This Xmas Day Butcher has a fucked up sense of humor.
With nervous fingers, I pulled the note free from its mouth.
CLUE #10: “Tell Detective Castillo that she’ll never find me. When she dies, it will bring me so much glee!”
I shuddered as I read it. This Xmas Day Butcher seemingly planned on killing everyone in town—everyone I knew, anyway. I feared that Mayor Hamonte and Detective Castillo were next on the chopping block.
I turned to look at her just as she returned, puffing and wide-eyed.
“He’s threatening you now,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
For the first time since I had seen Detective Castillo, I saw raw fear in her eyes.
CHAPTER 19
DECEMBER 19TH
My nightmare unraveled in sharp flashes—rapid images stitched together at random.
A large, metal door creaked open.
Inside: the white, padded room was empty except for a motionless body beneath a thin white sheet. Alongside it was a creepy doll—with a cracked porcelain face and glassy, lifeless eyes.
When I blinked, a narrow, dark alleyway materialized, a thick fog surrounding it. A motionless figure with a shadowy face was slumped against a brick wall, a camera strap tangled around its red, slit-open neck—more than likely a journalist.
A doll is propped beside it, dressed in a tiny plaid shirt to match the victim’s own. A photograph of the gruesome scene was held up by the doll’s tiny arms—a terrifying display of evil.
When I blinked again, I saw a hotel door that hung broken from its hinges. I floated inside, overturned luggage and scattered papers littered the floor.
Half a body was sticking out, underneath the bed. A press pass splattered with blood sat beside two outstretched hands that had been severed. A dark red outline showed the violent butchering of the arms.
On the nightstand, a doll sat with its legs dangling over the edge, a newspaper clipping embedded in its torso.
The headline said: “THE DOLLHOUSE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN.”
A sudden darkness overtook my eyes, and the vision shifted to a hardwood table illuminated by a single flickering bulb overhead. Newspapers were spread out like evidence of a series of grisly, interconnected murders.
The papers floated in front of my eyes, showing me the various, shocking headlines:
“DOCTOR THOMAS T. TUTTLE — DISREGARDED AND DISRESPECTED BY THE MEDICAL RESEARCH COMMUNITY.”
“5TH VICTIM DEAD IN STRING OF BIZARRE MURDERS. ALL HAD SPOKEN OUT AGAINST DR. TUTTLE. CONNECTION OR COINCIDENCE?”
“DOCTOR TUTTLE STRONGLY REFUTES ALLCLAIMS THAT HE HAD HIS OUTSPOKEN CRITICS—MURDERED.”
“WHAT IS THE SECRETIVE, DARK HISTORY OF THE GIBRALTAR INSTITUTE?”
The papers started to flutter around each other—pages screaming and flying like a ferocious tornado. A stitched doll with glinting, red eyes flashed in front of me, making my heart drop.
Everything went black.
I woke up, heaving and panting, rubbing the sweat off my forehead—before it dripped down to my eyes. I scanned my bedroom—thankful that I was safe, for the time being.
I checked my watch, it was:December 19th.
I got up quickly and glided over to the kitchen. I needed something in my stomach—anything would’ve sufficed.
I had stayed behind after Castillo left. She had told me to keep my head down and to stay out of trouble. Her exact words were, “Don’t move, Lenny. Stay put.”
