Haunting Noire
Story by A Smiling Face on SoFurry
Greentext psychological mystery
Completed
>Another day another murder rape
>Today it was a nun ran through a chipper shredder
>Life ain't easy being the only Anthro Crime Investigator in Kiluak City
>Especially when your a human
>Generally the killings or rapes are pretty easy to solve
>the perps are so sloppy
>Except for one, he always sends you VHS tapes of them
>You get them in the morning and at Noon exactly a body is found.
>Most of your fellow humans hate you for having their son, father, brother, or friend sent to jail where they're often ripped apart by the Anthro inmates.
>The justice department is the only non-segregated institution here
>Most of the Anthros hate you too, thinking you charge too damn much.
>That being said you charge less than the national average due to the volume of work.
>It's a lose-lose but boy does it pay.
>Today is a slow day by any metric
>You're just watching the tapes over and over searching for the barest of clues
>It's a concrete room you've determined
>but that's no help to you.
>It's the man's usual murder-rape
>Going hole by hole
>Then cut by cut.
>The screams
>All the same
>Staring at the bloodied corpse something catches your eye
>The bleeding patterns of a broken hymen
>With a moment of clarity you decide to review every tape
>one by one
>All the same
>All virgins
>You call the local anthro pastors and priests and tell them of your findings
>Some thank you and will tell their congregations come Sunday
>The Catholic just hangs up without saying thanks
>You call the schools next to send letters home to the parents
>Some blow you off
>Others heed your warnings as if a commandment
>Finally a customer comes through the door, a monstrous wolf
>He looks oddly unnerved by you
>"What brings you here sir?" You ask
>He hands you a yellow packet and leaves quickly
>Its a compilation of letters of to the families of the mystery serial killer's victims
>Your stomach lurches as you read each essay long letter detailing the sensations your sadistic target felt.
>He's a sick bastard for sure
>Talking about how "such innocence had to be punished"
>You look to your gun case, the Colt Monitor, Winchester 1887, and handy Model 28.
>You've used all of those guns more times than you'd like too
>Always a fight with the rich ones
>Never just "I did it"
>Always "they deserve it"
>A shame really
>More so the fact you can't rent anywhere so floor two is home
>Still, out there, somewhere is serial killer who is the sole person that's alluded you
>Every time you feel you get closer, but every time he slips past.
>Just before you close you hear the telltale screaming of a kidnapping or rape
>You grab your revolver and take to the crime ridden streets
>You worm your way towards the labyrinth of slums
>the screams get closer
>You round a corner to find four thuggish black guys surrounding an iguana no older than 15
>"Boys is it really worth the 18 years as pedo?" You ask trying to dissuade them
>"Oh look its the fur-lover" snaps one of them reaching for his waistband
>you draw
>"Not quick enough" you remark
>A police car rolls by not caring at all
>"So are we gonna start shooting or are yall gonna leave?" you ask
>"This job pays too much Detective Anon" One leers reaching for his
>"shame" You say
>"It really is" says one of the men
>All four draw
>two catch a .357 to the chest before they can raise their pistols
>one gets a shot off an misses
>The two scatter
>"you alright?" you ask the iguana
>she scurries off
>disappointed you turn around leaving two still warm corpses behind.
>let the rats have em
>As you near your office once again you see a figure in front of it seeming to laugh
>you load your empty chambers and approach quietly
>You see them leave a package
>no
>no
>No
>NO
>Not again
>You turn to look to where the figure went
>A van
>Plate Numbers 1456b1fs
>Got it
>Remember it
>You fire at the van, a quarter size hole appearing in the back of it.
>You walk up to your door punching it before opening it
>You lost
>again
>you write down the plate number
>and the fact you put a bullet hole in the van
>tomorrow you're going toe the DMV, Wednesdays tend to be slow
>You open the package.
>Another tape
>Goddammit
>You watch it
>It's as sick as it is normally
>cloaked from head to toe, laughing
>At the end he approaches the camera with a message off a typewriter
>"got a new camera, hope you liked the sounds"
>You want to find this man and give him over to the authorities
>You've given the tapes to the police before to make copies, but they don't care
>You feel eyes on you
>you turn quickly only to find nothing
>you hear what seems to be footsteps
>taking your shotgun you rush upstairs and swear you saw the glimmer of something for a second
>you take a beer and go back down stairs
>the smoothness of the shiner bock helps to calm you
>you just killed to men in broad daylight and a serial killer delivered to you a snuff tape
>maybe the stress is finally getting to you
>you hear a whisper in your ear
>"hello there" it says as if gurgling blood
>it's feminine
>you look at your shotgun
>what's the point of being here again?
>helping people who don't want you?
>"please don't" it protests
>you turn to see it
>a figure standing like glowing smoke
>bleeding from her throat and crotch
>"what are you?"
>"lonely" it says
>"and cold" it follows
>you restart the tape
>the part where the man has his belt around her muzzle
>"yep that's me alright" she says
>"Who did this to you?" you demand
>she seems to look around for a moment deep in thought
>she gets progressively more frustrated and her glow begins to shift to red
>"I don't know" she says before vanishing
>not a fade or anything like that, simply is to isn't
>great
>you down your been in a few chugs and head over to your wine cooler for a bottle of gin
>the stress has finally gotten to you
>You crack the screw lid and down about half before you feel like throwing up
>Next is a fag cigar as you reach for your tobacco box
>The cow lady sneers at you
>"Boy you smell like booze and sadness" She remarks
>"You try waking up every morning to a dozen murders, rapes, and kidnappings and tell me how you feel?" You protest
>"Well we 'thras ain't got that opportunity hum-hum" She says with all the sass of a half-water buffalo woman
>"Lady, have you ever seen a nun run through a chipper shredder?" You ask
>"W-What?" She asks
>"Though so, shut up and let me do my goddamn job" You say taking a bite out of one of the donuts
>"Goddamn, a hangover, racism, and waiting around, all this needs is a busted boombox and it'll be a case on Bleeding Betty's" You say
>Waiting in the cold December air is punishment in its own right the growing number of hateful stares from human and anthro's alike is salt in the wound
>You finally hear a series of locks get undone and four officers step out followed by a tiny clerk
>She hands everyone numbers and you fall in line.
>Waiting for the tiny woman to get behind her desk is torturous
>Finally she gets there and the cow bitch steps up
>"WAAAAAAHHHHLLLLL" She bellows
>You take a large gulp of your coffee and don't even bother trying to hide mixing in your Irish Cream from your flask.
>One of the cops puts forward his cup too
>You oblige him quickly
>After about 15 minutes the bitch walks out tail swaying
>"I need you to run a plate for me miss." You ask
>"Oh alright what is the number?"
>"1456b1fs" You reply
>You have to say about 20 more times before she gets it
>A certain Joe Flamagank down on 15th and Hawkins
>You walk back out to your car to find a group of hooligans with a tire iron trying to steal your wheels
>You draw and yell
>They scram
>As is life
>You make your way back home, its about a half hour faster to walk and you need your duffle bag anyways
>The usual groups of thugs stand outside their liquor stores while the mafiosos wait outside their barbers and restaurants.
>Giggling can be heard from your door as you approach
168.
>The giggling stops the moment you put your key in the lock
>The bolt puts up a fight and you hear what seems to be multiple female voices laughing
>You draw your pistol and move through your home-office
>You see the eyes on your framed polaroid seem to follow you while random distant footsteps stop and start
>Some hooved, some pawed, some clawed.
>You think you see bloody smiles out of the corner of your eyes
>Snickering and muffled laughing as you look around
>You walk up the stares feeling what seems like dozens of eyes on you
>You quickly turn behind you to see the shape of a teenage fox girl
>bleeding from the throat and crotch
>glowing like a faraway searchlight in heavy fog
>Then she just flickers away with a sound akin to a dying sigh
>So last night wasn't just a bad dream
>You dig around your desks for the coveted whitepages
>Finding what you need you turn around to see about two dozen ghostly heads with endearing smiles staring at you
>You hear what feels like distant fleeting cheering as you leave
>The cold, cold inside of your shitty car
>Right, you have to get down to 5th and Jackson to pay a certain Mr. Flamagank a visit
>but not before you make a quick stop at the hardware store and supermarket
>A quick detour and you have some Nair, a potato peeler, and a hundred feet of rope
>Helpful tools for, information persuasion, to call it
>You can hear distant cheering as you drive
>Probably just a high school something
>Probably
>You pull up to the address, a van rental place
>You throw your new purchases in a satchel and exit
>You're greeted by a large Rhino
>"I need to speak with a Mr.Flamagank"
>"Yer speaking to him." He growls
>"This'd be better behind closed doors sir."
>"Understood Detective" He growls
>You follow him inside of the rental room
>It's warm all things considered
>He offers you a coffee which you accept
>"I need to know the name of one of your clients sir."
>"Fer wat?" He asks
>"They would either be a lead or the perp on the serial killer"
>"Is that so?" He says clearly interested
>"Yes, plate number 1456b1fs"
>"Lemme check my records, that is one of my vans, but many are long term rentals, so keep that in mind." He says going to the back.
>You sip from the coffee
>It's "coffee"
>It has all the taste of dirt in water and all the kick of caffeine a man could ask for
>Soon the rhino returns with a big file
>"here, take it and go. I'm only heling you because I know a family of a victim." He grumbles
>"Thank you"
>The file has some wonderful details
>Another name
>George Wittacker
>A name you're rather familiar with
>Well known too
>Owner of the largest delivery service in the city
>Also a city councilman
>Dammit
>Well you have your "persuaders"
>Now you need a plan
>And some, "situational friends"
>Ugh
>Skinning him isn't an option
>Waterboarding in diesel it is.
>Saves you the trouble of water sourcing
>And hides fingerprints
>Detective shit
>You drive down the docks and steal a rusted barrel of oil
>One of the large seals just tips his hat as you leave
>You return back home
>It's silent
>You sit down on your desk
>Watching the tapes
>Over
>and
>Over
>You walk across the street to the convenience store
>A 40oz Mickeys Malt Liquor and a coke
>The teenaged human just looks at you with confusion
>You hand him two bucks and walk out
>You sit back down
>And the noises begin before you can put cold bottle to your lips
>Footsteps on the second floor
>Distant howling
>Muffled, far-away screaming and crying
>You watch the tapes, drinking more as you do
>You play them in the background as you plan tonight's gamble
>You know where the fucker lives and the exact layout of his home
>courtesy of the fire department
>You finish your drink and make some coffee
>You draw out plans
>polish and load your guns
>Pack your bags with tool
>For a night in the city it's oddly quiet
>No gunshots
>No screams
>Just the low rumble of your engine
>And the crushing weight of what will be your sins
>You watched the tapes again before you left
>A few at least
>Enough to make you believe God *might* forgive you
>You drive through the winding streets
>The image of the dead deadens in your heart
>You turn on Bishop's Avenue
>Just outside the Church a figure stands
>Bleeding from the neck
>Dressed in white
>Holding wilted roses
>She smiles, before her eyes turn black
>She lunges at your car teeth bared but fades before she can hit it.
>"It was the eve of my wedding detective" the seemingly distant voice says
>"I had had my first kiss just a year before" It continues
>"And what do you want me to do about it?" You demand
>A new voice answers
>"Give us our peace" It coos
>This one sounding like it was being slightly choked
>"Make him pay" Answers another
>"Suffer" another still
>"Repent" growls one more
>"Pay" they all say in unison
>You look to see if you have any drink in your car
>Nothing within reach
>You make another turn
>More figures
>Standing and grinning with glee before fading
>Each leaving what sounds like dying breaths begging you to make Mr. Wittacker bleed
>Bleed
>Pay
>Hurt
>Atone
>Whatever word they chose
>It doesn't matter
>Mr. Wittacker is going to hurt
>If he knows the killer he'll tell
>If he is, you'll see him in hell soon enough
>You turn down an alley between a commercial strip
>It ends in the drainage canal that backs up to Mr. Wittacker's home
>You park and throw a tarp over your ride
>You descend into the icy black winter water
>It's so cold it feels like it's burning
>You wade feeling your body chill
>You stare into the tar black water to see smiles
>They're still watching
>You take each step in silence as you move through the canal
>Your pistol is drawn
>Sawn off inside your coat
>Rifle slung over your shoulder
>The moon rises over the the canal letting the figures in the water be seen
>Smiling
>Just beneath the water
>Eyes hollow
>Black blood flowing from the neck and nether
>As you near the high concrete walls fade into ever lowering
>You see the first house of the many manors
>You know they home you're looking for
>As seen from space
>The old adage rings true again
>He who sins the most prays the hardest
>You climb from the water hearing the cracking of your pants freezing
>You approach the home
>You see the man his living room
>You look around to try to find a way in
>His trellis leads to his balcony
>Maybe his door is unlocked
>You climb up the study wooden structure with ease
>The door is unlocked indeed
>You wait in his room for a time
>Searching
>And just as you think there's nothing
>You kick a rug
>And find a compartment
>And inside is all you need
>A knife
>A mask
>Chloroform
>Camcorder and tapes
>You find one labeled "Jessica Mylies"
>You pop into the vhs on his in room t.v
>Its a tape
>One you've seen before
>You look out to the yard
>You see the fox on the tape wave at you with a look of sorrow on her face
>You throw on your mask
>And take the chloroform soaking one of your socks in it
>You approach the man
>He's jerking off to one of the tapes
>You punch him in the throat and put the sock over his mouth
>He doesn't even resist.
>You get your rope and drag him to the garage
>You stuff the sock in his mouth and leave.
>Wading the mile up the canal
>Getting back into your car
>Driving to his home
>Pulling into his garage making sure no one sees you
>A barrel full of diesel in the center
>And anger
>so much
>You take the sock from his mouth and wait for him to wake up
>In the meanwhile you take the last empty tape and set up the camcorder
>"Who are you?" he grumbles
>"times up" You say
>"I don't know what you're talking about" he spits
>"The tapes, the knife, the mask, the chloroform? You know why I'm here." You growl
>"Detective?" he says trying to spin around
>"Is it you?" You demand
>"What are you going to do to me if it is? The police won't do shit." He laughs
>"I know. Now answer." You snap
>"Yeah its me." he says smiling
>"So Mr. Wittacker. Why?" You ask feigning interest
>"No fucking ANTHRO deserves that kind of purity or innocence. It needs to be taken, punished, ruined, broken. But you know that Detective, don't you." He says
>"Of course but why?" You press
>In the corner of your eyes you see a figure
>It moves to the corner shrouded in an unfitting shadow
>"Because, we're human, better in every way than a fucking ANTHRO, hardly even sapient, barely more than the animals they resemble." He reasons
>"I understand" You say leaving the room
>You grab his phone and phonebook
>You relish in each dial you make
>The bishop, the pastors, the principles, deans, and judges
>You leave a message to each and every one
>"Hi, its the Detective. I've found the killer. Meet me at Mr. Wittacker's home on Christmas Day if you'd like to meet him before we turn him over."
>Just as you say that more figures begin to appear
>And Mr. Wittacker begins to panic as you take your potato peeler out.
>"Can you see them too Mr. Wittacker?" You ask madness in your eyes
>"I can see your sins" You ramble
>"They haunt me more than you seemingly" You continue
>"What are doing?" He says panicked
>"The police won't do anything" You say
>"I figure I need to give back to my community" You say pressing the tool against the skin of his back
>"Now I'm sure we can work something out." He pleads
>"You're right! It would be a shame to open the gift before Christmas" You say reaching for the battery and alligator clamps
>You cut his pants off with a knife, not caring if you cut him
>He screams
>Nothing new
>You take the clamps and place them on his balls
>And then connect
>He shrieks
>Like a sinner in hell
>You punch him in the gut
>Over and over
>You remove the clamps and sit down again
>"Wasn't that fun?" You say to the sobbing man
>"Now I'll ask again. Was it really you?" You demand
>"Yes." He says unchanging
>You sit there waiting for the night to end, occasionally waterboarding him in the diesel
>You get hungry and eat his food
>You watch his t.v
>And as the sun rises the news caster talks about you
>How you're promising to meet Mr. Wittacker to tell him of the killer's identity
>You can hear the murmurs of a growing crowd outside
>At 9 Am you open the doors
>The crowd is in terror as to what they see
>"I promised the killer" You call to the two dozen odd people
>You hand the lead city investigator your crate of evidence before he can speak
>"Now, I know our amazing policemen won't do anything. So I found him, and he admitted it before I began to get some justice." You laugh.
>You lower Mr. Wittacker to the ground.
>"Now I leave you to them." You laugh seeing the figures begin to form around him
>Mr. Wittacker begins to start shrieking again
>Claw marks begin to appear across his face and arms
>The news team vomit as chunks of flesh being to be rendered from his limbs
>You smile as you watch the girls get their justice
>He starts screaming about how they deserved it
>How it was their fault
>And as his sins slowly begin to rip the flesh from his bone like piranhas
>You go the back of the garage
>And lift the rug by his tool bench
>Finding a shaft to some other chamber within the home
>You climb down it as the police finally realize what's happening
>At the bottom you hear crying
>A camcorder pointed at a crying girl
>A young falcon
>"Are you okay?" you ask
>"No, where am I?" She sobs
>"The serial killer's home" You say
>"Don't worry, he can't hurt anyone anymore" You say
>You pick her up like a piggy back
>And climb up the ladder.
>Mr. Wittacker is hiding in the barrel of diesel
>"Here officers make sure this girl makes it home safely, she was to be the next victim" You say handing the girl off.
>The officers turn to face you as you reach for a cigarette
>One you stole from Wittacker
>You put one Wittacker's mouth
>As if to light it before dropping it in the fuel
>It catches
>"oops" You say
>It burns your arm but you pull back before it sticks
>Mr. Wittacker is screaming
>You leave
>Getting in your car
>As you arrive home you see a figure standing by your desk
>"Thanks"
>The next day a small riot is brewing outside your door
>Suppose it's time to leave now
>Burning someone alive was perhaps too far for the average man to stomach
>Especially a city councilman
>Come the night you slink out of the back door and make your way towards the nearest rent-a-truck center.
>Joe's Self Storage and Moving
>Open 24 hours
>Thank God
>With fifty bucks and a good deal of dedication you move all your belongings into a storage container by four AM
>By the time the sun rises you're fifty miles out of town at a shitty super motel 8 for six dollars a night, and that includes a hot breakfast across the street and Holly's hotcakes
>Not that your awake to eat them
>You sleep a whopping 16 hours
>Next morning you sit down at Holly's
>Plate of bacon, eggs, and pancakes
>Served with a tall glass of whole milk and coffee with a wink from the cow cook behind the counter
>You buy a paper for a quarter and start looking for a new place to settle down
>After about two weeks at the motel you've found the perfect little place
>It's about 6000 miles away in a place called Patagonia
>A plane ticket and a shipping crate for the price of a used car
>$1000 in total and $2500 for the ranch
>Combine with another grand in cattle and seed
>It's a sizable dent in your savings but the sale of your office did more than recoup the costs
>You buy a '64 Chevy in Buenos Aires and a trailer to haul your belongings to your new home
>Once you arrive to your ranch for the first time you a warm grin spread across your face
>Soon you go into town after setting everything down
>There you meet a Tegu
>A voluptuous as she is kind
>Maybe Patagonia might have more the grasslands and beef
>That's what you tell yourself as you feel the cool scaled lips of your lover press against your cheek in the South American Sun