I Thought I’d Play Detective.

Crime Fiction by Trelaine Ito

“This is a bad idea,” I said, aloud, to myself. I was right, of course. I shouldn’t be in the woods to begin with, at least not this late and especially not alone. My father taught us to go out in pairs. Always.

I generally don’t like the night. There’s something about the darkness that transforms everything it touches into something a little more terrifying, a little less known. Without the sunlight, even familiar woods become foreign. The darkness plays tricks on your senses and you see the world differently. A new reality imposed on you by the night.

But I went to the woods because I heard a sustained series of noises, something akin to a cry for help but without the urgency. I happened to be walking near the path to the lake when I first heard the muffled shouts. They were distinctly human, but I couldn’t make out any words. And it was only after the fourth or fifth one that I decided to search for their source.

The sun was well into its descent, its final rays shining through the gaps in the fir trees’ branches, like fingers of light blindly probing the forest. The shouting had stopped several minutes ago and the shadows had me turned around, so it took me a while to find my bearings. And that’s when I stumbled upon the body.

“Are you okay?” I asked, unsure if the person was conscious. I assumed he was male by its look—broad shoulders, a denim jacket and matching bootcut jeans, the wallet bulge in his back pocket, and his buzzed hairstyle—but I didn’t investigate further. Instead, the first thing truly I noticed was the dirt under his fingernails, as if he had spent the night digging out of a shallow grave. His hands were muddy too and there were flecks of soil on the back of his otherwise clean flannel shirt. But it must’ve been the contrast between the whiteness of his cuticles (and the fact that he hadn’t cut his nails in a while, seeing as they were overgrown enough to collect dirt) against the darkness of the earth, lodged deep but still visible underneath the semi-translucent material, that made me fixate on his hands. I could see in my mind’s eye him crawling through the forest, presumably because he was injured.

He was lying prone on the ground, almost asleep-like, with his arms stretched out above his head. His face was turned, resting on his right cheek. I knelt down to check his neck for a pulse, hoping that he’d wake up and tell me what happened. But he was cold to the touch. That’s when I noticed that both of his eyes were wide open and empty. He looked shocked, but with an unmistakable hint of expectation, as if he knew who his killer was and yet was also surprised that he had been killed. (Although, it was just a working theory. I didn’t know for sure that there was a killer at large.)

“Jeez-us,” I said, startled by the death in front of me. I stood up too quickly which caused a rush of lightheadedness. Dazed, I looked around, afraid that the killer would come after me next. It was now dusk and we were a few hundred yards beyond the edge of the forest.

“A crime scene,” I muttered under my breath. I had no desire to be a police detective professionally, but I understood the alure. After all, who doesn’t like solving mysteries?

I suspected that the dead man had been walking back from the lake, but something must’ve startled him because he had veered from the path and died next to a row of unmarked and unremarkable trees. There weren’t tire tracks nearby, so deductive reasoning concluded that the killer was also on foot. Maybe he (or she, but I had a gut feeling that the killer was a he) had left to finds tools with which he could hide the body. Luckily, I was here to find and preserve precious evidence. (I was, maybe, acting a little too excited to play pretend-detective, but I enjoyed the intrigue and the thrill of a mystery. Even if there was a dead person in front of me.)

I tried my best to retrace the dead man’s steps, but I was losing the light quickly. I ran toward the lake, hoping that there would be someone there to help me with the body. The closer I got to the water, the more clearly I could hear a faint echo in the distance.

“Devon! Devon!”

The shouts sounded panicked, as if Devon had gone missing both very suddenly and not that long ago. A grim thought occurred—that I’d be the one to announce Devon’s death.

I stopped running, slowing down my pace to control my breathing. A defensive “Look, guys, it wasn’t me. I can explain,” never comes off as convincing as you think it does, especially if you’re sweaty and out of breath. I also wiped my hands on my pants, erasing any lingering traces of Devon and the dirt around his body.

As I approached the lake, the echoes got louder. Once I left the forest, I could spot the source—a woman at the edge of the lake. She was alone, wearing a thin beige cardigan over a white sundress and she was barefoot, which indicated that she hadn’t’ intended to stay out this late because the lake got cold at night. And, for whatever reason, she was shouting out toward the water, as if Devon had drowned and the mere sound of her voice would pull him up and lift him back land.

Not wanting to startle her, I approached quietly from behind.

“Devon! Devon!”

I could hear that she was starting to lose her voice. Nevertheless, she didn’t change tactics, continuing to call out to the lake for assistance.

Unaware of her surroundings, the killer appeared behind her, only I assumed he was there to help her at first. I didn’t see him approach, but I saw his reflection in the water. He walked silently, but with haste. When he reached the woman, he simultaneously kicked her legs out from

under her and grabbed her head with both hands. As she lost her balance and fell forward, his hands guided her head down to the water. Out of context, it looked like he had simply caught her head, sort of like a basketball, and was now about to dribble it. But once her face hit the water, he leaned in and kept her underwater. Her lungs must’ve been tired from the shouting because she thrashed for only a few seconds before she went still.

The killer surveyed his victim and decided to drag her out to the deeper water and let her body either sink or float. I decided to leave the scene before the killer turned to me next. I was surprisingly calm for someone who had just witnessed a murder, but I assumed it was because I didn’t want to panic and put my own life in danger. I tiptoed back into the forest, retracing my steps. Not wanting to give away my position, I walked adjacent to the trail that led to the cabin, weaving through the trees and branches while keeping one eye on the path in case the killer was headed this way as well.

When the trail forked, I knew that to my left was where I had found the dead man (who I assumed was Devon). To my right was the neighboring cabin, which was more like an angular lake house set deeper in the forest, further from the water than you’d expect. Each floor had a balcony that almost ran along the circumference of the building, but with gaps near the front of the house, creating a hooked U-shape. The windows were large, almost floor to ceiling, and the back jutted out in a triangular prism (for aesthetic more than functional reasons, I’m sure).

To be honest, the whole lake house was a ridiculous eyesore that gave its occupants no privacy. Anyone could watch from the forest and study each person’s schedule and movements. The windows were particularly dangerous because the curtains were always left open. And the balconies gave easy access for any would-be intruder.

As I approached the house, I noticed that all the lights were on and I could see a pair of people sitting across from each other in the living room—a man on a lounge chair scrolling through his phone, and a woman sprawled on a sofa reading a book. They looked unaware that two people were dead nearby (clearly the shouting at the lake didn’t reach the house, no doubt muffled by all the trees).

Being otherwise occupied, they didn’t notice me jump over the balcony and test the back door handle. I was surprised that it was unlocked, especially with a killer roaming (but obviously they didn’t know about the killer yet so that could explain their carelessness). Regardless, I quietly entered the house, determined not to startle the couple. I turned left to the hallway that led to the bedrooms. I looked around, making sure that no one else was in the house. After all, what if the killer had beat me here? He could’ve taken a direct path and snuck in through a window.

Walking up to each door, I peeked inside every room, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. After checking the last door, I turned to retrace my steps and head back toward the living room. And there was the reading woman, frozen at the other end of the hall, staring at me.

I could tell from her trembling that she was both in shock and afraid. I held up a hand, encouraging her not to panic as I approached. As I got closer, she looked ready to scream. But right as she opened her mouth, the killer appeared and grabbed her by the throat, silencing any sound she tried to make. I could only watch as he strangled her. Her eyes kept the same look of fear and alarm the whole time, but unluckily she remained frozen, barely even fighting back as the killer choked her. As her body stilled and fell limp in his hands, the killer gently let the woman fall to the ground, careful not to make any noise.

“Bethany?” The man called for the now-dead woman from the living room. Not hearing an answer, it sounded like he stood up from his seat.

Thinking quickly, the killer ran toward the kitchen. But the man took a surprise turn and walked into the kitchen as well.

“Bethany, is that—” the man started, but when he noticed the killer, his fight instinct kicked in and he ran toward the intruder. Too slowly because the killer had reached for a knife on the counter. It was next to a cutting board and a few leftover slices of an apple. How dangerous to use such a large knife for such a small task, and irresponsible to leave it lying out, which was unlucky for the man because the killer quickly thrusted the knife forward right as the man reached him.

After a few seconds where no one moved, the killer withdrew the knife and the man looked down, just in time to watch the killer stab him again. And again. And again. With nothing but a t-shirt to protect him, the man watched his own death for as long as there was life in his eyes. His body remained upright as if his muscles and joints locked into place the moment he was attacked. Long after the man had died, the killer kept stabbing.

With one last thrust, the killer left the knife in the man’s body (like a lumberjack would leave his axe in the stump of a felled tree) as he finally crumpled to the ground. The killer then turned and caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the chrome-finished refrigerator. It was odd, in that moment, to see my face, flecks of blood on my cheek and forehead.

I was breathing heavily (who would’ve known that stabbing could be so tiring?) as I knelt down to look closely at the dead man’s eyes. Just like Devon’s, they were wide with shock and recognition. I reached for the knife and pulled it out to inspect it. But holding the knife in my hand, I felt the terrifying power in my hands, the potential of each swing and thrust. The blade itself was as long as a bread knife, with a slightly curved edge, but the handle was perfectly balanced.

It was much more efficient than the axe I had used on Devon in the woods. But the other drawback was the blood. I had barely noticed Devon’s blood in the woods, no doubt a feature of the dirt and foliage. I only had to swing the axe a few times, piercing Devon’s stomach and upper chest, which is why he fell forward and tried to crawl away before expiring. He likely bled out from his injuries over the course of a few minutes.

Here in the kitchen, there was so much of the reading man’s blood, as if I had punctured a can of red paint and it had slowly leaked all over the floor. How could I possibly clean all of this up?

Just then, I heard the front door open.

“Bethany? Ryan?” said the new arrival with a softer male voice than the reading man. “Do you know if Devon and Jenna are back yet? We should really start cooking dinner.”

He approached the kitchen, and I instinctively picked up the knife again. (I was more concerned about having to clean up a second mess.)

“Bethany? Ryan? Hello?” There was a hint of panic in the man’s voice, as if he could sense in the air that something was wrong. When he finally turned into the kitchen, he saw Ryan’s body before he saw me.

It’s interesting to watch different people scream. Some are deep and loud, like a primal roar to intimidate your enemies. Some are tight and shrill, a true expression of startled fear. But some, as was the case with the new arrival, are wide-mouthed and muted, as if the shock prevents any sound from escaping your throat.

His silent scream lasted for several seconds, and he crumpled to his knees before thinking it was a good idea to look for some weapon of his own, anything to defend himself. Still screaming, he watched as I approached him with a giant knife in his hand. (This renewed his silent scream, and it was, honestly, a little funny. Like someone had accidentally switched his volume off, but he was unaware. I had to suppress a giggle.)

“Sorry about your friends,” I offered weakly.

“Who are you?” the new arrival sputtered out, visibly shaking from head to toe.

“Me? Oh, I’m your neighbor. We met last week when you. My parents and I saw you at the lake and said hi. You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Did you kill Ryan?” he asked, even though the answer was quite obvious.

“Yes,” I responded dryly. “And the other three.”

“Why are you doing this to us?” His question was so interestingly phrased because of his use of the present tense. I had already done something to his friends. It was over now, at least for them. It would be inaccurate to say that I was still killing his friends, especially because they are already dead.

“You mean, ‘Why have you done this to us,’ right?” I offered as a correction.

“What?” His confusion briefly paused his fear, as if he was startled into a state of lucidity by my question.

“Your phrasing was wrong.”

“You killed us over grammar?” He started to look angry, unsatisfied by the answers he was getting and clearly frustrated by the conversation.

“No, but what a world it would be if people were killed over grammar.” I chuckled at my own joke.

“What do you want from us?”

“‘From you,’ you mean,” I clarified. “I can’t want anything from your dead friends.”

“So, Devon and Jenna and Bethany are dead too?” This realization returned fear to his face. The fluctuating display of emotions was sort of beautiful in its portrayal of the range of human experiences.

“Yes. I already said that.” I was starting to get annoyed by the circularity of this conversation.

“And you’re going to kill me next?”

“Yes.” Obviously.

At this, the new arrival audibly sighed, as if accepting his fate (more quickly than I would have if our situation was reversed). He looked at his dead friend and the pool of blood, staring for nearly a minute in silence.

At the same time, I briefly turned toward the refrigerator, catching a glimpse of my reflection again. But I saw the killer as a separate person this time, his face distorted and next to mine. And then our faces started to merge, like in the cartoons when someone would hit their head and see double, and the figures would shake separately until they eventually unified in the middle. After several seconds, there was only one face reflected in the refrigerator.

Noticing that I was distracted the new arrival scrambled to his feet and dashed toward the front door. I heard it open and then there was a loud blast that sounded like my father’s shotgun. I walked toward the noise and found the new arrival was on his back, a spray of pellets in his chest.

“Now Mikey, you know better than to do this all by yourself,” my father said as he walked through the front door, his shotgun resting on his shoulder.

My mother followed him into the house. “Is there a big mess this time? Five is little too much for one person to handle.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what came over me, but I saw the tall one in the forest and I guess I just got carried away. And I was investigating like a police detective, like how would I—”

“You’ve been watching way too much TV,” my mother said, interrupting me.

“Well, let’s just get this place cleaned,” my father added.

“Yes, but first let’s eat,” my mother said. “Dinner was getting cold while we waited for you to come in. That’s why we went looking for you.”

“And good thing we did,” my father concluded.

“Yeah, I’m glad you solved the case,” I said, chuckling at my own joke. My parents rolled their eyes, but lovingly.

“Yes, well, you tend to get… carried away in the dark, dear,” my mother said. Then she took the knife from my hand and turned to leave the lake house. Shouting back at me as she and father walked out the door, she added, “Remember to wash your hands.”

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Bio: Trelaine is originally from Hawaii, but, true to form, he saw the line where the sky meets the sea, and it called him, so he currently lives and works in Washington, D.C. He enjoys origami and washing dishes and taking pictures of clouds and sunsets (but never sunrises because he’s not a morning person). You can find him at his various social media sites. Twitter/X: @trelaineito , Instagram: @trelaine, LinkedIn: @trelaineito

Photos by Pexels, Expedia, Amazon

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