AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Ripley nodded. 'Alright. Don't take any chances,' she said as she concealed herself next to the entranceway. Ella continued sidestepping through the store, advancing slowly, her breath shallow.
As Ella approached the fridge section, her eyes darted around to take in every detail. From the corner, a movement caught her attention. Without warning, the suspect lunged from behind a display, eyes wild and frenzied, his fingers outstretched and aiming for her throat.
Instinctively, Ella raised her forearm, blocking his advance, while her free hand reached for her sidearm. They locked into a knot, and Alex's momentum forced them backward, crashing into a glass fridge door and rattling the contents inside. Ella quickly pivoted on one foot and managed to turn their positions, using Alex's own force against him. She thrust him against the glass, but Alex bounced off and used the force to his advantage. He struck her cheek with an elbow, dazing her for a moment, then lunged back in preparation for a relentless assault.
Ella shook off the sudden pain. She wasn’t here to play this man’s games, and she certainly wasn’t about to become a victim in his twisted plot.
She ducked to avoid another swing, and with a swift and precise kick to Alex’s knee, she brought him down to a single leg. He staggered, his face contorting, and then Ella drove her knee into his midsection, forcing the air from Alex’s lungs and momentarily stunning him.
Seizing the momentary advantage, Ella lunged at Alex, using her body weight to propel both of them forward.
Ella had him. The man the news were calling the Maywood Horror Murderer. He was within arresting distance, and she was going to make sure she extracted every piece of information from his twisted brain by whatever means necessary.
Alex Morton crashed spine-first into the refrigerator door, raining down glass from the heavens and coating both he and Ella in crystalline shards. Ella felt no pain, only determination. Alex sprawled out within – just another expired product lining the shelves.
With a spit of blood, Alex cried, ‘It’s…. not my fault.’
Footsteps crossed the aisle, stopping at the scene of the slaughter. Ella glanced back and saw one terrified shopkeeper and one Agent Ripley. She threw Ella her handcuffs.
Alex Morton grabbed onto the doorframe to pick himself up but fell under his own weight.
‘You… could have killed me,’ Alex spat.
Ella snapped one cuff on his wrist. Time to put the exclamation point on this case.
‘Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.’
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
He kept his distance as he followed her, assuming the role of a simple stranger that happened to be traveling the same path through the city backstreets. Every now and then, she would pause to peer into a shop window or to greet a familiar face. To anyone observing, she seemed carefree, but he saw more. He saw the way her eyes darted around occasionally, the slight quiver in her hand when she thought no one was watching, the way she held her bag a little too tight. There was an underlying current of fear of past traumas that still haunted her.
He found himself entranced by her, but not in the way he had been with the others. This wasn't the predatory thrill he felt when stalking a victim. This was something different, something more complex. Was it admiration? Fascination? He couldn't quite put a finger on it.
Her name was Aurora. An ethereal name for an ethereal beauty. But what drew him to her wasn't just her physical allure – it was the enigma that surrounded her.
He had met her once before, even conversed with her, although their interaction only lasted a few fleeting moments. They had exchanged a few pleasantries, words Aurora had no doubt forgotten but had etched in his mind forever. He had been someone else then, wearing a different face, a different persona. He was certain she wouldn't remember him, but he remembered her. Every detail, every nuance.
She took a turn into a quieter alley, and his heart rate quickened. The thrill of the chase, the dance between the predator and the prey – it was intoxicating. He maintained his distance, careful not to alert her. But every so often, he would take a step too quickly, his shoe echoing on the sidewalk, and she would glance over her shoulder, as if sensing something amiss.
Yet, he was adept at this game. Every time she looked back, he was gone, blending seamlessly with the surroundings, hiding in plain sight. He relished these moments – this was his art, his mastery.
As Aurora passed by a small, dimly lit curio shop, the man’s eyes wandered to the window display. Among the odd assortments of antique toys, dusty trinkets, and faded photographs, there was an object that monetarily prized his attention from the beautiful girl.
It was an old, hand-crafted, ornate mask, an artifact from a past civilization that had been hauled out of the ground. With its bronze surface and diamond eyes, it reminded him of a mask his uncle had once created. Not for a movie, but as a personal project—an intricate blend of history and horror. It had been a testament to his uncle's unparalleled skills in special effects craftsmanship.
This particular mask had always intrigued him as a child, with its haunting features that seemed to shift and change when viewed from different angles. The mask had a dual nature; part beauty, part beast. It was said to be inspired by an ancient deity that represented the dualities of life - creation and destruction, love and hate.
Seeing it now in the curio shop window, the memories surged forward. He remembered sneaking into his uncle's studio late at night just to get a closer look at that mask. He remembered how the cold metal felt against his skin, how the features seemed to come alive. It was a piece of art that had both terrified and captivated him. But more than that, it was a symbol of his uncle's genius - a genius that had been cruelly snuffed out by the unforgiving world of Hollywood.
Because his uncle, a once-renowned special effects artist, had crafted similar masks for movies. This was during a time when practical effects were an art form before CGI took over. His uncle had been passionate, always eager to push the boundaries, forever chasing the next big innovation. But ambition can be a double-edged sword, and for his uncle, it was his undoing.
There was that one film – a horror movie that was supposed to be his magnum opus. But something tragedy struck. A mask that was supposed to be just a prop became all too real. His uncle hadn’t taken the necessary precautions, and under the bright lights of the film set, the latex inside had melted, gluing itself to the actor’s face and resulting in unexpected suffocation.
The details were hushed up, but the scars ran deep. His uncle was blacklisted from the industry, branded a failure, and relegated to obscurity. The irrelevancy turned his uncle into a bitter man, and so the uncle vented his frustrations on one nephew in particular.
He introduced this nephew to the world of horror movies at much too young an age. Watching a slasher film was not a bonding experience; it was punishment. If he misbehaved or refused to run errands, he was made to watch the most gruesome scenes. Locked in the dim room, the only light being the flickering screen projecting nightmares, he would curl into a ball, praying for it to end.
The dinner table scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The stained glass hanging from Suspiria. Marty in the Mirror from Poltergeist. The cult sacrifice from the Wicker Man. Needles down the fingernails, demon vomit from possessed children, annihilated families, young girls killed and mutilated. The scenes played out in his head as though he’d lived through these horrors himself, more real than his own memories.
