HOUSE 21

CHAPTER 2:- HOUSE 21

"We have a match!" John’s voice boomed across the precinct. The air in the room was electric. "The hair sample, the body structure described by witnesses, the style of clothing—everything points to one name that has been haunting these men for years. Mark."

Arhan, still trembling in the corner, finally broke his silence. "He sent threats... two or three times over the last decade. We thought it was a prank, a ghost from the past. We never thought he’d actually come for us."

"Sir, what’s the move?" a junior officer asked, checking his service weapon. "Do we set a perimeter? Wait for backup?"

"No waiting," John snapped, grabbing his leather jacket. "We go straight to the source. We take Mark tonight."

"But Sir," the junior hesitated, "what if he’s not there? What if he’s alerted? Serial killers this meticulous usually have a bolt-hole, a place to vanish."

John turned, a cold, predatory smile touching his lips. "That’s where you’re wrong. These killers... they aren't just smart; they are arrogant. They are obsessed with their own genius. He thinks he’s won because of that 'Final Destination' note. He’s sitting in his lair, celebrating his victory. He won't see us coming."

The technical team pulled up the records. The address flickered onto the screen, sending a chill through the room.

Block 21, Andheribagh.

"There’s only one house in that entire block," John muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Mark’s house. Let’s move

OWN BLOOD

The police convoy cut through the suffocating silence of Andheribagh’s narrow alleys. John’s pulse was hammering against his ribs; he was convinced that tonight, the hunt would finally end. But the reality on the ground was a far cry from his expectations. In seventeen years, the wasteland had transformed into a sprawling, chaotic colony. New buildings, unfamiliar faces—no one seemed to remember the secrets buried beneath the concrete.

"Where is House Number 21?" John snapped at a local youth, his voice echoing with suppressed rage.

"Sir, these are all new constructions. We’ve never heard of it," the boy replied, his eyes wide with fear.

After a frantic search through the maze-like streets, John’s eyes landed on an elderly man sitting in a dark corner, watching them with an unsettling calmness. John marched up to him.

"Mark’s house... House Number 21. Where is it?"

The old man didn’t speak at first. He simply raised a trembling hand and pointed toward the edge of the lane. There it stood—a decaying, abandoned structure that seemed to radiate a bone-chilling cold. The walls were weeping with rot, and the shattered windows looked like hollow eye sockets, staring back at the police.

For a split second, a flicker of raw guilt crossed John’s face, as if he recognized this tomb. He began to move toward the gate when the stranger’s voice stopped him cold.

"Why are you going in there, Officer?"

John turned back, his jaw tight. "Police business. We’re here to arrest Mark."

The old man let out a dry, raspy chuckle that sounded more like a warning. "Arrest who? Sir... are you even in your right mind?"

John grabbed him by the collar, his patience vanishing. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Speak clearly!"

The stranger trembled, but his gaze remained steady. "Mark died seventeen years ago, Officer. I attended his funeral myself. I watched them lower his casket into the dirt. So, tell me... who exactly are you waiting for in that empty house?"

The blood drained from the faces of every officer present. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant sound of a stray dog’s howl.

John’s mind went numb. If Mark was a ghost... then who was the shadow carving 'FATHER' into flesh? Were they chasing a dead man, or had the past finally come back to life?

CHECKMATE!

The revelation of Mark’s death didn't stop the investigation; it shifted the target. Digging deeper into the dusty archives of 2009, the police discovered a forgotten detail: Mark had a daughter named Lana. She would be thirty-six now, a ghost of the past living in the present, working a corporate job to hide her darkness.

The forensic report from Chapter 1 finally made sense. The single strand of hair found at the scene didn't belong to a man—it was from a woman. When the team cross-referenced Lana’s physical profile with the witness descriptions of the killer’s height and build, it was a chilling match.

Under the cover of darkness, John and his elite team breached Lana’s apartment. The air inside was cold, smelling of metallic oil and old paper. As they swept the rooms, they found the "shrine" of a killer. Hidden in a false compartment in her wardrobe were the tools of the trade: the heavy black coat, the silent mask, and the razor-sharp hunting knives.

"Found you," John whispered, a dark grin spreading across his face. "You’re under my thumb now, Miss Lana."

"Should we move in for the arrest, Sir?" a junior officer asked, his hand on his holster.

"Not yet," John commanded, his eyes scanning the room. "We need more than just the tools. Collect everything—photos, CCTV logs, every scrap of digital evidence. I want her buried under the weight of her own crimes."

As they dug deeper into her belongings, they found something even more gruesome. In a small wooden box, Lana had kept "trophies"—personal items belonging to the victims: a watch, a ring, a blood-stained wallet. She wasn't just killing them; she was collecting them.

Lana got arrested

TEAR

The air in the interrogation room was dead. No hum from the AC, no noise from the hallway—just the suffocating weight of John’s gaze. He threw the case file onto the metal table. The sound was like a gunshot in the silence.

"You think we’re playing games here, Lana?" John leaned in, his shadow towering over her. "You think I’m just some cop looking for a quick arrest? I’ve lived this case for weeks. I’ve breathed the blood of your victims. And every single road—every single lead—led me straight to your door."

Lana didn't move. She sat there, hands folded, looking like she was watching a movie instead of being the lead suspect in a serial murder investigation.

"Let’s talk about the 'how,' Lana," John continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Evidence Piece One: The black coat and the mask found in the crawlspace of your ceiling. The exact outfit witnessed at three different crime scenes. Why does a quiet office worker need a tactical disguise and a set of professional hunting knives?"

Lana’s eyes flickered, but her lips stayed sealed.

"Piece Two," John shoved a forensic bag across the table. Inside was a single strand of hair. "DNA doesn't lie. This was found on Rehan’s body. It’s a 100% match to you. And Piece Three... the trophies." John’s voice trembled with a mix of rage and disgust. "Rehan’s watch. Aman’s wallet. Why were they in a jewelry box under your bed? You didn't just kill them; you collected them like souvenirs. You wanted to keep a piece of them, didn't you? Revenge for Mark. Revenge for your father."

John slammed his hand on the table, making the water glass rattle. "Speak! Why 'FATHER'? Why the 21? You’ve been hunting these six men like they were animals because of what happened back then. Your height, your build, your access—everything fits. You’re the Parasite, Lana. Give it up."

Lana finally looked up. She didn't look like a killer caught in a trap. She looked like someone who knew a secret that John wasn't ready to hear. A faint, chilling smile touched her lips—the kind of smile that makes the hair on your neck stand up.

"You found the breadcrumbs so easily, didn't you, Officer?" she whispered, her voice cold and hollow. "Almost like they were laid out just for you. You have the 'what' and the 'who'... but you’re still blind to the 'why'."

She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto John’s with a haunting intensity that made the room feel ice-cold. She breathed out

three words that changed everything:

"17 YEARS AGO