The boiled one: Heavenly Trumpet

Starting off the bat everyone in the office is in a panic as I walked in and placed my shit down in my office.

Officer - “Mr. Smith there’s something we need to show you.”

They led me into the sheriff’s office where there was a whole ass list of photos.

Mr. Smith- “what the fuck is this, just looks like a guy who offed himself.”

Sherrif- “you’re exactly right, didn’t think you knew.”

Mr. Smith- “heh yeah I did high five.”

Sherrif- “sarcasm dumbass”

Mr. Smith- “at least I tried?”

With an emotionless stare beaming through my soul, I decided to finally be serious, the breakdown was like this. Antonio Johnson age 25 occupation is an NBA player with a criminal record of being involved in a robbery at age 16. The victim leapt off the 46th floor of the hotel showed no signs of struggle, as if he was running away from someone or something.

As the detective got in his car, he looked over the pictures and started his car, he took off for the crime scene. As the detective arrived at the scene there was a large crowd demanding to know what happened to their beloved basketball player. As he looked at the crowd he was repulsed and continued to where the victim stayed.

5 mins, it took 5 mins for the elevator to open and it took another 5 to get out on the 46th floor. Antonio’s room number was 228. The place was kind of small for a famous athlete. There was no breaking in or out. It seemed as if there was nothing. All of this led to me calling this case a suicide.

Oh god was I wrong. Checking out the bedroom might’ve been the most disturbing thing ever this guy had some serious mental issues.

There were cameras everywhere and all had days of data stored on them. I grabbed a couple and gave them to the officers for further exploration, Everywhere it said something about the sky opening and trumpets playing a sound.

But the weirdest of all was that in all red there was a giant on the wall displaying some sort of code. The code was 9-13, 18-5-1-12. I took a picture and sent it to Sherriff with a request for his people to decrypt it.

As I kept looking I found little pieces of hairs on the floor, could be the victims but I took no caution and took it back with me. The case for now was a suicide and I hope in god’s name will it stay like that. As I look at the evidence the Sherriff calls me to his office where he tells me about another death that could be related to this one.

As I walked out of the room I swear I could’ve heard some sort of instrument playing in my head. It felt like something was behind me, breathing down my neck. I turned around looking frantically trying to see what was behind me but couldn’t find anything. I decided to just leave.

I went down the elevator reached in my pocket trying to get a smoke before I get off, but my cigarettes were nowhere. I didn’t really give a shit honestly, so I just forgot about it and walked off. While in my car I put my keys in and started it, I look in the back and found a small bronze trumpet. Felt scared for a second but brushed it away and just drove with it.

Arrived at the office and called off for the day cause I’ve seen enough. I drive to a nearby coffee shop grab a coffee and head home. As soon as I reach my house I get out lock my car and unlock my door. Just as I touch the door it opens as like someone was in my house. I grab my gun out of my pocket, point it out and continue to go through the house.

Found nothing so I thought I had left my door open, but I would’ve never made that mistake. Wondered for a minute. After a quick time as passed I had forgotten and went to bed.

I woke up around 3 AM, sweating like I had just run a marathon. Something felt wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. The room was dark, too quiet. I reached over to grab my phone, but it wasn’t on the nightstand. Strange. I always left it there. As I sat up, I felt a chill crawl up my spine. My eyes caught something in the corner of the room—just a shadow, but it felt like it was watching me.

"Must be my imagination," I mumbled, trying to shake off the paranoia. But then, I heard it. A faint, distant sound. It was so soft at first I thought I was imagining it. But as the seconds passed, it got clearer—a trumpet. The same sound I’d been hearing in my head earlier, but now it was real. Too real.

I bolted up and turned on the lights, my heart pounding in my chest. The sound stopped instantly, like it was never there. I looked around the room, trying to find anything out of place. Nothing. Just my bed, my dresser, and a pile of clothes on the chair. But that uneasy feeling... it lingered.

I decided to check the house, just to be sure. Gun in hand, I moved through the rooms, checking every corner. Kitchen—clear. Living room clear. Bathroom—clear. As I made my way back to the bedroom, I noticed something I hadn't before. There, on the floor, right near the door—a single hair. Long, dark, and thick. It wasn’t mine. And it sure as hell wasn’t from anyone I knew.

I bent down to pick it up, but before my hand could reach it, a loud bang came from the living room. It felt like my heart stopped for a second. I slowly stood up; gun raised again, and moved back to the living room. The TV was on, blasting static, though I didn’t remember turning it on. But that wasn’t the worst part. There, sitting in the middle of the coffee table, was the bronze trumpet. The same one I found in my car.

It hadn’t been there before.

My pulse quickened, and I felt the sweat drip down my back. I stared at the trumpet, trying to figure out how it got here. But before I could think too much, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I grabbed it, hands shaking slightly, and checked the message.

Unknown Number: 9-13, 18-5-1-12.

The same code from Antonio’s room.

I stared at the screen, my mind racing. What the hell was going on? I typed back, "Who is this?" but there was no response. Just silence, except for the static still coming from the TV. I turned it off, took a deep breath, and tried to focus.

Suddenly, a knock on the door broke the silence. Three slow, deliberate knocks. I froze. Nobody came to my house this late, and after everything that had happened today, I wasn’t taking any chances. I slowly made my way to the door, keeping the gun raised. The knocks came again, harder this time.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I stood still, heart pounding, waiting for whatever came next.

Then, a voice. Soft, almost whispering.

"Let me in."

I moved slowly towards the door, every step feeling heavier than the last. The knocks had stopped, but that voice, the whisper, still echoed in my head. My hand tightened around the gun, and I reached for the handle. Slowly, I turned it, keeping the firearm pointed straight ahead.

The door creaked open.

Standing there, about to knock again, was the Sheriff. He froze, hand still in mid-air, eyes locked on the barrel of my gun. There was a long pause, neither of us saying a word. I could see his face, calm but with a hint of worry. He raised his hand slowly, palms out, trying to defuse the situation.

"Easy, Jacob. Put the gun down," he said, voice steady, trying to calm me down.

The trumpets in my head were still blaring, drowning out the sound of his voice for a second. I could feel my grip tightening on the trigger, my breath coming out in ragged bursts. But then... slowly, the trumpets began to fade. Bit by bit, the sound in my head died down until there was only silence.

Reality hit me like a truck. I was pointing a gun at the Sheriff. I blinked, realizing what I was doing, and with a curse, I tossed the gun onto the couch.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, running a hand through my hair, pacing towards the kitchen. My head was pounding, and I felt like I needed something—anything—to calm my nerves. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, cracked it open, and took a long swig, not even looking back at the Sheriff.

"Jacob," the Sheriff’s voice followed me, "what’s going on with you?"

I glanced over at the table where I’d seen the trumpet earlier, but it was gone. So was the static from the TV. It was all in my head. No way I was telling the Sheriff about that, though. I shook my head, taking another swig.

"Nothing. Just... long night," I lied, trying to brush it off.

The Sheriff didn’t push further, just watched me for a second before sighing.

"Well," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I came here because we got another case. Joshua. Same deal as Antonio. I think you should see the scene."

I turned, leaning against the counter, trying to keep my cool. Another case? Another victim? I could feel the weight of the situation pulling at me, but I nodded.

"Alright," I said, "give me the details."

The Sheriff took a deep breath, looking serious as he started to explain. “Joshua Swarrigon, age 34. Personality? Bad guy. Occupation? Janitor. He has a record—sexual assault charges. Not exactly a saint.”

I leaned against the counter, my mind racing. “So, you think he’s linked to Antonio’s death?”

The Sheriff nodded, rubbing his temples. “In a way, yeah. The circumstances are different, but the timing is suspicious. Joshua was found hanging in his apartment, but it gets worse. There are writings and scribbles all over the walls—blood writings, Jacob. It’s like he went mentally insane before he did it.”

My stomach churned at the thought. I couldn’t shake the image of that bloody chaos. “What did he write?”

The Sheriff hesitated for a moment. “A lot of gibberish, mostly about… trumpets and the sky opening. Just like Antonio.”

I grimaced, the pieces falling into place. “Sounds like our friend, PHEN-228, is still at work.”

“Exactly,” the Sheriff said, his voice firm. “I need you on this one, Jacob. Are you available?”

I took another swig of my beer, trying to push down the anxiety swirling inside me. “Yeah, let’s go.”

We headed out the door and made our way to his car. The moment I got in, I felt the weight of the case settling heavily on my shoulders. The streets blurred by as we drove, the weight of Joshua’s life—and death—looming over us like a storm.

Jacob’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white. His mind was racing, trying to piece together the Sheriff’s words about Joshua. The blood on the walls, the madness that must’ve consumed him before he took his own life. It all started to blur together, the road ahead becoming a winding, twisting mass of shadows and lights.

Without realizing it, Jacob’s vision began to tunnel. The hum of the engine was drowned out by the distant blare of trumpets—louder, then softer, like they were just beyond the veil of his consciousness. His hands started to shake as the sound grew louder, and in a brief moment of panic, he swerved the car.

“Jacob! Watch it!” the Sheriff shouted, gripping the dashboard.

Jacob yanked the wheel back just in time, narrowly avoiding a crash as the car straightened out on the road. He could feel his heart pounding, the adrenaline rushing through his veins, but the trumpets—they didn’t stop. The Sheriff gave him a side glance, worried but not saying much for a second.

“That’s it. You’re not driving,” the Sheriff said, firm but calm. “Pull over.”

Jacob hesitated for a moment, his head pounding, but he knew the Sheriff was right. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, killing the engine. They switched seats, the Sheriff settling into the driver’s side. “You need sleep, Jacob. I’ll take it from here.”

Jacob opened his mouth to protest but stopped. His body felt heavy, the exhaustion weighing on him like a stone. “Yeah... okay,” he muttered, leaning back into the passenger seat, eyes barely staying open.

“You’ve been through a lot, man. Rest. We’ll be at the scene soon,” the Sheriff said, and before Jacob could even think of a reason to stay awake, his eyelids fluttered closed.

The dream started softly, almost peaceful. Jacob found himself standing on nothing, suspended in a vast expanse of clouds. They stretched endlessly in every direction, an eerie silence settling over the space. There was no ground beneath him, no sky above, just clouds swirling slowly like the smoke from a dying fire.

Then he heard it—*the voice*.

“Come closer,” it whispered, echoing in the endless expanse. His body moved, almost as if it wasn’t his own, pulled forward toward a shadow in the distance. He walked, each step heavy, but the closer he got, the louder the trumpets became. A low, haunting sound that rattled through his bones.

Jacob’s heart raced as the figure in the distance became clearer. The Boiled One. Its skin blistered and raw, standing perfectly still among the clouds, its misshapen body casting a grotesque silhouette. The trumpets blared louder, filling the dream world with their eerie melody.

Suddenly, a voice boomed, not in words he could understand, but in reverse—a twisted, guttural message that sent a shiver down his spine:

"Listen closely. Do you hear it? You will hear the laughter of thousands as the sky opens up. You'll hear the trumpets play their happy sounds."

Jacob’s breath caught in his throat, and the Boiled One moved closer, its gaping mouth wide and hair spilling grotesquely from its scalp. The air around it seemed to ripple, distorting reality as it came closer, reaching out with one twisted hand.

The trumpets reached its peak height in sound, and just as its fingertips were about to touch him, Jacob woke with a jolt, gasping for air. His heart pounded against his chest as he realized he was still in the passenger seat of the Sheriff’s car, the hum of the engine returning to his ears.

Jacob sat up abruptly in the passenger seat, the vivid images from his dream still clinging to the corners of his mind. He wiped sweat from his brow and tried to slow his breathing. The clouds, the voice, *the Boiled One*—the twisted figure reaching for him—it all felt too real. The sound of the trumpets still echoed faintly in his head, like a distant memory refusing to fade. He glanced over at the Sheriff, who had been watching him with concern.

“You alright?” the Sheriff asked, his voice low as they cruised down the road.

Jacob shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just... didn’t sleep well.”

The Sheriff didn’t push, but he clearly wasn’t convinced. “We’ll stop for some food. You look like you need it.”

Jacob nodded, grateful for the break. He couldn’t bring himself to talk about the dream, about ‘him’. Whatever had happened in his sleep felt like it had seeped into reality, but he wasn’t ready to unpack it, at least not with the Sheriff. He needed time to think, to process.

The sky had dimmed by the time they pulled into the lot of a small roadside diner. It was one of those places that felt frozen in time—neon signs flickering above the entrance, red vinyl booths inside, and the faint smell of grease and coffee pouring out the door. The parking lot was nearly empty, save for a couple of trucks. The Sheriff parked the car, turning off the engine before giving Jacob another look.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” Jacob muttered, climbing out of the car. “I just need some food in me.”

They walked inside, and a tired-looking waitress led them to a booth near the window. The two men slid into their seats, and the Sheriff immediately grabbed the menu, his eyes scanning the options. Jacob, on the other hand, stared blankly out the window, his mind still swirling with the remnants of the dream. The Boiled One’s image was burned into his thoughts, its blistered skin and the twisted grin haunting him with every breath.

The waitress came back, her notepad ready. “What’ll it be?”

The Sheriff ordered first—a burger, fries, and coffee. Jacob glanced at the menu without really seeing it. “Just a coffee. Black.”

The waitress jotted down the orders and walked away, leaving the two men in a heavy silence. The Sheriff leaned back in his seat, eyeing Jacob.

“You nearly crashed the damn car, Jacob,” he said, his voice low but firm. “What the hell happened back there?”