The Ghost Detective

The dead do not usually call the police.

This one did.

At two seventeen in the morning, Detective Ethan Cole was standing alone inside an abandoned flat in Whitechapel, staring at a body that had been dead for six hours.

The victim was a man in his late forties. No identification. No wallet. No phone.

No obvious injuries.

The front door had been locked from the inside.

The windows were shut.

And yet, someone had written a message on the wall in blood.

ETHAN, YOU TOOK TOO LONG.

Ethan stared at it.

He did not move.

Behind him, the uniformed officer whispered, "Sir?"

Ethan raised one hand.

"Everyone out."

The officer hesitated.

"Detective, this is a crime scene."

"I know."

"Then why are we leaving?"

Ethan looked at the dead man again.

"Because he isn't alone."

The officer went pale.

"What?"

Ethan turned.

There was nobody standing behind him.

Not anymore.

But for the briefest moment, he had seen her.

A woman in a grey coat.

Soaked from the rain.

Standing beside the body.

Her throat had been cut.

And she was pointing at the wall.

Ethan had learned a long time ago that seeing the dead was not the difficult part.

The difficult part was knowing when they were telling the truth.

Twenty minutes later, the flat was empty.

Ethan stood alone beneath the flickering ceiling light.

He walked toward the message.

The blood was still wet.

That bothered him.

The victim had been dead for hours.

Ethan touched the edge of the writing with his gloved finger.

Cold.

Not normal cold.

The kind of cold that seemed to crawl underneath his skin.

Then he heard a voice.

"You're looking in the wrong place."

Ethan turned sharply.

The woman was standing beside the kitchen doorway.

Grey coat.

Wet hair.

Blood running down her neck.

"Who are you?"

She smiled.

"You already know."

"I don't."

"You will."

Ethan reached for his weapon.

The woman's expression changed.

Not fear.

Pity.

"Don't waste your bullets."

"Why?"

"Because the man you're investigating isn't the victim."

Silence.

Ethan stared at her.

"What does that mean?"

She stepped closer.

"The dead man killed me."

Ethan looked toward the body.

"Name."

She pointed toward the corpse.

"Ask him."

Ethan almost laughed.

"You want me to interrogate a corpse?"

"You already do."

The lights went out.

For three seconds, the flat disappeared into darkness.

Then the lights returned.

The woman was gone.

So was the body.

Ethan froze.

He drew his weapon.

The empty room suddenly felt enormous.

"Detective Cole?"

The voice came from behind him.

Ethan turned.

The dead man was standing in the doorway.

His throat was no longer pale.

His eyes were open.

And he was smiling.

"You should have listened to her."

Ethan raised his gun.

"Stay where you are."

The man laughed.

"You still think you're investigating my murder."

Ethan's finger tightened around the trigger.

"What are you?"

The man's smile disappeared.

"The question is..."

He took one slow step forward.

"...what are you?"

A sharp pain exploded behind Ethan's eyes.

The room blurred.

For a moment, he saw something that wasn't there.

A corridor.

A hospital.

A little boy sitting alone beneath a fluorescent light.

A woman crying.

A police officer holding a newborn child.

Then another image.

A name written across a medical file.

ETHAN COLE.

Except the date of birth was wrong.

The hospital was wrong.

Everything was wrong.

Ethan stumbled backward.

The dead man whispered,

"You were never supposed to survive."

The gun slipped from Ethan's hand.

And somewhere deep inside the building, a telephone began to ring.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Ethan looked toward the sound.

There was no telephone in the flat.

Yet the ringing continued.

He walked toward it.

The dead man watched him.

"Don't answer."

Ethan stopped.

"Why?"

For the first time, genuine fear appeared on the man's face.

"Because the last person who answered that phone..."

He looked at Ethan.

"...was you."

The ringing stopped.

Silence.

Then Ethan's own phone vibrated in his pocket.

He pulled it out.

One missed call.

No number.

No name.

Just a single message.

UNKNOWN: WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT YOUR FIRST MURDER.

Ethan stared at the screen.

His hands began to shake.

Because beneath the message was a photograph.

A photograph of him.

Standing beside a dead body.

Twenty years ago.

And Ethan had never seen the photograph before.

Until now.