The Birchwood Files

Lilly Busatti | she/her/hers

I graduated at the top of my class from a police academy down in Alabama. My family was from down there, and we moved up to the Appalachian Mountains when I was around thirteen years old. My father was a police detective, and he had been called to investigate the death of the town’s biggest gossip: Delilah Birchwood. She wasn’t that old when she died, it really was a tragedy. One of the main suspects was none other than Angus Birchwood, her dear, devoted, and loving husband. From the moment my father laid eyes on the body, Angus swore that he had nothing to do with the murder. But there wasn’t enough evidence for them to perform an arrest on the grieving man, and he was let go without incrimination. 

Something about that case never really sat right with me, and ten years later it appears that I’m being proven right. 

The murders began a couple of weeks ago. At first it was just one murder, an elderly Sheriff whose body showed up outside of the Police Department covered in blood.  The second one was a young girl, maybe eight or nine years old. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from that one. She was still alive when we arrived on the scene of that one. There is no worse feeling in the world to see a child bleed out in front of you. I didn’t get the chance to investigate these murders since I was still a trainee, but watching my mentor handling these cases instilled a fire in me that was not there before. A fire to help people, to avenge the dead, and to bring justice to the families of those who had someone ripped from them far too soon.

The murders continued to worsen, growing in numbers until five people had been killed. It infuriated me. Enraged me til I couldn’t even sleep at night because of how upset I was.

Things were about to change. With my first case on the job, I was given the opportunity to investigate the home of Delilah and Angus Birchwood. When I stepped into that house for the first time, I recalled what I had been told by my father all of those years ago: Trust your instincts, keep your head, never let anyone see you cry, and if there’s a camera watching you, make sure they remember your name.

I’ll be damned if they didn’t.  

SHED 

I hate how dark this place is. 

I hate the noises that creep from the woods and echo through the house. It’s eerie and miserable in the worst way possible, and it made me want to die. 

It’s my fault we ended up this way; separated, exploring this abandoned property for some sort of life sign. I knew that we probably weren’t going to find anything, and that our group was going to return to the police station later this evening with nothing except for some sort of parasites from whatever the foul smell coming from the basement provided. Probably some sort of skunk or opossum lives down there, hell do I know about that? One of us was going to end up in the emergency room, getting a rabies shot up our asses so we don’t end up foaming at the mouth like some teenage girls looking at a photo of Taylor Zakhar Perez. 

And God save the queen, it was not going to be my sorry self. 

“Sh%t.” I mumbled under my breath, realizing how every single thing and person around me was crumbling. There was some sort of uneasy feeling in my stomach, like bile creeping its way up into my throat, and I stopped outside to throw up. The contents of my dinner spilled onto the grass in a messy display of anxiety and pure terror. 

It actually was my fault that we were sorta kinda probably all going to die today. I told everyone to split up. 

I hated it. I hated the idea of feeling so utterly useless and powerless against a situation, but that’s one of the things that comes with being a cop, isn’t it? You win some cases and you lose some– people are going to live, and a lot of them are going to die. Yet I couldn’t help but hate myself for how careless I was, how quickly I chose to separate the group. 

I approached the door to what appeared to be an old shed of sorts, probably used to store firewood at some point in time. My hands shook as I clasped the rusted, brass door knob. To be quite honest, I didn’t 100% know what I was expecting out of this experience. This shed could hold animal feed, or it could hold a thousand dismembered arms and legs. 

Opening the door, I immediately  noticed how dark and desolate it seemed.

A light automatically turned on as I entered the jail cell sized building. What on God’s green earth?

There was a thick layer of dust coating almost everything in there, and it felt almost like it hadn’t been touched for decades. It didn’t make any sense to me– how would something so seemingly abandoned have such high functioning technological advancements like automatically powered light bulbs? 

“Wow,” I whispered to myself, sarcastically quoting those girls from TikTok who wore neon colored skirts and carried around water cups the size of their torsos. “It’s so preppy in here.” 

It was, in fact, not preppy in the slightest. In reality, it was the exact opposite of what the internet would consider “preppy”. It fell into a specific category of “John Kramer level horrifying”, one that you would only see in the twisted, maniacal tales that were the Saw movies.

There were different types of weapons lining the walls– an ax, a sledgehammer, a couple of throwing knives, and something that appeared to be a trap for catching wild game. One thing that caught my eye, however, was a pair of handcuffs sitting on the shelf next to a chair that resembled something that would’ve been used to execute a woman exhibiting signs of autism during the Salem Witch Trials. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t pretty, and I was about 99% sure that my happy ass was going to be the next one in line for execution. 

A shiver went down my spine. What was wrong with this guy? 

There was a certain side of me that wanted to say eff this and leave, but I knew that if I left now, then I would never get the chance to come back here. 

So, as per usual, my small sliver of self preservation was replaced by my need to explore every single detail like I was Curious George. I even went as far as to allow the door to the shed to close behind me; I was too distracted in my own thoughts to comprehend the clicking of the lock. 

The walls appeared to be made out of a dark wood; once stained beautifully, but now peeling and rotting away. There was a putrid smell in the air, and I couldn’t tell if what I was smelling was a variation of mold or the ever-so-slow decay of human flesh. 

A loud scream came from inside of the house, breaking me out of the daze I’d trapped myself in. Speaking of being trapped, when I made an attempt to open the shed door, I realized that I was stuck in here. 

“Damnit!” I screamed, frustrated with myself for allowing this to happen to me. I was never the type to be calm and organized in situations, so it shouldn’t surprise me that I’m the one trapped in some sort of decades old dungeon used for obscenities I can’t even fathom thinking about without the sudden urge to throw up the last remains of

of my stomach contents. “Someone get me out of here!” 

My cries were cut short by the sound of a trapdoor opening, and I whipped around to greet my intruder. Of course, another string of Aaron Carter’s no good, really bad, effing terrible luck… I came face to face with the man whose headshot I knew all too well. 

“Angus Birchwood.” My voice was filled with as much rage that I could muster. I was not about to let myself give in to being afraid of this man. He didn’t know me, nor did he own me. 

“Aaron Carter.” he responded, his gravelly voice sending a chill down my spine. Okay, maybe this guy did know me. Awesome. Perfect. I am never getting out of here. 

“What do you want from me?” I tried, and failed, to keep my voice from wavering. Instead of sounding like a well respected police officer, I opted for a twelve year old, prepubescent lad with an extraordinary amount of voice cracks. 

There was nothing I wanted more at this time than to punch myself in the face with a metal skillet– preferably a hot one. 

Angus Birchwood gestured to the chair. “Sit down.” 

I raised an eyebrow, deciding to go with the “flirtatious and cocky” side of myself that I often showed when being interviewed for a job. “Why should I do that?”

Okay, maybe I’ll admit that it wasn’t the best approach. Because moments later I was strapped into that chair, one arm and both legs unable to move. I pondered about the reasoning of this one arm thing– shouldn’t I be able to use my free hand to escape? 

But, of course, it was never that simple for me. It never could be easy. 

In front of me, perched on what appeared to be a lectern, was a jar of skin-destroying acid, and at the bottom of the jar was the key to my safety. 

“You have three minutes before the device attached to your body removes both of your legs, as well as your trapped arm.” Angus Birchwood instructed him. “You have two options. Dig into that jar of acid and use the key inside to escape, or wait it out and bleed to death with your limbs on the ground in front of you.”

“What,” I spat, eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to take me out to dinner first?”

Angus cocked his head to one side. “Why would I do that?” 

I rolled my eyes, laughing nervously. “With all due respect, Mr Birchwood, I would like to be wined and dined before I’m screwed like this!”

The lunatic– no, not even a lunatic– the murderer smiled widely at him. “If you can manage your way out of this trap and not resent me, I would love to take you out to dinner.” 

Yeah, there was no way in hell I’d be going out to dinner with this man. Unless, however, we were sitting with a wall of bulletproof glass between us, and he wore an orange jumpsuit instead of an oversized flannel and jeans that looked like they hadn’t been washed since Jesus died. 

“F%#* you.” I spat, blood roaring in my ears. 

The lumberjack pulled out a spare key from his pocket, unlocking the door to the shed with ease. “Time’s ticking, my friend.” Was all he said to me, starting a timer in the corner. I stared at it for a couple of seconds, watching the time tick by. 

It’s weird, observing the countdown that will lead to your inevitable death. Most people would love to know when they’re going to die. Maybe it would give them a chance to say goodbye to loved ones, or right some sort of wrongdoings. Maybe they’d enjoy a nice walk in the park, observing the fall leaves changing color and fluttering to the ground, as a gust of October wind passed them by. Perhaps they may have enjoyed a small detail in their life, like the last cup of coffee before leaving for work, or a hearty Thanksgiving feast filled with the ones they love the most. 

But for me? I didn’t have anyone to reconcile with. Even if I did, there’s no way I’d ever be able to tell them that with the three minute timer burning holes into my chest. 

SURRENDER

It was at that moment, watching the time tick by, that I realized how content I was to die in this way. 

I knew that I would be honored as a valiant soldier one of these days, sacrificing my own life so that the truth of the Birchwood Murders would be brought to light. There was something so poetically beautiful in dying a martyr for something that you didn’t even know would be brought justice. There was always the potential of all of us dying, leaving nobody to tell the story of what really happened in the Birchwood family home. 

I closed my eyes, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the clock as I counted down until I died. I had made peace with the idea of losing my life in the field long before I even decided to pursue the police force. A lot of fields are dangerous enough to kill you, you’ve just got to be brave enough to experiment a little bit. 

A slight pulling sensation at my left leg made me realize that the timer was beginning to run out. The gentle tug turned into something a little bit more violent. Then I heard my bones cracking, and everything escalated so quickly and someone was screaming and I just began to panic at the pure sound of it all. The scream was so high pitched and filled with agony that I wasn’t even quite sure who it was until I felt my leg detach from my body. When I looked down I saw the blood pouring from the socket of my hip, and it almost made me black out. 

The process repeated on my other leg, but my brain was already beginning to shut down. The pain wasn’t a problem to me anymore, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel anything. While the pulling at my limbs subsided into a dull burning sensation, I could still feel all of the blood rushing out of my body. 

I felt constricted, like my breathing was becoming less and less even. There was a pounding in my head, unmistakably a headache from the loss of blood, but I didn’t even notice it. I was too busy watching the slowly weakening rise and fall of my chest. 

It’s weird, watching yourself die. You’d heard horror stories about others coming to a near death experience, but you never imagined that you’d have to feel that kind of pain. When I was younger, I always wanted to die in my sleep. It seemed like the most painless way to go, and I had the weakest pain tolerance out of anyone in my family. I remember my mom telling me that dying in your sleep feels like falling, but there’s always something at the bottom to catch you. 

I’ve now learned that death in general feels like falling. 

It’s like being in an elevator. That feeling of controlled falling where you can feel the ground lurching underneath your feet as you plummet gently to a new level. 

This was less controlled falling, yet it still had the same concept. 

My consciousness slowly began to slip away from me, swimming in and out as black spots plagued my vision. My chest struggled to keep up with the amount of blood I was losing, heart pounding in my ears as I attempted to keep myself alive for just a little bit longer.

My lungs were burning. There was something on fire. It was definitely me. 

 I struggled to keep my eyes open, to gasp for one last gulp of oxygen before I couldn’t do it anymore…

The world fell black, and I fell with it.