Chapter Text
“This string of killings is unlike anything I have ever seen in my ten years as a detective in the homicide unit. We are begging the public. If you know anything you are asked to contact the authorities immediately…” Music begins to swell. Its beat thuds through the navy blue and gold headphones.
“Good evening…” The music quiets just enough for this new voice to be heard. “I am your host, J.C.R, and this… is the Investigator podcast; a show that dares to explore the dark. On this week’s episode, I want to discuss a case that has been unfolding a little too close to home. As of now, no suspects have been named or arrested. Justice is slipping away from these victims and their families... But first, I want to talk about this week’s sponsor!”
The blue glow of computer screens fills the dark office, barely illuminating the heavy science textbooks on the bookshelves. The beady eyes of a small penguin stuffed animal sitting on the top shelf glint in the blue glare. “Not sure what to have for dinner? Goldner's has got you covered. With fresh and tinned food delivered right to your door, it saves you all the time of going to the store as well as prep time. With meal options for whatever you are feeling, savoury or sweet, lots of meat or maybe just some pudding, Goldner's makes dinner a breeze. And for my listeners, if you use the code ‘JCR’ you get 15% off your first order! Now… On with the show.”
The music quiets.
For just a moment, there is nothing, only silence.
“It was a sunny day in mid-July. Biology student Harry Goodsir had taken his bicycle to the park and intended to search for a species of frog that he had been studying. This park is relatively busy but due to its size and densely forested areas, one can easily get lost.” Birds faintly sing in the background. Wind whispers through the trees. “However, Harry knows his way around. On that sunny day he pedalled to a pond located near the centre of this park. I like to imagine he had a butterfly net… That afternoon seemed like any other and when he got to the pond, the sun was shining on the algae-covered water and dragonflies swooped overhead. It was then that he noticed the smell…”
Milla-seconds flash on the screen. Audio waves rise and fall as they shift from file to file.
“It was… It was perhaps the worst thing I think I have smelled in my life…” A new voice now. It is a little shaky. The microphone buzzes, as if it had been brushed by a nervous hand unsure of where to put itself. “Just… It was just rot. I knew it. I just knew it… And I s-saw the garbage bag partially submerged not far from the pond’s bank...”
“Among the lily pads, algae and cattails, there was a black industrial garbage bag… Not something poor biology student Harry Goodsir expected to be in the pond. This bag was fished from the pond by police and the stench is reported to be unlike anything else. Rot and decay… The stale, metallic smell of blood. The officers who opened the bag were greeted with a sight that they will not easily forget. A bizarre menagerie of limbs, fingers and a male torso filled the bag. There was no head. The limbs were so badly decayed there is little hope for identification and the question was even raised as to if these limbs all belonged to the same person or if they had been collected from several individuals. To make matters worse, chunks of flesh were missing from the limbs. The meatiest bits and pieces-”
There is a knock. Then another. The headphones shift. Silence fills the dark room. Light sneaks in under the office door. The headphones fall back into place. “-Perhaps to be eaten as some 'internet detectives' are theorizing. Along with the missing flesh, markings had been-”
“Babe!” The door swings open and light floods into the office. “Ugh… How can you work in the dark?” The ceiling light flickers on.
“I am editing…” The chair swivels and James Clark Ross turns to look at the young woman standing in the doorway. She rests her hands on her hips, her fingernails sparkling in the light. Her long chocolate hair is perfectly curled. James cannot help but let his gaze drift over her, taking in the short, fluttery pink dress and white lace tights she wears. She narrows her glittering eyes at him.
“You are not even dressed for dinner yet!” she cries, annoyed. She gestures to his navy blue sweatpants and university hoodie with disgust. “Go change! We are leaving in thirty minutes!”
“I don’t think Francis would be offended if I showed up to dinner in sweats.”
“I would be offended,” she says and turns away from him. James smiles as he takes off his headphones, his strawberry curls falling around his face. He gets up quickly, reaching for her. She shrieks as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close against his chest. He presses a kiss against her neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her perfume. “James! Go get changed!” she laughs.
“But Anne… my sweet thing… I am so comfy…”
“You can be comfy after dinner. James!” Reluctantly, he lets her go. She scowls at him but it is all for show. “You have twenty-five minutes,” Anne says as she sits dramatically down on their couch. It is an old thing, given to James by his parents. The emerald green upholstery is faded and since its arrival has been dotted with new stains; food, wine, other things James wouldn’t tell guests about. It sits in the centre of the room, facing an old TV and the tall windows that look out onto the glowing city. The old, second-hand coffee table that doubles as a dining table is covered with styrofoam takeout containers. A purple coffee mug full of cold coffee and an empty wine glass emerge from the remains of last night’s dinner. Underneath the table is an old, jewelled toned rug that had been fished out of a dumpster and heavily cleaned. The old wood floorboards creak underfoot; the whole building seems to always be creaking and groaning as if the exposed brick wall behind the TV might fall apart.
Behind the couch is the small, open kitchen. Pots and pans hang from a rack fastened onto the ceiling; it was James’ first and only attempt at being a handyman. Cups and plates dry beside the sink and the old cracking counter has been cleaned. Magnets and photos cover the white fridge.
“You know… Francis has seen me wear all kinds of things. Even seen me nude. What I wear to dinner is not going to affect him in any way,” James cheekily says as he makes his way from his tiny office to their bedroom on the other side of the apartment. Anne narrows her eyes as she reaches for her phone; a sparkly, sticker-covered thing.
“You are not wearing sweats… or going naked!” Anne cries. James snorts with laughter. “This is an important dinner.”
James pauses in the doorway. “Important?”
“You are asking him to be your best man, remember?” Anne leans her head against the back of the couch as she looks at him. The engagement ring on her left-hand shimmers.
“Oh… Right,” James says quietly. “I told you it's hardly worth asking. I know he will say yes. I was thinking he would show up to the wedding and just assume it’s his job.”
“Ask him… Please, James,” Anne says softly. “I want to do this right.” James smiles gently as he closes the space between him and the couch where she sits. He leans down, gently pressing his lips against hers.
“I know,” he whispers as he parts from her. “I will ask him tonight,” he promises. Anne smiles up at him.
“Go change.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He straightens up and heads to the bedroom. Like every other room in the small apartment, there is barely any space for the bed in the centre of the room. The old white bed frame creaks with every movement. A string of white lights adorns the headboard. Beside the tall window is a bookshelf overflowing with books; classics, romances, crime thrillers, mathematics, history, science and philosophy. Printouts of classical art, photos from various date nights and a map of the world adorn the white and brick walls. Under the window is Anne’s small desk where her laptop resides along with the books she is reading this semester for her numerous English classes. Their closet door never fully closes. Anne’s vibrant clothes outnumber James’, his blazers, hoodies and cardigans nearly being swallowed whole by dresses and sweaters.
Thinking of Anne’s pretty pink dress, James pulls a red sweater and his nice dark trousers from the closet. He finds a clean button up in the dresser in the corner of the room by the door. He tosses his hoodie and sweatpants into the messy laundry hamper in the closet. Sitting down on the creaky bed, James pulls on his socks. The ruffled white duvet wrinkles under him. Resting against the footboard are an array of stuffed animals; James had lost count of how many Anne had long ago. Teddy bears, sea creatures, something called a ‘Squishmallow’.
James lets out a sigh as he slowly lies back on the bed. He stares up at the little chandelier that hangs over the bed, its old crystals glinting in the rainy light that shines through the window.
He wonders if Francis will bring Fitzjames with him to dinner.
“James!” Anne’ voice drifts into the room. “Are you ready?” A small smile tugs at James’ lips. He sits up and heads back into the living room. The bedroom door is left open. Shoes are tugged on and jackets are shrugged into. James grabs his keys and they step out into the dingy, old hallway.
“Did you grab an umbrella?” James asks as he locks the door.
“Oh… Shit.”
“I got it,” James says and unlocks the door again. He steps inside the apartment. He notices the bedroom door is closed. He frowns. Hadn’t he left it open?
Deciding he must have closed it, James grabs his black umbrella resting by the door and steps back out into the hallway, locking the door once more. He double-checks the lock. Anne skips ahead of him towards the creaking stairs at the end of the hall; there is no elevator.
“My mom called me this afternoon. She keeps telling me I have to pick a date to go searching for my dress,” Anne says as they walk down the stairs. The wood groans underfoot. James smiles. “She really said ‘Annie, your wedding is in a few months! Why haven’t you picked your dress?’ as if I haven’t been busy with picking flowers and food and the venue and the-”
“Why don’t you go this weekend? I can pick flowers” James says with a smile as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his navy blue coat. Anne looks back at him with a frown. “Do you not trust me to pick nice flowers?”
“I trust you.”
“Then why frown?” James laughed. Anne’s cheeks burn pink as she looks away from him. “Oh... Are you worried you can’t keep it a secret from me?”
“No!” Anne blushes. She turns and hurries down the stairs. James follows behind her with a smirk. She leads the way through the dingy front lobby, past the wall of mailboxes.
Outside, James opens his umbrella and reaches for her hand. Moths swirl around the light hanging over the front door. In the distance, beyond the roofs of the historical brick buildings, glowing skyscrapers reach for the dark, low hanging rainclouds. “How is editing going?” Anne asks as they walk down the cobbled street.
“It is a different case,” James says quietly.
“Different?”
“It has no ending,” James says. “It's just corpses and no explanations.” Anne grimaces. “I don’t like stories that have no ending,” James adds, looking down at his shoes as they walk over the wet cobblestones. He glances at Anne out of the corner of his eye. He smiles at the disgusted expression on her face. “Don’t look at me like that! I am allowed to talk about the cases I’m covering! How much worse can they be than your silly ghost investigation shows?”
“I am watching them for research!” Anne insists. “So I can find our ghost!” James bites his tongue and turns his gaze back to the wet street ahead of them. The puddles glint in the orange glow of the streetlamps.
Since moving into the old flat a month ago all Anne seemed to talk about was the ghost that wandered among their dirty laundry and takeout containers. First, it was the creaking of floorboards. Then the lights turned on by themselves. Then the cold spots. Now it was knocking on the walls.
“Would you be mad if I bought some… equipment to look for it?” Anne asks quietly. She looks up at him with a sweet smile. James sighs; she already bought it. “I wouldn’t get much. Just an electro… An electromag…” she stumbles over the word.
“Electromagnetic.”
“Yes, that. An EMF Reader. Ghosts can manipulate electromagnetic waves that it registers!” Anne says excitedly. James parts his lips, the words to remind her of his field of study on his tongue. “You’ll believe me when I have proof,” Anne smiles smugly. James squeezes her hand and gives her a sweet smile.
“I believe in your abilities to find proof,” James says. Anne shoves him playfully and he stumbles dramatically, the umbrella swinging through the cool October air. “I am being serious!” James laughs. “I believe in you!” As if to prove his faith, he wraps his arm around her waist and presses a kiss against her cheek. “I am just not sure what you will find, my sweet thing. The building is so old, your evidence would just be the creaking and groaning of the old thing shifting on its foundation… Or maybe you will find a mouse.”
“There are mice?” Anne cries. James laughs. He holds her hand tighter and they continue down the street.
Through the rain and fog, the old entryway to the underground train manifests. Rain drips from the twisted metal railings that surround it. The white neon sign above it glows like a lighthouse, guiding lost wanderers to the station.
The couple descends the damp, cement stairs and soon find themselves standing on the drafty platform. A humid wind swirls from the tunnel and over the platform. James shifts under his navy peacoat as the humid air sneaks down his collar. Advertisements line the walls creating a cacophony of loud colours and flashy words.
“Has Francis texted you that he's on his way?” Anne asks quietly, her eyes on the dark tunnel. James shakes his head. “Maybe he went late teaching again...” she whispers. She glances wearily around the quiet platform. Only a few other people wait, each lost in their own thoughts, worries, and plans for dinner.
“Maybe he got into another debate with one of his students,” James shrugs. “Got carried away. Lost track of time…”
A faint, golden glow appears on the tracks. The shriek of metal on metal echoes towards them. Wind rushes around the platform. The train catapults into the station and shrieks to a halt. The doors slide open.
A young man steps out of the train. His long coat swirls around him. His ginger hair is slicked back; with grease or gel, James cannot determine. A backpack is slung loosely over his shoulder. His hands remain tucked inside his coat pockets as he steps out. As he passes, James meets his gaze. Anne pulls James onto the train, the doors closing behind him.
James grips the cold metal pole in the centre of the car, his right arm snaking around Anne’s waist. He glances around the train car. A few teenagers cram onto one of the benches. They giggle at something on their phones. Behind them, a woman dressed in a blazer and matching pencil skirt stares at the darkened window, no doubt thinking of home and the dinner she will make when she gets there. A man in a red hoodie stands by the closed doors. There is a strange rusty stain on the toes of his white sneakers. His shaggy, dirty blonde hair hangs over his face, obscuring his eyes from curious glances.
“We’re getting off at the next stop,” Anne says, her soft voice nearly lost to the roar of the train as it screeches into the next station. James pulls his gaze away from the man’s sneakers and nods. The doors open. People rush in and out. A mere thirty seconds later, the doors close again and the train begins to pull out of the station. It screams through the dark tunnel and within a few minutes, arrives at the next station.
The couple steps out onto the platform. Anne walks a little ahead of James, the skirt of her pink dress flouncing around her. The white fur on the hood of her coat twitches with every movement. She looks back at James as he catches up to her, taking her hand in his. She skips ahead of him once more when they reach the escalator, jumping onto the step above James so when she turns, she can easily press a glossy kiss to his forehead. She glows under the white lights hanging over the escalators.
Before they know it, they are back in the rain. Anne holds onto James’ arm tightly as they walk down the busy, wet street. The puddle covered sidewalk is a watercolour cacophony of neon colours; reflections of the blinding signs hanging in store windows. Turning the corner they arrive at a small, red neon-lit restaurant. Anne frowns.
“He isn’t out front,” she observes quietly.
“Maybe he is already inside. Who wants to wait in this?” James gestures to the rain pounding on their umbrella. Anne’s frown does not leave her face as they step inside. The warm, humid air greets them. Anne glances around at the other tables where couples and groups of friends sit and eat. There is no sign of Francis. “He is just running late,” James says to her as the host leads them to a table for four by the steam-covered window. “Ramen is an interesting choice,” James says with an amused smile. “Francis doesn’t like slurping his noodles.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Anne hisses but then she giggles and hides her face behind her menu. James smirks as he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out, the screen lighting up. An email notification appears at the top of the screen. James frowns as he stares at the subject line.
How will you keep warm when the cold comes?
The notification disappears.
“We should get some tea while we wait,” Anne says and raises her hand to wave down the waiter. With his brow furrowed, James opens his text messages and quickly types out a message to Francis.
James [6:33pm]: Are you on your way?
James closes the app and stares at the glowing red dot on the email app. He chews his lip as he opens it and finds the email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: How will you keep warm when the cold comes?
There will be nowhere to hide. It will cleanse us. It will cleanse the Earth and blanket it with ice.
Will you be prepared?
“I don’t understand the things people send to my podcast email...” James mutters as he closes the app and sets his phone down on the table. The phone's background is a photo of him, Anne and Francis taken just that past summer at a dinner party. Anne smiles at him as the waiter sets two little cups of tea down on the table.
“Would you like to order?”
“We’ll wait a little longer,” James sighs. The waiter nods and walks away. Anne curls her hands around the warm cup. “He might have forgotten. He’s been easily distracted lately. He said this semester is tough,” James says quietly. “Something about the students is different.”
“Different?”
“Last we talked about it, he said they had strange ideas about the philosophical arguments they are studying…” James says quietly. “I can’t explain it as well as he can. I’m no philosophy professor,” he laughs. Steam rises from the mug between his hands. It swirls through the air. Condensation drips down the inside of the restaurant’s windows.
James thinks of the hours he and Francis spent together, debating and waxing till the sun rose; Francis sees the same kind of beauty in logic and arguments that James sees in numbers and calculations that had kept him up night after night.
“If he doesn’t show… maybe we could have a date night?’ Anne asks quietly. James raises his gaze from his mug. A gentle smile pulls at his lips; it had been a long time since they had a proper date night.
“A date night would be nice,” James says. He glances at the foggy window. He doesn’t recognize any of the human shapes passing by on the other side. “He would have texted by now if he was coming…” James can’t stop the hurt sigh that falls from his lips. Anne reaches for his hand. Her skin is warm.
“He still loves you, James…” Anne whispers. “I know it.”
“He loves James too,” he says, hating the bitter tone in his voice. It makes him sound like the headstrong boy he was supposed to have grown out of. “Francis is probably with him… Probably forgot all about us.” James takes a sip from his tea. It burns his tongue.
“James, don’t say that,” Anne says, squeezing his hand. “He is probably just busy like you said and simply forgot. Don’t worry, my love.” She raises his hand to her lips. The ring on her finger glints in the neon light.
***
The taste of vanilla icing lingers on James’ tongue as he and Anne stroll down the wet, dark street. The puddles gathering over the cobblestones glints in the orange glow of the streetlamps. Rain patters onto the black umbrella James holds over them.
Francis did not arrive for dinner.
So James and Anne ordered, their conversation wildly shifting between topics; the book Anne had been reading for her class, the debate over roses or lilies to go in the centrepieces at their reception, the experiment James had been working on during his studies into magnetism at the university. Between slurping noodles and taking sips of tea, their voices floated through the mostly quiet restaurant. Shadowy human figures passed by the foggy glass, barely illuminated by red neon light oozing from the sign above the door.
As James paid the bill, Anne sucked on the lemon hard candy that came with it. They lingered a little longer in the warm, humid restaurant. James unwrapped his own lemon candy. The hard yellow thing glinted as James put it into his mouth.
When they finally stepped outside, it was raining even harder.
On the walk home, they stopped at Anne’s favourite cafe and bakery. James smiled at Anne as she peered intently down at the array of beautiful slices of cakes, squares of tiramisu, pastel macaroons and chocolate-covered eclairs. After selecting the most perfect piece of tiramisu, they were once more on their way, the little white box held tightly in Anne’s hands.
Now, as they turn the corner onto their quiet street, James could not help but look back over his shoulder. He scans the dark for the eyes he felt on his back. A streetlamp across the street flickers; the light is dying. James steps a little closer to Anne. He lets out a quiet sigh of relief as they climb the old, stone steps to their building.
Inside, the smell of dust hangs in the still air. Anne glances back at James over her shoulder as she scurries up the stairs. There is a glint in her eyes that shoots an electric spark down James’ spine. He hurries after her. Raindrops fall from his umbrella and soak into the old red carpet covering the creaking stairs. As if they were as young as the day they first met, they skip up the winding stairs. Anne giggles as James grabs her hand, pulling her into a breathless kiss. She begins to pull away a moment later and James chases after her, a small whine escaping his throat.
Holding his hand tightly, she leads the way up the stairs and down the creaking, dimly lit hall. James fumbles with his keys. He throws open the door and they hurry inside. He finds himself with his back against the door. Anne kisses him fiercely. The wet umbrella slips from his hand. When she breaks away from him, James checks twice that the door is locked.
With the little white cake box abandoned on the kitchen counter, the two stumble through the open bedroom door, unable to let go of the other.
***
Darkness hangs over the bedroom. Rain taps against the window. In the distance, an ambulance siren wails. A cold breeze flows through the slightly ajar window and plays with the pages of the books left on the desk. A pink dress lays where it was thrown onto the old floor. A red sweater hangs over the footboard. The bedroom door stands open; a yawning mouth.
The floorboards creak. A weak sigh floats through the dark; a deep melancholy, a dark shadow in the corner. Then the floorboards groan as if in agony.
“James…” a hushed, nervous whisper. “James.” Anne grips his arm tightly. “James…” He slowly opens his eyes. “I think there is someone walking around in the living room…” Anne whispers. “It's like…. someone is pacing.”
“It's just the building,” James yawns. “It's old, my sweet thing.”
“Can you go check to make sure no one is in there?” Anne pleads. She sits beside him, the blanket pulled up to her chin. She stares at the dark, open doorway. He can see the whites of her eyes glinting in the faint orange light that oozes through the window.
“Okay,” James says gently. “I’ll go check.” He sits up, sliding his legs off the bed. He fumbles in the dark, finding his sweatpants hanging out of the laundry basket. He pulls them on before bending down, reaching underneath the bed. His fingers curl around the heavy baseball bat hidden there. He had never played the game; he only bought it after finishing the fourth episode of the podcast. Knives make him nervous. Holding the blunt, heavy weapon firmly, James stands and begins to make his way towards the door.
The silence rings in his ears. It is almost painful.
The air catches in James’s throat as he steps through the doorway. His heart pounds in his chest. Slowly, he scans the darkness. He can barely make out where the couch is. He takes another step forward. His warm breath fogs in the cold air. James glances over his shoulder at Anne who stands by the bedroom door, her bathrobe pulled tightly around her.
A loud bang echoes through the flat.
Anne lets out a terrified cry as she flinches. James grips the bat tighter. The bang comes again, heavy. After the third, James realizes it is coming from the front door. He glances at the clock above the stove; 12:33 am .
Slowly, James starts towards the door.
“D-Don’t…” Anne whispers, her voice trembling. James closes the space between him and the door. With a shaking hand, he begins to unlock the door. James grips the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, he throws open the door.
“I-I’m sorry…” A weak voice says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Slowly, James lowers his bat. The grey light from the hallway spills into the flat. It barely illuminates the pale, rain-soaked complexion on James Fitzjames’ face. Drops of rain fall from his wet curls and soak into his black coat. A blue scarf hangs limply from his throat. His dark gaze is locked on James. It is as desperate as it is hollow. Sitting on his soaked shoes is a large, black Newfoundland. The dog pants under its heavy wet fur.
“James?” Anne is suddenly beside her fiance. She stares at the taller James with wide, nervous eyes.
“I-Is Francis here?” Fitzjames asks, his usually confident voice now trembling. “He said… He said he was going to dinner with you. But it is late and he won’t call me back…”
James’ heart falls into his stomach.