Ophelia O'dare: Magical Mysteries

Officer Donnivan faced me, a stark white table separating us in a small, sterile room featuring a large two-way mirror on the far wall. He placed a plain white paper cup in front of me, filled with straight black coffee—one of those flimsy cups that would impart a cardboard flavor to the drink and disintegrate if I didn't finish it quickly. I took a sip, the bitterness mirroring the rest of my life.

"Miss. Ophelia O'Dare, I need you to recount the happenings from the night of the thirteenth, specifically between nine PM and midnight. Also, explain your presence in the area where the murder occurred," said Officer Donnivan.

I took another sip of my coffee, grimacing at the harsh bitterness; the beans were over-roasted. As I tried to sort through my thoughts, I struggled to present myself in a way that wouldn't make me seem guilty. "I'm a news reporter, well not officially. I run a blog that focuses on extraordinary and captivating news stories."

"It's basically just a low-cost gossip rag," he said.

"I wouldn't describe it that way; I've invested a significant amount of effort into my articles."

"Effort and quality aren't the same, but let's not get sidetracked. Continue."

My lips were pressed tightly together, holding back words that would only lead to trouble. I tapped my leg in frustration, then inhaled deeply. "A note had arrived, printed on heavy white paper, announcing some kind of mystical ritual. I nearly decided against attending, considering the three-hour drive, but the truth was, I had nothing else worthwhile to write about for the next day."

Officer Donnivan smirked. "I see, why didn't you just make up something?"

"I do not write a fictional column, Mr. Donnivan."

"That's Officer Donnivan."

"Of course. So I decided to go to the coordinates listed on the note."

"It did not have an address?"

"No. I found it rather odd at that moment, so I made the decision to reach out to my friend Megan and inform her of my destination."

"Can she corroborate your story?

"No, she didn't pick up."

"Did you leave her a message?"

"I couldn't get through; her voicemail was completely full."

"A convenient excuse."

"I don't find it convenient at all."

"Continue."

"I made the choice to take my pepper spray along, just in case. I had my phone with me, but as I drove into town, I realized the coordinates were misleading. They led me beyond the town limits and into the depths of the forest. A path wound through the trees, clearly well-trodden, but I kept my distance, anxious that someone might see me if I walked directly on it. The darkness was creeping in, so I switched on my phone's light, keeping it on the lowest setting to avoid stumbling in the shadows."

"Did you have any idea who owned that land when you chose to trespass, or do you just enjoy breaking the law whenever it suits you?"

"As I wandered through the dense woods, an unsettling sound reached my ears—voices, though not in conversation. It was more like a haunting melody, beautiful yet deeply unsettling, echoing through the trees."

"Keep going; I don't require your thoughts on the caliber of the singing voices."

"However, it was significant; the sound resembled a chant. It felt as if numerous voices were harmonizing in unison, creating an eerie melody."

"I see, so those nature enthusiasts who belt out tunes in the open air. I keep having to step in and disperse them for congregating in restricted spots and for indecent exposure."

"As I approached and peered through the thicket..."

"Trespassing and peeping."

"I witnessed them, encircled around a flickering torch, twelve figures draped in dark blue robes, fastened at the throat with a silver emblem. Suddenly, the flame extinguished, as if a fierce gust had swept through, accompanied by a strange, hollow sound that seemed to drain the air from the surroundings. An eerie silence fell, so profound that even the insects ceased their buzzing. Then, out of nowhere, a blinding flash erupted, akin to a lightning strike; my phone short-circuited, leaving me momentarily blinded. In that chaos, I heard screams and a series of whooshing sounds. When my vision returned, the wail of sirens filled the air, prompting me to flee the scene."

"You failed to notice the body?"

"I didn't see anything."

"You're the only one we spotted making a hasty exit from the scene. Care to explain why you were bolting?"

"Why were you there?" I asked.

"I'm the one asking the questions."

"I heard screams followed by the wailing of sirens, and it truly caught me off guard. That's all I can tell you. Am I free to leave now?"

"You can go, but you're not allowed to exit the city limits."

"Am I a suspect?"

"You're currently the sole person of interest in a murder case. You mentioned that there were others involved, but we haven't found any evidence to support your statements. Make sure you don't leave town."

"But I don't even live here."

"You've got two options: stick around here in custody or locate a spot to crash in town. There's a bed and breakfast that's been getting some decent reviews. Once you settle in somewhere, let us know where you are within the hour, or we'll have to send a patrol to bring you back in."

"You are going to search for the murderer, aren't you?"

"We're going to look into it, but I'm almost positive we've already found her. Remember what I told you—check in within the hour, or I'll have a unit dispatched to haul you in, and you'll be sporting an ankle monitor."

~~~~~~~~~~

I walked out of the police station, stripped of everything except my debit card, car keys, and ID. They stripped me of my clothes, shoes, and phone, claiming that everything I owned was now considered evidence. Instead, they handed me flimsy booties and blue garments that felt more like paper than real fabric. They even took my fingerprints and the dust from under my nails. I made my way to the back to retrieve my car, my beloved 1995 Chevy Corsica, a faded brownish-red that everyone else dismissed as an eyesore. But to me, it was my treasure, my lucky Penny—always dependable, never let me down. They had torn apart her interior, searching for who knows what. My dad gifted her to me when I was a teenager, and I've never felt the need to replace her. Seeing her in that state made my heart plummet; the reality of the situation hit me hard. A wave of dread coiled in my stomach, and my heart raced uncontrollably.

I need answers about that note—who sent it, who wanted me there, and is there really a body? If so, who was killed? Do they have any proof of a murder? How did that person die? Is there any reason to suspect me beyond my location? Why couldn't they find anyone else? What happened to the others? Why were the police even on the scene? What was that light? How was the fire extinguished so quickly? What was that strange pressure? Who were those people, and what were they doing? What caused that power surge? Where did the evidence disappear to, who disposed of it, and for what reason? 

I have a mountain of questions to unravel, and time is slipping away. The most pressing question loomed over me: who truly committed the murder, and how could I possibly prove that I was not the one responsible?

Officer Donnivan has made his stance clear—he's convinced he's already identified the murderer, and I'm the sole suspect.