The Last Witness

The city was dark and damp, the streets slick from the recent rain. Detective Olivia Hayes stood outside a rundown building in the East End, the yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the wind like a warning. The flashing red and blue lights of the squad cars illuminated the alleyway, casting strange shadows against the brick walls.

Olivia’s boots splashed in the puddles as she approached the entrance. Her eyes were focused, determined. She had seen it all before—dead bodies, twisted faces, the cold stench of violence. But tonight, something felt different.

She was chasing ghosts.

It had started six months ago, a series of murders with no apparent connection, no clear motive. Each victim had been found in different neighborhoods, their bodies arranged in bizarre positions, their eyes wide open as if they were seeing something just before they died. The only common thread was a single piece of evidence left at every crime scene—a scrap of a torn photograph, always showing a woman’s face, her features obscured by the destruction of the image.

Olivia had been working the case from day one, but every lead, every suspect, had turned up nothing. The photograph was the only thing that kept her coming back. Every time she thought she was close, the killer slipped away, like smoke through her fingers.

Now, she had one last shot.

She stepped past the officers guarding the door and into the building. The smell of decay and mildew hit her immediately. This place had been abandoned for years. But tonight, it was anything but empty.

Inside, the air was thick with tension. A uniformed officer motioned her over to a corner, where a figure was kneeling next to a body—another victim, another puzzle. The victim was a man this time, his face frozen in terror, his arms stretched out as if he were reaching for something just out of his grasp. But it was the photograph, torn and crumpled in the man’s hand, that caught Olivia’s eye.

It was the same photograph. The same woman’s face.

“Who found him?” Olivia asked, her voice steady.

“A patrol officer,” the officer replied, his voice tight. “The victim was found just like the others, except this time… we found something different.”

Olivia looked down at the floor beside the body. There, in the corner, was a small, handwritten note. She knelt down and carefully picked it up, scanning the words written in smeared ink:

“She knows.”

Olivia’s pulse quickened. It was the first clue that felt like a breakthrough. She glanced at the officer. “Who knows? Who’s she?”

The officer shook his head. “We have no idea. But we’ve checked the place top to bottom. No sign of the killer. It’s like he vanished.”

Olivia’s mind raced. The killer had always been careful, meticulous. Leaving a note, especially one this personal, was a change in pattern. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it was a trap, but it was a lead, and she couldn’t afford to let it slip away.

She stood up, her eyes scanning the room. Something was off. The building wasn’t just abandoned—it felt like it was waiting for something, someone.

As she turned toward the exit, a sudden sound stopped her in her tracks. A creak. Then another. The sound of footsteps, soft but deliberate, echoing from somewhere deeper inside the building.

Her hand instinctively went to her gun, but she didn’t draw it. Not yet.

She stepped cautiously toward the sound, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the darkness. The steps were getting louder now, closer. Olivia’s heart was pounding in her chest, but her training kicked in. She wasn’t going to be caught off guard. Not again.

Turning the corner, she froze.

There, in the shadows, was a woman. Her face was hidden beneath a hood, but Olivia could make out the faint outline of her features. She was holding something in her hands—something dark, something wet.

The woman spoke, her voice quiet but sharp. “You’re too late.”

Olivia’s grip tightened on her flashlight. “Who are you?”

The woman lifted her head, revealing a face Olivia recognized. It was the woman from the photographs—the one whose face had been torn apart in every image. But now, here she was, standing before her, unharmed, as if nothing had ever happened.

“I’m the last one,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “The last person you’ll ever find. The one who knows.”

Olivia’s mind spun. She had never seen this woman before, but the connection was undeniable. The photograph. The note. The killings. It all pointed back to her.

“Why?” Olivia asked, her voice hoarse. “Why are you doing this?”

The woman’s lips quivered. “Because they made me. Because they used me. I was supposed to be the last witness, the one who could testify. But they—” She stopped, her eyes filling with tears. “They thought I knew too much.”

Olivia took a step closer, lowering her weapon. “Who did this to you? Who made you their weapon?”

The woman’s eyes locked onto hers, a flicker of fear passing through them. “The people in the shadows,” she whispered. “The ones you never see. The ones you never know exist. They wanted to erase everything. They wanted me to be the last thing you ever find.”

Before Olivia could respond, a door slammed shut behind her, cutting off her escape. She spun around, instinctively reaching for her gun, but it was already too late.

The shadows closed in.