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‘I was saving the classics until I’d retired,' Ripley mused.
Ella nodded, ‘Then consider this a head start, but we’re not just watching. We’re analyzing. We need to put ourselves in his shoes, think like him. See the movies through his eyes.’
‘I’ll leave that to you. I’m going to look into this ex-boyfriend of Jessica’s.’
‘Alright. And remember, we need to play by the rules.’
‘What rules?’
‘The rules of the horror movie, because we might be characters in one.’
CHAPTER NINE
The room was dark, save for a single overhead light, casting a concentrated beam onto a worn wooden table below. Everywhere else, shadows wrapped themselves around the contents of the room like a shroud.
The air was thick with the scent of chemicals—latex, paints, but he’d already cleansed all traces of the metallic odor of blood. The walls were lined with shelves filled with masks in varying stages of completion: some still unformed and featureless, others painted with haunting detail. Each one told a story, a chapter in a macabre production. The tableau was a testament to painstaking craftsmanship, dedication, and a deeply disturbed mind.
He stood there, hunched over his station, applying the finishing touches to his next masterpiece. His fingers danced over the tools laid out before him—brushes, blades, and a myriad of tiny containers holding various pigments. Every move was purposeful, every brush stroke calculated.
On the other side of the room, rows of DVDs and Blu-rays stood in perfect order next to a vintage film projector. These were his treasures – films that had shaped his world, his perspective, his very being. Each title resonated with memories, moments when he had felt a deep connection with the villains who lurked within their frames.
Michael Myers. Freddy Krueger. Leatherface. Hannibal Lecter. To the world, they were monsters, but to him, they were misunderstood artists. Misfits who found solace in their own twisted worlds, shaping reality to their own narrative.
He could see himself in each of them. A kindred spirit. An outlier, never truly belonging to the world of the ordinary. Like them, he felt trapped in a society that failed to grasp real creativity when they saw it, instead content with shallow, transparent attempts at artistry. The superhero movies that bestowed impossible heroism, the true crime documentaries that spotlighted tragedy for easy content.
This world – it felt like a sea of mediocrity to him. Everywhere he looked, he found a lack of true passion, a lack of genuine creativity. It was as if society had become complacent, willing to consume whatever was fed to them, no matter how devoid of substance or originality. To him, it seemed everyone was asleep, merely going through the motions, lulled into a false sense of security by the dull monotony of their everyday lives.
He saw himself as the antidote to this. Through his actions, he was waking the world up, forcing them to confront genuine terror, genuine art. No filters, no embellishments, just raw, visceral emotion. In his eyes, his actions were the truest form of artistry, an expression of his deepest desires and frustrations, a rebellion against the mundane.
The mask before him was nearly complete, unlike any other he had crafted before. The realism and attention to detail was like nothing the masters could create. It was grotesque yet compelling - a visage that told of anguish, fear, and madness. With a final brushstroke, he set the mask aside to dry, admiring his work momentarily.
To his right lay a mannequin head, bald and blank. He reached for a special wig cap, stretching the thin fabric over the mannequin to test its fit. This cap, made of a unique blend of latex, ensured that not a single strand of hair, no DNA of any sort, would betray him. Once on, it would be almost a second skin, making the removal of any mask seamless, leaving no trace of the monster underneath.
He prepared himself, pulling on gloves and then the wig cap. It fit snugly against his scalp, sealing any potential evidence inside. Over it, he placed the freshly crafted mask, adjusting it until it sat just right, molding it to his face.
There was a ritualistic quality to his preparation. The transformation wasn’t just physical; with every layer, he donned a new persona, shedding his past, his reality, and embracing the dark fantasies that consumed him.
He glanced at a wall clock, its ticking growing louder in the silence. Time was of the essence. Tonight was important. Another scene awaited, another masterpiece to be crafted, another life to be taken. His heart raced in anticipation, not of the act itself but of the creation, the performance, the sheer artistry of it all.
Tonight, another victim would join his gallery. Another story would be told. A new chapter in his ever-evolving narrative. With one last glance in a dusty, smudged mirror, he stepped out of his lair, leaving behind the eerie congregation of masks that bore silent witness to his descent into madness.
The city outside was alive with anticipation, completely oblivious to the storm that was about to hit them. And as he donned his new mask, sealing his identity from the world, he felt an overwhelming sense of purpose. The hunt was about to begin, and he was ready. He was no longer just a fan, an observer. He was now a part of the horror pantheon, a legend in the making.
And the world would soon bear witness to his masterpiece.
CHAPTER TEN
The precinct was a cacophony of ringing phones, typing keyboards, and officers deep in conversation. Police stations were always hives of activity, but every precinct Ella had worked out of in Los Angeles was more like an unwanted party than a workplace. She guessed there was a reason that California was considered the murder capital of the world.
Ella had made a makeshift workspace for herself amidst the noise, surrounded by piles of paperwork, and a laptop open to a multitude of tabs detailing various horror film tropes and their histories. A neon-green highlighter in hand, she feverishly jotted down notes, connecting the dots between what she knew and the vast ocean of horror lore.
Mia sat opposite her, equally drowning in paperwork. Legal documents, case files, and interviews with family and friends of the two victims were spread out in front of her. The pieces of the puzzle were laid bare for both agents, now they just had to connect the dots.
‘I can't believe I'm saying this,’ Mia began, glancing over at Ella's notes, ‘but I think your idea of looking into horror tropes might not be as ridiculous as I thought.’
Ella looked up, her glasses slightly askew from her fervent research. 'See? There's a method in the madness. These killers, especially if they're deriving inspiration from fiction, always leave some kind of breadcrumb trail. Scripts follow patterns, and we know patterns.’
Mia sighed, rubbing her temples. ‘I never thought my career would lead me here. I've been chasing real criminals for thirty years, and now I'm trying to catch one inspired by make-believe monsters.’
