Southridge: The Brain-Eater Case

Chapter One

Another one got eaten, brains turned to sticky sludge and spilled across the floor.

On the way out, Walt Walker snapped a wooden stool leg clean off, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, spitting every curse he could think of.

“Jesus Christ.”

That was the last thing he said before he walked in.

The scene was a storefront mid-renovation, half-finished walls, dust everywhere, police tape stretched tight to keep the rubberneckers back.

“How many is this now?” the Deputy Captain asked me.

“Seven.”

Three months, seven people, every one of them left in a mess.

I crouched beside the body. Rigor had already set in, and the rope marks on her wrists and ankles were swollen and purple. She’d fought hard before it ended.

Curly hair, a pretty face, if her eyes hadn’t bulged like they were trying to escape her skull.

“Early twenties,” I said, “twenty to twenty-five.”

Her corneas had gone cloudy, but you could still see the pupils behind them.

“Time of death, six to twelve hours ago.”

Her dyed reddish-brown hair had clumped into stiff strands. Beside her head, the blood had spread out flat, like a tree taking root on the floor and branching into a thick red canopy.

The only thing all seven victims had in common was the hole, perfectly round, drilled right through the crown. You had to part the hair to find it.

“Same method as before,” I said. “Tied up first, then a power drill through the skull.”

An extension cord lay nearby, dragged across the floor like someone had been in a hurry.

The techs kept working, bagging and photographing, no one bothering to answer me. I’d said the same thing seven times in three months, nobody needed the replay.

What little we had went into sealed evidence bags and straight to Walker, an ID card, a stack of thesis pages from some university, and the one item that had started to feel familiar in the worst way.

He took the bag, stared at the single strip of paper inside, and read the two thin words printed on it, slow and quiet.

“Sweet…”

That soft sound cut through the room. Everyone’s eyes drifted to the hole, where the pale stuff had already set.

We all knew exactly what it meant.

Walker reached for his cigarettes, touched the pack, then shoved it back away.

“Jesus Christ.”

I lowered my gaze to the woman lying face-up on the floor, eyes swollen and staring, and peeled off my gloves.

“For fuck’s sake.”

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