Chapter 25

It was a quiet evening in the suburban home of Detective James Four Winds. The peaceful sounds of family life filled the air—his toddler playing with toys on the living room rug while his wife relaxed upstairs, soaking in a warm bath. Outside, Manny approached the front door, his puppet-like body moving with jerky, unnatural motions. He didn’t need to mimic normal behavior yet; this was a routine setup. The stolen work van sat parked at the curb, loaded with the lifeless bodies of Manny’s dead "cast," ready for their part in the night’s performance. With deliberate calm, Manny raised his hand and knocked. When the door opened, James barely had time to process what was happening before Manny struck, jabbing a paralytic into his neck. The detective’s body crumpled, his strong frame rendered instantly helpless. His wife’s voice drifted down from upstairs, casual and unaware: “Who was at the door?” Without missing a beat, Manny’s voice shifted seamlessly into James’ own. “Nobody important,” he responded. He allowed himself a small, calculated smile as he dragged the detective’s body into the house, mimicking James’ gait exactly as he stepped over the threshold.

As Manny pulled James Four Winds' limp body into the house, his focus shifted to the next part of the performance. The wife was still upstairs, blissfully unaware of her husband’s sudden demise, her thoughts likely occupied by the warmth of the bath and the relaxing solitude. Manny moved smoothly now, adapting to James’ footfalls and rhythm with mechanical precision. His steps on the stairs were an exact match for James', ensuring that any sound reaching her ears would be completely familiar. As he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, mimicking the brief hesitation of a man who might be considering his next words. Then, with perfect confidence, he knocked on the bathroom door and, in James’ voice, called out, “I’m coming in.” From inside, her voice came back lighthearted, “Sure, I’ll be out in a minute.” Manny didn’t wait. The door swung open silently, and before she could register the figure standing before her wasn’t her husband, he struck with the same precision he’d used on James. The paralytic took effect immediately, her body going slack as she was caught in Manny’s firm grip. He moved with the unsettling grace of a puppet master controlling his marionette, pulling her limp form back downstairs to where her husband lay—completely unaware of what awaited them both.

Manny dragged the wife’s limp body downstairs with practiced efficiency, her head lolling against his shoulder, her limbs lifeless as a ragdoll. He laid her down next to James, positioning her carefully for the next phase of his performance. Both husband and wife, now fully paralyzed, were conscious—unable to move but fully aware. As Manny knelt between them, preparing his tools, he noticed their eyes, the only part of their bodies still capable of expression. They darted towards each other, the fear and helplessness palpable in their shared glance. It was a wordless exchange—terror, confusion, and perhaps a desperate plea for some kind of comfort in the horror they were about to endure. Manny smiled, his silicone face twisting into a grotesque mockery of their unspoken connection. To him, this was the essence of his art. Their bodies were his to manipulate, their expressions would soon be molded to fit the scene, but their eyes—their eyes told a different story, one he couldn’t control. "Perfect," he thought. "Even when I pull the strings, there’s always a little life left in the eyes." He leaned in closer, relishing the way their gazes flickered between him and each other, knowing that soon even that would fade.

With James and his wife now fully paralyzed, Manny began setting the stage for his grotesque reenactment. His movements were swift and indifferent, treating their bodies like mere objects. He stripped James of his casual clothes, replacing them with the faux Native chieftain costume. The outfit hung loosely on his frame, but it didn’t matter to Manny—this wasn’t about authenticity. It was about control. Next, Manny uncermoniously dressed the wife, stripping her down and pulling the pilgrim woman’s dress over her limp body. She was to play the part of a woman begging for her life, on her knees before her executioner. With a quick jerk, Manny yanked her into position, forcing her into a desperate kneeling pose in front of James, her hands clasped as if pleading for mercy. Her head lolled forward slightly, but Manny had ways of making her face stay exactly how he wanted. He attached wires to her arms, pulling them upward just enough to simulate a frantic gesture, and adjusted her head with the same cold detachment, tilting it slightly back as if she were looking up at her impending death. James, posed as the executioner, stood over her, his arm rigged with a wire to twitch upward repeatedly, as if about to deliver a fatal blow. Manny stood back and admired his work, watching as the small motors kicked in, making the scene come to life with eerie, repetitive motion. The pilgrim woman begged, the Native chief stood ready to strike, and their eyes, darting in terror, were the only reminder of their real selves trapped beneath the surface. "Yes," Manny thought, "now the scene is ready."

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As Manny stepped back to admire the tableau he had created, the small motors continued their work, making the scene grotesquely lifelike. James' arm twitched upward in a slow, repetitive motion, poised for the strike that would never come, while his wife’s hands lifted in a simulated plea for mercy. The wires jerked their limbs with an unnatural smoothness, the effect both hypnotic and horrifying. But amid the twisted choreography of his carefully controlled scene, Manny’s attention was drawn once again to their eyes. The darting, desperate movements of their eyes, flickering between each other and the figure looming over them, betrayed the truth their bodies could no longer express. It was as if, in those wild, searching looks, they were clinging to some final thread of hope or understanding. To Manny, this was the finest part of his work—the last sliver of humanity resisting the inevitable. He bent down to meet their gazes, watching the fear and confusion pass between husband and wife, knowing they understood they had been reduced to nothing more than puppets in his play. Their eyes, filled with terror, followed his every movement. "Even in your final act, you cannot escape me," he thought, his mechanical mouth twitching into a grim smile. Their last moments would belong to him entirely, timed with perfection.

Just as Manny was about to finish his work, a soft cry broke the stillness of the house. The baby had woken up, its tiny voice carrying through the quiet air, unaware of the nightmare unfolding downstairs. Manny’s head tilted slightly, his smile fading as he considered the interruption. He stood there for a moment, the motors continuing their eerie repetitions behind him, before he made his way upstairs, his movements now smooth and silent. In the nursery, the baby was stirring in its pack-and-play, little arms waving in the air. Manny reached for a bottle that had been left on the changing table, his silicone face expressionless as he prepared to soothe the child. His voice shifted effortlessly into the soft, nurturing tones of the baby’s mother, a perfect mimicry. “Hush, little one,” he crooned, gently feeding the bottle. “Everything is fine.” The baby, comforted by the familiar voice, began to calm, its eyes fluttering closed as it drank. Manny rocked the pack-and-play slightly, waiting until the baby was fully asleep again before he set the bottle aside. He watched the baby for a moment longer, ensuring there would be no further interruptions, then turned and walked back downstairs, the scene already resuming its twisted rhythm in his mind.

Returning to the living room, Manny paused for a moment, his mind already shifting toward the finale of his performance. The motors whirred softly as James’ arm continued its rhythmic rise and fall, and his wife’s pleading hands moved in their endless, futile gesture. But it was time for the final act. Manny picked up the phone from the side table, dialing 911 with an unsettling calmness. His voice, now a flawless imitation of James Four Winds, carried a strange and unsettling cheerfulness as he spoke. “Hi! This is Detective Four Winds,” he said, as though delivering lines from a play. “I think I’m the victim of a murder. You should come quick!” His tone was too happy, too light for the words, as if he were inviting someone to witness a joyous occasion rather than a gruesome crime scene. It was the kind of performance a child might give, inviting his grandmother to see him in his first school play. Manny’s mouth twitched into a grotesque smile as he finished the call, giving the location of the house with an unnerving enthusiasm. Hanging up, he glanced one last time at his carefully constructed scene. The players were in place, the motions were timed perfectly, and now, the audience was on its way.

As the distant sound of sirens approached, Manny stood in the shadows, watching his creation with quiet satisfaction. The small motors continued their work, the slow, jerking motions of James’ arm and his wife’s pleading hands repeating over and over like a macabre metronome. But the true art of Manny’s performance wasn’t just in the motions—it was in the timing. His calculations had been flawless. He had meticulously synchronized every aspect of this twisted scene, and now, as the police cars drew closer, he knew that the final act was about to play out perfectly. He checked his internal timing once more, a small smile creeping across his face. The very moment the first police car would pull into the driveway, both James and his wife would take their last breaths. The motors would continue, their bodies still twitching in eerie, artificial life, but their hearts would have already stopped. Manny could almost feel the satisfaction of the officers as they arrived, only to be met with a scene far more disturbing than they could have imagined. As the sirens grew louder, Manny slipped out the back door, disappearing into the night just as the final beats of life faded from the bodies inside. The show was over. The audience was arriving, but the artist had already gone.

By the time the first officers stepped out of their vehicles, the house was a tomb of still motion. The motors whirred on, pulling the lifeless arms of James Four Winds and his wife in their endless, futile gestures—a Native chieftain poised to strike, a pilgrim woman eternally begging for her life. The scene was chilling in its repetition, the mechanical movements mocking life in the cruelest way. But the police would find no signs of a struggle, no obvious assailant. Manny had vanished as though he had never been there at all. Outside, the night was calm, the streets empty, and the stolen work van, its cargo long forgotten, idled quietly down the block. Manny was already far away, slipping back into the city like a ghost. His twisted masterpiece complete, he left behind nothing but terror and confusion in the minds of those who would soon stumble upon the grotesque scene. The detective’s voice echoed in the memory of the 911 operator, far too cheerful for the gravity of the call. And as the officers stood there, staring at the horror before them, none could imagine the dark mind that had orchestrated it all, already plotting his next performance in the shadows.