The Midnight Caller

The phone rang in the dead of night, sharp and insistent. Detective Lucas Ward rolled over, his hand groping blindly for the receiver.

“Ward,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

A shaky breath came through the line, followed by a woman’s voice. “I need your help.”

Ward sat up, wiping his eyes. “Who is this?”

“I can’t say.” The woman’s voice was low, strained. “But you need to come to the old railway yard. Now.”

Ward frowned. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain everything when you get here. But hurry—he’s coming.” Then, the line went dead.

Ward’s heart rate quickened. Who’s coming?

He threw on his jacket, grabbing his gun and badge, heading out the door. The night was still and cold as he made his way to the car, the neon signs of the city flickering in the distance. The railway yard was abandoned, a ghost town of rusted tracks and forgotten trains.

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The yard was eerily quiet when he arrived, his footsteps echoing on the cracked pavement. The fog rolled in from the water, thick and heavy, cloaking everything in a haze. Ward scanned the area, trying to make out any shapes in the dim light.

Then, he heard a voice.

“Over here.”

He turned to see a woman standing beneath a streetlamp, her face half-hidden in the shadows.

“Who are you?” Ward asked, moving toward her.

The woman stepped forward, her hands trembling. “I’m Claire. I… I think I’ve been followed.”

Ward’s eyes narrowed. “Followed by who?”

She hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide with panic. “By him. The man who killed my sister.”

Ward froze. “What?”

“Her name was Rachel. They said it was an accident—just a mugging gone wrong. But I know it wasn’t. I found something.”

She handed him a small, crumpled envelope. Inside was a photo, a grainy image of a man standing outside a bar. His face was obscured, but the posture, the way he stood, was unmistakable.

“That’s him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been following him for weeks. He’s the one who killed her. I know it.”

Ward took the photo, his mind racing. “We need to get this to the station. We’ll put out an APB.”

Claire’s eyes darted nervously. “No… that’s not what I’m asking.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need you to help me find him. I don’t trust the cops anymore. They think I’m crazy.”

Ward’s stomach twisted. “What are you saying, Claire?”

Before she could respond, a figure appeared from the fog—a tall man, his features obscured by the darkness. Claire gasped and took a step back.

Ward’s instincts kicked in. “Stay behind me.”

The man stepped closer, his hands hidden in the pockets of his coat. His eyes, though, gleamed from beneath the brim of his hat, a cold, calculating stare.

“I told you not to get involved,” the man said in a low, gravelly voice.

Ward’s pulse spiked. “Who the hell are you?”

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled a knife from his coat. The moonlight glinted off the blade.

Claire’s breath caught in her throat. “He’s the one… the one who killed Rachel.”

Ward took a step back, his hand reaching for his gun. But the man was faster. With a quick, practiced movement, he lunged forward, the knife aimed at Ward’s side.

Ward dodged, but just barely, his shoulder grazing the man’s arm. He managed to draw his weapon and fire, the shot ringing through the night.

The man staggered back, his hand clutching his chest. He looked at Ward, his eyes widening in surprise. “You… you shouldn’t have done that.”

With a final, shaky breath, the man crumpled to the ground.

Claire stood frozen, her hands shaking. “Is he…”

Ward nodded, his gun still raised. “He won’t hurt anyone else.”

As the police arrived moments later, Ward stood over the body, his thoughts swirling. Claire had been right. She wasn’t crazy. But she’d been right for the wrong reasons.

Her sister hadn’t been the first, and she wouldn’t be the last. The man was part of something much bigger. And Ward knew—this was far from over.