The Crimson Murders

Detective James Keller had seen his share of grisly crime scenes, but nothing compared to the Crimson Murders. The killer left his victims posed like marionettes, their bodies painted with streaks of red. The media had dubbed him “The Puppeteer.”

The case had gone cold, with no leads for months—until a letter arrived at the precinct. It was addressed to Keller, written in meticulous cursive: “Detective, the final act begins. Meet me where it all started.”

The letter referred to the old abandoned theater downtown, a place Keller hadn’t visited in years. As he entered the decaying building, memories flooded back: this was where his first case had taken place, a murder eerily similar to the current killings.

A faint melody played from the stage. Keller followed the sound to find a figure seated in the front row, a mask covering their face. “Welcome, Detective,” the figure said, their voice distorted.

“I know who you are,” Keller growled, his gun aimed.

“Do you?” the figure replied, standing slowly. With a flick of their hand, the theater lights came to life, revealing a horrifying scene: mannequins dressed as Keller’s former victims, their faces eerily lifelike.

“Every act has its star,” the Puppeteer whispered, removing the mask. Keller’s blood ran cold. He recognized the face beneath—it was someone he trusted, someone he never suspected.

The Puppeteer grinned. “The curtain falls tonight, Detective. Let’s see how your story ends.”