It was the kind of evening where everything felt unnervingly quiet, the calm before an unseen storm. Detective Mira Santos stood across the street from what should have been a simple, abandoned estate. But there was nothing simple about tonight.
The call had been cryptic — just a few words and a pause of static before it went dead: “Come to the Monroe estate. Someone will be waiting.” That wasn’t terribly cryptic when compared to the usual tips Detective Santos received, but there was something in the caller’s tone that tightened the detective’s gut, a voice filled with caution, as if spoken by someone who was afraid of saying too much.
Mira straightened her leather jacket and stepped toward the arched doorway of the dilapidated house, the waning moonlight casting long shadows across the estate’s front yard. The green overgrowth surrounding the mansion created a stark contrast to the crumbling facade. She knew that whoever had left the message meant business — and considering her line of work, it was likely the deadly kind.
And that’s when she saw her.
A woman stood framed within the doorway, bathed in the ambient light from the dimming day. Her sleek hair glistened, cascading down her back like a whisper of nightfall. She wore nothing but a vibrant blue lace lingerie set, intricate and almost surreal in its bold design. Strappy, delicate but with clear intention, the garment hugged her curves, clashing strikingly against the earthy tones of the decaying building. The greenery behind her, lush and overgrown, framed her silhouette as if nature itself was drawn to her commanding presence.
Mira’s pulse quickened, though not from attraction — well, not entirely. She had seen many bizarre things in this city, things beyond explanation — but a lone woman standing like an apparition in lingerie in an abandoned mansion? That was new.
Her eyes narrowed, instincts kicking in. This wasn’t a trap, was it?
“Detective Santos,” the woman called out, her voice sleek yet cutting through the evening stillness like glass. She took a step forward, barefoot, and the gravity of her stare met Mira’s directly. “You’ve arrived.”
The detective’s hand grazed the holster of her sidearm, just as a precaution. “You know me. I’m afraid I don’t know you. Care to explain before this night turns stranger than it already is?”
The woman — the model, Mira realized, though she had no name to match her face — tilted her head. “If you’re here, it’s because someone didn’t want me to get out. And for that, I apologize.” She exuded confidence, even given her unusual and vulnerable attire. Yet there seemed to be no shame, no apology in her strappy blue lingerie. Mirrors and contradictions — that’s what she was.
“Out of where?” Mira pressed, gripping the side of her badge at her waist, just to make sure it remained a truthful anchor amidst the confusion.
“Here,” the woman gestured to the overgrown mansion behind her. Her long fingers pointed at nothing in particular, just the air. “This place… it isn’t just broken down.” She looked directly at Mira again. “It’s cursed, and I am the key. Getting out means going back in.”
Mira sighed, deflating any confidence she had left in a normal resolution. It was always something more bizarre than it seemed in this town. “Listen, miss, the cryptic routine is getting old. If this place is ‘cursed,’ as you say, then why call me?”
The woman’s lips curled. “Because I need someone who doesn’t flinch, someone who doesn’t rattle easily. And because,” her voice dropped two decibels, eyes shadowing with something darker, “they’ll come for me soon. But if you help me… we can all be free.”
“They?” Mira echoed, suddenly feeling the cold grip up her spine.
The woman in blue stepped back into the doorway. It was then that the first crack in the reality of the scene started to surface. Shadows, long and creeping, began to writhe within the walls of the estate, almost as though they were separate entities. Tendrils of darkness brushed against the threshold of the door. The woman barely flinched. Mira thought she saw a fleeting glimpse of another figure lurking in the shadows — something not altogether human.
A choice.
It was always about choices — enter the unknown, and with it, a chance to break whatever “curse” this mysterious woman claimed; or turn around and walk away, pretending none of this ever happened — that detective work stayed as mundane as missing persons and corrupt politicians.
Mira stepped forward, toward the woman, her hand coming off her firearm. Something told her that bullets weren’t what she’d need tonight.
“Welcome, Detective Santos,” the woman whispered, a complex smile playing at her lips. “Let’s go… where the real case begins.”
Together, they stepped into the darkness.
The End
Genre: Detective/Thriller
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: The Power of Bold: Owning Your Confidence in Blue Lace Lingerie
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