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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Horror
- Subject: Crime
- Published: 10/31/2019
The ivory mask
Born 2000, M, from JAMSHEDPUR, IndiaThe Ivory mask
By Ayush
“It’s been three weeks now, Mr. Sullivan,” said Joyce, his voice trembling; “My wife’s still missing; I’m losing hope, now.”
Detective Sullivan held Joyce’s shoulder and then without saying a word lighted a cigar; he didn’t want to lie to the young man but then, he didn’t want to state the obvious truth either. He was disgusted, too, by the man’s sudden arrival on a pleasant evening; but he was good at pretending, very good.
Sullivan decided to keep a straight face, as the man kept complaining about his missing wife; but to throw a guest out of his house just for blabbering wasn’t something he enjoyed.
“Do you have any leads, any suspects?” asked Joyce, almost crying; the straight and pale face of Detective Sullivan had begun to annoy him.
“Yes one,” said Sullivan as he dragged on his cigar. “But I doubt that he’s the man. He kills for money, mostly wanderers and pedestrians; kidnapping’s not his thing; I brought his name up ‘cause colleagues were suggesting.”
“Maybe you should listen to them, then!” this time there was a hint of anger in Joyce’s voice.
“He’s a punk, doesn’t worth my time,” said Sullivan, sharply.
“Well, I say get this man,” said Joyce, anger manifesting in his eyes, “if you worth my money, then that PUNK should worth your time.”
“Well, then…” said Sullivan as he picked the newspaper, which was lying on the sofa and threw it on the desk, before Joyce.
“See, that man in the ivory mask?” said Sullivan, standing at the window, smoking mindlessly, “that’s your punk.”
“That picture was taken a week ago, after he’d just murdered a young lady walking down that very street. They never got another picture of that man. Had killed around eight people in last two weeks. All pedestrians and regular people out for walking, playing, you know. He’s not a psychopath, kills for money; the bodies are always found stabbed, and money and other items missing. Hadn’t kidnapped anyone, so far.”
The detective walked away from the window and stood by Joyce who was looking at the picture of the man in the ivory mask, with bulging eyes.
“Citizens, sir, are not safe out there; people are being murdered for money and those who aren’t, are dying of diseases, you never know what’s coming to get you. This man will be caught one day, until then he’ll hunt, we’ll chase; same old game.”
Sullivan picked the newspaper and sat relaxingly on the sofa. Joyce stood up to leave and while walking towards the door something caught his eye; in the mirror before him he could see a reflection of something familiar.
“Go home safe, sir,” said Sullivan from behind.
“Can I use your bathroom, Mr. Sullivan?” asked Joyce, beads of perspiration had begun to form on his forehead.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you,” hissed Mr. Sullivan, “you’re a clever man, sir, but what you forget is that I’m a detective, and a good one, too. Tell me how did you like the mask? Was it too long for my face, ‘cause I wanted it to be that way.”
Joyce stared without a word, horrified. His lips parted, but all that escaped was a long trapped breath; a thought occurred to him that Sullivan might have killed his wife, but he shrugged it off because he didn’t want that to be true.
His eyeballs followed Sullivan as he walked leisurely towards a room inside; he came out few seconds later; Joyce hadn’t moved.
“How do I look?” he asked from behind the mask. “Didn’t my ivory mask blow your mind, sir? Doesn’t it look perfect for a killer?”
Joyce took a step back while his eyes were still fixed on the masked monster standing before him. Before Sullivan could have moved, Joyce grabbed the nearby vase and in a swift swing, struck it against Sullivan’s head.
The night outside was silent and the moon had shut its eyes to the horrors below; and in the villa of Detective Sullivan, Joyce was browsing through any file he could lay his hand upon expecting something about his wife would just pop up.
He didn’t see Sullivan standing behind him; he didn’t see the knife in his hand, only felt the knife piercing through his flesh, and his warm blood spurting out.
“Here’s a confession, sir, I killed your wife,” growled Sullivan from behind the mask, “and here’s another one, I enjoyed it.”
“Thought you were a good man,” Joyce managed to say, through the pain, “I trusted you detective, I believed you’d find my wife, you’d save her. You’re a bad man detective, you’ll always be one.”
“You’re a brave man to say those words,” said the detective as he stabbed Joyce again and again, “what you aren’t, however, is alive, to be brave anymore.”
Sullivan was happy, killing Joyce.
******
The ivory mask(Ayush Kumar)
The Ivory mask
By Ayush
“It’s been three weeks now, Mr. Sullivan,” said Joyce, his voice trembling; “My wife’s still missing; I’m losing hope, now.”
Detective Sullivan held Joyce’s shoulder and then without saying a word lighted a cigar; he didn’t want to lie to the young man but then, he didn’t want to state the obvious truth either. He was disgusted, too, by the man’s sudden arrival on a pleasant evening; but he was good at pretending, very good.
Sullivan decided to keep a straight face, as the man kept complaining about his missing wife; but to throw a guest out of his house just for blabbering wasn’t something he enjoyed.
“Do you have any leads, any suspects?” asked Joyce, almost crying; the straight and pale face of Detective Sullivan had begun to annoy him.
“Yes one,” said Sullivan as he dragged on his cigar. “But I doubt that he’s the man. He kills for money, mostly wanderers and pedestrians; kidnapping’s not his thing; I brought his name up ‘cause colleagues were suggesting.”
“Maybe you should listen to them, then!” this time there was a hint of anger in Joyce’s voice.
“He’s a punk, doesn’t worth my time,” said Sullivan, sharply.
“Well, I say get this man,” said Joyce, anger manifesting in his eyes, “if you worth my money, then that PUNK should worth your time.”
“Well, then…” said Sullivan as he picked the newspaper, which was lying on the sofa and threw it on the desk, before Joyce.
“See, that man in the ivory mask?” said Sullivan, standing at the window, smoking mindlessly, “that’s your punk.”
“That picture was taken a week ago, after he’d just murdered a young lady walking down that very street. They never got another picture of that man. Had killed around eight people in last two weeks. All pedestrians and regular people out for walking, playing, you know. He’s not a psychopath, kills for money; the bodies are always found stabbed, and money and other items missing. Hadn’t kidnapped anyone, so far.”
The detective walked away from the window and stood by Joyce who was looking at the picture of the man in the ivory mask, with bulging eyes.
“Citizens, sir, are not safe out there; people are being murdered for money and those who aren’t, are dying of diseases, you never know what’s coming to get you. This man will be caught one day, until then he’ll hunt, we’ll chase; same old game.”
Sullivan picked the newspaper and sat relaxingly on the sofa. Joyce stood up to leave and while walking towards the door something caught his eye; in the mirror before him he could see a reflection of something familiar.
“Go home safe, sir,” said Sullivan from behind.
“Can I use your bathroom, Mr. Sullivan?” asked Joyce, beads of perspiration had begun to form on his forehead.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you,” hissed Mr. Sullivan, “you’re a clever man, sir, but what you forget is that I’m a detective, and a good one, too. Tell me how did you like the mask? Was it too long for my face, ‘cause I wanted it to be that way.”
Joyce stared without a word, horrified. His lips parted, but all that escaped was a long trapped breath; a thought occurred to him that Sullivan might have killed his wife, but he shrugged it off because he didn’t want that to be true.
His eyeballs followed Sullivan as he walked leisurely towards a room inside; he came out few seconds later; Joyce hadn’t moved.
“How do I look?” he asked from behind the mask. “Didn’t my ivory mask blow your mind, sir? Doesn’t it look perfect for a killer?”
Joyce took a step back while his eyes were still fixed on the masked monster standing before him. Before Sullivan could have moved, Joyce grabbed the nearby vase and in a swift swing, struck it against Sullivan’s head.
The night outside was silent and the moon had shut its eyes to the horrors below; and in the villa of Detective Sullivan, Joyce was browsing through any file he could lay his hand upon expecting something about his wife would just pop up.
He didn’t see Sullivan standing behind him; he didn’t see the knife in his hand, only felt the knife piercing through his flesh, and his warm blood spurting out.
“Here’s a confession, sir, I killed your wife,” growled Sullivan from behind the mask, “and here’s another one, I enjoyed it.”
“Thought you were a good man,” Joyce managed to say, through the pain, “I trusted you detective, I believed you’d find my wife, you’d save her. You’re a bad man detective, you’ll always be one.”
“You’re a brave man to say those words,” said the detective as he stabbed Joyce again and again, “what you aren’t, however, is alive, to be brave anymore.”
Sullivan was happy, killing Joyce.
******
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