The sky was still grey. Isaiah mused that the day was dedicated to Gray man. Idle thoughts made merry on his way to the abandoned cabin in the woods behind the small, lonely Catholic Church of Eaeshore. Holy Angels was its name.

Isaiah almost missed it as the dirt path into the forest was hard to spot but once he did, it was a long, winding drive right up to the cabin. A carwash would be due as well as mud splattered on the side of his car.

The bumpy ride was making him nauseous. So, he fumbled for a cigarette to smoke.

When he arrived at the wooden cabin- clearly neglected as the logs making up the walls were already rotting- he saw Elijah’s rented Mustang already there.

Isaiah thought that it could make a fantastic hangout place or a romantic, scenic getaway for honeymooners. He could imagine the cabin in its immaculate state- hidden behind thick trees, overlooking a gentle stream. When winter fulfill its promise after autumn, it would even be more beautiful as the snow would gather on the rooftop and on the branches of the stoic trees. The stream would be frozen over; the trees would still create those shades of yellow and gold with their crowning glories left over from autumn.

It could be a perfect setting for a private winter wonderland.

Under the vast, gray canopy- with winter a couple more months in the future and the magical beauty of autumn shying away from Eaeshore as gloom marred the entire picture- the cabin was forlorn; depressed. Its perimeter was defined by the red and white, long plastic cordon. Two police cars were parked next to the Mustang a distance away from his Lexus. The surroundings were crawling with cops.

The stream flowed with tears because Death was forced to visit its lonesome neighbor.

"Isaiah!" Stern slipped himself under the cordon and Isaiah instinctively touched his hair. He was a little afraid that he had not taken away his initial disguise. He only heaved a sigh of relief when he realized that he had.

"Hi. So, what happened?" Isaiah asked as he dropped the cigarette stub onto the soil and crushed it under his right foot. Stern stood with his arms akimbo beside Isaiah.

"Priest’s dead and from the looks of it, he’s probably already in heaven for approximately three days. The girl’s body is less decomposed. We have gathered that she was probably killed last night. We have checked with Father Terrence of Holy Angels. He’s behind the cabin. Your brother’s with him and the two kids who discovered the bodies while hiking in this part of the woods. I hope Elijah don’t stress them up too much. The father’s an old man, the boys are barely thirteen and your brother’s not exactly the most sympathetic person in the world…"

"How did the girl look like?" Isaiah started approaching the cabin that had become a coffin with broad, anxious strides. Stern followed behind, his footsteps hurried as well to keep pace with his.

"Brown hair, petite. Lost in her clothes."

Isaiah had not known Shelly very well but he had sensed her grief and she held the key to many of the mysteries. She was connected to both Alvin and she had kept the link hidden from them, deliberately.

He was already mourning her loss. The tightening of his chest, the closing up of his esophagus, the difficulty in swallowing.

And the consciousness of his own breathing.

Professionalism kept him from retching the moment he stepped into the cabin; the stench of decomposition fouled the air; fouled his system.

Unlike the rest of the bodies that had been carefully placed in random places after they were killed, these killings took place in the cabin. The two bodies were covered up, one on the far left of the cabin, the other on the far right.

He was ripped violently away from where he was and thrown into the misty border between the clarity of the present, and the fogginess of the past.

Isaiah’s eyes glazed over, seeing the two realms; belonging in none.

Isaiah saw the trail of dried blood on the floor. Only to his eyes, it was fresh- the coppery smell and the bright redness was that of fresh blood.

The heavy, wooden table had a splotch of blood on its top. Besides the blood, there would be traces of other bodily fluids or remnants- maybe some mucous, maybe some bone bits. Isaiah watched as the small pool of blood trickled down the leg of the table. He was nauseated.

Still, he followed the footsteps of the killer and the footsteps of the dead.

Isaiah was now tracking the short distance on the floor, where the trail of blood was broader. Unlike the first trail, made up of splotches, the second trail was painted on with a broad, human brush.

The broad brush that was the priest’s body.

Isaiah unveiled the body. There was even more dried blood around the area where the head and neck was. Even with the decomposition, he could tell that the priest was young. He saw the mauled palm. Back to where he was, the reek of the dead invaded him again. He stopped breathing.

He muttered a silent prayer.

"What happened there?" Stern laid a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. Isaiah jumped before he had to gasp for more air and immediately regretted breathing.

"Nothing. Just… just trying to make sense of what was left behind." Isaiah muttered. He took out his handkerchief and covered his nose.

"Was there any note left behind?" Isaiah’s voice was muffled from behind his mask.

Stern shook his head. "Nope. I’m not even sure if it was done by the same killer. I mean, I don’t know. The priest’s kind of young. Maybe he could not bear the vow of celibacy and got himself a girlfriend…"

Isaiah raised a hand to halt Stern’s theory. Of course it was the same killer. He had seen the murder in action. He had saw, even through the blurry visions, what the priest had mouthed.

The young man was a true priest, not one who ran to the seminaries to escape the problems that he could not solve.

"It is the same killer."

"How can you be so sure?"

Isaiah turned and gave Stern a penetrating gaze. His voice was sepulchral as he spoke. "I know it."

Stern arched his brows. Isaiah knew then Stern must have thought that he was a loony-bin of a FBI. He could not blame Stern. Sometimes, he felt like he was going crazy, frustrated as well because he could not explain his convictions.

And he was not even FBI.

He left Stern staring after him. With a sinking dread, he almost had to lug his feet to the second body across the room. No visions, no sense, no nothing for this one.

The face was revealed with trembling hands that were gloved. It was white. It used to be pretty. A splash of freckles ran across the cheeks. Limp brown hair must have been glossy with feisty life.

There was a thin, red swell on her neck and dried blood where the wire had managed cut through. She had been strangled.

"Rest in peace, Shelly."

He covered the face again and decided to meet up with his brother outside, leaving the police investigators to brush and scrap for evidence all over the cabin. Not knowing why, he stepped over the priest’s body, and a shockwave jolted through him. His vision was clouded white.

The room swirled. A mauled hand emerged from the white sleeve of a white robe- with white bones exposed where the gashes were deep- and pointed out something on the left of him. He blinked, not knowing if it was real or imagined.

The blinding whiteness exploded like a ball of lightning and dispersed. Colors entered his sight once more.

He was back again where he was. His eyes glanced to his left. There was a wood-grained dresser. On top of the dresser was an alarm clock that must have been left behind when the owner of the cabin abandoned it to the mercy of the elements. The plastic covering of the face was yellowed with age. A deep scratch was carved across it.