October 20th, 1976
Hollow, Creek Pennsylvania
2:15 P.M.
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Wind swept through the forest, stripping dead branches from their limbs and snapping them to land, scattering on Thomas Bell's dry ground. He stomped forward in his boots, every stride heavy but precise. The fisted grip in his face of mud and war paint was claustrophobic, but not his face. Not him. The mask stood as his solitary defense—his only protection
The paint, hardening on his skin with the escaping air, split and cracked like a disgusting piece of art. It hardened across his face in heavy strokes of black and brown, striped downward across his forehead and cheeks. The camouflage was not all for hiding. It stood for something, as well—a sign for what he was then—less human, more shattered.
"...soon..."
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"...now go..."
The words pushed him. Soft, fractured phrases that rubbed up against the edge of his mind, never fully understandable, but they were there. Always there. He couldn't shut them off. He didn't even attempt to. They told him what he was to do, what was next. There was no thought. No choice. There was just movement.
His fingers, stiff with the residue of dried paint, jerked as he trudged further into the forest, the silence of the autumn afternoon punctuated only by the occasional flailing of the wind and the far-off cry of a bird. He was so distant from everything, yet the voices in his head made it seem as if he had never been closer to anything than he was that moment.
"...now..."
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"...it's time..."
His legs marched forward with resolve, taking him in spite of the fog creeping into his mind. The house in the distance was a long way away, yet he accelerated. It didn't matter. Nothing did except what the voices told him.
Thomas heard it—the soft hum of a TV from the house up the road. The piney smell from the woods was mixed with the insistent smell of mildew from the house. The air was thick, heavy, and cold against his skin. He stretched out a numb hand for the porch railing, his fingers running over the coarse wood. He didn't stop. His empty, tired eyes leapt to the door, which was open a little way.
"...close..."
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"...take it now..."
The voices were nearer now, more distinct. He was forced to do it. He couldn't help himself. His breathing was in staccato gasps, though his body didn't flinch. He opened the door. The hinges creaked, a dull creaking that seemed to echo through the empty house. The small living room was dim, the only light coming from the flickering television.
There was a man—an older, tired one—on the couch. His eyes were fixed on the screen and oblivious to the danger that had crept into his home undetected.
"...he's there..."
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"...grab him..."
Thomas stepped in, his footsteps muffled by the thin carpet beneath. His heart racing in his chest. The tightness in his muscles reached a peak as he approached the man. His hand shot out, catching the man by the shoulder, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. The man turned, taken aback, his face twisted in bewilderment.
Before the man could utter a word, Thomas moved. His fingers darted to the man's throat, the hold tightening like a vice. The man's hands flailed up in an unsuccessful attempt to free himself, but it was too late. Thomas's hold, fueled by something darker than his own will, did not waver. The man's face twisted into fear as he clawed at Thomas's hands, but the older man's efforts were useless. Thomas's face paint crumbled away in dry flakes as he clenched his teeth, seeing the life ebb from the man's eyes.
"....struggle..."
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"....fight... makes it better..."
Thomaswasn't sure if he was speaking to the man or to himself. His hold did not relax. The noises—the gasps, the struggling—only encouraged him. The body of the man relaxed in his arms, and Thomas felt the final breath escape him, the tension in the body relaxing into a final, lifeless limpness.
"...done..."
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"...next..."
Thomas let the body fall, his arms releasing their hold slowly. The dead man's body slumped forward onto the couch. The room fell into a silence so heavy it was almost a kind of sound. Thomas stood over the body for what felt like hours, his chest expanding and contracting with the breaths he barely registered. His thoughts were a hum, a gentle buzzing of the voices at the back of his head urging him on, reminding him that there was more. Always more.
He stepped back, his eyes on the body, but the room was already fading from his thoughts. There was nothing for him here. No reason to stay. He turned, the weight of the mask—of his own shattered identity—pressing down on him like an inexorable, suffocating reminder of what he was now.
"...go..."
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"...now...'
He did not delay. Did not need to. He walked toward the door, his boots crunching on the floor. His mind was spinning, his vision blurring in and out. The mask felt heavier now, as if the weight of it was trying to pull him under. But still, he went on. Step by step in front of the other.
The voices encouraged him on, out into the sharp afternoon air, where the wind still burned his skin. The world was breaking away, but that no longer mattered.
He hadn't time to think about it. The next place, the next spot, the next victim. It was all a blur, a tapestry of sick ideas and broken memories. All that existed was the next kill. The next step.
"...go..."
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"...finish it..."
And he did. He would. There was no stopping him.