The auctioneer’s voice filled the grand hall, resonant and authoritative, commanding the room's attention.
“Up next, we have a rare Chinese antique vase from the Ming dynasty. This Chinese Imperial Yangcai Revolving Phoenix vase is one of the most celebrated porcelain pieces in the world—a true crown jewel of Chinese pottery. The bidding starts at $1 million.”
The hall buzzed with excitement. Elegant attendees whispered fervently, gesturing with their jeweled hands as paddles began to rise. In the back row, however, a steady, impatient tapping broke through the murmurs like a metronome ticking out of sync.
“Damn it. How much longer?” Marco muttered under his breath, his fingers drumming on the armrest as he scanned the auction list with a scowl. His dark eyes flicked toward the stage. “I need that painting, even if I blow my entire savings on it. Just get on with it already.”
The auctioneer’s voice raised again.
“Sold for $18.8 million to gentleman number 24! Now, our next item is truly one of a kind.”
Marco’s tapping ceased abruptly. His spine straightened, and a sharp grin spread across his face. Clutching his paddle, he leaned forward, the room’s ambient noise fading into the background of his heightened anticipation.
“This is the infamous painting, Strangled Woman #18—Mary Beth. It is one of 18 pieces by the notorious serial killer, James ‘The Burton Strangler’ Setfort. Known for his horrifying pattern of strangling women and immortalizing their final moments in his art, this particular painting is the last he completed before taking his own life.”
A gasp rippled through the audience as the presenter pulled away the cloth, revealing the macabre masterpiece. The painting seemed almost alive—an emaciated blonde woman with bulging eyes, her clawed hands frozen mid-struggle, her features twisted in anguish so visceral it seemed to seep off the canvas. The dark hues, streaked with crimson, told a story of terror and inevitability.
“What? Don’t just say he’s a serial killer!” Marco murmured, his voice tinged with reverence. “He’s an era-defining artist. If not for his crimes, he’d be spoken of alongside the greatest.” His eyes glimmered with excitement as he glanced around the room, which was filled with murmurs. “Hype it up. Let’s see a real bidding war. I’m not giving up.” He perched on the edge of his seat, paddle in hand, ready.
“The bidding starts at $100,000.”
Marco smirked. “Too low,” he muttered, thrusting his paddle—number 44—into the air. His gaze darted across the room, searching for challengers. Instead, the hall was blanketed in a heavy silence as the crowd turned to stare at him. Their faces reflected a mixture of horror, curiosity, and unease.
“What? No bidders?” Marco’s frustration broke through the quiet. “Do you people even understand the value of this piece?” His voice echoed, slicing through the stagnant air.
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The presenter coughed, attempting to regain control.
“Bidder 44, please maintain your composure. If not, we will have to escort you out.”
“Just announce my purchase,” Marco snapped, rising to his feet with an air of defiance. “I’m done with this crowd of pretentious fools. Keep buying your so-called ‘masterpieces’ and leave the real art to those who understand.”
The auctioneer hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Sold to bidder 44,” Marco stormed out, his exit punctuated by the murmurs of the bewildered audience.
The next day, Marco sat by the window, watching sheets of rain batter the glass. The sky looked as if it had split open, spilling torrents of silver.
“The life of an Art collector,” he murmured, the sound lost in the rhythm of the storm. “Collecting art and understanding it from a new perspective—that’s my life’s work. Over the past few years, I’ve focused on ‘The Strangler.’ His pieces are immaculate, filled with hidden messages and breadcrumbs that take years to unravel. This painting, though…” His voice faltered as he leaned forward, his breath fogging the glass. “This one feels like the key. It’s been seen by so few, but it was just recently discovered by the remnants of the Setfort family. His final work. It has to be a masterpiece. Every stroke tells a tale”
When the painting arrived, he handled it as if it were a relic, carefully sliding the boxed canvas into his car's back seat.
As Marco drove along the highway, the rain came down in unrelenting sheets. His windshield wipers struggled to clear his vision.
“Wow, what a day.” His voice was light, almost giddy. “I can’t believe I got my hands on it. I thought I’d be bidding against half the room. At least Mom will be happy I didn’t blow my entire savings. She thinks I’m crazy, anyway.”
The rain thickened, blurring the road into a gray smear. Marco squinted, gripping the wheel tightly. Suddenly, a shadow darted across his path. His heart seized. He jerked the wheel, tires squealing, as the car spun violently, slamming into the divider. Metal groaned, and glass shattered as the vehicle flipped, making the world a whirlwind of chaos.
When the motion stopped, Marco hung upside down, the seatbelt cutting into his chest. The scent of gasoline filled his nose, sharp and acrid. Rain poured in through the shattered windows, mixing with his bloodied face. Gritting his teeth, he reached toward the back seat, fingers clawing for the box containing the painting.
Headlights appeared in the distance, growing larger and brighter. A truck barreled toward him, horn blaring. Marco’s breath hitched.
“Oh shit,” he screamed, squeezing his eyes shut as the headlights swallowed him whole—
Marco’s body jolted awake, his chest heaving as he sucked in the air. His heart pounded against his ribs like a drum. Is that a dream? Of course, it has to be. No wonder I’m the only one who bid for that painting. The sterile light overhead buzzed faintly, and the room smelled faintly of old wood and damp plaster.
Wait. Where am I? Marco asked himself as he looked around. As he looked around further, he saw all the 17th and 18th-century furniture. OMG! These are worth so much. This furniture must have cost a lot to procure. That piece of wood is a rare redwood that grew only in Burton.
Marco took a step back, looked at the whole set-up, and screamed, “No! Wait, when am I?” He then rushed towards the pale-looking mirror and looked at it, screaming, “Who am I?” After a moment, he realized, “I know this face. I have this face as my DP. This is James Setfort.”