TWISTED

You Have One Missed Call

The intense cold tightened my ears and nose, furiously squeezing out the heat from my body. I hugged myself, wrapping my iced arms around my numb chest. Unfortunately, my winter jacket had no use in this extreme weather, (I might have as well worn a t-shirt and summer shorts instead)! Endlessly knocking on the wooden double doors, I began to wonder if this was the place to meet. I looked around and unfortunately found no sight of anyone on the dead streets. Did I arrive early? I glanced at my watch; it read '13:34'. Strange. I was out here for so long I lost track of when I first arrived here.

Nobody opened the front doors of the household. Not one living thing. I slipped out my phone from its pocket and as I checked my 'call log', I thought I should give a miss-call one last time. The man I was trying to get a hold of was named Jackson McAuley. He was a private investigator who had contacted me, (a journalist who badly wanted the "scoop of the century") mentioning in the phone call that he had a new lead on the Axeman case; a brutal serial killer who was not yet caught by the authorities. As soon as those perfect words were analysed in my mind, I had sudden feelings that it could've been too good to be true. However, Jackson McAuley notified me that he had found evidence so intriguing that the Axeman killer could be brought to justice. I had no other choice but to accept a meeting with him. I would release the story, Jackson would be favoured by everyone, but most of all: I would be sitting on mountains of green ones. It was a win-win scenario, although I regretted every decision coming here. I was tricked. I could tell. I was tricked.

Despite all of the negativity, I pressed down the 'CALL' button anyway and once again I stood alone in the harsh winter cold. The rhythmic ringing of the phone almost put me to sleep.

Surprisingly, Jackson had eventually picked up the phone as I gleefully read the words, "Call connected." Placing the warm mobile against my ear, my first words to him were, "Where the hell are you?" On the other end of the phone, all I could hear was heavy breathing. After anxiously asking who was on the phone, the only reply I received was, "The back door is open. Enter through there and you'll find a parcel. I have a surprise for you." The deep, rich voice scared me to the bone. Should I do what its commands were? What if unknown dangers were waiting for me?

No. I decided to follow through with it. I decided to nervously walk my way to the back of the detached house. For every step I took, I could feel my heart sink deeper and deeper as the heels of my shoes clicked against the depressing cobblestone pathway. Eventually reaching the end of the grey alleyway, the gloomy, white sky gazed over me while I peeked around the corner of the back of the substantial household. There was nothing except a door - the back door. It's forest brown colour was fading and rotting away whilst the door's rusty hinges were barely able to hold the door any longer. I hesitated to open it. Coincidentally, a key was already sitting neatly in the key-hole. All that I had to do was: twist. A gentle click was heard.

Giving a slight creak, I pushed open the door to discover a vacant, compact room with one rather large cardboard box in the very centre. It literally was the highlight of the room; the ancient, dull paint began to peel off of the walls. There were no tapes sealing the flaps. In a wooden and chilly room, the parcel was calling me, tempting me to open it.

As I warily neared towards the box, my face was punched in by a foul stench that was radiating from the parcel. It was sickening. Though, I proceeded to investigate the contents of the box. I leant over. I opened the flaps. My innocent, pale face soon became a victim of everlasting nightmares.

It was a body. Curled up and severed. Dried blood had already stained the clothes. Oh God. It was a head. A head. A severed head with its eyes wide open; the gore from the neck hung like a necklace. Limbs were chopped away messily; there were no clean slices but instead evidence of rough work due to a saw. The knee-joint bent in the opposite direction to allow space for the legs and coffin flies were already roaming the bloody remains of the deceased. It was horrific. The scene was: vicious.

Then, amongst all of the madness, I had found a tiny, yellow sticky note that was left in the gruesome mess. It read, "You will never know the truth."