Topsey Kretts: The Number 23

Chapter 1: Call me Fingerling

My name? You can call me Fingerling. Granted, it is not my real name, in fact I got it off an old childhood book called "Fingerling at the Zoo." It was a paper back edition, the pages moldy and the cover far from gone. But the name has always fascinated me. Fingerling. Detective Fingerling. I am a detective, truth be told I always wanted to be a detective, despite what my father thought.
"Utter nonsense!"
He would always say that if he caught me reading detective magazines or comics like "Batman." He even watched me play detective games, trying to solve the mystery of who ate the last cookie. But one day, one day had changed my life forever. You see, my dog had managed to crawl it's way into my neighbors back yard. My neighbor was an old, irritable woman with no tolerance for dogs. I cautiously climbed over the fenced and pulled my dog by the collar towards the direction of the fence. But out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that my neighbors back door was open a Crack.
That's funny, I thought to myself,
She always locks all the doors and windows. Like a detective, curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to open the door wider, and when I was sure I wasn't being watched, I crept in. I forgot her name, so long ago... So let's just call her Kindrel.
"Miss Kindrel?"
I called out, she was a widow, like my father, except she was a bit "unstable." I decided to call out a little louder.
"Miss Kindrel?!"
I took slow, careful steps up the long, spiral staircase. And at the end of the dark hallway, was her room, the dark also ajar. I slid in through the door, not wanting to make a noise or clues that I was here. What I saw made me stand still in shock. Miss Kindrel, dead. Drenched in blood on her own bed. Who new blood could be that shiny off the dark dress she was wearing and her blanket cover she slept in on the bed? I didn't scream, or shake, or cry, I didn't even blink. I just stared at the body, not phasing my mind at all that the number 23 was all over the walls.
Later, the police confirmed that it was suicide, but I thought I knew better, I argued that it was murder. But my father was never interested in what I had to say. He was more interested in that fucking number scribbled and scrambled all over the striped walls. 23.
A few months later my father grew sick. And weary. Endless, sleepless nights of him murmuring crap like,
"its in our bloodline... "
"have to beat it... For him..."
"23..."
My worry for the old man increased as his insanity increased. Until one day, as I snuck down to check if he was asleep in his study room, I saw the gun pressed at his temple, and how his head rocketed as the shot was fired. And the same scene with Miss Kindrel with 23 everywhere, piercing and forcing it's way into my eyes every where I looked...