In the quiet coastal town of Ashmere, the fog rolled in like a slow-moving tide, folding over cobblestone streets and shadowing the grand old Ashmere Theatre. The building, with its baroque architecture and once-lavish velvet curtains, had become a husk of its former glory—abandoned, boarded up, and dusted with decades of disrepair. Still, its faded marquee remained, declaring its last show many years ago: “The Crimson Letter.” Nobody knew why the once-thriving theatre shut down so suddenly. The town didn’t talk about it, as though the entire building had been cursed and erased from memory.
Detective Ava Harlow didn’t believe in curses, which is why she stood in front of the theatre on a cold November night, flashlight in hand and her senses sharp. She had been called to the town for an unusual case—a string of eerie deaths. Each victim had been a resident of Ashmere, and each had received a mysterious crimson envelope hours before meeting an untimely demise. Strangulation. Drowning. Falling from great heights. The deaths were different, but the one constant was the letter.
“Detective Harlow,” called the voice of Officer Liam Carpenter. He jogged up to her, breath turning to mist in the frigid air. “We found another one. Crimson envelope, just like the others.”
Ava turned to face the young officer, frustration etched on her face. “Where?”
“Inside the theatre.” Liam’s voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. “It’s… unsettling, Detective. Like the place is watching you.”
Her jaw tightened. “Show me.”
The Stage of Shadows
The theatre’s interior was a cavern of shadows, the flashlight beams catching decades of dust floating in the air. As Ava stepped inside, her boots crunched over broken glass and debris. The eerie silence was punctuated only by the occasional creak of distant floorboards. It smelled of mildew and faintly of something metallic—rust, or perhaps, blood.
The body was slouched in one of the theatre seats in the third row. Ava could tell the victim was a middle-aged man, though his face was pale and contorted with fear. His hands clutched a crimson envelope, fingers stiff like frozen claws. Liam handed her a pair of gloves, and she carefully pried the letter from the victim’s grip. Opening it slowly, she read the ominous words:
“Ashmere doesn’t forget. Nor do I.”
Ava frowned. The handwriting was spidery, as if etched with ferocious determination. She glanced at Liam. “This is the same as the others?”
He nodded. “Same exact phrasing. But this one feels different. Somebody wanted us to find this body here. It’s like an invitation.”
Her gaze flicked towards the darkened stage. Something about it drew her in, like a thread tugging at the edge of a tapestry. Without a word, she started moving closer, her flashlight cutting through the murk.
A Script of Death
As her light scanned the stage, Ava spotted a peculiar object—a typewriter, ancient and gleaming as though it had been polished yesterday. Beside it lay a stack of yellowed papers, neatly arranged, and drenched in dust. Her pulse quickened. Ava approached cautiously, careful not to disturb the eerie stillness.
Liam kept close behind her. “What is this? Some kind of prop?”
“No,” Ava said, brushing a gloved finger over the typewriter’s keys. “This is a tool.” She directed her beam of light over the papers. The top page bore a familiar title: “The Crimson Letter.”
Ava started reading the script aloud, her voice filling the hollow theatre. “Scene One: A man receives a letter of warning. Scene Two: The man’s paranoia drives him to the grave…” Her voice trailed off as the chilling realization settled in. The murders were being reenacted, beat for beat, from an old play.
“Detective,” Liam said suddenly, his voice cracking. He pointed his flashlight toward the balcony. A figure stood above them, shrouded in shadow but unmistakably human, watching.
Ava immediately drew her gun. “Show yourself!” she yelled, but the figure did not move. Instead, it raised something—a piece of paper, blood-red in the beam of her flashlight—and gently released it. The crimson paper glided down like a falling leaf, landing at Ava’s feet.
She snatched it up and read the new note aloud:
“You wanted the truth, didn’t you, Detective? Now you’re part of the final act.”
The Haunting Curtain Call
The figure on the balcony retreated before Ava or Liam could make it up the stairs. They searched the entire theatre for hours, but there was no sign of the mysterious watcher. Disturbingly, the typewriter on the stage was gone too, leaving nothing but an empty space where it had sat moments earlier.
The next morning, Ava woke in her hotel room to a knock at the door. Groggy, she opened it, only to find a crimson envelope lying at her feet. With trembling hands, she opened it. The note inside was brief:
“You’ll understand when the curtain falls.”
She didn’t sleep for days after that. The case became colder than the Ashmere seaside, and the murders stopped as abruptly as they had started. But Ava couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, someone was still watching her. The playwright of death, pen poised, waiting for the perfect ending to their haunting script.
After all, the curtain hadn’t yet fallen.
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