Legends are born from reality, while fairy tales veil the truth.
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LVPD, Fifth Unit Office.
“These things aren’t just made up, are they?” The sharply dressed men of Carl’s Unit Five exchanged uneasy glances over the files, recordings, and photographs.
Dean shook his head.
“If you don’t trust me, you should at least trust Holden Ford’s reputation.”
“If you have any doubts, feel free to contact the Santa Monica Police Department for verification,” Holden chimed in.
“How is this possible?” Carl scrutinized the photos of Kelly Scott’s murder, rubbing his shiny bald head in frustration. “Santa Monica and Las Vegas, hundreds of miles apart, two months between cases, and yet two almost identical crimes, with two unrelated suspects—both with irrefutable evidence against them.”
“An incredible coincidence.”
“Don’t chalk everything you can’t explain up to coincidence,” Dean insisted, locking eyes with Holden before launching into another detailed explanation of his theory: the connection between scar pain, hypnosis, and the perpetration of the crimes.
A few officers couldn’t help but scoff.
“Enough! Quiet!” Carl rapped the table and fell into thought.
“Are these files, photos, and recordings not sufficient?” Holden asked. “Or do you have another case coming up?”
“We’re free for now. District Attorney Hines has plenty of evidence, and he’s already selected a tough-minded jury. Once the trial starts, Abby and her high-powered attorney Luckwell are doomed. She’ll get at least twenty years.” Kruger, with his thick black hair, interjected.
“Then there’s no loss, is there? Listen to our plan. If you catch the real culprit, you’ll prevent a major mistake.” Dean ticked off his points, meeting each person’s gaze earnestly. “Jack, Abby’s parents, the Bucky Flynn family—three surveillance points, five or six people tops. If you catch the real killer, your unit will avert a disaster.”
“You think so too?” Carl eyed Holden.
“At first I thought this kid’s theory was pure fantasy. But by sticking to his guns, we uncovered a suspect profile that should have been impossible to find,” Holden said, scanning the team with a steady gaze. “He was right once. He could be right again. I believe him.”
Carl stroked the rough black stubble on his chin, deep in thought. Dean held his breath, waiting—if he couldn’t convince these officers, how could he ever confront the true killer?
“Holden, the FBI is usually a pain in our ass, but you’re an exception. You’ve helped us solve a lot of cases these last six months, never let us down. If you vouch for Dean, fine. I’m in,” Carl decided briskly. “Kruger, keep eyes on Jack, the bar owner. Watch for anyone suspicious near him. Carol and Ann, head south to protect Abby Clark’s parents. Moore and Chad, you’re with Bucky Flynn’s family. Stay sharp, don’t embarrass yourselves.”
“Got it, boss.”
The team members took their assignments and left in quiet, orderly fashion.
Dean shot Holden a grateful look. Things were finally moving as he’d hoped: three-pronged surveillance of the real killer.
But this was a purely defensive strategy. The real breakthrough would be figuring out which “line” the killer would strike first.
“Oh, by the way,” Carl said, packing away the files, “the initial results on that white tracksuit are in. It’s covered in Abby’s biological samples, alcohol, moldy food residue, and…”
Carl paused, a flicker of confusion on his face.
“And?” Dean pressed, unable to wait.
“A minute amount of an unidentified liquid. Not human,” Carl mused, “and not from most animals, either.”
Dean’s eyes lit up. Inspiration struck—but it seemed impossible.
“Could just be some complex chemical from the dumpster. Needs more testing. Doesn’t seem to affect the case for now.” Carl shook his head and smiled. “Dean, you’ve made a major breakthrough. Take the afternoon off. Go reassure your classmates—they’re nearly frantic.”
“We’ll watch things here.”
…
Evening fell, and the dusk painted the sky in flaming crimson.
In Gretchen’s bedroom on Old South Street, Dean gathered again with his friends.
“Why didn’t you take me out of town? Think women are a nuisance?” Gretchen sat cross-legged on the floor, her hair loose over her shoulders, tight leggings and a sports tank accentuating her curves.
Her gaze was fierce. Rust, Baker, Brittany, and Jenny kept their distance, afraid to get caught in the crossfire.
“Bring a beautiful woman to San Quentin prison?” Dean inhaled the faint scent of her hair, looked into her sapphire eyes, and shook his head gravely. “I guarantee, those inmates—starved of female company for decades—would tear down the bars and devour you alive!”
Gretchen pressed her lips together, but her glare softened.
Baker flashed Dean a discreet thumbs-up. New suit, new charm, sweeter talk.
“Did you visit Abby?” Dean asked.
Gretchen gritted her teeth, ruffling the sleeping golden retriever at her feet. “She’s in bad shape, lost ten pounds… Tattooed inmates stare at her all day, threatening to break her bones—she can’t sleep.”
“When Abby first got to holding, the guards stripped her down and searched her inside and out,” Brittany said, her pale cheeks flushed with anger. “Pure humiliation.”
“That’s procedure,” Dean said, parroting what he’d learned. “Prevents attacks or suicide.”
“Enough complaining. Back to business. Did you find anything at San Quentin?” Rust asked, looking calmly at Dean. “Abby’s case isn’t isolated. There’s something almost supernatural about it. Are you sure you want to hear?”
“Don’t underestimate us. We may not be as professional as the cops, but we’re young, quick-thinking—together, we might catch something you missed,” Gretchen tugged Dean’s arm. “Let’s pool our ideas!”
Dean surveyed their eager faces, then recounted a condensed version of the case, issuing a stern warning about confidentiality.
“Sorry, this is just too weird…” Rust shook his head. “I need to process this.”
“My brain’s a mess,” Baker forced down a laugh, his face twisted. “Even if Sherlock Holmes were here, she’d be baffled.”
Dean glanced at Gretchen and Brittany, confused.
“This story is as complicated as the Bible. My head hurts,” Jenny said, tapping Dean’s chest with her finger. “I only remember three things: serial killer, preys on children, hypnosis… but I’ve got an idea.”
Dean leaned in, and everyone perked up.
“When I was a kid, if I misbehaved or refused to sleep, my grandmother would scare me like this…” Jenny hooked her hands into claws by her chin, making a T-Rex pose, forming her mouth into an O and rumbling, “The Black Witch will lure naughty children into the woods, crush them, boil them into ointment, and smear herself to stay young forever.”
Rust shuddered. “Grace used to scare me too, but she called it the Grey Fairy.”
“My dad said the Tooth Fairy,” Baker chimed in.
They launched into a lively discussion of childhood terrors, forgetting Abby entirely.
Dean’s face darkened.
Folk legends—how did they tie into a serial killer?
But then he considered:
The killer was no god, but maybe not quite human, either—a truly malevolent being.
It moved unseen, committing crimes under everyone’s noses.
It was cunning, perhaps ancient, its crimes uncountable.
Even if innocents were framed, the truth would eventually seep through, leaving traces in the form of obscure legends:
The Black Witch, the Grey Fairy, the Tooth Fairy…
For supernatural cases, imagination was essential—no possibility could be ignored!
“Jenny, besides the Black Witch, did your grandmother know any other folk stories?”
“You’ve asked the right person.” Jenny beamed. “Rebecca’s hobby is collecting folk tales—she’s written them down for over forty years. Hundreds of stories: American, European, Cuban—they’re her treasures.”
Dean smiled.
“Is your grandmother free? I’d like to visit and ask her some questions.”
…
Jenny’s home was on the outermost edge of Vegas, in a dilapidated, grimy neighborhood.
Under the dim streetlights, dirty water and garbage littered the sidewalks. Young men in headscarves, dreadlocks, or covered in tattoos squatted against the walls, their eyes darting suspiciously.
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“We’re here,” Jenny announced.
The group entered a low, weathered wooden house. Time had left its marks: cracked walls and ceiling, creaking stairs, warped floorboards, and worn furniture.
“Old lady, I’m home!” Jenny tossed her backpack onto the couch and shouted.
“So early today?” An old woman in a green knitted sweater stepped from the kitchen, adjusting her glasses. She looked about sixty, a bit out of shape, hair snowy white, but with few wrinkles and a straight back. In her features lingered the beauty of youth.
“Ha, my friends are visiting!” Jenny hugged her, planted a kiss on her cheek, then turned, “You’ve met my boyfriend Baker. This is Gretchen, Rust, Brittany, and Dean.”
“Good evening, Grandma Rebecca…” everyone greeted warmly.
“Ah, children, have you had dinner?” she asked, her smile gentle. “I just made a pot of bean and pork rice—care for some?”
“We’ve already eaten, thank you,” Dean replied, then asked, “I hear you know a lot of folk tales. May I ask you about them?”
Rebecca nodded, a bit surprised.
“As long as you don’t mind an old woman rambling, you’re welcome.”
“It’s settled! Dean, you’re on your own with Grandma Rebecca—brace yourself, her stories bored me to death as a kid. The rest of you, upstairs to see my new clothes!” Jenny pulled Gretchen upstairs without delay.
“What a reckless child, eighteen and still so wild,” the old lady sighed, tidying the sofa. She handed Dean a bowl of fragrant rice and a cup of soup with half a corn cob floating in it.
The rice smelled heavenly—beans, red pork and carrot, yellow corn, all bright and tempting. It reminded Dean of his favorite glutinous rice dish from another life.
He’d already had five burgers for dinner, but facing this, his appetite returned. He dug in without further ado.
Rebecca watched him with the gentle gaze of a grandmother.
“Here, a gift for you.”
“How thoughtful.” She brought the box to her nose, drew out a cigarette, lit it, and the smoke drifted soft and hazy under the lamp. The lines on her face seemed to tell an old story.
“Dean, most people interested in folk tales are old. Why are you, so young, drawn to them?”
Dean sipped the soup, met her wise eyes, and said frankly,
“I’m a volunteer with the LVPD. I encountered a case—so bizarre that I wondered if folklore might inspire a solution.”
“A bold thought—youth alone has such creativity.” Rebecca’s face warmed with approval as she served him another spoonful of rice.
“But first, let me ask: do you believe in the existence of evil, supernatural beings?”
“Absolutely… I firmly believe there are malevolent creatures science can’t explain—like demons, and a few ghosts,” Dean answered without hesitation.
“You sound just like a friend of mine, Marlene.”
“Marlene Daly?” Dean recalled the medium he and Alvin had visited before confronting the ghost Alexander Raphael—only to find she’d since moved away.
“You know her?” Rebecca’s eyes lit up.
“She’s a real expert—helped me a lot with spirits.”
“You’ve seen things beyond science?” she asked.
Dean lowered his voice, “I have.”
“In that case, I won’t beat around the bush.” Rebecca tilted her head, asking a strange question. “Do you think there’s only one demon, or many?”
“Many. Evil is boundless in this world,” Dean said carefully.
“Well said. But then, how do I know you’re not one of them, here to silence an expert like me?” Rebecca stubbed out her cigarette, hands folded on the table, regal.
Dean froze with his spoon, but caught the smile playing on her lips. He feigned reaching for his wallet. “Want to check my driver’s license?”
She burst out laughing. “Demons have no sense of humor. You pass. Now, tell me about the case—let’s see if this foggy old brain can help.”
Dean described the cases of Abby Clark and David Lee in meticulous detail, including how, in David’s case, the families of both victim and suspect were almost entirely wiped out.
Rebecca listened, frowning in thought as the dim light softened the lines on her face.
“These two cases call to mind a terrifying presence. When you were a child, if you didn’t behave or sleep, who did your parents say would come for you?”
“The wolf grandmother… the big bad wolf… kidnappers…”
A shadow of pity flitted through Rebecca’s eyes as she served him another spoonful.
Dean flinched, blocking the spoon. “No more, I really can’t eat!”
She reluctantly withdrew the spoon.
“In my childhood, my grandmother spoke of the Sleep Demon—El Cuco—who would come for naughty children. And her grandmother told her the same.”
“Such stories are handed down through generations.”
Sleep Demon? Dean searched his memory—no recognition.
Rebecca lifted her chin, reciting as if poetry,
“Sleep, child, sleep now, or the Sleep Demon will come and eat you.”
“But in truth, all ancient civilizations share a bad habit—using fairy tales and legends to mask grim historical facts, to hide evil creatures that defy science!”
Dean sat bolt upright, sensing something crucial.
“In Cuba, when we warn children about the Sleep Demon, we say, ‘Sleep, or El Cuco will come and eat you.’ But we should warn them—” Her wise eyes grew haunted, “—‘It doesn’t matter if you behave or not. The Sleep Demon takes whoever it wants!’”
Whoever it wants!
Whoosh—
The curtain fluttered.
A cold night breeze drifted from the kitchen window, making Dean’s back prickle. How had an innocent fairy tale turned to horror?
“You mention the Sleep Demon—do you really think this legendary creature committed these crimes?”
“Listen, the Sleep Demon is more than legend.” Rebecca glanced upstairs, blew a smoke ring, and lowered her voice. “No child marked by the Sleep Demon ever escapes, because it can transform into anyone—leaving a crescent-shaped scar as its mark, and putting its chosen in a deep sleep before and after the crime.”
“It hunts, frames, and hides by shape-shifting.”
Mark, sleep, transformation?
Dean felt thunderstruck—
The Sleep Demon, preying on children?
Could it be shape-shifting, not hypnosis?
He’d dismissed transformation, thinking DNA and blood couldn’t change.
Rebecca’s face was grave, deepening her lines as she explained, “This shape-shifting isn’t just wearing a skin or changing height—it’s a fundamental transformation, down to the essence of life.”
“Essence of life?” Dean pressed, “You mean, outward appearance and DNA both change?”
“DNA is modern science’s term for life’s essence, isn’t it?” Rebecca nodded. “Then yes. Its transformation is undetectable by any scientific method.”
Dean’s throat tightened.
“Give me a moment.”
Rebecca smiled kindly,
“Take your time. I understand—most people today reject what they can’t grasp, dismissing it as coincidence or superstition. If you don’t believe in the Sleep Demon, just treat this as a scary story.”
“No, I believe! I’ve seen things like it. But let me think—Sleep Demon, shape-shifting, even DNA can be fooled…”
Dean stared at the rose-pink chandelier, breathing hard, a tangled web of clues in his mind suddenly sorting into a clear timeline, a logical chain!
It all made sense now!
His theory about hypnosis was wrong—hence the negligible progress in his system.
The crescent-shaped scars weren’t for hypnotizing and making people commit crimes.
They were how the Sleep Demon marked its chosen.
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After marking, the Sleep Demon would, at a later time, transform completely—inside and out—into its chosen victim, using their identity to hunt and devour a child.
In Santa Monica, David Lee was marked by a scar and became the chosen one.
On July 22, the Sleep Demon, wearing his appearance, killed Kelly Scott, and that night marked Abby Clark.
On September 20, the Sleep Demon, dressed in the Adidas tracksuit it bought in Santa Monica, came to Las Vegas, transformed into Abby, killed Bucky Flynn, and that night marked bar owner Jack.
With this analysis, Dean understood the mystery of the tracksuit: why had the killer traveled from Santa Monica to Vegas just to have Abby wear the white tracksuit to commit the crime? It seemed redundant, meaningless.
Now it was clear—the tracksuit had always been worn by the Sleep Demon itself. It bought the clothes in Santa Monica, committed the crimes itself!
And the tiny trace of unknown liquid Carl had mentioned—neither human nor animal—
It must have been the Sleep Demon’s own fluid, accidentally left before transforming!
This ancient being had no idea how advanced modern forensics had become, and so left a clue.
Two cases.
It wore the skins of others, brazenly leaving DNA, bite marks, and blood at the scene, even strutting under surveillance cameras.
All to frame the chosen ones, David and Abby, with ironclad evidence!
Once the chosen were convicted and punished, the case was closed.
The Sleep Demon, the true killer and a master predator, would simply take on a new form and continue its rampage elsewhere.
Progress jumped to eighty percent.
…
“The Sleep Demon’s legend matches the details of the case perfectly!”
“I mistook shape-shifting for hypnosis, but luckily my investigation stayed on the right track!”
Dean’s inner scales tipped decisively toward this more rational explanation.
As for the identical fever, sleepiness, and scar pain suffered by David and Abby—these were likely supernatural effects, keeping the chosen from interfering.
Breathe…
Dean clenched his fists, took a deep breath, and looked across at Rebecca, eyes shining.
“If it’s the Sleep Demon, then are the deaths of Kelly Scott’s family and David Lee’s family related to it?”
“Did they die before or after Kelly’s murder?” the old woman asked.
“In the weeks after.”
“You guessed it. Their deaths are no coincidence.” Rebecca rose, circled the kitchen, her face grave. “The Sleep Demon—El Cuco—also known as the Grief-Eater, the Tear-Drinker.”
“After devouring a child, it lingers nearby, quietly influencing the families of the chosen and the victims, pushing them toward destruction.”
“Grief-Eater—it craves the deepest pain and despair of both families.”
“One moment.”
Rebecca paused, climbed the stairs, and returned with a hefty tome.
She opened it on the table before Dean.
He stared at a horrifying image—a humanoid creature with its head replaced by a crimson maw, bristling with needle-like fangs, howling silently, radiating sorrow and pain.
Rebecca spoke words he’d never forget:
“If the child is the Grief-Eater’s main course, then the pain of their loved ones is its dessert.”
“This evil being hunts to extinction, relishing the perfect feast.”
“Victim and chosen, both families, are its prey and sacrifices, to be utterly consumed!”
Dean wiped the cold sweat from his brow with trembling fingers.
He checked his system.
Investigation progress: 80/100 → 90/100.
No doubt.
The killer was this legendary monster—the Grief-Eater!
“Thank goodness I convinced LVPD to monitor and protect both families in advance!”
“You’re wondering how to catch it, aren’t you?” Rebecca saw the tension on his face.
“Yes.” Dean shared his three possible strategies. “Who do you think the Grief-Eater will target first?”
“Remember, it feeds on the grief of the families. The greater the pain, the greater the lure. When will that pain peak?”
Dean’s eyes lit up.
“Surely when Bucky Flynn’s parents bury him—on the day of the funeral! The Grief-Eater will come for ‘dessert’ at the service!”
Rebecca nodded emphatically. “That’s your best chance to catch it.”
“Let’s hope Bucky hasn’t been buried yet!” Dean cracked his knuckles, a mix of satisfaction and anxiety.
He turned to Rebecca.
“Have you ever seen the Grief-Eater yourself?”
She shook her head, sorrow flickering in her eyes. “I’ve only seen its aftermath. When I was in my twenties, back in Cuba, my uncle’s child was framed by the Sleep Demon and executed—just like your cases. Both families died soon after.”
“I tried to find it, but found nothing.”
“Do you know any of its weaknesses?”
“Weaknesses? I’m sorry,” she said, her white hair trembling. “I’m just a folklore scholar, not a fighter. But I doubt it’s truly powerful—otherwise it wouldn’t need to skulk and hide like this.”
She studied his resolute face for a long moment, as if seeing an old friend, her expression full of nostalgia.
“It’s long-lived, very cunning. Not only can it shape-shift, it can easily stir up negative emotions, driving people to self-harm or violence.”
“Shape-shifting and emotional influence. Got it,” Dean pondered his next move. “Your insight has helped me immensely.”
“I too hope that demon burns in hell—and that young people like you stay safe.”
“One more piece of advice: if you don’t want to be taken for a madman, keep tonight’s conversation secret.” Rebecca nudged her glasses and gazed kindly upstairs. “Don’t tell Jenny and the others. They’re different from you—they belong to the ordinary, bright world.”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Dean pledged solemnly.
Suddenly Jenny’s lively voice rang out from upstairs.
Dean hesitated, then asked,
“Rebecca, if I succeed this time, can I come back and hear more of your stories?”
She laughed, tears of joy shining in her eyes.
“Then you’d better bring a big appetite—you’ll have to eat more next time!”
…
“Didn’t Grandma Rebecca’s tales give you any inspiration?” Rust asked, chin in hand, gazing out at the bright moon. “Not surprising, really.”
“Time to go home, everyone,” Baker said, hugging Jenny and kissing her forehead. “See you tomorrow.”
“What about Abby?” Brittany fretted. “She’s in court in three days.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find another way to save her. That’s enough for today.” Dean swept his gaze across his friends.
“If there’s any news, tell everyone, understood?” Gretchen grabbed Dean by the collar, pulled him close, stared into his eyes, and waved her fist—a warning with a touch of plea. “Keep secrets again, and you’ll pay!”
“I will,” Dean promised silently.
Let them stay in their peaceful, ordinary world.
(End of chapter)