The basement smelled of rust, bleach, and something sweeter—rotting fruit left too long in the sun. A single bare bulb swung lazily from the ceiling, casting long, dancing shadows across the concrete walls. In the center of the room sat a woman, chained to a heavy metal chair. Her wrists were raw, her ankles bruised purple. A filthy rag had been stuffed deep into her mouth hours ago, now soaked with saliva and blood.
He skipped into the light, humming like a child on his way to recess.
"Lalalalalala, lalalala~"
His voice was high, sing-song, almost cheerful. He clapped his hands twice.
"I'm so happy our date worked out, hmm? You don't look happy, though. Why the grumpy face?" He tilted his head, pouting. "I worked really hard on dinner!"
He danced over to an old wooden wardrobe in the corner, pulled open the drawer, and lifted out two human eyes with delicate care—still wet, still glistening. Veins dangled like pink threads. He placed them gently on the small table in front of her, right next to a cracked porcelain plate.
"Here, sweetie! Open wide~"
He picked up one eye between thumb and forefinger and pressed it against her sealed lips. She jerked her head away, chains rattling, a muffled animal sound escaping around the gag.
His smile vanished in an instant.
"You bitch!"
The slap cracked across her skull like a gunshot. Her chair toppled sideways; her temple smashed into the concrete floor with a wet thud. Everything went black.
When she came to, he was crouched beside her, humming again, soft and lullaby-sweet.
"Lalallala… you made me sad. I made you this delicious thing and you didn't even take a bite. How rude."
He stroked her hair almost tenderly. She trembled violently, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood on her cheeks.
"Oh! I forgot the silly cloth!" He giggled, clapping a hand over his mouth like he'd just remembered he left the oven on. "How silly of me!"
Fingers wormed into her mouth. He pinched the soaked rag and pulled it out slowly, letting it unfurl like a magician's scarf. Strings of saliva and blood stretched and snapped.
She gasped, coughed, tried to scream—
"You're a monster, you bastar—"
His boot smashed into the side of her head before the word finished. Once. Twice. Three times. Each impact sent explosions of white behind her eyes. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed in fine red mist.
"You little pussy," he sang, voice light and playful, "you dare talk to me like that?"
He kicked again—heel to cheekbone, toe to jaw—until her face was a swollen, unrecognizable ruin and her pleas dissolved into wet gurgles.
Then, abruptly, he stopped. Dropped to his knees beside her. His lower lip trembled.
"You really make me sad."
Real tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks. He sniffled. "Don't you see these tears? I just wanted you to try it. Why won't you ever listen?"
He gathered her broken body into his arms as gently as a child carrying a doll and carried her deeper into the house. Behind the closed door, the screaming began—high, raw, endless.
Seven days later.
November 25, 2011.
Police arrived at the abandoned house after an anonymous call. They found the place spotless—floors polished to a mirror shine, counters wiped, not a fingerprint or drop of blood in sight. Only one thing remained: the body, arranged neatly on the living-room floor like a grotesque centerpiece.
Detective Harlan and Officer Reyes stepped into the back room and froze.
The woman—or what was left of her—hung suspended from ceiling hooks by her own peeled skin, arms spread wide like broken wings. Her fingers had been flayed to the bone, skin removed in perfect spirals while she was still alive; the strips lay coiled on a silver tray beneath her like party streamers. Both kneecaps were shattered outward. Elbows pulped. Ears sliced off cleanly, the cartilage missing. Eyes gone. Several toes removed at the joints, the small bones arranged in a smiling face on the tray beside the skin spirals.
The medical examiner's preliminary report, read aloud in a shaking voice, confirmed the nightmare:
"Tortured continuously for approximately seven days. Victim remained conscious for the majority. Skin removed from all ten fingers in single pieces. Both patellae fractured with blunt force. Multiple facial fractures. Elbows dislocated and crushed. Partial removal of auricular cartilage, ocular enucleation, and selective phalangeal amputation—all ante-mortem. Cause of death: slow transection of the trachea with a serrated blade. Victim asphyxiated over twenty to thirty minutes while conscious."
Reyes turned away and vomited in the corner.
Harlan stared at the smiling arrangement of tiny toe bones until the room blurred.
"No clues?" he asked quietly.
"None, sir," another officer replied. "Place is cleaner than a surgery theater. He picked Independence Day on purpose—every cop and soldier in the country distracted by parades. He's a Satan."
Harlan rubbed his eyes. "Keep this out of the media. Twelve victims this year alone. If the public finds out, the whole city will lose its mind."
Later that night, Harlan drove home in silence. His mind replayed the same thoughts it had for eleven months.
Inner monologue:
The first body terrified me. I couldn't sleep for weeks. But the more I studied them, the clearer it became—this isn't just a psychopath. This is a genius who kills like he's directing a horror film. He scrubs every scene until it sparkles, then leaves his signature in the suffering. Satan himself would take notes.
I'm just a man. I'm afraid of the dark. I bleed. I flinch. But every time I remember what those women endured—days of begging for a death that wouldn't come—I swear again: I will find him. Even if it costs me everything.
He pulled into the garage of his large, empty house. Changed clothes mechanically. Went to his bedroom and spread the case files across the floor like tarot cards.
All useless.
Except one thing.
He slid the old VHS tape—found at victim number six—into the player and pressed play.
Static crackled. Then a childlike voice, happy and clear:
"One…"
The screen cut to black.
Harlan had listened to that single word hundreds of times. One. It could be anything—a date, a code, a taunt, a countdown. A million possibilities, zero answers.
He sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion pulling at him.
Inner monologue:
Even geniuses slip. Even perfect monsters leave one loose thread. And when he does, I'll be there. I won't give him the chance to skip away singing.
Outside, the night was cold and quiet.
Somewhere in the city, the monster hummed his little song, already choosing the next playmate.