Chapter 9: The Final Rehearsal

Adam stumbled out of the basement, his hands stained with Robert’s blood. He burst through the front door of the coastal house, gasping for the cold, salty air. The rain was coming down in sheets now, washing the red from his fingers.

He lunged into his car and locked the doors, his heart hammering against his ribs. He grabbed his phone and hit speed dial.

"Dave, pick up. Pick up," Adam chanted, his eyes darting around the dark street, expecting the cloaked figure to emerge from the storm at any second.

David answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep. "Adam? What is it?"

"Robert is dead," Adam choked out, slamming the car into drive and peeling away from the curb. "Christopher killed him. He was waiting in the basement. He took the cold case files—the composite sketches, everything that could identify his real face."

David swore loudly, the sound of rustling sheets indicating he was already out of bed. "Are you hit? Where are you?"

"I'm fine, but Dave, listen to me," Adam said, the tyres of his sedan screaming as he took a wet corner onto the highway back to Melbourne. "He’s wiping the slate clean. He’s going after anyone who can connect him to the past or expose his methods."

"I’m calling Laura," David said, his tone shifting into full Inspector mode. "We need to secure the precinct. He might try to get into the evidence locker."

"No, think about it," Adam urged, pushing the speedometer past a hundred. "He doesn't care about the police. We’ve been chasing a ghost. He cares about the people who see him. Who's getting close? Dr. Nolan has been running the metallurgical tests on the dolls and the zip-ties."

"Nolan is working the graveyard shift at the county morgue tonight," David realised, the dread evident in his voice. "I'll dispatch a squad car there right now."

"Do it. And Dave..." Adam’s breath hitched. A terrifying thought slammed into his mind like a physical blow. The music. The school. "Valerie."

"The teacher?"

"She recognised the piano melody. She knew about Annabelle George," Adam said, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. "If Christopher was watching the school today during his 'performance,' he might have seen me talking to her before the assembly. He knows I'm onto the music. He knows she knows."

"Adam, you're two hours outside the city. I'll send units to her address—"

"I'm already on my way," Adam cut him off. "Just get units there. Please, Dave. Not another one."

In the sterile, fluorescent-lit basement of the Victoria County Morgue, Dr Nolan was adjusting his reading glasses. He was peering into a high-powered microscope, analysing the microscopic stress fractures on the porcelain fingers of the doll Adam had recovered from Samantha.

The heavy steel door to the lab clicked shut.

Dr. Nolan didn't look up. "I told you, Jenkins, the preliminary report won't be ready until morning. Go get a coffee."

No answer.

Dr. Nolan frowned. He pulled his eyes away from the microscope and turned around in his swivel chair.

The lights in the lab flickered violently, buzzing like an angry hive, before plunging the room into absolute darkness. The emergency backup generators didn't kick in. Someone had cut the main line.

"Jenkins?" Dr. Nolan called out, a tremor of unease creeping into his voice. He reached into his pocket for his phone to use the flashlight.

He never got the chance.

A gloved hand clamped over his mouth from behind, violently yanking his head back. A glint of surgical steel flashed in the sliver of moonlight filtering through the high basement window. The phantom of Victoria claimed his next victim in absolute silence, leaving the morgue as quiet as the corpses it housed.

Miles away, in a quiet, leafy suburb of Melbourne, the storm was rattling the windows of Valerie’s small townhouse.

Inside, the living room was a haven of warmth. A fire crackled in the hearth. Valerie was sitting on the rug, grading English essays, while her niece, Katie, sat at the coffee table, carefully drawing in a sketchbook. Because Katie was hearing impaired, the house was heavily insulated, creating a peaceful, muted sanctuary from the howling wind outside.

Valerie rubbed her tired eyes and checked her phone. 11:45 PM. She had a missed call from an unknown number. Before she could listen to the voicemail, the living room plunged into darkness. The TV died, and the only light came from the flickering fireplace.

Valerie sighed. "Just a power outage, sweetie," she signed to Katie, whose head had snapped up in alarm. "Stay here. I’ll check the breaker box in the hallway."

Valerie grabbed a heavy brass flashlight from the mantle, flicked it on, and stepped out of the living room. The hallway was freezing. She realised with a jolt that the back door in the kitchen must have blown open; she could feel the icy draft cutting through the house.

She walked slowly toward the kitchen, the beam of her flashlight cutting through the gloom. "Hello?" she called out, feeling foolish.

She reached the kitchen. The back door was wide open, rain lashing against the linoleum floor. Valerie rushed over to slam it shut, throwing the deadbolt.

As she turned around, her flashlight beam swept across the kitchen island.

Sitting perfectly in the centre of the marble counter was a small, beautifully wrapped wooden box.

Valerie’s blood turned to ice water. She remembered Adam’s frantic questions. She remembered the porcelain dolls.

She dropped the flashlight. It hit the floor and rolled, the beam illuminating a pair of heavy, mud-caked boots standing just feet away from her.

Valerie screamed and scrambled backward, but Christopher was impossibly fast. He stepped out of the shadows, his silver mask gleaming in the ambient light. He didn't use a weapon. He struck her with the heavy, blunt force of his forearm, sending her crashing into the kitchen cabinets. Valerie’s head hit the granite counter with a sickening crack, and she crumpled to the floor, her vision swimming in dark, fuzzy spots.

Through her blurring consciousness, she saw the cloaked figure step over her. He wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking down the hallway, toward the living room. Toward Katie.

In the living room, Katie couldn't hear the struggle. She couldn't hear the heavy footsteps approaching. But she felt the sudden, rhythmic vibration of the floorboards.

She looked up from her sketchbook.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the dying embers of the fire, was a nightmare. The figure reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, digital device. He pressed a button.

Katie couldn't hear the delicate, haunting piano melody that filled the room, but she saw the monster step forward, holding out a porcelain doll.

Adam’s tyres locked up, sending his sedan skidding onto Valerie’s wet front lawn. He didn't bother turning off the engine. Two police cruisers were already parked out front, their blue and red lights painting the brick house in a strobe of panic.

Adam sprinted to the front door, his heart in his throat. It was wide open.

"Valerie!" he roared, bursting into the hallway.

Two uniformed officers were in the kitchen. One was frantically speaking into his radio, calling for an ambulance. The other was kneeling on the floor, pressing a towel against Valerie’s bleeding head.

Adam dropped to his knees beside her. Valerie was conscious, but barely. Her eyes were unfocused, her breathing shallow.

"Valerie, look at me," Adam pleaded, gripping her hand. "Where is she? Where's Katie?"

Valerie let out a broken, agonising sob. She raised a trembling hand and pointed toward the living room.

Adam stood up and walked on numb legs. He reached the doorway of the living room.

The fire had burned down to ash. Katie’s sketchbook lay open on the coffee table, a half-finished drawing of a bird abandoned on the page. And sitting right in the centre of the drawing, its perfect, painted eyes staring blankly up at Adam, was a porcelain doll.

Christopher had taken her. The final rehearsal had begun.