Pentacle

What Lies Beyond the Door

Eugene wandered through Willow Park, his thoughts drowning out the birds' captivating symphony as they flitted across the clear blue sky. So engrossed in his thoughts, he didn't even notice the soft whispers of leaves rustling and swaying in the breeze. He absentmindedly kicked a rock along the dirt path, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The park's splendor escaped him entirely, his mind consumed with thoughts of Petunia—or more precisely, the little brown-eyed girl who clung to her at Aggie's door.

She looked around seven, Eugene thought, then shook his head.

Nia told him the girl wasn't his, and though he hadn't seen or heard from her in years, he was still sure she'd never lie to him.

"Get a grip, Faulkner," he muttered, looking skyward. Uncertainty was a rare feeling for Eugene, but he remembered Petunia's influence during its last occurrence. The buzz of his phone snapped him out of his muddled thoughts. "Thank God," he breathed, answering. "Faulkner."

"The commander's on my ass, asking where you are. I covered for you, but—"

"Sorry, Wilder. Just needed to clear my head to get inside the killer's," Eugene lied, reluctant to divulge his personal turmoil to his abrasive partner. "I'll be back at the station soon."

"You'd better," Denise replied. "Did you at least talk to the girl?"

"No, I—"

"Faulkner!"

"But they're coming in later today," Eugene assured her. "And I'm going to follow up on the occult lead by talking to some shop owners downtown."

Denise hung up without another word.

"Yep. Bye, partner," Eugene muttered, pocketing his phone.

He hadn't lied to Denise about that part, and clearing his mind of Petunia was essential to discerning the common link between the three pairs of victims. Aside from the necklaces—indicative of some kind of occult worship—worn by two victim pairs and the mysterious, apparently biological acid component, none of the couples' lives intersected, as far as they knew.

Eugene's only fresh lead connecting the cases was the fact that all the survivors ended up in the same household, and even social services couldn't explain how it happened. But how would the killer have known that would happen, and why would they care?

Eugene shook his head again, rubbing his temples as a headache threatened to emerge. His gaze fell on the sun-dappled lake, its surface shimmering like a diamond tapestry. He was close enough to see the swaying limbs of the underwater willow, rooted deep in the lakebed, dancing with the currents.

He marveled at how the magnificent tree thrived underwater, its ethereal beauty was enchanting and almost...magical. The tree, along with the network of creeks flowing throughout the area, gave the city its name centuries ago—or so the legends claimed. Whether or not the story was true didn't matter to Eugene; all that mattered was the deep sense of tranquility he felt whenever he saw the tree.

"Except this time," he muttered, his eyes landing on his favorite lakeside bench—now taken by a raven-haired woman. His chest tightened, his breaths coming in shallow bursts as he forced himself toward the bench.

Petunia seemed as perturbed as he felt, her gaze flickering between her phone and the lake. As he drew closer, Eugene noticed a stream of unanswered messages on her screen, which she dismissed as quickly as they appeared.

"Great minds," Eugene said, stopping just behind the bench.

Petunia spun around, startled at first but quickly relaxing when she saw Eugene. She scooted over, making room for him as he rounded the bench.