The Forum

by Marie Reyes

  The urge to check the site every five minutes still tugged at his psyche. Impulse control was not one of his stronger qualities. One more time; he would check one more time. Aadesh was rewarded with an update waiting for him.

  A new video. He couldn't click on it right away. Some things required a buildup, and this was one of them. It was posted by the same user that uploaded the last one. It could just be someone with too much time on their hands, collecting sick, morbid videos from the internet. Aadesh liked to think he was one step up from that.

  After a deep breath, he pressed the play button. It was dark again, like the first video. The victim, however, was slim and female. Like the last one, she was duct taped to a chair and unconscious. Seeing a woman instead, helpless, invoked a reaction in him. Less curiosity like the last video, and more of a sad concern. It gripped at his heart and he felt an impossible urge to jump through the screen and help her, but he knew, if this was a video by the same person, it was probably already too late.

  There he was, the same person, well he assumed from the black attire.

  The figure in black turned to face the camera, and all that stood out was the whites of their eyes where the light bounced off them. When they got even closer, Aadesh could swear they were looking right through the screen at him, like they knew he was watching somehow. Those eyes. Light, bright, and blue. Too blue. Those eyes crossed over the line of baby blue into just plain creepy and he looked away.

  Eye contact made Aadesh deeply uncomfortable at the best of times, and this was no exception. He did what he did when someone looked at him in person, concentrating on the space in between the eyes, which in this case, was the black fabric of the balaclava. Once the man stepped away from the shot, Aadesh felt like he could breathe again, yet he knew all too well, that it would only get worse from here.

  A clattering noise made Aadesh jerk his head around and hover his finger over the minimize button. It was now quiet. His block of flats didn't exactly have the best soundproofing, and normally he was used to excessive noise around him. Being alone at night never triggered this response before. In a way, he kind of liked the feeling. It was why he watched horror films. To chase that feeling of tension and unease that made him feel alive, but it became more and more elusive the older, and more desensitized he got from over exposure.

  This video was not filmed in a house like the last one. It looked like an abandoned factory or warehouse with broken windows, rubble, and gray, exposed brick walls. It was hard to tell in the dark. There was only one light source, and it shone on her. When she came around, her eyes burst open and squeezed shut again immediately from the blinding light.

  There was no sound at all on this video, so all he had to go on was what he could see. The light and shadows made it hard to make her out clearly, washing her out and making it hard to see her features with any real clarity.

  One of her arms tore the duct tape away from the chair and she tried to peel away the tape on her other arm. In the spotlight, the tattoo on her arm was clear as day. The black ink bold in the white light. He paused and took a screen capture before continuing and wished he'd just left it on pause when the masked man wrenched the woman's free arm back so hard Aadesh's mind imagined the sound it would make and gritted his teeth. Although he couldn't hear her, his mind filled in the gaps as he saw her mouth open wide in a scream, and he briefly wondered if her actual screams were worse than he imagined in his head. They didn't stab her straight away like the first victim and instead, slowly dragged a thin blade down her left cheek.

  Aadesh winced and looked away. When he looked back, thin lines had been cut on both her cheeks and her forehead. She tried to pull her head back, resulting in jagged cuts. Aadesh felt warm suddenly and took a sip from the glass of water on his desk to try to dislodge the lump that had formed in his throat. Next, they started at the sensitive skin just under the breastbone, carving a message like they did on the last victim, but again, it was obscured by the blood. He needed to zoom in. The media coverage on the previous murder didn't reveal that information either. The footage wasn't clear enough to let him see that fine level of detail. There was no way to know what this sick fuck was trying to convey on their human canvas.

  Why are you still watching this? Turn it off, you freak. The thoughts running through his head weren't enough to stop him following through, and he wondered if there was something seriously wrong with him. He sat in silence for a good five minutes after what he saw, staring into space, and then scrolled through the flurry of posts after the video was uploaded to the site. He'd missed out on a lot while he was asleep.

  Pipes1983: I spent all night searching tattoo websites. I concentrated on Chicago and the rest of Illinois, where the first victim lived, and then neighboring states. Some of them post pictures of the tattoos they do, but this one was so common, it was impossible to pin down. I posted a close-up screen shot of it and posted it to a tattoo forum, but I doubt they would know who did it. It's far too generic.

  Quicky_Mart: I've tried to find the building. Again, I concentrated on Chicago. It's impossible though. We've only seen the inside of a building, and we don't even know if it is in Illinois. I could post it to a forum to see if anyone recognizes it, not sure what kind of forum though. There was that graffiti on the wall. Maybe a street art forum, something like that.

  Shortstacks: Okay. I guess it makes sense that we investigate a different aspect each. What I'm wondering is why the different victims? I read somewhere that murderers have an M.O. and go for a certain type of target based on their preferences, but the two people couldn’t be more different. This makes me think the killer probably knew them, maybe had a vendetta, especially considering in the enhanced audio you posted. They asked the victim to apologize for something. I wish we knew what they carved into them. It looked like they were writing something.

  Pipes1983: That's not really something we can look into is it? That's a job for the cops.

  Shortstacks: Speaking of police, we should probably send them this video, right?

  Pipes1983: I'll do it. I'll just email it to them. Unless someone wants to call them. I hate speaking on the phone.

  Quicky_Mart: Why do you think they posted it online in the first place? Why put yourself at higher risk of getting caught?

  Pipes1983: Maybe he's a narcissist?

  Quicky_Mart: If he had a grudge against them, maybe he wanted that known. To publicly shame them somehow.

  Pipes1983: We don't have any way of determining that though. Besides trawling through the first victim's social media. See if there is anything that stands out.

  Shortstacks: That's if his accounts are public.

  Aadesh pulled up the first victim's details online. He didn't have a strong online presence, just a Facebook page.

  Glenn Clark Dec 6th 08.02

  Still can't believe you're gone man. Going to miss our poker games.

  Wendy Riddler Dec 5th 17.37

  Unbelievable. To think that someone could do something like this. In this neighborhood. There's a special place in hell for whoever did this to you.

  Kristen McBride Dec 4th 07.59

  This is to let you all know that my father has passed away. He was taken from us through violence. You may start hearing about it on the news soon. Thank you for all the condolences so far. Alex McBride, I will never forget you.

  Alex McBride Nov 19th 19.13

  Brace yourself: here come the political posts.

  Alex McBride Nov 17th 19.11

  Couldn't care less what celebrities are up to. Get a life people.

  Alex McBride Nov 11th 18.48

  Wow. The local burger joint got my order right for once. Hell must have frozen over.

  Alex McBride Nov 09th 17.05

  On hold for 40 minutes already. This hold music is driving me insane. Kill me now.

  Alex McBride Nov 05th 08.05

  Some people REALLY need to learn how to drive. Now I'm going to be late for work.

  ~~~

&
nbsp; Aadesh trawled through the previous year’s posts for Alex McBride. Apart from him being a bit of a curmudgeon, okay a lot of a curmudgeon, there was nothing obvious that would justify him being murdered. He and his neighbor seemed to have many a disagreement about lawn ornaments and his brain conjured up an image of a sweet, old lady next door snapping after one provocation too many and tying him to a chair, stabbing him, and carving stuff into his flesh. How dare you insult my lawn ornaments! Maybe that would be a bit of an overreaction. The inklings of a joke started to take shape, and he stored it in his memory for later.

  It was time to concentrate on the location. Quicky_Mart was going to look into the graffiti. A flash of inspiration hit him, and he pulled up his search engine. If anyone was going to know about abandoned buildings in great detail, it was going to be the urban explorer community. His mate Steve had tried to drag Aadesh to many an abandoned hospital, or hotel to film YouTube videos.

  When he wasn't working the 9-5, Steve was obsessed with trying to become a YouTube star. Every week he would come up with a new idea. First, it was stupid pranks, then it was eating insanely hot chillies, until he realized that had been done to death. Then there was the urbex phase.

  Aadesh was certainly intrigued, but he could be such a pussy. The one time he had agreed, he spent the whole time thinking he was going to get arrested for trespassing and couldn't relax for a second. He always wished he could be a bit more of a rebel, but it just wasn't in his nature. He played by the rules, a goody-goody through and through. Aadesh found an urbex group that catered to the North-Central region of the United States and uploaded a couple of screenshots. Now he felt like he'd done his bit, it was time for bed.

  Chapter Seven

  MAPLE RIDGE - BRITISH COLUMBIA

  Martin hadn't left the house since he got fired. Everything he needed was the click of a button away: alcohol, groceries, entertainment. If he needed outside time, he could go out into the backyard of what was his childhood home. The light was fading as he stepped outside, and the brisk air stung his nostrils as he inhaled, reminding him that Christmas was just around the corner, and what a depressing, empty Christmas it would be.

  The western-white pine tree that had been there since he could remember, sat in the right-hand corner, close to the fence, standing guard over the house. He wandered to the end of the patio and placed his hand on the cold steel hood of the barbecue, which was so cold his hand felt like it burned. As he watched the condensation of his breath float off into the cloudy sky, he decided it was probably time to go back inside. It didn't normally start getting this cold until January.

  Once he had made himself a steaming cup of black coffee, he sat in an armchair in front of his writing desk and switched on the desktop computer. There would be no slouching on the couch with his laptop tonight. He meant business. Dana was nestled in one corner of the couch, half concealed with a cushion, and one of her legs twitching as if she were dreaming about chasing a rabbit, or whatever the hell dogs dreamed about.

  Martin logged back into the forum to see if anyone had had any luck uncovering any more about the murders, and partially, just to talk to someone. There was something about having a common goal that made it easier to connect with absolute strangers. He worked by the light of the lamp, and the blueish glow of his computer screen as he blew on his coffee.

  Finally, a response on the graffiti group he had joined. They'd posted a photo in response. The graffiti looked pretty much the same, probably a tag. He read the message.

  Sean Taylor: Spotted this in Milwaukee.

  The member had even provided a Google Maps link of where he had seen it. It was less than two hours away from the location of the first murder. A little tingle traveled up his spine. He was onto something and opened the forum to let the others know.

  Quicky_Mart: Hey guys. Check it out. I found the graffiti. Well, not the exact same one, but look at this link. It was spotted in Milwaukee. Pretty sure I'm on the right track.

  Shortstacks: That's awesome. Good job. It's gone 2am so I should probably go to bed though.

  Quicky_Mart: I might go on Google Maps. See if I can see any buildings that might be the one. It's only 6pm here. Where you at?

  Shortstacks: England.

  Quicky_Mart: Cool. I'm in Pine Ridge, not far from Vancouver.

  Pipes1983: I see you lot have been busy.

  Quicky_Mart: Pipes, hey. Good to hear from you.

  Martin rushed to the kitchen to pour himself a Scotch. He had never really liked it much, but that oaky depth reminded him of his dad, and when he had let him try some for the first time, and he screwed his face up in disgust. This was a fine-aged Scotch, and it would have been a shame to waste it.

  He pulled a thick glass tumbler from the dishwasher and opened the fridge to find out he was out of ice. Oh well. He sighed and filled the glass up a quarter of the way before deciding to bring the bottle with him. Placing the bottle on the table, he glanced at the screen.

  Pipes1983: I've not had any luck trying to find the tattoo artist. I just don't think I'm very good at this kind of thing. I can never guess who the killer is when I watch thrillers, even when people say it's really obvious.

  Quicky_Mart: DW. With these kind of things, most of the time, it's just dumb luck.

  Shortstacks: I have loads of chores to catch up with. Hopefully speak soon?

  Quicky_Mart: Sure. I'd like that. I have a bottle of Scotch with my name on it.

  Pipes1983: That sounds nice.

  Quicky_Mart: You should pour yourself a drink. May make it less of a chore.

  Pipes1983: Can't. Teetotal.

  Quicky_Mart: Oh, sorry.

  So, he was back to being alone. It was just him and Google Maps now. He started from the location of the graffiti that he had been sent, a sketchy part of town. Across the road, was an empty lot surrounded by chain link fencing, and he could see a group of people congregating under a bridge.

  An industrial sized dumpster stood below the graffiti and trash that hadn't quite made its way inside, surrounded it. He clicked further down the road, but his eyes were already starting to blur. The space around him lost clarity, and he felt like there was a hazy shroud between him and the real world, making everything a struggle. It was alright when he was safe at home, but when he would have this feeling at work, it was so hard to focus. He was just floating, separate from his numb body, and the world around him whizzed past at a million miles an hour, while he sat in a foggy daze. His body and brain worked in slow motion, desperately trying to keep up. He stared into space, letting his mind wander, until a new message popped up.

  K-meister: Anyone still here? I'm sorry about the other day. Everything was still so fresh. I actually appreciate your help. The police won't tell me anything. I'm worried they're not doing enough to find my dad.

  Quicky_Mart: Hi there. Happy to help. If there is anything you need, I mean anything. Please let me know.

  K-meister: Thank you. I feel like I could use all the help I can get. You have any leads?

  Quicky_Mart: We've mainly been concentrating on the new victim. We're getting there. It would be helpful to know if anyone had a grudge against your father. There seems to be a personal element there.

  K-meister: I doubt it. My dad doesn't have many friends. He's not been seeing anyone. He got on okay with his work colleagues, I think.

  Quicky_Mart: Do you recognize the second victim at all? I have a screenshot, so you don't have to watch the video.

  K-meister: I saw her on a previous post. Don't recognize her.

  Quicky_Mart: Well, if you think of anything, let us know.

  K-meister: I shouldn't really be telling you this. The police didn't want me sharing details of the case, but on the wall, when I found him, someone had written, you deserved it. But he didn't. Whatever they thought he'd done. He wouldn't hurt a fly. I don't know why someone would write something like that.

  Quicky_Mart: It must be someone he knew then, surely. You can't think of anyone wit
h a grudge, deserved or not?

  K-meister: I swear to god. I have no idea. That's why it's so weird. He pretty much keeps to himself.

  Chapter Eight

  SEATTLE

  Mornings were the worst. Piper couldn't remember a morning where she hadn't woken up feeling like crap. She lay in bed scrolling through her phone. One of her old classmates posted about their successful, self-made business. Someone else had just had their destination wedding in the Caribbean. Enough of the self-pity. It was time to force herself to have a shower.

  She had already driven most of her friends away with her negativity. She wondered what they thought depression was in their heads. Being sad? A quirky character trait? She was sure they didn't think of the unsavory things. Not having the energy to brush your teeth or shower for a week, sometimes longer. The complete and utter self-hatred. She wondered, for a moment, what it might be like not to feel utter disdain when you look in a mirror, but she couldn't imagine it. Such a lofty goal was out of reach.

  An email sat in her inbox, notifying her that someone commented on her post.

  Stevieinkmaster@techcloud.com 07:55

  I did a tattoo just like that. It was ages ago now though. Would struggle to find the name of the customer. Wouldn't be able to share the name either.

  Piper wondered if she should let the police know just in case this was something they wanted to look into. She doubted it. They would probably just think she was nuts. Maybe she was.

  A support group leader once told her to stop surrounding herself with darkness: the depressing music she listened to, the graphic movies she would watch, and the nihilistic websites she would visit. Apparently, it wasn't healthy to surround yourself with groups of like-minded people in an echo chamber circle-jerk about how 'woke' they are for not falling for the lies that society tells us. The eternal voice of unwavering pessimism.