Why does the sheriff keep certain arrest records in a separate filing system, and what's behind those holding cells that require keys the deputies don't carry? Which cases get transferred to federal agencies that won't identify themselves, and why do some evidence lockers need cooling systems that exceed normal preservation requirements? What happened during that incident three years ago that required the entire night shift to sign confidentiality agreements?
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If time were the wicked sheriff in a horse opera, I’d pay for riding lessons and take his gun away.
― W. H. Auden
Welcome to the Sheriff’s Office!
As sheriff of this small town, I thought I’d seen it all. But the latest case has shaken me to my core. Young folks have gone missing, then turn up dead with strange marks.
We work round the clock at the station, chasing leads. But something dark watches from the edges. Files go missing, phones ring with static. At night, I swear footsteps echo down the empty halls.
My deputy goes to check the cells and doesn’t return. I find him suspended by unseen forces against the wall, throat slit open in a jagged smile. Spattered on the floor, a single word scrawled in blood: “Run.”
I barricade myself in my office as panicked calls flood the radio. Shadows gather outside, pressing against the blinds. The lights flicker and die, yet I can see—pale faces peering in at me from outside.
A crash shakes the reinforced door. It bulges inward with impossible force as twisted laughter fills the hallway. My gun won’t help against the nameless evil that’s taken hold of my town, the evil that’s worn our uniforms and badges all along. Now it’s come for the sheriff.
There will be no escape from this station of law that’s become the epicenter of darkness. I can only pray someone survives to tell my story.
