Obsessed

Chapter 8

Her house was dark except for the soft orange glow of a lamp by her bedside. Theodore was asleep down the hall, his Tonie machine humming softly behind a closed door. Ronnie lay curled on her side, silk nightgown tangled around her legs, fists gripping the sheets. Her eyes were wide open, glassy from tears she didn’t remember crying.

She had tried reading. Drinking chamomile tea. Even organizing the books on her nightstand by color and height. None of it helped. The moment she closed her eyes, it started again.

The door creaking open.

The sound of heavy breathing.

The paralyzing fear.

Her breathing grew shallow. A cold sweat broke across her back. Images flashed in her mind like a reel from a horror film she could never shut off. She was back there. That room. That night.

She was nine. In a faded pink pajama shirt with a unicorn on it, small bare feet padding softly across the carpet toward the bathroom. But something stopped her. A noise from her mother’s bedroom. A voice. A man’s voice.

She remembered hiding behind the corner, peeking inside the half-cracked door.

He saw her.

He always saw her.

The rest came in waves. The scent of whiskey. The weight. The muffled scream. Her fingers digging into the carpet. The tears. The way he whispered that no one could help her.

Ronnie gasped, bolting upright in bed. Her chest heaved, heart pounding wildly. The room was dark, quiet, safe—but her body didn’t know it. Her mind didn’t know it.

Her hands gripped her sheets, twisting them over and over. She rocked herself slightly, trying to ground. Her voice cracked as she whispered through sobs, “Diez... neuf... huit... sieben... sechs... cinq…”

Tears streamed silently down her face. The sharp numbers in different languages were her anchor. Her lifeline.

“Quattro... három... two... uno... zero…”

She sniffled, wiped at her face with trembling fingers. The pain never left. Not really. But she buried it deep. She had to. For Theodore. For herself. For the girls like her.

Because no one else would fight for them if she didn’t.

The next morning broke cold and gray, a thin fog curling along the streets as Mark pulled into the precinct lot. His jaw was tight. Sleep had been brief and dreamless, and he’d barely touched the black coffee in his thermos. He didn’t need caffeine. He needed justice.

Inside, his team was already prepping. Jackson stood by the gear table, double-checking bulletproof vests and communication radios. Ramirez and Owens reviewed the map layout of the old meat-packing plant. The tension was palpable. Everyone felt it.

“We go in silent,” Mark said, clipping his radio to his vest. “We sweep the entire place—nothing gets left unchecked. This guy’s smart. But he slipped.”

Jackson nodded. “Let’s catch the bastard before he has a chance to disappear again.”

They drove in two unmarked black SUVs through the outskirts of the city. The farther they drove, the more remote it became—dirt roads, overgrown brush, rusted fences. Finally, the meat-packing warehouse came into view.

It was a rotting husk of concrete and steel, surrounded by chain-link fencing tangled with weeds. Its broken windows stared out like hollow eyes, and the faint smell of rotting meat and mold filled the air before they even stepped out of the vehicles.

Mark covered his mouth with his sleeve. “Christ.”

They entered through a side door, flashlights cutting through the gloom. The main floor was open and cavernous—rusted meat hooks dangled from the ceiling like pendulums, and discarded machinery lay scattered like corpses of a forgotten era.

The air was thick. Oppressive. The kind of place you walked into and immediately knew—evil things had happened here.

“Clear,” Jackson whispered after checking the first chamber.

Mark swept through narrow halls, his gun raised, flashlight following the walls. The place was a maze of decay—peeling paint, rusted equipment, cracked tiles stained with age and god knows what else.

Then something caught his attention.

A door. It looked newer than the rest. Reinforced. Out of place.

Mark stepped closer. The handle was cold. He twisted it.

Locked.

“Jackson. Found a door. North wall. Reinforced,” Mark whispered into his radio.

A beat later, Jackson joined him, nodding to Ramirez who brought up a pry bar. The door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down.

As they descended, the smell worsened. The air was damp, laced with bleach, old meat, and something else—something chemical and wrong.

Then Mark heard it.

Music.

Soft, warped by static. An old record, maybe. A female voice singing a lullaby.

It was coming from the corridor below.

The hall was lined with heavy metal doors. Each one had a padlock. Mark stepped up to the first, picked the lock in seconds, and slowly opened it.

Inside was a small room—concrete walls, a single metal-framed bed with a thin, stained mattress. Chains bolted to the floor. No light. No window.

A prison.

He checked another. Then another.

Then he heard something.

Crying.

The fourth door creaked open, and a voice screamed out.

“DON’T HURT ME! PLEASE!”

Mark froze.

A young girl. Blonde. Pale. Tear-streaked. Her wrists were raw, and she cowered in the corner, shaking.

He lowered his weapon, raised his hands. “Hey—hey, it’s okay. I’m a police officer. I’m here to help you. You're safe now, I promise.”

The girl didn’t move. Until she looked into his eyes. Something clicked. She bolted forward and wrapped her arms around him, sobbing into his neck.

Mark gently held her, his heart twisting.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, patting her back. “You’re safe.”

He radioed in. “We have a victim. Repeat—we found one. Need medical ASAP.”

An officer came to escort her out, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. She clung to Mark’s sleeve until he gently let her go.

But he wasn’t finished.

He went deeper.

The lights grew dimmer, then turned into old strung-up Christmas lights—red and green bulbs casting a sickly hue over the damp corridor. The music was louder here. Warped. Childlike.

At the far end of the hallway, movement caught Mark’s eye.

A man.

He was shirtless, filthy. Dancing with wild, erratic movements. His pants were half-undone, and he swayed to the music like he was in a trance.

Mark raised his weapon and stormed forward.

“ON THE GROUND! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! NOW!”

The man spun around and screamed, lunging toward him.

Mark didn’t hesitate. He struck the man hard with the butt of his gun. The man crumpled instantly.

“Suspect detained,” Mark said into the radio. “Repeat—suspect detained.”

The ride back to the precinct was quiet.

The man, now handcuffed in the back of the squad car, sat humming to himself—off-key, his face twitching in irregular spasms. He had blood on his temple where Mark had hit him. He didn’t seem to notice—or care.

Mark kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror, unsettled.

At the precinct, they escorted the suspect into an interrogation room and locked the door. A few minutes later, Mark, Jackson, and Commissioner Reynolds stood in the observation room, watching him through the one-way mirror.

The man sat at the metal table, rocking slightly. He looked… unwell.

Hair shaggy, greasy, brown with fading blonde tips. His eyes twitched. He was gaunt—face sunken, lips cracked. He kept playing with his bottom lip, pulling it down, releasing it, then doing it again. His fingernails were chewed raw. A deep scar ran from his chin to his neck.

And he was singing.

A child’s lullaby. Broken, off-pitch. It made Mark’s skin crawl.

Reynolds crossed his arms. “We got a name. Elise Smith. Twenty-seven. Arrested multiple times for aggravated assault and s****l assault. First charge was when he was fourteen.”

Jackson scoffed. “Sounds like we’ve got our guy.”

Mark narrowed his eyes, still watching Elise through the glass. “No. Doesn’t fit.”

Jackson turned toward him. “Seriously?”

“This guy’s unhinged. Sloppy. The real killer was precise. Clean. Silent for over five years. Then suddenly… this?” Mark shook his head. “No. I think this one’s an accomplice. A pawn.”

Reynolds frowned. “Then who the hell’s pulling the strings?”

Just then, the observation room door creaked open.

Ronnie stepped inside.

She was a vision of icy focus and effortless poise. A black tailored pantsuit clung elegantly to her frame. Her blazer was double-breasted with gleaming gold buttons, the edges sharp and deliberate. A lace-trimmed cream top peeked out beneath it, softening the look. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a messy bun, a few wisps falling along her neck and cheekbones, catching the dim light.

Mark blinked—he hadn’t expected her to come in.

But as soon as she walked into the interrogation room, Elise’s demeanor shifted.

He stopped singing.

And stared.

Like a predator recognizing prey.

His lips curved upward in a slow, crooked smile.

Ronnie sat down across from him, placing a notepad gently on the table. “Elise Smith,” she said calmly, “My name is —”

“I know who you are,” Elise interrupted, his voice oddly sing-song. "Veronica Summers."

Ronnie’s brows furrowed slightly. “Have we met before?”

Elise blinked, his demeanor shifting again. Realization hit. He’d revealed too much. He quickly looked down and covered his face with both hands.

Mark leaned forward behind the glass, his muscles tense.

Ronnie tilted her head. “It’s okay. I’m just here to talk.”

Elise peered at her between his fingers. “You’re not mad?”

“No,” she said gently. “Just curious.”

She started with simple questions—his name, age, where he lived. His answers were disjointed, childlike. Sometimes giggling. Sometimes trembling.

But Ronnie was watching more than his answers. She was watching how he changed.

His tone.

His posture.

At one point, he started talking about his favorite food—macaroni and cheese—and his “favorite blankie". But then, when she asked about the girls in the basement, he froze.

His head tilted.

His eyes sharpened.

He leaned forward, his tone different.“They screamed, you know. At first. But then they stopped.”

Ronnie’s pen paused mid-sentence.

“Did you make them stop?” she asked quietly.

“I cleaned them,” he whispered. “Like I was told. Like Master wanted.”

Ronnie blinked. “Who’s your Master, Elise?”

He tilted his head again—different this time. Like another person altogether.

He smiled slowly. His pupils dilated.

Then he leaned back in the chair and openly scanned her body.

“I’d clean you,” he said, his voice thick and low. “Real nice. Tie you up and make you scream first. Then quiet. Then soft.”

His tongue ran along his lower lip.

Mark’s hands curled into fists.

Ronnie didn’t flinch. Her voice was steady. “Is that something your Master taught you?”

Elise’s eyes flicked to the mirror.

He knew they were watching.

He smirked.

“Bet he doesn’t like me saying that. But he likes watching. Likes watching you.”

Mark’s gut twisted.

Ronnie shifted the line of questioning, trying to draw him back into the childlike persona. She asked about his drawings—he mentioned he liked to draw eyes. “Pretty eyes. Like yours,” he whispered.

Then she circled back. “Where is your Master now?”

Elise dropped his head and started rocking again.

“I wanna go home.”

“Where’s home, Elise?”

He started crying. “He said not to tell. He said I’d burn. He’ll come for me if I tell.”

Ronnie leaned in, voice gentle. “He can’t hurt you now.”

But Elise wasn’t listening. He was lost in his own world again, humming the same lullaby. His hands trembled, and he whispered under his breath, “Don’t tell, don’t tell, don’t tell…”

Ronnie stepped out of the interrogation room, her posture still composed—but her jaw was tight, and her fingers were subtly twitching. Mark met her halfway down the corridor, his eyes searching hers.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded once, but her voice betrayed the tension. “He’s fragmented. Dissociative identity disorder, possibly. One of the personalities is a child. One is... dark. Violent. And one’s afraid.”

Mark fell in step beside her. “You noticed it too?”

“The way his body language shifted with each tone change? Yeah.” She exhaled. “There’s something else. He slipped—said he knew me. Then acted like he didn’t.”

“That didn’t sit right with me either.”

They entered the observation room again. Jackson and Reynolds were going over notes. Ronnie grabbed a marker and walked to the whiteboard.

“Three alters,” she said, writing in clean strokes: Child, Servant, Predator.

“The Servant talks about the ‘Master’,” she continued. “Someone controlling him. He’s scared of them. And the Predator… he’s the one who watches. Who enjoys.”

Reynolds rubbed his face. “So you’re saying this guy isn’t working alone.”

“I’m saying,” Ronnie turned to face them, “someone created him. Groomed him. Broke him. And used him as a tool.”

Mark’s eyes darkened. “And now they’re covering their tracks. Elise didn’t build that dungeon himself. That warehouse had surveillance. Someone knew how to keep it off-grid. Not Elise.”

Ronnie folded her arms. “The Master knows how to hide. Elise is the chaos. The Master is the order.”

Jackson sighed, crossing his arms. “So we’ve got a twisted puppet and no strings to trace.”

“No,” Mark said, grabbing a file. “We’ve got a victim who survived. The girl we rescued. We can interview her once the doctors clear her.”

Ronnie nodded, though her expression turned slightly distant.

Mark noticed. “You need a break?”

“I’m fine.” She hesitated, then admitted quietly, “Last night was rough. I didn’t sleep.”

Just then, one of the junior officers knocked on the door. “Detective Marshalls? You’re gonna want to see this.”

They followed the officer down the hall to a side lab room. On the screen were recovered deleted files from Elise’s confiscated burner phone.

Mark narrowed his eyes. “Play the video.”

A grainy recording began—tilted sideways, like the phone had been set on a shelf. The image showed a room with a stained mattress, similar to the ones in the basement. The girl they had rescued was bound and crying. Elise was in the frame, but not alone.

Another figure appeared—blurred, hooded.

Ronnie’s stomach dropped.

The masked figure approached the girl, but what stood out was how Elise watched. Like a dog waiting for instructions. Mark leaned closer. The figure never spoke, but Elise reacted to small gestures. The tilt of a head. A pointed finger.

“A signal system,” Mark muttered. “The Master doesn’t even need to speak.”

Then the video ended.

Ronnie stepped back, pressing her fingers to her lips.

Reynolds stepped into the room. “We’ve got a problem. The media got wind of the rescue. They’re calling Elise the ‘Butcher Boy’. The pressure’s mounting.”

Mark looked at Ronnie. “We have to find the Master before he disappears again. Elise is just the beginning.”

Ronnie nodded, her expression cold and focused now.

But deep inside, something else was stirring—something she wasn’t ready to name. Elise’s words haunted her. “I’d clean you.” “He likes watching you.”