Lydia’s dreams have been coming thick and fast lately. Dreams about the past, about choices she has made to disown her abusive father, to pursue the career that has made her so famous. Different situations, but a common theme. In every dream, she chooses loneliness over heartbreak. Every night she must make the decisions all over again, and every night she struggles to understand how things could have gone any other way. She was right, wasn’t she? But then, why was she always so sad?
With great effort, she forces her heavy eyes open. They feel dry and sore, as if she hasn’t used them in days, and for several long moments everything is a blur. She tries to rub them, but her hand refuses to move. Her feet, too. Then there is pain, heat, friction. She is bound with rope, upright, tied to a chair that creaks as she shifts and squirms. Her skin is burning up white hot, and she now sees herself dressed in a red sequin dress that sparkles in the dim lighting. Adjusting herself slightly, she can feel that her underwear is loose, unfastened. And there is pain inside too, stomach burning, womb screaming, waves of violation breaking over her again and again as her consciousness grows.
She blinks again and squints as her surroundings begin to come into focus. Bare, dusty floorboards strewn with crimson blankets. Wooden beams supporting a sharp, angled roof. Red and green fairy lights twisted around them, dangling like nooses, keeping the dark whispers lurking outside at bay. Paintings both hung and propped up against exposed brick walls. One in particular catches her attention: an image of two young boys with cheery smiles. The painting is exquisite, but their faces are eerie, haunted.
An eclectic selection of furniture dotted around the room. A baroque chair here, a Victorian lamp there, mismatched companions hoarded over many years. And a desk. A large, heavy oak desk covered in photographs. Lydia cranes her neck to try to see them; twisted limbs, vacant faces, and blood. So much blood. Lydia starts to cry as she realises where she is.
“How do you like my work?” asks a chilling voice behind her. Lydia’s blood runs cold. How stupid she has been. How arrogant. How blind. She had wanted so badly to find the evil in Jason Devere that she had failed to see his humanity. Now evil had found her, its presence clear and unmistakable in just six words. She tries to turn to face her captor, but her binds are too tight, her chair bolted to the floor. “Don’t bother,” says the voice. “You’re mine now.”
Just hours ago, Lydia had given Gretchen a lecture about hopelessness. Now, too late, she truly understands what it means. She will die here. Nothing can save her now. She hears footsteps on the wooden floor, and sees movement out of the corner of her eye, then Finley Devere steps around in front of her. The happy little boy from the photographs, now stretched and twisted. An embodiment of pure wickedness.
“I hear you’re something of a connoisseur,” says Finley, his hollow voice completely devoid of emotion, of humanity. “I’ve read all of your books. Tell me,” he bends down, his voice quieting, “how do you think I measure up?”
“Please…” Lydia whimpers, refusing to meet his chilling gaze, “let me go.”
“Really?” Finley sounds disappointed. “That’s the best you can do? The famous Lydia Tune, mistress of the mind?” He snorts. “You disappoint me.”
“I’m n-not going to insult you with… with m-mind games,” Lydia stammers, her body shivering as though fevered. “I know what you’ve done. What you’re capable of.”
Finley swoops down on her, his mouth barely an inch from Lydia’s ear, icy breath making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle violently. “You don’t know anything.”
Lydia closes her eyes. This is it. No point fighting. Be brave.
“I know that you’re a monster,” she says, her voice hard, forcing herself to turn and face him.
Finley’s eyes burn into her for a second, then his sharp face cracks, and he starts to laugh. Lydia sees Jason in his features; the strong jaw, the blue eyes like lagoons that could drown a person in their clear water. The same long, dark hair, only in Finley’s case it is slicked back, oily and shining, baring his sharp features to the world and making him look more snake than person. His clothes are tight, too tight, black trousers and an intricately-woven waistcoat over a crisp, white shirt. “We are all of us monsters,” he smirks. “You included.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Lydia spits back.
“We both know that’s not true,” Finley hisses, circling around the other side of her. “I’ve been watching you, Lydia Tune.” He leans in again and whispers. “I’ve seen your darkness.”
“I’m not a murderer,” Lydia replies. “I’m not insane like you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Finley’s voice rises sharply. “I’m not crazy. I’m just ahead of my time.”
“You’re crazy,” Lydia snaps, “and deluded.”
“History will remember otherwise,” says Finley, crossing the room to his desk and lifting a glass jar from one of the drawers. It is filled with insects. “My work, my life, my mind.” He shakes the jar, and the tiny creatures inside skitter about desperately. They are prisoners just like Lydia. Victims with no voice. “My philosophy,” Finley continues, “my torment,” he sets the jar down and gestures around the room. “My art.”
“Your art?” Lydia spits. “You killed innocent people.”
“Nobody whose life was worth living.” Finley shrugs. “They were insignificant, like insects.” He wanders over to an ornate mirror on the wall, adjusts his collar and smooths his hair, before springing back around to point toward her. “Do you like the dress by the way?”
“Where’s Alex?” Lydia demands in the glittery blood-soaked number.
“I was worried it wouldn’t fit you, it being mother’s old dress and all, but what would you know, it’s a perfect fit!” he merrily remarked.
“What have you done with Alex?” Lydia grits her teeth.
“Ah yes.” Finley’s grinning face reflected in the mirror makes Lydia’s stomach lurch. “Poor Detective Gilbey. You should have seen his face when he realised he’d been wrong about everything.” He turns to look at Lydia directly. “A memory I shall cherish forever.”
“Where is he?!”
“Perhaps you should reflect,” says Finley coldly, his smile fading in an instant, “on the fact that your pathetic emotional connection to that fool is the reason you’re in this dire situation.” The reptilian smile creeps back over his face. “And it is, I’m afraid, a very dire situation.”
“You let your own brother take the blame for your crimes,” says Lydia. If she was going to die, she may as well try to get some answers first. “You let the world think of him as a murderer. How could you do that?”
“Oh, poor Jason,” says Finley, donning a mocking mask of sadness. “What a shame. He was such a clever boy.” He takes the jewelled locket from his pocket and holds it up to the light. “Using this to send you a message. Inspired, really.” He sighs. “Such a waste. I was genuinely upset to have to engineer his death.”
“How could you possibly…?” Lydia stops, staring up into Finley’s pale blue eyes. “You… you were on the news. You were the one who ‘found’ the bodies.”
“Clever girl!” Finley beams, gleefully. “I knew those lazy police would chalk them up to Jason without a second’s hesitation, and then they’d have to execute him.” His face falls in mock sadness. “It’s a shame, but I do so dislike loose ends.”
“He was protecting your mother,” Lydia growls, contemptuously.
“Then he wasn’t doing a very good job, was he?” Finley raises an eyebrow. “I mean, he was nowhere to be seen when I pressed that pillow down over her weeping face.”
“How could you…?” Lydia grits her teeth.
“It was a mercy.” Finley glares at her. “They can be together now, wherever they are.” He glances upwards. “I do hope they’re watching.”
“If they’re in heaven,” says Lydia, “they don’t care about you anymore. They’ll never have to see you again.”
Finley grins maniacally. “I’d rather go to hell. That’s where all the fun people are.”
“Well go on then.” Lydia sits up straight. “Get on with it. Or are you all talk?”
“Oh no, no, no,” says Finley, wagging a finger. “No need to rush. Besides,” he stands before her, one hand behind his back, like a servant ready to please, “I know you want to know all of my dirty little secrets.”
“Like what?” Lydia spits. “Your stupid card?”
“My what?” Finley looks genuinely confused. “Oh, those!” He laughs. “They didn’t mean anything. Just a little bit of mystery, a bit of theatre to keep the baying hordes interested.”
“I couldn’t care less.” Lydia looks away haughtily.
“You’re a poor liar,” says Finley, that cold bite back in his voice. “I’m the reason you came to this god-awful city. I’m the one you wanted to write a book about. You pursued me.” He jabs his finger at her, and then himself. “So don’t tell me you don’t care, Lydia Tune.”
All I care about is Alex, Lydia thinks, realising as she processes the words that they are genuinely true. She mustn’t let Finley know. If he’s still alive…
“Patience, my dear,” Finley says, as if in reply, admiring one of his own paintings on the wall, a hunter spearing a great, black bird with a jagged arrow. “All in good time. By the way,” he turns back to face her, “what do you think of my Christmas tree?”
Lydia blinks at him. “Your… what?” She looks around. There’s no tree. Then Finley, grinning gleefully, lifts his eyes just above her and jerks his head. Almost paralysed with fear of what she is about to see, Lydia forces herself, shaking uncontrollably, to turn around.
A huge, bushy pine tree towers over her barely a few feet away. Like the rest of the room, it’s strung with blinking lights, but no baubles or candy canes. In place of ornaments, human organs and severed limbs hang from the branches. A finger here, a rib there, feet, flesh, heart… and at the top, where a star or fairy might sit, the severed head of Cecil Sprinkler staring down at her with accusing eyes.
Lydia looks away, her own eyes screwed tightly shut, whimpering softly.
“I knew you’d love it,” Finley says, gleefully. “Oh, you should have been there, Lydia. I made him sing Christmas carols to me while I sawed off his hands and feet. Promised him that I wouldn’t hurt you if he did as he was told.”
“Me?”
“Oh, yes.” Finley swoops down upon her, his horrible smile inches from her face. “Rather fond of you, he was. Funny how people get attached so soon, isn’t it?”
No. Alex. No. Where are you?
Finley pulls up a chair and sits, one leg draped lazily over the other, poised like a dandy in front of her. “Don’t you want to know how I did it?”
“Did what?” Lydia mutters.
“Got into here, of course.” Finley leans forward and taps the side of Lydia’s head with a bony finger. She recoils with disgust. “You see, I’ve been with you since the moment you arrived.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well,” says Finley, with the manner of someone beginning a story, “as you know, my mother was a talented costume designer. The house is full of wonderful clothes, and wigs, and makeup. I’ve found them extremely useful over the years.”
Lydia turns her head to look at him, squinting her eyes. She had thought him familiar because he looked like Jason. Was there something she’d missed?
“Oh yes,” says Finley happily. “Let’s see, on your first date with lovely Alex I was a bearded man enjoying a hamburger.” He starts counting off on his fingers. “When you got terribly drunk in that awful bar, I was an army vet covered in tattoos. The dog walker in the park, the guest in the hotel lobby. At the asylum of course I had to be extra careful, so I went with a simple suit and moustache to blend in with the official types.” He leans in and touches her arm in an exaggerated, mocking manner. “That was the time I clubbed you around the back of the head with a pipe. Do you remember?”
“Why didn’t you kill me?” Lydia asks in a hollow voice.
“And give those stupid police reason to doubt that my dear brother was really the Krimson Killer?” Finley looks comically alarmed. “Oh no, that wouldn’t have done at all. They would have come looking for me. Such an inconvenience. No, to tell you the truth, my dear, I just wanted you to go home.” He smiles, sweetly. “I bet you wish you had now.”
“You’re lying.” Lydia glares at him. “You love the attention. You wanted me to stay and figure this out. To find you. You wanted to gloat to someone about what you’ve done.”
Finley peers at her, then his face cracks into a sly smile. “You’ve got me,” he says, generously. “Bravo, Lydia, you’ve figured me out.” He leaps to his feet and strikes a dramatic pose. “I’m a performer, you see. A natural. And a performer is nothing without an audience.” He leans down towards her. “Are you sitting comfortably?” Lydia looks away, disgusted. “I’ll take that as a yes,” says Finley, gleefully. “Then let’s begin the main portion of tonight’s show.”
He bounds past Lydia, who squirms in her chair to try to see what’s happening but to no avail. She hears a door opening, then a low rumble that shakes the floorboards, growing louder until out of the corner of her eye she sees a seated figure approaching in a wheelchair.
When she sees the figure slumped in it, bound to the chair with thick electrical tape, face slick with blood and sweat, eyes wide with terror, Lydia’s heart stops.