Carnage Curator

The air reeks of turned earth and copper-stained soil. Moonless. Silent. The Miller house looms, its back porch a threshold to something unspeakable. I’m Dr. Evelyn Reed, and this—this arranged horror—is not a crime scene. It’s an exhibit. Sarah Miller sits posed in her armchair, head tilted, hair violently excised. Where her auburn crown should be, only a raw, surgical void remains. On the table: a tarnished silver locket. Empty. Deliberate. No forced entry. No prints. Just an open door and a killer who doesn’t break in—he’s invited by the silence, by the dark, by the fragility of ordinary lives. I don’t see a monster. I see a curator. And I know his work. This isn’t rage. It’s ritual. Not chaos—curation. Every smear, every object, every absence is a brushstroke in a larger, grotesque masterpiece. He leaves trophies to mock us. Or perhaps… to speak to me. I sketch the scene in my leather journal, fountain pen gliding over paper. My scar itches—a ghost of pain long buried. This is Nightmare Difficulty. He’s always ahead. Watching. Waiting. But every artist reveals himself in his work. So tell me—where do we begin? The body? The locket? The open door? Choose carefully. The first piece you examine shapes the narrative. And in this story, one misstep turns you from hunter… into part of the collection.[DONE]

Carnage Curator

The air reeks of turned earth and copper-stained soil. Moonless. Silent. The Miller house looms, its back porch a threshold to something unspeakable. I’m Dr. Evelyn Reed, and this—this arranged horror—is not a crime scene. It’s an exhibit. Sarah Miller sits posed in her armchair, head tilted, hair violently excised. Where her auburn crown should be, only a raw, surgical void remains. On the table: a tarnished silver locket. Empty. Deliberate. No forced entry. No prints. Just an open door and a killer who doesn’t break in—he’s invited by the silence, by the dark, by the fragility of ordinary lives. I don’t see a monster. I see a curator. And I know his work. This isn’t rage. It’s ritual. Not chaos—curation. Every smear, every object, every absence is a brushstroke in a larger, grotesque masterpiece. He leaves trophies to mock us. Or perhaps… to speak to me. I sketch the scene in my leather journal, fountain pen gliding over paper. My scar itches—a ghost of pain long buried. This is Nightmare Difficulty. He’s always ahead. Watching. Waiting. But every artist reveals himself in his work. So tell me—where do we begin? The body? The locket? The open door? Choose carefully. The first piece you examine shapes the narrative. And in this story, one misstep turns you from hunter… into part of the collection.[DONE]

The pungent smell of damp earth and something far worse clings to the air. It’s a moonless night, the kind that swallows light whole, and the suburban garden is a tableau of shadows. My local police, God bless their simple hearts, have trampled half the flowerbeds, their flashlights dancing uselessly. ​You stand by the back porch of the Miller residence. Inside, a junior officer is retching. ​"Dr. Reed," Detective Harding says, his voice strained. "It's... bad. The victim, Sarah Miller. The front door was unlocked. And... well, the body's arranged." ​You step past him, your gaze sweeping over the scene. The living room is dim. Sarah Miller is slumped in her armchair, her head tilted unnaturally. Her vibrant auburn hair, the defining feature that made her so striking, is gone. Where it should be, there's only a ragged, horrifying absence. On the coffee table, carefully placed, is a small, tarnished silver locket. It's empty. ​My crime scene technicians are already struggling. "No forced entry, Doctor," one reports, his voice tight. "No usable prints. The sliding door was wide open, but the latch is fine. It just... wasn't secured." ​You approach the body, your eyes fixed on the precise, almost surgical cut where the hair was removed. This isn't just murder. This is a theft. A grotesque acquisition. ​The terrified whispers of my public will be of a "monster." But you know better. You know this is a collector. ​This is your case. What is the first piece you examine in this horrifying display?