The killer took shelter in the old, abandoned Whitehall house. The police gathered in the overgrown weeds outside to discuss an entrance plan rather than simply rushing in. After all, the killer was still armed with the knife he had used to murder his partner.
The house looked haunted and decripit in the moonlight, every window long shattered and what paint remained was colorless and dull. No one had entered the house since the last owners killed themselves twelve years ago. The police fingered their guns nervously.
Caution was thrown to the wind when someone inside the house screamed, high pitched and shrill. “Crap, someone lives there?” Officer Armstong found herself running forward with the rest, bursting through the door sagging forlornly on one hinge. “Spread out.”
The police fanned out, weapons at the ready. Floorboards creaked and broken glass crunched underfoot as they searched for the killer and the source of the scream. Armstrong took the surprisngly intact stairs to the second floor, followed shortly by Harrison.
In the second room, they found the body. It wore the clothes of the killer, and even held the same knife, although the body was years old: desiccated and bony. Before Armstrong had a chance to process this, another scream came from downstairs.
She and Harrison rushed back down, to find Hamilton in the doorway of the kitchen. Just beyond was another body, similar to the first. Only this one was wearing a police uniform. The service weapon was clearly visible in the light spilling in through the delicately-paned French window.
“What the hell?” Armstrong whispered softly, crouching down to turn the body over. The nametag said it was Officer Mayer. Everyone stared at the body in mute horror.
Behind them, the front door quietly shut. No one had entered the house since the last owners killed themselves twelve years ago, and it was hungry.
Detectives Lansdale and McCoy met up at the car. “What do you have?” Lansdale asked his partner.
“A bunch of liars,” McCoy snorted, looking at two empty police cruisers parked in front of the Whitehall house. “The neighbors keep claiming that place has been abandoned for years. If that’s the case, who has been mowing the lawn? Who has been washing the windows?”
Lansdale nodded, looking at the house. “For that matter, if it’s abandoned, who is that little girl waving at us from the second story? I think she wants to tell us something. Let’s go inside.”