Personal Narrative: The Dyer Street Case

As a police detective, I see a lot of things ordinary men can’t even fathom—serial killers, rapists, drug lords—but nothing could have prepared me for the Dyer Street case. It started out like any other home invasion: a local woman went to bed with her family when all of a sudden she heard a scream coming from her son’s bedroom. When she entered the room she found her son on the floor, unresponsive. I started by asking Mr. and Mrs. Smith what they remembered about the night. The mother hesitantly replied saying her son had told her that he heard weird footsteps before he was attacked. She then started to weep from the realization that the footsteps were from the attacker. As her husband tried to comfort his grieving wife, I asked him what was taken from the house. He thought for a moment and then replied, “Nothing, not a God damn thing.” “Are you sure,” I asked surprised, “Think really hard about what might be missing.” He then thought for another moment—surveying the house around him—and said “No, nothing’s missing.”
This case was getting stranger by the second so I decided to investigate the victim’s bedroom, but I couldn’t find anything remotely connected to the crime scene. Both windows were locked from the inside and there was no sign of forced entry. “How could someone attack a 9-year-old kid and leave undetected without
leaving a single trace of evidence,” I thought to myself. The day was nearing its end and I was getting tired of getting no answers so I wrapped up my investigation and went to my apartment to overlook my notes and continue my investigation in the morning. The next morning, on my way to the Smith’s, the ambulance greeted me. The same thing that attacked their son attacked Mr. and Mrs. Smith. When I reached the hospital, I asked the doctors what could cause someone to become unresponsive like this, but they were all clueless to how it could have happened. “What do you mean you don’t know why they’re unresponsive?!” I yelled, annoyed. “I’m sorry sir, but there is no reason any of them should be in this state. We scanned their brain waves but there is no indicator to why they are like this. The only damage the family has sustained during their attack is the third-degree burns on all of the victims’ left ankles.” “Third-degree burns?” I interrupted. “What third-degree burns?” “All of the patients have the same burn on their ankle. Nobody has seen anything like it.” “Show me.” I demanded. The doctor then proceeded to show me to Mr. Smith’s room. After the doctor removed the bandages around Mr. Smith’s ankle, I could see why none of the other doctors had seen anything like it before. It was like all the skin on his ankle had turned to charcoal. The skin was black and flaky and starting to peel, but more importantly the burn had a peculiar shape. It was a hand. This case was getting more complicated, with the handprint on the victims and the increase in potential targets, I had to put a stop to this psychopath before any more families got hurt. I decided to contact a friend of mine, Berek Dalton; he worked out of the FBI and I thought a fresh pair of eyes couldn’t hurt in an investigation like this. Based on the evidence I collected on the Smith family, we came up with a list of the possible families we believed would be attacked next. We evacuated the high-risk families out of their homes and placed men inside to stake out the attacker. Two officers were stationed at each house, Berek and myself included. This way we had the best opportunity to apprehend the attacker. Berek and I stationed ourselves throughout the house; Berek took the upstairs while I took downstairs. The night was mostly silent. At around 3:00 I was starting to lose hope but then I heard something—footsteps. I checked the nearby hallway but nobody was to be found. I couldn’t see anything but I could tell the footsteps were getting closer. In my head I could hear the footsteps getting louder and louder and louder until finally I screamed “Where are you!?” Then I saw him.
He was a tall, skinny man wearing a black cloak. He smelled putrid, as if he was already dead. I quickly tried to grab my firearm but he got to me before I could get to my holster. He was fast. I didn’t even see him move. He grabbed me. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I thought I was going to die. He threw me against the wall. I was preparing myself for my death but then something hit my head, causing me to blackout.
When I came to it was the early morning.
There was junk scattered all over the floor. I guess one of these items was the source of my blackout. I ran upstairs, I needed to check on Berek. When I finally found him he was on the floor, dead. He wasn’t the only one either. Every officer that was stationed was found dead just like Berek. I was the only survivor. “How can someone do something like this?” I asked myself, “and why was I kept alive?” The investigation didn’t go on much longer after that. We ran out of resources and people lost interest but that didn’t mean anything to me. After Berek’s death I was determined to catch this
monster.
Soon after the investigation closed, I retired from police work. I heart wasn’t in it anymore. Three years have pasted since then and I am no closer to catching him. So many families have died over the years and it doesn’t make this job any easier. Therefore, I am telling you this story as a warning. If you ever hear strange footsteps during the night, don’t investigate, just run because if he finds you—and he will find you—your life is over. I’ll try to keep you updated with my investigation and let you know when it is safe to sleep at night.