Cold Comfort

This story contains descriptions of crimes and physical violence and themes of death.

In the ICU, time always moves wrong—too fast and too slow at the same time, like a warped record. The heart monitor struck out its time in precise electronic pulses. Elias, an oxygen masked hooked over his mouth and nose, struggled to breathe in the spaces between. A ragged inhale would race ahead, its subsequent exhale lagging behind the machine's steady count. 

Outside the window, Manhattan's skyline smashed against an ink-washed sky, November rain dissolving its edges. I placed stargazer lilies—Mom's favorites—on the broad window sill so Elias could see them from the bed. Their pink-throated blooms, displayed in the cool glass vase, seemed grotesque now against the institutional whites and grays of these bleak surroundings.

Elias lay propped against three pillows. His skin was pale like parchment. The aggressive lymphoma, diagnosed mere months ago, had hollowed him out. The man left behind now seemed like a ghost of my brother. This wasn't how titans were supposed to fall. No, not Elias, who'd once carried me three miles home after I broke my ankle, and who'd stood between me and every schoolyard bully—who'd been the only one at my police academy graduation when our parents deemed law enforcement beneath the family name.

The vinyl chair screeched over the floor when I pulled it closer to the bed. Over thirteen years of homicide work, I'd taken countless statements in hospital chairs just like this—from witnesses, survivors, and suspects, even the dying. But this was Elias—my brother, my hero, my only remaining blood, and I wasn't here for a statement. I was here to sit with him, as his time slipped away, and share whatever moments we had left.

I reached for his hand, careful to avoid the tangle of tubes jutting out. "How are you holding up, El?” I immediately winced at the banality of the question. He’s dying; how do you think he feels?

His eyes opened—fever-bright and unnaturally focused. His free hand motioned to the air mask.

I pulled it off and to the side of his face. A weak smile curved his lips. "Been better,” breath, “little bro,” breath. His voice raked across my ears like leaves across concrete.

Yet relief flooded through me. Sally, my wife, had warned after her visit yesterday that he might not even recognize me anymore. I squeezed his hand gently.

"Aldus…” His fingers dug suddenly into my wrist with startling strength. "Need to,” breath, “tell you,” breath, “something." No time for hellos when every breath could be goodbye.

I leaned closer, expecting a final expression of brotherly affection or a cherished memory.

But instead his gaze darted around the room—walls, equipment, the rain-streaked windows. Taking a breath between each phrase, he said, “Are there... hidden cameras?... Is anyone... listening?"

Hidden cameras? Oh, I’ve heard of this sort of thing. He must be experiencing delusions now. The cancer is stealing his mind. Oh, Elias. I tightened my grip on his hand.

"It's just us, El. What did you want to tell me?"

Elias closed his eyes. The silence stretched out, punctuated by the monitor's steady rhythm and his struggling respirations. Then his eyes snapped open with remarkable resolve. "It's about... those cases," he whispered. "The ones… you couldn’t… solve." 

My pulse quickened. The case that had ended my detective career: The Crescent Moon Killer. Eight bizarre murders with unusual links in common—the victims all disappeared within days after a new moon, and, besides all having succumbed to different murder methods, all eight had similar crescent-shaped marks on their bodies. Our investigation never could explain what made those mark.

I led the investigation team: watching each an every member’s confidence fade over years of active investigation, then over a decade of cold case investigation. Any lead we had eventually went cold. I watched the brass grow increasingly frustrated with our lack of progress. Thirteen years chasing a phantom, stumbling down dead ends, enduring sleepless nights and haunted mornings, facing mounting criticism in the press and angry protests from victims' families demanding answers. Finally, the top brass quietly suggested I find other work. Now I photograph indiscretions in motel parking lots, my detective's shield gathering dust in my dresser drawer an enduring reminder of the case I couldn’t solve.

“What about them, El?”

"I know..." Elias swallowed hard. "I know… what happened... to them."

"What do you mean?”

Wet, rattling sounds ground around inside his chest, his throat—like stones in a tin can. I'd heard death rattles before, but never from someone I loved. Between breaths he mumbled, “I… was… there. When… it happened.” His gaze fell to the bedsheets.

"You were there?" Oh God, he’s quite delirious now. "What were you doing there?" My words came out sharp. 

Elias flinched like a scolded child, head jerking back, shoulders hunching inward—a response I'd seen oddly enough in countless suspects. My brother tensed beneath the thin hospital blanket.

"I... I can't tell you," he stammered. "It's too…”

I searched his face. Took in the familiar angles now sharpened by illness and seeming secrets: the tight jaw, the darting eyes, the sweat beading on his upper lip. "El, what are you trying to tell me?"

"The truth..." His voice turned hollow. "The truth is... a monster, Al… Sometimes... it's better left caged."

WTF, El? “What are you talking about?"

Something dark flickered in his eyes. “Talking about... the things… we do… in the dark," he whispered. "The things... we try… to bury."

The phrase took me back to our treehouse, where El would tell stories by flashlight about grotesque monsters in the shadows hiding their victims. In every tale, he'd work in those same phrases—"the things we do in the dark" and "the things we try to bury"—until they became a ritualistic part of his storytelling. With these stories, I thought we were just having fun. He was just being my brother, entertaining his little bro.

I looked at El, laying there helpless in bed. “What did you do?” I said, expecting more delusions. “What did you bury?"

Elias drew a long, ragged breath. "I... I took them."

What? Come on, El. This is getting ridiculous. “Took them... where?"

“Took them... took them all… all eight,” Elias’s eyes suddenly gleamed feverishly, “To... the place… where monsters play, Al… The place... where secrets sleep." 

He’s really lost it, I thought. But then my stomach twisted into a cold knot. Memories flickered back to splashing at Jones Beach with family, friends. Making up rhymes in the old boathouse. Elias leading our secret games. I leaned in closer. What did he say? “What did you say?"

"You remember, Al?” Elias’s lips curved in that old impish smile. “In shadows deep?"

My warped record of memories warbled. Oh my God.

I remembered. 

I remember the rhyme. His rhyme. The one he made up:

Where monsters play,

where secrets sleep,

in shadows deep

we'll hide and keep.

No. No, it’s not possible. Thirteen years trying to make sense of all the evidence. No, it couldn’t be. 

But it all aligned, in an instant, each piece falling into terrible place:

Where monsters… 

Victim One: A children's therapist found murdered in her office, wearing a monster mask, her puppet collection scattered around her.

… play… 

Victim Two: A college student found murdered in her dorm room, her finger frozen on the PLAY button of her tape recorder—her final scream recorded then cut mid-breath. 

… where secrets… 

Victim Three: A librarian found murdered in the rare books section, seven ancient tomes encircling her body, the first letters of each title spelling out S-E-C-R-E-T-S. 

… sleep… 

Victim Four: An insomniac writer found murdered in his bed, his iTunes sleep sounds playlist blaring on repeat over his headphones.

… in shadows… 

Victim Five: A night watchman found murdered on the stage of the Broadway production of Alfred Hitchcock’s “Shadow of A Doubt”.

… deep… 

Victim Six: A Manhattan lawyer found murdered deep in the bottom of the well on her upstate New York farm.

… we'll hide… 

Victim Seven: A Midtown barista found murdered in an abandoned tannery, wrapped in hydes.

… and keep. 

A lothario locksmith found murdered in a vault, “4 keeps” written inside a heart in spray-paint across its door.

Eight keywords from a children’s rhyme. Eight victims murdered in ways suggested by the rhyme. 

The words, the rhyme were never released in the press. Only someone on the investigating team would know their relevance to the case. I never told anyone in my life, or discussed it with anyone outside the team, for fear a leak would damage the case and it would go unsolved—and I’d lose my job. 

A dozen kids from our old Jones beach neighborhood might remember those verses we made up. But now, only two people in this world could know how those words connected to the murders: Me, who'd investigated each crime, and Elias, because he is the murderer. 

Elias’s mouth curled into an strange expression I'd never seen on my brother's face before. Something between a grimace and a grin. “You... remember now?" he wheezed. 

His question hit like a physical blow. "El... what are you saying?” Is this his delirium speaking? Or am I’m delirious? In denial? Elias a murderer? A murder who now lay dying before me? No, I need him to say it. “Elias! Talk to me. Tell me!”

"The room..." He coughed. His struggle for breath worsening. "Behind the... wall.”

We used to play hide and seek in the boathouse. But the investigation never lead us to the boathouse. Yet there was a hidden room, leading to a cellar excavated into the embankment. Jesus!

Where monsters play,

where secrets sleep,

in shadows deep

we'll hide and keep.

Thirteen years searching for the victims, for the killer. The realizations began to dawn. 

Of course. The dates—each victim taken three days after a new moon—aligned perfectly with Elias’s fishing trips. He always said that fishing was better just after the new moon. Oh, I was so blind

Elias’s fingers became claws in my flesh, his voice like ground glass. Suddenly clear he hissed, “Shhh… I killed them… I killed, Al.”

I recoiled.

But he held on with surprising strength. "I watched them..." Elias rasped. 

And in a flash, I could imagine it so clearly. 

Elias’s verse: Where monsters play… 

The therapist leaving her office one late evening—Elias waiting in the darkened parking lot. 

"I chose them..." 

And the college student practicing music alone in her dorm room—Elias watching through the window. 

Elias’s voice strengthened with each admission, while my world crumbled with every breath between.

“I followed them..." 

…where secrets sleep…

The librarian in the stacks after hours. A shadow moving silently between the shelves behind her—it’s Elias. 

"And learned… their habits…” 

And the writer's nightly walks, always following the same route, always alone—Elias’s footsteps matching hers from half a block back. 

"I waited... became their shadow” 

… in shadows deep…

The watchman making his rounds, predictable as clockwork, through the theater's shadows—Elias hunching in the dark behind scenery on stage.

"Moved closer..." 

And the lawyer leaving late nights at the office, walking in the parking garage, heels echoing—Elias’s car idling by. 

"I was so... patient, Al…” 

… we'll hide and keep…

The barista, counting the register alone after midnight, closing up shop—Elias lingering in the adjacent alley next to the tannery. 

"Until the moment was right..." 

The locksmith arriving on a late call, to an address that didn't exist—Elias, hunching behind a dumpster, ready with chloroform.

"And then... I ended them."

Then another flicker. I could see it all. A monster mask reflected in the therapist's glasses as she turns. Books ripped from the student's arms, fear engulfs her. The librarian screams muffled by a gloved hand. The writer's laptop topples as hands seized her throat. The watchman's flashlight beam spins across scenery and theater seats. The lawyer's heels skitter across wet concrete. Elias wraps the barista's body in leather hydes. The locksmith's tools scatter like metal rain.

A final horror seized me. 

Those crescent-shaped marks on their bodies. 

My eyes found his crescent moon pendant on the bedside table—its curved edge a perfect match for the wounds that had baffled forensics. I picked it up. It was knife sharp.

I jerked away, dropping it and stumbling back, the vinyl chair clattering against the floor. 

The monitor's beeping roared in my ears as the walls closed in. But why? “Why, El? Why?”

His strange smile turned chilling while he struggled to speak and breathe. "You… became a cop… The good son... The righteous one… While rot spread… through our city… I did… what you couldn’t… with your badge… your rules… I cleaned… our city… Made it pure again… for you, little bro… For you."

Then, I was back in the boathouse as a child, I must have been nine. The musty cellar door creaking open, light spilling across a collection of dead animals: birds, cats, rabbits, all posed in grotesque tableaus, their glass eyes catching the beam of my flashlight. 

Mom's voice drifted through the heating vent one night. "James, there's something not right with him. The way he arranges them, like dolls..." 

Dad's heavy silence, then the sound of ice cubes clinking against his whiskey glass. "He'll grow out of it," he said finally. "All boys go through phases."

The next day, the cellar was empty, but the signs were there all along. And I didn’t see them.

Shaking, I took my phone in hand, as duty and blood waged war inside me. Detective Finch screamed for justice while little brother Al begged for mercy. Eight families waiting for answers. Eight victims whose last moments were written in our childhood verse. Evidence hidden where only I could find it. The weight of the badge I'd surrendered pressed against me like a ghost, while Elias's labored breathing marked time like a countdown to judgment.

I flicked the phone on. If I made the call, everything would change—my career, my reputation, my family, my life. The whispers would never end. But silence meant eight families would go to their graves wondering what happened to their loved ones. Either way, I'd wake up every morning and face what I do now in this moment.

"I'm sorry, El. But,” I dialed the number, "this has to end." I lifted my phone to my ear. It felt like a block of lead. "Dispatch? This is former Detective Aldus Finch. I need to report a confession to multiple homicides. The suspect is my brother, Elias Finch…”

"You... can't," Elias choked and wheezed. "You're... family."

"Family is why I have to do this. For all the families you destroyed." Each word felt like ground glass in my throat. 

Elias's features contorted in rage, his familiar face transforming into something feral and strange. The monitor's rhythm turned frantic, its steady beep accelerated into an erratic staccato that filled the room. 

A nurse rushed in and took in the scene—me with the phone, Elias moaning and writhing. "What's happening?" 

"My brother just confessed to multiple homicides. I've called the police." The nurse froze for a split second, her eyes darting between us, then she snapped into professional mode.

Elias thrashed against the sheets, oxygen mask askew, face contorted in pain. The nurse moved swiftly. She put his oxygen mask on then injected something into his IV line. 

“Is that morphine,” I asked.

She nodded continuing to administer to him.

Almost immediately, a strange serenity washed over Elias, his morphined eyes dreamy like a child drifting to sleep.

"Sir, I need you to step back," the nurse said, her voice tight as she checked his vitals.

Then monitor’s steady beep surged into a single tone, straight as a desert horizon. 

Elias's chest rose once more, then stilled. His last breath carrying the burden of his secrets into eternal silence.

“Code Blue!" The nurse slammed the emergency button, climbed on the bed and began administering CPR.

Suddenly the room erupted. What seems like dozens of medical staff flooded in, crash cart in tow, swarming in a blur of green and white. 

The nurse thrust papers at me—reminding me I was Elias's medical proxy, the one who could make medical decisions for him in case he was no longer capable of making them for himself. 

"Clear!" The doctor's voice cracked through the air. Elias's body jerked. The monitor remained flat. 

Again. Flat.

Again. Flat. Again and again.

The doctor turned to me, her face grave. "The cancer has weakened his heart significantly. Even if we get it started, the damage..." Her voice trailed off.

Being a medical proxy meant I was the one who could choose now. Between life and death. No jury. Just me.

I nodded once. For all. "Stop," I whispered. "Let him go." 

Their efforts fell away into a squelching quiet. 

Then the doctor said, "Time of death, 3:47 PM."

Within seconds, they transformed my brother from patient to dead body, disconnecting tubes, removing monitors, their practiced hands efficient and impersonal, drawing a white sheet over his final expression—peace.

Two officers entered. "Detective, um… Mr. Aldus Finch? We need to ask you some questions."

I closed my eyes and braced for what lay ahead—hours of questioning, searching the boathouse, discovering whatever horrors waited us behind that wall.

"I understand," I said steadily. "I will cooperate fully."

When I opened my eyes, I noticed the stargazer lilies had scattered their petals across the window sill. 

The very last one drifted down.

My phone lit up, blaring into the silence. It was a client, a Greenwich woman who suspects her executive husband cheating on her with his bimbo assistant. Her words, not mine.

I answered it, more certain now than ever about my future. “Aldus Finch, Private Investigator.”