The air vibrated with the constant buzz of flies, joined by the thuds of rushing footsteps going back and forth. A metallic tang, sharp with salt, choked one's nose. The shocking crimson of spilled life and the disarray of broken forms blurred vision. Sudden spells of chill pierced the skin, drying beads of sweat unknown to the individual. Involuntary saliva flooded mouths, a response to the repulsive presence, or tightened, parched by the inescapable grip of fear.

An early-morning call to a crime scene? Not on today’s agenda. Gravel crunched below my feet as I climbed out of my car. My sweaty palm swung the door shut, its sound swallowed by the damp morning air. My feet moved of their own will, guiding me to the yellow barrier sectioning off the scene. The policewoman on duty offered me a tight, small smile before returning to her serious mask. Her firm voice offered me a curt greeting.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ray.”

I offered her a small smile, my fingers already fishing in my pocket for my badge. The gold-embellished insignia glittered in the morning sun.

“It’s just Miss.” I corrected her. “I’m not married. Not yet anyway. Now, what’s going on?”

A quick flicker passed through her eyes. Was that worry? No confusion? … maybe. Whatever it was, it went as fast as it came, and she lifted the yellow tape to let me through.

“Last I saw they were still collectin’. Sergeant Reed should have a better update for you.”

I gave her a small nod of acknowledgement, slipping under the tape. A quick tap on her shoulder, a silent thank you, and then my gaze moved to scan the crowd, searching for Michael, the supervising officer.

“Michael!” I called out, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of the scene.

He was crouched low beside a body, the form incomplete. His head turned at my call, his dark eyes recognizing me, and he straightened. His voice was husky, the southern drawl twisting the ends of his words.

"Hey there, darlin'. Are you sure it's alright for you to be 'round all this?"

My eyes drifted toward the wharf; every crash of the ocean waves against the rotting wood served as a chilling reminder. Recollections of this location surface as fuzzy pictures and indistinct noises. I shook my head, trying to dispel them. Michael’s concerns were warranted, but I could not let the ghosts of my past keep shackling my present.

“So, what happened here?”

His arm reached his head, his hand scratching through his spiky black hair.

“I got here a bit ago. Maybe an hour, maybe two. The old fella who called it in…”

He nodded his head towards an elderly man speaking to an officer just beyond the yellow tape. Age bowed the man’s body, and his hands trembled as he gestured to his every word. 

"Now, y’know this wharf's been let go a long time, so you don't see a lot of cars or folks ‘round here. The poor guy said he was drivin' on down from his place up the mountain, and he came across this… this mess. Man, I wish we could just chalk this up to some kinda gang dust-up gone sideways, but lookin' at these poor souls… well, I just don't reckon it's somethin' as plain as all that."

I nodded; my eyes fixed on the exposed thighs of the man sprawled on the ground. There was one gunshot wound in his chest. The only clean break among all this carnage. There was no trail, no struggle, just a dark, viscous pool of blood spread beneath him flecked with his fragments. 

“Have we found his legs yet or whatever in God’s name was used to do this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Michael sighed, a weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the scene. He gestured for me to follow, and we moved with care around the scattered remains, each dismembered limb and severed body part assaulting my senses.

My stomach churned, my throat holding back any vomit that dared to escape. It didn’t take long to grasp the genuine horror of it. Arms, hands, legs, fingers, ears, feet, heads - anything that could be cut off was. Michael stopped, turning and nodding his head to the side. His voice dropped to a low hush.

“They’re all right here.” He murmured, his voice flat.

I followed his gaze, and my breath hitched. All missing pieces lay scattered on the ground, like items in some bizarre exhibition. My throat tightened, a wave of nausea threatening to bring up my hastily eaten breakfast.

“Michael!”

A deep voice called from behind us. The heavy thuds shifting the gravel echoed toward us. I turned to face the noise; his emerald eyes widened in surprise as they landed on me.

“Hey,” he said, a hint of uncertainty in his tone. “Didn’t think you’d be here…”

I smiled at my old friend. A few strands of his honey-colored hair fell messily across his forehead. 

“Avery, I’ll be fine.” I reassured him. “What’s got you rushing, though? Did you find something?”

His eyes darted between Michael and me, a slight tremor in his lips as he hesitated. His brief silence ends with an unnoticeable shake of his head.

“Just… come with me.”

He led us to the abandoned warehouse; its rusted door held ajar by a moss-covered brick. Inside, the air hung thick with dust as we navigated the village of forgotten cardboard boxes. Sunlight, fractured by grimy windows, sliced through the gloom, illuminating swirling particles in the stagnant air.

“Back this way!” 

Avery called out, our attention caught by the decaying surroundings, as he pointed towards a dimly lit stairwell. The rusted metal groaned under our weight as we climbed, the steps protesting with each creak until we emerged onto the rooftop. Up here, the wind whipped around us, tugging at strands of my chestnut hair, sending them dancing across my face. Avery led us to the edge, overlooking where we’d just been standing. I scanned the area, confusion swirling through my mind. Why had he brought us up here?

Then, an icy dread washed over me, sending shivers down my spine. My eyes traced the gruesome shapes formed by the dismembered remains of those unknown men. I squinted, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, hoping it was a trick of the light. A strange mirage of sorts. But when I opened them again, the terrifying reality remained. Spelled out in crimson against the grey concrete and gravel of the wharf, unmistakable and chillingly clear, was my name.  

S.E.L.E.N.E

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Art: Petra Eggert