The Cloak

Rayih C | K3

Illustration by Aadya R

Another murder was reported. This was the third time in the week. A town that was once the heart of virtuous anecdotes had now been taken over by evil. Suddenly there were too many deaths taking place, it was like an epidemic that broke free, an epidemic of bad luck.

The culprit was a fine one. He was excellent at his job. He would take the life out of people as swiftly as an arrow. Nobody had ever witnessed any of the murders taking place. Most of the crime scenes were at home or they were either in secluded areas of the town. Yet nobody had figured out his identity. The cops were on it for months but all of their time had simply gone in vain. His victims had no connection whatsoever, and when you looked at their lifeless faces, they were at peace. It was as if, their time had arrived. The crime scenes never revealed any pieces of evidence of the killer. The faceless man left no trace behind except for this one thing that was common in every one of his crime scenes: a long black cloak.

The news of a serial killer on loose was put on emphasis again. People indeed believed that the town was cursed. Amongst these people lived families, children, and old people. But none of this made a difference to the killer. Nobody knew the thought process behind his choice of victims. Sometimes it didn’t even make sense. By now, the people of this town began to get used to the fear under which they were living.

Two weeks later, the police announced that according to their investigation they might have a lead and the killer might strike again on Wednesday. This information was in every newspaper and people had to prepare themselves

for something they had no idea about-- a completely unknown phenomenon. They had no other choice, they had to think of all the possible ways to beat the killer in his atrocious acts this time. A little boy, aged thirteen came up with a brilliant idea to protect himself. He thought that he had found the way to escape the devil. He walked confidently around town with his head held up high and a beaming face while the rest of the inhabitants were waiting for the act to happen again.

It was ten past twelve o’clock on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. The railway station was crowded with passengers rushing in and out of the trains. The platform looked nothing less than a busy flea market. Amidst all of that hustle and bustle, on an empty bench was seated a peculiar-looking man in a long black cloak.

He was nothing like the rest of the passengers who were solely busy with their own travels. He was tall and had a relaxed posture with not a single expression on his face. He was sitting on the bench for what seemed like hours and the passing time made no difference to him. He seemed as though his mind was a dark empty space.

A few more hours passed and it had stopped raining. The sky was clearer and people were no longer carrying any umbrellas. New trains reached the platform and some of the faces of the old passengers were also slowly beginning to fade.

Each passing minute of the day, the platform looked different from the inside. The lighting inside the station kept changing its shade with the sunset taking place. There was nothing constant to be seen, except for the man on the bench. There was not a single movement to be seen in his body, he was seated still just like a perfect statue.

Nobody could tell why he was there. It was difficult to decipher his intentions as he sat immobile and at rest with his lonely presence. Still not a movement. What was he doing there? Unbothered by the constant noise and movement all around him, he sat there in silence with a certainty on his face, waiting for an event to unfold. But it had been so long and nobody had approached him. What looked even more fascinating was the patience he carried throughout his posture, as if he had done this before.

A little while later, the station seemed quieter as if a scene from a play had come to an end. But in no time, there were waves of passengers filling up the platform all over again. So many people, mostly strangers, were all at the same place, at the same time. All of them walking in different directions, towards different trains. It seemed as though the play had resumed again.

A little boy in a yellow shirt was also seen walking around the station. He had no business being there. But this was his plan to escape the killer from potentially killing him. He was right at the centre of the platform and his brilliant plan was to use the swarming crowd around him as a protective cloak. He felt as though he had thrown a challenge to the killer, which he was certain of winning. Now the child had nothing to worry about. All he had to do was wait for the day to end and he would survive.

The station had merging sounds of children’s waves of laughter and crying. The sound of adult passengers chattering away was the only noise filling up any remaining silences. All of it seemed like a regular phenomenon to occur at a railway station. It indeed was an ordinary day with ordinary passengers going through everyday life. Everything seemed so perfectly normal. Then there was a fraction of silence before a collective scream that broke out in growing ripples. People started running around in distress. A gunshot was heard.

The platform had turned into an escape room. Everybody was running for their life. At the same time, running away from something in particular. Not a single person on that platform cared enough to find out about the imposter. The sight was too painful to watch, nobody had stopped to help the child who was lying on the floor, with his yellow shirt that slowly turned red.

A sound was approaching from afar, sirens that were heard from a distance, gradually became louder. The station was clear now, except for the child’s body that laid there motionless.

At last, the man in the long black cloak stood up, picked up his scythe, and walked towards the corpse.

The cops rushed in at the scene, as the tall man and the child walked away into the shadows holding hands.

A black cloak was found lying on the empty bench.

-Ophelia Grey