Anonymous Crime; Anonymous Detective.

A short detective movella, full of cliff hangers, suspense and tension, with a big twist! I very much hope you enjoy the story!

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3. Similarities.

   Pulling my jacket around me tightly, I hurried out into the bitter winter weather, hailing a cab as it hurried along down the road.

"Where do you want to go, sir?"

"Geranium wood stately home, Cleveland drive, you know the rest." I answered in a monotone.

"Are you sure? It's been on the news predominantly."

"You can drop me off halfway down the road if it bothers you." Clearly the driver was not happy with my retort as he started driving with a huff. Throughout the short journey, he attempted some small talk, but this died down with lack of enthusiasm quickly. I mumbled a thanks as I neared my destination.

   The road was strangely deserted, but littered with metres of 'Police, do not cross' tape and signs reading 'Police, road ahead closed'. Despite my disguise, I still felt very out of place. Striding straight through the grand iron gates and through the very presentable and carefully looked after garden beyond, I chuckled. Leaving the place completely desolate - with the gates wide open - what were the police thinking? Upon reaching the very prominent door, I considered ringing the doorbell. However, this idea quickly fell into dismay as I found the door completely unlocked. Despite the protesting of the hinges, it swung open with relative ease.

   I scaled the spiral staircase swiftly, but then I suddenly slowed my pace. A painting of a greyhound caught my eye, for it looked familiar. Disregarding the painting, I carried on, treading lightly on the stairwell carpet and not touching the handrail. There was not a sound, only a monotonous silence. Dust coated many of the surfaces in the house, except for several footprints positioned at irregular intervals along the main corridor. A slight twang in my stomach caused my stopping once again. Everything looked familiar. Little pieces came together. Had I been here before?

   Telling myself to calm down, I forced my feet to continue moving further into the house. Finally, I found the correct door, embellishing a shiny golden door knob. A finger print was visible; even to the naked eye. Looking at my own fingerprint, I recognized a similarity. All of a sudden, I was short of breath - had I accidentally touched the door knob just a moment ago? That couldn't happen again. I caught my breath, regained my composure, and walked in.

   A four-poster bed, surrounded by paintings, bottles, or were they vases? Everything was swimming before me, a kaleidoscope of merging colours. I looked down. Liquid. Crimson liquid. Blood. Blood on my hands, blood on my clothes.My knees buckled, but I felt no pain. Images flashed before me: a raging storm rattling against the windows of the house, door hinges squeaking as they were swung open with force, a towering figure overshadowing the bed. Then a quiet, high-pitched drone could be heard in my ears, slowly getting louder. And louder. It was a scream; an ear-piercing scream rang through my head, but it wasn't my own. The scream filled my head, the image of a knife bearing down on a woman - eyes wide open with shock. Mrs Hadley.

   Then silence.

     Silence.

       Silence.

   I was not dead, I felt no pain. The memories, the flashbacks, were mine, they were recent, and they were from the very place I lay now: shaking.

  Whimpering.

   Crying.        

 

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