Chapter 3: The Tapes

The tape felt heavy in Adrian’s hands, like it were more than just plastic and magnetic strip. His fingers lingered on the cold surface for a moment, frozen in the realisation of what was about to come. A sick curiosity tugged at him, but the thought of what could be on that tape—the clue, the confession, the next step—forced him to push forward.

He grabbed the old VHS player, which had been gathering dust in the back of his closet for years. He hadn’t used it since his early twenties, back when VHS tapes were still the medium for every thriller and horror movie he’d devoured in a weekend binge. Now, it felt like a relic—a time capsule from a past life. It fit, in a way. This case… these killings… felt like they were from a different era, an era where horror still had a human touch.

The player whirred to life, the tape sliding in with an almost mechanical precision. The TV screen flickered before it came to a static-filled, blurry image. Then, a figure appeared. The grainy footage sharpened, showing a room, dimly lit, with bare walls. In the centre, a small chair stood, empty.

Adrian leaned forward, heart hammering. The camera angle shifted, and he saw the figure behind it.

A man. Tall, broad-shouldered. His features were obscured by the same clown mask Adrian had seen in the photographs, his eyes hollow beneath the plastic grin. The mask tilted, ever so slightly, as if it were examining the camera, then shifted to the side.

The camera zoomed out.

There, sitting on the chair, was a small girl. No more than eight or nine. Her eyes were wide, tear-streaked. She was trembling, bound by her wrists to the chair.

Adrian’s breath caught in his throat.

The image didn’t move for what felt like an eternity. The girl’s body shook with fear, her chest heaving as if she were trying to scream. But her mouth… it was sealed shut, just like the others.

Adrian’s hands clenched into fists.

The camera panned to the corner of the room, where a table stood, cluttered with tools: needles, thread, scissors—everything needed to sew a mouth shut.

Then the man in the mask stepped into the frame, holding a needle and black thread. He approached the girl with deliberate slowness, his movements mechanical, like someone who had done this before.

Adrian’s stomach turned.

The man knelt in front of her and began to sew her mouth shut. The girl didn’t scream. She couldn’t. But the tears fell freely down her cheeks, her entire body shaking with the horror of what was happening.

Adrian’s mind raced. He had to stop this. He had to find the girl.

But then the man paused.

He leaned in close to the girl, his face inches from hers. The mask tilted again, as if in contemplation. And then, just as quickly as he’d arrived, the man stood up, walked to the corner of the room, and turned off the camera.

The screen cut to black.

For a long time, Adrian just stared at the empty screen, his mind whirling. He replayed the scene over and over in his head—the masked man, the girl, the cold detachment of it all.

“Adrian?”

Claire’s voice broke through his reverie. She had been standing in the doorway, watching him, her face pale and tight with concern.

“That was him. That’s the killer,” Adrian murmured, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“I can’t believe it…” Claire whispered. “Is she still—?”

Adrian didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was already searching the video for more, some kind of clue that would lead him to the next victim.

But the tape had nothing else to offer.

It was over.

The camera cut to black again, leaving only the lingering sense of dread.

By dawn, Adrian had barely slept. His mind was consumed by the images from the tape. The girl’s face. The clown mask. The slow, methodical stitching of her lips. It was all connected, but the question still hung in the air like an insidious fog: why?

Lena Hart’s call broke through the silence of his apartment.

“Adrian, you need to come down to the station. We’ve found something.”

When Adrian arrived at the Greyford Police Department, the usual tension in the air was compounded by something more—a growing realisation. The walls were closing in, and the clock was ticking.

Rowan was standing by the evidence board, his arms folded, eyes fixed on the latest findings. A small, subtle shift in his posture told Adrian that something had changed. That this wasn’t just another clue.

“It’s not just the girls,” Rowan said, his voice low. “We’ve found something else. A connection.”

Lena stepped forward, holding a folder. Inside, the photographs of the three girls—Leah, the first victim, and now the latest, a young girl named Emily—were spread across the table. The familiar face of the masked figure hovered behind each, lurking in the background, unblinking.

But there was something more.

“We found a connection between the victims. All three were at the same orphanage,” Lena said. “A place called St. Mary’s Home for Children. All three girls were adopted out at the age of six.”

Adrian froze. “What?”

“Not just that,” Rowan continued. “It seems the killer had a specific interest in these girls. He followed them for years.”

Adrian’s mind raced. “So he’s been stalking them since they were kids?”

Lena nodded. “It’s possible. Or at least, he’s been watching them from a distance. These weren’t random targets, Adrian. He knows them. And he’s been planning this for a long time.”

Adrian felt a cold shiver run down his spine. If the killer was watching these girls for years, that meant he was still out there. And Adrian was closer than ever to finding him.

But the fear gnawed at the back of his mind: Was it too late to stop him?