CASE FILE: BIRCHWOOD.
Four figures stand outside an old rotting house. Who will live and who will die? The answer is entirely up to you.
I graduated at the top of my class from a police academy down in Alabama. My family was from down there, and we moved up to the Appalachian Mountains when I was around thirteen years old. My father was a police detective, and he had been called to investigate the death of the town’s biggest gossip: Delilah Birchwood. She wasn’t that old when she died, it really was a tragedy. One of the main suspects was none other than Angus Birchwood, her dear, devoted, and loving husband. From the moment my father laid eyes on the body, Angus swore that he had nothing to do with the murder. But there wasn’t enough evidence for them to perform an arrest on the grieving man, and he was let go without incrimination.
Something about that case never really sat right with me, and ten years later it appears that I’m being proven right.
The murders began a couple of weeks ago. At first it was just one murder, an elderly Sheriff whose body showed up outside of the Police Department covered in blood. The second one was a young girl, maybe eight or nine years old. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from that one. She was still alive when we arrived on the scene of that one. There is no worse feeling in the world to see a child bleed out in front of you. I didn’t get the chance to investigate these murders since I was still a trainee, but watching my mentor handling these cases instilled a fire in me that was not there before. A fire to help people, to avenge the dead, and to bring justice to the families of those who had someone ripped from them far too soon.
The murders continued to worsen, growing in numbers until five people had been killed. It infuriated me. Enraged me til I couldn’t even sleep at night because of how upset I was.
Things were about to change. With my first case on the job, I was given the opportunity to investigate the home of Delilah and Angus Birchwood. When I stepped into that house for the first time, I recalled what I had been told by my father all of those years ago: Trust your instincts, keep your head, never let anyone see you cry, and if there’s a camera watching you, make sure they remember your name.
I’ll be damned if they didn’t.
The house wasn’t always seen as haunted. No, it was once probably a charming house, a quiet one nestled away in the mountains. A house that a hiker or passerby wouldn’t even have spared a glance towards. That is not the case anymore. The gruesome Birchwood Murder has haunted this area ever since. I still remember the day Delilah Birchwood turned up dead, murdered. Problem is, the killer left no evidence and the only other person in the house, her husband Angus Birchwood, left nothing incriminating, swearing from the moment the body was uncovered he had nothing to do with the crime. With little to no evidence to convict, Angus Birchwood walked free. That didn’t stop the rumors and theories from escalating over the years. We all know Angus Birchwood killed his wife, it’s common knowledge in these parts. Hell, I’m counted as the main instigator. Being the lead journalist in a small community oftentimes leads to bland stories and not a lot of action. But the murder of Delilah Birchwood changed the trajectory of my entire career. My article and smear campaign on Angus Birchwood made national coverage, and soon I was shipping myself off to New York City, obtaining a new and improved position at a highly coveted news company.
It’s been years since I’ve returned to the area that jump started my career, but the news of the recent murders in the area drew me back like a moth to the flame. The unsolved case of Delilah Birchwood has haunted me ever since my first published article. I feel anger on her behalf that her murderer walked free, and now, now the murders have started again, and if there is one thing for certain, Angus Birchwood will not get away with it this time. I will uncover every last one of his secrets tonight, I will turn over every nook and cranny within this “haunted” house until the evidence is clear as day and Angus Birchwood never walks free again. Taking a pull of my cigarette and sparing a glance at my companions, tonight we save lives, tonight we catch a murderer, and of course we also catch another great story.
The mountains eat the wrong kind of people up. At least, that's what my Dad always told me. He was an officer as long as I can remember, and I knew as soon as he let me ride in the passenger seat of his patrol vehicle that I wanted to be one too. In his day, it was easy work; settling scuffles between neighbors and stopping rowdy teens from pocketing candy at the general store. Now, I have to deal with murder after murder. Lucky me.Guresome, disgusting murderers, started only a few weeks ago. It’s sent the entire station into a buzz, as this has never happened in our quaint little town. A woman, by the name of Delilah Birchwood, was murdered a few years back, but the case was never solved. Angus, the victim’s husband, was our first and only suspect. Subqsutiqnetly, there was no other evidence, or any evidence really. The case was left to the women who murmur to each other after church, and rotted until it was nothing more than a tall tale. Due to the recent murders, however, everyone believes that Delilah’s killer is back at it once again, and everyone still believes that is Angus Birchwood himself.If it was Angus, we would’ve found the evidence of it already.I’ve been sent with a small team of detectives, alongside a journalist, to investigate the old Birchwood property. It’s a waste of time, really. We should be spending our valuable time going over our recent murders, to prevent more from happening, not kicking around the dead Birchwood horse. I can’t remember just how many times I've investigated this cabin already, back when I was a starry-eyed recruit, but it’s more times than I would’ve ever liked to. Another sweep of the property won’t help us at all, but, until I’m the one calling the shots, I’m driving up the mountain for one last investigation.
Martin came around finding dead bodies to be around. He found some painting with Aristippus, Diogenes, and Plato in the midst of the room. There were a couple of other smaller paintings surrounding the walls, mostly paintings of the mountain surrounding the cabin. In a moment's glance all changed in relation to Martin's knowledge of what dead bodies that were in the log cabin. Ten were found on the side stacked in roughly made wood boxes from some layman carpenter. Were it to be my guess these bodies were probably at least a year or a few years old as I opened up the coffins gently with my hands. Some were known from around the neighboring town of Birchwood; Ethan Lee, Mia Kim, Nolan Singh, and Piper Johnson. These people were part of the Jive and Jive Insurance Company Consultants.
A year ago there were a band of robbers known the Carrot Cake Bandits. They were a gang that rose up 4 years ago during the organized crime riot in Birchwood, that attracted several different groups of several different areas. The Jive and Jive insurance agency was unlawfully attacked and their money was taken away from them. The gang killed most of the members but regardless this is not my assignment, I will get back shortly with what I need to do.
So when I gon off on a tangent like this thye have known me for awhile and some of the testimonies and witnesses that I present or express are side-stories.
So back to the exciting case here, I found a couple things worth mentioning. The door slid open and I found it a fridge, wooden fridge almost in a black color. The door was almost locked shut and had a silver shining door handle I could pull open, I found some kits containing cutting tools that you would find in a surgical unit as in a hospital. I grabbed one of the tools, and the body had no cuts, with them.
When Martin walked into the room it felt like a large grey cavern with little lights in it. It was’nt too dark but it felt like there were enough people that were able to go into the more casual places. Since he thought there was ono way of discerning what would happen after them, and he was no prophetic investigator, but he felt that it was his direction to try to go into the basement to see what he could find, there were no more of the others, where there were no ways, Angus.I found some different cold meats in the fridge, like chicken, prosciutto, and pheasant. Did they shoot out this game for food or what? Where they try to plan a feast. They must have been killed a long time ago. Angus screamed and I wanted to help, however there were a couple of ice-cold knives were trying to come in and trying to cut up the food. Woah, as a matter of fact, they were all trying to destroy me and slice me into pieces. They were mostly rusted- and blood stained but the blood wasn’t ancient as the murders only happened last year. The grime stuck to me and put a big scar on my right arm. However, I fell behind, my back first, it hurt my back, but I had heard the scream earlier and rushed back upstairs to help Angus, because it sounded like him earlier.
What I was thinking, what did he do that got him in this much misfortune? Where could he have gone that gave him such a scream. Why did he scream like a little girl? I never heard him on a rollercoaster, because I previously knew someone who never did that unless he was on a rollercoaster. There were a few things that I was wondering that could relate
I hate how dark this place is.
I hate the noises that creep from the woods and echo through the house. It’s eerie and miserable in the worst way possible, and it made me want to die.It’s my fault we ended up this way; separated, exploring this abandoned property for some sort of life sign. I knew that we probably weren’t going to find anything, and that our group was going to return to the police station later this evening with nothing except for some sort of parasites from whatever the foul smell coming from the basement provided. Probably some sort of skunk or opossum lives down there, hell do I know about that? One of us was going to end up in the emergency room, getting a rabies shot up our asses so we don’t end up foaming at the mouth like some teenage girls looking at a photo of Taylor Zakhar Perez.And God save the queen, it was not going to be my sorry self.“Sh%t.” I mumbled under my breath, realizing how every single thing and person around me was crumbling. There was some sort of uneasy feeling in my stomach, like bile creeping its way up into my throat, and I stopped outside to throw up. The contents of my dinner spilled onto the grass in a messy display of anxiety and pure terror.It actually was my fault that we were sorta kinda probably all going to die today. I told everyone to split up.I hated it. I hated the idea of feeling so utterly useless and powerless against a situation, but that’s one of the things that comes with being a cop, isn’t it? You win some cases and you lose some– people are going to live, and a lot of them are going to die. Yet I couldn’t help but hate myself for how careless I was, how quickly I chose to separate the group.I approached the door to what appeared to be an old shed of sorts, probably used to store firewood at some point in time. My hands shook as I clasped the rusted, brass door knob. To be quite honest, I didn’t 100% know what I was expecting out of this experience. This shed could hold animal feed, or it could hold a thousand dismembered arms and legs.
Opening the door, I immediately noticed how dark and desolate it seemed.
A light automatically turned on as I entered the jail cell sized building. What on God’s green earth?
There was a thick layer of dust coating almost everything in there, and it felt almost like it hadn’t been touched for decades. It didn’t make any sense to me– how would something so seemingly abandoned have such high functioning technological advancements like automatically powered light bulbs?
“Wow,” I whispered to myself, sarcastically quoting those girls from TikTok who wore neon colored skirts and carried around water cups the size of their torsos. “It’s so preppy in here.”
It was, in fact, not preppy in the slightest. In reality, it was the exact opposite of what the internet would consider “preppy”. It fell into a specific category of “John Kramer level horrifying”, one that you would only see in the twisted, maniacal tales that were the Saw movies.
There were different types of weapons lining the walls– an ax, a sledgehammer, a couple of throwing knives, and something that appeared to be a trap for catching wild game. One thing that caught my eye, however, was a pair of handcuffs sitting on the shelf next to a chair that resembled something that would’ve been used to execute a woman exhibiting signs of autism during the Salem Witch Trials. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t pretty, and I was about 99% sure that my happy ass was going to be the next one in line for execution.A shiver went down my spine. What was wrong with this guy? *There was a certain side of me that wanted to say eff this and leave, but I knew that if I left now, then I would never get the chance to come back here.
So, as per usual, my small sliver of self preservation was replaced by my need to explore every single detail like I was Curious George. I even went as far as to allow the door to the shed to close behind me; I was too distracted in my own thoughts to comprehend the clicking of the lock.The walls appeared to be made out of a dark wood; once stained beautifully, but now peeling and rotting away. There was a putrid smell in the air, and I couldn’t tell if what I was smelling was a variation of mold or the ever-so-slow decay of human flesh.A loud scream came from inside of the house, breaking me out of the daze I’d trapped myself in. Speaking of being trapped, when I made an attempt to open the shed door, I realized that I was stuck in here.“Damnit!” I screamed, frustrated with myself for allowing this to happen to me. I was never the type to be calm and organized in situations, so it shouldn’t surprise me that I’m the one trapped in some sort of decades old dungeon used for obscenities I can’t even fathom thinking about without the sudden urge to throw up the last remains of my stomach contents. “Someone get me out of here!”My cries were cut short by the sound of a trapdoor opening, and I whipped around to greet my intruder. Of course, another string of Aaron Carter’s no good, really bad, effing terrible luck… I came face to face with the man whose headshot I knew all too well.“Angus Birchwood.” My voice was filled with as much rage that I could muster. I was not about to let myself give in to being afraid of this man. He didn’t know me, nor did he own me.“Aaron Carter.” he responded, his gravelly voice sending a chill down my spine. Okay, maybe this guy did know me. Awesome. Perfect. I am never getting out of here.“What do you want from me?” I tried, and failed, to keep my voice from wavering. Instead of sounding like a well respected police officer, I opted for a twelve year old, prepubescent lad with an extraordinary amount of voice cracks.There was nothing I wanted more at this time than to punch myself in the face with a metal skillet– preferably a hot one.Angus Birchwood gestured to the chair. “Sit down.”I raised an eyebrow, deciding to go with the “flirtatious and cocky” side of myself that I often showed when being interviewed for a job. “Why should I do that?”Okay, maybe I’ll admit that it wasn’t the best approach. Because moments later I was strapped into that chair, one arm and both legs unable to move. I pondered about the reasoning of this one arm thing– shouldn’t I be able to use my free hand to escape?
But, of course, it was never that simple for me. It never could be easy.
In front of me, perched on what appeared to be a lectern, was a jar of skin-destroying acid, and at the bottom of the jar was the key to my safety.“You have three minutes before the device attached to your body removes both of your legs, as well as your trapped arm.” Angus Birchwood instructed him. “You have two options. Dig into that jar of acid and use the key inside to escape, or wait it out and bleed to death with your limbs on the ground in front of you.”“What,” I spat, eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to take me out to dinner first?”Angus cocked his head to one side. “Why would I do that?”I rolled my eyes, laughing nervously. “With all due respect, Mr Birchwood, I would like to be wined and dined before I’m screwed like this!”
The lunatic– no, not even a lunatic– the murderer smiled widely at him. “If you can manage your way out of this trap and not resent me, I would love to take you out to dinner.”Yeah, there was no way in hell I’d be going out to dinner with this man. Unless, however, we were sitting with a wall of bulletproof glass between us, and he wore an orange jumpsuit instead of an oversized flannel and jeans that looked like they hadn’t been washed since Jesus died.“F%# you.” I spat, blood roaring in my ears.The lumberjack pulled out a spare key from his pocket, unlocking the door to the shed with ease. “Time’s ticking, my friend.” Was all he said to me, starting a timer in the corner. I stared at it for a couple of seconds, watching the time tick by.It’s weird, observing the countdown that will lead to your inevitable death. Most people would love to know when they're going to die. Maybe it would give them a chance to say goodbye to loved ones, or right some sort of wrongdoings. Maybe they’d enjoy a nice walk in the park, observing the fall leaves changing color and fluttering to the ground, as a gust of October wind passed them by. Perhaps they may have enjoyed a small detail in their life, like the last cup of coffee before leaving for work, or a hearty Thanksgiving feast filled with the ones they love the most.But for me? I didn’t have anyone to reconcile with. Even if I did, there’s no way I’d ever be able to tell them that with the three minute timer burning holes into my chest.
I snapped out of my thoughts, springing into action. Looking around, I noticed the various weapons I could use to defend myself upon my escape from this hellhole. But looking in front of me, I was taunted by the acid that would eat my skin to free me. Raising my arm, I located the key. I closed my eyes for a moment, preparing myself for the burning sensation that would follow once I plunged my hand into the acidic liquid below.
Why am I doing this, exactly?
Right, because I want to live. I want to get out of here and prove to everyone that I’m worth something. Damn everyone who thought any less of me.
The trap began to pull at my leg. I could feel the muscles ripping and tearing.
I reached my hand into the liquid, biting my tongue to prevent myself from screaming as what felt like a thousand fire ants gnawed at my arm. I hate this. I hate it.
But my hand closed around the key, and I was able to pull it out. My hand shook as I placed the key into the lock on my chest that was holding me in place. Twisting the key, I managed to free myself.
I fell to the floor, my hand burning with the fire of a thousand suns as the acid began to eat away at my flesh.
“That’s definitely going to leave a mark.” I muttered to myself, hauling my shocked body to my feet. My legs shook as I made my way to the front door of this death trap.
Before I left, I looked down at my leg. I could see the bone through the ripped flesh and muscle, and I knew that there was no salvaging the limb. My hand closed around an ax that was found on the wall of the shed. Thank God my nerves had been damaged by the death trap. I raised the ax, my hands shaking with fear as I chipped away at my own skin. There wasn’t very much left, I knew it would be over soon. Blood spattered on my face, and I coughed slightly as the metallic taste entered my mouth. “Sh!t.”
I took off my sweater, wrapping it around the empty socket of my hip. Biting my tongue, I slightly winced at the sight of my blood soaking through my favorite piece of clothing.
I used the remaining strength in my body to push through the wooden door.
The door gave way easily, and I was finally breathing in the crisp, nighttime air. “God…” I gasped for breath, looking around for anyone that could help me. No luck. My entire team was still inside of that house– probably getting killed by that lunatic of a man. And then I saw her. A figure with dark hair, standing in the doorway of the house.
“Meredith!” I screamed, desperation filling my voice. I could feel the blood soaking through my sweater. If someone didn’t help me, then I was going to die. Soon. “Meredith, please!”
She turned to look at me, and I saw a glimmer of something unknown in her eyes. Fear. Meredith was never afraid.
“Help me…” I breathed, my voice shaking as I tried to beg for her help. “Meredith, get me out of here.”
She stood still.
“Don’t just f&^#ing stand there, do something!” spit mixed with blood fell on the ground as I spoke. There was desperation in my voice that I had never heard before. I was pissed by now, wanting to live. I didn’t want to die here, but Meredith wasn’t helping me.
Why isn’t she moving? “Do you hear me? Help me!”
It was at that moment, watching the time tick by, that I realized how content I was to die in this way.
I knew that I would be honored as a valiant soldier one of these days, sacrificing my own life so that the truth of the Birchwood Murders would be brought to light. There was something so poetically beautiful in dying a martyr for something that you didn’t even know would be brought justice. There was always the potential of all of us dying, leaving nobody to tell the story of what really happened in the Birchwood family home.I closed my eyes, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the clock as I counted down until I died. I had made peace with the idea of losing my life in the field long before I even decided to pursue the police force. A lot of fields are dangerous enough to kill you, you’ve just got to be brave enough to experiment a little bit.A slight pulling sensation at my left leg made me realize that the timer was beginning to run out. The gentle tug turned into something a little bit more violent. Then I heard my bones cracking, and everything escalated so quickly and someone was screaming and I just began to panic at the pure sound of it all. The scream was so high pitched and filled with agony that I wasn’t even quite sure who it was until I felt my leg detach from my body. When I looked down I saw the blood pouring from the socket of my hip, and it almost made me black out.The process repeated on my other leg, but my brain was already beginning to shut down. The pain wasn’t a problem to me anymore, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel anything. While the pulling at my limbs subsided into a dull burning sensation, I could still feel all of the blood rushing out of my body.I felt constricted, like my breathing was becoming less and less even. There was a pounding in my head, unmistakably a headache from the loss of blood, but I didn’t even notice it. I was too busy watching the slowly weakening rise and fall of my chest.It’s weird, watching yourself die. You’d heard horror stories about others coming to a near death experience, but you never imagined that you’d have to feel that kind of pain. When I was younger, I always wanted to die in my sleep. It seemed like the most painless way to go, and I had the weakest pain tolerance out of anyone in my family. I remember my mom telling me that dying in your sleep feels like falling, but there’s always something at the bottom to catch you.I’ve now learned that death in general feels like falling.
It’s like being in an elevator. That feeling of controlled falling where you can feel the ground lurching underneath your feet as you plummet gently to a new level.This was less controlled falling, yet it still had the same concept.My consciousness slowly began to slip away from me, swimming in and out as black spots plagued my vision. My chest struggled to keep up with the amount of blood I was losing, heart pounding in my ears as I attempted to keep myself alive for just a little bit longer.
My lungs were burning. There was something on fire. It was definitely me.
I struggled to keep my eyes open, to gasp for one last gulp of oxygen before I couldn’t do it anymore…The world fell black, and I let myself fall with it.
I’m not too happy about the prospect of splitting up, but on the flip side it’ll get the job done faster. The kitchen is the room just past the living room. It’s more dull and drury than I remember, but, as far as I can tell, it’s a kitchen. There’s a little table crammed in the corner of the room, with just two chairs. One of the chairs is dusty and clearly unused. A bit sad, honestly.I wipe some dust from the counter as I walk by. It’s clear the kitchen isn’t used often, and I can’t help but wonder just what Angus has been eating if he hasn’t been cooking.There’s a loud bang behind me, and I turn around as fast as I can. My heart races, hurting my chest with how hard it beats, as I hold my flashlight up. No one is there, it’s just an old, wooden, side door. It rattles with the wind. That doesn’t calm my nerves any, which frustrates me. I’ve checked out this house plenty of times, why am I getting spooked now?With caution, I approach the door. It’s still rattling, creating an eerie banging that echoes throughout the room. It almost feels like someone is behind it, struggling to open the door. I notice it’s unlocked, and lock it. Just in case.Done with the side door, and not wanting to think about it any more, I move back towards the inner part of the kitchen. Really, nothing seems out of place. Besides the dust, and general unease of the house as a whole, it’s just a kitchen.To be thorough, I start opening the wooden drawers. The first few drawers are normal, one is a silverware and the other a type of junk drawer. When I open the third drawer, however, a chill goes up my spine. The room gets colder as a bloody blade stares back at me. I’m not sure what’s more unsettling, the fact that there is a bloody knife, or the fact that the blood on the blade hasn’t dried yet.I think of all the cases before me; I think of all the times I’ve checked out this house before, years ago. Something inside me can’t help but wonder if such evidence was in front of us, the entire police force, being dangled like an unobtainable toy the entire time.The rattling on the side door suddenly stops. Just as the door, and the rest of the house, I go motionless. Before I can even think to move, the wooden center of the door is kicked in. As a big, looming shadow is now in the hole of the door, I can see a large figure. I can’t move. It takes one more swift kick, and the door is completely broken. The figure steps through.Angus Birchwood.I’ve seen his face before, so many times, in reports and newspapers, but this wasn’t the same man. No, this man did not look like the sad, harmless husband he did then. There was a craze in his eyes, and a soft smile on his lips, almost as if he was welcoming me to my last few minutes.He approaches, and I back away. For a moment I think about taking the knife in the open drawer next to me, but it’s key evidence. If I can get out of this alive, the knife could be the last thing we need to put this man behind bars- I can’t tamper with it. Instead I reach for the taser on my belt.“Don’t come any closer. Put your hands up, behind your head.” I shout, and my voice shakes as bad as my legs are.Angus just continues to smile. “I wasn’t expecting visitors. How kind of you to drop by.” His voice is dark, and deep, like molasses. It sounds like he is mocking me as he continues to slowly approach.“Don’t come any closer! This is a final warning!” My voice echoes throughout the room, and it’s like I’m the only one hearing it. As soon as Angus comes in arms reach, I tase him. Jamming the device in his side, for a moment I feel victory.Then he starts to laugh.For a second, I think my taser is broken, but I can see the electricity burning his skin. He reaches forwards and grabs my arm, and the taser hits the ground. Angus smiles down at me, and I can’t move. I can’t think. Time is moving so slowly, and quicker than it ever has.Angus holds up the bloody knife, and I watch as the blood drips down the handle. I look up at him, the psychopath, the monster, and realize there's nothing I can do.I scream as the knife pierces my chest. He stabs me again, and again, and at some point I fall onto the ground. Angus laughs as he kills me, and the pain of being wrong almost hurts more than the stab wounds.My life flashes before my eyes. I think of my friends, and my family. I think of my parents, but namely Dad. He was an amazing officer, skilled in every department, and I know he wouldn't have frozen up like I did. Angus gets up, leaving me to bleed out, and I remember Dad’s words: the mountains eat the wrong kind of people up.I wonder if Angus was the kind of person he was talking about, or if it was me. I’ll never get to know as I watch my own blood seep over the kitchen floor. Eventually, I breathe out, and don’t breathe back in.--DEAD--
As I stepped into the dimly lit master bedroom, a sense of anticipation filled the air. The room was adorned with elegant furniture and delicate lace curtains, giving it an air of sophistication. My eyes scanned the room, searching for any clues that could shed light on the mysterious case.My heart raced as I approached the ornate wooden desk tucked away in the corner. It seemed like an ordinary piece of furniture at first glance, but little did I know the secrets it held. With trembling hands, I opened the top drawer and found a stack of faded letters tied together with a satin ribbon.Carefully, I untied the ribbon and unfolded the first letter. The words on the yellowed paper revealed a passionate love story between the man and his wife. They spoke of dreams, hopes, and a deep connection that seemed unbreakable. It was hard to believe that such love could turn into tragedy.As I read through the letters, a knot formed in my stomach. Angus Birchwood had not killed his wife, everything I had done against him had been a lie. The correspondence took a dark turn after the wife's untimely death. The man's grief seemed to consume him, and his words became filled with anger and despair. The letters hinted at a growing obsession with revenge, a desire to make others suffer as he had suffered.My mind reeled as I tried to process the shocking revelation. It was as if a veil had been lifted, exposing the hidden depths of a tormented soul. The evidence was undeniable - the man didn't kill his wife, but the loss had transformed him into a monster.A chill ran down my spine as I realized the implications of what I had discovered. The letters painted a haunting picture of a man driven to madness by grief, seeking solace in the most sinister of ways. The truth had been unveiled, but at what cost?I carefully gathered the letters, knowing that they held the key to unraveling the dark secrets that had plagued this man's life. As a journalist, it was my duty to bring the truth to light, no matter how unsettling it may be.As I made my daring escape from the house, adrenaline coursing through my veins, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. But as I reached the kitchen, my heart sank. There, on the cold tile floor, lay one of my companions, lifeless and surrounded by a pool of blood. The sight was horrifying, and I knew that danger still lurked in the shadows.Just as I thought I had made my escape, Angus Birchwood, the murderer and husband, appeared before me. Fear gripped my heart, but I refused to let it paralyze me.“Meredith Clark, the woman who destroyed my reputation, the woman who destroyed my life. We’ve come full circle now haven’t we.” Angus’s dark voice replied.“I didn’t know, I swear on everything, I thought I was reporting on justice. I didn’t mean to turn you into a monster.”“Oh, but a monster I am and you get to reap what you sowed Meredith. This ends tonight, and it ends with you and your companions death.”A fierce fight ensues. Angus charges at me with a knife in hand swinging fiercely, as I narrowly dodge the sharp blade. I sprint down the hallways towards the front door, my legs shaking the entire way there. A body slams into my back knocking me to the ground and a strong hand wraps around my throat, the other hand bringing the knife up to my chest. Flailing my arms I grab a hold of a lamp knocked over on the floor and with all my night I reach to grab ahold of the broken object. With a surge of adrenaline, I managed to grab the lamp to land a powerful blow, knocking him unconscious. I wasted no time and quickly made my way out of the house, desperate to find safety.
Once outside, I dialed the emergency number, my trembling fingers struggling to press the buttons. Finally, the call connected, and I gasped out the details of the horrifying events that had unfolded. Help was on its way, and justice would be served.