"You've very persistent, Detective Mortis."
The voice, hoarse and low, buzzed from an old radio in the dark museum. The radio sat on a pedestal where a European artifact from the sixteenth century used to rest in a perfectly preserved state. Now, the idol sat shattered on the floorboards beneath. Edward Mortis was no historian, but he prized the security of this museum. Considering how the object was in a ruined state rather than being stolen told him one thing--this was a ploy to get his attention, and the criminal sure as hell had it.
It was an exercise that Mortis was tiring of. Every Halloween for the last four years, the serial killer known only ask "Mask" struck terror into the city. Missing cases and killings skyrocketed on these nights, all at the soiled hands of Mask. The first year of his appearance, he made no effort to avoid being photographed--almost as if he wanted to be seen. Whoever he was, there was never a reliable visual profile to identify him. Mask always dressed elaborately in disguises that were chillingly human, like wearing a second skin. The first year, he was a middle-aged balding man in a raincoat. The second year, a mustached businessman in a suit and tie. The third year, an imitation of Mortis' father, who Mask decapitated the year prior.
Now it was the fourth year, and who Mask was this time was anyone's guess. One thing was for sure: the murders were still barbaric. The glass casing that protected the artifact had been smashed in. Judging by the circumference of the hole, and the fractured cranium of the corpse at Mortis' feet, some poor bastard security guards' head had been used as a blunt instrument.
The detective instinctively felt for his sidearm, then cursed, remembering that Mask was wanted alive. The death penalty was too good for him. He turned his flashlight to the hallway that seemed to stretch on for a mile. The walls robbed the building of sound to the point where Mortis could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. His free hand clenched into a fist, fingers trembling with angry tension. He'd been at the scene of every single crime that Mask committed. He'd gotten dozens of phone calls from countless disheartened and frightened people, who pinned the blame on him and the rest of the agency for not finding this monster. At this point, he'd take almost anything for an answer to the mystery that would quell the public outcry.
A loudspeaker from the lobby echoed down the hall.
"This may be the end of my legend."
Mortis clutched his flashlight and half-jogged down the hallway, forfeiting caution in favor of finding the killer faster. Mask was driving the detective mad, along with the mayor and half of everyone else in town.
"I'm here, Mortis. I tire of this game. If you can catch and unmask me in time, I'll come quietly. But you'll have to be faster than that."
Was it a trap? Probably. In fact, there was very little chance that it wasn't. But when adrenaline and emotion surge through the mind, they rip the steering wheel away from logic and reason. And Mortis' brain was speeding down a highway of vengeance. He broke into a sprint as he neared the lobby. He could barely make out the shadow of a hunched human figure, who was leaning carefully over what seemed to be another body. The heels of Mortis' shoes became slick from a trail of blood beneath him.
The detective burst into the lobby, and the figure in the dark whipped around. Mask had played a sick card this year; he wore very convincing police uniform and had a rubber face mask on that was so realistic it was almost indiscernible from real human flesh.
Mortis, however, wasn't fooled nor slowed by this appearance. He tackled Mask to the ground, catching him in a forceful chokehold. Mask strained and writhed, grasping for his walkie-talkie, which he no doubt had been using to speak over the sound systems. It would all end tonight. The taunting, the headaches, the mystery, the public outcry... the killer's identity was in Mortis' rugged hands. He clutched Mask's chin and heaved with all his might. The face mask was on like glue, but in a feat of almost superhuman strength, it came off. Messily.
The commotion caused the motion-activated lights to turn on, bathing the two in bright white illumination. Mortis looked down at Mask, praying he wasn't anyone he knew personally.
He wasn't.
In fact, this wasn't Mask at all.
There was no mask to begin with.
As Mortis let go, the policeman fell to the ground in agony, writhing like a fish out of water. Gurgling chokes escaped his throat in place of screams. He looked at Mortis with wide, unblinking eyes, his face a grisly visage of blood, bone, and muscle. Red trickled out like a waterfall, making a sea of sin that stained Mortis' shirt and hands.
The choking and spasms both stopped. Mortis fought back vomit and dropped the flesh of the policeman's face. In the far distance, police sirens sounded off. The speakers overhead crackled to life.
"They want someone to answer for the deaths, Mortis. Sit still--they'll soon have one."
The voice, hoarse and low, buzzed from an old radio in the dark museum. The radio sat on a pedestal where a European artifact from the sixteenth century used to rest in a perfectly preserved state. Now, the idol sat shattered on the floorboards beneath. Edward Mortis was no historian, but he prized the security of this museum. Considering how the object was in a ruined state rather than being stolen told him one thing--this was a ploy to get his attention, and the criminal sure as hell had it.
It was an exercise that Mortis was tiring of. Every Halloween for the last four years, the serial killer known only ask "Mask" struck terror into the city. Missing cases and killings skyrocketed on these nights, all at the soiled hands of Mask. The first year of his appearance, he made no effort to avoid being photographed--almost as if he wanted to be seen. Whoever he was, there was never a reliable visual profile to identify him. Mask always dressed elaborately in disguises that were chillingly human, like wearing a second skin. The first year, he was a middle-aged balding man in a raincoat. The second year, a mustached businessman in a suit and tie. The third year, an imitation of Mortis' father, who Mask decapitated the year prior.
Now it was the fourth year, and who Mask was this time was anyone's guess. One thing was for sure: the murders were still barbaric. The glass casing that protected the artifact had been smashed in. Judging by the circumference of the hole, and the fractured cranium of the corpse at Mortis' feet, some poor bastard security guards' head had been used as a blunt instrument.
The detective instinctively felt for his sidearm, then cursed, remembering that Mask was wanted alive. The death penalty was too good for him. He turned his flashlight to the hallway that seemed to stretch on for a mile. The walls robbed the building of sound to the point where Mortis could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. His free hand clenched into a fist, fingers trembling with angry tension. He'd been at the scene of every single crime that Mask committed. He'd gotten dozens of phone calls from countless disheartened and frightened people, who pinned the blame on him and the rest of the agency for not finding this monster. At this point, he'd take almost anything for an answer to the mystery that would quell the public outcry.
A loudspeaker from the lobby echoed down the hall.
"This may be the end of my legend."
Mortis clutched his flashlight and half-jogged down the hallway, forfeiting caution in favor of finding the killer faster. Mask was driving the detective mad, along with the mayor and half of everyone else in town.
"I'm here, Mortis. I tire of this game. If you can catch and unmask me in time, I'll come quietly. But you'll have to be faster than that."
Was it a trap? Probably. In fact, there was very little chance that it wasn't. But when adrenaline and emotion surge through the mind, they rip the steering wheel away from logic and reason. And Mortis' brain was speeding down a highway of vengeance. He broke into a sprint as he neared the lobby. He could barely make out the shadow of a hunched human figure, who was leaning carefully over what seemed to be another body. The heels of Mortis' shoes became slick from a trail of blood beneath him.
The detective burst into the lobby, and the figure in the dark whipped around. Mask had played a sick card this year; he wore very convincing police uniform and had a rubber face mask on that was so realistic it was almost indiscernible from real human flesh.
Mortis, however, wasn't fooled nor slowed by this appearance. He tackled Mask to the ground, catching him in a forceful chokehold. Mask strained and writhed, grasping for his walkie-talkie, which he no doubt had been using to speak over the sound systems. It would all end tonight. The taunting, the headaches, the mystery, the public outcry... the killer's identity was in Mortis' rugged hands. He clutched Mask's chin and heaved with all his might. The face mask was on like glue, but in a feat of almost superhuman strength, it came off. Messily.
The commotion caused the motion-activated lights to turn on, bathing the two in bright white illumination. Mortis looked down at Mask, praying he wasn't anyone he knew personally.
He wasn't.
In fact, this wasn't Mask at all.
There was no mask to begin with.
As Mortis let go, the policeman fell to the ground in agony, writhing like a fish out of water. Gurgling chokes escaped his throat in place of screams. He looked at Mortis with wide, unblinking eyes, his face a grisly visage of blood, bone, and muscle. Red trickled out like a waterfall, making a sea of sin that stained Mortis' shirt and hands.
The choking and spasms both stopped. Mortis fought back vomit and dropped the flesh of the policeman's face. In the far distance, police sirens sounded off. The speakers overhead crackled to life.
"They want someone to answer for the deaths, Mortis. Sit still--they'll soon have one."