UNINVITED

UNINVITED Part 3

Gently pushing the shaking Miss Larson to the side, I entered the rented room. Behind me, I heard the landlady, Miss Merritt, crying and mumbling as she went downstairs.

My eyes left no doubt Roger Price had died. The smell confirmed it.

The body lay in the center of the room, stretched out on a plastic tarp, the kind commonly used for painting. The unfortunate man's clothes and prone body appeared covered in blood. At first glance, it appeared he'd been mutilated by a dozen cuts and fell over, probably from a kneeling position. In addition to the unmistakable smell of death, I detected the lingering odor of burned out candles.

"Oh, Roger." Miss Larson began sobbing, having recovered from her initial shock. "Who did this to you?"

"I'm sorry for your loss." I whispered.

"I barely knew him." Miss Larson replied. I thought the statement odd. After several more moments of sobbing, Miss Larson asked, "Is he dead?"

Are you serious?

"Yes. No doubt."

"Nash. Can you make sure? Please?"

Stepping onto the plastic covering, I placed my index and middle fingers along the dead body's carotid artery.

No pulse.

"He's dead, Miss Larson."

"I think Abagail went to get the police." Miss Larson commented.

"Good." I replied as I glanced around the room. I didn't detect any signs of a struggle in the room. All the furniture sat upright and I couldn't see any bloody footprints around the body. As I studied the surrounding area, the only thing out of place appeared to be the plastic tarp, the dead body on it, five black, burned out candles and a single piece of paper between two of the candle stubs, splattered in Roger's blood.

Miss Larson took a cautious step forward as I examined the potential crime scene in even more detail. Inside the room, with the only other door apart from the one we entered from leading to a washroom, I located a tightly made bed with a single pair of black, shined shoes underneath. The room also contained a nightstand with a lamp and a book on it, a bookcase, a round table in the corner containing several empty glasses, plates and silverware, and an overstuffed reading chair.

Rain beat hard against the locked window and another flash of lightning, accompanied by a thunderclap, added to the already spooky scene.

Turning back toward the body, beneath the blood, I noticed a deep cut around the corpse's head as if a blade had traced a spiral from the top of the man's head down his neck to his spinal cord. Between his blood-soaked, half-unbuttoned shirt, I also spied strange markings in black ink vaguely resembling spirals.

Weird.

The clotting and dried state of the blood, along with the odor of decay, had me deduce the time of death as several days ago.

Apart from the deep, spiral cut on Mister Price's head, the deceased also sported older knife scars, already healed, covering his chest and arms.

"Who did this?"

"What?" I asked, my mind lost in thought.

"Who did this?" Miss Larson repeated.

"I have no idea." I lied, my mind quickly developing possible scenarios as it raced for answers. My initial impression being the wounds appeared self-inflicted. I debated telling Miss Larson my opinion before I had more proof.

"This is the worst thing I've ever seen." Miss Larson whispered to herself. I believed her. Unfortunately, the same didn't ring true for me.

"Go back to your room and wait for the police." I offered. Silence answered my request.

"Under the bed!" Miss Larson exclaimed after a few moments, startling me.

Leaning over and peering under the bed where the woman pointed at, hidden at an angle I didn't think Miss Larson could observe, I located the murder weapon. Or maybe the suicide weapon. I still wasn't sure.

Under the bed rested a strangely curved, and very bloody, knife.

"Don't touch it." I warned the younger woman.

"Don't worry." Miss Larson assured me, crossing her arms in front of her chest and hugging herself reflexively as she shuddered. "I don't want to touch anything in here."