Detective Watson and Inspector Anon IV

A fanfic where you, Anon, have just landed a job at Amelia Watson's detective agency. The police have called you and Amelia in hopes of unraveling something they've been investigating. Will you make a new breakthrough in the case, or will the case go cold? Find out below! Updated every weekend! Previous Chapter: https://rentry.co/fy298 As you can likely tell from my work down below, I'm a pretty amateur writer. I hope that through my posting and your criticisms that over time, I shape up to be much better and produce more enjoyable stories.


The turnover rate in the last year was staggering. Thirty-eight percent of the force had either quit or been injured severely enough to ensure they'd never return to active duty. Sergeant Morrish flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and sucked in the cool morning air through his teeth, holding it before exhaling to make a nice cloud of steam. Something was going on in the city, and it was getting increasingly hard to pretend that everything was just fine and dandy.

Hell, they were so deep in it now that there wasn't any calling for help. What was he supposed to do, send a fax to some glowing federal agents and tell them about the weird happenings in the city? No, they'd come right on down in blacked-out vans, take their guns and shoot him, any coworkers that knew about the incidents, his dog, and just for good measure- his orchids.

As the leading officer in these investigations, he was well and truly stumped. His position was just recently earned, but he knew all about the risks it incurred. If he didn't step up to bat, then someone else would step up to the plate and eat the promotion that came with the 82% mortality rate. It didn't make it any more comforting that some of the other people at the precinct were taking bets to see how long he'd last.

Fortunately for him though, there was someone he could talk to and not feel insane, and it wasn't his bartender.


"Goooood mornin', Sarge!" Amelia called, strolling down the sidewalk and into the quiet cul-de-sac where an officer leaned against his vehicle, smoking. The man's gunmetal grey eyes pierced your soul as easily as his sidearm might your body, causing you to gulp nervously as he sized you up coldly. Taking a long drag of their cigarette, he dropped it and crushed it beneath his shoe, folding his arms across his chest.

"New employee?"

"Yep! That's Inspector Anon!" Your partner piped up cheerily, elbowing you in the side and giving you an insistent look that practically begged you to introduce yourself.

"Y-Yep! Name's Anon, a pleasure to meet you, sir!" Remembering what you learned, you take his outstretched hand and shake firmly, making strong eye contact with him the entire while. "Just moved here and found a job with Detective Watson... How's the day going, officer?" You ask, hoping to make some sort of light conversation, but he spits off to the side and grimaces.

"Piss poor, honestly," he responds, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing, "it happened again, Detective Watson." He's an older-looking man, probably in his early thirties but with a startling amount of greying hairs throughout his black hair. If you looked up the definition of 'stressed' online, you're certain that his face would show up next to it. Bags under his eyes, wrinkles, and a look in his hues that spoke of hard times weathered. "The Omen showed again, and this time it got aggressive." Reaching into the vehicle, he retrieved a large yellow envelope and handed it over. "It... it never did this before, even when it was being observed."

"What's in here, Sergeant?" Amelia asked, receiving no response save for him looking the other way as she withdrew photos- ones in high definition that made your stomach churn and start flipping.

"Holy fu-" You start, before gagging.

The blonde is silent as she pulls out six pictures of a grisly crime scene, looking over each one in grim silence. When you finally look back over, you get a good look at it all while suppressing the urge to regurgitate your breakfast.

"Clean cuts, like someone hacked them with a sword but-" The sergeant says.

"But even a sword can't just pass through bone like it's butter. This is... straight through the femur, that's impossible for a blade to do without showing signs of sawing or any fractures." Amelia finishes. "So what made this instance different? Why did it go from just being an ominously looming shadow to cutting open," she counted quietly under her breath, flipping through the pictures. "five people?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, but this is urgent now. There are actual deaths. The precinct is swamped with calls from their families, demanding justice but I don't know how I'm supposed to cuff a ghost and get it to stay still while I read the damn thing its Miranda Rights." The officer throws his hands up in frustration, opening the car door and buckling himself in. "We have a cover story set up, but it won't be feasible if this keeps happening." Sticking his hand out the car door, there's a ring with keys on it on top of two badges. "I got keys to the morgues and cemeteries, and they're all labeled. Use those and the badges, poke around and see if you can fix any of this. The places are closed for the next few days under the premise of 'investigation work', and none of my men will be around after six PM."

"Thanks a lot, Sarge. We'll do our best to make things okay-er." The blonde said, tucking the keys away and passing you a badge as he drives off. "Here's y- ew, your hands, Anon!" Amelia frowns at you and it's only then that you become aware of how clammy your hands are. "Are you alright? You're lookin' a little pale there, pal."

"Naw, I'm good." You lie, thoughts rushing through your head. You need to exorcise some sort of demon that can cut people apart cleanly... with what resources? "Is... Is The Omen what you call the thing on the black files?"

A nod. "A mass of black that seems to linger around places where the dead are, it just... drifts around aimlessly from anywhere from four minutes to half an hour. It makes footsteps though, which is the really weird thing since it hasn't left any footprints officially. It's not able to be captured on any sort of recording device, so proving its existence was super hard at first."

"I kinda wish it stayed that way." You murmur, thinking about the cleaved cadavers.

"Yeah... well, can't dwell on that any longer. We gotta make sure that doesn't happen to more people." Watson turned to look at you, hands in her pockets. "We'll meet at Northfield Funeral Services at 8 tonight, okay? Bring a flashlight and a shovel."

"Oh my God, are we going graverobbing, Amelia?!"

"Naw, I was kidding about the shovel." The girl pauses. "But if we really have to dig up a couple dozen coffins to stop this, then I'm glad you're here to speed things up. I'll see you at 8 though, yeah?"

You can only nod and watch her power walk off. While you wait for the Sun to set, you make your own trips while she does her own preparations. A sturdy flashlight, some batteries, and just because it caught your eye- a small cross necklace. You're not super superstitious, but the fact that you have to deal with an actual entity of sorts now has flipped that on its head. When the time finally arrives, you show up at the place and meet up with Watson at the front doors.

"You're not scared, are you?" She asks without turning, opening a door that reads 'Morgue Access'.

"Nope." You do your absolute best to not think about any ghost or zombie or demon movies you've ever seen because you're heading into somewhere awful. Experimentally flicking a light switch and getting no response, Watson groans.

"... No lights? You gotta be kidding me, Sergeant."

As the two of you turn your lights on and proceed, shoulders touching as you slowly maneuver through the spacious darkened building, the smell of chemicals hits you. Wrinkling your nose, the idea of inhaling whatever embalming fluid they use her is thoroughly gross, almost distracting you from seeing bright yellow police tape and chalk outlines. The fact that some of the outlines are for body parts and are at least a few feet from others is terrifying.

"Anon, can you sit tight for a second? I'm gonna walk ahead and check something out."

"... Y-Yeah, sure." You absolutely do not want to be left in the dark, much less at the same spot where a bunch of people just died, or in the same building where there are literal bodies. Yet at the same time, you don't wanna let your boss/partner/cute friend down. Finding a chair against the wall, you sit down and angle yourself in a way where you can see most of the large lobby.

Sweeping your light across the way occasionally, you hear Watson's steps recede into the distance, followed by doors opening and closing sometimes. Left alone with your thoughts which threaten to think about creepy things and the sound of your own breathing, it's a bit hard to stay completely calm, especially when you can see the police tape about ten feet away. Blood is stained into the tiles, not yet scrubbed out by chemicals.

The atmosphere is suffocating and oppressive, each breath feeling like there's something sitting on your chest and filling your ears with an uncomfortable pressure. Eventually, even the sounds of Watson in the distance fade away, leaving you well and truly alone. Hadn't she ever seen a horror movie? You never split the group up, at all costs.

But it's the wrong line of thought, and your active imagination begins to play tricks on you. Shadows dance at the corner of your vision, making you nervously flick over with your light, only to show nothing. Wherever you aren't looking, you're absolutely sure someone or some thing is standing there.

But then you pick up footsteps, slowly returning. A sigh of relief escapes your lips, and you swing your flashlight over. You see nothing but the blackness of the building, but you can hear her coming back.

"Ame-"

A realization comes to you.

That's where the main doors were.

These footsteps are familiar. Your blood turns to ice in your veins and you fall out of your seat, scrabbling up quickly and shakily pointing your torch at the source. "H-Hello?!" The steps are heavy, methodical and purposefully moving towards you. You suddenly become very aware of another fact.

The shadow you were trying to see through with your flashlight, is getting closer. It's taller than you are, a complete absence of light that is stalking towards you maliciously.

" give... . . . it... . . . back . . ." A quiet voice whispers, causing your heart to seize up in fear before your flashlight suddenly turns off- no, is cut in half. A single eye appears in the shifting shadows, pink and filled with pure hate. Dropping the remnants, you scream at the top of your lungs and turn, bolting down the hall.

"WATSON! WATSOOOON! WE GOT A FUCKING ISSUE IT'S FUCKING HE- AGH!" Guided only by dim emergency lights, you slam into a table and careen to the ground, the adrenaline numbing your pain as the stomping pursues you.

"WATSON WATSON WATSON!" You yell hysterically, stuck in near pitch black with a demon hellbent on killing you. True fear courses through you as you realize it's funneling you away from the only entrance you know of, and making you go deeper and deeper into the funeral home. Your skin ripples with goosebumps, eyes dilating to the max as you try every door you can- but to no avail. Locked, locked, and locked.

"AMELIA! HELP ME!"

But there's no response from your partner.

There's just the echoing steps of a monster, ten paces behind you.

And the sound of something metallic being dragged against the tiles, rasping hungrily.

Edit
Pub: 25 Sep 2021 09:59 UTC
Views: 673