Murder On The Waterway: The Case Of The Kanaima Demon

Chapter Four

The phone call had abruptly ended, leaving me with a gnawing sense of unease. It seemed as if nightmares lurked in the recesses of my mind. I couldn't shake the feeling that the killer wasn't merely human but an incomprehensible evil, drawn to my past like a moth to a flame. Out of all the notorious supernatural cases and grotesque horrors in history, why had this savage chosen to mimic a case that left such a deep scar? Why set its sights on me, an insignificant detective in the grand scheme of things?

As I stood in the dimly lit room, the bottle of whiskey beckoned to me like a siren, offering a temporary escape from the impending storm. The room seemed to close in around me, as if unseen eyes watched from the darkest corners, hungry for my descent into madness. A quick sip provided a fleeting numbness needed to face the eldritch horrors ahead. It had been a few weeks since my last drink, but facing supernatural malevolence was a different challenge. However, the allure of the bottle was relentless, tugging at my willpower like an insatiable demon.

Reluctantly, I took another sip, the liquid burning my throat, a reminder that no amount of alcohol could dull the impending dread. A clear head was essential to face the new murder scene. The shadows of my past haunted me, but now they seemed to merge with something far more sinister and ancient.

Arriving at number 8, Tanton Drive in Stepney Green a little past 8:30 AM, I was met with a quaint facade, a sleek black door, and a neglected front garden, a common sight in our line of work. Approaching the doorstep, a lingering smell of cigarettes hung in the air, accompanied by something foul and otherworldly, akin to the stench of an open grave.

The open door was highly unusual, a foreboding sign that the boundary between our world and the supernatural had been breached. As I cautiously nudged the door, the hallway lay before me, its cream-colored walls and scattered furniture giving an appearance of normalcy. Yet, an unnatural silence enveloped the house, as if the spirits of the deceased were holding their breath.

"Hey Dalton, you there?" I called out, my voice echoing through the quiet house.

"In here, matey," came Dalton's trembling voice from another room.

Entering the room, I found Dalton on the edge of a black leather sofa, fixated on the unlit television screen. He seemed in shock, but there was more, a fear that transcended the mundane.

"What's going on? The guvnor's been trying to reach you. There's another body," I informed him, approaching cautiously.

"I know. About the body, I mean," Dalton replied, his eyes fixed on the ominous shadows dancing on the walls.

"How?" I asked.

"This," Dalton handed me the blood-smeared box, anxiety filling his face.

The box held something more sinister. The dormant claws within me stirred again, sensing an ancient malevolence.

Taking the box, I carefully opened its lid, revealing a gruesome sight—an ear soaked in blood, mottled with shades of purple and pale white. It wasn't just a severed body part; it was a gateway to something otherworldly.

"Is there anything else?" I asked, bracing myself.

As always, more to the story emerged. Inside the box, a cryptic message in incomprehensible runes etched in blood:

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones. If I lend you mine, perhaps you'll listen. By the time I'm done, my evil will live long after I'm gone."

"We're dealing with something not of this world, an evil force that's latched onto my past," I said. "We need to bag it, head to the crime scene, and get a hotel while this case is ongoing."

"Perhaps Andy is feeling more hospitable now," Dalton quipped, masking his terror. We had an evil entity to confront, requiring courage to face the unfathomable evil lurking in the shadows between worlds.

***

"9:30 AM, Regents Canal."

We knew which body parts were missing, Dalton clutching one. The recurring question, however, persisted: Why did the murderer want us as spectators? Our fifteen minutes of fame from a month ago had come and gone, or so we had hoped.

As we made our way to the crime scene, Dalton's request for aspirin lingered in the air. The weight of the situation and the stress of the horrors were already taking their toll on us.

"How bad do you think this one's going to get?" Dalton's voice laced with anxiety.

I paused, wondering that myself, hoping it wouldn't reach the severity of the last one. "I would bow to your experience, but my sixth sense tells me we're in for a rough ride."

The Regents Canal bridge emerged, and we parked nearby. I scanned the surroundings, instinctively checking for potential surveillance cameras, traffic cameras, or CCTV points. It was crucial to ensure adequate coverage and gather any available evidence.

Descending the steps toward the crime scene, a cordon marked the area about a hundred feet down the pathway to a mooring. It was apparent that our presence was drawing more attention this time, intensifying the pressure to solve this case.

"Well, well, well. Looks like we aren't the only ones being run ragged," I remarked as Ms. Walker approached with a clipboard.

Under the arch leading to the crime scene, a sight sent a shiver down my spine. An inverted cross adorned the wall to my right, similar to the U.V. stamp on the last victim. The symbolism was clear: nails through hands and feet, a chilling message, but what did it signify?

Meanwhile, Ms. Wainwright was diligently at work. "How far have you got?" I inquired, seeking some clarity from the scene.

"Good morning, gentlemen. This girl, about twenty-five years old, is missing a black high heel, likely amidst a struggle. I've photographed the symbol as per the inspector's request. The red markings appear to be paint, not blood," reported Ms. Wainwright, undiminished in her enthusiasm.

My focus shifted. I needed to inspect the eerie markings. However, both Wainwright and Walker were preoccupied.

"Dalton, can you create a distraction? I need a moment to examine this more closely, if you catch my drift," I requested.

"Why else do you think I'm holding this?" Dalton replied, thrusting the box containing the ear toward me. The diversionary tactic worked, affording me a brief respite to study the grotesque symbols etched on the wall.

"Hey, can you two lovely ladies spare a few moments? I've got something that needs your expertise," Dalton interjected, guiding Walker and Wainwright away, oblivious to my true intentions.

With the path clear, I moved closer to the grotesque display. It was disturbing, and I needed to understand it better. I could see through the canal wall where the ears had once been. The precision of the damage fascinated and horrified me. How had it been inflicted?

"Disgusting, isn't it?" Walker remarked, still focused on the inverted cross.

"Bizarre. What's the point?" I mused aloud, unable to grasp the killer's motives.

"Well, you've fast-forwarded to the grand finale. I see you don't enjoy wasting time," Walker said with a chuckle.

As they continued their analysis, I pieced together the puzzle. These victims were more than casualties; they were part of a gruesome puzzle. The killer had a grand plan, building up to something sinister. The symbolism and precision of the mutilations told a story, yet I couldn't decipher it.

"Wait, can you tell how the holes were made? A medical instrument or a drill?" I asked, grappling with the disturbing imagery.

Walker, using a U.V. light and magnifying glass, inspected with precision. "To cause this damage, the tool would have to be eight to ten inches long and powerful enough to penetrate bone and cartilage. We've ruled out medical or industrial instruments. It's as if the killer had claws. But that's impossible, isn't it?"

My heart raced at the implications. The inexplicable, the supernatural, woven into this macabre tapestry. And as I pondered the sinister details, a chilling presence made itself known. A whisper from the beyond echoed, "Please help us," and when I turned, I saw them. Tracey Kent and Rachel Darnley, ghostly and ethereal, standing at the canal's edge. A haunting sight, signaling that this case was far from ordinary.