Cherry Pits

Chapter 1

An acrid smell had invaded the hallway from behind the door, and Chess knew he found the right place. He reached for the doorknob and halted when he saw red dots surfacing it. A bucket of cleaning supplies and water was held in hand, and carefully he put it down as he reached for his cellphone. The contact "Murdy" was listed at the top of the screen.

Struggled with the body this time, huh?

He erased that message, and instead sent:

Struggled with the documents this time, huh? I don't remember the last time there was any blood involved.

After he put away his phone, Chess grabbed a rag and disinfectant from the bucket and began to clear the doorknob of any stains. He took his bucket of supplies, pulled out a key, and entered the room. Observing his surroundings, he jerked his head to the side to get the bangs out of his face.

He shivered immediately from a chill trying to escape the room. His teeth chattered as he put down the supplies and took off a large, black backpack.

"Damn, Murdy, how high did you crank the AC?" He tightened the strings on his burgundy hoodie and fixed his disposable respirator as he assessed the room.

A body laid face down in a small office, a pool of blood darkening around it. Spatters of red were thrust against the wall and surrounding objects, and a potent odor smelled of rotting meat and feces-soluted urine. Papers and open folders were in disarray around the room.

"Geez! Well, this is new." He fixed his mask, his voice muffled. "Must've been here for a while." He put on a glove and checked his texts, seeing one from one from Murdy.

Yes, I got a little cocky with this one. Blood everywhere.

Chess stared at the phone, confused, until he got a rapid fire of texts.

I mean the documents

The documents hd blood eveywher

From when I gave myself a paper cut

Just to clear tht up

Murdy's so careless sometimes, he thought. Rolling his eyes, Chess replied.

Nice one.

He looked around the room and noticed blood lost deep in the cracks of the floorboards, its state dry and rather sticky. There was a window with moonlight shining through staring straight into the front yard.

Without a notice, his mind began to race and his chest ached. Swallowing, his mouth dry, he continued the message.

How come you didn't use the basement? You know, for the documents

He rubbed his chest and continued to think. My ex-therapist told me to talk in my head about things I already know, such as this rule. It's a way of grounding myself, I guess, and it's supposed to help ease my anxiety and lessen my PTSD. There, it's already starting to go away...