January 1, 1890
I was rudely woken by the sound of screams. I knew there were celebrations for the New Year, but no one was
screaming like that when I went to bed. These were gut-wrenching, terror-filled screams of women and the wails of young children. I dragged myself out of bed and walked towards the window to see
what was going on. I was still groggy and only half conscious, so the image was blurry at first. I rubbed my eyes and looked down again. A large crowd had gathered and circled around one of our
street’s famous portrait studios. I figured it was a protest at first, but then I looked closer. Some people were kneeling, like they were inspecting something. Others were screaming for a doctor
and that someone was dead.
Someone was dead?
The words hit me like a punch to the face. I grabbed my coat and ran down the stairs as fast as I could. I
burst through the door and ran towards the scene of the attack. The crowd was dense, but pushing, shoving and cries of,” Get out of the way!” got me through it. When I finally got to the inside of
the crowd, I was overcome with shock by what was before me. A woman in a pure white gown was lying there. She was covered in deep red blood, and she bore three wounds. There were two holes in her
throat, about the diameter of a small metal pole, and a laceration to each wrist. This was no accident. I knew the girl well, for we had lived together for all our lives. This girl was my sister,
Behavioral Analysis Unit Headquarters
April 17, 1969
“Sara! Do you have anything on the Pirelli case?”
The question came from Agent Monroe, who was a veteran in the department.
“Yes, I did. He was a total whack job! We couldn’t get any valid information from him,” she called back
drowsily. It was almost time to go home. One more hour, and she could go home, sit on the couch and eat American Cheetos for the rest of the day. She may even go and have a drink at London’s most
prestigious pub, Ireland’s Best. She always had the same drink, Butterscotch Schnapps on the rocks. When people asked her why she wouldn’t order anything else, she would say, “There’s not other
drink like Butterscotch Schnapps! It gives you a twang!” and take another swig. Ah…Butterscotch Schnapps…
“Hey, Sara! Quit drifting to La-La Land and get back to work!”
She snapped out of her lovely day dream and rubbed her eyes. She had dozed off.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to drift off!” She faced her desk. As far as the eye could see, there was
paperwork. Her colleagues made fun of her because she always had something to do. She never stopped working when she was on duty. She was the hardest worker in the Bureau.
Just then, she heard the slap of a folder falling onto her desk.
“I dug up an old one for you. You might be interested.”
She looked up and saw Agent Monroe walking away slowly, shaking his head. He had an expression of pure and
utter confusion on his face. "Um...thanks?"
She shifted her eyes from him to the folder that was just placed on her desk. It was stamped, in black, bold
lettering, with the words “COLD CASE FILE.” She inspected the amount of wear and tear done onto the case’s file. This must have been at least one hundred years ago, she thought, and shivered.
Something about this file was giving her the chills. She flipped it open. On the inside of the cover, there was the name of the victim and information regarding the investigation that was carried
out. She began to read:
Cold Case File.
Victim: Rose Lovett.
Date: January 1, 1890.
She made a double-take on that date. 1890? What was this, a newly found Jack the Ripper victim? She looked
closely at the name. Rose Lovett. The victim shared her last name. It’s probably a coincidence, she thought, and read the rest of the case profile. The investigation was called off on December 23,
1893, due to a lack of evidence and lack of a suspect. According to the next file, she was approximately 26 when she died. No information regarding when she was born could be found. She was
engaged, and a newly expectant mother. She was found dead by Elegance Portrait Studio at 12:05 AM.
That was the strange part. As far as the investigation records went, there was no record of the artist in
charge of the studio being interviewed by the police. It doesn’t matter anyway, she thought, the guy is probably dead by now. What were the odds of a killer that was a century old still being
“Try about zero,” she mused, and chuckled lightly. Then she became concerned. Why were they reopening the
case anyway? Did someone know something?
Coven Sacrifice Hall
Vladimir Khrushchev stepped up to the Table of Sins. A large, black coffin lay upon it. He sighed. The man
that lay inside this coffin was a danger to all of them, yet he was about to free him from cursed slumber. Was it really the right thing to do? After he had killed that girl the way he did, it
didn’t seem so. The boy had brutally murdered her. It was a bloodbath. He looked up from the coffin to see the rest of the Coven brothers pouring in from the main hall, all ready, but unsure, to
perform the ceremony.
They lit the black candles and laid out the cloth Pentacle. They carefully opened the casket and laid its lid against the wall. They started with
reading aloud the Latin curse that bound him to sleep, then beginning the age-old chant,”Arise! Arise! Arise!”
A strong aura of dark energy could be felt immediately after they stopped chanting. The wooden table broke, sending shards of wood flying across the
room,most of which piercedthe hearts of many of the Coven brothers. The stench of blood filled the room quickly. The grotesque scent was so powerful that it began to arouse a reaction from the
corpse that lay inside the coffin. It moved its fingers and its head to the side. Vladimir, sensing the motion, quickly shifted his eyes from the bodies to the man inside the coffin, who was now
struggling to rise and step out of the coffin altogether. He ran to the coffin to help him. He took the boy’s weight on his shoulders and heaved. He was remarkably able, despite his old age, to
lift him out of the coffin and onto the ground. The boy was tall, lean and pale. His black hair barely touched his shoulders, and his eyes were the color of blood. The women will die for him, he
thought, and then he laid the boy on the couch and waited.
Sara unclipped the files in wonder and began to read. She didn’t want to at first, but the more she looked into the file, the more she was
intrigued. She couldn’t put it down at this point. She flipped through the files like her life depended on it, absorbing every page. She finally made her way into the crime scene sketches.
Photographs were out of the question. This case was recorded in a different century. What was the chance of a photograph being taken?
The first one was a drawing of the victim herself. She was pretty, and looked like she was of high birth. According to her background records, she
was a duchess. The picture had been hand colored, which was very expensive. This was another sign that she had some money in her hands. She had fair skin and olive green eyes. Her black hair was
formed into a chignon, like she was prepared for a formal occasion. The woman was wearing a long, very expensive-looking white dress with lace and tulle. A wedding gown?
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