Devil's Whisper Chapter 107: The Hands of Horror

Jason's voice, usually so steady, carried a quiet gravity that struck Kate like a fist to her gut, knocking the breath from her lungs.

She stared at him, her mind reeling, fragments of hope she’d clung to shattering like glass against the hard edge of reality.

This wasn’t the outcome she’d been praying for—not the reunion she’d envisioned in fleeting, desperate moments when she’d imagined Sasha bursting back into the her father's arms, alive and laughing. Instead, the truth lay cold and unyielding before her, and for a heartbeat, she couldn’t find her voice.

“You’ve identified her?” Kate asked, her voice dropping to a hushed tone, barely a whisper.

Jason nodded, his expression taut, lines of weariness carved deep into his features.

“Yes,” he said, exhaling a heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of what he’d seen. “I saw the body myself. There’s no doubt. It’s Sasha.”

Kate’s throat constricted, a lump rising that she couldn’t swallow down.

“Who found her? Who reported it to the police?” she asked, her journalistic instincts surging forward like a lifeline, pulling her out of the grief threatening to drown her. Questions were her armor, her way of grappling with chaos, and she latched onto them now, even as her heart ached with the unbearable truth.

“A janitor,” Jason replied, his voice low but steady, grounding her in the moment. “He called the police helpline early this morning—said he’d been cleaning near the pier when he saw something in the sand. When we arrived at the scene, we found Sasha…” He paused, his gaze drifting briefly toward the shoreline before returning to her. “She was already gone.”

Kate pressed her lips together, nodding slightly as she absorbed his words, letting them sink in like stones into dark water. She inhaled deeply, the salty breeze from the ocean swirling around her, sharp and cold against her skin. It mingled with that faint metallic tang still hanging in the air—blood, decay, the unmistakable scent of death—and her stomach churned. She forced herself to focus, to anchor herself in the details, anything to keep from unraveling.

“Where is she now?”

“Come with me,” he said, his tone calm but threaded with an undercurrent of urgency that tugged at her nerves. He turned and stepped toward a nearby police van, its side streaked with sand and salt, and reached into an open box perched on the tailgate. He pulled out a pair of disposable gloves, the plastic crinkling faintly as he handed them to her. “Put these on.”

Kate nodded and followed Jason as he led her toward the right side of the beach, the crunch of sand under their boots filling the heavy silence that stretched between them.

Within a minute, they stood beside Sasha Paula’s body, the sight slamming into Kate like a physical blow. Sasha lay there, motionless, her form unnaturally still against the shifting sand. The vibrant young woman was gone, replaced by this pale, lifeless figure. She was still dressed in the same faded trousers and long-sleeve T-shirt she’d worn the day she vanished, the fabric crumpled and stained with salt and grime. The clothes hung loosely on her frame, a cruel echo of the life that had once filled them.

Kate’s breath caught in her throat, sharp and ragged, as her eyes traced the body. The reality of it clawed at her, raw and unrelenting, and for a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel the weight of loss pressing down on her chest.

Stepping closer, Kate leaned in to examine Sasha’s face and neck, her breath shallow as she forced herself to confront the stark reality before her.

Bruises marred the young woman’s pale skin, dark and angry splotches blooming across her jaw and throat like violent shadows. The marks were a grim testament to the brutality she’d endured—irregular patches of purple and blue, some faded at the edges, others stark and fresh, as if etched into her flesh only hours before. Kate’s chest tightened, her pulse quickening with a volatile mix of anger and sorrow that burned behind her eyes. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her gloved palms, fighting the urge to look away.

“It’s clear she was assaulted before she died,” she murmured, her gaze drifted downward, catching on Sasha’s arms, partially submerged in the sand. “Look, Sasha’s arms are buried. You can see how the sand’s been disturbed.”

Jason nodded grimly, his face a mask of restrained emotion, though his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. “Yeah, we noticed that too,” he said, his voice low and rough, as if it pained him to confirm it. “Once the forensic team finishes their photographs, we’ll dig them out.”

He glanced toward the investigators, their camera shutters clicking in a steady rhythm, capturing the scene with cold precision.

Kate circled Sasha’s body, her sharp eyes sweeping over every inch, cataloging details with the relentless focus that had defined her career. Her gaze dropped to Sasha’s legs, and her stomach lurched, bile rising in her throat at the sight. Deep bruises encircled her ankles, the skin mottled with wide, ugly bands of discoloration—red fading to purple, ringed with faint abrasions. The marks were unmistakable, brutal signatures of captivity.

“Her legs were tied,” Kate observed aloud, her voice thick with disgust. “You can see where the restraints left marks. He tied her up.”

“Ma’am, please step back,” a nearby sergeant interjected, his tone professional but firm, cutting through her spiraling thoughts. “We need to start digging out the arms.”

Kate complied, stepping back to join Jason as the forensic team moved in with quiet efficiency, their tools glinting faintly in the fading light. She crossed her arms over her chest, the gloves crinkling against her jacket, and cast a sideways glance at Jason. His face was drawn, shadows pooling beneath his eyes, and she could feel the weight of his silence pressing against her own.

He let out a long, frustrated sigh, the sound heavy with a regret that seemed to echo her own.

“I wasn’t expecting him to kill Sasha so soon,” he admitted, his voice rough with self-reproach, as if he’d failed some unspoken promise to protect her.

Kate shook her head slowly, her thoughts churning, a dull ache spreading through her chest. “It wasn't your fault. Neither was I,” she said softly, her gaze drifting out toward the horizon where the ocean met the sky in a restless dance of gray and blue.

The stranger she’d encountered outside George’s restaurant flashed into her mind unbidden—a woman with piercing eyes and a voice like a blade. Her cryptic words echoed now with chilling clarity, each syllable clawing its way back to the surface of Kate’s memory:

“Listen to me very carefully. Baphomet is hungry, and the fragile body of Sasha Paula wouldn’t fulfill its lust for filth and hunger for human blood. So it would go after another prey… and it would do it soon.”

A shiver raced down Kate’s spine, cold and electric, her nerves thrumming with a visceral unease as those words looped through her mind, over and over, like a dark prophecy she couldn’t unhear. The salty wind tugged at her hair, sharp against her skin, but it couldn’t dispel the creeping dread settling into her bones. She glanced back at Sasha’s body, the bruises, the sand, the lifeless stillness, and the stranger’s warning took on a new, terrifying weight.

"Sir, look here!" one of the officers digging in the sand called out.

Jason and Kate immediately moved toward the sergeant. What they saw made them stop short, their breaths catching in unison.

Sasha’s arms had been unearthed, the sand brushed away by the forensic team’s careful hands, revealing a sight that turned Kate’s stomach and sent a jolt of ice through her veins. Her hands were gone. Both limbs ended in ragged, brutal stumps, the flesh torn and jagged at the edges, blood long since dried into dark, crusted stains.

Yet beneath the mess, the precision was unmistakable—the clean, deliberate lines where bone and tendon had been severed, not hacked. Someone had taken her hands intentionally, with a purpose that made the air feel heavier, more suffocating.

“This bastard mutilated her body,” Jason said through clenched teeth, his voice a low growl, fury simmering just beneath the surface. His hands balled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as he stared at the grotesque remains. “Cut off her hands like some sick trophy.”

Kate shook her head, her gaze locked on Sasha’s face, unable to tear herself away from the haunting stillness there. Her jaw tightened, a muscle twitching as she fought to keep her own emotions in check. When she spoke, her tone was sharp, cutting through the haze of anger and grief like a blade.

“No,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the tremor threatening to break through. “Look at her face, Jason. Look at the pain etched into her expression. He didn’t do this after she died. He cut her hands off while she was still alive.”

Jason’s eyes shifted reluctantly to Sasha’s face, drawn by the weight of her words. Her features were frozen in a rictus of agony—mouth slightly agape, eyes wide and unseeing, brow furrowed in a silent scream that would never escape. The lines of torment were etched deep, a map of suffering carved into her skin, undeniable evidence of the horror she’d endured in her final moments.

For a long moment, Jason said nothing, his breath hitching as he took it in. A deep silence settled over him, heavy and oppressive, louder than any outburst could have been. His fury seemed to fold inward, replaced by a hollow, mirrored horror that reflected Sasha’s lifeless stare.

For a long moment, Jason said nothing, his breath hitching as he took it in. A deep silence settled over him, heavy and oppressive, louder than any outburst could have been. His fury seemed to fold inward, replaced by a hollow, mirrored horror that reflected Sasha’s lifeless stare.

Suddenly, a warm sensation crept into his hands, soft but insistent, pulling him back from the edge of that dark spiral. Kate had reached out, her gloved fingers slipping into his, the plastic crinkling faintly as their palms pressed together. Beneath the thin barrier of latex, their warmth mingled—a quiet, human connection cutting through the cold brutality of the scene.

She squeezed gently, her touch steady despite the tremor he knew she must feel inside. She was comforting him, offering an anchor when he was adrift, even though he could sense the terrible weight she carried too. Her own grief was there, etched in the tension of her jaw, the faint sheen in her eyes she refused to let spill over. Yet here she was, holding him together when she could have crumbled herself.

After only a second, Jason tightened his grip in return, his fingers closing around hers with a firm, deliberate strength. The plastic gloves stretched slightly under the pressure, a muted rustle against the wind. He wanted her to feel it—to know that she wasn’t alone in this nightmare, that he was with her, sharing the burden of this case that had already taken so much.

For a fleeting moment, they stood there, hands clasped, the chaos of the crime scene fading into a distant hum. The sand shifted beneath their boots, the ocean murmured its endless refrain, and the forensic team’s voices blurred into white noise. It was just them, tethered together in the midst of loss, a silent pact forged in the warmth passing between their palms.

Kate broke the quiet, her voice dropping to a low, direct murmur, pulling them both back from the edge of that abyss.

“Have you informed Shawn Paula about Sasha yet?”

Jason’s shoulders slumped slightly, the tension draining from him as he turned to meet her gaze. Fatigue shadowed his eyes, a weariness that went beyond the physical. “Not yet,” he admitted, his voice softer now, tinged with a dread he couldn’t mask. “I wanted to be sure before making that call. I kept hoping—stupidly, maybe—that it wasn’t her, that we’d gotten it wrong.”