chapter 4

The antiseptic scent of the hospital lingered on Higgens like a faint, suffocating cloud, a stark reminder of the chaos he'd just witnessed. The image of Miggy's meltdown replayed in his mind, over and over—those wide, terrified eyes, the incoherent screams, the raw, unfiltered fear. His hands trembled as he splashed cold water on his face, hoping to cleanse himself of the haunting memory. But the image clung to him, wrapping around him like a shroud, suffocating every thought.

He returned to the waiting area, the fluorescent lights overhead casting long, grotesque shadows on the walls. They stretched and twisted, distorting the space around him, much like the unease gnawing at his gut. He couldn't shake the feeling that something far worse than a simple breakdown had happened.

"What happened to Miggy?" Inspector Reyes asked, his voice a mixture of concern and frustration. His brow furrowed, but there was a weariness in his eyes that spoke of long days and sleepless nights.

Higgens struggled to steady his voice. "He watched those camcorder tapes Miss Jackson brought from Samael Lake." The words felt too foreign, too loaded, as if uttering them aloud might make the reality even more grotesque.

Wilbert, seated across the room, let out a disturbing chuckle—a sound that seemed entirely out of place. He took a slow bite of his Krispy Kreme donut, dunking it leisurely into his coffee as if they were discussing something trivial. "Looks like the devil got to him," he said, an unsettling nonchalance in his tone. His words, however, didn't hit the right note. They seemed too detached, too flippant for the severity of the situation.

Higgens clenched his jaw, the growing knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. "He watched those tapes? I thought they weren't a priority." His voice, laced with disbelief, betrayed his mounting frustration.

Reyes sighed, rubbing a weary hand over his face. "They shouldn't be. Jackson confessed, remember? Case closed. Evidence returned. It's just... unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?" Higgens echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head, unable to let the words sink in. Something wasn't right—he could feel it, deep in his bones. The case surrounding Samantha Jackson had always unsettled him. The sudden confession, the lack of thorough investigation… it all felt too neat, too convenient.

Without another word, he excused himself, the unease gnawing at him like an itch he couldn't scratch. He needed to investigate. Something told him this wouldn't end unless he uncovered the truth, whatever it might cost him.

The second-floor video-audio visual room was eerily quiet when he entered. The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed above him, a steady rhythm that seemed to magnify the silence around him. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of old equipment and stagnant air. He closed the door behind him with a soft click that echoed far too loudly in the confined space.

A stack of camcorder tapes lay scattered across the floor, abandoned like forgotten relics. As he knelt down to gather them, he noticed something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up—strange, ritualistic symbols had been carved into the plastic cases. They weren't just markings; they felt like a warning, a mark of something dark and ancient. His hand trembled as he collected the tapes, the sensation of holding something unclean making his stomach churn.

With a growing sense of dread settling in, he hurried back to his office. He couldn't watch them here—not surrounded by the sterile, official air of the precinct. He needed to be somewhere private, somewhere he could try to process whatever horrors these tapes held.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Maggie. Her voice, light and filled with warmth, greeted him immediately. The sound of her young daughter, Molly, laughing in the background was a stark contrast to the darkness that weighed on him.

"Maggie, can I ask a favor?" he asked, his voice tight, as he tried to push down the unease building in his chest.

"Sure, Jon. What is it?"

"Do you still have that old TV in the garage, the one that plays VHS tapes?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Yeah, I think so. It's buried under Molly's old toys. Why? Got some old tapes?"

"A few," he hedged, unwilling to explain just how unsettling the tapes were. He didn't want to worry her. "A little… sensitive. I need to watch them privately."

Maggie's voice softened, curiosity creeping in. "Okay, I'll set it up for you. Want some popcorn?"

"That would be great," Higgens replied, the brief flicker of comfort soothing the edge of his nerves. "See you later."

After hanging up, he made his way to the archives. The search for Samael Lake's history was disturbingly fascinating. Each article he read seemed to pull him deeper into a web of tragedy, rumors, and whispers of dark rituals. One article from 1995 in particular sent a shiver through him. It detailed a series of brutal deaths at the Samael Resthouse: a cheerleader slashed to death in front of the house, a woman hanged from a chandelier, another stabbed in the heart in the garden. But it was the last death that haunted him—the body of a woman, her face shattered beyond recognition. The details painted a gruesome picture of unspeakable horrors. Whispers spoke of a dark, malevolent force tied to the lake, something that thrived on the bloodshed.

His phone rang, snapping him out of his grim thoughts. Maggie's voice was cheery, but there was an undertone of urgency. "Jon, the TV's ready. It's in the garage. I even managed to find the remote."

"Thanks, Maggie," he said, his voice strained. "You're a lifesaver. I'll be home soon."

"Molly's excited to see you," she added, her tone shifting to something more playful. "She's been talking about her 'new friend' all day. But my braised beef is about to burn, so I gotta go! Bye!"

As he hung up, the unease in his chest deepened. Molly's "new friend." It didn't sound like an ordinary imaginary friend. His mind raced, a terrible thought creeping into his consciousness: Could it be connected to the horrors of Samael Lake?

He worked until 6:45 p.m. before heading to Maggie's. When he arrived, Molly greeted him at the door, rushing into his arms with the unrestrained energy of a child who hadn't seen a loved one in days. Her innocent chatter was a welcome distraction, a momentary escape from the darkness creeping into his thoughts.

"Jon! I have a new friend," Molly announced, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Her name is Andrea. She's in the attic. She's always crying."

Maggie shot him a look—an eye-roll mixed with a hint of concern. She silently mouthed, Imaginary friend. Higgens nodded, but a knot of unease twisted in his stomach. He had heard the stories about children's imaginary friends, and sometimes… sometimes they weren't just figments of imagination.

Molly continued, her voice lowering to a whisper. "Her mommy yells at her. And her daddy cries too. And her baby brother died. But we play in my room, and that makes her happy."

Higgens felt a chill run down his spine. Something about the way she spoke—so matter-of-factly, so casually—set his nerves on edge. He didn't know why, but he had a sinking feeling that Molly's friend wasn't just a harmless fantasy.

At dinner, the usual family banter returned—Molly's refusal to eat broccoli, Katie's gentle bribing, and the warm sense of normalcy that, for a fleeting moment, kept the darkness at bay. But the dread in Higgens's chest never fully eased.

After dinner, Higgens insisted on doing the dishes, but Katie waved him off. "Go on," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. "Your tapes are waiting."

He nodded, his stomach a tight knot as he made his way to the garage. The old TV sat on a small table, bathed in the dim light of a single bulb. He picked up the last tape in the stack, the one with the most disturbing symbols etched into its plastic casing. With a deep breath, he slid it into the VCR, his hands trembling slightly.

He hesitated, feeling the weight of something unspeakable pressing in on him, but the need to know overwhelmed him. He pressed play.

The screen flickered to life, and for a moment, all he could see was a static blur. Then, a face filled the frame—a young woman, her eyes wide with terror, tears streaking down her dirt-smeared face. She gasped for breath, her voice shaking.

"Help…" she whispered, her words barely audible. "If anyone sees this… my friends are dead. I'm trapped in this hellhole. Please… help me."

The camera shifted, revealing Tara Remington hiding in the old wooden closet filed up with webcobs and dust. She trembled, eyes darting nervously. A single loud footstep echoed in the distance. Her breath hitched, and she clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut in terror.

Then came the laughter—a low, rustling sound like dry leaves caught in the wind. The footsteps grew louder, drawing nearer with every heartbeat. Higgens's pulse quickened in response. His fingers hovered over the remote, but he couldn't look away.

The door creaked open, and a pale, gnarled hand shot out from the darkness, grabbing Tara by the hair. With a brutal yank, she was pulled back into the shadows. A bloodcurdling scream split the air, followed by the sickening sound of her head slamming against the wall. The camera shook, the image unstable, capturing only fleeting glimpses of the horrors unfolding.

"Please… don't!" Tara's voice was a frantic, broken sob. The sound of slashing, of flesh being torn, filled the air. Her final screams echoed in the empty room.

Then, silence.

A low, guttural growl rippled through the stillness. The camera jerked violently, catching a glimpse of something crawling across the floor. It wasn't human—too many limbs, too many eyes, glowing with an unholy light. A skeletal hand, long and thin, reached into the frame, dragging Tara's limp body into the darkness.

The screen went black.

Higgens sat frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. The silence around him was suffocating, pressing in from all sides. He felt sick, violated, as if something dark had crawled into his soul.

He knew one thing for sure: he had to uncover the truth about Samael Lake. Whatever it took. And, somehow, he felt a terrible certainty that Molly's imaginary friend, Andrea, was a part of the horror that was unfolding.

(To be continued…)

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