Page 16 of Pure Killers

My heart pounds in my ears as I lift my gaze further, back up to that mask, but even now I’m still trying to memorise everything about him in case I somehow survive this idiotic drunken escapade. What the sketch didn't show is the way the mask is moulded, the shape of the brows drawn down, the cheekbones exaggerated as though mid-raucous laugh. His knuckles brush my stomach as he shifts, the tip stinging, and then his other hand holds out, expectantly. He wears shiny black gloves, a thin strip of skin visible between them and the cuff of his black sleeve.

I move just enough to slap the torch into his palm. Immediately, Needler spins it in his hand, and shines the light straight in my face, blinding me. I cringe and turn my face away.

“I know you,” the voice tells me.

Behind, through those doors, the screaming has turned back to whimpering.

“You’re the detective on my case.” His laugh through the voice alteration is like scraping metal. “Aren’t you incessant?”

Abruptly, he turns the torch off, leaving a halo on my vision.

“Eleanor, isn’t it?”

I don't answer.

“Well,El, you really shouldn’t have come.”

I blink, trying to follow his movement. There's pressure against my upper arm, through my jacket. Then the sting. “Wait…” I start to say.

He's stabbed me after all. But when I look down, it’s just a syringe sticking out of my arm. My body tries to panic, and my mind succeeds, but everywhere else there’s a slowness, instead. I’m falling. The last thing I see are those black hollows of eyes. The mask seems to be laughing now. He's lowering me to the ground as my limbs crumple, pushing me onto my side on the hard cement.

Then, the eyes, the mask, the Needler; they're all gone.

***

At first, I think I'm in my room, on the floor next to my bed where I've woken with a splitting headache and a furry tongue. It's happened more times than I'd like to admit after drinking alone long into the night. The familiar feelings of self-flagellation rise. The cold of the cement floor is what brings me back here. To the Needler.

I jolt awake with the memory of that mask, and the needle, and I move an inch. I didn't expect to wake up, and I didn't expect it to be in the same place that I last remembered, on my side facing the rusted metal doors and what’s on the other side of them. How long have I been here? It could be minutes or days. I try to move again and nearly put myself back under. Forcing deep breaths, I do a scan of my body. Everything is still as it should be, aside from the paralysis.

That voice again. I still, closing my eyes, listening over the sound of my quick breaths.

But the voice isn’t speaking to me. No, I can't have been out long. Because his victim is still alive. The doors are cracked open just slightly more than before, and when I strain with all my strength to tilt my chin up, cheek grating on the rough concrete, I can see through into the room. Even then, all I can see is the end of the table, two bare feet sticking out over the end, men’s feet, Masker’s feet, shackled and strained. A figure stands on the side closer to me, his black-clad shoulder and arm just on the edge of my vision around the door. Beyond, if I squint, I can see the picture frames. They're in doubles this time, the only one I can make out with any kind of clarity propped on a chair, a picture of a young, pretty and smiling face, and next to it, a white mess of a mask, locked in death, the makeup painted on it all the more garish for looking like a child drew it.

Did Needler mean for me to see all of this? He did roll me onto my side. The other reason for doing that- so that I wouldn't choke in my unconscious state- seems unlikely.

His voice, laced with a detachment and clinical air that is exasperated by the mechanical alterer, asks, “Did they beg?”

More muffled whimpering. He shifts where he's standing by the side of the table. “All those women. They drowned like this, suffocated in plaster.” His voice turns to a hiss now, static and harsh. “You took your time.”

A thumping, wet sound makes me flinch, as much as I'm able. The feet try to kick. There's a tension. My heart quickens, and for several moments I watch those feet strain, knowing he's dying, the scream muffled.

“…Before you let them die.” Needler turns, stepping away, the black of his hood absorbing light. My eyes cut back to the feet; they've stilled.

Masker is dead.

Needler’s latest victim is gone, and I, the witness, am still lying here on the floor, unable to move.

By the time I realise Needler has walked back towards the doors, he’s opening them. I should close my eyes, fake unconsciousness until I can move again. But I'm too shocked, my reflexes urging me to watch him as he stands in front of me, the mask tilted down at me. I'm next, of that I'm convinced, no matter how I don’t fit the bill. There's a sharp glint in his hand, and this time it’s the needle, with a strong red tint over polished silver.

Maybe he'll show me pictures too. Of whom? My husband? But no, he's the one who killed my husband. My jaw works, trying to speak as he crouches in front of me, black holes of eyes peering at my face. I go utterly still.

“Be careful of what you so badly want to find, my Little Shadow. It might not be what you anticipated.”

Is he talking about what I just saw? I try to speak but only gargle. He stands, steps over me, and appears to leave. I listen to his footsteps recede, echoing on the stairs.

Suddenly, I'm alone. And I'm alive.

***

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