Photo by OSPAN ALI on Unsplash
JACK
Detective Cypress watched his prey with
interest. The man sat quietly, staring straight through him. “Creepy,” he
muttered to Sergeant Jones. “Why hasn’t he been stripped?”
“Forensics will be here soon,” Jones
said. “They have his overcoat—plenty of blood. Claims his name is J. T. Ripper.
One hundred forty years old.”
Cypress frowned at the absurdity. “Fits
the age of the original, I suppose.”
“Happy Halloween, Cy,” Jones smirked,
handing over a file and a blood-stained phone in an evidence bag. “The guy
denies everything, but we caught him red-handed—literally. He was holding his
last victim’s heart when we arrived.”
Cypress shook his head. “Unbelievable. And
Halloween is weeks away.”
“Don’t matter, most folks celebrate the
holiday all month. It is a full moon and they don’t come any crazier.”
“True. I need to break the code on this
phone, then I’ll get his story.”
An hour later, Detective Cypress made
the sign of the cross and entered the interrogation room.
The man’s eyes were black voids,
unblinking until he smiled. Cypress laid out photos of the victims.
“The Master Interrogator,” the man said.
“You’ve done your homework.”
“Dotted all the I’s and crossed all the
T’s. So, Mr. T. J. Ripper, what’s your story?”
“Jack,” the man corrected, extending his
left hand. “How should I address you?”
Cypress was struck by its iron grip. I
kind of like Master Interrogator, but Detective Cypress will work.”
"A detective with a sense of humor.
Don't find that very often."
So, Jack, what’s your motivation?”
“Fog,” Jack said. “Inspiration since
youth. The mist hides, cloaks, energizes. Movies, slasher tales—all inspired by
me. Love it, but it’s the victims I savor. They step into the fog, unaware.
They chose me.”
“You admit they were your victims?”
“Why deny it? Modern science will prove
it anyway.”
Cypress’s eyes narrowed. “And why these
women?”
“They walked into the fog. They’ve chosen
me. The rest is art.”
“Or did you lure them after they rejected
you?” Cypress asked, sliding the blood-stained phone across the table.
Jack froze. “How did you…?”
“Tinder,” Cypress said. “Encrypted,
yes—but the Ripper’s last kill date revealed everything. Your masquerade ends
here, Mr. Terry O’Reilly.”
Jones entered, carrying a yellow-lined
tablet. Cypress nodded. “Walk Mr. Terry O’Reilly, aka J. T. Ripper, through the
process. Explicit details. Make it stick.”
“Sure, Cy. But another body’s been
found,” Jones warned. “Torn apart, witnesses claim a wolf…a werewolf.” He
handed the note.
Cypress read it. Beneath the address, a
mocking line: “Just kidding about the werewolf.
Couldn’t resist in front of this piker.”
He glanced at Jack. The man’s smirk was
unnerving, his calm unsettling. But Cypress felt no fear—only the satisfaction
of containment. The fog, the moon, the killer’s theatrics—all neutralized.
Cypress exhaled, straightened his
jacket, and saluted Jones: Halloween, full moon, and madness—all in a night’s
work.
Yet the fog waited outside, whispering.
And in it, Jack’s dark gaze promised: the story was far from over.
500 Words
Formerly published as Moonlight Confession's a Kindle Vella Story, rewritten this year for Halloween, a 500-word short.
HAPPY
HALLOWEEN!
Photo by Carol Lee on Unsplash
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