TRUE CRIME: HANGMAN

 

TRUE CRIME: HANGMAN

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

This is a murder mystery about a serial killer who goes by the name of Hang Man who murders victims through hanging them. Detective Jonn and Brian tries to unfold the mysterious case and uncover his identity.

University of Princeton

"Good morning professor Kyle" Tracy said gaudingly. "Good morning Tracy" said the professor. " I am about done with the project of quantum physics, here have a look" she proceeds to hand him over a file of great meticulous papers.

Professor Kyle has a look at it and nods with approval. "Impressive Tracy, I will have a look" said the professor. " Keep this up and you will be a carpe diem by the the time summer graduation starts" he said. Tracy blushes and says shows gratitude for the compliment.

The next Day

Professor Kyle stays up the whole day syphoning through his students tests correcting and grading them. Suddenly two police officers show up in the early morning outside his office.

"Good morning Professor Kyle" They say as he opens his office door after knocking. "Good morning officers what may I do for you?" He says. " We are here about a student who is in one of your classes?" The detectives show a photo of Tracy in a dimmly lit room being suspended on a rope by the ceiling.

"Oh God" says Professor Kyle in complete shock and awe. " Do you know this lady?" They ask. " Yes of course what happened?!" Asked Professor Kyle contentiously. "Tracy Sanders was found dead in the her hostel with a suicide note. " Tracy? That can't be right she was a very happy student" said Professor Kyle.

"I am sorry for your loss Professor we are looking for any perpetrators, where we're you in the night of June 11th?" asked one of the detectives. " I was here grading the finals for the kids" said Kyle and one of the detectives noting the details in his notebook.

They proceed to ask further questions.

"Here is my card Professor" said Detective Brian and proceeds to exit the office.

CHAPTER TWO

(Winter Christmas Day)

 

The snow seemed to engulf the entire neighborhood making it a white paradise. No signs of life as the detective approached the abandoned cul de sac. Cars still in their garage and not even a single drop of warmth as it was Christmas day. No joy just raw dump melancholy.

Detective Brian gets out of his patrol car. The mysterious serial killer known as the hang man strikes again. " What do we have here Ramirez" asked Detective Brian.

" The Hang Man murdered this whole family 2 kids and a single mother, no prints or any sort of DNA, the whole house was bleached Lieutenant" said Ramirez. " Are the optics the same as the Blackpool University murder victim?" asked Detective Brian. "Yes sir" said the forensic pathologist as he entered the house.

"Any neighbours that heard maybe a disturbance? " asked Detective Brian. "All the neighbours fled after getting wind of the murder case, your best bet will be in Oakley" said Ramirez.

"And where the fuck is John!" shouted all across the queer living room where three bodies were hanging from the ceiling. "He's upstairs with the forensic team apparently there is a clue he saw a tiny piece of blonde hair that did not belong to any other of the other victims".

Detective Brian goes upstairs in search for John carrying two cups of coffee. " Looks like I beat you to the crime scene" said Detective John. "Here is your coffee" said Detective John. " Thanks" said Detective Brian clutching the cup and having a sip.

"What do we got here?"asked Detective Brian. "Our first real lead" said Detective John pointing at a pool of blood.

"There was another victim here in the house, some sort of fight or struggle but the woman survived and ran, there are tracks on the backyard make sure these rookies don't contaminate the crime scene" said Detective John.

Previously on

Detective John and Mike try to uncover a case of a serial killer known as the Hangman who hangs his victims. Follow this epic Detective Noir on MILLENIAL THERAPY....

CHAPTER THREE

 

Vaughan Police Station

"So what do we got?" asked Detective Brian. " We got 10 victims all of them through asphyxiation, no witnesses and a blonde piece of hair" said Detective John. "Chief! The DNA samples came in and it looks like our blonde friend is a student at a nearby high school, name is Angela Hopkins, was confirmed missing about 2 weeks ago, parents show up at the station everyday" said Melissa the forensic investigator.

"Finally a lead!" said Mike. " Okay Mike and I are gonna pay the Hopkins a visit" said John. "You work on this puzzles we see what this hangman might have slipped" said John. They both leave the station.

As Mike was driving, John lit a cigarette. "Come on John, you can't smoke in here" he said. "My car, my rules, anyway there just seems to be too many missing links in this case, it reminds of the Ghost of Wembley back in the sixties" said Detective John.

"Well he was caught right?" asked Mike. "Well, he was transferred to Alcatraz then escaped with two other inmates sources haven't heard from him since" said John. "Could it be the same person?" Mike said. "We are detectives Mike weren't supposed to believe in coincidences" said John.

Hopkins Residence

"Here you go officers some chamomile tea" said Lisa Hopkins wife to Frank Hopkins. "What can I do you for officers?" asked John. "Angela Hopkins has been missing for 2 weeks, do you know her last whereabouts? " asked Mike. 

"We all loved Angie very much and it broke heart when she came up missing, the last time I had talked to her was over the phone. She had just come out of prom with her boyfriend and decided to go swimming by the creek. Haven't heard from James or her since then" said Frank Hopkins trying to hold out his frustration.

"I see, well we have a lead and all I can say is do not give up on your daughter" said Mike, as he pats him on the shoulder. "Where to now boss?" said Mike. "Let's pay James a visit" said John

CHAPTER FOUR

Previously on True Crime: Hangman:

Detectives John and Mike of the quiet town of Vaughan have been chasing shadows. A ruthless killer known only as The Hangman has left a trail of bodies, each death more precise, more methodical than the last. The killer's work is clean, almost surgical—no prints, no witnesses, no mistakes. But their latest crime scene yielded a single clue: a strand of blonde hair, DNA-matched to Angela Hopkins—the town's golden girl, former cheer captain, and daughter of the influential Hopkins family. Angela is now missing, and the last known person to see her alive? Her ex-boyfriend—James Erling.

---

Detective John adjusted the collar of his overcoat as a bitter wind cut through the neighborhood. The sky was overcast, a grey sheet smothering the town in gloom. He approached the modest Erling residence—paint chipped, windows fogged from within—while Mike rubbed his gloved hands together, his breath turning to mist in the frigid air.

The knock on the door echoed hollowly. Moments passed. Then the door creaked open.

Mary Erling stood framed in the doorway. The woman looked like a ghost—skeletal, hollow-eyed, a sheen of sweat clinging to her pale face. Her white robe hung from her frame like a shroud, damp at the collar. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“Can I help you, officers?”

“Good evening, ma’am,” Mike said, glancing down at his dog-eared notebook. “We’re looking for James Erling.”

Her lips twitched. “James! Get out here! What’s he done now?” she called out, voice cracking.

From deeper in the house came a clatter of movement. “Yeah, Mom, I’m coming!”

James appeared seconds later—a wiry teenager with restless eyes and a hoodie pulled halfway over his head. He stopped short at the sight of the two detectives.

“James,” John began, “We’re investigating the disappearance of Angela Hopkins your girlfriend.”

James rolled his eyes. “You mean ex-girlfriend. She dumped me before prom.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Her parents say you were the last person to see her.”

James shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. “I took her to the creek. Thought it’d be chill before prom. She’d never been. We talked… she broke up with me. Said she was gonna grab an Uber. That’s the last I saw of her.”

Detective John studied the boy's face. No twitch. No sign of hesitation. But his eyes didn’t match his voice. They darted. Too fast. Too controlled.

“Did you know she never made it home?” Mike asked, voice harder now.

James blinked. “No... I didn’t. Look, I didn’t hurt her. She was done with me—I got the message.”

A tense silence hung in the air.

“What is this?” Mary snapped, stepping forward. “Is my son under arrest?”

“Not yet,” John replied evenly. “But we can take this further. A search of your property, maybe?”

Mary stiffened. “Do you have a warrant?”

“Not today,” said Mike, his voice like frost. “But you can either let your son come with us voluntarily, or we start turning over every floorboard in this place. Your choice.”

Mary’s eyes flickered. For a second, her expression crumbled. She turned to James, and something passed between them—unspoken, heavy. As she had some drugs in the house and would not risk getting caught, she was already a conflicted felony in the county.

“Go with them,” she said flatly.

“Mom, seriously—”

“Now, James,” she hissed, her voice low and trembling. “Or don’t bother coming back.”

James clenched his jaw, fists tight at his sides, but said nothing. With a sullen nod, he followed the detectives to their cruiser.

The car door slammed shut. The engine roared to life.

As they drove off into the icy dusk, the wind howled like a warning through the narrow streets of Vaughan.

Somewhere out there. The Hangman was watching.

And time was running out.

Detective John and Mike interrogate James Erling on the disappearance of ex-girlfriend Angela Hopkins of the esteemed Hopkins family only to find another dead end as the real threat continues to haunt the small town...

CHAPTER FIVE

New Port, West Virginia

Somewhere in the woods...

Angela Hopkins woke up choking.

The air was heavy — acidic, thick with the stench of blood and something fouler, like sulphur and rot. Her eyes fluttered open, but her vision swam in a haze. Torn newspaper pages fluttered across the grimy floor like dying moths. Beside her lay the limp, lifeless body of a young girl — limbs splayed, mouth ajar, eyes staring into nothing.

Angela tried to scream, but a wad of cloth gagged her mouth. Panic surged. Her wrists and ankles were tied tightly with thick rope, raw and biting into her bruised skin. She writhed against the restraints, but they wouldn’t budge. Her golden hair, once proud and glossy, was caked with dirt and twigs. Her tank top — white when she last remembered — was now a smudged canvas of mud, blood, and forest grime.

She let out a muffled cry, her voice no more than a breath against the cloth.

The room was cold. Moonlight spilled through fogged-up windows, casting an ethereal glow on the grotesque collection of objects inside: chains bolted into the walls, black wax candles melted down to nubs, and childlike dolls — malformed and blind — arranged in a circle on the floor.

She twisted her neck, desperate to escape. "Help!" she whimpered through the cloth.

No answer.

Then — footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. The sound of boots on concrete echoed down the hallway like the toll of a death bell. The door handle turned with a slow creak. Angela’s entire body stiffened, her heart a war drum in her chest.

The door opened.

A tall figure stepped inside — a pale-skinned man, long silver hair cascading past his shoulders, his face obscured by a cracked, porcelain mask. He wore a filthy, oversized overall. In one hand, he held an axe. The other rested calmly by his side, as if entering a nightmare was routine.

Angela thrashed violently.

“HELP!” she screamed, finally spitting out the gag. The cry was primal — raw, blood-soaked.

The man tilted his head. Then, without warning, he struck her across the face with the back of his hand. Her head snapped to the side, a scream dying in her throat. The impact sent sparks of pain crackling through her jaw.

She sobbed uncontrollably as he shoved the cloth back into her mouth and leaned in close, pressing a single gloved finger to his lips.

Shhhh...

Then he smiled.

His teeth — jagged, blackened, like shards of obsidian — gleamed beneath the mask. His laughter was a twisted giggle, sick with joy. From his chest pocket, he drew a small Swiss army knife and, without hesitation, stabbed her in the thigh.

Angela writhed, her scream muffled again, her pale skin turning ghostly white. Blood spurted from the wound, soaking her leg and pooling on the floor beneath her.

The man watched. Fascinated.

He twisted the knife.

She screamed louder.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it out — her flesh resisting the jagged blade. Blood streamed freely now, staining the floor like a dark offering.

Then came the second strike — a brutal backhand to her face that sent her crashing into unconsciousness.

---

Vaughan Police Station

The precinct buzzed with quiet tension as James Erling was led out of the cruiser, handcuffed and shivering. He looked like a deer caught in headlights — head down, shoulders slumped, shame radiating from his skin like heat.

Inside, Detective Mike leaned on the counter, ordering coffee. Detective John marched James down the corridor and into Interrogation Room B — a bare chamber of chipped paint, a table, and two metal chairs. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence like a slow, ticking metronome.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows across James’s pale face.

John removed the cuffs and gestured to the chair. James sat, rubbing his wrists, breathing heavily.

Across from them, a large one-way mirror concealed Detective Mike, sipping his coffee and observing like a vulture circling above.

The door buzzed open. A woman in a sharp blue suit entered, silently dropped a folder on the table, and exited without a word.

John opened the file slowly. His eyes, cold and unblinking, locked onto James.

“James Erling,” he began, voice calm but cutting. “Quarterback at New Ridge. Student. Two priors for DUI, a possession charge, and a restraining order from last semester.”

He leaned forward.

“Tell me, was kidnapping Angela Hopkins your idea?”

James jolted in his seat, hands up like a man already convicted. “I didn’t kidnap Angela!” he shouted. “I swear! I-I haven’t seen her since—”

“You were her boyfriend, weren’t you?” John interrupted. “Last person seen with her. End of summer. A fight. She disappears.”

“We broke up,” James choked. “She... she dumped me. But I never laid a hand on her.”

John slowly pulled out a plastic evidence bag.

Inside — a single strand of blonde hair.

James’s eyes widened.

“This was found in your room.”

“I... I don’t know how it got there.”

John slammed a fist onto the table. “Why didn’t you report her missing?!”

James flinched violently.

Mike watched from behind the mirror. Classic John, he thought. Pressure, then silence. Then crack.

Mike buzzed himself in.

Another loud click echoed as he entered and circled behind James.

“You know what the penalty for murder is in Vaughan?” John asked, tone flat.

James said nothing.

Mike leaned in. “Death, James.”

James’s mouth opened, but no sound came. His lips quivered.

“Look,” he whispered. “That night at the lagoon... we were drinking. She said she was being followed. Some creepy guy — middle-aged, white hair, always watching her. I thought she was messing with me.”

John froze.

“What man?”

“I don’t know!” James cried. “She said he’d show up at school. At home. Sometimes he just stood outside her house. She was scared. But she... she didn’t want to tell anyone.”

“And you didn’t think to come forward?” Mike asked softly.

“She told me not to. Said if she ran, she wanted to do it on her terms. New York. She hated this place.”

John opened his leather notebook and jotted everything down.

“You know lying to a detective is a chargeable offense, right?” Mike said.

James stared at the ground.

“Am I free to leave?”

Silence. The only sound was the flickering of the fluorescent light.

John stood, notebook in hand.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re going into holding.”

Mike reattached the cuffs.

James didn’t resist.

As they led him away, his voice cracked one last time.

“I didn’t hurt her.”

But neither detective responded.

They had heard that line too many times before.

---

CHAPTER SIX

Somewhere in the woods

Angela Hopkins stirred back into the waking world, her mind fogged with hunger and pain. The cursed chair creaked beneath her weight, ropes biting into her raw wrists. She had lost track of time—days, maybe three, maybe more—since the masked man had vanished, leaving her chained in his hellish shanty.

The rain outside was relentless. Each drop struck the rusted steel roof with a force that sounded like blood splattering onto metal. The noise pressed against her skull like a war drum. She hadn’t eaten in days. Her stomach snarled like a caged animal, and the stab wound in her leg throbbed with each heartbeat.

Angela flexed and twisted her wrists until the coarse rope burned her skin. At last, one hand slipped free. She froze, listening, her breath shallow, before reaching for the Swiss Army knife left carelessly on the ground. The blade snapped open with a metallic whisper. One by one, she cut herself loose.

She limped through the dim room, the single hanging bulb flickering above like a dying star. The door was bolted from the outside. She shoved her shoulder against it—once, twice—but it didn’t budge. She swallowed her scream. Noise could bring him back.

Her eyes darted to the fogged window. A crack. An opening. Maybe freedom. She slid the knife through the gap, jiggling the latch until it clicked. Slowly, the window groaned open. Cold rain washed her face as she climbed through and dropped into the mud with a dull thud.

The forest swallowed her whole. Massive mahogany trees loomed like ancient sentinels. The rain poured in sheets, cleansing the blood from her wound, mingling with the hot salt of her tears. Now or never, Angie. Run.

She ran. Her breath tore at her lungs. Her wounded leg screamed with every step. Branches whipped her face.

Then—metal snapped shut.

Agony shot through her body. She screamed, a sound ripped from her soul, as the bear trap’s jagged teeth clamped into her ankle. Blood spilled freely, soaking the earth. Her foot dangled grotesquely, barely held in place.

She writhed, clawing at the iron jaws, but the trap was merciless. Rain hammered down, thunder booming like laughter from a god gone mad.

And then—footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Closing in.

Angela’s heart stopped. “No… no… no…” she whispered, trembling.

Through the curtain of rain, a shadow emerged. The Hangman. His hulking frame moved with terrifying calm, his breath loud beneath the hockey mask. A machete gleamed in his hand.

He raised it—then slammed the blunt edge into her skull. Darkness swallowed her.

When she came to, she was weightless, her body dangling. He dragged her by her golden hair through mud and broken twigs, her limbs scraping against roots and stones. Her consciousness flickered in and out. The last thing she saw was the mask, blank and horrid, staring down as he carried her back to the shanty.

---

Vaughan Police Station

The hum of rain was replaced by the buzz of fluorescent lights. Detective John sat across from his partner Mike, papers scattered across the desk. A road map covered the wall behind them, red pins marking the endless trail of victims tied to the Hangman’s terror.

They sipped burnt coffee, weary eyes scanning notes. Every step closer only dragged them further behind.

“James Erling walks free,” Mike muttered, tossing down a file. “Angela Hopkins’ ex-boyfriend. No evidence to hold him. We’re back to nothing.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration boiling.

The office door burst open. Detective Alice stormed in, breath ragged. She slapped a report onto the desk. “Another victim. Roy Harper. College student, Woodsville. Missing two days.”

Mike’s jaw tightened. “Could be another suicide. Or the same bastard who took Angela.”

John grabbed his coat. “Let’s see the scene ourselves. Radio ahead—no one touches anything until we’re there.”

Mike holstered his Beretta. John jingled his keys. They moved fast, storm chasing storm.

---

Woodsville College

The car skidded into the college lot hours later. The campus lay under the weight of rain, students clustered in fearful whispers. Dr. Stevenson, tall and gaunt, met them at the gate.

“Detectives,” he said with grave politeness, “this way, please. To the Sigma fraternity house.”

They followed him through the wet silence. The frat house loomed ahead, windows dark, roof sagging. The smell hit them before the door opened—stale smoke, mildew, and something heavier. Something wrong.

Inside, the air clung thick to their lungs. Rot.

The detectives stepped carefully, the floorboards groaning underfoot.

Then they saw it.

Suspended from the ceiling, swaying gently, was Roy Harper. His lifeless body dangled with a noose biting into his throat. His face was swollen purple, eyes bulging in eternal terror.

The Hangman had struck again.

---