c-s--moses C.S. Moses

June, winter 2019. An idea; a reunion and the improvement of a story. After days of creative block, a lone writer goes off looking for plans for his new novel. Under an intense fog, Joan Dolac Ferrys walks through the streets of her city while discovering that a series of murders has been taking place in the subsequent empty nights. Years after going on without their best friend, on an unexpected day, the two meet again in the middle of a wild search for an inn: his friend Lucius had arrived in the city and needed a place to settle. Days after the blissful reunion, productive conversations, full of philosophy and drinks, they realize that much of what they reflected, in reality was not how their objective minds showed them. A tale full of mystery and psychological terror that will challenge the psyche of the most astute readers and detectives.

Suç 13 yaşın altındaki çocuklar için değil.

#crime #murders #detective #investigation #deaths #religion #winter #writer #writing #psychological #girls #teenagers #severed-heads #wine #philosophy #conversations #newspapers #news-
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First revival

It was on that day of intense cold and fog (winter, 2019), completed for a slight drizzle, that the idea came up. I sat in half the light, in front of a large graduation photograph, decorated on the wall of my room, while trying to trace some lines on the computer. A few months ago, the roof of my house had been partly shattered by animals running over it, and water seeps spreaded over parts of the made leaks ─ had certainly been cats in fertile times, or perhaps in their peculiar disputes by partners. My restless mind did not allowed the names that would be part up my next novel to come easily. My smooth beard it was constantly stroked as the winds in front of the house, hissed uninterruptedly. Clearly was one of those days of creative block. But, what had led me to imagine something purely outside the legal and social prototypes at that moment? Perhaps a novelist's mind would runed way from temporal reality at certain times; perhaps a fiction writer would experience parallel realities; perhaps they were intellectual illnesses, common to many unhappy writers with the worlds that surround them. The possibilities were endless.

My name is Joan Dolac Ferrys and today I realized that more than fifty percent of the things we think are noticeable, in reality, are not.

After exactly forty-five minutes had elapsed, with nothing more than five lines being written, I got up, driven by an unknown feeling, and walked to my wardrobe, I took a black scarf, put on an overcoat and went on to garden threshold, covered by faintly dewy moisture. The mists did not allow you to see a few meters away. I turned the locks, locking the two access doors to the interior of the house and followed through the dense fog. The closer to dusk, the more intense was the cold and the fog between me and my uncertain destination, walking at half speed and adjusting my big coat with my hands, over my body.

What am I doing in the middle of this cold at seven o'clock at night?, I thought, as I walked around a grand public park ─ located about seven kilometers away ─, commonly frequented by young teenage couples, athletes, beginning musicians, connoisseurs of marijuana, so abused by the prejudiced, or just passersby, with no specific purposes. In a lapse of memory, abruptly, I observed myself at a great distance from home. Yes, those minutes of walking ─ maybe hours ─ went by without my objective mind realizing it, while I wandered aimlessly.

Normally, the park was closed to the public at 9 pm, when security warned all visitors that the space gates would close until the next day, at five o'clock in the morning. I began to reflect on how much time had passed since I left my home until I passed the main gates accessing the wooded environment. I could not understand what had happened during an arduous journey of kilometers away, without my conscience understanding at least why I had gone to that point. No remnants of memory.

I can't understand, I thought as I turned the street and headed to one of the city's main avenues.

Walking under the immense streetlights, located at the heart of the long, two-way avenue, the flashes of car headlights sometimes overshadowed my peripheral vision, making it impossible for me at times to identify the faces of possible acquaintances, avoking me in the distance, on opposite sidewalks: mine, left and right. I just waved one hand and moved on; still did not know the intention of walking without purpose. At the end of the avenue, was a large fork, divided by a square, which had a huge clock of the same size in the center, surrounded by flowers on the edge. Some people identified that area as “Flower Clock Square”; “Clock Square”; “Flower Square”, or just “Flower Watch”. The street I had walked on was called Avenue Ruy Barbosa. I observed the time on the big clock: it was 8:30 in the evening. I went to one of the seats in the square and sat down. That idea tha I had before leaving home, no longer comes to my mind, but I kept writing it down in a small notebook, which was appearing along the way ─ perhaps this was the intention of the pilgrimage: a simple field research . However, looking at some letters written in my notebook, the answer to my questions came suddenly: I moved so far in search of inspiration for my characters!, I thought, showing a partially cheerful face and celebrating lightly with one hand, the return of my reminiscences.

I got up and walked around the square for minutes, watching some people talk, while looking at their features and associating them with names I would possibly use in my literary work. I passed the big clock again and noticed that the hours had jumped without any hint of balance. Here is Relativity put into practice: the hands pointed at 10.00 at night without me having notice anynthing. I had been so focused on the expressions and how to describe them, that I didn't even notice the time passing. I thought of going towards a taxi to return to my house, however, an adventitious force made my body continue on foot, walking along the same route that I had used a few hours ago. I was not tired and the schedule was still favorable for a safe return home. In the last few months there has been a series of murders, robberies, rapes, kidnappings and even an alarming amount of suicides in the city. How causes? Fully unknown. I kept going back down the same avenue, however, this time I was walking on the right sidewalk. Car traffic had slowed down significantly, and now and then, some collectives passed by doing their night shifts. Again I approach the access road to the Park. At that hour the environment had already closed its gates and only people passed through on the dark street. I went to the entrance promenade and observed for a few moments the sepulchral silence that is inside the place. Only the sound of the winds hissing among the trees, wiggling them and interweaving the leaves of gigantic eucalyptus trees, distinguished the noise of whispers and footsteps in the seemingly deserted street.


The sound of buses and trucks, mixed with the sounds of birds nestling in the trees in front of my house, made me wake up immediately. It was 6:30 am. My head was heavy as if I had spent a full day of drinking and at night I continued with drunkenness until I went to bed, unwilling to continue fighting against sleep and frugality. I sat on the edge of the bed, slid my hands over my unkempt hair, picked up my glasses on the desk next to me and staggered to my feet. My overcoat, shirt and scarf were flung erratically across the floor, as I watched myself with only my pants and stockings on. But... What happened !, I asked myself, sighing faintly, while frowning, confusion.

After collecting my clothes, I went to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later, I found myself sitting at the breakfast table, holding a glass of juice with a painkiller, thinking about what had happened since my last admiration in front of the Park. Once again my mind had failed and my memory of the night before had escaped without any residue of how I had come home. I conjectured consecutively that I was dealing with some brain pathology. At that moment, the possibility arose that I was suffering from anterograde amnesia, due to recent memory lapses and I am unable to store new memories. But how could I be affected by this disease, whether I remembered precisely the notes and the paths taken before everything went dark in my mind? My doubts only added. I returned to the computer - still on from the previous day - and opened it to a search page. I entered a few terms at a time:

Memory loss... Short memory... Amnesia... Encephalitis... Dementia...

Each of the possible mental problems had been researched and analyzed by me, however, nothing that I had read resembled what happened to me. Again, crestfallen and watching the emptiness, I kept forcing my mind trying to attract at least the thoughts closest to the moment when I went to sleep last night. Nothing. The fog had enveloped all my old memories. I looked at the computer taskbar and noticed a juxtaposed Word window. Certainly these are the five lines I writed yesterday, before leaving home, I reflected, still looking at the open search page, as some ads popped up in my front. In a peristaltic movement, my hand followed the arrow towards one of the advertisements and clicked on it. A news page immediately appeared, but it was not an ordinary page: murders and all kinds of atrocities were reported by her without any modesty or censorship. I already knew the page, because despite the strong images that could be observed, it was very well visualized in the region; thousands of people accessed it daily. Without realizing it, I rolled the computer window down abruptly; only the same news about robberies, thefts and some suicides. Nothing but. I slowly rolled the window back to the head of the page, the same images returned downwards as the beginning of a report appeared, apparently from the previous morning. I clicked on the link:

Sunday, June 30, 2019.



This morning, around 2:00 am, parts of the bodies of two teenagers were found under rubble near the back of the city bus station. Apparently the victims were between seventeen and eighteen. Sources informed us that only the lacerated bodies remained in place and that their heads had disappeared, hindering the investigative work of the expert in the identification of letific remains, as there was no document with them. Their bodies were sent to the Legal Medical Institute (LMI) for post mortem analysis. For observation and possible cooperation with the police, click here. In this link you can see the images. Attention: do not open the link if it does not support strong images.

Hours before the two murders, another body had been found near the theater located in front of a square called "Greece", by its regulars. Some “rockers” who usually go to the place to drink and use some narcotics while playing the guitar, noticed something strange in one of the circular plants arranged in the place. One of them had said that "he had gone to urinate, when he noticed a dark silhouette seated, leaning against one of the walls behind one of the plants", when he approached, he took a sudden start. “I've never seen anything like that, man! There was only the girl's body, without the head and with a cut from one ear to the other, brother! Or rather: with a 'turn' of three hundred and sixty degrees, crazy! They just left headless body of the girl! Wow, how sinister, bro! You can even create a song with this tragedy, man! (sic) ”, said one of the would-be rockers, still appearing to be under the influence of alcohol.

Our team managed to get to the scene with the police and recorded the fact in some photos. To see, click here. We will vote with more information soon. The site of the naked truth!

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Startled, I continued looking at the photos ahead. So great was the brutality employed in those fragile teenagers that I no longer looked at the photos, my attention would turn to emptiness and, sometimes, it would suddenly return. Certain daydreams were constant. After a few minutes, my eyes went back to the computer's taskbar and I immediately returned to the normal state of awareness. I closed a page full of misfortunes, while sliding an arrow to the Word window. In one click, a workspace was filled with an entirely written page. The first chapter of my novel was completely perfect and the letter bar flashed two paragraph down intermittently, indicating the beginning of the second chapter. What?! But, who wrote this?, I wondered.

Static, I started reading the content of the writing that continued right after the first five lines drawn the day before. The chapter was exquisite, but it did not resemble anything that I had researched and remained registered in my booklet, sitting next to the computer. This is not what I wrote down, I told myself, opening the notebook to confirm. The entire content written in ten pages did not match anything at all, and although the writing was not the same, some parts were too similar to my way of writing. Amazing!

Minutes later, a woody noise came from the central room of the house. I turned my head abruptly backward, arched my body, intrigued by the sound, and went on to the bedroom. There were blows on doors being closed; at that moment I imagined they were wardrobe doors. When I arrived at the door, I turned the knob, pushed it slowly, while watching through the gap that appeared before my eyes. Someone was walking up and down, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and buttons, watching himself through the mirror suspended on the wall behind the entrance door. My fear grew steadily as the gap between the passage widened. I slowly approached my face to the crack, adjusted my sights to look behind the door, when, suddenly, a hand grabs the doorknob and pulls, completely widening the entrance.

─ Good morning, my friend! You woke up early ─ he says, looking at the wristwatch that said 7:30 am.

I stood in front of him, watching that figure. I did not move for a few seconds, while looking up and down its outline. At the same time, doubt and fear had taken me over. However, some lightness and relief started to interact with my body ─ after the little fright, blood pressure started to gradually cool down. I looked him in the eye again and shot a faint, puzzled smile out of the corner of my mouth.

─ But... how did you get here? How long, brother! Good Morning! ─ I replied, wrapping my arms around him and slapping him on the back, hugging him.

He frowned and looked at me moments after i walk away.

─ What do you mean, “how did I get here”...? ─ he asked me. ─ We met next to Theather Ariano Suassuna, last night. You invited me to spend a few days at your house, man. Do you not remember?

I hesitated. I didn't remember anything at all.

─ Were you not living in any southern state? ─ I asked, still confused.

─ Yes, I still am, I arrived a few days ago. I'm on vacation in my homeland. I am concerned that you will not remember, as we spent hours talking about this and so many other matters. In fact, I can't believe I found you at 1:30 am walking down the street, man. I was looking for a hotel and I couldn't find anyone to refer me.

─ That's great! ─ i said with an uncertain expression. ─ Actually, I don't remember much about yesterday. My mind has been confused these days. But this is my problem. Forget it and head to the kitchen, you're probably thinking about breakfast ─ I said, smiling.

─ Of course! I'm really hungry, man. I would eat an ox, even at this time! ─ replied without any shyness, referring to the inappropriate time for that type of food. ─ Shall we eat then?!

─ So be it!

I turned to the kitchen path and followed him, wearing a long overcoat with an extensive scarf over his white linen blouse. Claudius Lucius (yes, his name represented the 3rd century Roman senator, Lucius Tiberius Claudius Pompeu to the same splendor, but with an opposite archetype. This mistake, only noticed by his parents hours after his registration at the official registry) was my childhood friend and he had always been with me, spending most of the transition from child to adolescence. We were practically brothers. In fact, sometimes I could not understand why my mother always talked to us only by directing her eyes towards me. She never looked Lucius in the eye.

─ By the way, you are very elegant. I like this type of

clothes, especially in winter. Glad you came prepared for the climate of the hills.

─ I know my land well, comrade ─ he replied.


08:30 in the morning. Three days had passed since the reunion with Lucius. Our conversations returned to the same cadence as pubescent times with ease. As we spent more time together, the old familiarity brandished us like newfound relatives. The conversations that fueled our teenage ideas have matured significantly, and, what we once perceived as productive dialogues, today did not crossing the barrier of inexperience. The old textbooks we read now were refuted with antitheses and organized syntheses by we. From the beginnings of philosophy to the most recent and consecrated philosophers, at least one residue of the knowledge of each of them was used in our conversations.

I got up from the chair that kept me comfortably attentive to Lucius' expressions, threw one end of the scarf back and followed at the computer. I sat down and opened the Word page that contained my novel. For days I compelled my mind to remember whatever term I wrote in the work ahead. Truly, I did not classify that work of myself, even though there were countless indications of typing and creative appearance.

─ There is something that has disturbed me since your arrival at my residence, Lucius ─ said, watching my friend at side. ─ You have been here for three days, we have practically not left the house, except to walk a little during the night. I certainly have a creative block and haven't returned to my job since then. I don't know how these chapters came about in my novel. Are you writing for me by any chance?

Four full chapters formed the start of an extraordinary detective novel. The writing and the ideas contained in the beginning of the work, would be coveted by any writer in the gnawed phase. It was not what was happening to me, but those first drawn lines made me yearn for such noble writing. The perfect combination between the first words written by me and the follow-up to the fourth chapter was impressive. It seemed that whoever wrote them had access to my memories.

─ Me?! Said Lucius, giving a faint smile. ─ Man, I haven't written anything in a long time. ─ And his language asserted his statement. ─ Since I left in travel, I have done nothing but work in a hotel... But, if I'm not mistaken, I saw the light on your light fixture lit, these days that I'm here. Don't you remember working days ago?

─ Certainly not. The moments we left and returned, I always followed directly to my bed, after our nightly dialogues. Not even I sat in front of the screen, longing for something to come to mind.

I turned my views on the notebook screen again and entered the page of the tetrical news: “FOCUS NEWS”, appeared in the caput of the page. Again!, I thought ecstatically, as I watched the report of yet another terrible murder.

My eyes drifted over the lines written in the report, as I looked at the photos of organs and the four members of a teenager, exposed, hanging over the city's largest cathedral, lampposts, shops and church. The victim's forearms were arranged on opposite sides, attached to the balconies of two stores positioned opposite each other, in the middle of the street; his feet were nailed at the end of the commercial avenue, at the top of a neo-pentecostal church; his intestines, stretched ─ to one of the lampposts ─ still inside his womb, were trapped in a police station, located in front of the great sanctuary, built in honor of Santo Antonio. In the Cathedral, the heart of the pubescent victim remained at the top of the central entrance of the temple.

The way the organs and limbs were arranged formed a perfect cross over a few kilometers in length. The unknown took refuge in doubt because there are no heads, to prove it.. However, clearly those crimes had some religious connection and could be linked analogously to Jesus Christ, or not. The figure of a cross alone was not a satisfactory indication of an analogy with Christ, although He was the culmination of the crucified throughout history.

Thursday, July 04, 2019.



Once again the people are in shock, parts of a woman's body were found in different parts of the city of Gargantua. The killer had been so audacious that he had spread organs and members of the girl through the largest commercial center in the city, without fearing at least being filmed or seen by a security camera in the buildings.

The civil and military police surrounded the surroundings and halted the transition of people and the opening of stores this Thursday morning - on the spot - while removing the remains and analyzing the motivation of the possible criminals.

Our reporting team sought out the case commander and obtained some written information about it. We asked if it was the same killer who had killed the victims four days ago and if there was a possible reason for such aberrations. The commander, Sergeant Carlos Rangel, told us in a note that “possibly the murderers would be different, as it would be almost impossible for someone to commit crimes like that and not be seen by anyone, not even a security camera (sic). He couldn't be in these places so quickly; besides not being able to do it alone ”. When asked about the girl's identification, the sergeant revealed to us that an identity (Doc.) had been found, however, it is still not possible to know if it is the same person, since the victim's head was also not found. “However, due to the way of acting, there is a remote possibility of being criminals with affinities and close relationships, as they are taking the heads of all the victims (sic). It remains for us to know the reason and identify them as serial killers ... it is a hypothesis, but we have not yet worked with it ”, reported the officer. The “body” was sent to the LMI and is awaiting confirmation of agnation with possible relatives.

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At the end of reading and watching the photos displayed horribly on the news site, I opened the Word window. My eyes drifted from left to right, cautiously looking at each line that was written in the course of the novel. It can't be! I looked stupefied. Obviously, Lucius noticed my reaction, but he made no noise. Apprehension with other people did not match his moral traits. Much of her personality resembled ataraxia, which was seen as pathology, not as Democritus described it in his philosophical analyzes.

The former philosopher was the first scholar to use the word ataraxia to portray the lack of concern in people. However, he added the term to the feeling of happiness, defining it - happiness - as a pleasurable and symmetrical well-being, mixed with the ataraxic feeling. Later, Epicureans, Stoics and Skeptics centered their explorations on this line of reflection.

I finished reading the four chapters, let go of the adapted mouse on the notebook and went to the chair. Next to it, a pack of cigarettes lay on a corner table, adorned by an ashtray. Throwing a cigarette to his mouth, the flame of the lighter was already blazing ahead, because the smoke went up to my lungs, following with strong puffs to the overhead. Lucius, just watched me stare at the void. While I smoked, he drank a sumptuous glass of dry wine, cross-legged, overlapping, and leaning on the sofa seat. No arguments came from him for more than an hour. In the meantime, more than a dozen cigarettes filled the ashtray, while Lucius drinking the second bottle of wine. I looked at him and suddenly asked him:

─ Did you read the news, Lucius?

─ Well before you, comrade ─ he replied, smiling.

I frowned, puzzled.

─ Before me? But, how did you do it without me seeing it. I've been with you all the time.

He inserts his hand into one of his overcoat pockets and patiently removes it; in his hands it contained a cell phone.

─ I don't know about you, but I use this device to communicate and access the internet, man ─ he said, looking at me with an ironic expression.

I watched him a little overwhelmed and smiled.

─ Ah, certainly! For a moment I forgot this little detail ... By the way, your phone is similar to mine ─ I said, looking at the device.

─ We have similar tastes, friend.

─ Did you read my novel, too? ─ I asked again, returning to the subject.

─ Some parts, while you were showering a few days ago. Wasn't it supposed to read?

In fact, I reproached people for messing with my unfinished work. Perhaps this was an oversight with the readers and connoisseurs of the literary process in progress. Even self-neglect, as a prior analysis is extremely beneficial to the publication, assuring readers of a work according to their wishes.

─ This is not the case. I mean: did you notice any similarity between the murders that occurred and what is written in my work? ─ I objected puzzled.

Lucius looked at me, he had just swallowed a sip of wine. His scams expanded, his eyes closed slowly, as his purple teeth emerged, ending a playful, loud smile. He put his hands on his belly, arched his body and head between his legs and continued to scoff.

─ Are you implying that you killed these people, bro? ─ he said with a laugh.

─ Of course not! ─ I blushed. ─ I don't even remember writing those pages. But, I confess that I noticed a tenuous resemblance to the latest events.

─ Man, you must have fixed some images in your mind and then transferred them to the novel. You've been reading that dark website a lot. I know you like to write about these subjects, but tying yourself to cases of femicide is overkill!

Although some passages in the book resembled the news, Lucius was correct: this kind of thinking was absurd. And as I had stated: I didn't even know whose authorship of the work under construction was. I came to imagine that my house was being invaded at night, however, the invader, instead of disserving, he helped me with the work. This fact-maker could only exist in a child's foolish mind, and that was what this type of reflection made me: an aggrandized being. What are the chances of a writer predispost, invader of houses, entering my residence to help me with writing, and that would not benefit him at all? Burlesque!


“Night of Pop! Sushi carvery until 22h00. Only today, starting at 9:00 pm ”, an enormous sign was displayed in front of a sumptuous bar in the city.

Night fell fast. The people who had seen the sign while passing through the avenue next to the bar, were already arranged at the reserved tables on the top floor of the room, composed of a restaurant sealed with transparent glass in a higher part; a meter below, the space was filled with a small stage for presentations, surrounded by tables. The musical groups hired that night went on with their concerts until three in the morning, when the first individuals began to leave the place. Loud voices rang in the once empty streets; customers staggered on the sidewalks; repeated regurgitations on the curbs and purring of cars, now it filled the voids in the alleys and narrow streets.

A voluptuous woman followed the street to the right of the bar, taking her steps and leaning on the walls attracted by her intoxicated looks. His usual sensitivity and perception no longer responded to neurological messages, his alcoholic vulnerability was noticeable even to the most distant individuals. A dark silhouette followed her simultaneously from ten meters away, pondering each movement emitted by her. Drunkenness did not allow her to pay attention to any attitudes around her; the absence of apprehension brought on by drinking too much alcohol had completely involved her. Silence was the only thing at work in the dark streets of the course and only sometimes did the high heels of her shoes, when stepped on heavily, dissolve the stillness of the alleys that had passed. The incognito profile slowly approached each time they approached the dull and empty streets. At that time, a large part of the city's population remained in a deep sleep. Ten minutes passed during the walk from the bar to the street adjacent to the avenue that followed diametrically to the woman's house. Since she had left the tavern and started to walk in a tempestuous way, alone and on foot, she had not once looked behind her (this corroborated the psychological explanations related to the fearlessness induced by the alcoholic liquid), facilitating the approach by the unknown.

Five meters was the distance that separated the individual from the drunk and frivolous girl with her own safety. Her steps accelerated as she approached her home. Obviously the stalker knew the woman's resting place and wanted to get close to her as soon as possible. A meter away, the stranger greets her:

─ Hello, miss. You need help? ─ he inquired of the vulnerable woman.

Startled by the abrupt approach and question, the girl, shimmering, picks up her coat, closing it and squeezing it with both hands in the center of her body. She looks at him quickly, still with blurred eyes and looks back at the floor, trying to keep her balance.

─ Thank... you, sir. I am... fine. I'm already... close... to my house ─ replied in an interrupted voice, due to drunkenness. ─ Thank... you! Thank... you!

─ All right, miss. I hope you go on in peace ─ he replied, as he opened an overcoat and removed an extensive dagger from the back of his garment, slowing his steps.

She went on as if she hadn't spoken to anyone. Perhaps he was imagining it, while going home thinking about the most diverse voluptuousness and what he would do to satisfy himself: his lustful self-satisfaction session had always been mandatory before going to sleep; drunk or not.

Two adjunct plates and exposed at the corner apex stood ─ stuck on a pole ─ the names of Rua Getúlio Vargas and Virgulino Ferreira, two figures who were on opposite sides of history, at this moment, trhough a plate were partnering to identify the city's paths. A great irony. The girl turns left, following Rua Virgulino Ferreira and once again falls on one of the walls. She pushes her body back to the path and sighs: It was close!, she says mocking herself, with a satirical smile. I think I drank too much.

The figure had walked away a few meters after offering help to the stranger and she had refused moments ago, now, only part of her face stood out at the corner of the street. He looked closely at all the houses and buildings around him: absolute dark. Even if they tried to observe from above, they would not see anything, because the mists took over the streets completely. He follows in light steps, increasing them continuously and approaches the woman again. His silver dagger, pointed and thin, shone with the few lights of some posts that were not damaged by possible offenders. With his left hand stretched out in front of him and the dagger pointed behind the drunken woman, in an assault position, the incognito man wraps her body, holding her by the waist, under her breasts, and introduces his little gladius in the behind head, aligned with the Cerebellum and reaching the Varolian Bridge, transfixing until the limit of the Temporal Lobe. Abruptly, the woman becomes unbalanced and loses her muscular strength, going to the ground in the same instant. The killer quickly takes her in his arms and enters a fully dark street. He looks at his glowing clock with an internal light: 3:35 am. The body had been positioned under a dense tree, with branches and leaves bent to the ground. He crouches down in front of her: the little light that reached them both, from main street, was enough to start his work.

Again, he introduces the long, pointed dagger to her neck and initiates backward and forward movements, as if he were sawing wood. The victim's larynx was already half open, as the knife slid between the muscles, slicing them slowly. His hand was pushed with each cut tendon and blood was pouring heavily from the cardiac arteries. After a few minutes, the woman's head dropped to the side, still stuck onto a thin piece of skin. The murderer fixes his eyes on her and transposes the blade quickly on the scraps of skin, releasing the skull completely. He removes a bag made of flexible leather and stamped from inside his long robes, inserts his head inside, while naturally walking back to his path, leaving only the body leaning against the tree waiting for the dawn-admiring audience.


July 6, 2019, six hours and thirty minutes of the morning. Lucius had gone into the living room shortly after finishing his morning meal and had started to read one of my first released books. I had not realized that one of my works was in the midst of his appreciation, let alone that him had read more than half of it. I approached my esteemed seat and lit a cigarette while watching him. His eyes darted from left to right, submerged in the sea of ​​letters. Deeply attentive in reading, he did not notice my silent approach; at least that's what it looked like. Converged in the satisfaction aroused by the toxic fumes inhaled through my lungs, it took me a few minutes to return conscientious. I leaned back in my chair, legs crossed, and watched him again.

─ So, are you enjoying reading, Lucius? I asked as he moistened his fingers and turned one of the pages slowly.

─ A great and engaging story... I just think you should have changed the scenario: this plot taking place in the countryside, more precisely in the places around Pernambuco ... ─ He is silent for a few seconds. ─ Frankly, I didn't like it. Excuse me for criticism.

I looked at him furiously as I had never done before. Not because of the criticism of work, but because of its neglect of its welcoming cradle; your homeland ... my homeland and my ancestors. Maybe he didn't realize it either, but all the descriptive content came on the scene of the Northeastern exactly because the research for the elaboration of the work had been done there. Thus, the scenario and dialogues satisfied the aspirations postulated by legitimate writing.

─ I have the impression that I did not listen well. Are you depreciating your place and its origins? The beginning of this country's history? This is absurd! I understand your criticisms of my work, however, my origins place, never! Perhaps you have become corrupted by habits strange to you, if so, this is transitory and I forgive you for this; even so, this is an mediocre atitud.

Without showing any fear for his statements, Lucius continued to object without coherence, defending the indefensible. Obviously, their customs had readjusted to the habits of the Americanized South, and their way of observing diversities has changed.

─ My dear friend, I will never be against the land where I was born, but I do not reject the one that gives me food and housing.

Those words had sounded like big needles being inserted into my auditory pathways. It was an affirmation of full regional and character submission. Yes, his words aroused my anger, which contained after a few moments, made me go on rebuking him:

─ Let us say of a man who welcomes the executioner of his people with idolatry, like greyhounds chained to masters. Those who disdain their home and prostrate under their opponents, are worthy of the dirt thrown to the ground without the benefit of requirement. If the expressions of humiliation are unknown to him, let him use the darkness only to his detriment, since the shared diseases are not virtuous to the unlike brother. When you act on the heights of the grass, you will remain crawling and implementing what best fits you: the floor.

He picked up a bottle of wine and poured the liquid into a glass. His uncertain expression pointed to the foolishness that made up his new way of reflecting in the face of repressed servility in his unconscious. However, his words could also be the result of his distorted conscience. Anyway, his posture had become sinuous and only a retreat to his essence would awaken him.

─ What you just said I read in your book a few days ago, but only now do I understand what you meant by that statement ─ he replies, savoring the purple alcohol. ─ Anyway, I may have crossed the line, really. But let it go, man, let's not fight over it.

─ It is not something to be dismissed so easily, but for now, let us leave the striceness absent from our conversations ─ I replied.

After a few hours of conversation, Lucius gets up from the chair carrying his glass of wine towards my room and sits at my desk. I had just followed him and watched his actions in front of the computer screen, which was 9:30 am on the clock in the right corner below. The arrow slid up to the open tabs, and as you might imagine, the website “FOCUS NEWS” was among them. My eyes scanned the panel towards the taskbar and looked at the overlaid Word window. That no longer surprised me, given the circumstances of recent days. On the website, I already imagined what was in its cover story; more horrendous deaths. Even reluctantly, I approached him and watched what held his attention.

─ Did you see that, Joan? ─ Asked me pointing the screen. ─ Another unfortunate one. Look.

─ Another ?! ─ I replied stunned. ─ There is no doubt that the police are facing a serial killer. With that girl, the number of victims go to four ... Worrying.

Saturday, July 6, 2019.




This Saturday morning, the residents of Rua Princesa Isabel, parallel to Avenida Virgulino Ferreira, had a terrible surprise when they opened the doors of their homes minutes after having their morning coffee.

The “Focus News” reporting team received the information at 7 am, when one of our sources called us confirming the presence of the Scientific Police at the murder site. Precisely, at 7:10 am we were at the scene, recorded images (click here) and interviewed Detective Calaro, who is now in charge of the case. He revealed to us, without any mistake, that the deaths came from a single individual and all investigations pointed to a serial killer, contrary to Sergeant's old statements. Rangel. He told us that they had already drawn a line of reasoning and possibly "this path will lead to the killer".

Calaro stated: “Since the beginning of the investigations, the former commander of the case, Sergeant Carlos Rangel, had been extremely cautious about collecting clues and reporting in detail how the other deaths had happened. I already have an entire diagram ready about your possible motivation. However, it is still too early to assure that he is acting for this purpose”. When asked what the feminicide's purposes were, the detective limited himself to clarifying only that he was a serial killer and his actions came under religious pretexts. But he was still unsure of his statement and was studying the case.

Omélia Calcutá de Olinda was 23 years old and was studying History with a theological emphasis. Upon being attacked, the victim dropped his bag near the corner of the street, which rules out the possibility of theft, according to the detective. He also revealed to us the identity of the other women murdered in the last six days: Stella Briaria de Junqueira, Amanda Tantos Oliveira and Lívia Andrade de Alencar. In revealing the identity of the victims, the detective gave us an indication that the names of the deceased could be one of the best clues, as well as the absence of their heads. “I will soon make a statement to the press about the progress of the investigations and what motivated this individual to commit these barbarities. I'm close, coward! (sic)", said the investigator in clear reference to the Gargantua Killer".

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Lucius turns his head and looks at my eyes thickly.

─ You still don't know anything. ─ He passes the arrow over the Word page and opens my work. ─ Read your work.

I watched his expression closely as he got up from his chair and walked towards the exit. I thought he would be by my side.

─ Are you going somewhere? ─ I asked.

─ I wait for you in the living room, I need more wine. I didn't think it was so cold here, brother! ─ he objects from outside the room, as voice reverberated through the house.

The impossible seemed to be happening. The lines written on my computer slowly passed my incredulous eyes. Each written paragraph, frowned on my face and all my hair stood on end continuously. It felt like icy winds passed my body completely unprotected; without any clothes. Again, I had no idea who had written those words and created an impeccable story without any research, whatever the type: exploratory, field. Anyway, I didn't understand how it was appearing in my workbook, much less who this charitable being would be.

This is a joke!, I thought, still tracing the lines of the novel. Surely this charitable author is Lucius. It is obviously not me, nor did I come close to these lines.

Twenty minutes later I was next to Lucius again. My mind was alien to the moment, I just watched the movements of his lips theorizing about the possible methods and motivations of the murderer. Even without being centered on his words, some ideas were being absorbed intermittently. His way of speaking revealed a great knowledge of the weapon used, the cuts made and even the meaning of the disappearances of the heads. His conjecture was extremely convincing and his details persuaded even the most prestigious investigator. However, there were still gaps to be filled; perhaps an official statement would help to finish his concept, and soon Detective Calaro would speak to the press.

─ Look, Joan ─ he said, looking into my eyes ─, did you pay attention to the words of the detective who took charge of the cases?

I just nodded.

─ Have you read your entire story?

─ Yes ─ I replied. ─ By the way, I am grateful to have written almost all the work. It looks magnificent! There's no need to deny it, I know it was you.


─ No, Joan, you wrote each word.

My mind was still foggy and every time I tried to organize my thoughts, the more confused they became. I took off my glasses and I put them it on the side table, pressing my eyes with my index finger and thumb. Until now, everything I remembered came in fragments: wine, women, religious book, anger, rain, screams, names ... all reminiscences arrived erratically, blending into the past and present abruptly and crudely. I got up quickly, launched myself towards the wall, supporting my forearms and shouted loudly. Despair seemed to prevail over me as I turned my head, holding it in both hands. God ... what's going on with me ?! Lucius watched me from the same place, wiggling and smelling his wine glass. His face expressed the placidity of the waters of a lake at nightfall. Incomprehensibly, he knew that in an instant all despair and aversion would leave my mind obscure; the confusion that troubled me would give way to a new clarification. My breathing slowed significantly, my arms returned to the waist line and again my eyes were looking at the void.

─ Once, a lonely and reclusive child in his own world decided that he would no longer be alone; whether with the help of books or just because of his immense ability to create intimate and inherent realities. ─ Lucius began the talking, as he walked with the wiggling glass of wine. ─ Years passed and his loneliness was quickly diminished by the arrival of a peculiar boy who was completely opposed to his behavior and words. It seemed that the two boys would not get along at once, but the days passed normally, and as expected, the visitor soon molded himself to his new friend: ideas, studies, games, same readings and future dreams, were similar. In their worlds, the two boys imagined that one day they would become writers and conquer the world with their stories. The family of the lonely child had always been attentive to her seclusion, but her constant smiles muffled by the bedroom door, permanently locked, kept her mother from easing her worry. Occasionally she would open the boy's room door and find him smiling and eloquent. ─ I turned my puzzled eyes on Lucius and aligned my attention to what he was saying. That was our story being exposed in chronological order. ─ The boy did not understand why his mother had always communicated with the two only by watching his eyes, even if the two were far apart. However, that attitude of his mother did not matter, after all, mothers were weird. Adolescence had come and the boys' friendship had grown more intense, their conversations mature, their reading more critical, but their dreams were still the same; nothing could change that, they imagined. But, as life is not made up of imagination, one day the two boys had to follow opposite paths due to the consequent victory of one and the bitterness of the other: the once lonely boy had achieved his dream and started his career as a writer, who was immediately featured in the media, while his companion had accomplished nothing. His presence had become more and more unnecessary, while the lonely boy's attention had always turned to his creations; his novels so awaited. Then a day came when the teenager, a former lonely child, had completely forgotten about his friend who had kept him company during his saddest and most lonely days. His friend had left for work in an unknown region and settled there. The adolescent, now a man, had continued his life and for years had only devoted himself to his works; not even his mother's loss to alcoholism had shaken him. However, he had not realized that something was missing, that his life had become boring and trivial...

I held out an open hand towards Lucius.

─ Wait, wait! A second, please, Lucius: this is our story, why are you telling me something I know? ─ I inquired, still puzzled.

─ This is just your story ─ he said, walking over to me and continuing with the story. ─ ... That was when he had the idea of ​​writing a new novel, sitting in his room, wrapped in a blanket to protect himself from the cold that had come earlier this winter. But as much as he tried to spell out the lines of his work, his mind remained blocked, only the first five lines were forcibly written... How does he know that, I thought as I narrowed my eyes. ─ ... He had sought help in the walking images of the streets of the city, and had returned to his home, imagining that he had obtained enough information to write the first chapters of his work, but his wanderings only resurfaced the need for someone, a long time ago lost and that had always helped him in the darkest times.

Lucius stops the story abruptly, refills his glass of wine once more and sits down on the sofa, watching his reflection in the purple liquid. My eyes stared at him and my mind felt a progressive dizz, it seemed that I was the one who was drinking the wine, but obviously, since I woke up, I had not drunk any alcoholic content. I ran my hands over my face again, shook my head slightly, checking out my mental stabilization, however, I continued the same way: tipsy.

─ What happened? Why did the story stop? ─ I asked.

─ It will not be necessary to continue, soon you will understand. In fact, did you not realize that the way I communicate with you is not the same?

I watched him carefully.

─ Really ... you have refined your terms a little more. It's much better. Not that his old word was bad, but I didn't like it very much.

Still observing himself through the reflection of the wine, crossing the wide edges of the glass, he objects:

─ The time has come for self-acceptance, Joan: there is no Lucius! I am a projection of one of your creations; I am your mind; I am you!

My lips slowly tightened, a faint smile formed on my face, as I propelled the pack of cigarettes in my left hand, craving one of the smoke. After a long drink, I returned my eyes to Lucius, who continued to contemplate himself through his drink. My objective mind would never accept such a madness.

─ Are you calling me crazy? ─ I asked, expressing confusion and, perhaps, nervousness. ─ All this time I've been talking to myself? This is it?

─ How do you think I appeared here right after your restlessness caused by the ineptitude of continuing your work? You needed me to complete your work, and this precision made me return to your exterior. You raised me when was a child to fill your needs: you gave me name, voice, work and family. When you imagined that no longer needed me, excluded me from his life full of travel and events. I waited for a long time for the day that would return to help you complete your masterpiece. You are almost done.

─ Masterpiece? What masterpiece ?!

He looks up slowly at me.

─ What do you still not understand? You were correct in imagining that your romance was connected with the consecutive deaths of women in the city: you who caused them; we generate them. I just couldn't reveal it to you before, because you would find the exact moment. You lacked a story and we immediately provided it. We are over half, there are only two women left.

His eyes returned to the mirrored liquid, focused on his image. I couldn't absorb the words from Lucius. The one who had always been with me until the end of his studies and had talked to my family members every time he was in my residence could not be the product of my imagination. No! Everything is very illusory for me. It can not be! Perhaps the lapses in memory explained my unconscious work, but killing people to obtain another achievement in the literary medium; never. At least I thought so. I got up from the chair again, my dazed head trying to weave a connection between all the recent events and the possible confession in my novel. I couldn't make sense of those barbarities. A voice echoed continuously in my mind: "finish what you started ... complete your masterpiece!". Each word linked my thoughts more fervently. My expression was beginning to change step by step and my essence was mixed with another personality until now unknown. At all times, I wondered if my healthy consciousness was still intact. The reminiscences arose continuously, as I walked convulsively from corner to corner, and sometimes I watched Lucius with his head bowed permanently, just watching his image on wine.

─ But what the hell are you doing ?! ─ I asked irritably.


I approached him and inquired again, however, no answer came from his lips, he remained contemplating his face mirrored in the wine. I put my hand close to his shoulder and slowly seated it, when I got very close to his body, my arm went completely inside him. I leaned on the sofa immediately and propelled myself back to my upright position. There were no more spaces for questioning in my mind. My eyes abruptly blurred, my silhouette became taut as my head arched towards the ceiling. After a few moments, I turned my eyes back: my limbs started to fade, my hands were completely gone and my arms were slowly disappearing. Again I was dressed in despair, but this time, subtly. The phrases and questions I had asked began to take shape in my consciousness, however my body was still in the process of disappearing and was already over my torso, slowly rising up my neck until it reached my head, immediately erasing my conscious utility. Five minutes passed, I opened my eyes and came across an image in front: sitting on the sofa and watching the purple liquid, I found myself reflected in the long bottom of the wine glass and Lucius was gone. The voices continued to guide me: "finish what you started ... complete your masterpiece!".


Monday, July 8, 2019.





This Monday morning, the detective assigned to deal with the case of the multiple murders that occurred in the city of Gargantua gathered all the local press for the purpose of clarifying about serial killer who has just, claimed two more victims: Madalena Iranir Santos and Esmeralda Trindade Amado they were found this morning near a stream on the road 220. Like the others, the two women were also without their heads (click here). At the press conference, the detective explained to us in detail what prompted the feminicide to commit these crimes. When asked about the killer's methods, Calaro was categorical: "He just used a large surgical precision dagger and wounded her from behind, then beheaded her ... nothing more". His explanation extended to the points expected by the entire press: what motivates or motivated the murders.

Carrying a small suitcase, he set it on the table and removed several pages that described exactly what he had discovered. Perhaps it is more of a plausible theory or it has nothing to do with the deaths of the girls. According to the detective, “all the murders were committed for religious reasons (sic) and the girls own names reveal this. As well as the heads removed from the body and taken with it ”.

Continuing with the interview, one of our correspondents asked him how he came to this conclusion. Detective Calaro placed one of the sheets that was superimposed on a side, and started: “The crucial motto of this case is the detailed observance of every point. first thesis: They all her had something and habits in common: studies, they only went out at night, and they all had no ties to orthodox religions, but they were adepts of paganism, which leads me to believe that the murderer is an intransigent religious ” . He wrote the name of all of them on a small board:

1 ─ Stella Briaria de Junqueira: musician and studied Greco-Roman music.

2 Amanda Tantos Oliveira: studied Roman history.

3 Lívia Andrade de Alencar: studied Archaeological Theology

4 ─ Omélia Calcutta de Olinda: studied history with a Christian theological emphasis.

5 Madalena Iranir Santos: professor of anthropology, recently graduated.

6 ─ Esmeralda Trindade Amado: student of Professor Madalena.

When he finished exposing the women's names and activities, he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and showed it to reporters. “This was found in the last crime scene; it is a piece of the bible that says precisely like this: ‘Ask me what you want and I will give it to you. Whatever you ask of me, up to half of my kingdom, I will give it to you. ─ Mark 6; 22-24 ’. “Anyone who knows the Bible will know that this is a passage referring to John Baptist, when they cut off his head; this is the mysterious disappearance of the girls' heads, ”said the investigator. Completing his theory, the detective again showed the girls' names and circled all the initial letters of the first names, surnames and the final names. “The most impressive thing is this, my dears. It shows how methodical and shrewd he is, killing only women with names, professions and studies linked directly or indirectly. Look at all these names, ”he said, pointing to the letters already circulated: (S) by Stella, (A) by Amanda, (L) by Lívia, (O) by Omélia, (M) by Madalena, (E) by Esmeralda. Now separate the marked letters ”. Our team had done what the detective asked, as well as the others. "Take each initial of the names and link them." The journalists followed his orders closely. The name “S-A-L-O-M-E” appeared on their notebooks. Calaro had continued with his interview and once again asked: "Now, circulate all the initials of the middle and end names". Several letters appeared at random: "OBOTJAAITAS". No one had understood the meaning of those letters until the investigator explained it to us. “I know that these letters may not mean anything to you, but if you look closely, they represent an anagram, which if organized, will look like this: (J) de Junqueira, (O) de Oliveira, (A) de Andrade, (O) from Olinda, (B) from Briaria, (A) from Andrade, (T) from Tantos, (I) from Iranir, (S) from Santos, (T) from Trindade and (A) from Amado ”. Again the journalists put the letters together and the name “J-O-A-O-B-A-T-I-S-TA” came up. We all watched him gapings as he continued his explanation: “Well, my friends, here are the names that motivated the Gargantua Killer to commit such atrocities: Salomé and João Batista; obviously he alluded to the beheading of the prophet who baptized Jesus and that his head had served as a gift given by King Herod to his dancer her, on the monarch's birthday. It is also evident that he wanted to deceive us and make the investigation more difficult because he used women with Latin names, of Portuguese spelling, so our investigation had to translate them before we were sure. It remains for us to discover his whereabouts and recover the victims' heads. Unfortunately we still have no clues as to what he looks like, but we will soon find him. Thank you!". The detective got up from the table in a shower of questions, but went on without answers. To see the full video report, click here.

It is true that the rise of population hysteria has good reason. We hope that this case will be completed as soon as possible.

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I got up from the chair in front of the computer and headed towards the back of my house with a scornful expression composing my face. My father had built a basement 30 years ago to keep building materials and old things. He had always been attentive to the constant renovations that homes needed, so he made his own stock of utensils. I went down the stairs and entered the deep pitch in the basement of the house; a foul odor was beginning to circulate the room. At the deep, there was an extensive shelf streaking the edges on the two opposite walls. The light from my flashlight illuminated the places filled by my steps. I stopped abruptly, slid the light just above me and contemplated my masterpiece: all six heads lay with their respective names below and with the anagram organized under the name of Salome and John Baptist. Below it was written:

"He who, through vanity or incomprehensible vengeance, delights in the tortuous demise of his fellow man, will be worthy of the same torment caused by iniquity."

I spent a few minutes admiring my achievement, sitting in a cold chair, then stood up and sighed.

Finally ... here are the laurels of my creation !, I said turning and following back to the exit.


Five months have passed since the murders and the detective was not accommodated by the fact that he had not found the Gargantua Killer. While walking along the great Avenue Ruy Barbosa, he spotted a bookstore that displayed a huge poster and with the window completely full, with a book highlighted: “The Writer: The revival”. He paid for a copy and kept walking, attentive to the synopsis of the book: It can't be!, he shouted, turning the book around in search of the author's name. Just under the title there was only one pseudonym: Claudius Lucius.



20 Ağustos 2020 15:31 5 Rapor Yerleştirmek Hikayeyi takip edin

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C.S. Moses C.S. Moses wrote some articles for sites on philosophy, art and published some poetry on sites and books of the genre. He attended Law, Psychology and Philosophy courses. He is a legal advisor, disciplined in the internal control of a public agency and in the bidding area. In five years he wrote “Exorcism ─ Under the influence of evil”; "The brotherhood"; "The Writer"; "Elisabeth"; "Anthology: 'Beyond the Earth; Beyond the Sky'". Currently finishing a novel and a soap opera.

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Moisés Calado. 📚🔙 Moisés Calado. 📚🔙
September 22, 2021, 11:22
Joubert Alves Joubert Alves
Great job! ❤
August 08, 2021, 17:23
C.S. Moses C.S. Moses
I hope everyone is free to comment on the work. Thank You all!
April 05, 2021, 21:46