Mors: Part 1

Content warning: contains gore and torture

Police tape surrounded a once quiet apartment block; uniformed officers patrolled the neighbourhood looking for answers. 

‘This is the fourth murder in the last few months. Each one has been even more violent than the last.’ A grizzled detective stood before a woman, bloodied, naked and hanging by her neck; her intestines protruding out of a swollen stomach.

‘She was pregnant. Her neighbour let one of the beat cops know.’ The grizzled detective's partner said as the detective bowed his head low. His long, brown trench coat reeked of long nights, his once white dress shirt was greying and smelt of cigarette smoke. 

‘Martin your eyes are really red… When was the last time you slept?’ His partner asked in concern. Martin ran his hands through his salt and pepper hair, the roots showing remnants of colours, with a tinge of  blonde seeping through, resembling highways of old roads. He looked like death walking, green eyes that once ran like rivers were a blood red, and a once colossal and great beard was now unkempt, scraggy and losing its vigor. 

‘I can’t sleep, Mary… Not until we catch this guy.’ Martin said, stifling back a yawn. Mary was only recently assigned to this case and to Martin’s team. She wore a long black trench coat, nothing fancy, but you could tell she had spent a lot of money on this coat. It had an extra layer of down for insulation and a lot of flexibility for movement. Mary had on a simple black dress shirt and tight black jeans. She wore her long, wavy dark hair down and had bright green eyes. 

‘Look, why don’t we let forensics do their job? We can head back to the office and look at what we know.’ Mary said with a concerned hand on Martin's shoulder. 

‘What–w? WHAT WE KNOW?!’ Martin yelled. 

‘All we know is that this guy is targeting women and we don’t know why! We get letters from the sick fuck filled with cryptic words taunting us’. Martin paced back and forth between piles of numbered evidence, crude tools used for torture and blood and sinew were everywhere.

‘Martin, what about that cult leader? The one that lives in the countryside with his followers?’

Martin looked at Mary annoyed. 

‘We already tried that nut. He wouldn’t let us into his compound and the captain told us to stop harassing them.’ Martin shook his head and sighed, and walked out into the hallway. Mary raced out to catch up with him. People stood outside their doors trying to get a glimpse of what was happening. The once newly renovated apartment’s white walls now shook and quivered with the burden of murder. 

‘Martin stop! Just listen, we have to go and talk to the Mors, maybe they will let us talk with Old Nick if we press them’. Mary struggled to keep up with Martin’s pace. 

‘Why won’t you talk about what happened with me?’ she continued. ‘All they would tell me is that your partner died. They wouldn’t elaborate on how’.

Martin turned to Mary, a sombre or rather feeling of dread struck Martin's ragged face.


                                                                        ***
6 Months ago.

Martin approached a large and looming metal gate, the gate read: “Mortem Oppetere”. Martin had received a letter addressed to him recently with these exact same words. Perhaps the words were a warning, Martin thought.

‘Maybe we should leave.’ A tall, ashy-haired man, with chiselled features, stood before Martin. He towered over him; he had to be at least 6’8”. Muscles bulged out of his neatly pressed white dress shirt, and a windsor knot pulled together the rest of the outfit. He donned a long, black trench coat and recently ironed, beige dress pants. It was a little miss-matchy but Martin thought he pulled it off. Even if he didn't, his bright ocean blue eyes, defined jawline and well-kept taper cut would pull attention away from the outfit; they often did.

‘We can’t leave now, Asher. Forensics traced the letter back here.’ It had been a few weeks since they started getting letters sent to the station. They were always in either Roman or Latin, they hadn’t been able to figure out why. Their recent letter had a picture attached, it showed a young woman tied to a chair. Tools used for torture were evident in the background, blood sat at the young woman’s feet. They weren't able to work out who she was because of the bag over her head but they did notice a strange figure; dressed in drag,  looming behind her. Most of the figure’s visible skin was marred with scabs, cuts and dried wounds, pustules that looked ripe, like it was the season for them to pop and ooze onto the dried, scabby skin. Accompanying the photo was crude handwriting that read: morietur violenta morte which roughly translated to: die a violent death. Martin began unequipping himself, leaving his gun, radio and even badge in his car. Asher was confused and raised an eyebrow at this.

‘Martin, what are you doing?’ He received no response. Asher walked towards the car. The sun was setting in the distance, neglected overgrown fields of yellow daisies stood out, the flower of joy not offering much comfort here. Dilapidated farmhouses and foreclosed upon homes marked a foreboding that made Asher stand on edge. Of course the Mors built here, he thought, shivering as a cold wind blew by him, goosebumps raised on every inch of his tight body. 

‘He told us to leave our things here. He said if we didn’t do exactly as he said, then he would kill her.’ Asher contorted his face, once again he was puzzled and confused. 

‘When did he contact you Martin?’ 

Martin put a hand atop the car's roof, ignoring Asher. The car was an old 1965 Chevy Caprice that had seen better days. Rust laid about the vehicle's roof and old, poorly patched holes threatened to reveal old secrets. 

‘It doesn’t matter, he–h,’ Martin struggled to get the words out, his mouth felt like a dam holding back a river. 

‘Talk to me Martin.’ Asher said in a hushed tone.

‘You’ve been distant these days, Marti.’ Asher's voice faltered a little bit. Martin turned to face Asher but couldn’t quite get the words out. He had neglected the man he loved for the past few months, the case had absorbed all of him. Taken him from the comfort of those warm arms.

‘Do you trust me, Ash?’ Martin asked, looking intently into Asher's eyes. 

‘Of course I do. But I will not leave my gun, radio or badge behind.’ 

The gate opened inward, revealing a large field laden with hideous concrete buildings. There was no character at all, they did the landscape no justice. A strange looking woman met them at the gate, she bore no discernible features and wore a grey face covering, while white cloth covered her body. She cocked her head at Asher’s waist, before turning away, threatening to press a button that would surely close the gate on them. 

‘Asher please. That poor girl, she needs us and this is the only way we get her back.’ 

‘I don’t like this Martin. Ugh.’ Asher stepped back towards the car, removing his gun belt and placing them neatly into the open window. He knew Martin would find a way to go alone if he didn’t obey. The woman made a motion as if to say follow. Asher looked worried, Martin was becoming obsessed with this killer. They had already killed two people this month and whoever they were they took special interest in Martin, sending weird messages and letters addressed directly to him of late. But they had never contacted him directly outside of work like this; what was Martin not telling him? 

They walked for what seemed like forever, the compound spanning hundreds of kilometres. It was a vast land, one they maybe wouldn’t leave today, thought Asher. 

‘Wait in here.’ The woman said pointing a finger into a darkened room; its only light source was a red light atop a boiler. The pair stopped short. They hadn’t let anyone know they were coming here today and they left their weapons and radios in the car. Stupid, stupid, Asher thought.

‘Err, yeah no’. Asher motioned for Martin to follow back to the car, Asher turned to walk away but Martin had other ideas, he would see this through to the end. Asher sighed and followed him into the room. He wouldn’t let Martin do this by himself. Two chairs sat facing each other, each with Martin and Asher’s names written on them. A voice came over the loudspeaker, telling them to sit down, the chairs had metal wrist clamps on them. 

‘Strap yourselves down and we can talk. I can’t risk you attacking me,’ the voice crackled.

‘This is stupid, Martin. Let’s just forget it and go back to the station.’ Asher voiced his concerns but Martin had already strapped himself to the chair. 

‘You can go, Asher; you don’t need to do this with me.’. Asher sighed, as he kissed Martin’s forehead and sat down, strapping his wrists down. Cold metal pressed against him causing him to wince. 

‘Of course I have to do this with you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you didn’t come home. Plus we are partners, never forget that.’ A metal door creaked open. Here we go, thought Asher and Martin. A slender figure in a dirty grey wedding dress slouched over to the pair; the figure had cracked dry lips, sun-damaged skin and scabs all over. Freshly popped pustules moistened their hardened and scabbed skin. Their face was scarred and eyes blood red. 

‘Last time we met, you attacked me, Detective. This is for my safety’. The figure said in a tired tone. The woman that they followed to the room put a bag over Martin’s head. 

‘When did you attack him Martin? What the fuck is he talking about?’ Asher asked, ignored.

‘I truly cannot believe how easy this was. You walked right in and strapped yourself down. Like a lamb to slaughter or a moth to a flame’. The figure laughed. ‘You took something precious from me, Detective. So now I take something precious from you.’ 

Asher went ghost white.

‘Martin! What the fuck is he talking about?’ Asher yelled in fear. Martin could hear the words forming but he couldn’t bring himself to let loose the floodgates. 

‘Martin!’ Asher yelled again as a bag was violently thrown over his head. The woman that led them into the room hit Asher in the back of the head before pulling a knife, she grinned wide before jamming the knife into Asher’s leg. Clair de Lune started to play over the loudspeaker muffling Asher’s pleas for help. Asher begged for Martin over and over, but Martin said nothing. Asher’s pleas became less and less, as the young woman repeatedly stabbed Asher, in the same spot. 

‘Marti, please help me,’ Asher cried.

‘Marti, p–please,’ The cries were a jumbled mess now. 

‘M–mart-’ The pleas turned into a bloody gargle as Asher passed out from the shock and pain. 

Martin had succumbed to fear, breathing deeply and heavily. He had willingly trapped both himself and his husband. Terror and trepidation set in. 

‘Oh, don’t be so glum, Martin. I only want to hold you for a few hours.’ The figure continued. ‘Long enough for you to still clock out and go home for the day. But I will be keeping Asher.’ Martin struggled and thrashed about, panicking, his vision going blurry against the burlap sack on his head, blood rushing to his head. Everything suddenly went black and Martin felt woozy. For the first time in his life, Martin felt helpless. He called out to Asher. 

‘Ash! Everything will be okay! I will fix this!’

‘No, you won’t. Sorry Marti, but you don’t walk away from this one without a deep scar.’ The figure whispered into Martin’s ear, as Asher awoke from his unconscious slumber. 

‘I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!’ Martin screamed in fury.  

‘Don’t worry Martin, he is just going to feel everything.’ The figure let out a loud snort. Martin's vision went red and he filled with terror as screams and cries from Asher decibeled off the walls. Clair de Lune still played in the background. 

End Part One.   

Writer: Lachlan Malden

Editor: Minahil Amin