Chapter 6 of the Jack Moore Chronicles At my apartment, I found another envelope on the door. Another rent notice. It found its way to the trash. The dirty bathroom mirror offered an ugly reflection. The blood was mostly dry, but the shimmer moved in a clockwise rotation that appeared to be increasing in speed. Dry blood came off easily. A painkiller called my name. It went down nicely with the Cold coffee on the table. I lay down on the couch, staring at the popcorn
ceiling. How did Golding's hand get burnt? Was that creature real? My mind raced, but despite this, sleep grabbed a hold of me and strangled me into its embrace. It was 3 a .m. when my eyes opened. Somehow awaking, despite the concussion I had hoped might take me out, to find Stephen's killer. Independent work was necessary. The detective seemed like a good guy, but he was barking up the wrong tree. I couldn't shake what had happened. Was Golding on to something? Could I have done
it? What about the vampire? How could I get away with just a knock on the head? Dwelling wouldn't help me. If I wanted to find Stephen's killer, focus was needed. Dead flowers were found at each victim's location. Golding had shown me the flower that was found at the latest victim's crime scene. It was a white rose. Why a white rose? They could have chosen any flower. For instance, a red rose might symbolize romance or love. A killer might have used that to show
it was a killing of passion. A white rose, though? My fingers typed white rose and... symbolizing on Google. The blue light of the phone reflecting on my languid face. I got a bunch of results. It represents cleanliness and purity. Could the killer have a twisted sense of cleansing? The results got my mind racing in a way that hadn't happened in a while. The weed helped drown the thoughts as much as it numbed the pain. Back in Denver, thoughts got me into more trouble
than it was worth. I rolled a joint that lay on the coffee table and held the devil's lettuce. It was too late or early to visit Doug's. I made myself a coffee and left my apartment. It was still cold as cow's tits, as the rancher called it. Christmas was only a few days away. It would be the kids' first Christmas without Stephen. This thought motivated me to suck it up and face the cold. Miles passed as I drove. My thoughts focused on next steps. I decided to search the
crime scenes. Upon approaching the first scene, the police tape was gone. The icy wind brushed against me, exiting the car. I grabbed a flashlight and my gun from the glove compartment. I wasn't going searching empty -handed again. This victim had been found just outside town. According to Janet's podcast, the body was found in a hole but not covered up. How Janet found this out, I couldn't tell you. Did the killer have to run off and not get to finish the job? Snow crunched
beneath my feet. All the evidence would be gone by now, but something in my gut told me to come anyway. My flashlight danced around the night air. A waste of time, no doubt. As this thought flooded my mind, my eyes caught something on a tree. An illumination. flickering like a heartbeat. My heartbeat and the flickering fell into sync as I drew near. Was it just some teenagers engraving their initials into the bark? I walked closer until my flashlight could make sense of the engraving.
Etched into the bark was a flower with flames as petals. I ran back to my car and grabbed a napkin that was stuffed in the glove compartment. I drew the symbol that was on the tree. I didn't know why, but that symbol meant something. The next crime scene was further out of town, the same symbol etched into a nearby tree. The illumination in rhythm with my heartbeat. I drove to each scene until I got to Stephen's crime scene. My grief wouldn't allow me to get out of the car.
My fists clenched. The pain on my forehead radiated. In the mirror, the shimmer spun. I didn't know what was real anymore. But I knew the grief I felt was. I gained the strength to leave the car. Police tape still surrounded the area. The wet snow beneath my boots. As I got closer, my forehead ached more. I walked closer. The wind picked up. My flashlight began to flicker. The light pulsating until it sputtered out. It was just me. and the dark. I squinted my eyes to
try and see in the harsh wind. It was at this moment my feet stalled. I couldn't move. My eyes drifted down. There was only muddy soil under my boots. What the fuck? In the distance, a howl echoed. Its sound grew as if gaining momentum toward me. The wind continued, but the snow faded. The smell of decaying leaves filled the air. In the near distance sat a truck as I looked back toward the gravesite. A figure stood, bent over, a shovel in hand, howling along with the
distant sounds. My face grew red with rage. I ran to the figure with the intention to kill. As I approached the figure, its hood covered its face. I grabbed its shoulder. pushed it back. Its face revealed itself. Its facial expression one of shock. My facial expression the same. I don't just mean both our faces had a look of shock, which they did, but it was my face looking back at me. It was my weary eyes and brown thinning hair. It was me. I jumped back. The figure dissipated
as I did. Just as the figure dissipated, So did my anger. An unfamiliar emotion grew from the depths of my soul. What was this hallucination? In the distance, a truck vanished into the night. I turned to see nothing but the darkness. A dead rose floated over to me and fell softly on the ground. I picked it up. Snow entered my sight. The flower incinerated into ashes in my hand. What the fuck was that? I muttered. My legs gave out, the snow catching my descent. Tears fell
from my eyes. Chapter 7 of the Jack Moore Chronicles The crow set upon a nearby tree, its silky feathers hidden in the vast darkness of the night, its piercing eyes the only thing visible to an onlooker,
the full moon acting as a source of light. its eyes focused on the man on his knees it could see the tears falling from his face his labored breath visible in the cold air upon the man's forehead something the crow knew all too well shimmered flickering and spinning the light source intensified as if the shimmer were struggling to keep something from being released its light created a glimmer in the snow the crow grew tense as a translucent veil swept horizontally across
its eye the bird's third eyelid momentarily clouding its gaze before retracting silently was it about to happen the crow was strong but could the man be stronger the man's tears stopped and his fist clenched He looked up to the sky and screamed. The crow cawed, its wings spreading wide as it took flight. The man looked in the crow's direction, but the darkness hid the bird's flight. The man who screamed from the pain was me. My knees were numb from the cold. What was real? I gathered
myself and stood up. Jeans soaked. My mind drenched in confusion. Hallucinations. Once just a shimmer, now shifting my reality. I walked back to my car and tried turning the ignition multiple times. It wouldn't start. Fuck. In the distance, two large white eyes of light shone through the night. As it grew close, the blacked out Ford became clear. You need a ride? Asked Golding. I looked back at my car. Yeah, I'll take a ride. I got in his car, the... back seat filled with Christmas
presents. On your way to a Christmas party, I asked. Something like that, he replied. We drove back into town, the Christmas lights still on, the sun starting to rise. You missed the turn, Golding, my apartment's that way. We're making a quick stop. I wasn't sure what Golding was planning, but had a feeling it wasn't good for me. We passed through town in the middle of a traffic circle, sat a large tree. It was straight out of a Hallmark movie. As we curved around
the circle, the tree's lights went out. We exited the circle to the police station. Golding, why are we here? Just come on, Jack. I have something you need to see. It's about the killings. We walked into an empty police station. As we ventured further in, Detective Morrow or... Moron sprung out of someone's asshole. Or most likely his office. But that's the same thing. What the hell is this? We just have a few questions, Jack. I promise it won't take long. I found myself
in an interrogation room. They left me steaming along with the coffee cup they so generously provided. It had to have been over an hour before Golding came in. What the hell is this, Golding? You want me to work with you? And then you put me in here? Golding stood silent. He slowly took off the bandage that was wrapped around his hand. The hand, like the detective himself, was weathered, creased with wrinkles and marked by sunspots. The burn shimmered under a layer of antibiotic
cream. It was circular, its layers telling a story like the rings of a tree. The inner ring was the worst, angry, red and raw. It still hurts, you know. I've seen some crazy shit. It got me thinking about how you did it. I've only ever heard of your kind. What kind is that? Viridians. What the hell is that? What the fuck is this, Golding? You might be more stupid than Detective Moron out there. I know you've been snooping around the crime scenes. Yeah, doing your fucking
job. Or reminiscing about the murders. You know I know why you got kicked off the force back in Denver. My head pain increased. I couldn't live that over again. The temperature in the room increased tenfold. My hands began to sweat. Golding, stop. The head pain and hallucinations were just one reason, weren't they? But you got someone killed, didn't you? You son of a bitch. That's got nothing to do with this. And you know it. Her name was... Jessica, wasn't it? You fucking
bastard. Stop. Now. She was your partner. You had one job that day. To keep her safe. And you failed. You failed and she's dead because of it. Rage filled my lungs. Reddening my skin. Golding took a step back. His eyes widened in fear. You fucking... Asshole! My hands began to shake as I got up. My breath began to labor, and the pain in my forehead grew. The view of Golding became fuzzy. The room was silent. His lips were moving, yet Golding remained silent.
I could only watch the room begin to spin. My vision blurred. The darkness I'd become accustomed to took me whole. Awaking, I found Golding once again standing over me, his hand now wrapped. I knew there was something about you, Jack. I don't know what it is, but you're the closest thing I've got to a lead. I'm sorry I had to do that, but I needed to see it. See what? What the hell are you talking about? I asked, pushing myself up against the wall. Golding stood, hovering
over me. Like I said, I think you might be Viridian. I ain't never seen one, but you sure got something going on. My mind was still cloudy from passing out. Viridian? Yeah, someone who can use magic. Ha! I laughed. What are you going to tell me? You're a wizard, Harry? Golding's face grew a half -cocked smile. You're a wizard, jackass. Golding didn't say much after that. He helped me to my feet, handed me a bottle of water, and told me I was free to go. For now. That was the
part that stuck with me. For now. Like I was some walking time bomb even he didn't understand. I didn't ask for a ride home. I needed the cold. The walk back to my apartment felt longer than usual. Every step crunching against ice and questions. Maybe Golding was right. Maybe I was something different. But that didn't explain why the symbol was still burned into my mind. Why it felt like I'd seen it long before any of this started.
I couldn't sleep that night. Sleep was a cruel joke, dangled like a carrot I'd never catch. The symbol etched into my mind. Why did it look so familiar? I tried to think, looking around my apartment, as if the answer were... hanging on the wall. My father's photographs kept my eyes busy. That's it. I walked toward one photograph. It was of a snowy mountain taken in the Rocky Mountain National Park. I pulled the frame off the wall. And on the back, there it was. On the
bottom right, faded in black ink. The flower with flames as petals. Why would my father have this symbol? printed on his work. I pulled all of the photographs off the walls. They lay across the outdated carpet, the symbol on each one. What did my father have to do with this? Is this symbol subconsciously in my mind? Am I really the killer? Could I be so fucked up? I don't even remember killing my best friend. How could I have burned Golding's hand? Doesn't make sense.
None of it. I stayed up until sunlight searching for the symbol online. There were no results. Nothing. How could this symbol be on the photographs? My father was famous for his work. If this was a signature of his, the symbol would be all over the internet. My eyes were glued to the screen, trying to get a glimmer of reasoning. How could
my father be involved? How could... any of this be happening i needed to visit my father's place the only issue was i didn't have a car i walked to the nearest bus stop the trip would take a few hours hours i didn't have what if the killer struck again if my father was connected to this then it was my responsibility one of the hardest parts of life is being stalled and trying to find out the truth sitting in a hospital waiting to find out if your loved one survived or waiting
at a bus stop and able to move forward with your quest the pain of waiting the anticipation i sat on the bench my mind racing an old man sat next to me where are you off to young man my dad's place you wherever the wind takes me the old man got up and walked away as he did he turned and said He's proud of you. Wait, who is... The old man kept walking. The troubles of age muffled his hearing. The bus finally arrived. It was
empty. It was just me and the driver. Staring out the window, I wished for a better life than the one outside that window. The bus's engine started. The tires slowly rotated as we picked up speed. As we passed the bus stop, there it was. A crow sat upon the sign. Was this crow a hallucination? Just a dream or another nightmare turned reality. I looked toward the front of the bus and back out the window. The crow was
gone. The bus picked up speed. As we passed the edges of town, the bus driver braked suddenly, slamming me forward. Whiplash mixed with my headache. What the hell was that? The bus driver was silent. His hands were stiff at ten and two on the wheel. Come on, man, I got places to be. What's the holdup? The bus driver remained still. As I got up, I saw it out the windshield. About twenty feet from the road, a figure stood tall. He wore a gray hoodie, the hood resting on his head.
A long beard hung from his face. his right arm stiff, palm out. I walked forward down the aisle. Come on, man, just go around the asshole, I told the driver. As I turned to face him, the driver's hands remained at ten and two. It was then I saw it. The driver's eyes had gone grey. The shade was one of lacking. As if his soul had left his body. Hey, man. You alright? Come on. I shook the man's shoulder. As I did, his arms fell limp. His foot remained fully pressed on
the brake. I was jolted back to reality. By the old bus's rattling engine and acrid smell of burning oil. What the fuck? I thought. I wish I had a stronger word than fuck. After what happened next. Hey you. Yeah you. Thanks for listening to this episode of the Jack Moore Chronicles. Curious to see how the story unfolds? Make sure to follow the show so you don't miss what's next. If you enjoyed this episode, please consider leaving a review. It really helps us out. Want
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