Chapter Text
:Juliet C. Melley Female
DOB: December 5th, 1996 (20 years old)
5 feet, 6 inches
Blood type: B-
You looked away from your autopsy report and down at the dead female below you. You walked around the table, examining her stab wounds. Her white, dead skin looked paler under the exam lights. Her blond hair was splayed across the metal table. She would be quite pretty if she wasn't dead.
You used your pen to push up the jagged flaps of what's left of the eyelids on the woman. You looked down at your report and wrote: “Severed eyelids and cuts along the cheeks,” you muttered. Your eyes then trailed down to the torso, where you could see around four gashes in her stomach. All sharp, fast, and probably painful. They were made with a well-maintained kitchen knife, so sharp it easily sliced through the rib cage. It was done post-mortem, a ritualistic display of aggression. It’s clear the killer has no care for their victims; they are just as pathetic to them in life as they are in death.
Despite the sharp clean knife, the wounds were erratic and fast; they were probably done one after another within a few seconds, no thought behind where they hit. They were done face-up, so the victim and killer were face to face.
You looked down at her body. No other injuries besides bruises on her knees. She was probably running away and was tackled to the ground. Her death was fast but not painless. You set down your clipboard and went over to your leather-bound journal laying on the desk next to the table. You wrote the same words but added some notes:
Killer Smiles probably chases them for a few minutes, letting the fear increase. They like it when they’re scared. Purposefully flipped the victim, even though they fell forward and not backward; likes to the look on their faces. Or perhaps they like the victim to look at their face. It’s possible the killer has similar scars on their own face and is taunting the victim.
You didn’t need to write that they were a sadist; that was already well-established in your profile for Killer Smiles. You looked at the gashes and wondered. “Unknown if it is the same knife. If it is, it’s probably a sentimental knife,” you muttered, running a gloved hand over the edge of the gash. None of the reports ever said it was a knife the victim had. You wouldn't be surprised if that knife was one of the first knives he’s ever used.“If I could ask, I bet he killed his family or something similar to that with said knife. It’s always a knife; they may see it as an extension of themselves.”
You set down your book and started to test the skin around the periwound area. You found traces of fluid, blood, You don’t think it’s the killer’s. If you compare it, you might guess it’s from the last victim of Killer Smiles.
You went over to the other side of the room where the scrub station was. The dissection kits and PPE were laid out in neat roses. You put on the fluid-resistant blue gown, doubled your gloves, and fixed the mask over your face.
You bring the tray of instrument over, with glinting metal tools all neat and perfectly in order. You take the scalpel and push the blade into the skin. You make a standard Y-incision in her chest, going all the way down to the pubis. You pull the skin away and see the bones, muscle, and fat. Grabbing the bone saw, the high-pitched whine filled the room as you cut through the sternum. You removed the chest plate to reveal the pretty organs.You gently take out each organ and weigh them on the scale next to the table.
You ignored the metallic taste that suffocated the room. At this point, it’s a comfort. You didn't care about forensic pathology back when you were at your old college, but a week after moving here, you were so bored, and the mortician was so old and dim witted that you just had to take up a jon here and eventually take it over. You were glad you did it by the time the killings started.
Once each organ was weighed and the toxicology samples were bottled, you let yourself lean back and sighed. You were angry at first when you came to this town. You liked your old school, Johns Hopkins was a great school, and no one bothered you. But then your father sent you here to a mediocre medical course. It barely even had a residence that was worth taking up. Yet you are stuck here in Creeky Bay for the foreseeable future of your college life. You only hope that you won't get mauled by a psycho killer.
You began the closing process, using a large needle and heavy thread. You stitched the skin to pull it back together. The needle dragging through the dermis made a wet, squishing noise you knew all too well. You did have some solace now, given that you were always busy dealing with the aftermath of these crazed people's antics. You couldn't really say it was boring now, could you?
You had finished with Miss Melley and were trying to quickly eat a sandwich when your phone blared in your pocket. You let out a long, tired sigh as you picked up the phone and looked at the caller ID: Mick. You swallowed your sandwich and answered with a what You no longer bothered with hellos.
“We have another body on the way,” he snapped, no niceties as well . Mick was the head and only detective in this small town. There were two others, but they had all been killed by one of the slashers. It left him as a lead in a police force scared to even get out of their cop cars.
You took a breath and rubbed your tired eyes, wincing at the sting. “Mick, I have a class tomorrow,” you muttered looking at the clock, the hour just hit 10PM.
“I know, Y/N, but Frankel is still in the hospital.”
Frankel was the old mortician who had been at this job far longer than you’d been alive. He’s been in and out of the hospital, which left the morgue to you. He’d taught you everything you needed to know to get started before he had a heart attack. He didn't have any other staff, so he left all the work on your shoulders, shoulders that also belonged to a junior in college.
You tipped your head back, letting it fall and strain the muscles. “Can you guess who did it?” you asked after a beat of silence.
“From what I gathered, it might be Mr. Gun,” Mick gritted out. You sighed and rolled your neck, wincing at the pull of the muscle.
“At least his hits are clean.”
“Too fucking clean,” he muttered. You nodded silently.
One of the reasons the killers had been so elusive was because they left nothing behind. No fingerprints, no skin cells, nothing. The only things the police had were vague, blurry CCTV footage that always seemed to be malfunctioning and your profiles, That was all. And it was driving you absolutely mad.
“I’ll be there in less than 20 minutes,” you hummed, letting the line go dead. You lazily dropped your phone on your desk and stared at the clock ticking on the wall.
“Death doesn’t wait for lunch breaks,” you lamented.
You stretched your arms high over your head, then tried to finish as much of your sandwich as you could before Mick arrived with his "guest."
—------
Donald F. Colleen Male
DOB: August 4th, 1967 (49 years old)
6 Feet, 3 inches
Blood type: AB
You made a face at the man's bloodied features. “Where was he found?” you asked as you helped Mick move the body onto the autopsy table.
“Edge of the forest. Hollow crest Forest.”
You hummed. Hollow crest Forest had become the killer's favorite hunting ground. It used to be a bustling area with beautiful hiking trails and a lake in the middle. Now, after only a few months, it was practically dead.
You looked the man up and down and started to unbutton his clothes. “What does he do for work, do you know?”
“Accountant at the bank,” Mick replied. You turned to look at him. He was leaning against the wall, vaguely watching you. Despite being a detective, Mick had a weak stomach.
You smiled and turned back to the body. He was wearing a button-up, halfway unbuttoned, and a pair of dress pants. But an accountant at a bank wears ties, full suits, and shoes.
“What did the family say?”
“Said he never came home,” Mick answered.
You hummed, squinting your eyes “That would mean he was taken before he got home,” you muttered, more to yourself, but Mick answered anyway.
“It’s not uncommon. Mr. Gun has taken people from their homes and brought them to the forest before,” he said, while you finished the undressing. “I would be more surprised if he didn’t.”
You nodded, not denying that. “Yes, but accountants don’t just wear a shirt and pants to work. Where’s his tie? Where are his shoes?”
Mick made a noise and took a few steps closer to you. “That’s true. It looks like he was unwinding after work,” he said.
“Where’s his car?” you asked.
He shrugged. “Unaccounted for.”
"Where do they live? Suburbs or rural?"
"Rural," Mick muttered. Won't hear any gunshots out there, I thought.
You then tipped your head in confusion as you saw a wound in his chest. “Huh. Two gunshots,” you noticed. That was when you truly took a look at the blood over the man’s face.
Mr. Gun was the most clean and calculated of the new visitors in town. Almost all his victims were found dead in the woods, shot execution-style. The only other injuries were the occasional head injury from being struck in the head during the abduction.
Donald didn’t have a gunshot through his head. Instead, there was what looked like, at first glance, a slash across his neck. You grabbed some distilled water and washed away the blood. The skin was ripped and jagged. Looking closer it wasn't a knife wound but a bullet missing. it was bloody, but it wouldn't have killed the victim right away.
“He shot and missed, grazing the neck, but the victim didn't die. That’s probably when the unsub shot him in the chest,” you said. Your eyes trailed back to the killing shot in his chest. Mr. Gun didn't usually miss.
Your eyes moved down to the second wound in his chest. “He went for the heart?” Mick asked.
You shake your head. “No. It looks like they tried, but they actually missed. Not enough to keep the guy alive, but they missed. Mr. Gun would never miss,” you say, leaning over the body to get a better look at the wound.
The skin is red and squishy when a glint catches your eye. Without turning your gaze away from the wound, you reach out and grab a pair of tweezers.
“What’s wrong?” Mick asks, then groans when you slide the tweezers into the wound, blood pooling out. You reach in deep and pull out a blood-covered bullet casing.
Mick gasps and steps right up next to you. “Evidence,” he breathes out, like he’s seeing something magical.
None of the unsubs have ever left any evidence behind. Mr. Gun never leaves a casing; the police could only ever guess what kind of gun he used. You hold it up to the light, frowning. “Three mistakes,” you mutter.
“What do you mean?” he asks, his gaze still locked on the casing.
“Three mistakes already.” You slip the casing into the evidence bag and turn back to the victim. That’s when you notice his hands: bruised and bloody. “He has bruised hands,” you say, lifting the hand to examine it.
“Did he punch the killer?” Mick asks.
You tip your head to look closer at the knuckles. “I doubt that. There have only been a few victims who had a chance to fight back, and each one didn't last long. There’s no other bruising on his body.”
“So that means the killer didn’t fight back?”
You turn your eyes back to the gunshot wounds. “At least not with fists.” You hear Mick let out a loud, long-suffering groan. You can’t help a small smirk from spreading across your face.
“It’s not Mr. Gun,” he whines.
You shake your head. “Nope. There are too many mistakes and contradictions with his profile. There’s also too much emotion.”
“Who do you think it is?” he asks, crossing his arms like a petulant child.
You shrug. “I’m not a detective, but...” You give him a pointed look. “I would look into the son.”
“The son? Why?”
“There’s lipstick on his fist.”
“So he beat his wife?” Mick asks. You nod. “So why not the wife?” he asks, turning around with a grimace as you start the dissection process.
“There are no defense wounds on him, so the wife isn't the type to fight back. And tell me, Mick, what would you do to someone who beat your mom?”
He lets out a deep sigh, eyes looking up at the ceiling. “Kill them.”
You nod. “Exactly.”
It takes you a little over an hour to finish the autopsy. Mick had become suffocated by the smell and retreated into your office only a few minutes into opening the victim up. When you are done, you walk in to find him sitting at your desk with his head in his arms.
You walk over and kick the leg of your chair. “Hey, get up. I’m done,” you say, taking off your lab coat and hanging it on the hook.
He lets out a deep noise and gets up, groaning as he rubs his back. “Fuck, my back gets worse every day,” he complains. You roll your eyes and put on your jacket. “Well, get up. I want to lock up and go to sleep.”
He stands up and stretches his arms. “Does your roommate still have your car?” he asks, pulling out his keys. You let out a long-suffering sigh and nod.
That girl cried, saying how scared she was walking to her night shift, not to mention you also have a night shift at the morgue. To keep her quiet, you lent her your car for her shift. She only has them once in a while, so it wasn’t the worst. You nod, locking the door behind you as the cold night air hits your face. You take a deep breath, feeling the cold air sting your nose and lungs.
“Come on, kid. Let me drive you home,” he says, slapping your back, making you grunt and give him a glare. You hadn't had an interaction with the killers, but you’re pretty sure Juliet Melley thought the same thing.
You follow him to his police car and grimace with disgust as he quickly throws fast-food bags and energy drinks into the backseat. You sit down and let the heater warm your cold nose. The car ride is actually quite nice; you have always liked the dark and the nighttime, but since you’ve moved here, it would be foolish to walk around at night.
You watch the scenery go by in dark blurs. You drive by a park when he finally speaks.
“You know, this same time last year, there were kids and events happening around every corner.” You can’t help but roll your eyes; you always think he sounds like an old man when he talks about this town.
“I know you think this is a shit town, but it’s not. Shudder Main is a good town. It’s beautiful and has so much character. But ever since these fuckers came into this town...” He grits his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
“I don’t think this town is shit,” you mutter.
He shakes his head. “Nah, I know you do. You came from that uppity, fancy-shmancy town with a lively college, and now you’re here in this small forest town. But you should have seen it,” he whispers, almost wistfully.
“I was here before the killings, you know,” you sigh.
He shakes his head. “Yeah, for like a month. You didn’t get to see it. During the summer months, we would have these large festivals at night. The whole night sky would be lit up by fairy lights and lanterns, and you could hear laughter miles away from the event,” he says, a faint smile rising on his cheek. “And during the winter, we would have these parties where we would set up hot chocolate stands and everyone in town would come.”
You thin your lips, not knowing what to say to him. “I even heard they’re going to cancel the winter town festival,” he whispers.
You turn to him. “What’s that?” you ask.
He sighs but smiles at your interest. “It’s where the college and high school get together and set up booths in the town square. Everyone comes and has a load of fun. It was a fundraiser for the clubs and extra activities for the school.”
You turn back to the night again. “Sounds fun.”
“It was.”
He drops you at the dorms and tells you, “Get some sleep and don't stay up doing homework, alright?”
You give him a look. “Are you going home after this?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“I’m a full adult and don't have school tomorrow. Besides, I have to finish my reports,” he says, rolling up the window before you can say anything back. You scoff and turn on your heels as you hear his car zip off.
The dorm building is okay. It’s the type of dorm where you have your own separate room but barely any common space. You liked that; you didn't know how you would handle sharing a room with someone.
Your room was on the bottom floor and right next to the exit. The dorm was dark and silent. It was 11:50 PM, and even with an afternoon shift, your roommate, Angie, was probably already asleep. You crept towards your room, taking care not to make any noise.
Your room was spacious and full of textbooks and papers. The only thing slightly personal was the small TV on the wall, which was only there because it had been left by the previous tenant. You didn't even know if you had used it before.
Your shower was long, with scalding water. It was the only time during the day you let your mind go blank and let the water wash away all your thoughts. The hot water soothed your tight muscles, and you let out a relaxed sigh as you felt your back and mind ease.
After you stepped out of the shower, you rummaged through your drawer and pulled out your pill organizer for the week. You tipped the container over and felt the variety of colored pills fall into your hand. With only a single sip of water, you swallowed them all without thinking.
You changed into your pajamas, and went back into your room. You didn't bother turning on your light, just cracking the curtains open and letting the light of the moon illuminate your room. You did a quiet flip through your journal, the same one where you had written all the profiles of the recent killers.
You leaned against your window, letting the cold glass press against your skin as you flipped through the book. It wasn't uncommon for copycats to appear, like today. With such active and known killers, there were bound to be people who wanted to take advantage of the chaos and get a "free kill" in. But for the few months they have been here, and as long as you've been the mortician for the dead, nothing gets by you.
You couldn't wait to meet these unsubs, behind a cell, obviously. But you wanted to see inside their brains and pick them apart. You had always been a sucker for the psychology of a killer's mind.
You flipped to the page for Mr. Gun when something outside the window caught your eye. You glanced up. Your window faced the main forest of the town: Creeky Bay Forest. You tipped your head, staring into the dark, deep, and thick treeline, wondering what had grabbed your attention. You saw nothing at first; there were just trees.
You blinked, set down your book, and fully turned toward the forest. You could barely hear it, far away and almost like it was underwater, a low buzz. It sounded like static on a TV. You looked around your room, confirming your TV wasn't on.
When you looked back at the forest, your breath hitched and you felt a cold prickle run down your spine.
One tree didn't look right. It was too thin and too dark. Trees don't wear suits. Trees don't have a head with no face. Now that you saw it, the buzz grew, clouding your mind and soon your vision. It was like you were trapped inside a static-filled screen, your eyes unable to focus.
“What...?” you muttered. The world felt like it was being blown away by the static in the air.
You had to hold yourself up using the window sill, your body shaking under you. Your vision was swimming and you felt the air leave you. You couldn't breathe, You gasped, but no air reached your lungs. “Stop,” you wheezed tears cleaning your eyes.
And just like that, everything went black.
When you woke up, it was to the blare of your 6:00 AM alarm and the rising sun stinging your eyes. You winced and rubbed your head. It felt like you had drank a gallon of alcohol last night, yet you hadn't touched a drop. When you looked around, you were in your bed, but your curtains were still open and your book was still sitting on the windowsill.
When you blinked the sleep from your eyes, you peeked your head toward the window to see the forest.
Nothing.