[Highest Rank - 34]
An insomniac writer, looking for a new story, crosses paths with a mysterious girl who engages him in an infamous serial murder case, and brings him to a point where he begins to question his own Sanity.
Title:...
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A/N - Here is the new Poster of the Book. Kindly rate it guys! Tell me how is it?
Also, don't forget to play the music on top to get the exact feel of the plot.
Chapter 3 Detective Kaizan
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Her little joke made me nervous. I tried to not make any further eye contacts for she had something magical about her eyes, a strange temptation, and an unfulfilled desire, that I sensed.
Located on a lonely corner of the city, the 'Owlet' cafe, the place where I met this strange lady, seemed so familiar. The chocolate shake or the coffee that I had tasted was not new to my tongue. It felt like a Deja Vu moment.
The cafe was certainly vintage, a huge circular dome on top covered under the shades of an old Rosewood tree. It never attracted much crowd but the silent bookwormish type people. Most of them would drown in their books or in their lovers' eyes and would care nothing about the outside world. The cafe, however, certainly had an artistic touch to it, which attracted me.
Art was something that always captivated me. I began writing stories and essays during college, but I knew I had to improve a lot. Stories aren't your guests but you have to go and grab them. The desire of creating stories made me investigative.
I recall when I was dating a North Eastern Girl, Cherry, in my college days, we used to come to a book cafe. The manager of the cafe, Mr. Yuri, had lots of contacts with the writer fraternity, so he would invite one on every weekend.
We never missed those sessions and luckily one day we met a Taiwanese writer who shed light on the motive behind the writing. He quoted and I noted in my diary.
'Writing is all about remembrance. A sense of magic so deeply woven from what you have felt and experienced in life. Allow the fragments of your life, of events you see through the window of your eyes, allow them a fair chance and dip them in the ink of your pen.'
My life didn't have many exciting incidents and stories never found my doors. I would sit blankly staring at my typewriter like an owl in the dark, writing nothing but some dense poetry.
I knew a great story once but now it's all gone. Strangely, the incident happened in my past and right before my eyes, and yet I can't recollect it. I was so small and navie and powerless.
"I don't understand!" I said, "Why, all of a sudden, these gruesome murders are of any interest to you." We were standing on the corner of the cafe, avoiding judgemental glances of passersby.
"Because I am scared!" She spoke without much expressions on her face, making it difficult for me to decipher her behavior.
