Page 64 of Girl, Deceived

‘Here I was thinking film directors lived in luxury,’ Ella said. With a hand on the doorknob to the apartment complex, something sticky grazed her palm.

‘Hollywood is where dreams go to die,’ said Ripley. ‘And I guess places like this are the morgue.’

Inside, a dim, flickering bulb revealed a dank hallway. The wallpaper was stained and yellowed, its floral pattern barely recognizable. Doors to the apartments were marked with numbers that had either faded away or been crudely repainted, and an old elevator with an out-of-ordersign hung at the end of the hall.

‘We’re looking for apartment 3B,’ Ella said.

They started up the rickety staircase, the wooden steps groaning under their weight. As they ascended, the sounds of muffled conversations, crying babies, and blaring televisions filtered out from behind closed doors.

Reaching the third floor, they were met with a pungent odor – a mix of stale cigarettes, mold, and something undefinable yet wholly unpleasant. Ella wrinkled her nose in disgust.

‘You think a serial killer lives here?’ she whispered.

‘Wouldn’t be the first murderer I’ve busted in a pig sty. You?’

Ella had no doubt. Harry Faulkner fit the profile to a tee. A failed film director desperate to showcase his depraved artistry, and if he couldn’t get the world’s attention through art, he’d resort to shock tactics. She wasn’t certain if Larry was motivated by narcissism or revenge, but there was a chance both ingredients made up the lethal cocktail that was his psychopathology.

‘I’m certain,’ Ella said as she nodded at apartment 3B. A blue door, paint peeling off, the wordFaulkneretched into the wood.

And it was slightly ajar.

The two detectives exchanged a brief, wary glance. Ripley gestured to Ella, signaling her to take the lead. Ella composed herself, Ella slowly pushed the door open but kept her distance, pistol at the ready.

‘Harry Faulkner?’ she called out. ‘Make yourself known’

No reply.

She stepped an inch closer.

‘Harry? Are you in here?’

Nothing. But somewhere within, a woman’s voice stirred. Moans, murmuring.

Ella grabbed Ripley by the shoulder. ‘Hear that?’

Ripley nodded, her hand now resting on her own weapon. ‘Sounds like mumbling. Maybe a prayer or... a plea?’

Ella stepped over the threshold, pushing the door further open with a creak. Protocol said that agents couldn’t breach premises without consent from the occupant, not unless they deemed someone to be in danger.

‘No time for taking chances. What if we just caught him bringing a victim back here?’

‘Go,’ Ripley commanded.

Ella was inside, the atmosphere instantly shifting from the dreary corridor to an overwhelming sensory overload. The interior was equally shabby as the rest of the complex, but Harry Faulkner’s character was on full display at first glance.

They were straight into a living room, yet it was less a living space and more of a tribute to the macabre. A morbid yet captivating art installation. Every available wall space was plastered with old movie posters – faded classics like Nosferatu and Psycho - but among them, more obscure titles peppered the walls, perhaps underground films known only to true aficionados. The color palettes of these posters were dominated by deep reds and blacks.

But it wasn't just the walls that told stories of Harry's obsessions. The room was filled with an array of bizarre ornaments. A glass case showcased grotesque sculptures, twisted representations of human figures, some with elongated limbs, others with hollowed-out eyes. The attention to detail was eerily exquisite, suggesting that Harry, or whoever had made them, had spent considerable time crafting each piece.

Shelves that lined one side of the room were stacked with VHS tapes labeled with dates and cryptic titles. Ella made outFirst Take,Mistress of the NightandFinal Cut.

But Ella had no time to admire the surroundings because the woman's high-pitched voice cut through the air again. She spun on her heels, following the sound, drawing her to a small hallway flanked by two closed doors.

Ripley was close behind. ‘In here,’ she shouted, fixing her hand around the door handle. Ella gripped her pistol. Ripley stormed inside with a shoulder barge.

A bedroom. One single bed against the wall, old and wooden. A windowsill was lined with empty bottles. Ornaments from a bygone age decorated a dresser. The only anomaly was a laptop, still propped open.

But the centerpiece of the macabre display was an old woman.

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