Serial killer called the Cypress Creek Night. Carlos del Puente Stories

Serial killer called the Cypress Creek Night. Residents have become increasingly suspicious, their suspicions turn in, since they wonder if the serial killer who is killing could be one of his. This atmosphere of Paranoia has led to a collapse in community cohesion, with conflicting friendships and threatening neighbors.

Detective Anya Petrova, a name whispered with a mixture of astonishment and apprehension inside the sterile halls of the FBI behavior analysis unit, felt the relative sensation of restless bao bao its fine skin. It was not the fluorescent lighting of the Quantico Information Room; It was the extended case file before her, radiating a palpable aura of macabre fear. The "Cypress Creek murderer," the media had called him, and the name was adjusted to the sinister environment as a shroud.

Cypress Creek, located in the mountains of the Apalaches of Western Virginia, there was a city full of a story as dark and twisted as the twisted oaks that surrounded it. For weeks, the murderer had persecuted solitary members of the community, leaving a trace of meticulously staged bodies, each with a disturbing, almost ritualistic precision. Local authorities were bewildered, drowning in endless alleys and endless panic. It was then that the office called Anya.

Anya was not the typical FBI agent. She possessed a often misunderstood air: a constellation of psychic skills that allowed her to perceive the invisible. Postcognition, psychometry, telepathy, dowsing, clairvoyance and remote visualization: they exercised them all, perfected tools for years of rigorous unwavering training and self -control. "The victims," ​​said Agent Davies, the principal researcher, his voice tight under his teeth of frustration, "are all women, aged between 20 and 40. Without forced entrance, without signs of struggle. It is as if they voluntarily let their murderer enter."

Anya nodded, her look at the photos of the crime scene. Each image was a frozen cry in time, a testimony of the murderous art. He spread, his fingers floated on the bright surface and closed their eyes. The world around him dissolved while concentrating, reaching his mind, looking for the echoes of the past.

A wave of nausea dragged her, followed by a mixture of fragmented images that came from the scenes of all the crimes committed in that city -which indicates that her mind was like a warm -cutting of images organized by logical relationships typical of her incredible superior intelligence. A flash of a silver reliquary, Woodsmoke's aroma, the sound of the laughter of a child who is abruptly interrupted and infinite more. 

"He knew them," he said, his voice barely whisper. "Intimately. This was not random. This was patron."

Davies frowned. "We have executed background verifications on all known associates, bride and groom, husbands ... nothing concrete."

"Look more closely," Anya insisted. "Someone who trusted. Someone who was always there, lurking in the shadows."

The atmosphere in Cypress Creek was oppressive, full of suspicion and fear. The residents, once a very close community, were now fractured, their eyes threw themselves nervously, their voices shut up. The murderer's actions had not only charged lives, but they had also poisoned the very soul of the city.

Anya, accompanied by Davies and a team of local officers, began his investigation. He began with the houses of the victims, using their psychometric skills to obtain impressions of their belongings. Each object that played with his beautiful hands whispered a story: a favorite book, a worn photograph, a drawing of a mistreated child attached to the refrigerator. But it was the absences that spoke stronger: the persistent aroma of a colony that did not belong, the slight bleeding on the couch where someone had sat for hours, looking, waiting.

While deepening more, Anya felt a growing underground current of paranoia within the community. The accusations flew like poisoned darts, breaking friends and turning the neighbors into enemies. The local sheriff, a tired man named Brody, trusted her. "People are losing it, agent Petrova. They are beginning to suspect each other. I fear that it is just a matter of time before things become violent."

Anya understood her concern. The murderer was not only taking lives; He was systematically dismantling the community, feeding on his fear and distrust. She had to stop him before he destroyed everything.

One night, while examining the body of the third victim, Sarah Jenkins, Anya felt a different type of attraction, somewhat stronger, more insistent. He focused, allowing psychic energy to flow through it, and saw a vivid image: a barn in ruins on the outskirts of the city, bathed in the spooky brightness of the moon.

"The barn," he said, his urgent voice. "He took her to the old barn on Blackwood's property."

Davies transmitted the information to the team, and in a matter of minutes, they were accelerating towards the location. The barn was a relic of a past era, its woods could be the fall of the ceiling. When they approached, Anya felt a wave of energy, a psychic firm so powerful that she almost removed it.

"He is here," she whispered. "I know."

The officers surrounded the barn, drawn weapons. Davies opened the way, opening the huge wooden doors. Inside, the air was full of organic decomposition and something else ... something metallic and disgustically sweet.

Anya entered, his senses in maximum alert. The barn was empty, except for some oxidized farm implements and rusty hay lots in which numerous kinds of worms insects were twisted. But she could feel it, her presence remained in the air like a hermetic shroud.

He closed his eyes, spreading his telepathic skills, and heard a voice, a twisted and tormented whisper inside his head. "They all deserve it. Everyone betrayed me."

The voice took her to a hidden spill under a lot of hay. With a growl, Davies and another officer opened it, revealing a dark and narrow ladder that leads to an underground.

"Support," Davies ordered. "We are going to enter."

Anya descended to the dark, his hand resting on the cold steel of his service weapon. The air became colder, the shock absorber, and the stench of death intensified. The staircase opened in an underground chamber, an improvised torture chamber illuminated by a single flashing bulb.

In the center of the room, chained to a wooden chair, there was a woman. His eyes were very open in terror, his ice cream body trembling. It was Jennifer Riley, the fourth missing woman.

Standing behind her, under the shadow, was the murderer.

Anya recognized him instantly. It was Mr. Abernathy, the anodine librarian quiet and unpretentious, an accessory in the community for more than thirty years. He held a scalpel in his hand, his blade shone in the faint light.

"Hello, agent Petrova," he said, his soft voice, almost gentle. "I've been waiting for you."

Anya's mind accelerated, trying to understand the twisted logic that had led this man to commit such indescribable acts. She extended her mental powers telepatically, investigating her thoughts and retreated with horror.

His mind was a maze of pain and resentment, a wound of betrayal and abandonment. He believed that Cypress Creek women had harmed him, that they were all part of a conspiracy to destroy his life.

"Why, Mr. Abernathy?" Anya asked, his quiet voice, trying to keep him talking. "Why are you doing this?"

"Everything took me away," he said, his eyes burning from anger. "They laughed at me, they despised me. Now it is his turn of suffering."

He raised the scalpel, ready to attack. But before I could, Anya acted. She channeled her psychic energy, focusing all her power on a single devastating explosion. The bulb broke, sinking the camera in the dark. ABERNATHY shouted, grabbing his head, his mind wobbles from the psychic assault and causing a slight loss of balance.

Davies and the other officers broke into the camera, addressing Abernathy to the ground. Anya hastened next to Jennifer, releasing her from her restrictions.

When Abernathy was worsened, his eyes met Anya. For a brief moment, he saw a flash of understanding in his gaze, a ray of remorse. But he was quickly replaced by the chilling vacuum of his eyes.

Mr. Abernathy's arrest brought a feeling of relief to Cypress Creek, but the scars of his actions remained. The community was fractured, its trust shattered. It would take time, maybe years, to heal. Anya stopped to the edge of the city, observing the dawn painting the sky with gold and crimson tones. She had taken the murderer to justice, but knew that the darkness she had unleashed was delayed for a long time.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the growing sun, taking strength from her warmth. She was a shield against darkness, a lighthouse of hope in a world full of shadows. And she would continue to fight, to protect the innocents, to bring the light to the darkest corners of the human heart.

His trip back to Quantico was filled with silence, except for the thoughts they bounced in his head. Could I have done more? Should she? Was there anything she lost? She knew from experience that these thoughts would remain and were simply part of the work. But this time he felt different. This time, she felt as if the darkness was still out of Blackwood's property and towards the open road.

Back in the Bau, Anya was summoned to the office of director Olsen. The meeting was brief and to the grain. "Petrova, his work at Cypress Creek was exemplary," said Olsen, his illegible expression. "However, its methods are ... unconventional. The office has decided that a couple needs, someone who maintains it on the ground, to ensure that their skills are used in a responsible manner."

Anya felt a wave of anger. She had demonstrated again and again. Their methods can be unorthodox, but they were effective.

"Who is it?" He asked, his tight voice. 

Olsen lay on his chair, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Agent Marcus Cole. He is an experienced researcher, a type of type per book. I think you will be a great team."

Anya felt a feeling of fear washed her. Agent Cole was known for his skepticism, his dependence on logic and evidence. He was all she wasn't.

She knew that this was the way in which the office kept it under control, to control it. But she also knew that she had no choice. She was a pawn in her game, a weapon to be used and controlled.

While leaving Olsen's office, he could not shake the feeling that he was going to another darkness, a much more insidious darkness than anything he had found in Cypress Creek. This time, the enemy was not an upset murderer; It was the institution that had sworn to serve. And he wasn't sure if even his skills could protect her from that. The true veidic terror was about to begin. 

By Carlos del Puente relatos