The poppyblood killer

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

- For the last time, Kira, let it go, Boss says.

- But sir, I say.

- You're not even a journalist, just an office clerk, and you want to be given permission to investigate a big story. And not just any story but the case of the Poppyblood Killer, Boss asks.

- We can't turn a blind eye to such a grave matter when lives are at stake, I say.

- Scotland Yard will handle the investigation, not us. Stick to your duties, and let the professionals handle theirs. Understand, Boss asks.

- Yes, sir, I say.

I wrap my coat tightly around myself as the brisk night air tousles my hair. The conversation with my boss replays in my mind like a broken record.

- Other than a few anonymous supporterse and readers of our paper, no one seems to believe in my work. I may not be a journalist yet, but is it unreasonable to aspire to follow in my parents' footsteps. They wouldn't have idly sat by while a killer roamed the streets, I say in my head. Frustration fuels my stride as I walk down the street, but it gradually wanes once my flat comes into view. Though it's modest, it offers solace and familiarity.

- Maybe I should be content with what I have. It's the first time I've felt secure since my days in foster care. After my parents were murdered, I never thought I'd find happiness or experience a sense of normalcy again. That's until I met Clare, my best friend, and we saved up to rent a place together. So my current circumstances might not align with my aspirations, but at least I have a place to call my own, I say in my head. Feeling somewhat reassured, I unlock the door and step inside.

Darkness greets me as I enter.

- Clare. Are you here, I ask. Movement catches my eye, and I pivot. A shadowy figure looms near the window, unmistakably not my roommate. It appears to be a man, though his features remain obscured. My whole body starts to tremble. I can't help but think of the recent killing spree in London.

- Who goes there, I ask. A sharp intake of breath is the only sound I hear.

- Clare is supposed to be here. Did this man do something to her, I ask in my head. Despite being terrified, I rush forward, but the window is ajar and the mysterious figure is poised for escape. Seizing a nearby book, I fling it at the enigmatic figure with a little forethought driven solely by instinct. He intercepts the book mid-air and casts it aside, but the brief distraction affords me a moment to close the gap between us.

- Who are you. What have you done with my roommate, I ask. Instead of a reply, he shoves me with an unexpected force which propels me into the wall.

When my shoulder connects with the wall, a jolt of pain courses through my arm. I slump to the floor as the man vanishes into the night through the window.

- Wait, I yell. I rise to my feet and stumble toward the window, but the mysterious figure is long gone.

- No, I stutter.

- Could he have taken Clare, I ask in my head. My heart races as I scour the flat, desperate for any clue regarding my roommate's whereabouts. I gasp when I enter her room.

- No. It can't be, I say. Resting on Clare's pillow is a solitary crimson poppy. The calling card of the serial murderer known as the Poppyblood Killer.

About an hour later, there's a knock on the door.

- That must be the detective, I say in my head. When I reported the incident to Scotland Yard, they assured me they would send over the best man for the job. I open the door, and my mouth falls open. I'm greeted by a sight familiar to all of London, Sherlock Holmes, the legendary consulting detective.