The Spectral Agent is my first full-length novel and an experiment. We are independent creators, publishing chapter by chapter as a podcast and text. It’s designed to be heard. We’d love to receive your feedback so we can tell stories better.
⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains scenes with suicide, murder, blood, and paranormal activity.
Detective Viktor Levitsky is startled by a scream from his neighbor’s apartment. He finds what appears to be a suicide—but a strange encounter at the scene raises questions he can’t shake.
Viktor is unsettled by the police moving to close the case as a suicide. He reports what he saw, but is met with concern about his mental state, and he's forced onto medical leave.
Alone, uncertain, and disturbed by what he witnessed, he begins to suspect something deeper is unfolding.
Chapter 1
The harsh glow of the city lights stung my eyes as we walked down the sidewalk. A misty rain fell upon us, casting halos around each streetlamp. It wasn't that cold for late Winter in New York, but water beaded on my long jacket, sliding down to chill my bare hands.
We walked in amiable silence most of the way home. I'm sure she was giving me space to think. As we reached our apartment building, Olivia finally spoke.
"Dinner was great, Viktor. Thanks, I really needed it."
"Was it? I was a little distracted."
"No, but I was trying to be nice."
"Funny."
"Oh, don't be such a tough guy. I know you're getting ready for your detective exam. Mister defender of justice."
The thing is, she seemed distracted tonight, too. While I avoided looking at the bright streetlights, she kept looking up—at the tops of lampposts, at the bare limbs of trees planted in the sidewalk.
She wasn't on edge, though. This seemed like a new nervous tic. I didn't ask her about it. Instead, I replied.
"Hardly. I don't even know why I'm going through with it. The more I work, the less I feel like I'm doing any good."
"I mean... it seems like the next logical step."
"Now you're the one that sounds like a detective."
"Funny. Hey—did you see that guy checking you out at the bar?"
"I'd be a really bad detective if I didn't. Cute, but not my type."
"Oh, really? What is your type Viktor?"
"I'm still trying to figure that out," I muttered, taking this long to realize I was too focused on myself tonight. I changed the subject. "I'm sorry they fired you. They're jerks. Should I go arrest them?"
She started digging in her purse.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Looking for my phone so I can give you the address."
"Funny."
"Yeah, you're right. You can't just arrest a mom like that."
"How about her kid, then?"
"No! He's sweet—weird—but sweet."
We climbed the steps. I entered my door code, and we entered the building. My wet boots squeaked, and her heels clicked and clacked on the tile. The long hallway had a few doors—hers on the end, mine beside it.
I sub-leased my place from a woman that had a soft spot for young police officers. Her husband was once chief, though he passed away a while ago, and she moved to a farm upstate.
I was grateful she believed in me. There's no other way I would be able to afford a first-floor apartment with a cop's salary. I was even more grateful Olivia was my neighbor.
I didn't have many friends in the city. None, really, other than work colleagues. But she has been my neighbor since I joined the force five years ago. She worked as a nanny for people with a lot of money but not a lot of time for their kids, which made it easier to afford her first-floor apartment.
Just as we were about to go into our separate apartments, Olivia spoke again.
"Hey, Vik—can I ask you something?"
"Sure...", I said, having no idea what to expect with an opening like that.
"I know you've struggled with, um— What was it like when you hallucinated?"
"Um," I stalled.
I wasn't quite sure how to explain it to her. I haven't had one since I was a teen, and I was cleared by a psychiatrist before joining the force. Did she think it would affect my exam? I gave her a neutral answer.
"At the time, it seemed real. Looking back, it's obvious they weren't. Why do you ask—you okay?"
"Oh, yeah, I'm fine." She paused a beat, then opened her door. "Good night, Viktor."
"Good night," I said to the empty hallway, then entered my empty apartment.
✹✹✹
I listened to the lazy sounds of the rain pattering against the window. I sat on the couch. It was late—past midnight—and I should’ve been asleep. Instead, I was absently flipping through the pages of a criminal psychology textbook.
The detective exam was next week, so I needed to study. I liked psychology—it was my major, but I somehow ended up in law enforcement. I often read the familiar pages to quiet my mind, though it never really worked.
Suddenly, a scream shattered the stillness.
I froze. The sound was blood-curdling and raw, tearing through the thin walls. It wasn’t distant—this came from next door. It sounded like it came from Olivia's apartment.
For a split second, I didn’t move, hoping it was just a trick of my overworked mind. Then a gunshot followed, loud and unmistakable.
I was on my feet in an instant, shoving my feet in my boots without bothering to tie them. My jacket was still slung over a chair. Was my gun there? No, it was locked away by my bed—no time.
I darted into the hall, my pulse thundering in my ears as I reached the door.
“Olivia—It’s Viktor!”
I pounded on the wood, my voice echoing in the otherwise silent corridor. There was no response. I had already tried turning the handle, but it was locked. My hand tightened into a fist, pounding harder.
"Olivia!"
Instinct kicked in. I stepped back and kicked beside the cheap knob; it opened with a sharp crack. I stumbled inside and was hit with the scent of gunpowder. The second thing I noticed was the coppery tang of blood.
“Olivia?” I called again, softer this time. The word felt heavy in my throat. The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering of a muted television. My eyes adjusted slowly, picking out shapes in the darkness. I didn’t notice anything odd, yet.
I stepped into the bedroom. That’s when I saw her. She was lying on the bed. Dark hair fanned out around her face, blood seeping from her temple. It pooled, black in the dim light, soaking the mattress.
I crouched next to her. Her eyes were closed, face waxen, peaceful. Like a doll waiting for her eyes to be painted on. A handgun lay just out of her hand’s reach, accompanied by a folded piece of paper.
I wanted to say something—to speak, but nothing came out. I already knew the worst had come, but I still needed to check her pulse. I reached out hesitantly, my fingers brushing against her neck.
In that exact moment of contact, her eyes opened—wide and expressive. Her irises were red. A deep, vivid red. They stared through me—with an unnatural intensity I couldn’t unsee.
“They went... over there...”
I heard Olivia’s voice, but did not see her mouth open. It was barely audible, entirely strained. Her eyes darted to the corner of the room and then closed just as soon as they opened.
I knew better than to believe in tricks of the mind, but something in her voice—the way she looked—struck a chord within me that I couldn’t ignore. I turned to face where she had looked.
A thin trail of blood stretched across the floor, leading toward the window. Was it there when I came in?
Before I could pull my hand away from her neck, a shock ran through me, chilling my heart and bursting behind my eyes.
I grabbed my temples, clenched my teeth as I fought to silence a buzzing tuning fork stuck in my skull. My breath hitched as I rose to my feet. I stumbled to the open window and looked out.
Outside, faint footprints marred the damp pavement, as though someone had fled in a hurry. I blinked, and when my eyes opened again, the footprints were gone. The rain must have washed them away.
I glanced back at Olivia. Her body in quiet repose. My training kicked in just then. I needed to call the department. I reached for my pocket but soon realized I must have left my phone behind.
I scanned the room to see if there was any device I could call on. I spotted Olivia's cell phone. It was locked, but I could still call 911.
“This is Officer Viktor Levitsky,” I said when the operator answered. “I’m off duty, but someone's been shot. Send CSI and a coroner immediately.” The operator asked for the address, I gave it, and we wrapped up the call.
While I waited for the forensics team, I looked around the apartment for clues. Like mine, it was tiny—one bedroom, one bath—so there wasn't much to see. The window was open, but that's not out of the ordinary, she liked the cold. Nothing else looked out of place in her bedroom other than, of course, her body lying on the bed.
I didn't want to disturb the scene any more than I had already, so I used my elbow to push open the bathroom door—nothing. The combined living room and kitchenette were the same—nothing unusual. By all accounts, this looked like a suicide.
I looked back at the bed. The note was there. A tightness gripped my chest. I didn’t want to read it. I didn’t want to know. But the stupid detective in me had to. My trembling hand reached for it.
It was short.
"I can't take it anymore. I'm sorry."
I was just talking to her hours ago. She wasn't broken. Upset, sure—she lost her job—but this? The note was a cliché.
I let it slip from my fingers as I backed away and started pacing, heart pounding. This didn’t add up. And her eyes—what was that?
✹✹✹
A knock startled me. The forensics team was in the open doorway. It had only been half an hour, but it felt like an eternity. I moved out of the way into the corner and stood, arms crossed, watching as they processed the scene.
At first, I spoke only when asked questions. Steve glanced at me with a look of mixed concern and professional detachment.
“Appreciate the call-in, Levitsky,” he said, flipping through a small notepad.
“You sure you didn’t hear anything before the scream?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. It was quiet.”
He frowned, his gaze shifting toward the body.
“Looks like a suicide. Gun’s right there, no sign of forced entry—other than you breaking in, of course.”
He stared at me with a lifted, accusatory eyebrow.
“It doesn’t feel right,” I said, almost automatically.
"So you think it was a murder?"
“You think she screamed before killing herself?”
"You know, most victims are killed by people they know."
I stared back, ignoring his bait. I knew these cop games, and I wasn't going to play them.
Steve shrugged. He then tried to rationalize.
“People do weird things when they’re panicked. You know that. It’s probably nothing, but we’ll know more after forensics does their thing.”
Probably nothing. The words circled in my head.
Something about the scene tugged at the edges of my perception—an itch behind my eyes that I couldn’t scratch. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a botched robbery or a panicked act of despair.
Dawn was breaking over the city by the time the team cleared out. I gave my statement and retreated to my apartment, but sleep was impossible. The image of Olivia’s flashing eyes stayed with me—a nagging sense of unfinished business keeping me restless.
So, I headed out for a cup of coffee.
✹✹✹
I walked towards my precinct's office with a second cup of coffee in one hand. The first cup tasted like grief, the second, remorse. With my other hand, I held my black coat tight against the cold.
The sidewalks were slick from last night’s rain, glinting under the morning sun. Food carts fired up on corners, already drawing crowds. Horns blared as a man cursed at a taxi.
Life moved on. But I didn’t. Not really. My mind kept replaying Olivia’s last words.
They went over there. Who was she talking about—did she really speak at all?
By late morning, I sat in the chief’s office, the events of the night still playing on a loop. The chief had tired eyes and a gruff demeanor. He listened as I recounted what happened.
I couldn’t lie to him about what I had seen last night, so I explained every detail. Including the red flashing eyes, whispering, and footprints. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair.
“Levitsky, you’ve been through a lot. Maybe you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
“I know what I saw!” I said, voice stronger than I had anticipated.
“The footprints— and th-the voice—”
I stopped myself. I knew all too well how one can spiral into the realm of delusion if left unchecked. But nothing can change what I saw—what I felt. An unshakable feeling that an innocent life was taken—taken by someone else.
The chief sighed, rubbing his temples.
“Look, Viktor, you’re one of my best officers, but with the detective exam coming up, you’ve been running yourself into the ground. It’s starting to show.”
“I don’t need time off,” I said, already predicting what he had to say.
“You're too close to this one, Levitsky. This isn’t a suggestion—it’s an order. Take four weeks. Medical leave. Effective immediately.”
I reluctantly nodded, “Understood. But please—just don’t let this get buried as a suicide.” He tipped his head back, though his expression told me he wasn’t convinced.
I stepped into the hallway, the door closing behind me. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the conversation settle in my chest. Just as I started to walk away, a faint sound stopped me in my tracks.
Through the office door, I heard the chief pick up the phone. His voice was low, but his words were unmistakable.
“—it’s done.”
I stared at the door for a long moment, unease creeping up my spine. I didn’t dare open it. What's done?
After a minute, I turned, left the building, and walked home.
By the time I reached my apartment, exhaustion had taken hold of me. I collapsed onto the couch, staring blankly at the cracks in the ceiling. I got the feeling I was being sidelined.
What was the next logical step, now, Olivia?
Right then, the buzzing from last night returned to my head. I sat up, squeezing my temples between my palms. Just as quickly as it came, it faded away. I fell back into the couch.
I had my answer. I wasn't going to let someone get away with murdering Olivia. It seemed I had only four weeks to solve the case on my own. I’d been through a lot in my short career, but this case felt different.
It felt wrong—very wrong.
Continue to Chapter 2.
