Chapter 6 of the Jack Moore Chronicles At my
apartment, I found another envelope on the door.
Another rent notice. It found its way to the
trash. The dirty bathroom mirror offered an ugly
reflection. The blood was mostly dry, but the
shimmer moved in a clockwise rotation that appeared
to be increasing in speed. Dry blood came off
easily. A painkiller called my name. It went
down nicely with the Cold coffee on the table.
I lay down on the couch, staring at the popcorn
ceiling. How did Golding's hand get burnt? Was
that creature real? My mind raced, but despite
this, sleep grabbed a hold of me and strangled
me into its embrace. It was 3 a .m. when my eyes
opened. Somehow awaking, despite the concussion
I had hoped might take me out, to find Stephen's
killer. Independent work was necessary. The detective
seemed like a good guy, but he was barking up
the wrong tree. I couldn't shake what had happened.
Was Golding on to something? Could I have done
it? What about the vampire? How could I get away
with just a knock on the head? Dwelling wouldn't
help me. If I wanted to find Stephen's killer,
focus was needed. Dead flowers were found at
each victim's location. Golding had shown me
the flower that was found at the latest victim's
crime scene. It was a white rose. Why a white
rose? They could have chosen any flower. For
instance, a red rose might symbolize romance
or love. A killer might have used that to show
it was a killing of passion. A white rose, though?
My fingers typed white rose and... symbolizing
on Google. The blue light of the phone reflecting
on my languid face. I got a bunch of results.
It represents cleanliness and purity. Could the
killer have a twisted sense of cleansing? The
results got my mind racing in a way that hadn't
happened in a while. The weed helped drown the
thoughts as much as it numbed the pain. Back
in Denver, thoughts got me into more trouble
than it was worth. I rolled a joint that lay
on the coffee table and held the devil's lettuce.
It was too late or early to visit Doug's. I made
myself a coffee and left my apartment. It was
still cold as cow's tits, as the rancher called
it. Christmas was only a few days away. It would
be the kids' first Christmas without Stephen.
This thought motivated me to suck it up and face
the cold. Miles passed as I drove. My thoughts
focused on next steps. I decided to search the
crime scenes. Upon approaching the first scene,
the police tape was gone. The icy wind brushed
against me, exiting the car. I grabbed a flashlight
and my gun from the glove compartment. I wasn't
going searching empty -handed again. This victim
had been found just outside town. According to
Janet's podcast, the body was found in a hole
but not covered up. How Janet found this out,
I couldn't tell you. Did the killer have to run
off and not get to finish the job? Snow crunched
beneath my feet. All the evidence would be gone
by now, but something in my gut told me to come
anyway. My flashlight danced around the night
air. A waste of time, no doubt. As this thought
flooded my mind, my eyes caught something on
a tree. An illumination. flickering like a heartbeat.
My heartbeat and the flickering fell into sync
as I drew near. Was it just some teenagers engraving
their initials into the bark? I walked closer
until my flashlight could make sense of the engraving.
Etched into the bark was a flower with flames
as petals. I ran back to my car and grabbed a
napkin that was stuffed in the glove compartment.
I drew the symbol that was on the tree. I didn't
know why, but that symbol meant something. The
next crime scene was further out of town, the
same symbol etched into a nearby tree. The illumination
in rhythm with my heartbeat. I drove to each
scene until I got to Stephen's crime scene. My
grief wouldn't allow me to get out of the car.
My fists clenched. The pain on my forehead radiated.
In the mirror, the shimmer spun. I didn't know
what was real anymore. But I knew the grief I
felt was. I gained the strength to leave the
car. Police tape still surrounded the area. The
wet snow beneath my boots. As I got closer, my
forehead ached more. I walked closer. The wind
picked up. My flashlight began to flicker. The
light pulsating until it sputtered out. It was
just me. and the dark. I squinted my eyes to
try and see in the harsh wind. It was at this
moment my feet stalled. I couldn't move. My eyes
drifted down. There was only muddy soil under
my boots. What the fuck? In the distance, a howl
echoed. Its sound grew as if gaining momentum
toward me. The wind continued, but the snow faded.
The smell of decaying leaves filled the air.
In the near distance sat a truck as I looked
back toward the gravesite. A figure stood, bent
over, a shovel in hand, howling along with the
distant sounds. My face grew red with rage. I
ran to the figure with the intention to kill.
As I approached the figure, its hood covered
its face. I grabbed its shoulder. pushed it back.
Its face revealed itself. Its facial expression
one of shock. My facial expression the same.
I don't just mean both our faces had a look of
shock, which they did, but it was my face looking
back at me. It was my weary eyes and brown thinning
hair. It was me. I jumped back. The figure dissipated
as I did. Just as the figure dissipated, So did
my anger. An unfamiliar emotion grew from the
depths of my soul. What was this hallucination?
In the distance, a truck vanished into the night.
I turned to see nothing but the darkness. A dead
rose floated over to me and fell softly on the
ground. I picked it up. Snow entered my sight.
The flower incinerated into ashes in my hand.
What the fuck was that? I muttered. My legs gave
out, the snow catching my descent. Tears fell
from my eyes. Chapter 7 of the Jack Moore Chronicles
The crow set upon a nearby tree, its silky feathers
hidden in the vast darkness of the night, its
piercing eyes the only thing visible to an onlooker,
the full moon acting as a source of light. its
eyes focused on the man on his knees it could
see the tears falling from his face his labored
breath visible in the cold air upon the man's
forehead something the crow knew all too well
shimmered flickering and spinning the light source
intensified as if the shimmer were struggling
to keep something from being released its light
created a glimmer in the snow the crow grew tense
as a translucent veil swept horizontally across
its eye the bird's third eyelid momentarily clouding
its gaze before retracting silently was it about
to happen the crow was strong but could the man
be stronger the man's tears stopped and his fist
clenched He looked up to the sky and screamed.
The crow cawed, its wings spreading wide as it
took flight. The man looked in the crow's direction,
but the darkness hid the bird's flight. The man
who screamed from the pain was me. My knees were
numb from the cold. What was real? I gathered
myself and stood up. Jeans soaked. My mind drenched
in confusion. Hallucinations. Once just a shimmer,
now shifting my reality. I walked back to my
car and tried turning the ignition multiple times.
It wouldn't start. Fuck. In the distance, two
large white eyes of light shone through the night.
As it grew close, the blacked out Ford became
clear. You need a ride? Asked Golding. I looked
back at my car. Yeah, I'll take a ride. I got
in his car, the... back seat filled with Christmas
presents. On your way to a Christmas party, I
asked. Something like that, he replied. We drove
back into town, the Christmas lights still on,
the sun starting to rise. You missed the turn,
Golding, my apartment's that way. We're making
a quick stop. I wasn't sure what Golding was
planning, but had a feeling it wasn't good for
me. We passed through town in the middle of a
traffic circle, sat a large tree. It was straight
out of a Hallmark movie. As we curved around
the circle, the tree's lights went out. We exited
the circle to the police station. Golding, why
are we here? Just come on, Jack. I have something
you need to see. It's about the killings. We
walked into an empty police station. As we ventured
further in, Detective Morrow or... Moron sprung
out of someone's asshole. Or most likely his
office. But that's the same thing. What the hell
is this? We just have a few questions, Jack.
I promise it won't take long. I found myself
in an interrogation room. They left me steaming
along with the coffee cup they so generously
provided. It had to have been over an hour before
Golding came in. What the hell is this, Golding?
You want me to work with you? And then you put
me in here? Golding stood silent. He slowly took
off the bandage that was wrapped around his hand.
The hand, like the detective himself, was weathered,
creased with wrinkles and marked by sunspots.
The burn shimmered under a layer of antibiotic
cream. It was circular, its layers telling a
story like the rings of a tree. The inner ring
was the worst, angry, red and raw. It still hurts,
you know. I've seen some crazy shit. It got me
thinking about how you did it. I've only ever
heard of your kind. What kind is that? Viridians.
What the hell is that? What the fuck is this,
Golding? You might be more stupid than Detective
Moron out there. I know you've been snooping
around the crime scenes. Yeah, doing your fucking
job. Or reminiscing about the murders. You know
I know why you got kicked off the force back
in Denver. My head pain increased. I couldn't
live that over again. The temperature in the
room increased tenfold. My hands began to sweat.
Golding, stop. The head pain and hallucinations
were just one reason, weren't they? But you got
someone killed, didn't you? You son of a bitch.
That's got nothing to do with this. And you know
it. Her name was... Jessica, wasn't it? You fucking
bastard. Stop. Now. She was your partner. You
had one job that day. To keep her safe. And you
failed. You failed and she's dead because of
it. Rage filled my lungs. Reddening my skin.
Golding took a step back. His eyes widened in
fear. You fucking... Asshole! My hands began
to shake as I got up. My breath began to labor,
and the pain in my forehead grew. The view of
Golding became fuzzy. The room was silent. His
lips were moving, yet Golding remained silent.
I could only watch the room begin to spin. My
vision blurred. The darkness I'd become accustomed
to took me whole. Awaking, I found Golding once
again standing over me, his hand now wrapped.
I knew there was something about you, Jack. I
don't know what it is, but you're the closest
thing I've got to a lead. I'm sorry I had to
do that, but I needed to see it. See what? What
the hell are you talking about? I asked, pushing
myself up against the wall. Golding stood, hovering
over me. Like I said, I think you might be Viridian.
I ain't never seen one, but you sure got something
going on. My mind was still cloudy from passing
out. Viridian? Yeah, someone who can use magic.
Ha! I laughed. What are you going to tell me?
You're a wizard, Harry? Golding's face grew a
half -cocked smile. You're a wizard, jackass.
Golding didn't say much after that. He helped
me to my feet, handed me a bottle of water, and
told me I was free to go. For now. That was the
part that stuck with me. For now. Like I was
some walking time bomb even he didn't understand.
I didn't ask for a ride home. I needed the cold.
The walk back to my apartment felt longer than
usual. Every step crunching against ice and questions.
Maybe Golding was right. Maybe I was something
different. But that didn't explain why the symbol
was still burned into my mind. Why it felt like
I'd seen it long before any of this started.
I couldn't sleep that night. Sleep was a cruel
joke, dangled like a carrot I'd never catch.
The symbol etched into my mind. Why did it look
so familiar? I tried to think, looking around
my apartment, as if the answer were... hanging
on the wall. My father's photographs kept my
eyes busy. That's it. I walked toward one photograph.
It was of a snowy mountain taken in the Rocky
Mountain National Park. I pulled the frame off
the wall. And on the back, there it was. On the
bottom right, faded in black ink. The flower
with flames as petals. Why would my father have
this symbol? printed on his work. I pulled all
of the photographs off the walls. They lay across
the outdated carpet, the symbol on each one.
What did my father have to do with this? Is this
symbol subconsciously in my mind? Am I really
the killer? Could I be so fucked up? I don't
even remember killing my best friend. How could
I have burned Golding's hand? Doesn't make sense.
None of it. I stayed up until sunlight searching
for the symbol online. There were no results.
Nothing. How could this symbol be on the photographs?
My father was famous for his work. If this was
a signature of his, the symbol would be all over
the internet. My eyes were glued to the screen,
trying to get a glimmer of reasoning. How could
my father be involved? How could... any of this
be happening i needed to visit my father's place
the only issue was i didn't have a car i walked
to the nearest bus stop the trip would take a
few hours hours i didn't have what if the killer
struck again if my father was connected to this
then it was my responsibility one of the hardest
parts of life is being stalled and trying to
find out the truth sitting in a hospital waiting
to find out if your loved one survived or waiting
at a bus stop and able to move forward with your
quest the pain of waiting the anticipation i
sat on the bench my mind racing an old man sat
next to me where are you off to young man my
dad's place you wherever the wind takes me the
old man got up and walked away as he did he turned
and said He's proud of you. Wait, who is... The
old man kept walking. The troubles of age muffled
his hearing. The bus finally arrived. It was
empty. It was just me and the driver. Staring
out the window, I wished for a better life than
the one outside that window. The bus's engine
started. The tires slowly rotated as we picked
up speed. As we passed the bus stop, there it
was. A crow sat upon the sign. Was this crow
a hallucination? Just a dream or another nightmare
turned reality. I looked toward the front of
the bus and back out the window. The crow was
gone. The bus picked up speed. As we passed the
edges of town, the bus driver braked suddenly,
slamming me forward. Whiplash mixed with my headache.
What the hell was that? The bus driver was silent.
His hands were stiff at ten and two on the wheel.
Come on, man, I got places to be. What's the
holdup? The bus driver remained still. As I got
up, I saw it out the windshield. About twenty
feet from the road, a figure stood tall. He wore
a gray hoodie, the hood resting on his head.
A long beard hung from his face. his right arm
stiff, palm out. I walked forward down the aisle.
Come on, man, just go around the asshole, I told
the driver. As I turned to face him, the driver's
hands remained at ten and two. It was then I
saw it. The driver's eyes had gone grey. The
shade was one of lacking. As if his soul had
left his body. Hey, man. You alright? Come on.
I shook the man's shoulder. As I did, his arms
fell limp. His foot remained fully pressed on
the brake. I was jolted back to reality. By the
old bus's rattling engine and acrid smell of
burning oil. What the fuck? I thought. I wish
I had a stronger word than fuck. After what happened
next. Hey you. Yeah you. Thanks for listening
to this episode of the Jack Moore Chronicles.
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