TRUE CRIME: HANGMAN

 

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Detective John and Mike interrogate James Erling on the disappearance of ex-girlfriend Angela Hopkins of the esteemed Hopkins family only to find another dead end as the real threat continues to haunt the small town...

CHAPTER FIVE

New Port, West Virginia

Somewhere in the woods...

Angela Hopkins woke up choking.

The air was heavy — acidic, thick with the stench of blood and something fouler, like sulphur and rot. Her eyes fluttered open, but her vision swam in a haze. Torn newspaper pages fluttered across the grimy floor like dying moths. Beside her lay the limp, lifeless body of a young girl — limbs splayed, mouth ajar, eyes staring into nothing.

Angela tried to scream, but a wad of cloth gagged her mouth. Panic surged. Her wrists and ankles were tied tightly with thick rope, raw and biting into her bruised skin. She writhed against the restraints, but they wouldn’t budge. Her golden hair, once proud and glossy, was caked with dirt and twigs. Her tank top — white when she last remembered — was now a smudged canvas of mud, blood, and forest grime.

She let out a muffled cry, her voice no more than a breath against the cloth.

The room was cold. Moonlight spilled through fogged-up windows, casting an ethereal glow on the grotesque collection of objects inside: chains bolted into the walls, black wax candles melted down to nubs, and childlike dolls — malformed and blind — arranged in a circle on the floor.

She twisted her neck, desperate to escape. "Help!" she whimpered through the cloth.

No answer.

Then — footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. The sound of boots on concrete echoed down the hallway like the toll of a death bell. The door handle turned with a slow creak. Angela’s entire body stiffened, her heart a war drum in her chest.

The door opened.

A tall figure stepped inside — a pale-skinned man, long silver hair cascading past his shoulders, his face obscured by a cracked, porcelain mask. He wore a filthy, oversized overall. In one hand, he held an axe. The other rested calmly by his side, as if entering a nightmare was routine.

Angela thrashed violently.

“HELP!” she screamed, finally spitting out the gag. The cry was primal — raw, blood-soaked.

The man tilted his head. Then, without warning, he struck her across the face with the back of his hand. Her head snapped to the side, a scream dying in her throat. The impact sent sparks of pain crackling through her jaw.

She sobbed uncontrollably as he shoved the cloth back into her mouth and leaned in close, pressing a single gloved finger to his lips.

Shhhh...

Then he smiled.

His teeth — jagged, blackened, like shards of obsidian — gleamed beneath the mask. His laughter was a twisted giggle, sick with joy. From his chest pocket, he drew a small Swiss army knife and, without hesitation, stabbed her in the thigh.

Angela writhed, her scream muffled again, her pale skin turning ghostly white. Blood spurted from the wound, soaking her leg and pooling on the floor beneath her.

The man watched. Fascinated.

He twisted the knife.

She screamed louder.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it out — her flesh resisting the jagged blade. Blood streamed freely now, staining the floor like a dark offering.

Then came the second strike — a brutal backhand to her face that sent her crashing into unconsciousness.

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Vaughan Police Station

The precinct buzzed with quiet tension as James Erling was led out of the cruiser, handcuffed and shivering. He looked like a deer caught in headlights — head down, shoulders slumped, shame radiating from his skin like heat.

Inside, Detective Mike leaned on the counter, ordering coffee. Detective John marched James down the corridor and into Interrogation Room B — a bare chamber of chipped paint, a table, and two metal chairs. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence like a slow, ticking metronome.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows across James’s pale face.

John removed the cuffs and gestured to the chair. James sat, rubbing his wrists, breathing heavily.

Across from them, a large one-way mirror concealed Detective Mike, sipping his coffee and observing like a vulture circling above.

The door buzzed open. A woman in a sharp blue suit entered, silently dropped a folder on the table, and exited without a word.

John opened the file slowly. His eyes, cold and unblinking, locked onto James.

“James Erling,” he began, voice calm but cutting. “Quarterback at New Ridge. Student. Two priors for DUI, a possession charge, and a restraining order from last semester.”

He leaned forward.

“Tell me, was kidnapping Angela Hopkins your idea?”

James jolted in his seat, hands up like a man already convicted. “I didn’t kidnap Angela!” he shouted. “I swear! I-I haven’t seen her since—”

“You were her boyfriend, weren’t you?” John interrupted. “Last person seen with her. End of summer. A fight. She disappears.”

“We broke up,” James choked. “She... she dumped me. But I never laid a hand on her.”

John slowly pulled out a plastic evidence bag.

Inside — a single strand of blonde hair.

James’s eyes widened.

“This was found in your room.”

“I... I don’t know how it got there.”

John slammed a fist onto the table. “Why didn’t you report her missing?!”

James flinched violently.

Mike watched from behind the mirror. Classic John, he thought. Pressure, then silence. Then crack.

Mike buzzed himself in.

Another loud click echoed as he entered and circled behind James.

“You know what the penalty for murder is in Vaughan?” John asked, tone flat.

James said nothing.

Mike leaned in. “Death, James.”

James’s mouth opened, but no sound came. His lips quivered.

“Look,” he whispered. “That night at the lagoon... we were drinking. She said she was being followed. Some creepy guy — middle-aged, white hair, always watching her. I thought she was messing with me.”

John froze.

“What man?”

“I don’t know!” James cried. “She said he’d show up at school. At home. Sometimes he just stood outside her house. She was scared. But she... she didn’t want to tell anyone.”

“And you didn’t think to come forward?” Mike asked softly.

“She told me not to. Said if she ran, she wanted to do it on her terms. New York. She hated this place.”

John opened his leather notebook and jotted everything down.

“You know lying to a detective is a chargeable offense, right?” Mike said.

James stared at the ground.

“Am I free to leave?”

Silence. The only sound was the flickering of the fluorescent light.

John stood, notebook in hand.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re going into holding.”

Mike reattached the cuffs.

James didn’t resist.

As they led him away, his voice cracked one last time.

“I didn’t hurt her.”

But neither detective responded.

They had heard that line too many times before.

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