Chapter 2: The Pattern

Morning in Greyford was grey, with overcast skies hanging low over the skyline like a damp shroud. The news cycle churned restlessly — another body, another mystery. Coffee cups steamed in the hands of detectives and journalists alike, the city teetering on the edge of unease. At 7:03 AM, the third victim was officially identified: Leah Arkwright, age 14, reported missing two nights ago. Her lips had been sewn shut. Her body dumped in the pines.

Inside the Greyford Police Department, the homicide division was buzzing with movement. The squad room felt like a pressure cooker — printers whirred, phones rang, and murmured theories swirled like ghosts in the corners. Chief Inspector Malcolm Rowan stood near the evidence board, jaw clenched, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Same M.O.,” he muttered to Lena Hart, the lead forensic analyst. “No signs of physical struggle. No sexual assault. Just—” He pointed to a photo of Leah’s stitched mouth. “—this.”

Lena adjusted her gloves and laid out a clean report on the table.

“Clean needlework,” she said softly. “Industrial thread. Same pattern. Slight inflammation around the lips, but minimal bleeding. This was done post-mortem. He’s not torturing them… he’s displaying them.”

Rowan gave her a long, heavy stare. “You mean posing them.”

She nodded once. “Exactly.”

Across the city, Adrian Voss stood in front of his crime board, staring at the wall like a man possessed. He hadn't slept. His laptop glowed faintly in the background, an eerie recording on loop — a children’s birthday party, filled with laughter and balloons. But Adrian wasn’t watching the children.

He was watching the tree line.

Freeze-frame. Rewind. Zoom.

A shadow. A silhouette. Just visible for a moment — a tall figure, still, wearing what looked like a mask. The grainy footage blurred the features, but the shape… the posture… it wasn’t a parent.

It was a spectator.

His phone buzzed. It was Lena.

“We found another photo,” she said without preamble. “This one was in her dress pocket. Burned around the edges. But it looks like another party image.”

“Birthday?” Adrian asked, already pulling up the other two.

“Yeah. You might want to come see it.”

Twenty minutes later, Adrian stood in the forensics lab, staring at the charred edges of the new photograph. A cake. Four candles. Children gathered around. And again — in the background, barely framed, a figure.

Same tilted head. Same mask. Same eyes, wide and blank and staring.

“That’s three,” Adrian whispered. “Three different birthdays. Three dead girls.”

“And the same guy lurking in all of them,” Lena said grimly.

Adrian’s voice lowered. “He’s choosing them from these events. Tracking them afterwards. Maybe months later. Maybe years.”

Lena looked over at him. “You think it’s personal?”

Adrian shook his head slowly. “No. I think it’s a ritual.”

That evening, Adrian returned to his apartment. Claire was watching something lighthearted on TV, but muted it when she saw the look on his face.

“Another body?”

He nodded, distracted. “Yeah… and a pattern.”

He went into his room and opened a locked drawer beneath his desk. Out came a dusty VHS player — one he hadn’t used in years. Something gnawed at his insides. Instinct. Dread. He didn’t know why yet, but he felt it crawling under his skin.

He pinned the new photo on his board. All three party images were there now, side by side. He stepped back and stared.

Then he noticed something odd.

In each photo, besides the masked figure, there was another recurring object. A clown balloon. Yellow. Smiling. Positioned in the same place each time, like a brand.

His pulse quickened.

Just then, a soft knock echoed from the apartment door. Claire walked over and peeked through the peephole.

“There’s something left outside,” she said, puzzled. “No one’s here anymore… but there’s a box. With your name on it.”

Adrian was already moving. He opened the door and stared at the plain, square package on the doormat. It was brown, unmarked, and sealed with clear tape. Written across the top in thick black marker was just one word:

ADRIAN.

Heart thudding, he brought it inside and placed it on the table. Claire hovered nearby, uneasily.

“Are you sure it’s not from one of your publisher friends?” she asked.

“No one uses VHS anymore.”

He peeled the tape back carefully. Inside was old foam padding, yellowed with age. Beneath that… a single VHS tape. Black. Unlabeled — except for a white sticker scrawled with one chilling word:

NEXT.

Nestled beside the tape was a small Polaroid.

Adrian picked it up.

It was of a young boy. His eyes were wide and tear-filled. His mouth sealed shut with crude black thread. His face was frozen in agony.

Adrian recoiled. Claire gasped behind him.

He stared down at the photo, his throat tightening.

This wasn’t just a message.

It was a warning.

And a promise.