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       The smell of rotten plant life was suffocating and tinged with a secondary aroma that Greg couldn't place. The narrow pathway Courtney had trampled flat was winding and, the deeper into the woods it went, the darker it become. The trees here were growing closer together and the towering heads of green foliage where like a curtain across the sky.

       "Ryan," Greg called out the name again and again.

The heat was unbearable, a sticky humidity that slicked Greg's forehead in sweat. He raised an arm to wipe across his brow and stopped dead in his tracks. His lower arm was covered in dark streaks of glossy red. He looked down at himself and felt his stomach revolt at the sight of the blood that had rubbed off the ferns and onto his lower half. Both arms and everything from the waist down was covered in a fine coating of red wetness.

       "Ryan!" Greg screamed, running forward as the worst thoughts started to become truth.

       Greg's foot caught on an exposed root and he went down, arms flailing pointlessly. He hit the ground hard, the unforgiving impact forcing the air from his exhausted lungs. He could feel the burn of grazed knees and knew he'd taken the skin off his chin.

       Greg lay for a moment with his eyes closed as he caught his breath, each inhalation causing a spike of pain in his chest. Eventually he opened his eyes and, as he did so, the scream left his throat with painful ferocity.

       Ryan was laid on his back; his eyes open yet sightless, his mouth frozen open in a scream that had never made it out. Greg crawled towards Ryan and scooped the limp body into his arms and stood up. He clutched the body tightly and began to retrace his steps. No more tears came as Greg travelled back to the van, his emotions torn to shreds and his mind shut down with shock.

He didn't feel the warmness of the sun when he reached the lakeside, only the coldness of the little boy he loved so much. Greg carried the child back to the van, stopping and looking up at the vehicle when it was in sight.

       The first thing he noticed was the blood. He'd seen enough of it in the last hour to know what covered the inside of the van windows. Greg didn't run, instead he carefully lay Ryan down on the ground and walked slowly towards the van. He didn't call out for his wife or his daughter; he knew it would be pointless.

       Greg lifted a hand and pulled on the van door. It squeaked open as it always did. He stepped up and peered into the living area. He didn't scream when he saw the shredded remains of Courtney spread across the kitchen worktop.

       Greg moved to the rear of the van and pushed open the door to the bedroom he'd shared with Maria on many trips around the country. He didn't cry when he saw her laid out on the bed, her clothing torn to reveal her nakedness. He didn't gag as his gaze travelled over the body he had kissed tenderly over the years, now torn open to reveal the woman on the inside.

       He moved into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't look up when he heard the growl and he didn't fight when the talons sank into his chest.

       The room was now lit with portable halogen units that had been erected in the far corner, but upon Detective Kyle Harrison's arrival earlier it had been dark within the confines of the apartment. In retrospect it was something he was glad of.

       Every bulb throughout the four room abode had been removed and the windows that should have overlooked the city had been pasted over with what appeared to be at least two years worth of daily tabloids.

       Harrison had been called in when two uniformed officers had gained entry by force after numerous complaints of a foul smell originating from apartment

369. During a quick search by torch light the source of the rotten aroma had been discovered. In truth s
ource is
the wrong word, multiple sources would have been nearer to describing what they found.

       Harrison had entered the apartment on his own. Of the two uniformed men only one was capable of doing so and the other preferred not to, having seen more than enough during his first venture to fill his nightmares with a lifetimes worth of twisted imagery.

       "Just send Tom and his team in as soon as they arrive," Harrison ordered as he'd flicked on his torch and crossed the threshold of 369.

On first impression the hallway showed all the classic signs of a hoarder. Magazines were tied in bundles and stacked along the right hand side wall whilst the left was piled high with empty food tins. Harrison shone the hand-held light over the tins, quickly getting an idea of the owner's diet. Whoever had lived here had survived on a complex mix of rice pudding, baked beans and cat food. He quickly scratched cat food from the mental list when he stumbled over the first of the cats.

       Well, stumbled over what was left of it.

       The tabby had suffered before it had died. The frozen, wide eyed horror on its face giving testament to extreme pain. It looked as if someone had seared the fur from its hind quarters, the flesh a mass of blistered scabs and pus filled lesions. The torture hadn't ended there. The cat's underbelly had been slit open and what had belonged inside had been ripped out. Harrison followed the red line of the animal's intestine until he came to the end of the narrow hallway.

       Harrison entered the living room and swallowed back on the threat of vomit, his mind reeling at the state of chaos laid out before him. He couldn't have counted how many different cats had died to create the morbid sculpture that filled every spare inch of floor space. The walls weren't much better, a collage of varied coloured furs that hung abstractly and overlapped the ceiling.

       Harrison slowly moved the torch across the surface of the bizarrely posed, flayed felines. The yellow beam reflected off the glistening flesh, revealing the multitude of maggots feasting on the decaying flesh.

"It's worse in the bedroom," shouted the younger of the two uniformed officers from his safe haven outside the door of 369.

       "Worse?" Harrison had whispered, turning away from the grim massacre and returning to the hallway, pausing to listen to the cloying silence that filled the apartment.

       He moved towards the only other open door, holding the torch out in front in a feeble attempt at protection. He stepped into the bedroom and felt the utter blackness of the room pressing in on him. No daylight seeped in around the corner of the newspapered windows as it had in the living room. The sleeping area had been totally blacked out, the walls, ceiling and windows all painted a matt black.

       Harrison stepped towards the bed and its cover of heavy black fabric, a black that seemed to be moving on its own accord. He slid the beam of the torch along the wall and down onto the bed, disturbing its inhabitants and riling them up into a seething mass of buzzing wings. As the flies took to the air they revealed what they had been feeding upon. The body had been ravaged by decay and fly vomit, but Harrison could clearly make out it had been a male, the rancid, semidevoured penis clear proof of gender.

       Harrison pulled the front of his jacket over the lower half of his face and waded through the hail storm of flies, flinching as they dive bombed his shaved head in their agitation. He breathed through gritted teeth and leant down so he could inspect the corpse.

The skin had tightened against the structure of the skull, giving the face a sneer-like appearance. The eyelids had remained open, but the eyes had dried up like grapes left out in the sun for too long.

       None of this mattered to Harrison. Death was death, pure and simple. What interested Harrison was how the death had occurred. He waved a hand over the flaccid cadaver, evicting the braver of the fat flies from their new home. He saw the cut marks, long and deep running the length of both lower arms, following the track of the main artery.

       
Suicide?

       Harrison's assumption was given further credence when he spied the empty bottles of prescription drugs sat haphazardly on top of the dresser. Sleeping pills, anti-depressants and painkillers. All of these had been taken and probably washed down with the contents of the cheap cider bottle that lay on the carpet.