CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

The moment Luca read the sign ‘Writing Circle: Thursdays' in the window of Ghostlight Books, he knew nothing was going to stop him getting inside. Not protocol, not the prospect of a homicidal maniac lurking within. The old metal strip trick had worked wonders again, even more so on a door as old as this one.

The shop's interior hit him like a wall of musty air. With his gun drawn, he crept through the narrow aisles that housed paperbacks on towering shelves on either side. A real claustrophobe's nightmare, and each step kicked up puffs of dust that had Luca holding back sneezes left and right. A trickle of light seeped in through the windows, giving Luca just enough visibility to make his way through without toppling anything over.

‘FBI,' he shouted. ‘Come out slowly.'

Nothing but silence answered back.

Luca turned to the row of shelves beside his head and saw books that followed a certain theme. Horror, folklore, myths and superstitions. ‘Occult Murders of the 19th Century' rubbed shoulders with ‘A History of Demonic Possession.' A whole section devoted to local legends and ghost stories dominated the back wall. Luca pulled out a tome at random: ‘Hauntings of the Pacific Northwest.' Luca doubted this place stocked much Nora Roberts.

No Nora Roberts and no signs of life. As he stepped through, more shelves greeted him, more shadows. A ratty armchair slumped in one corner, a reading lamp perched beside it like a metal vulture. Luca prowled the perimeter and found columns of unsorted books at his feet. All second-hand, judging by the battered spines. A side section opened up into a small reading area. Overstuffed armchairs gathered around a stone fireplace. Cold ashes filled the grate. How long had it been since a fire burned here?

A door off to the side caught his attention. He tried the handle. Locked. Luca considered his options. Breaking down doors wasn't exactly subtle, but then again, neither was wandering around a closed bookstore without a warrant.

He was about to give the door a solid kick when something else caught his eye. A staircase, tucked away in a corner. It led up to a second floor he hadn't noticed before.

Luca hesitated. Upstairs meant being further from an exit if things went south. But it also meant a better vantage point. A place where secrets might be hidden.

He started up the stairs and found more of the same, but the space was dominated by an old wooden counter complete with an ancient till.

And when Luca got closer, something else caught his eye.

A stack of papers sat on the countertop. Neat. Orderly. Almost like they'd been left there on the purpose.

Luca's gut clenched when he read the title page.

Ghost Writings.

‘What the f…?'

Cute joke, Luca thought, but curiosity propelled him further. He flipped over the top page to the second.

To be published upon my death, the note read in the center of the paper.

This had to be the work of some wannabe author, maybe someone from the writing group here. He flipped to the next page and started reading.

The Cursed Teddy Bear of Yamhill County.

Old Gus hadn't been the same since his sister went missing. Stopped going to school, stopped hanging with friends. Just holed up in his room, whispering to that ratty old bear she'd left behind.

Gus swore that bear knew something. Said it watched him with its button eyes, mocking him. So he did what any sane eleven-year-old would – he punished it.

He tore out its eyes and buried it in the backyard under a full moon. Thought that'd teach it a lesson. But as the last shovelful of dirt hit the bear's face, Gus heard it whisper:

‘You shouldn't have done that, Augustus. Now I'll never tell you where she is.'

Next morning, Gus was gone too. Vanished overnight, along with his sister's bear. And ever since then, folks say that bear passes from hand to hand, child to child. So if someone tries to pawn an old brown bear off on you, run way. Because I promise you this, that bear's got a taste for revenge and a nose for blood.

Luca's mouth went dry. And when he flipped the page, he found the story's accompaniments in the next section.

Pictures. Four of them. Pictures even Luca hadn't seen.

Gregory Van Allen's corpse, teddy bear in hand. Pictures that had been taken immediately after his death judging by the pools of blood.

‘Jesus Christ,' Luca breathed. ‘This is it. This is why his ritual changes every murder.'

He couldn't stop. He needed to see everything to put any suspicions to rest. God damn, this was the killer's handiwork right in front of him, which meant the killer had to be the owner of this bookstore. Who else would leave something on the countertop?

The question of why niggled, but Luca pushed it aside.

More stories. More homemade urban legends.

The Glass-Eyed Woman

In the dead of night, when the moon hangs low and mist clings to the ground like a shroud, she comes. Her footsteps make no sound as she glides through empty halls, seeking out the unwary. Those who encounter her speak of a face as pale as bone, framed by hair as red as sin. But it's her eyes that haunt their dreams – endless pools of silvered glass that reflect your deepest fears back at you.

Natasha Langston. The redhead with mirrors in her eyes.

On the next page, close-up pictures of her corpse too. Pictures that hadn't been taken by forensic examiners.

The Hanged Man's Lament.

They call him the Hanged Man, but he had a name once. A life. Until she took it all away…

Benjamin Clarke. Strung up like a puppet with that damn masked fixed to his face.

The Heartless Phantom.

They whisper her tale in the shadowy corners of Yamhill. A woman scorned, betrayed by her lover, left to die with a gaping hole where her heart should be. But death was not the end for her – merely a gruesome new beginning…

Luca stumbled back from the counter. His mind reeled. This was it – the missing piece. Their killer wasn't just some run-of-the-mill psychopath. He saw himself a storyteller, someone who was creating new urban legends from the threads of real human lives.

He fumbled for his phone. Ella needed to see this, and they needed to find out who owned this damn bookstore.

Luca dialed, put the phone to his ear.

‘Come on, answer dammit.'

But then something whistled through the air. Pain exploded across the back of Luca's skull. The world tilted; floor rushing up to meet him. Darkness crowded the edges of his vision. The last thing Luca saw before consciousness fled was a pair of shoes. Scuffed leather.

Then nothing but the void.