The streets of Blackwood felt heavier than ever as Dr. Victoria Wells and Detective Mark Anderson drove deeper into the city’s decaying heart. The search for the Lime Tee Jacket Killer had pulled them into a web of deceit, madness, and unimaginable horror. The city, already known for its murky past, seemed to be living and breathing its own darkness now, and it was only growing.

The revelation of Michael Thompson’s name hung between them like a dark omen. He was an artist, a recluse, who had withdrawn from society years ago after a mysterious breakdown. His art was disturbing—completely abstract but filled with an eerie, grotesque beauty that spoke of fractured souls and twisted minds. It wasn’t just art; it was the raw, unfiltered expression of a mind on the edge of sanity.

The closer they got to Thompson’s last known address, the more Dr. Wells felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She had read through some of Thompson's works, and every page seemed to drip with a macabre understanding of human pain, trauma, and desire. The artist was no ordinary painter; he was a mirror to the darker sides of the psyche, a reflection of society's deep-rooted fears. But was he the killer—or merely a conduit for something far more insidious?

The house where Michael Thompson resided was tucked away on a quiet, forgotten street at the edge of Blackwood, where nature seemed to encroach on the decaying man-made structures. The paint on the building had long since faded, and the windows, once vibrant, were now darkened and closed off. As Dr. Wells and Detective Anderson approached the door, a sense of foreboding gripped their chests, like they were about to cross the threshold into a place they would never be able to leave.

Thompson’s art was scattered everywhere—cluttering the walls, floors, and tables. His works were dark and surreal: human forms twisted in agony, abstract shapes that resembled disjointed bodies, and faces frozen in permanent screams. But amidst the chaos of paintings and canvases lay something that struck Dr. Wells to her core: a single, unfinished painting, the face of the Lime Tee Jacket Killer staring back at her.

The painting was both familiar and foreign. It depicted a man with hollow eyes, shrouded in shadow. The lime green tee jacket, as vivid as if painted fresh, hung over the figure’s shoulders. His expression was cold, void of emotion—an image that matched the details Sarah Matthews had described. The artist had known something. But how?

Dr. Wells couldn’t tear her eyes away from the haunting image, and as she studied the painting, a strange sense of recognition flickered within her. Something in the way the lines were drawn—something in the expression of the figure—made her feel as though the painting had been waiting for her. The Lime Tee Jacket Killer wasn't just an abstract figure in the city’s shadows. He was an idea. A manifestation of something deeper.

A sudden noise startled Dr. Wells out of her trance. Anderson had found something. It was a journal, tucked behind a stack of untouched canvases, covered in dust. He flipped it open to reveal a series of sketches and notes that seemed to follow a disturbed progression: the drawings started as simple, almost innocent portraits, but slowly devolved into grotesque images of dismemberment, violence, and twisted figures.

At the back of the journal, a passage stood out. Thompson had written:

"I hear them calling—calling from the dark. Their voices echo in my mind, louder with each passing day. They want something from me. They want the truth to be revealed. Their cries will be heard. Through me, through my art, through the Jacket. It will all come to an end. I will be the vessel."

The words struck Dr. Wells like a hammer. The killer wasn’t acting alone. Michael Thompson had become an instrument of something far more malignant—a twisted vessel for a force that demanded expression. But what was this force? And how was it connected to the Lime Tee Jacket?

The detective stepped away from the journal, his face pale, his hands clenched at his sides. “We need to find Thompson. Now.”

But it was too late.

As they rushed toward the door, a faint scratching sound echoed through the house. It wasn’t from the floor or the walls—it was coming from somewhere deep inside the house, from behind a door they had not yet opened.

Dr. Wells and Anderson exchanged uneasy glances before slowly moving toward the door at the far end of the hallway. The closer they got, the more oppressive the air seemed to become. It felt like they were being drawn toward something—something that had been waiting for them all along.

With a sudden push, Anderson opened the door. Inside, in the dim light of a flickering bulb, they found the artist—Michael Thompson—sitting at an easel. His back was to them, and his fingers twitched in a manic, unnatural rhythm as they moved across the canvas. The same lime green jacket draped his shoulders. His eyes, wide and blank, were transfixed by the painting.

He didn’t turn when they entered.

“I’m almost done,” Thompson muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “They’ll hear me soon... they’ll all hear me.”

Dr. Wells stepped forward cautiously. “Michael, what are you doing? What is this? Why the Jacket?”

He turned to face them slowly. His face was gaunt, his skin pale, as if the life had been drained from him. “The Jacket… it’s not mine. It’s theirs. They’ve chosen me, and now I’ll make them see. I’ll make them understand.”

As he spoke, his eyes seemed to burn with a feverish intensity. There was something chilling about him now—something beyond madness. His art had become his reality, his obsession had consumed him entirely, and now he was too far gone to return.

And then Dr. Wells saw it.

The figure in the painting wasn’t just the Lime Tee Jacket Killer. It was her. Her own face, twisted into a grotesque reflection of herself, wearing the lime green tee jacket. It was her own image, captured in the horror of the killer’s mind.

The truth hit her with a sickening force. She had been right all along—the killer wasn’t just a random person. It was an idea, a force, and it had always been inside of her. The Lime Tee Jacket was not just a symbol—it was a mirror. A mirror that reflected the darkness inside each of them. And Michael Thompson, the artist, had been the one to channel it, to give it form.

Dr. Wells took a step back. “No…” Her voice quivered.
“You’re not just creating the killer. You’re becoming him.”

Michael’s lips curled into a smile.
“I am the Jacket. The mind... is the weapon.”

Suddenly, the room was plunged into darkness. The door slammed shut behind them, trapping them inside.

Dr. Wells and Anderson were no longer alone.

The shadows were alive. And they were closing in.

TO BE CONTINUED...