TRUE CRIME: HANGMAN
CHAPTER SIX
Angela Hopkins stirred back into the waking world, her mind fogged with hunger and pain. The cursed chair creaked beneath her weight, ropes biting into her raw wrists. She had lost track of time—days, maybe three, maybe more—since the masked man had vanished, leaving her chained in his hellish shanty.
The rain outside was relentless. Each drop struck the rusted steel roof with a force that sounded like blood splattering onto metal. The noise pressed against her skull like a war drum. She hadn’t eaten in days. Her stomach snarled like a caged animal, and the stab wound in her leg throbbed with each heartbeat.
Angela flexed and twisted her wrists until the coarse rope burned her skin. At last, one hand slipped free. She froze, listening, her breath shallow, before reaching for the Swiss Army knife left carelessly on the ground. The blade snapped open with a metallic whisper. One by one, she cut herself loose.
She limped through the dim room, the single hanging bulb flickering above like a dying star. The door was bolted from the outside. She shoved her shoulder against it—once, twice—but it didn’t budge. She swallowed her scream. Noise could bring him back.
Her eyes darted to the fogged window. A crack. An opening. Maybe freedom. She slid the knife through the gap, jiggling the latch until it clicked. Slowly, the window groaned open. Cold rain washed her face as she climbed through and dropped into the mud with a dull thud.
The forest swallowed her whole. Massive mahogany trees loomed like ancient sentinels. The rain poured in sheets, cleansing the blood from her wound, mingling with the hot salt of her tears. Now or never, Angie. Run.
She ran. Her breath tore at her lungs. Her wounded leg screamed with every step. Branches whipped her face.
Then—metal snapped shut.
Agony shot through her body. She screamed, a sound ripped from her soul, as the bear trap’s jagged teeth clamped into her ankle. Blood spilled freely, soaking the earth. Her foot dangled grotesquely, barely held in place.
She writhed, clawing at the iron jaws, but the trap was merciless. Rain hammered down, thunder booming like laughter from a god gone mad.
And then—footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Closing in.
Angela’s heart stopped. “No… no… no…” she whispered, trembling.
Through the curtain of rain, a shadow emerged. The Hangman. His hulking frame moved with terrifying calm, his breath loud beneath the hockey mask. A machete gleamed in his hand.
He raised it—then slammed the blunt edge into her skull. Darkness swallowed her.
When she came to, she was weightless, her body dangling. He dragged her by her golden hair through mud and broken twigs, her limbs scraping against roots and stones. Her consciousness flickered in and out. The last thing she saw was the mask, blank and horrid, staring down as he carried her back to the shanty.
Vaughan Police Station
The hum of rain was replaced by the buzz of fluorescent lights. Detective John sat across from his partner Mike, papers scattered across the desk. A road map covered the wall behind them, red pins marking the endless trail of victims tied to the Hangman’s terror.
They sipped burnt coffee, weary eyes scanning notes. Every step closer only dragged them further behind.
“James Erling walks free,” Mike muttered, tossing down a file. “Angela Hopkins’ ex-boyfriend. No evidence to hold him. We’re back to nothing.”
John pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration boiling.
The office door burst open. Detective Alice stormed in, breath ragged. She slapped a report onto the desk. “Another victim. Roy Harper. College student, Woodsville. Missing two days.”
Mike’s jaw tightened. “Could be another suicide. Or the same bastard who took Angela.”
John grabbed his coat. “Let’s see the scene ourselves. Radio ahead—no one touches anything until we’re there.”
Mike holstered his Beretta. John jingled his keys. They moved fast, storm chasing storm.
Woodsville College
The car skidded into the college lot hours later. The campus lay under the weight of rain, students clustered in fearful whispers. Dr. Stevenson, tall and gaunt, met them at the gate.
“Detectives,” he said with grave politeness, “this way, please. To the Sigma fraternity house.”
They followed him through the wet silence. The frat house loomed ahead, windows dark, roof sagging. The smell hit them before the door opened—stale smoke, mildew, and something heavier. Something wrong.
Inside, the air clung thick to their lungs. Rot.
The detectives stepped carefully, the floorboards groaning underfoot.
Then they saw it.
Suspended from the ceiling, swaying gently, was Roy Harper. His lifeless body dangled with a noose biting into his throat. His face was swollen purple, eyes bulging in eternal terror.
The Hangman had struck again.
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