Young Writers Society

The year is 2025. You're reading Unsolved Crimes' 20-year-tributes to particularly interesting cold cases when this phrase leaves you frozen in place, as if the murder victim is talking to you through this note, decades after his death. On the adjacent page, you see a scan of Doyle Mallory's final note to humanity, written a mere week before his body was found on the courthouse steps:



As you read on, you see that this weekend only there is an open house of Late Doyle Mallory's Estate, left untouched after his mysterious death decades ago. It's said to be teeming with clues, waiting for some young (or old!) brilliant mind to come along and give Mr. Mallory the closure he deserves so that his soul may rest in peace.

Avery stepped off the bus and pushed their glasses up from where they'd slipped down their nose. They flipped open the copy of Unsolved Crimes that had lured them here in the first place to check the address of the Mallory Estate, then started walking down the street towards the house. It wasn't too much further now.

Although it felt like much longer, as they'd realized -- much too late -- that they dressed far too warmly for this surprisingly hot late spring day. They were wearing a magenta tank with a bright yellow windbreaker over top, only zipped up about a third of the way, and a pair of white skinny jeans and black converses. They had a bag slung across their body, which they tucked the magazine back into as they walked.

This was going to be an interesting puzzle. They were excited to figure it out. It was always so much more gratifying to solve something when there was no answer key to check. Just self-checks and validations until you were reasonably certain thaten you were correct about your assumptions and conclusions. And what better way was there to put that to the test than a cold case? Even the cops couldn't figure this out, despite having twenty years to work on it. Imagine if Avery figured it out on the first afternoon. That'd be embarrassing. For them, of course. Avery would try to avoid gloating, but would absolutely be proud of themself if they managed it. Maybe they'd write a letter to the editor of the local paper.

But, they tried not to get ahead of themself. First they had to figure it out. Once they got the mystery untangled, then they could decide what laurels they wanted to rest upon.

Avery stopped walking as they realized they made it to the correct address. Well, that was ominous.

It was an old house that had clearly been left untouched since the old man's death all those years ago -- before their birth. It looked rickety and had peeling gray paint over aged woods that were bowed from years of abuse by the environment. The yard was a gnarled knot of weeds at this point, looking as though the grass had gotten so tall that it eventually fell over and began growing into itself rather than upwards.

Nonetheless, there was a singular red balloon on the mailbox with a handwritten sign: Mallory Open House, 4/1 - 4/3

The fence that had at one point been white but now was a dingy looking, peeling mess of mostly fallen boards led to a gate that was in an equally sad state. All of it was at waist height, fence and gate and all, so they had to reach down to work the rusted latch and let themselves in. They walked down the path that consisted of large, cracked stones with weeds growing out of the in-between patches.

Avery took a deep breath and squared their shoulders as they walked up to the porch, then they walked through the already propped open front door. There was a singular table just ahead and to the right with a middle-aged woman with light skin and blonde hair sitting behind it.

She blinked at Avery as if they were surprised that someone had actually shown up. "Oh! Uh... hello?"

"Hi," Avery said warily, glancing around. They hadn't expected it to be a big event, but they had definitely expected there to be others. "...Is... uh...?"

"Um, yeah!" The woman said with a quick nod. "You're here for the Open House, right?"

Avery nodded.

"Then yep, in the right place! You're the first, too!" The woman pushed a pen across the table and pointed toward a book. "If you'd be so kind, I'd appreciate it if you could sign our guest book! We'd like to have a register of where everyone came from, that sort of thing."

"Um... okay." Avery nodded haltingly and strode forward slowly, picking up the pen the woman offered them. They scratched down their name and zipcode, though they declined to provide their phone number or email address.

The woman frowned as she saw it. "... it's helpful to give all the information we requested..."

"No thank you," Avery said simply.

The woman furrowed her brow at them. "Mm... fine, I guess," she said, disgruntled. "Well, there are some light refreshments in that room over there." She gestured to the room off the left side of the entryway. "Please feel free to help yourself! The host of this weekend is the great-nephew of the late Mr. Mallory, who will be here in approximately..." She checked her watch. "Fifteen minutes or so. He'll give you anyone else who may trickle in before an overview of the space once he gets here."

"Thank you," Avery murmured, dipping their head. They walked into the janky little kitchen, a bit dim even though the curtains were all tied back, and took a little plate. They dipped a few strawberries into the provided whipped cream then rolled them in brown sugar, then walked over to the rickety table and sat down next to it to start munching until someone else got there.

Neptune hated riding the bus. The lights were too loud, people crowded too close, and someone always had to whisper about her to their friend. But today, that didn't matter. Today, she forced herself to suffer through the horrific smells and the constant jostling.

Today, she was going to solve Doyle Mallory's murder.

Okay, maybe not today, but soon.

Neptune stepped off the bus, wrapping her dark brown cardigan tighter around her shoulders. Even in reasonably warm weather like this, there was always a slight chill that Neptune couldn't shake. Even with the black sweater she was already wearing and the collared shirt underneath it. Maybe there was some underlying medical condition, but she chose not to question it.

They stepped off the bus, pushing her headphones around her neck. The air rustled distant trees, and there was a slight hum of voices inside. How many people came to this open house? Would they let her in or shoo her away because of how young she looked (and was, but that wasn't as important).

Using her cane, she managed to make it to a fence. It smelled slightly of rotten wood and old paint. She tapped her cane along the fence until it clanged against rusty metal. She sighed. Someone had closed the gate behind him, dooming her to feel around the tetanus nightmare until she found the latch.

"It's an Open House. Shouldn't they at least open the house?" She grumbled to herself as she managed to open the gate with no cuts, thankfully. She made her way up the cracked path, almost tripping over gnarled roots several times.

By the time she reached the porch, it was apparent the door was open. She could hear two people speaking to each other, just far enough that their voices were unclear.

"Hello? I'm here for the open house."

She stepped inside, barely tapping her cane against the floor when footsteps quickly approached her.

"Uh... hello."

The voice belonged to a woman, sounding a little unsure and confused. Neptune drew her cane closer to herself. "I'm in the correct place, right?"

"Yes, you are. The second one to come! I just need you to sign-" She froze. "What's your name? Just to keep track of guests."

"Neptune Capella."

"Uh, is there anyone else coming to...?"

"To what?"

"Never mind." The woman retreated, the scratch of a pen coming from her direction. "Refreshments are on the table to the left of the doorway. Just sit tight, and the host should be here shortly." The woman quickly left, her footsteps disappearing down what might've been a hallway.

"Thank you!" Neptune leaned against the wall by the snack table. She smiled to herself.

Since Neptune ordered her first Agatha Christie audiobook, she had been pulled into a fascinating world of murder, betrayal, and deduction. Soon enough, she drifted from fictional corpses to non-fiction. I'll Be Gone in the Dark by Michelle McNamara, The Third Rainbow Gir by Emma Copley Eisenberg. To say she longed to be a name in one of those books, to be someone that pieced together a decades-long mystery no one else could, was an understatement. As soon as she saw that letter, she begged Edmund to let her come here.

This was the life Neptune wanted to live. She wanted to be the detective, poking around crime scenes with her cane and profiling murders to the drone of rain in her noise-cancelling headphones. She found the life she wanted.

And solving this murder would help her finally grasp it.

Shelby Addams

It was an unusually bright spring day when Shelby stepped off the bus, and arrived at old Mallory's house. It was old and very disheveled, and Shelby was forced to consider that she may have the wrong address- for she could hardly imagine somewhere so rundown was safe to inhabit, even for no more than two days.
But, no, now that she thought about it, she could feel the whispers of the past drawing her forth, beckoning her to put Mallory's soul to rest. How lucky her fellow detectives were that they had a "professional" psychic on the case. Though most mediums were experts at fooling others, Shelby was a master at fooling herself. She was no prodigy, and held little interest for anything more complex than the daily Wordle, but she was confident her psychic abilities would hold up against any so called geniuses she may find here.
To put it lightly, she was a fool.
Shelby pried open her purse, and lifted her cat-familiar, Lunar Eclipse, up into her arms. He seemed alarmed by the sudden burst of daylight, but otherwise unharmed. "You ready for adventure, precious?" She asked, scratching Lunars ears. The cat was uninterested in the house, and the ghosts that might reside there, but for now, he seemed pleased enough to receive some attention.
Shelby hiked up the short flight of steps to the door, which was wide open. Inside, she found a women near her age. She didn't seem to notice Shelby's approach, but jumped when she spoke.
"Hi," Shelby said, "This is the Open House, right?"
She blinked at her odd attire, from the pins to the bathrobe, then smiled and said, "That's right! You're the third person to arrive. I just need you to sign your name right here." She slid a clipboard and pen across the table towards Shelby, two names already written across the top, though one with some information left blank.
Shelby signed her name in big, loopy letters, taking up two lines instead of one, before filling in the remaining blanks.
The women glared at the clipboard for a moment, then pointed through an archway, "There are refreshments to your left."
Shelby nodded in thanks, and followed her direction.

Deborah Ward

Deborah pulled out a handkerchief from her purple purse, carefully opened the gate, then used a brick to keep it open. Might as well make this place at least look a little inviting.

She stepped onto the path, sniffing disdainfully at the weeds, and paused a moment to survey the house. Peeling paint, questionable stability... I know it's an open house for a dead man, but perhaps they could've made it a bit more presentable? Hm, well, no matter. It's what's in the inside that counts, I suppose.

With that, Deborah strode up the steps, still limber despite her age, and greeted the woman inside with a smile.

"Oh... are you lost, ma'am?" The lady glanced at her in concern.

"Not at all, dear. This is the open house for Mr. Mallory, is it not?" Deborah smiled sweetly and tucked a curl of white hair behind her ear.

"Y-yes, sorry, I was just a bit taken aback by your age..." The woman muttered something like, "Strange folks we're getting here. Guess it's to be expected..." and pushed a clipboard towards Deborah.

Deborah signed her name, taking note of the large, loopy signature above hers. She doodled flowers instead her phone number or email address, then returned the clipboard to the lady, who just sighed and said that refreshments were on the left.

Deborah walked into the kitchen and greeted her fellow open house visitors. After helping herself to some fruit, she sat down in a wobbly chair, deciding not to strike up a conversation just yet. Better to observe and listen for now. She pulled out some yarn and knitting needles from her purse and settled in to resume the scarf she'd started yesterday.

Corey Lionel Sharpe

So this was it. Corey parked his car haphazardly just outside of the Mallory Estate, craning his neck out of the window to get a better view of the building. It looked more lackluster than he was expecting; more like a simple house in disrepair and not the location of a murder-turned-unsolved mystery.

He looked down at his phone to check if he had the right address, and, upon finding he did, got out of the car. The air was pleasantly warm. He considered bringing his stuff with him inside, but decided to lock it in the car instead. He could easily come out and get it later.

After he heard the telltale click of the car lock, he began to walk towards the door, only stopping on the way to study the warped gate, which someone had propped open with a brick.

The inside smelled like a combination of dust, humidity, and wood. The floorboards creaked slightly as entered, alerting a middle-aged woman sitting behind a table slightly further into the foyer to his presence.

"Are you here for the open house?" she asked.

Corey nodded. "Am I in the right place?"

She smiled. "You sure are! You made it just in time, too! Before you go in, though, I ask that you sign our guest book." She gestured to a book on the table and handed him a pen.

Corey took a few awkward steps and then leaned over the guest book. There were already a few names above the next free line; he noticed someone had taken up two lines with their entry. He penciled in his name, zip code, email, and phone number. The woman smiled again.

"Mr. Mallory's great-nephew should be here any minute now, and he'll give you a bit more information," the lady explained. "If you'd like to go to the room on your left, there are refreshments and seating to tide you over until he arrives."

Corey gave a slight head bob and backed away. He turned and started walking towards the nearest doorway.

"On your left," the woman said again. "Not the right."

Corey corrected himself, giving her a strained smile. "Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

She said nothing in response, but gave him another warm smile, which softened his embarrassment slightly. With another awkward smile, he started walking in the right direction, pausing a little before entering.

There was still time to turn around and do something a little better with his day, he thought. Why did I even come here? He hesitated, lingering on the threshold.

For some reason, though, he felt like this house was going to be the thing to give him purpose. He'd spent too long untethered, and he was going to find his anchor here. He was sure of it.

With a deep breath, he entered the room.

Shelby glanced pointedly at the grandfather clock ticking away at the corner of the room. She had no idea if it was the least bit accurate. In fact, it seemed rather likely it was decades behind. Still, it made her feel important.
From behind the snack table, she examined her company; there was a smart looking individual by the strawberries and a little kid leaning against the wall, (quite dramatically, if you asked Shelby) Both had been there when Shelby had arrived. Then, one after another came an elderly women and a Tim Burton character.
The waiting room was rather small, so they were all standing in relative proximity to one another. Considering they'd be spending the whole weekend together, she thought some introductions might be in order, before the mysterious nephew arrived.
"So, who's ready for one killer of a house tour? I for one could just die of excitement." Puns were a part of her job description as a psychic, and she supposed they'd all be awed by her genius, "I hope everybody is ready."