Page 32 of Girl, Haunted

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.

They say she was once a woman scorned, betrayed by her lover, and left to die in a room of mirrors. As life slipped away, she cursed the reflections that mocked her pain. Now, she wanders eternally, trapped between worlds, searching for souls to join her in her glass prison.

Beware the sound of tinkling glass in the night, for it heralds her approach. And if you find yourself in a room full of mirrors, pray she doesn't find you there. For once she catches your gaze in her glassy stare, you'll be lost forever.

The seeds of the story were there, ready to take root in the fertile soil of small-town gossip and superstition.

Then, the past few nights replayed in his mind like a grainy film reel. The shock on their faces, the moment of realization, the futile struggle against the inevitable. It was beautiful in its own twisted way. A work of art that would echo through time,long after the gaudy neon signs of corporate haunted houses had flickered and died.

He stood, stretching muscles stiff from hours of writing. His gaze fell on the desk, littered with newspaper clippings and hastily scribbled notes. Headlines screamed about the recent murders, speculation running rampant. One paper had speculated that these were revenge attacks, another that they might be from a disgruntled employee.

They didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. This wasn't about violence or revenge or any of those cutter-cookie motivations for homicide.

No, this was about restoration. Bringing back the purity of fear that had been lost in the neon-lit funhouses and cheap jump scares. The world had forgotten what it meant to be truly afraid, to feel that primal terror that made your heart race and your breath catch in your throat.

He stood from his desk and moved to the window, where the morning sun slanted through the blinds. The sleepy town of Yamhill peered back at him, unaware of the nightmares brewing in its midst.

The teddy bear and the glass-eyed woman were just the opening acts. There were more horrors to come, each one meticulously planned down to the last detail. At each location, he would leave a clue, a piece of the puzzle. And at the end... well, that would depend on who made it that far. Some would find nothing more than a clever hoax, a bit of macabre fun to liven up their dull lives. But others, those with the right mindset, might find something more. A glimpse behind the veil, a brush with the unknown that would haunt them for the rest of their days.

It was risky, he knew. The more people involved, the greater the chance of something going wrong. Of someone seeing through the illusion, or worse, connecting the dots back to him.

But the potential payoff was too great to ignore. If even a fraction of the participants truly believed, if they spread the word of what they'd seen and experienced... it would be like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline. The stories would spread like wildfire, growing and changing with each retelling until they took on a life of their own.

He checked the time. Barely midday. He'd canceled all of his commitments today because there was something more important on the horizon. Haunting number three.

Going back to his desk, he added one final line to his newest story. A flash of inspiration had struck.

So remember, dear reader, that the line between fiction and reality is thinner than you might think. The stories you dismiss as mere fantasy might have more truth to them than you'd care to admit. So the next time you find yourself alone in a dark room or walking down an empty street at night, take a moment to listen. Really listen.

Yours truly.

Cassius Auctor.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Back at the precinct, Ella willed the ancient desktop computer to life, ready to find an address for Roland Pierce. The computer wheezed like it was about to cough up a silicon lung.

Luca leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he was posing for a calendar of Brooding Feds Monthly. Confirming Isabella Thorne’s alibi had taken all of two minutes. Her CCTV feeds showed her in her office until the early hours.

‘Come on, Ell. It’s a computer. I could have built one by now.’

‘Don’t blame me. Blame lack of police funds.’

‘I do. Every day.’

‘Yeah, well, if Roland Pierce had a digital footprint I’d have found him already. But the guy’s got no social media accounts.’

‘Pretty weird, huh? An actor without an online presence? Like having a car without wheels.’

The computer lit up, and Ella navigated to the Yamhill PD database. Most police departments in the United States used similar local databases because they all fed into NLETS, a nationwide system for communicating with federal agencies. So, the only thing that differed between precincts was the database version and the quality of the computers. The Yamhill precinct scraped the barrel with both.

Finally, the database loaded. Its interface was a relic from the days when ‘wireless’ meant you’d lost the TV remote.

‘Yeah, it’s weird, but we can get answers from him when he’s in cuffs.’

Ella cracked her knuckles, ready to go digging. But just then, Sheriff Redmond barreled into the room like a freight train with a badge. ‘Got some intel for you two,’ he announced, slapping a file down on the desk with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

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