Click here for nice stories main menu

main menu   |   youngsters categories   |   authors   |   new stories   |   search   |   links   |   settings   |   author tools


The Dead Don't Talk (standard:horror, 7999 words)
Author: Grace HunterAdded: Aug 02 2006Views/Reads: 1689/1117Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is a story about a New York detective, who has visions of her victems deaths. She sees strange apperitions that gide her through the horrors and puzzles that her ex-partner has trouble beliving in. Until now.
 



The Dead Don't Talk. 

The apartment was dark when I entered, long bloody tracks were already
beginning to turn brown, leading from the wood stained sitting room up 
the two steps on to the small corridor, that then navigated the team 
and I into the bathroom. 

The bright fluorescent light blinked as if it had been knocked by the
killers arm, or the instrument that he wielded above his head to knock 
her down in such a peculiar position. Her arm was draped over the high 
raised sink, while the top half of her body was slumped over the bath's 
edge. She was dressed in a silk night dress that was unrecognisable of 
ever been white. The chequered black and white tiled floor was drenched 
with the thick, syrup like blood, while on one of the walls a long hand 
print ran downward almost like the person had slipped in his own handy 
work, or could it just be her husbands panic stricken steps into his 
wifes disturbing, resting place. It wouldn't surprise me if we tagged 
the husband in the next 24 hours, it always ended in the same way these 
kind of cases, they just always seemed to open and close on their own. 
Behind me, I could hear the click of the forensic cameras and the 
slight brush of a presence behind made me look round. The apartment had 
become surprisingly cold making me fold my arms over my body, however, 
people around seemed not to feel the chilling draft. 

“Detective Scott, is everything alright?” 

A squeaky voice spoke at me from the corridor that drew my attention
round. The head forensic photographer, Alice Cooms, pulled free her 
face mask, smiling widely in her cheeky almost childlike grin. Her 
auburn eyes went to the body inside the small room and her smile 
dropped. 

“No matter how many times you see something like that you can't help but
feel sick to your stomach. So what you doing for supper?” 

She laughed, after all everyone who deals with murders all day has to
have some kind of sense of humour no matter how morbid. It was just the 
way they were. I smiled back politely, not wanting to offend. 

“Do you know where the husband is?” I asked getting back to the work at
hand. 

“With Detective Lock, he came just after the first police squad car
showed up. Did he not radio you?” she asked 

“With him, the word partner means nothing. I had to hear about it on the
radio scanner.” I shook my head becoming hot under the collar when a 
hand took my shoulder. 

“Scott what are you still doing here? John already has the husband at
the  station, he's waiting for you to start the questioning” 

It was the sergeant of the homicide borough. Allan McManus a tall gaunt
man with a thick moustache and thin glasses. His brown suits were 
always perfectly ironed even at this time of the night and it was all 
thanks to his stay at home wife, Margery. I knew what kind of man 
McManus was, an over confident control freak, if he was like that at 
work I hated to think what he was like at home. 

“I'm on my way, sir.” 

The office was quiet, everyone opting for the morning shifts rather then
the dead shift at night. I on the other hand only ever took the night 
shift, finding the nights work far less strenuous and all the 
facilities were easy to access rather than having to fight for 
resources. The other detective, my partner, John Lock was so used to 
being, almost the only person on shift at this time of night, I think 
he even sometimes forgets I work the graveyard shift too. 

Coming to the interview room with my cup of coffee still steaming in my
hand I pushed open the door with my left shoulder into the small room. 
John shook his head as I glanced to him, then he tapped his wrist 
watch. He was dressed in casual clothes, a blue t-shirt, brown combats 
and a pair of base ball sneakers. It was very unlike him to be dressed 
in a suit. I had to admit he was unorthodox. On the other side of the 


Click here to read the rest of this story (790 more lines)



Authors appreciate feedback!
Please vote, and write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
Grace Hunter has 1 active stories on this site.
Profile for Grace Hunter, incl. all stories
Email: deathwatch662000@yahoo.co.uk
Due to abuse, voting is disabled.
For a quick, anonymous response to the author of this story, type
a message below. It will be sent to the author by email.

stories in "horror"   |   all stories by "Grace Hunter"  






Nice Stories @ nicestories.com, support email: nice at nicestories dot com
Powered by StoryEngine v1.00 © 2000-2014 - Artware Internet Consultancy BV