Episode Eight — File 1824
1058 Words
The car ride back from Weller Ridge was silent for a long time.
Elias sat in the passenger seat, the black ribbon coiled in his hand like something alive. Ava drove with both hands on the wheel, eyes locked to the road ahead, lips pressed in a flat line.
Mercer hadn’t said goodbye. He’d simply shut the door and vanished into the dark of the cabin, like a man already halfway buried.
They didn’t press him for more.
Not yet.
“He knew about the file number,” Ava said finally. “Without even looking.”
“He remembered,” Elias said.
“Because he helped create it.”
Elias said nothing.
The ribbon sat between them now, resting on the dashboard. Ava kept glancing at it like it might jump. It didn’t feel like a clue anymore. It felt like a warning. A taunt.
Silently, she questioned, "Do you really believe what he said?" "That you participated in that with your sister?"
Elias remarked, "I think Mercer is too afraid to lie." "This indicates that the file is present. There is a number. Whether any of the records still exist is the question."
She scowled. "You believe they were saved by someone?"
"I believe they are being used by someone."
They did not return to the precinct.
Ava was led by Elias to an old library on the north side of Hollow Creek, which most people were unaware still existed. Since funding cuts forced its closure five years ago, it had ceased to be a public facility. However, long before everything was digital, it had once housed state and county mental health records.
As they parked, Elias remarked, "It's a long shot."
However, the files might have been discreetly reassigned if they hadn't been destroyed following Weller's closure. discarded. concealed.
Ava examined the side door's corroded lock. "Are you certain we won't break in?" From beneath the ledge above the doorframe, he extracted a key.
She furrowed her brow. "Really?" With a deadpan tone, he remarked, "I used to sleep here."
The lights weren't working, and the air inside was musty. Everything was covered in dust. The smell of time, glue and old wood filled the building.
They proceeded down slender hallways until they came to a group of secured cabinets that were positioned against the rear wall. Medical records for the county. emblazoned with warnings and red tape spanning two decades.
Elias pulled on one drawer. It resisted. He yanked harder — it screeched open.
Inside were dozens of worn folders. Yellowed, some water-damaged, all numbered.
He ran his fingers along them slowly. Whispered numbers to himself.
“1183… 1447… 1670…”
And then —
1824.
He pulled it free.
The folder was thin. Lighter than he expected. He opened it under the flicker of Ava’s phone flashlight.
Inside: A birth record. A vaccination chart. A child development log.
The name at the top: AMELIA GRACE CREED
Date of Birth: June 5, 1990
Admission Date: March 2, 1995
Age at Intake: 4 years, 9 months
Facility: Weller Behavioral Research Program – Pediatric Division
Ava let out a breath. “Jesus…”
Elias turned the page.
Notes. Dozens of them. Typed and handwritten. Progress observations. Memory retention scores. Reaction to trauma simulations. Emotional detachment ratings. Coded language that only made sense to the people who had designed the hell they called science.
He pointed to a margin and whispered, "Look at this."
Ava leaned closer.
Atypical bonding is evident in the subject. Verified twin imprint. Encourage separation for additional monitoring. Transfer is still pending.
She became motionless. "Twin?"
Silently, Elias stated, "She was four when she was admitted." "I was four too."
"You don't recall being split up?" "I don't recall ever going there with her. Just flashes. yells. Doors shutting."
They flipped further. No pictures. Not a single video log. Endless clinical cruelty disguised in clinical language—just text.
Then Ava stopped. She muttered, "Here."
Elias bent over. The entry was straightforward. Two lines.
However, the ink was more recent and darker.
[File updated March 20, 2020]
Status: Reclassified. Monitoring reinitiated.
She looked up. “That was two months before Amelia died.”
“And twenty years after Weller shut down.”
They stared at each other in the half-dark.
Ava was the first to speak.
“Someone reopened her file.”
Elias nodded. “They weren’t finished with her.”
They left the library just past midnight.
The air outside was colder now. The wind had picked up. Elias pulled his coat tighter and scanned the street out of instinct. Nothing moved. But the stillness felt wrong — like the silence before a scream.
“You think they were watching her?” Ava asked, unlocking the car.
“No,” Elias said. “They were studying her. Same as always.”
“And you?”
He looked up at the sky. “I think they’re waiting.”
She started the engine.
“You never asked why I really left,” Elias said quietly.
Ava avoided eye contact with him. "I assumed you would notify me when you were prepared."
He gave a nod.
He claimed, "I couldn't stop seeing her face, so I left." It seemed as though Amelia was waiting for me in each body bag for every scene and case. I required space. Perhaps it would fade, I thought."
"Did you do it?"
"No," he replied. "Now, I believe it was never meant to."
They continued to drive in silence.
Ava's phone then buzzed. Her eyes narrowed as she looked down.
"Unknown figure. No caller ID".
"Respond to it."
She gave the screen a tap. "Detective Ramirez."
Not moving. Then there was a voice. Mechanical and low. Changed.
“Do you think memory is a gift?”
She went still.
“Do you think you know him?” the voice whispered.
“Do you know what he was?”
Elias leaned close. “Who is this?”
The voice didn’t answer him. It spoke only to Ava.
“Your partner is the lock. But what happens when the key doesn’t want to be found?”
Then: click. Silence.
Ava looked at Elias.
He looked back at her.
Neither of them said a word.
Because both knew what that call really meant:
They weren’t chasing shadows anymore.
The shadows were coming for them.
- Writer
