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‘Now we know why,’ Ella called to her partner. ‘References to Michael Myers, Pinhead, Jason Vorhees. Every move has been meticulous. It was all about this film.’
‘Enough horror trivia,’ said Ripley as she rotated on her heels, pistol jabbed in every direction. ‘Let’s find this guy.’
Ella edged forward, navigating the maze of walkways, props, glass cabinets. It was reminiscent of Harry Faulkner’s apartment, perhaps not by accident.
She ventured deeper inside, senses on overdrive. Every step she took echoed in her ears, and the dim lighting made it hard to discern shapes from shadows. The warehouse smelled of stale air and rust, with a faint undertone of something metallic – blood?
She tried to focus, to block out the creeping dread that was gnawing at her. The shrine's intricate detail, the meticulous placement of each prop, was a stark reminder of the killer's obsession and dedication. It was one thing to chase a criminal through the well-lit streets of LA; it was entirely another to be caught in the very web of horror they'd spun. This was no ordinary crime scene – it was the killer's domain, and they were his unwelcome guests.
Her fingers tightened around her gun, taking some comfort in its familiar weight. She reminded herself that they were there for a reason – to end the nightmare and bring the perpetrator to justice. With each step, Ella repeated this mantra in her mind, trying to steady her racing heart.
And then, just as she started to regain some semblance of composure, a shrill, terrified scream pierced the air. It echoed, filtering through horror props, the perfect soundtrack to a horror shrine.
‘Someone’s here, Dark,’ shouted Ripley.
‘We need to cover this place top to bottom.’
‘You head right,’ Ripley pointed. ‘I’ll go left.’
Ella hastened across the main room, pistol drawn, eager to meet this human monster in person. On the way, she caught a portrait photo of Norman Bates, grinning at her with his sinister smile.
Her old friend Norman. The first person she tried to profile but never managed to finish.
She clocked her gun, new determination in her veins.
This story was going to have an ending, she told herself.
In the distance, Ripley's footsteps were faint, but Ella could still hear them from the other side of the warehouse, moving with the same purpose. And even though the horror rules stated that you should never split up when in danger, Ella was going to rewrite those old clichés tonight.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
The Director moved like a phantom through the studio, deliberate and silent strides, rehearsed countless times in his mind, like a predator stalking its prey.
The slow, rhythmic beating of his heart was the only sound that seemed real to him as he carefully observed every movement, every flicker of light, listening intently for any footsteps or whispers. He was patient, knowing that the element of surprise was on his side. Among the glass displays and mounted props, Curtis weaved his path, using the reflections in the glass to keep an eye on his surroundings. Occasionally, he would pause, pressing himself flat against a wall or hiding behind a particularly large prop.
Everything had gone to plan, almost too perfectly. Aurora Davis was lost in the maze of backstage rooms, bleeding, weakening, too terrified to step out into the main room. She'd left her cell phone on the dresser, and so the Director had smashed it to pieces. And, of course, the detectives had arrived on cue, no doubt having pieced his clues together. He'd seen two women arrive, the same two he'd seen hanging around Jessica Owen's death site. He hadn't expected women, but now it seemed he had three final girls for his grand finale. Could any other horror icons lay claim to that?
And once he’d piled up the bodies, all attention would be on Harry Faulkner.
But the Director had to give Harry a little credit. Harry had introduced his former self to the alter ego that soon became his entire being.
Before the mask, he was Curtis Madden, a freelance special effects designer shunned by Hollywood due to his family connections. His uncle’s own creations had once suffocated a man on set, and so Curtis – despite his inherited love for the special effects game, was bearing the burden of his uncle’s actions.
But Harry Faulkner had taken a chance and hired Curtis for his soon-to-be-famous movieIn Hell.And when Curtis saw that mask – with its intricate detailing, its glossy, haunting eyes, and the cruel, twisted smile – he felt an immediate connection. It was as if the mask had been waiting for him, calling out to him. He couldn’t craft the prototype fast enough, and once the latex had dried, he spent countless hours wearing his creation, inhabiting the character within, becoming a new person free of the burdens that had been forced upon him. Crafting the Director’s mask, bringing those chilling features to life, it wasn't just artistry – it was an awakening.
Growing up, his fascination with horror led him to collect movie memorabilia, posters, and even copies of original scripts. His room was adorned with iconic masks and figures, each representing a world where the macabre was celebrated. Yet, to him, horror wasn't about the fear or the blood. It was about the story, the psychology behind the characters, and the depths to which humans could plunge when faced with their deepest fears.
But even as Curtis submerged himself in this world, it remained a passive engagement. He loved the stories, the creativity, and the nuances. But he was an observer, a consumer of tales spun by others.
The transformation from Curtis to the Director didn't happen overnight. It was a gradual evolution, fueled by his newfound role in the filmmaking process. The Director wasn't just a moniker; it was an embodiment of his deepest desires and fantasies. It was a role that allowed him to take control, to dictate the narrative rather than just consume it.
The very act of wearing the mask had given the Director a newfound identity, a purpose. In the darkness behind that lifeless facade, he felt invincible, released by the weight of his own humanity. When assuming the role, he wasn't just mimicking the killer from the movie; he became the killer. The line between fantasy and reality blurred, and the Director found himself lost in a dark fantasy of his own making. Every scene he orchestrated, every victim he chose, every meticulously planned murder – it was all a tribute to the films that had shaped him.
Drawing inspiration from Harry’s script, as well as his encyclopedic knowledge of horror films, he began to craft his own story. Each murder was meticulously planned, each victim a tribute to the iconic final girls of slasher films past. The meticulous detail he put into the masks he left behind at each crime scene was proof of his dedication to the craft.
As the Director moved through the studio, memories of past films played in his mind. The iconic scenes, the screams, the thrill of the chase. He saw himself as the rightful heir to the legacy of horror icons, eager to etch his own name alongside theirs.
In the dim glow of the shrine, the Director's attention was suddenly drawn to a faint silhouette moving further in the distance. The nimble, stealthy movements betrayed an experience, a training of sorts. It wasn't Aurora's panicking scuttle, nor the clumsy footfalls of an unsuspecting victim. This was someone with purpose, someone cautious yet determined.
