wits about you while on the shift?! If you are here to work, you better—” Redmond flinches and loosens his grip on the box in his hands. The box clatters to the floor and his hands are left, extended, in front of him as if grasping ghosts out of the air. Ted takes a deep breath and shakes his head. His face becomes slightly-less red and he offers a grimace, aging the man beyond his years with a look of exhaustion. Ted lifts a hand toward his office door. “Redmond, step into my office please.”

Ted goes back into the office and Red follows, stepping around his piles of boxes.

“Goodness, I say this is all quite horrifying,” the male news reporter says from the radio. “If you think this is funny, wait until the Mayfield Mutilator approaches you on a dark night!”

The female news reporter scoffs. “I know, I know, but people listen to us for a little pep in their step during the workday. I don’t want to be all fear and doom over here.”

“All right, well let’s get back to our workday show, won’t we? This next song is an old favorite of mine.”

Ted sits down in his office chair. Red sits down in a chair before the desk, jerkily bending down and then bending his knees up to make up for the short height of the chair.

“Redmond, I know you’ve been here a long time,” Ted starts. He is massaging his temple with one hand as another sigh builds in his chest. “But I’m getting worried about your work performance.”

Red clasps his hands together and looks down. “I’m sorry,” Red mutters.

“No, don’t say that,” Ted responds. Red looks up, his brow furrowed. “I’m worried about you, more so because I know what a solid employee you are. You’ve never caused problems for me before. You’re usually quiet and keep to yourself but these past few weeks you haven’t been all there. Are you doing alright? Is something going on at home?”

Red shakes his head as Ted speaks. “No, thank you, but everything is fine,” Red answers. Everything has been normal, he goes to work from 10:30 AM to 5:00 PM, goes home, orders or picks up McDonald’s via DoorDash, and watches crime dramas on TV before going to bed. Actually, his fingernail clippings bag might be getting full—the little snack-size Ziploc bag was getting hard to close when he added to it. That by itself is a little victory—an accomplishment—of time passing by in his apartment. Red scratches the crook of his elbow absentmindedly.

“Okay, but are you sure? It’s not like you to be like this and last week you dropped some produce right in front of a customer. They told me you just put it back on the stand and then stared at it for a while. You’ve been dazed and can’t seem to focus on a single task—like the boxes you were working on just now.”

“Nothing is wrong, I’ll do better. This job is important to me, I am sure to be here every day and I haven’t been late since I began working here a few years ago.”

“It’s been more than a few years ago. You started back in high school, remember?” Ted asks.

“I guess so.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty-seven.”

Ted sighs and leans back in his seat. “You’ve been a good employee. I’m not firing you, and I’m not going to lay you off, but I am going to make you take a leave of absence. Take some time for yourself, relax, go out and do something, and get better.”

“But—”

“I’m worried about your health. You deserve a vacation. Take off as much time as you need, your position will be here for you when you return,” Ted says. Red shrugs.

“Okay,” Red answers.

“I want to see you take some time for yourself. This will not have an impact on your end-of-year bonus, either. You can leave a little early today as well; business has been slow with all the murders happening…” Ted pauses and sits up. “Wow, I never thought that was something I would say.”

Red gets up from his chair and makes for the door. Ted gets up and makes to follow but stays behind his desk. “Take all the time you need. All my best, Redmond.”

***

At 5:00 PM, Red turns down Lander Road with his back to the brighter road of Mayfield. Red shivers and tucks his arms under his armpits, his leather jacket and winter coat crumpling under his arms.  Snow is falling thick from the sky and obscures the slippery sidewalk before him. With no groceries today, after making a quick exit from work, Red shuffles down the sidewalk, hovering under a streetlight. He squints and looks around as a semi-truck creeps up the road. He looks for Alice’s beige-coat, hoping to see her again on his way home.

A police car drives by before slowing down, its tires sliding on the slush. The red and blue lights flick on for a moment, once, and twice, before the window rolls down and the car backs up a few feet to stop before Red who is still under the streetlight. An officer peaks his head out the window and waves him over.

“Excuse me, sir?” the officer says. Red stands rooted to the spot, not sure why the police are stopping. Are they enforcing the curfew?

“How can I help you, officer?” Red says over the wind. He approaches the vehicle as the cop gets out and one remains in the driver’s seat. Red grips himself tighter but gives little reaction to the officer’s approach.

“Can I ask you a few questions? You’re not in trouble, we are just trying to put some facts together,” the officer asks. He is a stout man, coming to about Red’s shoulder in height, and has a dark mat of hair that stretches down his face in two long sideburns.

“Okay, sure,” Red answers. He shivers.

“Where are you headed to, right now?” the officer asks.

“Home.”

“And where were you yesterday around this time?”

Red shrugs. “Same thing, I was walking home from work.” Cars passing by on the road slow down as passengers and drivers look at him and the officer. Red scowls at the spectacle but tries to remain calm. He wants to go home and get inside as soon as possible. His eyes dart across the street to a dark drive between two businesses. He doesn’t want to be outside much longer.

“And where do you work?”

“Thyme Fresh’s Market—a grocery store in Gold Plaza. I work 10:30 to 5:00,” Red answers. The officer frowns and takes a more casual stance. He looks Red directly in the eye.

“Do you happen to know a woman by the name of Alice Reeds? We received a tip you were last seen with her yesterday evening.”

Red’s eyes widen. “Yes, I think so. Why? She helped me with my groceries yesterday.” Red looks up and down the sidewalk. “She normally walks this way home from work too. Are you looking for her?” Red turns back to the officer, his heartbeat quickening a little. “I can point her out if you need.”

The officer straightens up and his mouth tightens into a grim line. “Miss Reeds was found dead in her apartment this morning. You were the last person to see her.”

Red startles. The snow suddenly freezes midair and all splashing traffic ceases to exist. He trembles, his breath catching in his throat as his stomach hardens with dread. The darkness surges and the streetlight above him nearly go out as images of Alice—beautiful, sweet, Alice—flash before his eyes.

“Sir? Are you alright?” the officer asks. His partner in the car is watching from the window. Red coughs and steadies himself as the snow resumes its descent and the cars on the road continue to trundle by.

“Y-yes. I’m just, surprised. She was so nice—who… who—”

“We have no suspects at the moment. Do you need a ride back to your home?” The officer looks concerned now, no longer suspicious after Red’s reaction to Alice’s death. That afternoon’s radio announcement comes back into Red’s thoughts. A victim of the Mayfield Mutilator had been found in their apartment that morning…

“She wasn’t… was she murdered? I heard something on the radio…” Red can barely knit the words together as he tries to speak. The officer gives a sympathetic look.

“I can’t confirm or deny anything just yet—are you sure you don’t need a ride?”

“N-no, I want to walk,” Red murmurs. He stumbles a few steps forward. “Do you need anything else?”

“No.” The officer hands him a card with the department’s phone line on it and their website. “Call us if you see or hear anything suspicious, okay?”

“Okay.”

The officer gets back in the patrol car and they continue on their way. Red stands still as the world spins around him when his iPhone rings from his pocket. Fishing out the phone, Red reveals the black screen with the name, “Violet,” in white text. Red presses the green button and answers automatically as if running on autopilot.

“Red? Are you there? Have you seen the news?!” Violet, Red’s sister, exclaims over the phone. Her voice is high-pitched over the call, more nasally than in real life.

Red coughs and wipes the melt of falling snow from his face. “I’m fine. What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I’ve been hearing about the awful news on the tv today, are you at home? Have you heard anything? I’m really scared—you live right in Mayfield!”

Red grunts and starts walking, lifting one foot at a time, bracing against the snow and ice as he trudges toward home, jerkily between the lights and dark. “I’m fine… I’ll be fine. You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to me, right? I don’t want you to ever receive such bad news…” Poor Alice. Who could hurt her like that? Murder is bad enough but to mutilate someone? To become a new statistic—a life ended too soon—in a mad person’s spree? Red grinds his teeth and crosses the street, now near his apartment complex.

“Okay, but where are you now?” Violet asks.

“I’m just getting home.”

“Okay. Text me when you get inside. And what about work? Tell me when you get to work or get home and vice versa. I’m so worried, Red.”

“Violet, it’ll be okay. There are… 3,000 people living in Mayfield, not counting the 20,000 who live in Mayfield Heights and surrounding areas. One serial killer attacking one person a day is not a high risk in this kind of area. Right? You already know I don’t like the dark. I’m not going back outside when I don’t have to. I’ll order in, use Door Dash, and such.”

Violet hums in thought. She harrumphs and Red can imagine her rolling her eyes at him. “Fine. But still let me know where you go and when you get places, okay? Just do that much to assuage your sister.”

“Fine. I’ll be sure to.”

***

The scream of a raging chainsaw fills a wintery dark forest. Red stands in his pajamas, wielding a chainsaw as The Watcher bursts out of the darkness and lunges at him. Red slashes the chainsaw, zipping and tearing it into the attacker’s body. Gouts of blood splash the white forest floor and release clouds of steaming condensation into the cold air. The body of The Watcher hits the ground with a puff of snow, mangled by the teeth of the chainsaw.

Red lets go of the chainsaw’s trigger and drops it in the snow as his body sags with exhaustion. The body at his feet shimmers and suddenly, The Watcher changes into a young woman—Red’s sister—with long violet hair, black eyeliner, and lipstick smeared across her face. Red stops breathing and clutches his own throat, dragging his fingertips down across his trachea as a scream tears itself from his body.

***

Red leaps upright in bed, fighting with the tangled bedsheets and his twisted pajamas. Flailing and crying, Red stumbles out of bed and tears all the sheets, blankets, and pillow covers with him. Stomping out of his bedroom, he throws everything into the washer frantically, crowding the machine with everything he can fit. As he does so, Red sobs and shakes.

“Violet—oh, Violet!” he cries. Red reaches up for his bottle of bleach but gasps as he sees the darkness in the room around him. Lunging for the light switch, Red turns on the lights with a slap of his hand and slumps against the wall.

Violet is okay. He just talked to her a few hours ago. She doesn’t even live in Mayfield. It was just a dream. Just a dream. Shakily, Red finishes loading the washer and starts the load. Next, he leans over a utility sink and turns the water on scalding hot. Plunging his hands and arms into the sink, he starts to scrub and wash his hands under the hissing water until his skin turns bright red.

***

            In a dimly lit meeting room, stacks of boxes line the perimeter and take up space on a table in the middle of the room. Several men and women working at the Mayfield Police Department lean over the table and pour themselves over the stacks of paper and computers open before them. One man, Detective George Crane, sips from his fourth cup of coffee as he eyes a row of corkboards on the wall. Detective Crane is a dedicated worker who looks as if he stepped out of a 70’s cop movie. Wearing a black trench coat (even when indoors,) a white dress shirt, a black tie, a vest, black pants, and black suede shoes, he peruses the images and documents featuring the Mayfield Mutilator’s latest victims.

“Alice Reeds, twenty-eight years old, was found mutilated in her apartment on January 22nd, at 11:00 AM after she failed to show up to an 8:00 AM shift at work. Estimated time of death is around 12:00 AM the night before…” a female detective is reading off a report in her hands. No one is listening intently as if this is only one of the many times this document has been read from.

“This is the first murder to happen residentially. Most have been in or around the outskirts of Mayfield. Do we think this is the same killer or a copycat? The M.O. seems to be similar but—”

“The M.O. has a few related details, don’t make assumptions,” Detective Crane murmurs. He doesn’t look away from a picture he is studying. The female detective corrects herself.

“Yes, there are a few relations between the two murders but the location is the first in a residence. Either, this is copied, or the killer was rushed this time. There was something different about this murder. Why do it where the body will be undoubtedly found right away? A young woman missing like this does not go under the radar for long.”

“Then where will the next killing be?” another detective asks. “They all seemed to be in a similar place, just South of Mayfield Heights and Mayfield, but will the killer strike again after getting so much media coverage?”

Detective Crane puts down his cup of coffee and strokes his chin in thought. “If it is the same person, this last murder was a rash, last-minute decision. The other instances were careful, planned out. They take their time with their victims. Mutilation isn’t as simple as shooting someone dead. This killer enjoys part of it, gets lost in the process. After a rash residential-area killing, what do you think they will do next?”

The other detectives shrug and exchange a few glances.

“Maybe not kill anyone for a while? Slip away?” a detective guesses.

“I would disappear for a while, this last killing seemed risky.”

“They won’t disappear. They are hooked,” Detective Crane answers. “If they think they can get away with this many, they won’t stop for a long time until reality comes and straightens them out. If I made a rash decision, like this last killing, to be safe, I would take a step back and return to the regular routine. A quiet place, possibly somewhere abandoned or even return to someplace where they have killed before and have gotten away with it. There is a comfort to these killers—an excitement—when returning to these locations. They’ll want to do what they know.”

***

Cold snow pelts and streaks against glass-block windows, pattering and knocking until the nuisance echoes in the empty air.  Red wakes up with his back on the floor, staring up at a white-washed ceiling. The ceiling is patchy and peeling in some sections. The walls around him are tiled but stained with grime. An acrid smell—like spoiled food on a 90-degree day and sharp copper—burns his nose and throat. Coughing, Red sits up and a splitting headache crackles through his mind. Grasping the sides of his head, his hands stick to his skin, slipping and stinking. Red freezes. Where is he? What is he doing here? The air is ice-cold, and he is only dressed in his underwear and a T-shirt he sleeps in. His boots are on his feet, but they are untied.

His hands are red. Red with a thick paste, almost black in places and crusting around his nails, knuckles, and slick between the webbing of his fingers. An acidic surge of vomit tickles Red’s throat as the room around him swirls into view. His arms are red, his body feels slick with a substance, and he goes to get up, but something is in his lap and his foot hits something on the floor.

The room goes black. A sharp pain surges through Red’s mind as his fingers curl over an object in his lap—a severed human head.

The head of Red’s boss, Ted Ralph.

Red throws the head and keels over, vomiting all over the blood-soaked floor. He wretches and empties himself as long viscous strings of bile spill from his body.

Ted is dead. Ted was murdered—mutilated. Is Red next?  His hands and knees slip across the tiled floor, the thick blood pooling around him and staining every inch of his own body. Red cries and begins to wail, looking around everywhere, trying to find one corner of the room that is not covered in blood.

Getting up, Red stumbles toward a door and finds his iPhone on the floor. How did this get here? How did he get here? Red flails his arms and digs his nails deep into the flesh of his arms, then collapses and tears at his thighs.

“Wake up, wake up—wake up!” he wails. This is just another nightmare. The Watcher must be right around the corner! He must wake up, go back to reality, go back to the real world, and get up when his alarm goes off for work. Ted will be back at the manager’s office as usual, and Red will promise to do a better job at work from here on out. He won’t let himself be distracted again!

Red continues to sob as new blood leaks from his self-inflicted scratches. Not daring to look back at Ted’s wrecked body on the floor behind him, Red focuses on his phone and tries to make a call but his fingers are too wet to open up the fingerprint lock. Wiping his hands on his shirt, Red’s breath hitches, and his hands tremble.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he tells himself. “If this is a dream, my phone won’t work right. They never do in nightmares. If I try to call for help, the app will freeze, or my phone will open up and look nothing like it’s supposed to—” After typing in his passcode, the home screen opens and Red’s phone is working. His heart sinks. This is not a nightmare; this is real life. The stink of the murder scene is tangible, he can taste it on his tongue, almost as if it is between his very teeth. Red licks his lips and feels the crumbs of drying blood in his mouth and a sickening wave of heat swells over his body. Red crumples back to the ground and throws up again until nothing is left. Wiping his mouth, a strange calm settles over him.

“Another job well done,” Red says to himself. “You were easy to get out here…” Red stands up and walks the length of the room, looking at his handiwork. He picks at his teeth with a caked fingernail. “See, I can keep my focus, right? I can get things done…” Red paces, wiping his hands on his arms and looking at his red palms. His calm demeanor begins to fade as he holds his hands up to his nose, beginning to rub them and scratch at his skin again. Tears prickle at his eyes and a sob rattles in his throat.

“Wake up, wake up,” Red mutters. “He’s coming… he’s coming!” Red begins to wave his hands, but a sudden noise comes from outside. Red looks at the glass block windows and headlights can be seen outside. Red wipes his hands frantically on his chest, looks at the body again, and then rushes upstairs into the falling-apart frame of an old brick building. It is an abandoned store out on the outskirts of Mayfield, near the lights of I-271. Red steps into the trees surrounding the property, cringing in the darkness as he picks up speed and bursts into a rush. Car doors slam and voices shout as footsteps fall in heavy unison.

“Surround the building and secure the perimeter!” an officer yells. Detective Crane and a team of officers leap into action. As soon as the arrived, Detective Crane saw a man covered in blood rush from the building. Jumping out of a police cruise as the winter wind picks at his trench coat, Detective Crane draws his gun and watches the man fleeing into the woods and away from the house.  Raising his firearm, Detective Crane pauses, following his target. If this is the wrong suspect, he will be in for a whole world of pain and paperwork. Steadying himself, Detective Crane squeezes the trigger, the gun’s eruption cracks into the air and the figure stumbles forward, clutching at his chest.

“Go, go, go!” Detective Crane yells. Officers rush around, dark uniforms against the stark streaks of snow falling from the sky in sheets. Half of their gathered team surround the building while the other half follow Detective Crane and rush to the wood line. They burst through the trees and to the spot where the figure had stood a moment before, but there is nothing there except for a splatter of blood on freshly fallen snow.

***

Red stumbles into his apartment and clumsily locks the door behind him with a shove. Collapsing onto the ground of his entry room, Red crawls, half on his knees, into the kitchen and reaches for a towel to press against the gushing wound in his shoulder. Collapsing back onto the floor, Red applies pressure to his gunshot wound, the pain burning under his touch and radiating across his chest and up his neck. Clenching his teeth with a moan, Red cries out and drops his iPhone on the floor. He stabs at the screen with his fingers and opens up the camera to a video—another sign that this is not a dream. The pain and the realizations are all too real right now.

Slipping over onto his uninjured side, Red looks at the phone’s camera with only half his face showing up on the screen. His blood-splattered forehead and white-wide eyes are visible.

“What is going on…” Red mutters. He presses more on his wound, almost digging his fingers into it as a twisted smile crosses his face and his demeanor changes again. “It seems my time has been spoiled. I wanted to play with him more…” Red speaks to himself, but it is as if his voice has gone up half an octave, and he speaks as if it is not his own voice, as if he is not really saying what he just said. Red’s eyebrows go up as his skin blanches white.

“I did this,” Red mumbles. He wipes blood from his cheek and looks at his fingers in horror.

“I would have done more, though,” Red responds.

“But, when? How?”

Red begins to laugh. He lies back on the floor, the camera still filming as he begins to bathe in all the gory details. Red has spent many nights out in the forest, at the edge of town. The Watcher in the snow, the hands springing from the mirror, the blood he wakes up tasting, the blood on his sheets.

Across the room and in his hallway where his utility closet is, sits his still washer and dryer. His sheets from that morning are still in the washer, waiting to be switched over. He can’t do that with blood on his hands now, can he?

Memories of the other night, finding Alice’s apartment and breaking in to attack her… coming home to go back to sleep, and waking up covered in blood. Those were not nightmares…

“I’ve been waking up covered in blood and with the taste of blood in my mouth. I thought I hurt myself while sleeping, in the throes of a dark nightmare. I thought someone was after me. He watches me from the trees, standing in the darkness, in the snow. But I was the one waking up bloody. I tried to hide it. This happened several times, and every time I woke up, I didn’t know how I got there. Where was the blood from? Whose was it? Sometimes I woke up not at home or sometimes I walk down the street and have a feeling of déjà vu thinking I’ve already been up and about that night, or if I know people and the stories I hear on the radio.”

Red looks around, fixing his eyes on the ceiling in desperation. “People I don’t know keep calling me, asking where others are. Why would I know? I don’t know them.”

Red sits up again and looks fully into the camera, his eyes bulging. “What’s happening to me? What have I done? Did I do it? Was it me?!” Red scoots back and goes to his washing machine in a sudden rush. The cloth he had been holding to his shoulder flutters to the floor. He throws open the door and pulls everything out to put in the dryer, but his stained hands streak the white fabric with red and blood continues to flow from his shoulder. Stifling a cry, Red hurries into his bedroom, leaving bloody footsteps on his pristine carpet. He slaps on the bedroom light and looks outside in the snow.

Down below in the parking lot, several police cars rush into the lot and block traffic. Men and women in uniform begin to pile out of the cars and split up as the approach the building. The red and blue lights cut through the storm and flash in Red’s eyes. Red trembles, almost mesmerized by the lights but he begins to back away, cringing from the sight. The police car’s lights reflect in the flurrying snow, increasing the spinning illuminations and almost blinding him if he looks too closely.

Red stumbles back and goes back to the kitchen to pick up his phone.

“He’s after me. I need to go,” Red exclaims. “He’s almost here, almost here!” Red slams the phone down on the counter and begins shuffling through drawers with both hands, his wound forgotten about now. Red pulls out silverware, knives, plates, and cups. Some items fall onto the ground and shatter, crunching underfoot. Red rushes into the bathroom, flicks on the light, and continues to rummage. He pulls out and dirties his towels, pulls down the shower curtain, and dumps a drawer full of toothpaste tubes, brushes, and toothpicks. Finally, in the bedroom, he sifts through his desk and then turns his attention to his bedside table where he unearths a handheld gun, a Taurus Raging Bull. With the weight of the gun in his hand, Red stops running around and falls still, slipping down onto the floor into a heap. The police sirens outside continue to wail.

Red looks at the gun in his hand. He purchased the gun back when he first started hearing about the Mayfield Mutilator on the news. Those stories terrified him and his nightmares were even worse. Despite not knowing how to use the gun properly or even aim well, if he did, how could he protect himself from a mad serial killer? If someone comes in determined to kill you, is there much you can do to resist? Red’s fingers tremble as he strokes the silver barrel and trace around the trigger.  

He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He never meant to harm them… But how could he have hurt Alice? How could he have hurt any of them? Why did he do it? How could he have done it to begin with?

“You should have heard their cries…” Red whispers. He shudders and clutches the gun.

“No.”

“The desperation and the smell of their panic…”

Red holds up the gun and presses it to his head as footsteps storm up the building from the stairwell. The metal barrel is cold against his scalp. How could anyone ever hurt someone like Alice? Who is the mad killer that hurt her? He is so scared. What will happen next? When will The Watcher strike again?

The sirens scream into the night as a single blast joins the outcry. Red falls to the floor.

***

Violet Miller is walking down a hospital hallway in a quick but held-back step. She walks quickly, accentuating her worry, but she doesn’t want to look like a madwoman rushing down the halls either. The emergency department around her at the local hospital is full of activity as E.D. doctors, nurses, and workers rush to and fro with patients. Being nighttime, the department is in full swing with overnight fevers, driving accidents, drug or alcohol related incidents, and more. Violet is more afraid of running blindly and bumping into and hurting someone despite the desperate urge to see her brother.

A small nurse in front of Violet leads her to a room where there are three beds, each covered by curtains. They walk to the farthest bed from the doorway where a doctor and a med student stand with clipboards.

“This is the patient’s sister,” the nurse says. “Violet Miller?”

The doctor looks up. He is young with black hair, only just beginning to recede from his temples. Black circles rim his eyes.

“Yes, is Red okay? What happened?” Violet squeezes her hands together and bites her lip as she tries to hold back frantic tears. Her violet hair is a mess, in a messy bun she sleeps in, as she was before she received the call about her brother being rushed to the emergency room. She has a black sweatshirt over a tank top and black jeans. She is bare faced, and her cheeks are turning red with her emotions.

The doctor sighs and plasters on a calm smile in an effort to ease Violet’s concerns. “Red has just been brought out of surgery. He was brought in last night and received treatment for two gun-inflicted wounds.”

“What?!” Violet gasps. “Was he mugged? Robbed? What happened?!”

The nurse pulls over a chair and ushers Violet into it, who sits down, her eyes never leaving the doctor.

“Your brother is very lucky, he survived a gunshot wound to his shoulder. The bullet luckily passed cleanly through, and he survived an attempted suicide. The second shot just grazed his scalp. Both injuries have been treated and disinfected.”

Violet clutches the hand rests of her chair.  Her bottom lip trembles as she now stares at the curtain around the third bed. Red was injured but then tried to kill himself? Was it all an accident? Did he get into a fight?

“I-is he here? Is he awake?”

“Redmond is in a coma for the time being. He’s been through an incredible shock and physical strain. We do not know when he will wake up, but all his vitals and current readings are stable,” the doctor answers.

Violet lets out a shaky breath as she nods. “Can I see him?”

The doctor looks at the nurse and they share a nod. The nurse opens the curtain and the doctor steps forward to lend Violet support as she stands up to see her brother. The curtain rattles as it is pulled back and a bed with a man lying in it is revealed.

Red doesn’t look anything like the brother Violet remembers. He is in a white hospital gown with a variety of tubes and wires stretching across and attached to his body. A monitor with an array of lights and flashes sits to his right, and an IV and fluids are nearby. Red’s hair has been shaved on one half of his head, leaving his long locks on only his left side. On the right, a great swathe of bandages covers his forehead and head. Bandages are wrapped around Red’s right shoulder and his arm is propped up at an angle for blood flow.

Violet gasps and grabs onto the doctor’s arm firmly. “Who could do this to him? Who would hurt my brother?” she implores. Tears begin to trickle down her face and she suddenly loses balance. The doctor and nurse catch Violet as she slumps and pull her back to her chair and help her sit down. The nurse goes to get her water and the medical student watches from the corner with wide eyes.

“The police have not told us any information; they will be contacting you soon regarding your brother’s condition. In the meantime, please sit still, we don’t want you getting hurt,” the doctor says. The nurse returns with a cup of water and holds it out to Violet, but Violet has now collapsed forward onto her knees as silent sobs rack her body. She twists her hands and pulls at her pant legs as strands of her violet-dyed hair fall forward from her bun.

“This can’t be happening!” Violet exclaims through her tears. “What did Red do to deserve this?!”

The doctor grabs Violet’s hands and shushes her until she falls silent. Regaining her composure, Violet slowly sits up and accepts the cup of water which the nurse helps her drink.

“Miss Miller, I know this is a difficult time for you but please know, it is a miracle your brother survived these wounds. I don’t know how, but he was very lucky tonight. Things are bleak right now but know that he is stable, and we are working to help him recover, okay?” The doctor squeezes her hand and hands her a tissue. Violet smiles weakly, her eyes drifting to Red in the hospital bed.

“Thank you,” Violet whispers.

***

Later that day, Violet goes over to Red’s apartment. There are many police outside with a forensics team examining the entire place. Violet, escorted by a police officer, is allowed to enter the scene but has to wear slips on her shoes. Nervous, she enters the apartment, horrified at the movie-scene-like events happening around her. Officers are taking pictures, lifting prints, and taking samples of horrendous blood stains and streaks around the room and across the floor.

Detective Crane had visited Violet at the hospital and filled her in on parts of the investigation but had not told her why they are looking into her brother’s situation yet.

“Did someone break into his apartment? Was it really the Mayfield Mutilator?” Violet asks. Detective Crane and an officer share a look.

“Once we get you down to the office, we’ll answer some of your questions, but for now, you can get what you came here for.”

Violet walks across the apartment carefully, holding her stomach and covering her mouth at the awful sight. She tries to breathe shallow as she crosses the kitchen and goes into Red’s bedroom alone. The police are busy photographing everything as is and had not bagged any items besides the obvious gun and the bloody sheets as evidence. In Red’s room, Violet stops short and is nearly overcome with tears again as she finds a large splatter on the wall where Red undoubtedly shot himself. Grasping herself tightly, Violet enters the room, bending over at the mental effort it takes to walk in the presence of such a horrible realization. Trembling with every step, she opens up his dresser and begins rifling through his belongings. She pauses when Detective Crane looks at her from the kitchen. Violet smiles, which makes her feel sick, and goes over to Red’s bedside table and opens the drawer and pulls out some papers and a black leather journal. The journal has the title, “Dream Journal,” written across the top.

“Here we go,” Violet whispers. “Something was going wrong for you, Red. I need to know what you were thinking. What nightmares drove you to harm yourself?” With shaking fingers, Violet opens up the journal and leafs through a handful of heavily scrawled on pages. Many of the pages are unreadable and crumpled. As she flips through, she comes to a stop on a very dark page where the journal’s lines disappear into a sea of scribbled ink. There is a drawing depicting a man enveloped in darkness, standing in what looks to be snowfall. Red isn’t the best of artists and isn’t one to draw, but the drawing dribbles a shiver down Violet’s spine. She shakes her head and begins to read one of his dream entries, but she can’t make it out among the smeared ink and strange red stains…

A cold wind trickles through the apartment and Violet’s hair stands on end.

Violet drops the journal with a start. Backing up, she turns to get Detective Crane, but the apartment is suddenly empty. The lights are all off and no officers are in sight. Violet goes into the kitchen, stepping around the caution tape lining the utility closet, but a rattle sounds from Red’s room.

Turning back around, Violet reenters the room as her skin crawls. She desperately tries to not look at all the blood and gore around her. Feeling a strong urge to run away, she approaches the bedroom window. A pitter-patter, like snowfall on glass, comes from outside but the soft sound grows louder and soon escalates to a sound like pebbles being thrown against the panes. Leaping forward, Violet rips open the curtains and throws open the blinds. But outside, there is nothing but darkness and swirling snow. The wind is now silent.

Violet catches her breath and takes a step back, wiping her hands on her pants as she begins to shake.

“It’s nothing, just the wind,” she tells herself. Staring out into the snow a moment longer as if to prove nothing is there, Violet sees a shadowy figure move in the distance. Violet holds her breath, scared to move.

Outside in the dark, a man wrapped in a dark cloak appears in the flurrying snow, staring up at Violet through the window.

It is the same man as in Red’s dream journal. He stares, unmoving, as the winter winds build to reach a screaming pitch, and everything goes black.