Isabelle could still hear the eerie toll of the bell as she moved swiftly through the abandoned bell tower. The air around her was thick with the tension of unanswered questions and the heavy sense that she was being watched. But the ringing had stopped, leaving nothing but the silence and the whisper of the wind against the open windows. Still, the hairs on the back of her neck stood tall, and she could not shake the feeling that something—someone—was lingering just out of sight, waiting for her to make the wrong move.
Her flashlight's beam danced along the dust-covered beams and weathered stone, gliding over the relics of what used to be a sacred space. The old confessional booths, worn and neglected, loomed like ghosts, reminding Isabelle of everything that had gone wrong since her sister Vivienne's disappearance. And yet, despite the haunting history of the place, it was the new, foreign marks—symbols—etched into the tower that gripped Isabelle's attention.
The feathers.
They were scattered across the floor, arranged carefully in piles as if they were deliberate, intentional. Their soft, white tendrils stood in stark contrast to the grim, dark stone that made up the tower's walls. Isabelle had noticed them immediately when she stepped inside—the feathers didn't belong here. They were far too pristine in this decaying, forgotten place. As she took another step, she noticed something strange—a glimmer of rose thorns peeking out from beneath the dust. The thorns were woven through the feathers, their sharp, jagged edges glistening under the beam of her flashlight.
Estelle had arrived moments ago, joining Isabelle at the tower in an attempt to make sense of everything that had happened. The profiler had insisted on coming, even after Isabelle's insistence that this was a case too dangerous to involve her. But Estelle, with her cool, analytical mind, had refused to be left behind. There was something she needed to understand too. Something tied to her own past that she hadn't yet shared with Isabelle.
"You see this?" Isabelle asked, motioning toward the feather-covered floor. "The feathers and the thorns. They're not random. These symbols mean something. The abductor wants us to see them. They're leaving us a message."
Estelle kneeled down, inspecting the intricate pattern formed by the feathers and the rose thorns. Her fingers brushed lightly against the feathers, careful not to disturb the delicate arrangement. "These are no ordinary feathers," she murmured. "They're bird feathers, yes, but they're also symbols. In some cultures, feathers represent freedom, the soul's ascent. But paired with these thorns, the meaning shifts. Thorns are a warning. A barrier. They're symbols of suffering and sacrifice."
Isabelle's breath caught. "So, it's not just a message. It's a challenge."
Estelle met her gaze, her eyes narrowing. "Exactly. Whoever's doing this is using symbols, creating a ritual. They're playing God with the victims."
Isabelle's thoughts drifted to the past few weeks—the masks, the bell tower, the odd connections between the victims, and the strange, almost theatrical manner in which they had all disappeared. "I've always felt like the abductor's watching us. Or maybe just me. But now… now I'm sure they want us to understand the patterns, the meaning behind everything they've done. It's like a twisted game."
A rustling sound broke through Isabelle's thoughts. Both women froze, their eyes darting toward the corner of the room where the wind whispered through a cracked window. For a moment, all Isabelle could hear was her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Her hand instinctively reached for her gun, but the sound had already dissipated into silence. Only the steady rhythm of their breathing remained.
Then, Estelle's flashlight fell onto something that made Isabelle's stomach tighten. A cell phone, half-buried in the feathers, lay at the far end of the room. The phone's screen was cracked, the glass reflecting the dim light, but it was unmistakable—Lucie's phone.
"Lucie's," Isabelle said, her voice barely a whisper.
She approached cautiously, but as she drew closer, her pulse quickened. The phone was still on, its screen glowing faintly in the dim light, as though it had just been used. Isabelle picked it up carefully, brushing the feathers aside. The screen flickered to life, and a soft vibration hummed from the phone.
"Lucie?" Isabelle breathed, her fingers trembling as she reached for the call log. But before she could examine it further, a single word flashed on the screen, something that sent chills running down her spine.
"Don't."
A notification. Isabelle stared at it for a moment, her mind racing. Was it a message? Had Lucie left it before she disappeared? But before Isabelle could make sense of it, the phone vibrated again.
This time, the vibration was stronger, more urgent.
Isabelle's breath hitched as the screen lit up once more. The phone rang.
It was Lucie's voice.
"Isabelle," the whisper came, soft, nearly inaudible, yet unmistakable. "Don't trust the one you love."
Isabelle's stomach dropped as she gripped the phone tighter. It felt as though the words had come from inside her own head, a message meant specifically for her—like a warning, a thread in the tangled web of this nightmare. She turned to Estelle, her mind spinning.
Estelle's expression was unreadable, but Isabelle saw a flash of something in her eyes—something darker, like an unspoken fear.
"Lucie?" Isabelle whispered again, but no reply came. Only static, and then the phone disconnected.
The silence was deafening. Isabelle stared at the phone in her hands, the weight of its message hanging over her like a dark cloud. The thorns and feathers had been meant for her. Lucie had left the phone here for a reason. But what did her cryptic message mean?
"I don't understand…" Isabelle's voice faltered. "What did she mean? Who should I not trust?"
Estelle didn't answer immediately. Her gaze flickered to the phone, then to Isabelle, then back to the dark corners of the room. "We've all been blinded by our own perceptions," Estelle said softly, her words heavy with the weight of her own fears. "The person we think we can trust the most is often the one we should fear the most."
Isabelle's mind reeled. Who was Lucie talking about? Who in her life did she need to be wary of?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft but persistent sound—the same one Isabelle had heard earlier, but louder now. A sound that had been buried beneath the wind, the rustling of the feathers, the strange toll of the bell.
It was the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor, coming from behind the confessional booths.
Isabelle took a step forward, every instinct on high alert. The hairs on her neck stood up. Estelle was close behind, her hand on her own weapon, ready for whatever they might find.
With every step, the sound grew louder, the echo of footsteps ringing in Isabelle's ears.
And then, just as Isabelle reached the corner, her breath caught.
A figure stood there, silhouetted in the shadow. A tall figure, wearing a dark cloak and a mask—the same porcelain mask they had seen in the photos.
And beneath the mask—nothing.
No eyes. No mouth.
Just darkness.
The figure did not move.
Isabelle's heart raced. "Lucie?" she whispered, but there was no response. Instead, a soft voice, almost a sigh, came from the shadows.
"Trust no one."
To be continued...