The pulse of the dead

Chapter Two: The Pulse of the Dead

John hadn't slept in three days.

His office—a cramped room with peeling walls and a broken ceiling fan—looked like a scene from a madman's notebook. Strings of red thread connected photographs, autopsy reports, and missing person flyers on the bulletin board. At the center of it all was a name scrawled in thick black ink: Dr. Elias Voss.

John sat back, eyes burning, heart pounding. Luna's file was open in front of him, but this wasn't just about her anymore. The whispers. The pulse. The impossible. It all clicked tonight.

He remembered how he first met Luna—how her presence buzzed differently, like static electricity in the air. She wasn't like the others. Ghosts were cold. Hollow. But Luna had warmth… a heartbeat.

"You're not dead," John whispered, as if saying it would break a spell. "You're not dead, Luna. Not fully."

Her ghost sat across from him now, pale and silent, flickering like candlelight. "I… I feel things," she said faintly. "I see flashes. A hallway. Cold hands. A voice that says my name but never shows a face."

John stood suddenly, grabbing a file from his cabinet. He flipped it open and pulled out a photo—an old surgical ID badge. Dr. Elias Voss, Chief Reconstructive Surgeon, Redwood Memorial.

"Do you know him?"

Luna's flicker dimmed. "I've… seen him. Once. A hospital. I visited a friend. He stared at me too long. Like I was something he'd already drawn."

John nodded slowly. "He did that to my sister. Her name was Lillian. Twin sister. Died during a surgery he performed. But there was no autopsy. No photos. Just… an anonymous death certificate. He made sure she disappeared. Just like you."

He slammed the folder shut. "He's 'The Sculptor.' That's what they call him now. He takes people no one will miss—runaways, the homeless, girls like you who feel invisible—and uses them like clay. Alters their faces. Swaps identities. Buries them in lives that aren't theirs."

Luna trembled. "So… I'm not buried?"

"No." John pointed at a photo—one of a faceless Jane Doe found two weeks after Luna's disappearance. "That's not you. He altered someone to look like you. But your body… your body is still alive. Somewhere."

She looked at him, eyes wide. "I'm in a coma."

"Yes. And that's why you have a heartbeat. Why you can still see. Feel. Your soul is tethered. You're in between." He stepped closer. "And he's keeping you that way."

"But why?"

John's jaw clenched. "Because he thinks he's some kind of god. A redeemer. He thinks he's giving people better deaths. More meaningful ends. And when you said no one would notice if you disappeared… that was his invitation."

Luna covered her face, shaking. "I was just sad. I didn't mean it."

"I know." John's voice softened. "But psychos like Voss… they don't need permission. Just opportunity."

He turned back to his wall. Thread after thread—missing reports, surgical histories, twisted autopsy inconsistencies—all pointed to one place: Redwood Memorial's underground archive, the closed-off basement wing.

"That's where he keeps them," John muttered. "Where he perfects his 'art.' And that's where your body could be."

Luna stood slowly. Her form flickered brighter. "We have to find it."

"We will," John said. "But I can't do it alone. I need access. And I've burned my bridges at the station."

"Then fix them."

John nodded. His next move was dangerous—begging the same precinct that suspended him for chasing a ghost story. But now he had something real. Something undeniable. A name. A pattern. A motive.

He grabbed his coat and gun. Turned to Luna one last time.

"If we're going to stop him, we have to beat him at his own game. That means knowing where he'll strike next."

Luna's voice was quiet, distant. "What if it's me?"

John looked her dead in the eyes. "Then we get to you first."

He walked into the night, the walls of his apartment buzzing with conspiracy, with truth, with ghosts. The killer's path wasn't just painted in blood—it was laced with whispers.

And John Carter was finally listening.