Page 18 of Beneath the Surface

"Dr. Everhart, a call came into the office. You need to get to the psych hospital. There's been an incident. It’s... it’s like the Vernon case,” her assistant, Kathy, informed her.

Isobel worked two days per week in the Waverly County psychiatric facility. An hour later, she made her way throughthe hallways of the hospital. A chill ran down her spine as she approached Room 312. Pushing the door open, she was greeted by a view that sent a wave of nausea through her.

The scene before her was far too familiar. The young woman’s body was arranged meticulously, almost ritualistically, with a deliberate precision that ignited an old, buried fear inside her. This was a chilling echo of her first paid consulting job, the Vernon case.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she took a deep breath, stepping into the room. Each detail drew her back to that other day.

The Vernon case was Isobel’s introduction to the grim realities of forensic psychology. She had been fresh out of her schooling, eager and determined to prove herself. Nothing could have prepared her for what she encountered, but highway patrol was there. Brad was there. The Spring Hill Police chief called them in instead of Waverly County. They didn’t make that jurisdictional mistake this time.

The victim, Anna Vernon, was found posed in an eerily peaceful manner, her hands folded over her stomach, her eyes wide open, as if staring directly at her assailant. The bruising around her neck and the subtle lacerations and marks on her wrists were indicative of a restraint used for control, but it was the unnatural arrangement of her body that had disturbed Isobel the most.

The scene was macabre in its precision, set within the sterile, hauntingly quiet confines of an abandoned hospital room. The victim lay on a hospital bed, the frame rusted at the edges but still upright, as though it had been waiting for this grim purpose. The body was positioned deliberately, arms outstretched and legs straight, evoking an eerie symmetry. A white hospital sheet covered most of the body, but it had been meticulously foldeddown to expose the chest and arms, creating an unsettling sense of ritualistic care.

Isobel had spent weeks piecing together every detail of the case, combing through reports, analyzing photos, and revisiting the crime scene in her mind. Searching for patterns, for the hidden motive that would make it all make sense. And then it had struck her: dominance. The entire crime, from the method of murder to the way the body was displayed, reeked of one thing: a desperate need for power and control. It was as though the killer had to prove something, not just to the victim but to the world, as if they were screaming, “I am in charge.”

The room itself had been transformed into a grotesque display of this assertion. Around the hospital bed, the floor bore a perfect circle drawn in a thick, dark substance, its gleaming texture suggesting it wasn’t paint. Inside the circle, smaller geometric patterns were etched, some resembling alchemical symbols, others jagged and chaotic, as though etched in frenzy. The stark lines clashed with the clinical surroundings, their presence a defiant intrusion into the once-orderly space—a visual proclamation of the killer’s control over the scene, over the victim, over reality itself.

At the head of the bed, a crude wreath had been crafted from twisted wires and hospital tubing, mounted above the victim’s head like a grotesque halo. Above it, scrawled across the peeling white wall, in the same dark substance, was a single word in sharp, aggressive strokes: "Judged." The lettering was large, bold, and uneven—more than a label, it felt like a declaration, an unmistakable assertion of authority.

At the bedside stood a makeshift shrine, cobbled together from objects scavenged from the hospital. A tarnished IV stand had been repurposed to hold a cluster of hanging talismans—broken syringes, bloodied gauze, and surgical tools tied together with red hospital tape. Below it, the rolling tray table hadbecome an altar. On it sat a small, broken alarm clock frozen at 3:12, a handful of wilted flowers arranged carefully in a kidney dish, and a worn leather Bible open to the Book of Judges. Each item seemed symbolic, yet the meaning felt just out of reach, an unsettling game of power and misdirection.

Even the lighting of the room felt like part of the killer’s control—the dim, flickering fluorescent overhead casting shifting shadows across the walls, making the symbols and artifacts appear alive, their shapes stretching and writhing in the half-light.

Isobel couldn’t shake the feeling that the entire crime had been a stage play, performed for an unseen audience. The methodical placement of the body, the circle, the symbols—it was all designed to convey power, to claim ownership over not just the victim, but the entire narrative of the crime. The victim wasn’t simply killed; they were dominated, rendered helpless in every conceivable way. It was a desperate, primal cry of control from a person who felt powerless in their own life, a perverse attempt to force the world to see their authority.

She stepped closer to the bed in her memory, her mind circling back to the details. The body. The symbols. The chilling word scrawled above the victim. Whoever did this didn’t just want to kill; they wanted to leave no doubt about who held the reins. They wanted the world to bow to their narrative, to see their actions and feel their power.

And in that realization, Isobel felt the killer’s psyche—a terrifying blend of fragility and rage. This wasn’t just a murder; it was a performance. A horrifying declaration of control.

Isobel’s mind began to spin with possibilities. Was this the same killer resurfacing? Or was it a copycat, someone who knew about the Vernon case and was recreating it? Either way, the message was clear. This was about control, about power, just like before.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind her. Kathy stood in the doorway, her face as pale as ever.

"I don’t understand why anyone would do this," Kathy whispered, her voice barely audible. “I brought you the file.” She handed it to Isobel.

Isobel didn’t answer right away. She took the file and slipped it into her large bag, but her eyes remained locked on the body.

Her breath caught in her throat as she noticed a small piece of paper placed delicately on the bedside table folded in the shape of a swan. “Has this been photographed?”

Detective Larson came up behind her, and she bit back a startled cry. Wordlessly, he handed her a pair of gloves and held open an evidence bag. She slipped on the gloves, and with trembling hands, she picked it up and unfolded it.

Dr. Everhart, do you remember this one? You couldn’t save her. Can you save the next one?

The words were like a punch to the gut, sending her reeling. She stumbled back, her vision blurring with tears. The killer was not just replicating her past case; they were taunting her.

The room was filled with other police officers from multiple divisions, the atmosphere tense and charged. A patrol officer, Mark Dillon, stood near the door logging in the persons entering the scene, his expression neutral.

Detective Larson moved to stand beside her. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the room before settling on Isobel. The tension in the air was palpable. He tilted his head, his brow furrowing in suspicion. "How did you hear about this?" he asked. "You beat me to the scene."

Isobel felt a rush of heat to her face. Her heart pounded in her chest, and it grew hard to breathe. She avoided his gazefor a moment, focusing instead on the victim's lifeless form. The gruesome details were a temporary refuge from Larson’s question.

She gulped, forcing herself to maintain a steady tone. “My assistant called me at home. I—I didn’t ask how she knew.” Her voice wavered slightly, betraying the unease growing inside her. "You'll have to ask her."

Larson’s eyes didn’t leave her face. He had a way of studying people that made Isobel uncomfortable, like he could see through the thin layers of composure she was desperately clinging to. She shifted from foot to foot, trying to remain calm, but the sharpness in his gaze felt like it was peeling back her defenses.

“Your assistant called you?” Larson repeated, his voice laced with a faint skepticism, as though he was already doubting her explanation. "Strange thing, don’t you think?"

Isobel’s throat felt tight, and she clutched the strap of her bag. Larson’s unspoken questions hung in the air. He was suspicious. It wasn’t like her to rush to a scene like this, especially not before official channels requested her.

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