This Is How You Die Read online

  “Then I say let the night begin!” she declared. She raised her glass and the others followed suit. Just as she prepared to announce something else, they would hear the clock strike as it hit midnight. But right now, the director’s clap gave them the cue. At that point, they would turn to the audience, while from the aisle would walk the figure of the Red Death. He was an integral part of the story and everyone had been delighted with the idea to have him begin his walk through the audience. It was chilling, immersive.

  The suit the actor wore was a little tacky and few of the others liked it, but as he approached, they noted this suit was different. It looked better, so much so that even the mediocre actor underneath—a product of nepotism and the director’s extended family—looked more menacing. They were drawn to his face at first, and then to the axe that swung casually by his side. It took them a few moments to notice his other hand, and the bloodied head it carried.

  There were gasps and screams, revulsion and terror, and all of it was real. A few thought it was a trick, another ploy by a sadistic director using Hitchcockian techniques to terrify his actors, to instill the horror that their characters faced.

  The director, initially with his back to the newcomer, turned around to face him. His reaction convinced the unbelievers. As much as he liked his tricks and his games, he looked just as scared as they did, and he wasn’t capable of faking it. “What is this?” he asked.

  “This,” the man in the mask began, “is my favorite part of the story.”

  PART 5

  1

  I dropped the head in my hand. It wore a cheap mask, nothing like mine, nothing like the legend he was trying to live up to. I knew the story well. “The Masque of the Red Death” was actually one of my favorites. My own career as The Masquerade had nothing to do with it; that—just like this night at the church—was just a delightful coincidence.

  The arrival of the Red Death, dressed in a mask that I liked to think was similar to my own, instilling fear in all of the revelers, was the best part of the story. The pathetic costume worn by the actor whose head lay at my feet did not do it justice.

  I killed the director first. He deserved it for ruining an integral part of a classic story and also for scripting the trite bullshit I had heard on stage. A blow to his temple did the job, opening up his cranium, severing the cords that kept him alive and dropping him where he stood. The actors on stage dispersed, with some of them running for me and the main doors and most of them heading backstage. It didn’t matter where they ran because all of the doors were locked. I had already been backstage, I had already been outside. They were trapped like animals in a slaughterhouse, and they were about to become meat.

  There was a good chance they would be scrambling for their phones, desperate for the little devices that held their world on five-inch screens, but when you rely so much on something so small, you’re always going to be let down. I had disabled the Wi-Fi and placed a signal blocker by the door. No messages would be sent, no phone calls would be made. It’s amazing what you can learn and what you can buy on the Internet.

  “And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death,” I told the woman by the door.

  She fell to her knees and threw herself at my mercy. Pleading with me to spare her life, which I had zero intention of doing. I disposed of her quickly, the only form of mercy I was willing to grant.

  I followed another as she darted for the backstage area. They were scrambling around backstage, trying the doors, trying their phones, their faces bleak, their voices shrill. They had their chance to band together and plot against me, they had their chance to find weapons and attack me, but such is the nature of the human race that they immediately sought help from others and refused to help themselves. I put pay to a timid stagehand who still bore the acne scars of youth and was probably only 110 pounds soaking wet. He was all skin and bones and the axe cut through him like a chicken carcass.

  “He had come like a thief in the night,” I continued, swinging again, this time planting the axe into the spine of someone who tried to flee. They twitched and convulsed like a merry bunny before flopping to the floor. The others ran away again, back into the main room, hopping over the recently deceased and rushing past me without making an effort to stop me. I followed them, enjoying my moment on life’s biggest stage.

  “And one by one dropped the revelers.” The axe swung again, the tip of its deadly blade catching the edge of a young actress’s skin, penetrating deep, bleeding instantly, and sweeping in an arc as it carved a red-raw smile on her terrified profile. “In the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of their fall!”

  The woman with the second smile dropped and clutched her face, her mouth open in a silent scream, her cheek open in a yawning bellow. I bent down until my face was inches from hers, until I caught the heat of the empty scream that tried to escape her mouth.

  “Rather apt, don’t you think?”

  She looked at my face, at the blood-red mask, at the deep-black eyes set inside the sockets. She didn’t reply, she just stared. I stood, ending her nightmare with another swing, this one across her neck.

  Someone was waiting for me as I turned around, a cane held aloft above his head. He flinched when he saw me, when he realized his chance to strike unseen was gone.

  He had seen the woman at my feet, no doubt a friend or a lover. He was shaking, his arms trembling, unable to move, unable to strike. He seemed to be seconds away from losing control entirely and releasing both his bowels and the blunt object.

  “Well, are you going to hit me or not?”

  He swung for me, but I knew it was coming and I moved quickly. With his arms held up, he couldn’t protect his chest as I rammed the axe into it. It made an odd sucking sound as it penetrated his skin, breaking his ribs before wedging in place.

  He dropped the cane, using his hands to grab the axe. The blood was gushing out of him at an extraordinary rate, the life leaving his eyes, yet a small part of him was fighting a final, pointless battle, desperately trying to pry the axe free. With what was probably his final exertion, he ripped the axe out of his chest. I thanked him, took it from his hands, and then left him to die.

  “What was the next bit?” I wondered aloud. “Ah, that’s right: and each died in the despairing posture of his fall.” Another was trying to escape, clawing at the door, banging and kicking with all of his might. He didn’t turn around as I approached, didn’t see me as I drove the axe into the back of his skull, immediately silencing his wailing and his banging and leaving him propped against the door in a dull and rigid pose. “How fitting.”

  There were three others standing in the middle of the room. This was the moment for heroes, for macho men looking to impress, but the only man of the three was the one who looked the most reluctant, the most scared. He reminded me of Darren Henderson all those years ago, trying to use his female friends as human shields. This one hadn’t resorted to that yet, but he was certainly thinking about it.

  “Please,” one of the women said. “Don’t do this.”

  I stopped, opened my arms, and gestured to the room around me, a carnival of chaos. “But I have already begun. I can’t stop now. The show must go on, right?”

  She came at me and took me by surprise. I didn’t have time to get the axe ready and she managed to land a disorienting punch, knocking me off guard. But I righted myself before she could do any more harm. I grabbed her by the throat with my free hand and held her there, my grip tightening as she tried to pry it free.

  I turned to the other two, a man and a woman who were standing back, looking lost. Moments like these truly bring out the worst in people. When families and friends are not involved, there is no altruism, no sacrifice. They look after themselves and would happily see another die if it meant they could live for a few moments more.

  “Are you not going to help her?” I asked them, squeezing tighter. “You can save her from this pestilence. You can be the heroes.”
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  They looked at their friend, at me, and then back to her. She was kicking, desperate to break free but unable to do so. Her face was turning red, her eyes growing wider as I continued to tighten my grip.

  I pointed the axe at her friends. “You can be the remedy!” I told them. “You can help her, help yourself, help the fucking world!”

  And still, they didn’t move.

  Their friend’s face turned blue, then purple. Her fingers, previously digging into my hand, loosened as she lost her strength. Her eyes began to roll back into her head, but she was doing her best to stop them, to retain consciousness and see out her demise.

  “You disgust me,” I told her friends.

  The woman of the two turned and ran, but not before uttering a strangled scream. The man turned to watch her go and then turned back to me and his dying friend. He was clueless, lost, realizing that his death was imminent but unable or unwilling to do anything about it.

  The woman grew limp in my hand and I let her go, watching as she flopped to the floor like a puppet on severed strings. The man tried to fight me. He held up his fists, realizing the only way to survive was to defeat me, but his fists were no match for my axe. I hacked at his hand first, removing it from his wrist but for a few strands of skin. He screamed, his eyes wide, staring in horror at his dangling hand. I aimed for his arm, hacking it off at the shoulder, before delivering several similar blows to his neck, decapitating him and showering myself in his blood.

  The woman, the last one standing, had managed to break a small window at the back of the room and was trying to crawl out of it. It was a tight squeeze, and with pieces of jagged glass protruding out, it wasn’t a comfortable one either. She winced and groaned as she tried to snake her way through, the glass puncturing her skin and ripping it open. She was doing most of the work for me. Realizing I didn’t need the axe for this one, I stood behind her and waited.

  When she got two thirds of the way through, with her legs dangling in front of me and her torso on the other side, I put the axe down and grabbed her by the feet. She had been relatively quiet until that point, no mean feat considering how much blood she had lost, but as soon as she felt my hands on her ankles, she screamed and she kicked.

  I battled with her for a few moments before finding a grip. Then I pulled, dragging her back through the window. The screams were long and tortuous, and with each incremental movement, they increased and intensified. When she had finished and when I had dragged her back into the room, there was very little of her left. Many of the broken shards had been ripped out of the window frame and were now embedded in her, but the ones that had remained had done the most damage. They had torn deep into her body and were decorated with chunks of her flesh, colored with her blood.

  Her screams softened when she looked herself over and realized how close to death she was. She was bleeding out, incapable of moving, incapable of breathing for longer than a few moments. I picked up my axe and headed backstage, grinning and mumbling to myself as I went. “And the flames of the tripods expired. And darkness and decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”

  The show was over but the encore would follow.

  2

  I’d had my fun, but the real excitement was only just beginning. As I sat backstage, I took in my surroundings—the costumes, the props, the blood, the bodies—and awaited my big moment. I had no doubt that Keats would show. I had faith in him and I had faith in my plan. On the surface, it didn’t look like he had much love for his children, and they certainly had no respect for him, but he was human, he had weaknesses. That love did exist deep down and it would trigger the anger, the hatred, and the impulsivity that I wanted to see.

  My father had not expressed an interest in toying with the police and I had no desire to do so either. It was far too risky, far too stupid. But the more I saw Lester on the evening news, reporting on my latest victim, the more I liked him. I could see something in him that I hadn’t seen anywhere else. He didn’t remind me of myself. He was far too normal, far too accepting of the world for that. But he reminded me of my father.

  He had the same hatred, bitterness, and resentment that I knew that my father had possessed. They were traits that had always existed in me and had always been on the surface, but like my father, Lester had hidden them away, tucking them beneath a veil of normality. He wanted the world—his boss, his children—to think that everything was okay, that he was functioning as a normal human being should. On social media he interacted with his friends and acquaintances; at work, he acted with professionalism, even when the press jammed cameras and microphones in his face. My father had done the same in his own way. It had probably contributed to his early death and the end of his legacy.

  My fascination with Lester had grown since the death of his wife. That tested the barrier that separated the angry Lester from the Lester that he wanted the rest of the world to see. Eventually, as I studied his movements online, watched the interviews he gave, and generally kept a close eye on him and his family, I saw that barrier break. I had always hoped that the same would happen to my father, that he would become more like me, like the person I knew he was and not the one he wanted to be. I never had the chance to see that, but I had seen it in Lester.

  The death of his kids would make sure the barrier was completely obliterated, but that wasn’t why I did it. This was my moment, my final act as The Masquerade, and I wanted Lester to be in attendance. My adversary, my comrade, and in many ways, my father. Those murders would have accessed a primal part of him, and that’s exactly what I wanted to happen. I wanted an angry and feral man to come for me, not a calculating cop.

  Of course, if I were wrong, then I would be caught. The police would swoop on the building like vultures on a carcass and there would be little hope of escape, little hope of getting out alive. That was a risk I was prepared to take. If I were arrested or shot, then at least I had gone out in style, at least my legend would be given a fitting end, one that was never bestowed upon my father. And that was what this was all about: my legend, my legacy. My attempts at taking on the name of The Butcher had ended in a cataclysm of violence and bloodshed, with my name and face plastered all over the media. Now that The Masquerade had also been discovered, it required another fitting end. Regardless of what happened from this moment on, I was one of the most brutal and prolific killers in history. My name would be spoken, remembered, and revered throughout the world for many years to come. My father had gone out with a pathetic whimper, but the person I was many years ago had gone out with a bang, and the same would apply to the person I had become. As for the next step, the next legend, the person I would become next. That was anyone’s guess.

  “Please … help … me.”

  The noise was weak but it was enough to interrupt my thinking. I looked down to see a woman in period costume crawling on the floor, a trail of blood behind her like sticky slime emanating from a slug’s behind. She hadn’t made it far, but in her state, even a few inches was commendable. After what I had done to her, just the fact that she was still breathing was enough to win my respect.

  “And why would I do that?” I asked her.

  She stared at me, her pleading eyes doing their best to see the human in me.

  “You can stare all you want. I’m not going to help you.”

  “Please, I—”

  “You realize I was the one who put you in that situation, right?” I leaned over in my seat, my elbows resting on my thighs. “What makes you think I won’t just torture you and make your last seconds even more miserable?”

  “Please, if you help me, I won’t tell anyone.”

  That made me laugh.

  “Please, I need … ambulance.”

  I shook my head and straightened up. “You need a fucking miracle, that’s what you need.”

  She reached out but her arms didn’t possess the strength to remain upright for long and she eventually flopped to the floor.

  “Then … kill me,” she s
aid, her face now pointed downward, her words muffled. “End this.”

  I picked up the axe and stood over her. “Now that, I can do.”

  The axe embedded in her skull. She was dead and out of her misery, but I didn’t care about that. As much as I tried to yank the axe free, even standing on her skull to get some leverage, it wouldn’t move.

  “Ah, the irony,” I said, shaking my head with disbelief. “You keep it.”

  As I searched around for another weapon, I heard the heavy doors to the building open and shut. My guest had arrived—the encore was ready to begin. There was no axe, no sword, nothing that could make my job easier, but I did carry a switchblade in my pocket, which was going to have to do.

  I headed for the stage, took my spot at its center, and then waited for my audience to walk through the side door that had been unlocked in anticipation of his arrival.

  3

  I didn’t need to say anything as he entered. I let the surroundings do the talking for me. He couldn’t fail to notice the pools of blood, or the arcs of crimson where the axe had swooped on its deadly curves. He also couldn’t fail to notice the bodies or the stench. The young men and women were strewn around the room, left where they had been killed. They had only been deceased for an hour or so, but the stench of drying blood, of emptied bowels and exposed organs, was prominent.

  He seemed agitated, almost desperate when he entered, but he immediately deflated when he looked around and realized he was too late.

  “You expected something else?” I projected from the center of the stage, my arms spread.

  In my mask and my bloodied clothes, I expected him to fear me just like the young actors and actresses had done, but despite the distance between us, I could see there was no emotion in his eyes, no terror, no apprehension, no respect. That disappointed me. I hated it when things didn’t go as planned, but I continued regardless.