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From the scant light refracting through a display case, the Director made out the outline of the brunette detective he'd spotted earlier. Her shoulder-length hair framed a face that, even in shadow, carried an unmistakable intensity. There was a hint of nerdy charm in her appearance, with glasses that occasionally caught the glint of ambient light. To the Director, it made her all the more appealing.
While most would see a trained detective, wary and ready, the Director saw something different. She was the perfect Final Girl—smart, resilient, and good-looking. The archetype that had eluded him until now.
In this expansive, macabre playground, he felt in control. The props, the atmosphere, the dim lighting – it all worked to his advantage. He'd been careful, meticulously crafting this environment, turning the tables on any would-be hunter. Here, he was the predator, and they were the prey.
Moving seamlessly through the shadows, he maintained his distance, watching her every move. The slightest shift in her posture, the turn of her head, even the rhythm of her breathing, he noted it all.
Hiding behind one of the old film projectors, he spotted a tray of old props on a table nearby. As the Final Girl skulked through his trap – like a mongoose into the snake pit, he gently clinked a metal can with his fingernail then retreated into the shadows.
The tinny sound echoed around the film set, a brief note amplified by the tension. Instantly, the Final Girl whipped around, uncertainty flickering in her eyes as she scanned the room. To an observer, it would seem she was ready for anything, her senses on high alert.
But to the Director, the brief moment of vulnerability was electric. An adrenaline bolt of excitement jolted through him, feeding the insatiable pleasure he derived from this dark game of cat and mouse. It was a high, an intoxicating rush that no drug or thrill could match. It was the pure, unbridled joy of controlling the narrative, of pulling the strings in this macabre theater.
To him, this was more than just a hunt; it was an art form. Like the scenes in his cherished horror films, this was a dance—a dance of suspense, of fear, and ultimately, of death.
He wanted to savor this, the culmination of all his planning, his masterpiece, but he had to strike soon. The brunette detective might think she was hunting him, but in this domain, amidst his creations, the Director was always in control. And soon, she'd realize that she was just another player in his grand performance.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Ella was on high alert, finger trembling on the trigger as she navigated this amateur horror museum. She tried to put herself in the killer’s shoes, to anticipate his moves. Where would he strike from? What would be his next play? Who was this victim – and was she still alive? Finding her came first, apprehending the unsub second.
He'd been steps ahead so far, leaving breadcrumbs, taunting her with his intricate scenes, orchestrating a horror story in real life. But now, the stakes were different. Ella was in his lair, and he was no longer the puppet master from the shadows.
She continually looked back towards the door that Ripley had blown open, because a part of her believed that this unsub would flee at the first opportunity. However, she knew that wasn’t his end game. There needed to be a final victim – or victims. A bloodbath that punctuated the end of his reign. Any other climax would be unfit for a villain of his caliber.
As she delved deeper into the shrine, past rows of costumed mannequins and mock-murder weapons, Ella thought she heard scuffling, breathing, even whistling.
As she took another cautious step, she heard a faint sound – a soft whisper of fabric or maybe a faint shuffle. Ella swiftly turned on her heels, her gun aimed at what she hoped would be the source of the sound.
But there was no living figure in front of her. Just a baby carriage idly rolling in her direction.
The carriage wheels squeaked ominously, echoing in the otherwise silent room. It continued its slow trajectory toward Ella until it came to a stop just a few feet from her. The disheveled white lace canopy obscured the contents of the carriage from view.
For a split second, Ella found herself frozen, memories of old horror films flashing through her mind. The iconic scene from Rosemary's Baby seemed to play out in her mind's eye, but she knew this wasn't a movie. This was real, and she needed to maintain her composure.
She approached the carriage with caution, gun raised and ready. She hesitated for a split second before mustering the courage to pull back the canopy.
Empty. Ella spun back around, the acoustics of the large, mostly empty space played tricks on her ears, amplifying every little sound, casting echoes in odd directions. The whispered legacy of horror icons seemed to drift through the air, mingling with her own breaths, which came out in short, shaky bursts. The display cases, reflecting the sparse light available, played tricks on her vision, struggling to differentiate between movements and reflection.
Even so, she was certain the unsub was close, watching her every move, waiting for the perfect moment. This was a game for him, and he was enjoying watching her squirm. But Ella was not about to be outplayed.
The maze seemed to blur together in a haze of props, displays, glass boxes and piles of handwritten notes. With every step, Ella felt like she was walking deeper into the fever dream of a madman who was obsessed with a twisted kind of fame. Ella hurried around a corner, gun pointing at the darkness, and at the end of the makeshift row, she saw something that turned her blood to lava.
Four mannequins in a row, three of them made up to look like famous final girls. Laurie Strode with a knife in hand, Kirsty Cotton clutching the Hellraiser box, and Ginny Field in her iconic sweater.
But it was the fourth mannequin that drew her attention.
The figure was blank, devoid of any defining features or clothing. Just a white canvas in human shape.
Then, realization was over Ella like a cold wave.
It was an open slot, awaiting its heroine – or, in this horrifying game, its next victim. It would be here that the killer truly blended reality and fiction, because Ella realized exactly who the scream a minute ago had belonged to.
The final girl from In Hell. It was the closest thing the killer had to a real-life scream queen, and this mannequin was symbolic of her intended demise.
Ella’s senses were sharpened, every nerve firing on all cylinders. The mannequins gave way to a dead end, so Ella spun around, and it was then that she froze, feet nailed to the ground. Her breath caught in her throat as she locked eyes onto the black voids of the killer’s mask, the brown leather reflecting the cold gleam of the surrounding display cases. Freakish height, long arms, a dirty brown apron draped over his lanky frame. A horror villain in all its hideous glory – and he was only a few feet away from her.
A myriad of thoughts rushed through Ella's mind: Should she shoot on sight? Talk him into submission? And where was Ripley?
