The snowfall reminded me of the time when I lived in Mercy’s Light with Lincoln. My mind went back to those days of misery…
The long, boring days that bled into each other in that dreadful place, black and cold. I spent most of my time staring at the scratched-up wall, the one that looked like someone had been clawing at it—like a ferocious animal. Not because I was curious about it, but because I didn’t want to get into any trouble.
Mildred, the head caretaker, didn’t like noise. She didn’t like coughing, crying, laughing, or talking—especially not from Lincoln and me.
Her brutal hand was always quick to redden my cheek.
Our only solace was in the far corner of our living quarters—a dollhouse, dusty and broken. It had a few tiny beds inside with tiny dolls. We pretended to live there, pretended like it was our alternate reality—where we hadn’t left our home, and our parents were still alive.
I remembered the way Lincoln and I used to sit on the dust-filled floor together. We’d huddle by the cracked window to try and catch a glimpse of the outside world—to see if we could attain any shred of joy from anything we might’ve seen.
The only thing we ever saw was the scorching hot sun, or the snowfall blanketing the town.
Lincoln’s favorite dolls were the damaged ones—ripped-up things with missing buttons and made-up stories on what they had gone through. Lincoln’s stories were always the most violent. It mirrored the horrors of what we had seen while living in downtrodden places, bouncing from one broken home to the next, while our parents fled the criminals they had stolen from.
That was about as much as I cared to remember.
He held his doll up, examining it. “Do you ever think we’ll get adopted?” he asked, his voice carried that tone of careful hope. We knew we had to temper our expectations, when it came to the kind of lives we wanted to live.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s quieter when it’s just us, anyway. I don’t miss all the screaming and the fighting. It scares me.”
He smiled at that, a sad smile. “I know. I don’t miss it either.”
Then a shadow loomed over us. A taller kid—older, broad-shouldered, mean-mugged, molded by the cruelty of Mercy’s Light.
I tried to remember his name. Colton? I thought it might’ve been Colton. To me, it fit his face somehow.
He sneered down at us. “Stop playing with dolls like girls,” he commanded. “Hand ’em over. I want them for myself. I’m gonna burn them.”
Lincoln stood up before I could pull him back. “No,” he shot back, chin raised up, not afraid of the older bully. “Go away. You leave us alone. We’re not doing anything to you. Got it?”
The bully’s face flashed with rage as he shoved him back, hard. Lincoln pushed back, harder. Suddenly, they were on each other, fists swinging, feet kicking across the dirty wooden floor. I wanted to step in, but it all happened too fast for me to react.
“Enough!”
Mildred’s voice cracked through the room like a thunder bolt. She marched in angrily—long, gray, checkered dress, scornful eyes, that permanent scowl carved deep into her wrinkled, old face. She grabbed them both by the arms and yanked them apart.
“Insolent boys. You will learn to behave! You two in separate corners. Eight hours. No food, no water, no talking, no sleeping,” she hissed. “Break my rules and you’ll be broken instead.”
Lincoln glared at the floor, breathing hard. Even then, I knew something had shifted in him. That was the day he started fighting everyone and everything, the day he stopped trying to stay quiet—his resolve had been broken.
He lashed out at the world after that. I was the polar opposite, but he was my brother. I loved him and I missed him more than anything.
When he was murdered…I never healed from that. I didn’t know how. I still didn’t.
I snapped back to the present and walked over to my couch, heat rushing to my face. My heart hammered in my ears.
Colton must’ve been there in Mercy’s Light. The older bully might’ve been him. That’s how he knew who I was, and where I was.
Colton Kilhouser had to be theDollhouse Killer, but something didn’t make sense.
Why change his name? Why go by theXmas Day Butcher? Why abduct Angela?
What the hell did I have to do with any of it?
My phone vibrated, and I quickly slid it out. I received an email, and the subject line was:POST OFFICE—item available for pickup.An anonymous sender, of course, something that didn’t seem traceable. I waited until the next day after I received it because they were closed.
What did the Xmas Day Butcher have in store for me now?
