Travis Langley was the kind of person who made life unbearable. A bully who didn't just hurt people—he hollowed them out, broke them with his words, his fists, his sheer presence. And among his favorite targets was someone quiet, someone who never fought back.
That arrogance made him sloppy.
He cornered his favorite target in the back stairwell—no cameras, no witnesses, just the flickering fluorescent lights and the distant slosh of a janitor's mop somewhere down the hall. No one patrolled back there after school. Not when the building was half-empty, the remaining students too distracted with their own lives to notice what happened in the forgotten corners.
The knife was quick. Precise. There was no time for Travis to scream, no chance for him to fight back. The blade slid in at just the right angle, and a hand clamped over his mouth as he choked on his own blood. It wasn't messy. It wasn't panicked. It was surgical. Controlled.
And the body?
People imagined a corpse as something obvious. Something heavy and difficult. They didn't understand how easy it was to move when you knew how bodies worked. Dead weight was only a problem if you didn't know how to shift it.
A janitor's cart had been waiting, tucked behind a stack of storage boxes. It took seconds to stuff Travis inside, folding his limbs carefully, covering him with black trash bags. A kid pushing a cleaning cart after school? No one gave that a second glance.
No one even looked.
The factory was further out, past the last stretch of gas stations and cheap diners, where the streetlights flickered and no one cared what happened after dark. A car had been parked three blocks away, waiting. Getting Travis into the trunk took less than two minutes. After that, it was just a drive.
By the time anyone even realized he was missing, the cleanup had already begun.
At first, the body was just buried beneath the dirt-stained concrete floor of the factory, deep enough that even the rats wouldn't find him. But then, an idea took shape.
Preservation had always been fascinating. The idea of stopping time, keeping something exactly as it was, forever. It wasn't hard to gather supplies—formaldehyde, wax, plaster. There were books, videos. Plenty to learn from. Plenty to experiment with.
Travis became the first. His face, frozen in pain and surprise, was the first addition to what would become a collection.
And soon, another realization set in.
This was enjoyable.
The disappearances didn't stop.
A homeless man, a girl from another school, a fellow student, even a teacher. Each time, the method improved—smoother, more careful. But rumors spread fast in high school.
Whispers. Theories. Social media dissecting every missing person, feeding into the excitement. People loved the idea of a serial killer in their midst. It was thrilling, like a horror movie unfolding in real life.
And then, there was Emily Carter.
Perfect. Popular. A girl who had never spoken a word before, never noticed the quiet observer in the background. She ran a podcast—one of those true crime series that people listened to while pretending to care about the world.
For a while, she was nothing more than noise.
Until her announcement.
"Tomorrow, I'll be revealing my top suspect in the Midtown Disappearances. And guess what? They go to our school."
There was no choice.
After school, from a distance, the predator watched as Emily packed up her things, said her goodbyes, and walked home alone. She was always alone. That was what made her so good at observing others—she lived outside them.
Following was easy.
But Emily Carter was more perceptive than most. She turned before an approach could be made, her expression unreadable. But in her eyes—calculation.
"You." Just that.
A smile. "Want to see something cool?"
The factory was cold and damp, the air thick with the scent of decay masked by chemicals. Step by step, deeper into the darkness, past rusted machinery and crumbling walls.
And then, she saw them.
Lined up along the far wall, grotesque mannequins in an abandoned display. Some seated, others posed mid-conversation, their faces frozen in expressions of shock, fear, confusion. Their skin pale, almost waxen. Some with glass eyes, some with remnants of real hair.
Emily made a sound—a strangled, choked gasp.
The figure stepped closer, feeling the tremor of her breath in the stale air.
"You're going to drop the podcast," the voice murmured. "You're going to tell everyone you were wrong. That it was just a stupid theory."
Silence.
"If anyone finds out…" A slow gesture toward the sculptures. "I'll add your family to my collection. And then I'll make sure you match."
The moment she broke was visible.
Her eyes wet, her body rigid, her nod almost imperceptible.
"I won't say anything," she whispered.
She was believed.
For now.
The next day, her podcast aired.
"I was wrong," Emily's voice shook but remained controlled. "The Midtown Disappearances? Just a coincidence. No killer. No monster. Just rumors."
She was good at lying.
But the predator was better at sensing fear.
And she was terrified.
Listening to her words, a slow, satisfied smile spread.
Emily Carter wouldn't talk.
But if she did…
Well.
There was still room for more sculptures.