Confess

It was a Sunday morning, and I was deep in sleep, lost in dreams after a long night at work. The sun hadn't even begun to creep through the window when I was jolted awake by the shrill ring of my phone. The sound was jarring, especially after such a late night. I could feel the weight of my eyelids as I groggily reached for the drawer on my right. My phone was tucked away inside it, buried under a mess of papers and old receipts. With considerable effort, I managed to pull the phone out of the drawer. The screen lit up with Darly's name. It wasn’t typical for him to call this early, and the urgency in the call was clear. I had to answer. I slid the screen to answer and pressed the phone to my ear. "Darly," I said, my voice thick with sleep. "It’s not usual for me to hear from you at this hour. What’s going on?" Darly’s voice, tinged with the faint trace of alcohol and the darkness of the night, was unusually subdued. “Jash, we’ve got a problem. We need to check out the place of a reclusive painter. He’s dead. You need to get over here right away.” His words, even through my drowsiness, sent a shiver down my spine. “Alright, Darly. I’m on my way,” I replied, and hung up. I rolled out of bed, rubbed my eyes, and started preparing to head out. It was clear this morning wasn’t going to bring any good news. I was so exhausted last night that I had fallen asleep without even taking off my clothes. I headed straight to the bathroom to wash my face. When I returned to my bedroom, I changed into a fresh shirt. After that, I skipped breakfast and went straight to the door. As I opened it, I saw Darly leaning against his car outside, smoking his morning cigarette while waiting for me. I approached Darly and gave him a nod. He tossed me the car keys with a casual flick of his wrist. I caught them mid-air, the weight of the metal feeling oddly reassuring in my hand. “You never let me drive,” I remarked, glancing at him. Darly smirked, the embers of his cigarette glowing in the early morning light. “Well, today’s an exception. But if you scratch my car, I’ll make sure you regret it,” he said with a hint of playful menace. I chuckled as I unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat. With a careful turn of the ignition, the engine roared to life. I glanced over at Darly; he was watching me closely, his gaze intent and critical. As I navigated the car out of the driveway and onto the road, I felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that accompanied every crime scene. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the scene. The area was already cordoned off by the forensics team, the yellow tape fluttering in the cool morning breeze. I parked the car and stepped out, my breath visible in the crisp air. We walked past the yellow tape and into the house, which immediately struck me as something out of a horror film. The house was ancient and unsettling, its wooden walls adorned with a greenish hue that seemed to seep into the very atmosphere. Each step we took on the creaking wooden floor echoed eerily through the silence. As we climbed the staircase, the groaning of the steps beneath our weight felt like the house itself was protesting our intrusion. Reaching the second floor, we moved towards a room on the left. My heart pounded in my chest as we pushed open the door. The scene that greeted us was ghastly. The room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a grimy window that let in a weak, filtered sunlight. The walls were adorned with faded paintings, their colors and textures merging with the shadows, adding to the sense of dread. In the center of the room, in a wooden chair that seemed far too fragile to bear its occupant, sat the body of the reclusive painter. His lifeless form was slumped forward, his head hanging at an unnatural angle. His hands had been severed, the stumps crudely wrapped in stained cloth. The gruesome sight was both chilling and profoundly disturbing. We approached a colleague from the crime scene team who stood nearby, his expression grim and focused. “Morning, Jash, Darly,” he greeted us. “The painter’s name was Robert Lee. We found him like this a few hours ago. It looks like he was tortured before he died.” I nodded, taking in the details of the scene. The cold, damp air in the room seemed to cling to my skin, and I could feel the weight of the tragedy pressing down on me. This was no ordinary case. The brutal nature of the crime hinted at something more sinister lurking beneath the surface. As I stood there, trying to process the horror before me, Darly’s voice broke through my thoughts. “We need to get to work, Jash. Let’s see what we can uncover about this guy and his last moments.” With a deep breath, I began to sift through the room, my mind already racing through the possibilities. The answers lay somewhere in this macabre tableau, and it was up to us to piece together the puzzle. Chris, the crime scene investigator, approached us, already donning his gloves. The latex gloves were a small but important detail, reflecting his dedication to his work. He handed me a pair of gloves, and as my hands slipped into them, I felt a surge of responsibility—the gravity of the task ahead. I moved closer to the body, taking a deep breath. Darly was already at work, a pencil in hand as he meticulously checked the pockets of the deceased. His focus was unwavering, ensuring no detail went unnoticed. I, too, scanned the area around the body. Chris drew my attention when he found a few cigarette butts scattered on the floor. “We found these,” he said, holding up the butts for me to see. “It seems the killer might have stood by, smoking, while the victim was dying. Why would he do that?” Darly’s face tightened in disbelief. “What kind of cold-blooded killer does that?” he muttered. My gaze shifted to the butts, the presence of these small, mundane items in such a grim setting adding a disturbing layer to the crime. It suggested a chilling detachment, a casualness about the murder that was both unsettling and revealing. As we examined the body, no personal belongings or significant clues were found. “There’s nothing of particular note on the body,” Chris reported, handing me the notes he’d taken. “The cause of death is severe blood loss due to the severed hands. That’s what ultimately killed him.” Darly, with his pencil, took detailed notes on the blood patterns and the severity of the injuries. The room was heavy with an oppressive silence, and the cold air seemed to heighten the horror of the scene. The mutilation of the victim’s hands underscored the brutality of the crime, emphasizing the killer’s cruelty. The room’s cold atmosphere combined with the darkness of the murder scene to create a menacing ambiance. My eyes returned to the cigarette butts. The killer’s act of smoking in such a dire moment suggested a deeper darkness behind the crime. It made me wonder about the killer’s mindset and connection to the victim. As Chris finished his report and we prepared to leave, Darly stated that it was time to investigate further. “We need to look into the victim’s life and his connections. If the killer was this cold-blooded, he likely had a motive or relationship with the victim.” I needed to speak with the neighbors, so I quickly descended the stairs and opened the front door, stepping outside into the chilly morning air. I began knocking on the doors of the nearby houses, hoping to gather any information that might shed light on the crime. At the first house, a young man answered the door. He looked slightly disheveled, his expression one of surprise. “Hello,” I began, trying to sound as courteous as possible. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m a police officer, and there’s been a murder in the green house to your left. Did you see or hear anything unusual?” The young man blinked, his eyes widening. “Hello, Officer. We were having a birthday party with friends at our place last night. The music was really loud, so we didn’t hear anything,” he replied, his voice tinged with regret. I nodded, understanding the circumstances. “Do you know the person who lives in that house?” He shook his head. “No, we didn’t really know him. He never came out. Everyone thought that house was haunted or something,” he said, his tone a mix of curiosity and unease. I thanked him and handed him my card. “If you remember anything else, please don’t hesitate to contact us,” I said, trying to convey the importance of any potential information. With that, I turned and headed towards the next house, hoping for more leads. I approached the next house and gave a soft knock on the door. It wasn’t long before an elderly woman answered, her face lined with age and worry. “Hello. Who were you looking for?” she asked. “Hello, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m a police officer,” I said, trying to be as polite as possible. “Oh, come in, dear. Don’t stand out there,” she responded, waving me inside with a reassuring gesture. “You’re not bothering me.” “No, thank you, ma’am. I just have a few questions, that’s all.” “Alright, dear, go ahead,” she said, indicating for me to continue. “There’s been a murder in that house over there. Did you hear or see anything unusual?” I asked. “I’m old, and I go to bed early. I went to bed quite early last night. Has something happened to Robert?” she inquired, her concern evident. “I take it you know Robert?” “Yes, I knew him,” she confirmed. “Has something happened to him?” the elderly woman asked with a mix of curiosity and fear. “Unfortunately, he’s deceased. Robert was found dead in his home this morning,” I explained. The woman closed her eyes slightly and took a deep breath. Her sorrow for Robert was apparent on her face. I pulled out my notebook from my coat pocket. “What did he look like? Did he have any enemies?” I asked. “He was a very good man. I’m so sorry. Look, dear, I live here alone. Robert used to visit me once a week. He always came back with something. He was a very good man. I don’t understand why anyone would want to harm him. Why would someone do this?” she said, her voice trembling with grief. “Did he have a job?” I inquired. “He painted beautiful pictures. He was an amateur artist. He had a speech impediment. He always expressed what he wanted to say through his paintings,” she explained. “Did he have any family?” I asked. “No, he had no children. He lost his family when he was a child,” she replied. “How did he lose his family? Do you know anything about that?” I pressed. “His father wasn’t a good man at all. When Robert was a child, his father was always cruel to him and his mother. He would come home drunk every night. One night, after coming home drunk, he killed his wife by smashing a bottle over her head. After killing her, he tried to hide the body and the news of her death from everyone. He started with his first son. He cut out the poor boy’s tongue so he couldn’t speak to anyone. Eventually, his wife’s body was found. He died in an accident while trying to escape from the police,” she recounted, her voice heavy with the weight of the past. “Did Robert tell you this himself?” I asked, trying to verify the information. “Some of it he told me through drawings and writing. Some I heard from the neighbors,” she said. “Thank you very much. I apologize for the disturbance. Thank you again,” I said, feeling a pang of sympathy for her. “I hope I’ve been able to help,” she replied kindly. “Your information has been very helpful. Thank you once more,” I said, as I prepared to leave. After the woman closed the door, I took a moment to gather my thoughts, then began scribbling down everything she had told me into my notebook. Each detail felt like a puzzle piece—haunting fragments of Robert's tragic past that might lead us closer to understanding the horror that had unfolded in his home. With my notes complete, I turned and made my way back toward the crime scene. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, as if the weight of what I had just learned lingered in the atmosphere around me. As I approached the front of the house, I saw Darly standing there, leaning against the porch railing, a freshly lit cigarette glowing between his fingers. The ember pulsed with each drag, a small beacon in the early morning gloom. He didn’t say anything as I walked up to him. He simply watched me, eyes narrowed slightly against the smoke, waiting. I could tell from his expression that he was both curious and weary, eager to hear what I had uncovered yet dreading the weight it might carry. “Spoke with the neighbors,” I began, my voice steady but low. “The guy in the house next door was having a birthday party last night. Music was blasting—so loud they didn’t hear a thing. Said they didn’t really know Robert either. The house had a reputation, you know, people thought it was haunted.” Darly nodded slightly, his face showing no surprise. He was too seasoned for that, but I could see him mentally filing away the information, connecting the dots as I spoke. “But the old woman at the next house…” I continued, taking a deep breath. “She knew Robert. Said he was a kind man, but he had a rough history. His father—apparently, he was a real piece of work. Abusive, alcoholic, ended up killing Robert’s mother when he was just a kid. Then tried to cover it up by silencing Robert—cut his tongue out. That’s why Robert didn’t talk. Communicated everything through his paintings.” Darly exhaled a long stream of smoke, the haze curling upward and disappearing into the early morning light. “So, we’re looking at a man who lived through hell and came out the other side with a brush in his hand instead of a gun,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “Yeah,” I agreed, feeling the weight of the story in my gut. “The woman didn’t know of any enemies, though. Said he was a good man, but… with a past like that, who knows what kind of ghosts he had haunting him.” Darly took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes still distant as he processed everything. “Ghosts, or demons,” he finally said, flicking the cigarette butt onto the ground and crushing it under his boot. “Either way, looks like they finally caught up with him.”