The Cry Room

By JT Arant

Darkness and despair await you in The Cry Room

A missing person. A serial killer.
A young police officer looking to get ahead.
A race against time.

Seven victims, all tortured, killed and posed. Officer Alek Ravbar thinks he has the lead that will break the case wide open. Can he track down The Sculptor before he kills again? Or is it already too late?

Ravbar, a young police officer hoping to make a name for himself, has stumbled across a potential lead that could help solve a years old serial killer investigation. He uses that information to get himself on the taskforce, but faces a complex maze of workplace politics and family responsibilities. The closer he gets to finding the killer, the more perilous things get. And the threats are all around him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WordMechanics
• Release date: Mar 18, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230980292

JT Arant

JT Arant was born in South Carolina, where storytelling is still a popular art. His grandfather once told him the story of how he decided to get married. It was an amusing mix of love and practicality and deception. When he finished telling the story, JT asked his grandmother if it was true. She smiled and sipped from her glass of iced tea and answered, "Ain't no story that can't be made better with a little exaggeration." He has been a writer ever since. He is the author of three novels and numerous short stories. He is currently teaching British and American Literature at the Xi'an International Studies University in Xi'an, China

Book preview

The Cry Room

JT Arant

Published by WordMechanics, 2025.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE CRY ROOM

First edition. March 18, 2025.

Copyright © 2025 JT Arant.

ISBN: 979-8230980292

Written by JT Arant.

Also by JT Arant

Playing Dice with the Universe

The Cry Room

E is for ENIGMA

Less Is More

The Happy Damned

The Long and Short Of It

Z Is For ZOMBIE

The Legend Of Kash Garland

Watch for more at JT Arant’s site.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By JT Arant

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY TWO

TWENTY THREE

TWENTY FOUR

TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY SIX

EPILOGUE

About the Author

ONE

He moved quickly through the night, determined but not rushed, the air cool on his skin. The moon was full but hidden behind clouds. Still, it was a bright night. Slivers of light slipped through, but it was the glare of the street lamps reflected in the puddles that collected in his wet eyelashes. He wiped them dry and pressed forward.

He had forgotten his umbrella, though really it wasn’t raining hard enough to matter. It had been coming down in sheets earlier, but the worst of it seemed to be over. A simple drizzle, a slight spattering of rain, was nothing to worry about. The glare of the streetlights though, that was distracting. He picked up his pace, moving past the worst of it.

A piece of trash, a discarded bottle cap, red with jagged ridges, floated down the flooded gutter beside him, matching his gait. It bobbed and tumbled, bouncing its way around a cluster of Autumn leaves, nearly getting caught. The current, pushed by volume, kept it moving forward. Like a ship caught in a tempest, it lacked control. It’s direction, though, was set. It lurched forward, pulled by gravity toward a thick iron grate. One last obstacle, a piece of broken glass, tried to thwart its path but the bottle cap slid around it with ease and plunged through the bars, disappearing into the depths of the sewer system.

In the near distance, he heard the hollow echo of high heels running on concrete. It was merely a hint of a sound, but unmistakable. The footsteps sounded rushed, hurried, scared.

His thoughts drifted to Miss Carson. Every morning they met in the break room at 10:30 for coffee, scones and mild flirtation. She was enthusiastic and delightfully clumsy, prone to giggling and utterly oblivious to the passage of time. She had a thousand words for every little thing, and he made a point to listen. The words gushed from her, sometimes stumbling over each other but never feeling awkward or out of place. Each word was necessary, none were wasted, and even though he rarely interrupted, there was never any doubt that he was an equally integral part of the conversation. He smiled, nodded, uttered sounds of shock or agreement, whichever was most appropriate, and that was enough. And when it was time for her to get back to work, she lingered, squeezing out a few more minutes, a few more words. Neither of them wanted it to end, even though they knew it must, even though they knew they would be right back there the following day, doing the exact same thing. Time made its demands known, though, and there was a fleeting attempt to wash out the coffee mug, a cursory splash under the faucet, a hasty farewell, a hectic dash down the hallway. He smiled at her panic and calmly rewashed her mug, listening to the click and clack of her heels on the tiled floor. The sound fading, but never truly gone from his ears.

Another flare of light, fuzzy at the edges, momentarily disoriented him. He wasn’t particularly sensitive to light, as a general rule, but the rain was coming down with more determination and the wet pavement was slick, mirrored, and the night is never as dark as we imagine. Perhaps it was merely bad luck, but every simple refraction found his dilated pupils with the intensity of a floodlight. He raised a hand to shield his vision and continued unabated.

He strode past a single shoe, a discarded white pump, the heel broken, abandoned to the pavement. Had he noticed it, he would have recognized that it was only moderately expensive, nothing outrageous, but certainly not the sort of thing one simply leaves behind.

Suddenly, a clang filtered out from an alleyway on the other side of the street. Like the lights, it echoed louder than it should in his head. He winced, stopped and looked around. The street was empty, not unexpected considering the hour, but there were still a few lights on in the brownstones. He was alone, but something didn’t feel right. It might have been the shadows, a cruel trick played by the faint luminescence filtering through the canopy of paperbark maples, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was being watched. The itch at the base of his neck felt like a warning, and he rubbed it as he looked around, trying to find evidence to support his instinct. The street, though, apart from the occasional flicker of shadows, was long and empty.

When lions hunt, they hide in plain sight. They creep forward with a patience that belies their hunger, waiting, anticipating a mistake.

The entrance to the alleyway was darker than the rest of the street. The darkness oozed out, surrounding and enveloping the entrance like a fog. It was as if light couldn’t exist there. Such a deep, encompassing darkness would frighten most people. But when fear has already set in, darkness can be a salvation, a safe place to hide, a point of refuge from the monsters seeking to find you.

He dashed across the street, paused just long enough to listen, heard nothing, then melted into the darkness.

The alley itself was not as dark as the entrance, a single light over a door at the far end offered hope. Cautiously, he moved toward it, scanning the walls, scouring the dark corners, glancing behind a dumpster, noting that the lid was padlocked shut. The only escape, it seemed, was that door.

As he got closer, the light above the door got brighter, hurting his eyes. He looked down at his feet, but the glare still burned. He reached out with his hand and turned the doorknob. It was locked.

He felt lost, confused. There was nowhere else to hide, it was a dead-end. He looked around, more frantically than he intended, trying to understand, trying to work out how he had made such a foolish mistake. He had always prided himself on his attention to detail, it ensured that he was always at least two steps ahead of everybody else. But not this time. Why?

Before he could find the answer, though, a shape, dark and menacing, appeared at the edge of the light’s halo.

As it moved closer, it grew in size and became more distinct, more human looking. He readied himself for what came next. It, whatever it was, was about to discover that he was no wallflower. Karate as a kid, Aikido as an adult; he was more than capable of defending himself. He let go of his instinctive self, the animal that simply wants to lash out, and let years of training take over. But something felt wrong. His muscles felt sluggish and heavy. He was moving in slow-motion while everything else around him seemed to be speeding up. It was then that he realized. The lack of control, the sensitivity to light, the miscalculations. He had been drugged.

Focus, so necessary to his primary defense, failed. His thoughts wandered, trying to work out how, and when, and where, it had happened. The bar, he assumed. It was the only logical possibility, the only time he had ever really let his guard down. Usually, he was so careful. Do something enough times, though, and it becomes routine. Routine feels comfortable, it invites mistakes.

The whole evening replayed itself in his head, but that was a dangerous distraction. He struggled to clear his mind, to regain control of his body. His heart pounded, his legs shook. He couldn’t even make a fist, it felt like his fingers were attached to rubber-bands.

The shape was nearly on him. But, still, it remained disturbingly unfocused. All he could see clearly was the object in its hand; a stick, pointed at one end, hooked at the other. Even in his altered state, it seemed odd. His eyes strained, trying to work it out. The hooked end rose higher, catching the light. It was a handle, the heavy end of an umbrella. His umbrella. The one he had left behind in the bar.

He put his arms up to block the blow, but his perception was erratic and they weren’t where they needed to be. The umbrella, handle-side-up, struck down, hard. When it returned to the light, it was covered in blood. Rain mixed with the stain, and a steady trickle of heavy pink droplets collected in the puddles beside his crumpled body.

The grip on the umbrella tightened and it struck down again.

And again. And again. And again.

TWO

Detective Gerald Scott straightened his tie and tugged his lapel taut, ever aware of the camera lens and the perceptions attached to it. He had a love-hate relationship with the Press; hated the scrutiny and constant yearning for answers, but loved the attention. And, of course, the exposure it offered. He was a man with plans, aspirations, and being in the public eye was instrumental to his success.

He stepped to the microphone and cleared his throat. The gaggle of reporters gathered in the precinct press room stopped chattering and turned their attention to the dais. Detective Scott took a deep breath and took a moment to consider the room. It was big, spacious, and edged with mahogany. It was pleasant and warm, nothing like the interior of the precinct, with its cold drab walls, fluorescent lighting and constant buzz of noise. The press room even smelled better, it hinted at Norwegian wood whereas the rest of the building stunk of sweat and industrial cleaning products.

His audience was eager, men and women who thought they understood the nature of crime because they reported on it. Scott had made it a priority to know them all, though some only by their reputations. Some he liked, some he didn’t. The ones he liked, he used. He fed them tidbits of information, to keep them loyal. The ones he didn’t like got misinformation. Both served a purpose.

Earlier this morning, he began, At approximately 6am, the body of William Bennington was discovered in Rosemont Park. Mr Bennington, a white male, 42 years old, had been reported missing ten days ago by his wife. The official cause of death is still undetermined until the Medical Examiner finishes her investigation, but we can report that there were signs of physical abuse.

A question rang out from the crowd of reporters: Was the body posed?

Detective Scott glared at the reporter. Not only had he broken with protocol, asking a question before being invited to do so, he was one of the reporters Scott didn’t like. Henry Mullins, a reporter on the Observers’ crime beat, was trying to make a name for himself. And, as such, he was always digging, looking for muck. In the beginning, he was easy to dismiss, he had been flatly wrong about his first two allegations, but somehow he had stumbled onto a real story, and it was starting to prove embarrassing.

Mr Bennington’s body was found sitting upright on one of the park benches, his left leg folded under his right.

An excited murmur filled the room, as the reporters began checking their notes, formulating questions and texting their editors.

Going back about three years, there had been a spate of bodies, seven altogether, found around the city, each posed in some way. Some were sitting, some standing, some prostrate, one had even been discovered in a tree. The victims shared no obvious traits, no pattern of gender, age or occupation. Nor were the police able to discover any concrete links between them. And yet there was no doubt that they were, each and all, the victims of a single suspect. Each