An evil couple’s attempt to harvest energy through a deadly ritual spirals into chaos when their crime is uncovered by a determined detective.
Copyright © Priya Florence Shah
The basement was always cold, but tonight it felt like a tomb. The concrete walls, covered in faint moss, glistened under the flickering glow of ceremonial candles.
The air was damp, thick with the acrid scent of burning herbs and something metallic, like old pennies. A steady drip from a leaking pipe echoed against the eerie silence.
Victor Sterling knelt over the small body on the floor, his massive shoulders hunched, his breathing uneven. Seven-year-old Emily Grant’s lifeless eyes stared at the low ceiling, her pale, fragile frame twisted at impossible angles.
Her tiny wrists bore deep cuts where the energy “extraction” had taken place, the blood already dried into dark, accusing lines.
Victor whispered, “Amelia, what… what did we do?”
Amelia stood frozen, the ritual book clutched tightly to her chest. She wore her usual pristine appearance — pearls around her neck, a navy cashmere sweater — but her face betrayed panic beneath the façade.
She swallowed hard, unable to tear her eyes away from Emily.
“You’re the one who insisted on using her,” she snapped, her voice trembling. “You said the younger they are, the purer the energy!”
Victor stood abruptly, towering over her. His fists clenched and unclenched as if trying to strangle his fear. “And you’re the one who swore the ritual was foolproof! That the cult said it would be safe!”
He took a shaky step back. “We just wanted a little influence. A better shot at the board seat. A little luck. Not… this.”
“We don’t have time for blame,” Amelia said sharply, trying to steady herself. Her mind churned for solutions as she paced the room, her expensive heels clicking against the concrete. The room was a mess of overturned bowls, stained cloths, and symbols painted in what she knew better than to call red ink.
She stopped abruptly by the workbench, her eyes darting to the toolbox. “Carl,” she said suddenly.
Victor blinked at her. “What?”
“Carl Jenkins. He was here last week to fix the furnace,” Amelia said, her voice gaining confidence. “The handyman. No one would question it if someone like him… snapped.”
Victor looked at her as if she were insane, then realization dawned. His lips curled into a grim line. “You think we can pin this on him?”
“We have to,” Amelia hissed. “Do you want to go to prison? They’d believe it. A single guy, no family, no connections, already been in the house. It’s perfect.”
Victor hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked at Emily’s lifeless form, then back to Amelia. His guilt warred with his survival instincts. The latter won. “Fine. But we have to clean this place up first.”
Together, they worked in frantic silence. Amelia scrubbed the bloodied symbols off the floor while Victor wrapped Emily’s body in a tarp. The weight of what they’d done was palpable, hanging over them like a storm cloud.
Amelia glanced at Victor as they carried Emily out the back door. “This never happened,” she whispered.
“No,” Victor agreed, his voice hollow. “It never did.”
***
***
Detective Nora Quinn never got used to crime scenes involving children. The woods where Emily Grant’s body had been found were quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. The smell hit her first — earthy decay mixed with something sour.
Emily’s body lay at the base of a tree, still wrapped in the tarp. Her pale face peeked out, her expression frozen in a silent plea for help. Quinn’s stomach churned, but she didn’t flinch. She never flinched.
“Cause of death looks like blood loss,” said Ortega, her partner, flipping through his notes. “And these symbols?” He gestured toward Emily’s wrists. “They’re… strange.”
Quinn crouched beside the body, inspecting the markings closely. They were precise, almost ritualistic, and definitely not something a random killer would do.
“Neighbors mentioned a handyman, Carl Jenkins,” Ortega continued. “Apparently, he was working at the Sterlings’ house a week ago.”
Quinn stood, brushing dirt off her knees. “A week ago? Why would they bring that up now?”
Ortega shrugged. “Said he gave them ‘bad vibes.’”
“Bad vibes don’t explain this,” Quinn muttered, gesturing to the scene. “Let’s talk to Carl.”
***
Carl Jenkins lived in a run-down apartment building on the edge of town. The smell of fried food and mildew greeted Quinn and Ortega as they climbed the narrow staircase.
Carl opened the door cautiously, his gaunt face pale. His hands were stained with grease, a mechanic’s badge of honor.
“I already told the other cop,” Carl said nervously. “I didn’t do anything to that little girl.”
Quinn’s gaze was steady. “We know you worked at the Sterlings’ house last week. Can you walk us through what happened?”
Carl sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Sure. They called me about their furnace. I fixed it in a couple of hours, got paid, and left. That’s it.”
“Did you see the girl while you were there?” Ortega asked.
“No,” Carl said, shaking his head. “I didn’t even know they had a kid. They kept to themselves, didn’t talk much.”
“Where were you the day she went missing?” Quinn asked, watching his face carefully.
Carl’s eyes widened. “Fort Worth. Roofing job. My boss and the crew can back me up.”
Quinn nodded. “Thanks for your time, Carl.”
As they walked back to their car, Ortega frowned. “If Carl has an alibi, why are the Sterlings so eager to blame him?”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”
***
The Sterling mansion was all marble floors and gilded mirrors, a monument to wealth and privilege. Amelia greeted them at the door, her makeup flawless, her demeanor cool.
“Detectives,” she said, her voice tinged with sorrow. “Please, come in. This whole situation has been devastating.”
Quinn stepped inside, her sharp eyes scanning the immaculate living room. Victor sat stiffly on the couch, his hands clasped tightly.
“We’re here about Carl Jenkins,” Quinn began. “You mentioned he seemed suspicious?”
Amelia nodded. “Yes, he kept staring at Emily’s picture. It was… unsettling.”
Quinn tilted her head. “Interesting, because Carl has an alibi for the day Emily went missing. He was out of town.”
Amelia’s polished composure faltered. “Well, maybe he came back. I don’t know his schedule.
“That’s funny,” Ortega said, pulling out his notes. “Because the only time Carl was at your house was a week before Emily disappeared. To fix your furnace.”
Victor shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Quinn leaned forward, her voice steely. “It has everything to do with this. You wanted to frame Carl. But the evidence points to this house. The symbols match a book found in your study, and Emily’s blood was in your basement.”
Amelia’s mask shattered. “You can’t prove anything!”
Quinn smiled coldly. “Oh, we can.”
***
***
The evidence was overwhelming. Blood-stained tools, ritual books, and fibers matching the tarp found in the woods sealed the Sterlings’ fate.
In court, the jury convicted them of first-degree murder.
As Amelia and Victor were led away in chains, Amelia sneered at Quinn. “You think this is over? You don’t understand what we were trying to achieve.”
Quinn’s expression was unyielding. “I understand enough to know you’ll never hurt anyone again.”
Back at her desk, she stared at Emily’s photo, her green-gray eyes softening. “Rest easy, kid. You’ve got your justice now.”
***
