Estimated reading time — 29 minutes

The moon hung low over the sleepy town of RidgeWater Creek, its faint glow barely penetrating the dense forest on the outskirts.

As I stepped out of my car, my boots crunched against the gravel road, carrying me toward the cordoned-off crime scene.

The red and blue strobes of police lights painted chaotic flashes across the area, but my focus remained on the figure sprawled on the ground.

The first thing that struck me was the smell—a sickly mix of damp soil and something metallic, almost like rusted iron or old blood.

It was the kind of stench that clings to the back of your throat, refusing to let go. I adjusted my scarf as I ducked under the yellow tape fluttering in the wind.

The victim was a man in his late thirties—married, no kids—a local high school teacher named Gregory Tate. He lay on his back, arms splayed wide as if he’d been clawing at the ground in desperation. But there were no wounds, no blood, no evidence of force or struggle. His body was completely intact.

Then my flashlight caught his face, and I felt my stomach drop.

His mouth hung unnaturally wide, stretched into a soundless scream frozen in time. His eyes bulged, staring at the void, but still radiated with raw unrelenting terror.

It was as if his last moments had been carved into his flesh—a permanent echo of whatever had seized him in those final horrifying seconds.

A shiver crawled up my spine as my thoughts immediately snapped back to two other murders, both eerily similar, and both occurring within the last two weeks.

I lowered my flashlight, sweeping it over the ground around the body. That’s when I noticed it: a crudely etched circle surrounding him, as though drawn during his final moments.

Near his feet, a string of letters was scrawled into the dirt—in a language I couldn’t recognize.

The arrangement felt disturbingly ritualistic, as if the victim had somehow been drawn into a sinister rite that eventually claimed his life.

What made the scene even more grotesque was that the two earlier victims had also been found dead under similar circumstances.

The next day back at my station, I immersed myself in the case files, leaning back in my chair as the details swirled through my mind.

Victim One, Clara Evans: A store clerk was found dead in her living room, slumped in a corner. There was no sign of forced entry, but her face was frozen in paralyzing fear. Using her lipstick, she had drawn a circle around herself and left illegible scrawls near her feet. She had even quit her job a week earlier, citing stress, and was living alone at the time.
Victim Two, Jack Monroe: A mechanic found dead in his garage, surrounded by scattered tools. Neighbors mentioned he’d been hearing strange noises outside his house for days. In the week leading up to his death, he barricaded himself in the garage and stopped visiting the local bar, where he was a regular after work.

Victim Three, Gregory Tate: A high school teacher, beloved by his students, with no known enemies or debts. His wife observed that he had recently grown terrified of leaving the house after dark, often twitching and trembling at the slightest noise. Then, one night, without explanation, he left home and wandered into the woods a mile away, where he was found dead.

Three victims, three different lives, and no tangible connections between them—except for one chilling similarity: the circumstances of their deaths and the fear that was permanently etched across their faces.

There was also another detail I had to account for. In all three crime scenes, an object was found lying next to the corpse. With the first victim it was a small hand held mirror, with the mechanic it was a miniature toy bus and with the high school teacher, it was a fountain pen.
The really odd thing here though was that the objects looked like relics that belonged to another era, probably the late 70’s or the early 80’s, and it made me wonder if they had been left behind by the killer.

Sergeant Holbrook, however, had a different take. He didn’t mince words, calling it outright “the work of the devil.” A police veteran with decades of experience, Holbrook claimed to remember similar occurrences from his childhood. And each time we arrived at a new crime scene, I could see his face grow paler, as if the evidence before us confirmed his worst fears.
The people of the town had a similar opinion as well. Especially the elderly folks who remembered the killings more than 50 years ago. And when the photos of victims leaked and went viral, it was only a matter of time before the whole community got swept in on the frenzy.

As I took a sip of coffee, Sergeant Holbrook stepped into my cabin, holding a file from the coroner’s office. I opened it, already anticipating what I’d find.

Like the others, our latest victim showed no signs of trauma or struggle—no defensive wounds, no bruises, nothing.

All three had been in good health with no underlying medical conditions. The coroner’s report mentioned cardiac arrest brought on by extreme stress, but the words rang hollow. It felt more like a convenient excuse than any real explanation.

“Officer Harper…” Holbrook’s voice suddenly cut through my thoughts, his tone measured, almost hesitant. “The Mayor wants to meet you at the town hall.”

A knot tightened in my stomach. Town hall meetings were rarely good news.

With three unexplained deaths in less than 2 weeks, the townsfolk of Ridgewater Creek—a tight-knit community of just 1,000 people—were bound to have questions, and not the easy kind. News here moved faster than the wind, and the pressure to provide answers was mounting.

Being the new cop in town— a city officer who had moved here just six months ago to take charge—had already made me a topic of gossip. Now, with these cases piling up, it felt like the tide of suspicion was beginning to shift toward me.

Holbrook and I climbed into the cruiser, and as we drove through the quiet streets, I stared out the window, running through what I’d say in my head.

When we arrived, the town hall was already packed with people. Parents clutched their children protectively, teenagers huddled together in nervous whispers, and the elderly exchanged worried glances. The weight of their fear hung heavy in the air, pressing against me like a storm cloud as I walked nervously through the room, their silent stares following my every step.

The mayor opened the meeting with strained reassurances before gesturing for me to step forward.

“Good morning,” I started, scanning the sea of tense, worried faces. “I’m Officer Evelyn Harper. I want to reassure you that we are doing everything within our power to solve these tragic cases. While we don’t have all the answers yet, we are committed to uncovering the truth. But we need your cooperation. For the next 10 days, please, stay indoors after dark, and if you notice anything unusual, report it to us immediately.”

As I continued speaking and patiently answered their questions, my eyes continuously swept over the crowd.

One woman in the second row particularly stood out. Her silver hair gleamed under the harsh lights, and her hands rested neatly on her lap. While the rest wore their fear openly, her expression was serene—calm to the point of detachment.

When the meeting ended an hour later, I swiftly moved toward her. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said as the crowd began to thin.

She turned to me, her blue eyes sharp and clear. “Hello Officer. I am Ruth. Nice to finally meet you,” she said with a faint smile.

“Ruth,” I said, stepping closer, “would you like a ride home?”

Her smile deepened just slightly. “That’s very kind of you, Officer Harper. Yes. I’d appreciate that.”

Holbrook gave me a questioning glance, but I waved him off, while Ruth and I walked toward the cruiser.

As we drove to her residence, Ruth began to share snippets from her life. She was in her early seventies, born and raised in Ridgewater Creek. She’d never married, had no children, and retired only recently from her position as the local school librarian.

When we arrived at her place, she invited me inside. Her home was warm and inviting, carrying the comforting scent of old wood and lavender.

But what struck me most however was the massive bookshelf dominating her living room, stretching floor to ceiling and packed with books—some weathered, others pristine, all meticulously arranged.

“You have quite the collection,” I remarked, my eyes scanning the rows of books.

“Books are windows to understanding, Officer Harper,” she said with a wistful smile. “But they can also be windows to something darker… something forgotten.”

“You seemed unusually calm today at the town hall,” I said carefully as I took a seat across from her.

“Fear clouds one’s judgment, my dear,” she replied softly. “I’ve lived long enough to know that panic only leads to mistakes. The key is to look closely, think clearly, and see what others might overlook.”

Her words lingered, and I leaned forward. “So what are your thoughts on these deaths? What do you think is really going on here?”

Ruth stood without replying, crossing to her bookshelf. Her fingers brushed over the spines before settling on a weathered, leather-bound volume. She opened it with care, flipping through the pages until she stopped at an illustration.

The image was jarring: a figure lay on the ground, encircled by a crudely drawn ring, with an undecipherable text scrawled near its feet. It was eerily similar to the crime scenes. My heart suddenly skipped a beat.

“This… this looks just like the crime scenes,” I whispered.

I leaned closer, studying the page. “What does the scrawl mean?”

Her gaze met mine, calm yet piercing. “It says ‘Jurupari,’” she replied, her voice steady. “It means ‘Voice of Fear.’ According to an ancient Amazonian legend, it’s an entity that devours the soul of its victim after overwhelming them with fear.”

A cold knot tightened in my stomach as I stared at the illustration, unsure of what to say.
Ruth then turned back a page, pointing to a dark, distorted figure cloaked in shadow. “This is what the legend speaks of,” she explained. “An entity feared for centuries, known for consuming the souls of its victims. It thrives on fear—smelling it, tasting it and even savoring it. Its origins are unknown, but it has appeared across the country in several places over the years. Fifty years ago, it came to Ridgewater Creek.”

I listened, both horrified and captivated, as her words sank in.

“In the seventies,” she continued, “this town was plagued by a series of unexplained deaths. No signs of struggle, no obvious causes—people were just dropping dead, and no one could figure out why. It went on for months, freezing the town in fear. The police were desperate for answers, but they found nothing.”

She paused, her face darkening with the weight of the memory. “That’s when I found this book. As a librarian, I often sourced rare volumes, and when I saw this one, I had a feeling it might hold the answers we needed. I took it to the police chief, but he dismissed it immediately—called it nonsense.”

Her expression softened, and a faint smile tugged at her lips. “But there was one person who listened—a young sergeant named Henry Cross. He quietly observed while I tried to explain to the Chief. He was the tenacious type I must say, the kind of man who couldn’t let something go until he understood it. He even came to my home, sat right where you’re sitting now, and let me explain what I knew. A few days later, he came back and said he’d found a promising lead and that he was going somewhere to investigate.”

“And then?” I asked eager to get to the bottom of it.

She sighed deeply. “I never saw him again. He vanished without a trace. The murders stopped soon after, and the town returned to normal. But Henry… he was never seen or heard from again.”

“What do you think happened?” I asked intrigued.

Her expression grew inscrutable as she hesitated. “That, Officer Harper, is a question I’ve pondered for decades. Maybe you can connect the dots, and let me know how this story ends.”

“Do you know where he went?” I finally asked after a moment’s silence.

She nodded. “He said he was going to the sawmill.”

Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I quickly answered, Holbrook’s voice sharp with urgency.

“Chief,” he said, his tone grim, “we’ve got another one.”

“Where?” I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.

“The old sawmill,” he replied.

I quickly thanked Ruth and headed for the mill, long abandoned and feared by the local townsfolk. Perched on the edge of town, it had stood vacant for decades, its history making it a place that people usually believe to be haunted.

As I stepped out of my cruiser, the thick, suffocating scent of rusted iron and decay immediately hit me as if it had settled into the very air.

Before me loomed the mill, a Second World War era relic continuing to wither away under years of neglect. The roof had caved in at several points, and vines snaked through the broken windows, claiming the crumbling interior. The structure still somehow seemed almost alive, yet entirely forgotten.

To my right, a jeep had crashed into one side of the building, its front half crushed against the brickwork. Paramedics were extracting the driver’s lifeless body, twisted and mangled beyond recognition. The passenger door hung open, offering a clear view inside the mill where another young man lay sprawled across the dusty floor.

Unlike his friend this one was alive. As I approached, I noticed one of the medics kneeling beside him, injecting something into his bloodstream to stabilize him.

Moments later, the man startled awake, his body jerking as his eyes flew open, wide with terror. He scanned the scene wildly, his breath ragged and shallow, until his gaze fixed on the wrecked jeep outside. Recognition dawned, and his chest heaved as he tried to speak.
“It’s my friend,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “He just… he just lost it. We were headed to the city—everything was fine. Then, out of nowhere, he panicked. Started screaming like a madman—like he had seen something. He suddenly swerved off the road and drove straight into the building. I… I barely managed to jump out just before we hit it.”

The medics eventually helped him to his feet and escorted him to the waiting ambulance.
Meanwhile, I turned my attention to the mill’s interior. My eyes were drawn instantly to a large, sealed fireplace at one end of the room. The mortar appeared weathered, but the bricks had been meticulously arranged, completely blocking the hearth.

I stepped outside again, unable to shake the peculiar sight that kept nagging at me. From the outside, I could see that the jeep had rammed directly into the building’s fireplace.

I called for Sergeant Holbrooke, and together, we had the vehicle reversed. As the jeep was pulled back, the bricks began to crumble, revealing something hidden within.

Behind the wall of debris was a skeletal figure, awkwardly slumped in the confines of the fireplace. Its bony hands tightly clutched a weathered brown book, its leather cover stained with a large patch of blood on the back, yet otherwise, its overall condition remarkably intact.

The tattered remnants of fabric clinging to the skeletal remains made the uniform hard to identify, but the government-issued firearm lying beside him left no doubt in my mind: I was looking at the mortal remains of Sergeant Cross.

We spent the rest of the day combing through the mill, collecting the necessary samples for forensic testing, and then interrogating the survivor back at the hospital to get his full account of the events.

By the time I was finished, it was already half past eleven. As I was heading back home, I noticed the sergeant’s journal lying in the evidence tray, tagged and ready for testing.

Without thinking, I grabbed it and made my way home, planning to take a long bath before finally getting some rest.

Entering the bathroom, I prepared the tub, quickly undressed, and waded into the warm water. As I leaned back, I picked up the sergeant’s journal and began reading.

Investigative Journal of H. Cross
People like to think the badge is about “serve and protect.” But for me, it’s always been about Ricky and what he stood for. He’s the reason I’m here, walking the beat, keeping an eye out for the bully lurking in the shadows.

Growing up in foster care, I didn’t have much more than the shirt on my back and a hundred reasons to keep my head down. The other kids were bigger, meaner, and twice as cruel. Every day felt like a battle, and every night I prayed I wouldn’t wake up with a black eye—or worse.

Then came Ricky.

He wasn’t some guardian angel swooping in to save me. Nah, he was just another kid dumped into the system, rough around the edges like the rest of us. But Ricky didn’t believe in running or hiding.

“Punch first and think later,” he always used to say, and he lived by it.

He taught me how to stand tall, to fight back—not just with fists, but with grit, persistence, and anything else that gave us an edge.

A poke in the eye, a kick in the nuts, smashing a bottle over someone’s head while they were busy eating—it didn’t matter. The rules were simple: keep going, again and again, until they start to feel it in their bones.

I’ll never forget the one time we fought back. Three bigger kids had us cornered behind the school yard. They were huge, grinning like wolves, and ready to pounce.

Ricky didn’t hesitate. He threw the first punch, and I followed right behind him. We didn’t win—not even close. By the end of it, we were in the hospital with more broken bones than I could count. My ribs ached for weeks, and every breath felt like fire.

But what I remember most isn’t the pain—it’s lying there in that hospital bed, tears streaming down my face, feeling something I’d never felt before: a sense of victory. We may not have won the fight, but we held our heads high. And when we got finally back, we tormented them for weeks until we made damn sure they never picked on us again.

Ricky was the only real friend I ever had—the only one that mattered, at least.

So when I found him dead at a crime scene, his soul ripped from him, leaving only fear etched on his face, it felt like something inside me had been ripped away too. This wasn’t just murder—it was personal.

I knew then and there I’d stop at nothing to find the bastard who did this. I owed Ricky that much. This journal is my attempt to piece it all together—my thoughts, my rage, my resolve.

It’s time to bully the bully.

Day 1
I hadn’t set foot in the sawmill since my teens, back when a group of us dared each other to explore its eerie halls. No one knows exactly why the place was deemed cursed, but the story goes that workers arrived one morning to a grisly sight: the owner’s lower half lying severed by the saw table, while his upper half roasted in the fireplace.

The mill never reopened, and its sinister reputation only deepened with time. Whispers of ghost sightings and unexplained phenomena grew so pervasive that authorities eventually sealed the fireplace to deter thrill-seekers and other oddballs from exploiting the site.

Now, here I was again, on a stakeout, sitting in my car hidden among a row of trees with the decaying structure looming in the distance.

My mind immediately wandered to the events of the past couple of months. Ridgewater Creek had seen more than 25 deaths, including that of my friend, and we were no closer to solving the case.

The air in town was thick with fear—people were irritable, on edge, constantly glancing over their shoulders. Chaos was unravelling right before my eyes, and the community was fraying at the seams.

The Chief was unwavering in his belief that a serial killer was behind it all. At first, I agreed—especially with the peculiar items left at each crime scene: an ashtray, a felt hat, a tennis racket, a wristwatch, a cassette tape, a torch etc. They seemed deliberate, almost like a calling card. But the more I examined them, the more they felt… disconnected. There was no clear pattern, no logic linking the objects to each other or the victims.

As the body count climbed, so did my doubts. Something about it didn’t sit right.

The breakthrough came unexpectedly when a young woman walked into the station, clutching a theory about a supernatural entity tied to an old legend she’d uncovered in a dusty book. The Chief dismissed her as a crank, but desperation has a way of shifting priorities.

I couldn’t afford to ignore any lead—no matter how improbable. That evening, I met her at her home. As she laid out her theory, a strange sense of clarity took hold. And it got me thinking.

If the entity she called ‘Jurupari’ was real, it would need a place to hide—somewhere near town but remote enough to remain undisturbed. The place had to be abandoned, forgotten by time, where no one would think to look.

And only one such place came to mind.

So when I returned to the sawmill after all these years, I found it in even worse shape than I’d imagined—its wooden frame sagging, the air thick with the stench of rot and mildew.
I scoured every corner, but there was nothing unusual. No signs of anything lurking, no evidence to support Ruth’s theory. I was even ready to write it off as a dead end and leave when something caught my eye.

In a dim corner of the mill half-buried in debris, lay a curious cluster of items: an American flag keychain, a leather wallet, a razor and a bottle opener. At first glance, they seemed like random junk, discarded and forgotten.

But on closer inspection, I noticed they weren’t old or tattered. These items looked reasonably new, and oddly out of place—as if someone had deliberately gathered them, seeing still some value in them where others saw trash. It hit me then: someone, or something, was holding out here. I decided to continue my surveillance for a few more days.

Day 2
I arrived at the mill as soon as I finished my shift at the station. I spent the entire night keeping watch, fighting off fatigue until sleep finally overtook me in the wee hours of the morning. I jolted awake suddenly, certain I’d seen a sudden flash of light. Heart pounding, I leapt out of the vehicle and rushed to the mill. But when I got there, everything was just as I’d seen it the night before—empty and undisturbed.

Day 3
When I returned to work in the morning, I heard news of another body.

This time, it was an old man who was found dead in his garden, his eyes and mouth locked in an expression of pure terror. But what truly sent a chill down my spine was the leather wallet lying next to him—it was the same one I had seen earlier at the mill.

When I rushed back to the mill, I found the wallet and keychain missing while the razor, and bottle opener still remained by the side.

An uneasy sensation coursed through my veins as I stared at the objects scattered on the floor.

Gripping a stick, I cautiously nudged them apart before hesitantly hovering my little finger over the razor. Taking a deep breath, I let the tip of my little finger make contact.

A warm, fuzzy sensation enveloped me, and in an instant, I was transported to a memory from my childhood—my mom tossing me into the air, her laughter ringing out as she caught me mid-flight, then planting a kiss on my cheek.

Without thinking, I next placed my ring finger on the razor, and the feeling intensified. This time, I was surrounded by both my parents, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of birthday candles as I leaned in to blow them out.

Sweat trickled down my chin as I began lifting my fingers one by one, preparing to grasp the razor fully.

But the moment my hand closed around it, a long-buried memory surged to the surface—a fateful night I had forced into the deepest recesses of my mind, one that irrevocably and painfully altered the course of my life.

Gasping, I tore my hand away just in time, the force of the memory knocking me backward. My chest tightened as I lay sprawled on the floor, staring at the razor, now innocuously lying among the debris.

Then it hit me—a thick, metallic tang in the air, sharp and unmistakable, like rusted iron. The atmosphere in the mill shifted entirely, growing heavier and oppressive.

Then, from the direction of the sealed fireplace, a low rumble echoed.

I crept closer, my movements slow and deliberate, as I leaned against the cold concrete straining to listen. And the hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I heard it—something faint but unmistakable.

It was cackling, low and stifled, as though someone or something was struggling to suppress its glee.

I took a careful step back, my eyes scanning the mill’s interior. The fireplace led to a chimney wide enough for a person to fit through, but there was no visible point of entry from the inside. Stepping outside, I began a slow walk around the perimeter, inspecting every inch for an access point.

Then I saw it—a section of the roof near the chimney in complete disrepair, with several missing tiles. It dawned on me that whatever was using the mill could easily climb up the chimney, slip onto the roof and through the gaps re-enter the building without being seen.
I now had a decision to make here.

My first impulse was to climb to the roof, toss a grenade or two down the chimney, or at the very least empty my revolver into whatever was lurking below. But I hesitated.

Now that I understood how the deaths had occurred, my thoughts returned to the razor I had just touched. If the killings were tied to objects capable of tapping into and amplifying buried trauma, brute force would be useless against something so steeped in occult power. And if the entity lurking within- operated on a plane beyond the physical, conventional methods of confrontation would likely be futile.

So I decided to stay another night at the mill, but this time, I would venture inside. I chose a hiding spot behind a large, sturdy table in the hallway with a vantage point that gave me a clear view of the fireplace and the section of the dilapidated roof above it.

Day 4
More than ten hours had passed as I lay in wait, portions of the mill’s interior being bathed in faint moonlight filtering through gaps in the roof. My body ached, but I remained still, every nerve on edge, waiting for something to happen.

A faint buzzing drifted in from outside, followed by a sudden flash of light that sliced through the darkness, moving as if along a path of its own.

The buzzing grew louder. I watched, unmoving, as an orb of light glided through the mill’s open window and hovered in the center of the room.

At first, it was no more than a glimmer—the size of a coin, suspended in midair. But as my eyes adjusted, the details sharpened. It pulsed softly, impossibly still, as if waiting to be claimed.

Then I noticed movement.

A head, barely discernible against the gloom, peeking through a hole in the roof. It moved down the wall with the unsettling precision of a lizard, its dark form easily blending into the shadows.

When it reached the ground, it rose to its feet, standing about five feet tall, cloaked in a dark robe that covered even its head. The creature’s back was to me as it extended a grey, bony arm toward the hovering orb of light above it.

The orb pulsed before merging seamlessly into the back of its hand. My breath caught when a mouth formed on the back of the creature’s palm, and as it rotated its hand, two sets of eyes blinked open from its palm, staring intently back at its face.

Suddenly, the robe slid to the floor, revealing a grotesque form. Its body was covered in eyes and mouths, each blinking and gnashing in eerie, independent rhythms. A chill crawled down my spine as I hunkered further into my hiding spot, desperate to stay out of sight.
When the creature turned, its front revealed an even more unsettling sight—a face riddled with mismatched eyes and mouths, all opening and closing in unnerving disarray.

Every movement of its twisted features sent waves of dread through me, yet I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

Bathed in the faint moonlight filtering through the broken roof, the creature seemed mesmerized by its own horrific, ever-changing form.

The creature’s gaze shifted next to its feet and the one remaining hand, the only parts of its body still devoid of eyes or mouths.

Then, with unsettling purpose, it turned toward a cluster of objects lying in the corner of the mill. Draping its robe back over its twisted frame, it bent down, scooped up the razor and bottle opener, and quietly slipped out of the mill.

As the silence returned, a cold dread settled in my chest, and I felt a sickening certainty: somewhere in Ridgewater Creek, another death had just occurred.

I cautiously emerged from my hiding spot and began tailing the creature from a safe distance.

It was now moving toward the highway, keeping itself concealed within the shadows of a row of trees skirting the forest’s edge. The creature walked for another mile before pulling up its hood and stepping into a quiet parking lot near a diner.

It casually discarded a couple of objects—the razor into the bed of an empty pickup truck and the bottle opener onto the seat of a nearby car. Moving through the rows of vehicles, it carefully peered into each one, its movements deliberate and methodical.

Finally, it reached an open car window, from which it retrieved a Zippo lighter and a small transistor radio from another. With these items shoved into its pocket, the creature turned and began its journey back toward the mill.

Staying out of sight, I crept over to the vehicles. Using a kerchief to avoid direct contact, I retrieved the razor and bottle opener the creature had discarded, hiding them near a treeline for safekeeping. Then, I resumed following the creature as it made its way back to the mill, my heart pounding with every step.

When I reached the mill, I crept toward a cracked window and peered inside. The creature stood in the center of the room, holding the transistor in one hand while the other hovered above it. A low, guttural sound rumbled from its many mouths as its eyes blinked erratically in a chaotic rhythm.

I watched as the creature raised its upper hand, revealing the transistor encased in a shimmering bubble.

Inside, tendrils of green liquid spiraled downward like a miniature tornado before merging with the object. The transistor began to glow with a deep crimson hue, now pulsing ominously.

Without warning, the bubble popped with a faint hiss and the creature released the transistor, letting it fall to the ground beside the Zippo. It then turned away, scaling the wall in complete silence, slipping back down the chimney to once again rest by the fireplace.
I got back in my car and drove straight to my Chief’s home to appraise him of what I had discovered. For the first time since the whole ordeal began, we now had the upper hand and were in a position to devise a plan of attack.

As I pulled up at his driveway, my stomach sank. Pete, our youngest cop, stood frozen in front of the Chief’s cruiser, its door hanging wide open. His expression said it all.

Inside, the Chief sat slumped in his seat, eyes and mouth locked in a vacant, lifeless stare.
Somehow, the little American flag keychain had made its way to him. Now, it dangled idly from the car key in the ignition, mere inches from where his lifeless body lay. The sight was too much for the department’s 20-year-old rookie.

Without a word, he placed his badge on the car’s hood and walked away, leaving me as the last standing cop in Ridgewater Creek.

Day 5
Realizing I was on my own, I adopted a lone-wolf mentality and decided to take matters into my own hands. Maybe it was for the best—I could tackle the situation on my terms. Before heading to the mill, I paid Ruth another visit, hoping to uncover more about Jurupari and maybe even learn something useful on how to confront such an entity.

But it soon became clear that I knew more than she did, and there wasn’t much else she could offer. Something about the visit also unsettled me, though I couldn’t quite pinpoint why, so I kept my findings vague and made my exit.

By the time I reached the mill, the Sun was already dipping below the horizon, with probably just an hour of sunlight left.

Since the creature loved objects so much, I brought a little gift of my own and placed it in the center of the mill, right where it had stood the previous night.

I also brought a ladder, setting it up out back to give myself access to the roof if needed.
Armed and ready, I took cover and waited for darkness to set in.

An hour past midnight, I quietly slipped out of the mill and made my way to the treeline where I had hidden the discarded objects. Careful not to touch them directly, I gathered them and returned to the mill, tossing them onto the floor with the others before retreating to my hiding spot.

Seconds later, I heard the sound of something scrambling up the chimney and landing on the roof.

Through a gap in the ceiling, I finally caught a clear glimpse of the creature beneath the pale light of the full moon. Its grotesque, twisted face peered inside with an almost childlike curiosity.

As I had anticipated, it sensed the return of the cursed objects—but its attention quickly shifted to the veiled item at the center of the room.

Its eyes darted around, scanning for any sign of intruders, before it began a slow, deliberate descent down the wall. Once it reached the floor, it carefully pulled away the veil to reveal a life-sized mirror.

The creature paused, glancing around one last time, then let its robe fall to the floor.
Transfixed, it stood before the mirror, completely absorbed by the reflection staring back at it.

In fact, the creature was so mesmerized that it failed to notice a flash grenade roll past its leg, and before it could react, a blinding burst of light erupted, filling the room with a searing flash and a deafening crack.

The creature staggered back, shielding its eyes, before letting out an ear splitting shriek when it saw its leg locked in a bear trap.

I emerged from hiding, watching as it desperately tried to pry open the metal jaws in frantic frustration. I aimed my firearm at its head, and the eye closest to the muzzle ballooned in size, locking onto mine with unnerving intensity.

Before it could react, I fired at point-blank range. The bullet tore through the eye, sending its head jerking back, but it immediately snapped upright again.

I watched in disgust as one of its mouths contorted at a bizarre angle, as though reaching for the bullet lodged somewhere in its brain that was just beyond its grasp. It began to gnaw and chew, and then, with a tilt of its head, another mouth expelled the spent bullet from the back of its skull.

Then without warning, its hand suddenly stretched unnaturally, growing to twice its size as it seized my arm, and sent me crashing into the mirror. The force of the impact sent me sprawling to the floor.

Even with the bear trap still clamped around its leg, the creature loomed over me, its face contorting into a gleeful, twisted grin.

The creature’s grip tightened around my arm, its claws digging into my wrist. With a sharp twist, my wrist snapped, and I saw the gun fall from my hand, clattering out of reach onto the floor.

I immediately reached for the knife tucked in my pocket and lunged at the creature with my other arm, but it swiftly seized my swinging limb, its grip cold and unyielding.

With disturbing precision, it slowly pried my fingers open, not removing the knife, but twisting it in position until the blade pointed downward.

It then forced my hands to grip the handle, while also placing its own over mine.
Leaning in, the creature pressed its full weight onto my outstretched hand, heaving with relentless force.

With each agonizing heave, the knife slowly descended, inch by inch. Its eyes and mouths swivelled erratically, yet all remained fixed on me, their gaze locked into an eerie grin.
Tears blurred my vision as I fought to endure the agonizing pain from my broken wrist, the knife edging dangerously close to my chest.

Straining with every ounce of strength, I made a final, desperate attempt to shift the blade with my other arm. The knife scraped painfully across my skin, blood spurting from the wound.

But then something strange happened- the blood splashed across the creature’s face, and it seemed to scorch its skin. Its eyes bulged and then popped, releasing a sickening pus, and it let out a shriek of torment.

With renewed resolve, I straightened my arm like Spider-Man, causing blood to erupt from my forearm in frantic spurts, splashing all across the creature’s face. Its skin began to swell and bubble, boils bursting open as pus leaked out from multiple pores, releasing a stench so foul it made my head to spin and my stomach to churn in revolt.

For the first time, I felt its grip falter as it recoiled, desperately trying to avoid the blood.
Seizing the moment, I slashed my other arm across the blade, and blood now poured from both forearms in frantic jets, splattering across the creature’s chest like a grotesque fountain. My own shirt became drenched in blood as I continued to struggle against its grip.
Next, something happened that made me freeze, my mouth falling open in shock.

The creature’s eyes and mouths began to align on either side of its body, from head to toe, jostling and shifting to create an empty space right down the middle.

Suddenly, its skin split open, starting at the center of its forehead and tearing downward, exposing a dark, gaseous, formless entity that pulsed with an ominous energy.

It felt as though the entity was being forcibly drawn toward me, as if being sucked right into my chest. My heart pounded so violently I thought it might burst.

The creature convulsed, its body fighting against the force with every fiber of its being. It finally released its grip on my arms, jerking itself backward to escape the pull.

In its desperation, it spun violently, the trapped leg twisting grotesquely in the bear trap before snapping free with a sickening crack.

The severed limb remained behind as the creature collapsed onto the nearby floor.
For a brief moment, it lay still, then struggled back to its feet, limping and unsteady. Its many eyes fixated on me with a mix of rage and fear before it turned, climbed the wall with an unnerving speed, and disappeared through the roof, retreating back to its hiding place.
I sat up, clutching my chest, silently praying my heart wouldn’t give out from the strain. But my hand as it pressed against my chest, felt something solid.

Realization dawned as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the journal. The back binding was soaked through with my own blood, the crimson stain spreading across its worn cover. It was only then I realized how close the creature had come to almost trapping itself in the journal in my possession.

Day 5 Continued
I’m still here at the mill. I can’t leave, not while there’s a chance this thing could escape for good. I’ve done my best to bandage my arms and stop the bleeding, at least for now. But I’ve already lost a lot of blood, and staying fully alert is becoming harder by the minute. No matter what, I have to see this through to the end.

I’m preparing to climb up to the roof to face it again, to finish this once and for all.
The objects scattered on the floor? I’ve destroyed them. Rolled them in the blood I spilled, doused them in gasoline, and set them ablaze.

I swear I could hear that thing squirming inside the fireplace as the flames rose. I thought about throwing the severed limb into the fire too for good measure, but it’s already melted into some kind of disgusting goo, and stuck to the floor like tar.

So, this is going to be my final update. Hopefully, there won’t be the need for another one.
To my friend Ricky: wherever you are, see you when I see you.

This is Sergeant Henry Cross, signing off. Over and out.

As I closed Sergeant Cross’s journal, I still lay in the bathtub, struggling to steady my trembling hands—not just from the revelations within its pages but from the ominous possibilities of what this journal might truly represent.

But what got my heart truly racing was when I noticed the large bloodstain on the back cover beginning to fade, shrinking steadily until it vanished entirely, as though it had been absorbed by the pages themselves.

With my heart hammering in my chest I slowly reopened the journal. To my utter disbelief, new words began to form on the aged paper, flowing as if written by an unseen hand. They picked up exactly where Cross had left off—but this time, the ink was unmistakably his own blood.

I don’t remember exactly how I fell down the chimney—just the sharp crack of my neck as the creature and I tumbled down toward the fireplace below.

When I opened my eyes, everything was white. The creature was gone, but its presence lingered, faint yet heavy, like a low, constant thrum in the air.

It didn’t take long to understand: I was trapped. Inside my own journal, no less.

The creature was still here, somewhere in this endless blankness. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it everywhere, like a shadow clinging to my back.

Strangely, it didn’t bother me much. At times, I even wondered if it felt my presence too in the same way.

Time didn’t exist here—or if it did, it was meaningless. Moments bled together, days or years—perhaps even decades—dissolving into a formless void. When I closed my eyes, memories would surge forth in vivid detail, replaying the life I once lived.

On rare occasions, I even thought of freedom, of escaping this endless expanse. But each time I did, the weight on my shoulders grew heavier, becoming an oppressive reminder that such thoughts were a weakness to be eradicated.

So I forced them down, burying them deep, and returned to the solace of reliving the past—my triumphs, my failures, and everything in between.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder: could the creature also somehow sense this struggle within?

Then there was this one time I thought of Ruth. Where she might be, what had become of her and whether she was still alive?

And then shortly after, she appeared at the mill.

Did she intuitively heed to my calling? I couldn’t say for sure.

Her hair was gray, her frame frail, but I recognized her instantly. Decades had passed, yet her eyes were as sharp as ever. But what brought her back here?

I watched as she searched the mill, deliberate and focused. To my shock, she began uncovering more cursed objects—things I’d never known the creature had kept safely hidden. She handled them as if she’d knew exactly what they were. I realized immediately I was right to be suspicious of her all along.

In that moment, I felt the weight on my shoulders grow heavier.

Since then, it hasn’t stopped.

Each death in town brings a new burden.

I realized that this was now Ruth’s handiwork, where she somehow delivered the objects to her unsuspecting victims and it eventually claimed their lives.

And I felt their death, whenever it happened. I can see their faces, their fear, their suffering even though I have never known or met any of them.

But what haunts me the most is the growing realization that buried deep within my consciousness ,somewhere, I am beginning to find an odd satisfaction in watching it all unfold.

Which brings me to your situation Officer Harper, yes, I could read your nameplate when you came to inspect my remains.

I don’t think I can hold out much longer. So get ready, the ride is about to get bumpy….

As I finished reading Sergeant Cross’s journal, I noticed a blotch of red ink begin to form at the final word. It slowly seeped down the page before dripping into the water of my bathtub. More streaks followed, trailing steadily, the crimson dye bleeding across the paper. My heart raced as I sat up, clutching the book, unsure what to make of it.

Suddenly, the ink exploded, splattering across my face as the pages began to rip apart on their own. The journal wrenched itself from my grip and plunged into the water.

An invisible force pressed down on me instantly, jerking my body backward and pulling me under. Desperate, I summoned every ounce of strength, pushing against the suffocating weight to break the surface.

As I came up gasping for air, a chilling image flooded my mind—a seven-year-old girl pounding frantically on the inside of an old broom closet. Through a narrow slit in the door, her small hand reached out, trembling, while outside, her stepmother stared with cold indifference. The sight paralyzed me. Claustrophobia gripped my chest like a vice, freezing me in place. In that instant, the unseen force dragged me back underwater, swallowing me whole.

I thrashed wildly, refusing to surrender, forcing myself once again to the surface. But this time, when I broke free, I was met with the same horrific scene—only now, I stood inches from the closet door. My face slammed against the wood as if shoved by an unseen hand.

Inside the cramped, dark space, lifeless faces stared back at me—the victims from my cases. Their hollow, accusing eyes bore into my soul, their collective presence suffocating. The rancid stench of death filled the air, overwhelming me. Panic surged through my veins, but before I could react, the force dragged me back under, pulling me deeper into the abyss.
Submerged once more, my will to fight dissolved. The icy water enveloped me, offering an odd sort of comfort. A voice echoed in my mind, soft yet insidious:

“You’re fine now. At peace. This will soon end. Don’t fight it Evelyn”

A strange calm settled over me, and I began to relent.

The water filled my lungs, the pain dulling as an unnatural serenity took its place. I prepared for the end, but just as the quiet began to overtake me, a sudden jolt brought me back.
A hand plunged into the water, seizing me by the hair and yanking me back to the surface.

“Oh no, you’re not getting away that easy,” a voice snarled, sharp and commanding. “You’re going to fight this out. Come on, Officer. Fight!”

I couldn’t tell if my mind was playing tricks on me, but in that moment, my eyes locked onto a young man with dark, slicked-back hair and a thick moustache. His expression was unwavering, his gaze filled with pure determination.

“You’re not done yet,” he said, his voice gruff and commanding, like an anchor pulling me back from the brink. His grip on my hair was unrelenting, his strength almost otherworldly. “Fight! Fight for your life!”

And then, as if ripped from reality, I was back in the broom closet. Even as I struggled to stay conscious, the oppressive stench of death invaded my nostrils again. The victims’ faces surrounded me, their lifeless eyes piercing my soul, their silent accusations bearing down on me like a crushing weight. The walls seemed to close in, squeezing the air from my lungs, as claustrophobia threatened to take hold.

But that voice—the man’s voice—cut through the suffocating fear like a lifeline. “Fight!” he commanded, his tone sharp and impatient. His grip on me tightened as though he could physically wrench me free from the nightmares clawing at my mind.

Summoning every ounce of willpower I had left, I fought back. My limbs flailed wildly, kicking and thrashing against the oppressive darkness. With a sudden crack, the walls of the closet split open, and a sliver of light pierced through.

A flicker of hope surged within me. Fuelled by desperation, I hurled my body forward, ramming through the opening. I burst free, breaking the surface of the water, my body slamming against the side of the tub before spilling onto the floor, gasping and choking for air.

Flat on my back, arms spread wide, I stared up to see the sergeant looming over me. His lips curled ever so slightly, almost like a nod of approval etched across his face—then, without warning, his figure unraveled, thinning into vapor and vanishing as if the room itself had swallowed him.

What I saw next made my skin crawl.

My breath came in ragged bursts as I watched another shapeless, dark shadowy figure materialize in front of me. Its ominous presence pressed against the room like a weighted blanket, and its piercing gaze cutting through the suffocating stillness.

My limbs felt like lead, but fear jolted me back into action. I forced myself upright, slamming my elbow into the mirror beside me. Glass shards scattered across the floor, and I grabbed one, its jagged edge slicing into my palm as blood dripped steadily onto the tiles.

“Back off!” I shouted, holding the shard out like a makeshift weapon as I took a step toward it.

It hovered for a moment longer, quietly studying me with a cold intensity, before finally vanishing – slipping through the window and out of sight.

I dropped the glass as I sank to the floor, leaning against the wall, my eyes still fixed on the window.

A hundred thoughts spun wildly in my mind. The creature was out in the open now and free. The killings will not stop. In fact it is only going to increase, and it is also highly unlikely the creature will go back to the mill.

Yet, for the first time, I felt a flicker of hope, especially after learning Sergeant Cross’ findings.

But my first order of business would be to pay a visit to Ruth.

She needs an update on how this story ends….

Credit: Ananth Ram

Reddit