Chapter 1: The Sack in the Woods

The morning sun filtered weakly through the tall pine trees skirting the edge of Lake Greyford, casting long, broken shadows across the dew-drenched earth. Birds stirred, chirping faintly in the distance. Mist clung to the ground like a soft shroud.

A shaggy retriever — its fur matted and tail swishing — bounded through the undergrowth, sniffing wildly. Its owner, a middle-aged man in nylon jogging tracks, followed the trail at a lazy pace, earbuds in, sweat glistening under the collar of his jacket.

“Max! Don’t go too far,” he called out between breaths, not expecting the dog to listen.

Max had caught a scent. Something sharp beneath the musky forest smell. He darted around a twisted log, yapping once, then twice, nose to the earth.

“Damn mutt,” the man muttered, quickening his pace.

Just as he rounded the bend, the barking stopped, replaced by a low, guttural growl.

Max stood near a pile of leaves, his body stiff, tail rigid. The man stepped closer, irritation fading into confusion.

Then he saw it.

Blue plastic, twisted and stained. The tarp was tied crudely with brown twine, partially buried beneath dry grass and broken bottles. Flies hovered above it like a crown. And protruding from one end, unmistakable — a schoolgirl’s black shoe, dirt-smeared, the white laces torn.

The man’s knees almost gave out. He staggered back, breath hitched, fingers trembling as he reached for his phone.

He dialled with shaking hands, eyes fixed on the still form wrapped in silence.

An hour later, the eastern end of Lake Greyford had become a circus of flashing lights, yellow tape, and grim faces.

Inside the makeshift perimeter, Chief Inspector Marvin Cale stood like a weathered statue, jaw tight beneath his salt-and-pepper stubble. He watched silently as crime scene officers circled the tarp with slow precision.

Nearby, Detective Lou Cray, tall and irritable as ever, flipped through his notepad without really reading anything.

Cale didn’t need confirmation. He already knew.

“Same method,” he said, eyes locked on the body.

Lou gave a small nod. “That’s three this year.”

Cale muttered something under his breath. “And we’ve got nothing.”

Elsewhere, in a cramped apartment on the north side of the city, Adrian Holt sat in front of a battered laptop. A rejected screenplay blinked back at him.

“We appreciate your effort, but this genre isn’t what we’re looking for at this time.”

He closed the email window with a resigned sigh.

Piles of crumpled notes lay scattered on his desk. A bulletin board held pinned photos, red thread, and hand-scribbled concepts for a script he had spent four years refining. The story of a serial killer who hunted schoolgirls — a fictional narrative born from Adrian’s obsession with darkness and justice.

But fiction didn’t pay rent. And this city, Greyford, didn’t care about ambitious writers.

His phone buzzed.
A message from Aunt Lora lit up the screen:

“You can’t keep chasing dead ends, Adrian. Why don’t you just join the force? Your dad would’ve wanted that.”

Adrian’s eyes wandered to the faded photograph on his shelf. A smiling man in uniform — Officer Marcus Holt, his father — framed beside a police badge. Shot on duty when Adrian was fifteen.

He stared for a long moment. The thought he had been avoiding for years finally settled in.

Maybe it was time to stop writing crime… and start solving it.

A year passed.

The days blurred together — police academy drills, night classes, training exams, and long sleepless nights spent studying criminal psychology instead of character arcs.

Now, on a chilly morning at Greyford Police Department’s homicide division, Adrian stood stiff-backed in the briefing room as Chief Cale glared at him over a folder.

“You’re not here to write another murder mystery, Holt. Stick to orders. Don’t get clever.”

“Yes, sir,” Adrian replied, expression unreadable.

Cale threw a case file onto the table. “Missing girl. Fifteen. Sophie Brenner. Last seen yesterday morning near Southridge High.”

Adrian’s eyes flicked over the page.

Private school. Clean record. Straight-A student.

“Take Cray. And don’t improvise.”

The sun was already high when Adrian and Lou Cray arrived at Southridge High. A crowd of students huddled behind the gates, whispering nervously. Teachers tried to maintain order, but tension buzzed in the air.

Inside the headmaster’s office, the atmosphere was tighter than the grey tie around the man’s neck.

Sophie’s punctual. Disciplined,” her teacher stammered. “She never misses class. We didn’t notice she was gone until third period.”

Adrian excused himself, his instincts tugging him toward the rear perimeter of the school grounds.

There, past the sports field, the fence dipped low, barely four feet high. The dirt was soft. A trail of scuffed footprints — small ones — led into the trees.

Something shiny caught his eye.

He crouched, brushing away leaves to reveal a red music box, cracked and broken. The crank dangled uselessly, and inside, its tune was silent.

Cray caught up. “You find something?”

“She didn’t leave. She was taken. Right here.” Adrian straightened up, eyes narrowing. “Someone was watching.”

That night, beneath the cold floodlights of a construction yard on the city’s edge, the killer struck again.

Sophie Brenner’s body was found wrapped in a blue tarp.

Hair shaved. Mouth stuffed with what looked like — horrifyingly — a doll’s hair.

Pinned to her uniform, a note in red ink:

“See no evil.”

Adrian stood behind the forensics line, every part of him ice.

He’d written this scene. Almost word for word. It had been part of his first screenplay draft.

Nobody had ever read it.

Except for him.

And yet, here it was — recreated in flesh and blood.

Later that night, back in his apartment, Adrian tore open the drawer beneath his desk and pulled out the dusty binder labelled “Silence Scream – Draft 1”.

Hands trembling, he flipped through the pages.

Victim 2: abducted from school.

Body found at construction site.

Hair removed. Mouth filled. Message pinned.

It was identical.

His thoughts spiralled — was it a coincidence? Or had someone stolen his story? But how?

He sat back, breathing heavily, heart drumming in his ears.

His phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

He hesitated. Then picked it up.

One image.

A girl, bound to a chair, eyes wide, gagged.

Behind her, a wall painted red. A message smeared in thick strokes:

“SHE’S NEXT.”

Adrian stared at the screen.

The killer wasn’t just ahead of them.

He was following his script.

And he had just turned the next page.