Page 13 of Silent Stalker

My steps are confident, sure as I approach the podium. Camera flashes blind me as I adjust the microphone.

"Citizens of Evergreen Falls, I understand your fear. The police department is working tirelessly to apprehend this heinous murderer. We ask everyone to remain vigilant and follow the implemented curfew."

A reporter shoots up his hand. "Dr. Hart, sources say this is the work of a holiday-themed killer. Can you confirm?"

My throat tightens. "We cannot comment on the specifics of an ongoing investigation."

"But what about the Christmas connection?" Another voice calls out.

I grip the podium edges. "Speculation only creates panic. Please focus on staying safe and reporting suspicious activity."

My phone buzzes in my pocket. James catches my eye from the side of the stage, his face grim.

"That's all for now. Thank you." I step away from the barrage of questions.

James grabs my arm. "We need to go. Now."

In the squad car, sirens wailing, I clench my fists. "Where?"

"St. Mary's Church. Four victims."

My stomach drops. "Four?"

"All choir members."

The scene hits me like a punch to the gut. Four women in white robes arranged in a perfect circle, their hands reaching toward the center like twisted claws, their faces frozen in terror.

"Four calling birds," I whisper.

James kicks a nearby trash can. "Damn it! The killer is evolving.”

I can't tear my eyes away from their faces. These women were singing carols just yesterday. The killer's precision unnerves me. Each body is placed with mathematical accuracy, creating a grotesque art piece.

My hands shake as I pull on latex gloves. This isn't just murder anymore. It's a performance, and something about it feels terrifyingly familiar.

Memories crash over me like ice water while I stand among the choir members' bodies. My hands tremble as I remove my latex gloves.

"I need air," I mutter to James, stumbling toward the church entrance.

The cold December wind whips my face, but I barely feel it. Instead, I'm twelve again, walking home from school with my best friend, Rose. We'd been singing "Ring Around the Rosie"—her favorite nursery rhyme. She lived three houses down from mine.

The next morning, they found her. She was positioned in the center of Miller's Field, surrounded by a circle of roses. Her arms were outstretched like she was frozen mid-spin from our game. The killer had carved the nursery rhyme's lyrics into her skin.

Two weeks later, Tommy Fischer disappeared. They discovered him at the playground, hanging from the monkeybars. "London Bridge is Falling" played repeatedly from a portable radio beneath his feet.

Then came Jessica White. "Mary Had a Little Lamb." Her body was laid out in her family's sheep pen, surrounded by dead lambs.

The newspapers called him the Songbird Killer. He claimed three more victims before vanishing, leaving our small town traumatized and the cases unsolved.

I press my palm against the cold church wall. The similarities are striking—the theatrical staging, the musical connection, the attention to detail. But this is different. This killer is following a specific timeline—the twelve days of Christmas. We know when he'll strike next.

"Clara?" James's voice breaks through my memories. "You okay?"

I straighten my spine. “Have you pulled the files for The Songbird Killer?"

"What? That was twenty years ago."

"I know. But there's something about these scenes. The precision. The musical connection." I turn to face him. "What if he's back?”