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The Fictional Killer
墨書 Inktalez
My name is Qin Mo, and I am a mystery novel writer.
At three in the morning, I was still working on my latest piece, "False Murder." Just as I was writing the moment when the killer strangled the victim with a Violin String, a sudden shock ran through me. Wait a minute, this detail... why does it feel so familiar?
I searched through news articles from twenty years ago, and the sensational unsolved case came rushing back to me: a 25-year-old female teacher, Lin Wen, was strangled to death in her home with a Violin String. What sent chills down my spine was that every detail I had written in my novel perfectly matched the real case.
Could it be that I was the killer from back then?
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The Violin String glimmered coldly under the moonlight. He gently stroked the string, feeling its texture. This high-end string was incredibly resilient, just perfect for his plan...
This was a passage from my serialized mystery novel "False Murder," which had just released three chapters and already garnered thousands of comments. Just as I was about to continue writing, I suddenly froze. The Violin String, moonlight, silver glow... while writing, these details flowed out naturally as if something were pulling them from me. But now that I thought about it carefully, these images felt inexplicably familiar, as if I had truly witnessed them myself.
I rubbed my temples and switched to the reader comment section, intending to check some feedback to clear my mind. The latest comments came from my long-time readers:
"Mo Da, the third chapter is so realistic it’s frightening! The detail about the desk lamp gave me chills at night..."
"Agreeing with the above! Mo Da's writing is too vivid; I've decided to only read updates at noon from now on!"
"The description of the two cups is simply amazing; it felt like I was right there..."
I stared at these comments and glanced at my own words, an inexplicable chill suddenly washing over me. In my more than ten years of writing experience, I had never felt anything like this—it's as if this story wasn't something I was creating but rather something I was recalling.
I stood up to pour myself a glass of warm water and walked to the window, gazing at the light drizzle outside, trying to calm the strange feeling within me. Perhaps I had been too immersed in my writing lately...
Maybe it's best to stop for now and get some sleep! Just as I was about to shut down my computer, something struck me. I opened my browser and quickly typed in a few keywords.
As the sound of rain diminished, my expression gradually froze under the dim blue light of the screen.
On the computer screen was a news report from twenty years ago: “Young Female Teacher Murdered at Home, Police Seek Clues from the Public.”
I stared at the crime scene photo in the article. Although I was certain it was my first time seeing it, the details in the photo felt hauntingly familiar—
the lamp by the window was lit, two cups sat on the coffee table, one marked with faint lipstick stains, while the other still had water rings at its bottom…
These details matched exactly what I had written in “False Murder.” My temples throbbed with anxiety, and my legs began to shake uncontrollably. What was happening? I forced myself to focus and continued reading:
“The victim, Lin Wen, female, 25 years old, a music teacher at a certain high school. Discovered dead at home on the afternoon of March 15, 2004. Preliminary estimates suggest she died between 9 PM and midnight the previous night. No obvious signs of struggle were found at the scene; police suspect it may have been committed by someone familiar…”
Suddenly, an image flashed in my mind: half-drawn curtains, moonlight spilling onto the floor, glimmering Violin Strings…
I jumped up abruptly, nearly knocking over the cup of water on my desk. Cold sweat trickled down my neck; this couldn’t be a coincidence.
I pressed my hands against my eyes, trying to recall events from twenty years ago. I was just in my early twenties then, bursting with creativity and inspiration. Yet in my memory of that year, there was only a vague outline, like looking through frosted glass—impossible to see clearly.
Just then, my phone rang suddenly, startling me—it was Li Chuang calling.
“Old Qin, are you asleep?”
“No, I’m writing,” I instinctively closed my browser.
“It’s been a while since we last met. I’m not busy lately; how about we grab dinner tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
Li Chuang was my childhood friend and had been a detective for nearly twenty years now. Thinking of this made me blurt out:
“By the way, could you look into an old case from twenty years ago?”
“What case?” Li Chuang asked from the other end of the line.
“Uh… it’s nothing urgent; let’s talk about it tomorrow.” A strange intuition told me not to reveal too much to Li Chuang just yet.
After hanging up, a terrifying thought suddenly crossed my mind: with such similar details in the case, could it be… that I was the murderer from back then?
No, this is too absurd.
I shook my head vigorously, but the fragmented images in my mind became clearer: the dimly lit hallway at midnight, the sound of the doorbell, the warm touch...
I pinched my slightly trembling fingers and opened the drawer to look for a cigarette. After rummaging through it a few times, I found a black box at the very back of the drawer.
What is this? I don't remember putting such a box in here...
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