Razor Sharp

Razor Sharp
The morning light filtered weakly through the blinds of Greenly Bay Medical Haven, casting pale, sterile stripes across the coroner’s desk. Vera Kingsley stood rigid, arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring at Eleanor Hawthorne’s covered body on the examination table. It wasn't making any sense to her that Eleanor was suddenly dead. She'd seen her just yesterday, and she seemed like she would recover.

But now, she was gone forever, and there was nothing anyone could do to bring her back...

The room smelled of antiseptic, cold metal, and the faint, underlying scent of death that no amount of cleaning could fully erase. The coroner—a tired, middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses and a white coat stained with old coffee—flipped through his notes, his voice clinical and detached as he relayed his findings to the sheriff.

“She just stopped breathing sometime during the night,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “No obvious trauma. No signs of struggle. Her heart simply gave out. Old age, stress from the kidnapping she suffered through… it’s not uncommon in cases like this.”

Vera’s jaw tightened. She didn’t believe a word of it. “Eleanor was frail, yes, but she looked like she was going to be alright. Tell me, sir, are you sure there's no foul play?”

The coroner shrugged. “None that I can see. The night nurse checked on her at two a.m. She was stable. By morning… she was gone.”

Vera stared at the sheet-covered form, her mind racing. Eleanor had been talking. Warning them. And now she was dead. It was too convenient. Too clean. Even Kivior had been so worried about her that he stayed by her side for days so nothing like this would happen to her. And the minute he leaves, she turns up dead; it was in fact too convenient, and Vera didn't like the implications at all.

She turned without another word and left the room, her boots echoing sharply down the sterile hallway. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry insects. The scent of bleach and sickness clung to her clothes as she pushed through the exit doors and stepped into the cool morning air.

As soon as she reach outside, she took a deep breath and tried her hardest to compose herself. She searched her mind for what to do next, until it came to her.

She pulled out her radio and called Kane. It took a while before the connection was established, but after they connected, she told him the harsh news.

“It’s Vera. Eleanor’s dead."

"What?!" Kane sounded shocked to his core. "How could she be dead? What happened to her?"

"They say she just stopped breathing overnight. I don’t buy it. Meet me at the station later this afternoon. We need to talk.”

Kane’s voice came back, concerned. “I’ll be there.”

Vera hung up and headed toward her cruiser. Before she could open the door, Benson and Ramirez approached, their faces grim. Benson’s arm was still in a sling, but his expression was all business.

“Sheriff,” Ramirez said, holding a report. “We’ve got something you need to see. It's pretty gruesome.”

Vera’s stomach tightened. From the looks on their faces, she already knew she wasn’t going to like whatever it was that her subordinates had to show her.

.

.

.

Meanwhile, at the old Carey House, Kivior Thames knelt beside his bed, hands clasped tightly, eyes closed in prayer. The room was dim, the morning light filtering through dusty curtains, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The longer he remained in the house, the more ancient it felt.

The air smelled of old wood, mildew, and the faint lavender from Lina’s sachets that still lingered in the drawers. His voice rose in heavy tongues—ancient words flowing from his lips in a steady, powerful rhythm.

But peace would not come. No matter how much he tried to focus his mind on the Lord, he just couldn't pull away from all the other things that were clamoring for his attention.

Distant laughter echoed in his mind—Lina’s soft, warm laugh. Then the voices of their children calling out. “Dad… Dad…”

Kivior’s brow broke out in sweat. His hands trembled. His voice faltered, then grew louder, more desperate. The laughter grew clearer.

The children’s voices sharper. “Dad… where are you? We need you, Dad. Please, come to us. We need you. If Mom's gone, then you're all we have left.”

He snapped. With a cry of anguish, he grabbed the Bible and hurled it across the room. It slammed against the wall and fell to the floor with a thud.

Kivior collapsed forward, weeping openly, his shoulders shaking with heavy sobs. The pain was too much. The loss of Lina, the endless fight, the weight of missing his children, the town’s endless curse—it all crashed down on him at once.

After several long minutes, he sniffled, wiping his eyes. His gaze fell on the Bible lying open on the floor. A photograph had slipped out, tucked between the pages. He crawled over and picked it up with trembling hands.

It was a family photo—him, Lina, and their six children, all smiling brightly on a sunny day years ago. They looked so happy. So whole. Despite the fact that they had spiritual duties at that time too, they looked so happy and their smiles filled the space around them.

Kivior stared at it for a long moment, his fingers tracing their faces. Then he made a decision in his heart, one that he intended not to share with anyone. His expression hardened with quiet resolve.

He stood, wiped his eyes, and rose to his feet. He walked over to his wardrobe and began packing a bag. There was this resilience in his eyes as he placed layers of clothes after clothes into the bag, and he moved with precision. Almost like there was no time to waste.

After the first bag was full, he grabbed a smaller second and began to pack his other items into them. In his mind, he was not going to be coming back to this place in a long time, so it was best to get every single thing that belonged to him. No more would he willingly remain in this nightmare, when his dream was out there waiting for him to come to it, or in this case, them.