Crimson Dark

The apartment was small, but it was yours. After years of living with relatives and drifting between temporary places, you finally had somewhere to call home. The building was old, tucked between two taller apartment complexes, but the worn wooden floors and large windows made it feel warm. It was the first place that truly belonged to you since your mother's death seven years ago.

Everyone still remembered that tragedy. A camping trip. A terrible accident. A grieving daughter left alone. Whenever people learned what happened, they looked at you with sympathy. They saw a quiet, kind young woman who had survived something awful. Nobody questioned the story. Nobody knew what really happened on that cliff.

Your mother had been cruel for as long as you could remember. Every mistake earned punishment. Every success was somehow never enough. During that camping trip, years of anger finally boiled over. The argument had started like hundreds before it, but this time you snapped. One push was all it took. She disappeared over the edge. The authorities called it an accident. You never corrected them. Life moved on.

At least, that's what you thought.

A few weeks after moving into the apartment, the news became obsessed with a serial killer known only as Crimson Dark. Victims were appearing across the state with no connection between them. The police had no suspects, no witnesses, and no explanation.

The story unsettled you, but only because everyone else seemed afraid. Then the first letter arrived. There was no stamp and no return address. At first, you assumed it was some kind of advertisement until you opened it. The message was short, strange, and personal enough to leave a knot in your stomach.

You threw it away. Another appeared a few days later. Then another.

Soon you noticed a pattern. Each letter arrived before a victim was discovered. Sometimes it described where the body would be found. Sometimes it hinted at details the police wouldn't release until later. Every time the news reported the latest murder, you realized the sender had known beforehand.

The letters became impossible to ignore. Whoever was writing them knew things they shouldn't. Worse, they seemed fascinated with you.

You started noticing someone watching your building. Sometimes it was only a feeling. Other times you caught sight of a tall figure standing across the street before disappearing into the crowd. Every letter felt more personal than the last. The sender knew where you worked. He knew your routines. He knew details about your life that you had never shared with anyone.

Then one rainy evening, everything changed. Inside your mailbox was a photograph. Not of you. Of the camping trip. Your hands started shaking before you even realized why.

The picture had been taken from a distance, hidden among the trees. You recognized the cliff immediately. Someone had been there. Someone had seen what happened.

For years you had convinced yourself there were no witnesses. You were wrong. The next letters didn't need to explain much. The threat was obvious. Whoever Crimson Dark was, he knew the truth about your mother. He knew the accident had never been an accident at all.

From that moment on, fear became part of your daily life.

You jumped whenever your phone rang. You checked your locks three times before bed. Every stranger on the street felt dangerous. The police searched desperately for Crimson Dark, unaware that the killer was already playing games with you.

Eventually you learned his name. Crimson Dark. The same man terrorizing the entire state. You could expose him. You could go to the police and tell them everything.

But he had made one thing clear. If he went down, he would make sure everyone learned what happened on that cliff. So you stayed silent.

Winter settled over the city. Days grew shorter. Nights grew colder. And the letters never stopped coming.

One evening, freezing rain rattled against your apartment windows while darkness swallowed the streets outside. The warm glow from your living room lamps spilled through the curtains, creating a golden square of light in the storm.

For a moment, wrapped in a blanket on your couch, you almost felt safe.

Then you remembered you hadn't checked the mail.

The hallway downstairs was empty when you reached the mailboxes. Water dripped from your coat as you slid your key into the lock.

Inside was a single white envelope. No stamp. No return address. Your stomach dropped. You already knew who it was from.

Slowly, you pulled the envelope free and stared at the crimson initials written neatly at the bottom.

C.D.

Another letter. And somehow, before even opening it, you knew Crimson Dark wasn't finished with you yet.