The forest is cluttered with trees and overgrowth, making it almost impossible to find an entrance to this labyrinth from Hell. If you looked hard enough, there was a discreet pathway, too tiny to even fit humans comfortably. Only the bold and daring can make their way through these woods, since the passage is thickly laced with thorn bushes. The forest goes on for miles, with many wicked twists and turns that could break ankles, as well as spirits. An hour and a half walk, depending on the venturer's pace, will lead them to what looks to be an abandoned building. It's as big as the average suburban home, with two stories. There's a door with no handle where the front door should be, supposing that this is, in fact, a house. This is merely a cruel joke intended for the person imprisoned on the first floor, for there isn't a handle on either side of the door. The word "F7" is printed above the door, but the paint is wearing and slowly peeling off. Only the creator of this building knows what F7 stands for. It's the seventh creation of its kind, meant only to bring pain and suffering to those trapped inside. There is yet to be anyone on the first floor, but there is a man in his mid-forties on the second story. If you had asked him only yesterday if he expected to be fighting for his life the next day, he would have laughed in your face and told you that he was too busy running his own business and sleeping with the interns to ever be captured by a homicidal maniac. His biggest mistake the day before was declining Victor Marcinelli's job application as a janitor and telling him to go work at the McDonald's right down the street. After increasing his ego and seducing yet another secretary, he decided to make his way out to the garage to go home, where Victor smashed a wrench into the back of Paul Ferguson's head and dragged him all the way to his own personal jail.

The young woman that Victor was now dragging through the woods was one of Paul's many loyal interns, Michelle Broxterman. Had anyone looked at her in this exact moment, they would have never recognize her, for her bleached blonde hair had blackened with the mud from the forest floor and her designer clothes had been torn and bloodied from being ripped open by the thorn bushes. She had been a much easier target for Victor to catch, since her IQ was only about 95 and she was gullible enough to believe that his pitch black SUV was a new model of a taxi cab. Limping from the extra weight, Victor scuddled his way to the back of the building to a pile of dead leaves. Kicking the leaves out of his way, he revealed a cellar door with seven locks protecting his fortress. He pulled a janitor's keychain out of his pocket which held at least sixty different keys on it and unlocked each lock with seven different keys. He carelessly threw Michelle down the stairs and pulled on a gas mask and infrared goggles. He pulled the pin on what looked to be a grenade and threw it into a vent near the cellar door, which unleashed a hiss and a white-purple gas leaked out of the tiny grenade. Victor threw the cellar doors closed behind him and set to work, preparing Michelle's unfortunate demise.


"Carver!"

The voice belonged to Detective Robert Carver's boss, who was busy shaking the young detective awake at his work desk. Carver had been pulling an all-nighter on his latest case the night before and had fallen asleep around 5:57 a.m. His brown hair stuck up in every direction and one of his work papers stuck to his face from all of his drooling while he slept.

"Carver, we have two new missing person cases. Get to work!"

Detective Carver delicately lifted his head off of his desk and pulled the manilla folder closer to him. After cracking his neck in two swift movements and wiping the spittle from the corners of his mouth, he opened the folder and carefully examined the newest information in his case. He was trying to capture a serial killer by the name of The Fisherman, for the killer took his time examining and "fishing out" his victims to torture them and "bring them to the light of a better being." Carver subconsciously fingered the tape recorder near the edge of his desk, resisting the urge to listen to the tape from The Fisherman for the fiftith time. Apparently the latest missing persons were directly linked to each other from their place of work, the Sharp