A Crime in the Darkness
For a woman, there is one terrible day every month.
I sat on the toilet, enduring the dull pain in my lower abdomen. It was raining outside. It always seemed to rain on the most miserable days, and somehow, miserable days were also when the most miserable cases occurred. I couldn't help regretting, time and again, that I had chosen a career as a detective.
When I finally left the bathroom, I turned my attention to a grim case that seemed strangely suited to a rainy day.
When I first saw the body, I couldn't put my sense of unease into words. I only knew, deep down, that the atmosphere surrounding the crime scene was unlike anything I had experienced at any previous murder. The victim, discovered in a cobblestone alley in northern Italy, was a large, powerfully built man. His body lay in a horrific state, as though it had been torn apart from the inside, and injuries covered him from head to toe that could not be explained by any ordinary knife or blunt instrument. There was a great deal of blood, yet the way it had been scattered was strangely orderly. Despite the unmistakable traces of violence, there was something almost calculated in the stillness of the scene.
As the investigation progressed, we discovered that similar incidents had occurred in the past. All the victims had been physically imposing men. There were signs that they had resisted, but none had managed to defend themselves effectively. It was as though fear itself had robbed them of the ability to move.
When the autopsy results were finally assembled, a name surfaced in my mind.
Andrei Chikatilo.
A serial killer who had operated in Russia, a man known as the Red Ripper. Some aspects of his methods bore a disturbing resemblance to the crimes we were investigating. There was, however, one decisive difference. Chikatilo had been human.
The perpetrator behind these crimes did not fit within the boundaries of humanity.
As I reread the case files, I repeatedly tried to convince myself that this was the work of a copycat, or perhaps nothing more than a coincidence. But with each new crime scene, that hypothesis began to crumble. The wounds left on the victims' bodies were unlike cuts made by blades or marks left by claws. The word torn apart came closer than any other description.
More disturbing still, minute traces had been found at every scene: tiny white particles, so small that they were almost impossible to detect with the naked eye.
Science offered no explanation for them.
Yet they were undeniably there.
The investigation made little progress. My superiors demanded a swift resolution, while the media continued to produce one sensational report after another. As I went back and forth between crime scenes and case files, I gradually became consumed by a strange sensation.
I was supposed to be hunting the perpetrator, yet I felt as though I was the one being hunted. Something resembling a gaze seemed to cling to my back wherever I went.
Even after returning home at night, I could not relax. There were moments when the eyes reflected in the mirror seemed to move a fraction of a second later than my own. I knew it was an illusion, but my body could not entirely reject the unease it left behind.
Eventually, I traced the investigation to a single address.
A room in an old apartment building. It was registered to a man who had some connection to one of the victims, but the accounts given by the neighbors were vague, and I had been unable to establish a clear picture of who he was. All I could gather were scattered fragments of testimony: strange noises in the middle of the night, the persistent impression that someone was inside.
I went there alone.
Perhaps I should have called for backup, but for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I had an instinctive feeling that I must not involve anyone else in this case.
When I stood in front of the door, I sensed something faint on the other side. It resembled breathing, yet its rhythm was irregular, wavering without any discernible pattern.
I didn't knock.
I kicked the door open and stormed inside.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn shut, and the air heavy and stagnant.
There he was.
A man stood alone in the room.
He looked like an ordinary human being. Yet the outline of his body wavered ever so slightly, as though his very existence were unstable.
The man's eyes turned toward me.
In that instant, I understood.
This was not human.
Instinctively, I raised my pistol and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot echoed through the room. The bullet had unquestionably pierced the man's body. Blood sprayed, and flesh tore open. Yet he did not stop moving.
I fired again. Then a third shot.
At last, the man's body crumpled to the floor.
But that was when it happened.
Something white began to pour out from inside his body.
It resembled smoke, or perhaps mist, yet it was neither. It should have been formless, and yet the only way I could describe it was as something that was there.
Slowly, it rose into the air and stopped for a single moment directly in front of my eyes.
I felt a gaze.
I knew, without the slightest doubt, that I was being watched.
The next moment, it flowed out through a narrow gap in the window and disappeared into the night.
Only an ordinary corpse remained.
For a while, I couldn't move. My breathing grew shallow, and the sensations in my body began to dull. Yet my consciousness remained unnaturally clear.
Several days later, I wrote my report.
I recorded everything exactly as it had happened: the apparent possession, the white entity, and the possibility that it had used a human body as its vessel.
At the very end, I wrote a single word.
Demon.
It was the closest word I could find.
But the report was never accepted. Its contents were deemed unrealistic, and it was rejected for lack of evidence. Eventually, it was ordered destroyed.
The official record classified the incident simply as a case in which a single suspect had died.
I said nothing.
I knew there was no point in speaking.
It wasn't over.
One night, on my way home, I suddenly stopped at a street corner.
A man was standing on the opposite sidewalk.
The outline of his body wavered ever so slightly.
Our eyes met.
At that instant, I thought I saw something white stirring deep inside his body.
I couldn't move.
It was definitely there.
Living inside someone else.
『A Crime in the Darkness』 — The End