A meticulous cleaner for a demonic cult unravels under pressure, ultimately betraying the Brotherhood and confessing their horrific crimes.
Copyright © Priya Florence Shah
§§§§§
Graham stood alone in the small, creaking boat, the soft ripple of the lake gently swaying him beneath a sky streaked with the pale colors of dawn. The water was still, smooth like glass, reflecting the orange glow of the rising sun as mist clung to the surface.
He admired the quiet beauty, the serenity of it all—the untouched nature that surrounded him in every direction. The air was crisp, cool against his skin, and for a moment, the world seemed perfect, as if nothing could disturb this peaceful scene.
But beneath the surface, hidden in the dark, murky depths, floated the dismembered remains of his latest cleanup job—women trafficked and murdered for a twisted cult’s pleasure. The garbage bags he had carefully weighed down with rocks drifted below, unseen and forgotten by the world above. The lake, like his conscience, hid the horrors beneath, while the surface remained deceptively calm and beautiful.
§§§§§
Graham’s world had always been quiet, but tonight, the silence pressed in like the walls of a coffin. He had been doing this long enough to know when things felt off, and as he stood in the grim basement of the Brotherhood’s lair, preparing for another cleanup, that unsettling feeling gnawed at him.
The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering bulb, casting long shadows that seemed to dance on the blood-smeared walls. Three bodies lay sprawled on the cold floor—this time, the women were younger than usual. Their faces were still etched with fear, their empty eyes staring at nothing.
Graham turned away, wiping his gloved hands on his pants, feeling his stomach churn for the first time in years. He wasn’t used to that anymore, that twinge of guilt trying to crawl its way back to the surface.
It was something else tonight. The Brotherhood hadn’t been as careful lately. The number of victims had risen, and their rituals had become more brazen. The snuff films they made were getting darker, bloodier, and increasingly difficult to cover up. They were attracting attention—dangerous attention. He’d heard rumors that the Feds had started watching certain dark web channels.
Graham’s gut told him it was only a matter of time before things went south.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Focus on the task at hand. He picked up the bone saw, its metal handle cold in his palm, and moved toward the first body. A low hiss echoed in the room as he started his work, slicing through bone and muscle with the efficiency of a man too numb to care.
But then came a sound—a creak in the floorboards above.
He froze, listening intently. The Brotherhood didn’t come down here once the rituals were complete. No one was supposed to. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
The creak came again, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy boots. Feds? Impossible.
Graham switched off the saw and reached for the light switch. Plunging the room into darkness, he pressed his back against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. It was the first time in years that he felt truly afraid.
A door opened upstairs. A muffled voice called out. Whoever it was, they were looking for something—or someone.
Graham wasn’t about to stick around and find out.
§§§§§
Graham never wanted this life.
Growing up, he’d been the quiet kid, the one who never drew attention. His father was an abusive drunk, his mother long gone, and all Graham had learned as a child was to disappear into the background. Invisibility was his greatest skill. It was how he survived, how he stayed safe.
That skill had served him well in adulthood. After a series of dead-end jobs, he stumbled into the Brotherhood—first as an errand boy, then as a trusted cleaner. No questions asked. Just keep your head down, dispose of the bodies, and stay quiet. The money was good, the silence even better.
But tonight, something had shifted.
The basement was too quiet now, save for his ragged breathing. He’d always been meticulous, precise in his work. Every garbage bag tied with just the right weight of stones, every murder weapon hidden where no scanner could find it from above. He took pride in his efficiency, in his ability to leave no trace. But the footsteps upstairs… they meant something had gone wrong.
§§§§§
Graham’s flaw was his need for order—his pathological obsession with making sure every job was perfect, every detail accounted for. It kept him in control, in charge of the chaos around him. But it was more than that.
Graham hated surprises, hated anything that disrupted the world he had created for himself. He had built a shell, a protective armor that allowed him to do unspeakable things and sleep at night. Anything that pierced that shell sent him into a quiet panic.
He also had quirks—small things. He always wore the same pair of worn-out boots to the cleanups. They were old, the soles paper-thin, but they were lucky. In his mind, they had helped him avoid detection for years. He also hummed under his breath while dismembering bodies, a slow, eerie tune that had no name. It was the only sound that calmed him.
§§§§§
Three days later, Graham sat in his cluttered apartment, the faint sound of traffic drifting in through the cracked window. He hadn’t slept much since that night. The creaking floors, the boots—it had haunted him. And now, there were whispers on the street. The Feds were getting closer, sniffing around places they shouldn’t be.
Graham had a rule: no personal connections, no relationships. It kept things simple. But tonight, as he sat in the dark with a drink in his hand, his thoughts kept circling back to Maria.
Maria had been a victim like the others, trafficked and used by the Brotherhood for their twisted rituals. But something about her had been different. Graham had watched her as she lay in that basement, right before the ritual started, and she had looked at him. Not with fear, but with a quiet, piercing stare, as if she knew him, as if she understood what he was and wasn’t afraid.
He couldn’t get her out of his head. It made him angry. He wasn’t supposed to care.
§§§§§
The next time Graham met with the Brotherhood’s leader, a tall, gaunt man known only as The Preacher, the tension between them was palpable.
“You’re slipping,” Graham said, keeping his voice low but firm. “Too many bodies. Too many eyes on us.”
The Preacher, sitting in a worn leather chair, leaned forward, his bony fingers steepled under his chin. “We do what the dark requires, Graham. The rituals… they demand blood. You know this.”
Graham’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “If the Feds catch wind of this, they’ll tear it all down. I’m not going down with you.”
The Preacher smiled, a slow, chilling smile. “No one is going down, Graham. We’re untouchable.”
But Graham wasn’t so sure anymore.
§§§§§
The next job came faster than expected. Another woman, another basement, another film. But this time, Graham’s instincts screamed at him—this is it. The woman’s face, her lifeless eyes—they reminded him of Maria.
He worked quickly, dismembering the body and bagging it as usual. But as he carried the bags to the river, he saw the distant glint of headlights approaching from the highway. The hair on his neck stood on end. He wasn’t alone.
The sound of a helicopter cut through the still night air.
Graham’s heart raced. He hadn’t seen it at first, but now, he could hear the distant whir of blades. They were here. The Feds had finally found him.
§§§§§
The flashing lights, the sirens—it was all a blur. Graham ran, stumbling through the woods, the sound of footsteps closing in behind him. His breath came in ragged bursts as he crashed through the underbrush, panic clawing at his chest. They had him. There was no escaping this.
When they caught him, he was on his knees, his hands raised. And then it happened—his carefully constructed world shattered.
In the cold, fluorescent-lit interrogation room, Graham sat hunched over the table, his mind unraveling. He couldn’t stop talking. Everything poured out of him in a torrent—everybody he’d dismembered, every snuff film he’d seen, every sick ritual the Brotherhood had performed.
The Feds listened in silence as he gave up the entire operation. The Brotherhood had been untouchable for so long, but now, thanks to him, their reign of terror was over.
§§§§§
Weeks later, as he sat in his cell, Graham felt the weight of silence again. But this time, it was different. The order, the control he’d clung to for so long, was gone. His mind had fractured under the pressure. The faces of the women, Maria’s face especially, haunted him. He muttered to himself, repeating the same words over and over.
“I cleaned up… I cleaned up…”
But no amount of cleaning could ever wash away the blood.
§§§§§
