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But over time, terror morphed into fascination. The dread lost its edge, and the monsters that haunted his childhood dreams became something else. They became idols, mentors, even friends. Demons to some, angels to others. These monsters represented strength, control, and power – things he felt he lacked in his real life. Instead of fearing them, he began to idolize them, and the lines between fantasy and reality began to blur.
That was how he was initiated into the macabre world of horror. The films that had once been instruments of torture became his safe haven. Evil thenceforth became his good.He found solace in the predictable rhythms of the genre – the buildup, the climax, the final confrontation between the protagonist and the antagonist. He especially admired the slasher films where the killer, despite the odds, always came back for one more scare.
But horror movies always ended one way; vanquished monsters, triumphant heroes, love and resilience conquering all, beauty slaying the beast.
And that made him sick.
In the safety of the dark theater or the confines of his room, he would sneer at the predictable endings. The scream queens always survived, the heroes always prevailed, and good always trumped evil. It was a tired narrative that no longer satiated his evolved tastes. The real world, as he saw it, was much different. It was unpredictable, chaotic, and often cruel. Heroes didn’t always win, monsters weren’t always slain, and sometimes the damsel in distress became the victim. His own life was a testament to that. His tormented childhood, the injustices dealt to his uncle, the scorn of society. It was all evidence of the world’s twisted reality.
His disillusionment grew, and he started to write his own stories in his mind, tales where the predator was always a step ahead, where the prey's struggles were in vain, where the end was always bitter and devoid of hope. It was a world where he had the power, the control, and where the rules of conventional horror didn’t apply. His mind began to mesh these fantasies with reality. Every encounter, every observation, every face on the street became a part of his dark narrative. He fancied himself a director of his own horror masterpiece, and the world was his film set.
Shaking his head, he tried to banish the memories, focusing once again on Aurora. But the ghosts of the past clung to him, whispering in his ear, reminding him of the twisted path that had brought him to this very moment.
Aurora had moved ahead, disappearing from his immediate line of sight. Swiftly, he paced forward, eager to find her again. Aurora, with her air of vulnerability and strength, was the perfect final girl for his story. She had everything: the looks, the charisma, the resilience, even the cutesy name that was equal parts sweetheart and warrior.
Aurora was the one who would bring his tale to its climactic end.
Rounding the corner, he finally caught a glimpse of her. Aurora's apartment building stood before him, an old brick structure that seemed to wear the history of the city on its very walls. He observed from the shadows as Aurora entered her building, her silhouette briefly appearing in the window as she moved up the staircase. The street was silent, save for the distant hum of city life. He waited for a beat, ensuring no one had seen him, before making his move.
As he approached the building, he remembered their brief interaction, the softness of her voice, the brief touch of her hand as they’d exchanged sweet nothings.
He paused for a moment outside her apartment door, listening for any sign of movement from within.
All was quiet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an item, carefully wrapped, holding it between his fingers. He glanced around once more, ensuring that the hallway remained deserted. Then, with precision, he slipped the object under Aurora's door.
The scene was set.
Time to destroy the one horror trope he’d despised since day one – the final girl.
And this time, it wasn’t just a symbol – it was arealfinal girl.
If Aurora – or those detectives he’d seen at the crime scenes – thought that this story had a happy ending, they hadn’t been paying attention.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
‘Alex, we’re going to make this short and sweet,’ Ella said. Beside her, Ripley pulled a sheet of paper out of a brown folder and pushed it towards the cuffed suspect on the other side of the table. The man had cuts to his neck and shoulder, but as far as Ella was concerned, he Alex Morton got off lightly.
Ripley said, ‘This is a list of numbers that contacted Ginny Mathers’ last night. Mind telling us why your number is top of the list? Twice?’
Alex shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to separate his hands but finding resistance from the chains. ‘Looks like a lot of numbers called Ginny last night.’
‘Wrong,’ Ella said. ‘You were the last one. You sent her two videos, and the bad news for you is... we’ve seen those videos.’
‘I don’t know anyone named Ginny Mathers, and that’s not my phone. Well, it is, but it’s not like that.’
Ella raised an eyebrow. ‘Not like what?’
Alex's eyes darted between Ella and Ripley, a classic deer in the headlights. ‘It's not like what you think. My phone was stolen last week.’
Ripley scoffed. ‘That's convenient.’
Alex's voice trembled, a mixture of desperation and fear. ‘Listen, I was at a bar with some buddies, okay? I had a bit too much to drink. When I woke up, my phone was gone. I've never seen thesevideos, and I have no idea who this Ginny person is.’
Ella leaned in, her face inches from his. ‘Alex, I expected better from a movie buff like you. You know the one offense that instantly breaks immersion?’
‘What?’
‘Bad continuity. This morning, you told us you never leave your store, yet you wereat the bar with your buddies.’
