The Station

The drive back to the station was a quiet one. Aside from the rain hammering the car relentlessly, the streets were deserted. The dim glow of the streetlights barely pierced through the heavy storm, swallowed by the darkness that clung to everything.

In the passenger seat, the note and knife sat idly, bagged for evidence. James glanced at them occasionally, the symbols from the note seeming to dance in his mind's eye. A dull throb pulsed at the back of his head, echoing faintly from earlier. Something about that note was drawing him in.

"Ugh." James groaned, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple. The headache wasn't letting up. He reached for his flask and took a swig. He knew better than to drink and drive, but since Catherine passed, rules like that had started to feel… optional. Tonight, with the storm and this case, was one of those nights.

The rain slashed against the windshield, lightning cracked, and for a brief moment, James' grip on the wheel loosened. Catherine had loved storms like this, always pulling the curtains wide to watch them. He'd hated how cold the house would get, but she'd laugh, wrapping herself in a blanket like it was the best night of her life. The memory tugged at him like an undertow, leaving a hollow ache in his chest.

The drive felt like it took hours, but the clock on the dashboard told him it had been just twenty minutes. Pulling up to the station, James grabbed the knife and note, then braced himself for the rain. It soaked through his socks almost immediately, the chill biting at his skin as he hurried inside.

The station lobby greeted him with its usual stark familiarity: rows of chairs for waiting visitors, vending machines glowing dimly in the corner, and the front counter where the intake officers sat. At this hour, the lobby was empty save for one older officer at the desk, his gray head bent over a newspaper.

"Late night, Detective?" the officer asked, his tone more observational than curious.

"Sure is," James muttered, shaking rain from his coat. "Is forensics still here?"

The officer didn't even look up from his paper. "Yeah, Claire's still downstairs."

"Good." James strode past him, the sound of his wet boots slapping against the floor echoing in the lobby.

Fishing his ID from his wallet, he swiped it against the lock. The door buzzed and clicked, letting him through. Inside the main office, desks sat empty under the faint hum of overhead lights. Only one was occupied. A younger officer sat at a desk in the corner, his back to James, working intently under the glow of a desk lamp. James noted him but kept walking, heading for the stairwell marked Forensics.

The stairs creaked under James' boots as he descended, muttering to himself about the lack of an elevator. His knees weren't what they used to be, and this case was already wearing on him.

Reaching the last step, he pushed through a set of glass doors and entered the forensics lab. The sterile smell of chemicals and the faint hum of machinery filled the air. At the far end of the room, Claire was perched at her desk, illuminated by the glow of her computer. She spun around in her chair when she saw him.

"Detective!" she greeted with a bright smile. "Didn't expect you until morning."

"It is morning, Claire," James replied flatly, glancing at the clock. "Technically."

Claire chuckled, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "Fair enough. What've you got for me?"

Claire was always so chipper. James was fond of her attitude toward the job, but it could get a little eerie sometimes—especially when someone was smiling, or even laughing, about a murder. Still, the ever-present smile often reminded him of Catherine. Sometimes, he even felt like he was talking to her again.

James dropped the evidence bags on the table next to her with a grunt. Claire's eyes lit up as she threw on a pair of black latex gloves. She reached for the bag containing the knife and pulled it free.

"Fixed blade, maybe five or six inches," she murmured, turning the knife in her hands. "Gold tint, encrusted jewels on the hilt… This is ceremonial. A ritual blade, most likely."

James raised an eyebrow. "Ritual blade? You mean, like, for a sacrifice or something?" He could feel his stomach drop.

Claire tilted her head, eyes sparkling as she examined the knife. "Not necessarily," she said. "Could be some random blade from a pawn shop." She turned it slightly, studying the details. "You know, there's a whole subset of anthropology dedicated to blades like this. Rituals, rites, sacrifices… This isn't just a weapon. It's art. A symbol of something bigger."

James grunted. "Bigger like what? A psychopath with a flair for jewelry? Doesn't sound like art to me." The seriousness never faded from his face. "And you didn't answer my question."

Claire rolled her eyes. "You're such a cynic, James. You think everything's just black and white—blood spatter and fingerprints. But this—" she tapped the bag—"this has history written all over it."

"The only thing I see written on it is the death of some young guy," James snarled.

Claire noted the tone in his voice and softened slightly. "Alright, alright. Serious talk—no, it doesn't guarantee that this was sacrificial. But given the circumstances and the lack of clear evidence, we certainly can't rule it out." Despite the shift in the conversation, the smile never left her face. She could never hide her excitement. It looked bad, she knew that, but she went into forensics for the thrill of the mystery, and a case like this didn't come around often.

James cocked his head slightly, the idea of a sacrifice still looming in his mind. He had a bad feeling about this. In all his years, he'd never been called out for a case like this. Not that they didn't happen from time to time—usually, some wannabe occultist getting caught the next day because they were sloppy. He'd hear about those cases. But this one… it seemed too clean.

"Hopefully, you'll be able to pull some prints off the knife at least," James said hesitantly. "The last thing I need is some vague notion of a cultist and a sacrifice to go off of."

Before Claire could respond, a sharp voice cut through the room.

"Did I hear cultist?"

Both turned to see Detective Francis Drake stepping into the lab. His suit was immaculate, from his polished shoes to the crisp black tie tucked into his blazer. He gave a quick, tight smile, his accent still faintly British despite years in the States.

"Oh, great," James muttered. "Detective Drake. Just what I needed."

"Relax, Nolan," Francis said smoothly. "I wasn't planning on nosing into your case, but I couldn't help overhearing. Cultist, you say?"

"It's just a theory," Claire interjected, holding up the knife. "This kind of craftsmanship doesn't show up in your typical stabbing. It's ornate, symbolic. Definitely not your average kitchen knife."

Francis stepped closer, examining the blade through the plastic. "She's right. I've been chasing leads on a mysterious cult operating in the area. This could be connected."

James crossed his arms, the unease growing by the second. More and more, it sounded possible. A cult? What could they be up to? How long had they been hidden? Was this the first of many sacrifices that were planned?

"What do you know about this supposed cult you've been chasing?" James asked. He needed the answer—but something in him didn't want to hear it.

"Not much, really," Francis replied. "Rumors, mostly. A few reports of strange gatherings… a mutilated goat at one scene. But nothing substantial."

James was right. He didn't want to hear it. No news is bad news in a case like this.

"What about the note, Claire?"

Claire set the knife down gently on the table and pulled the note out, holding it up for both detectives to see. The dull throb returned in James' skull the moment his eyes landed on the symbols. He clenched his jaw and reached for his flask, hidden in his inner pocket. He took a long swig, hoping the burn would distract him again.

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously drinking on the job?"

"What? No! It's milk," James shot back. "I like it warm. Helps with my stomach."

Claire rolled her eyes but turned her focus back to the note. She slid it under a magnifying camera connected to her computer, zooming in on the symbols.

"Perfectly drawn," she murmured, almost reverent. "A slight slant to each one, and the ink… it's metallic. Whoever made this knew exactly what they were doing."

Francis leaned in closer to the screen. "This is definitely cult work. Symbols like these usually tie into rituals or summoning rites."

James looked away from the screen, his thoughts racing with the implications. "Where do we start looking for a cult that doesn't broadcast their gathering spots?"

Before anyone could reply, James' phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered without hesitation.

"Nolan."

"Detective," came Sergeant Michael's voice. "We managed to follow the trail behind the warehouse. It led to an old, run-down house in a rough neighborhood."

James frowned. "Send me the address. Post a unit there. I'm on my way." He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. Guess that answers my question.

Francis straightened his tie. "Would you care for some company? If this is tied to my cult case, I might be useful."

James hesitated. He preferred working alone, but something told him having Drake around might pay off.

"Fine. But I drive. And you don't touch the radio."

Francis smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"I'll keep analyzing the note and blade here," Claire chimed in. "Call me if anything comes up."

James gave her a nod, then turned to leave, Francis following close behind. Out the glass doors, they started the climb up the stairs, James groaning as they reached the top.

"Are the stairs too much?" Francis joked.

"Just wait till you're my age. You'll petition for an elevator too," James grumbled, rubbing his knees.

As they passed into the main lobby, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, one flickering near the far corner of the room. The air in the station felt colder than usual, as if the storm outside had somehow seeped into the walls.

James glanced toward the lone desk with its lamp on. The officer from earlier was missing. Probably went for coffee, he thought. It's getting late in his shift.

But then his eyes flicked to the intake officer sitting at the front desk, the newspaper now gone. His phone screen reflecting off his glasses, his face unnervingly blank. James paused. Something about him looked… off.

A shiver ran down James' spine—not from the rain, but from something else entirely.

He hesitated, uneasy, but shook his head. Probably just some video. Not my problem.

Still, that sinking feeling in his gut persisted. Something's not adding up.

Francis, noticing James had stopped, frowned. "Something bothering you?"

"Probably nothing," James replied quickly, but his expression betrayed him.

"If you say so." Francis continued walking beside him.

Outside, the rain was still pouring as the two detectives climbed into James' car. The engine sputtered before roaring to life. Francis glanced around the interior, unimpressed.

"This… is your car?"

"Yeah. What of it?" James' tone was sharp.

"Nothing," Francis said quickly. "It's… nice."

James scowled, shifting into gear. The car lurched forward, its wipers struggling against the storm.

As the car pulled onto the main road, Francis adjusted his tie. "You know, Nolan, a little refinement wouldn't kill you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" James snapped.

"The flask, the car, the… ambiance," Francis said, gesturing vaguely at the cluttered dashboard. "You're like a noir detective who wandered into the wrong century."

"Yeah, well, at least I don't look like I'm hosting a TED Talk on how to be annoying."

Francis raised his hands, surrendering.

As they drove deeper into the storm, James felt the headache pulse again, stronger this time. He gritted his teeth, ignoring it, but a strange thought flickered through his mind: Turn back.

"You alright?" Francis asked, breaking the silence.

James glanced at him. "Yeah. Why?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

James didn't reply, keeping his eyes on the rain-soaked road ahead.

Somewhere in the distance, the shadow of the house waited, hidden in the dark.