The Murderer’s Sister

Murderer’s Sister

Commissioned by: Zeroth17

Written by: Danni Lynn

Word Count: 10,000 words

October 23rd, 2023

 The Watcher in the Snow series pt. 1 “The Watcher in the Snow” and pt. 2 “The Murderer’s Sister.”

Rating: R

CW: Violence, explicit gore.

The Murderer’s Sister Synopsis: It’s been a year since the Mayfield Mutilator’s attacks in the quiet town of Mayfield. Violet struggles to get by as she suffers from nightmares and visions of the mutilator himself. Are these just figments of her imagination, or is she seeing the same phantom that drove her brother mad? 

Leaf-barren branches tap at a window as a soft November wind teases the air. The branch taps, but Violet, standing half-dressed before her bathroom mirror, imagines fingers and hands, reaching up to grope the glass.

Shivering, Violet puts her cold hands on her cheeks, leaning into the chill as her dark eyes stare into the abyss that is her own mirrored expression.

“Good morning, Mayfield. It is a dreary Monday, but we are happy you are spending your time with us at Mayfield News’ Center. The time is 7:00 AM, and as approach the end of the fall season, there are many questions left unanswered after the tragedies of the infamous Mayfield Mutilator’s spree last winter…”

The television in Violet’s bedroom murmurs outside the bathroom. Violet splashes her face; the cold water dripping down her chin. She brushes her teeth robotically, and then pulls her long violet hair into a messy, unbrushed bun. She doesn’t flinch as her fingers snag upon snarls. She pulls through, keeping eye contact with her reflection’s puffy, dark-rimmed eyes. Violet’s makeup, a selection of powders, lipstick, and creams sit untouched in a basket on the counter.

“Can you believe it’s already been almost a year?” a newscaster asks. “My walk home hasn’t felt the same. I even find myself looking over my shoulder now and then…”

“You walk home?” another newscaster asks. She laughs, her voice bright against the heaviness of morning. “I drive everywhere now and carry pepper spray—two cans!”

Violet leaves the bathroom, her feet padding on the soft carpet of her bedroom. Her bed takes up the middle of the room with its wrinkled sheets and comforter strewn on the floor. Her curtains are drawn and cardboard peeks past the edges, covering the window. Violet picks up her work uniform and shakes out her stiff pants. Pulling one leg through, she struggles to pull the next one up as the pants catch at her thighs and the beltline sits uncomfortably on her stomach. Sucking in her belly, she zips up the pants and then relaxes. Bending down carefully, she picks up her black button-up shirt, wrinkled beyond saving, and pulls it on, ignoring the deodorant stains at the underarms.

“Police originally found the culprit, a Redmond Miller, at the scene of the crime. Miller was a grocery stockboy at Thyme’s Fresh Market on Main Street, and was convicted for the murder of—”

Violet switches the television off. The screen goes black. She doesn’t want to hear it again. She hears about the conviction—about her brother being a murderer—every week. Every newspaper, magazine, journal, social media page, and more was always talking about the “local serial killer.” News hounds, once Red was identified, started calling her for interviews and demanding to know, “How are you feeling?” “Where were you when Red was found?” “Why did your brother do it?” “Did you know he was a serial killer?” “Have you talked to your brother?”

The questions made her head swim, as if the horrible reality wasn’t enough. Even though her body and brain felt like it was on fire with different anxieties, grudges, and fears, Violet stood still, anchored in her loss as time passed. She was horrified to find out Red had murdered his boss but now… there was nothing she could do.

Violet picks up her purse and moves to her apartment’s kitchen, on autopilot. The window in her kitchen is blocked with cardboard and duct tape. She grabs a cold pop tart out of her cupboard and fumbles with her keys. She inserts the keys into the lock when a shadow passes over her, darkening the closed doorway. Shutting her eyes, Violet scrunches up her face and stands still for a moment, holding her breath.

Eleven months ago, Violet sat in the Mayfield Police Department lobby. Her head was in her hands as workers passed back and forth on the stained carpet. A pair of black suede shoes stepped into her view. Violet looked up at an older man who was wearing a heavy black trench coat over his pants and dress shirt. His tie was loosened from around his neck and deep, sleepless circles hung from his eyes.

Violet’s face was red from crying but back then, her eyes still burned, full of disbelief and fear. She was ready to fight, to argue for Red’s sake, but she never got her chance. He was convicted with a unanimous verdict.

“Miss Miller?” Detective George Crane began, “They found his fingerprints on the weapon and at the crime scene. He’s going to go away for a long time…”

Violet opens her eyes and takes a deep breath. There is nothing she can do. There is nothing she could have done any differently. When she returned to work after the incident, her manager tried to offer assistance and a lax schedule if she needed to take time off to go to therapy, but she refused. She didn’t need therapy. She just needed her brother back.

***

Violet works at a local diner down the road from her apartment. On Monday mornings, there is not much of a crowd, except for the local retirees who come in to talk over coffee and eggs. Booths line the windows, a counter sits at the back wall in front of the kitchen, and a collection of tables punctuate the open spaces between. The kitchen door swings open, and Violet comes out balancing two hot plates of eggs, hashbrowns, and bacon. She weaves between the different tables and approaches an elderly couple sitting at a red-and-white booth.

“Eggs over easy and the plate with double hash?” she asks.

“Right here, thank you,” the older man says. Violet sets the plates down. A swirl of steam lifts from the scrambled eggs.

“Can we get more coffee?” the woman asks.

“Uh-huh, right away.”

“I think you forgot our toast,” the man says.

“I’ll get that too,” Violet answers. She turns to walk away, back to the kitchen. Behind her, silverware clatters as the couple tucks into their meal.

“I think that’s the girl,” the woman whispers.

“Who?”

“The sister of that boy who was arrested last winter?”

“Marge, there are many ‘boys’ who are arrested around here.”

Violet slows down and stoops to pick up a loose straw wrapper on the ground. Her face darkens.

“You know who I mean—that mutilator. The serial killer?”

“Oh, you can’t go around making assumptions like that.”

“But I remember those two. I know it is her…”

Violet heads to the kitchen and pushes the door open. The greasy warmth of the crowded room sucks her in. Shaking herself, Violet goes in search of the toast, slipping around the counters and other workers hurrying around. Knives snicker on cutting boards, spatulas scrape over the grill, and plates clatter in the dishwasher. The noise is a good distraction. Each loud bang, yell, and sizzle dampens Violet’s rampant thoughts. It’s as if the sounds take up all the room in her mind, making themselves comfortable, and kick out anything else that is not on the topic of serving. Violet moves through the kitchen silently, and without announcing her presence. She slips through and grabs two small plates of toast and turns around to exit again.

Pushing the swinging door open with her back, she steps out and catches the elderly couple’s eyes boring into her. Violet instantly looks to the ground and keeps her head down. Maybe they are only that eager for their missing toast—as anal customers can be—but it is probably something else that draws their eyes to her. The whispers. The questions…

Violet sets the toast down without a word.

“Coffee?”

“Coming right up.” Violet retrieves the coffee from behind the counter and pours it into his cup. The whole time, the older woman stares unabashedly up at her face without blinking.

At another table, a man stands up to turn up the volume on a tv in the corner. The volume kicks up and the voices of a news stations’ news anchors break the silence.

“—it leaves everyone thinking. Can it happen again? Could I be next?”

“It feels like a horror movie to me. No one has felt safe even with the murderer in custody…”

The older woman’s eyes flick to the tv and then back at Violet in rapidity. She opens her mouth, flashing yellow-stained teeth, as if to say something, but Violet tips the coffee pot upright and hurries away.

“The Mayfield Police Department is still tight lipped on what exactly happened that cold winter but the public will not soon forget the details revealed during trial…”

The kitchen door slams open and Sarah, Violet’s coworker, comes out. Sarah is a tall girl with lengthy limbs and a big smile. Despite what customers might think, her smile was far from kind. Violet commonly saw her grinning or guffawing over customer gossip, spills, or any incident that gave her pleasure. Sarah has worked at the diner longer than Violet and she is always eager to prove her authority. She has a way of stamping a claim over every task and living thing. Her nose for trouble hinders her ability to get promoted, and not having a lick of self-awareness, she is always quick to blame everyone else for her shortcomings.

“Hey, it’s my favorite show!” Sarah says. She grins, stretching her lips over her large teeth. She drops a tray on the counter next to Violet and begins filling it with empty coffee cups, creams, and sugar packets. “Why aren’t you watching the news, Violet?” Sarah asks.

Violet doesn’t answer. She sets the coffee pot down and stuffs a few straws into her apron pocket.

“It’s the only time you get to see your brother anymore, isn’t it? Do you like it when they show his pictures on the news? I especially like that mugshot of him. He looks crazy.”

Violet fidgets with her straws and pocket. She thumbs her notepad and turns to lean against the back counter and looks out over the dining room. A few heads are turned toward the television. Outside, a car pulls into the parking lot and traffic on Main Street rumbles by.

 Sarah picks up the coffee pot and starts filling each cup. “It’s too bad, you know. I was telling our manager what a hard worker you are.”

Violet rolls her eyes. “Sure, you were.”

“Of course, I was! Promotions are coming up next week, with Jesse leaving for school, but I don’t think I can be much help. There is very little that can be done to save a damaged reputation,” Sarah says.

A bell dings and more plates of eggs and hash appear at the back counter’s window into the kitchen. Violet turns to pick up the plates when Sarah sets the coffee pot down with an audible clack.

“I just hope, when you start to take after your family, you leave the workplace out of it this time. Alright? We don’t need any more dead bosses.”

Violet leaves the counter, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Her hands under her tray tremble. Do not give her the satisfaction. Do not say anything to let her know she is bothering you…

Violet continues to work, setting down her next round of plates and taking a few more orders. A group of teenagers, who should probably be in school, peek at her from around their menus. Whispers build dark castles in the air. Someone else points at the news and then lifts an eyebrow in Violet’s direction.

At the counter, Sarah watches with a broad smile.

***

On her break, Violet sits out back on the curb outside between the dumpsters and the cooking-oil disposal. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and her face is buried in her arms as she cries. It’s just another day. Just another shift, and just another shitty day. Empty candy wrappers and her pop tart sit next to her on the ground. Sniffling, Violet looks up and tips her head back to the sky.

Days and time pass, but nothing has gotten easier. Nothing has changed. She hasn’t been able to wake up from this nightmare and there is no end in sight…

***

After work, Violet drags her feet across the parking lot as she walks to her car. Dark clouds hang heavy in the sky above and the chill bites at any exposed skin. Hiding her hands in her pocket, she wanders over to her sedan. Violet kicks a small rock on her way over and then winds up and launches a kick at an empty beer can on the asphalt. Her foot connects and the can rockets into the air and bounces off a jeep’s headlights. The car’s lights flash on, and the alarm begins to go off.

“Dammit!” Violet curses. She hurries away and pulls out her keys but freezes with her thumb poised above the unlock-button. Violet comes face to face with her brother, Red. She yelps and drops her keys. 

“What are you doing here?!” Violet sputters. A man is sitting on her car, lounging on the hood with his feet kicked out in front of him. He sits up and the face that looks like her brother…it’s not. She can’t tell exactly why but, it’s just not him. It’s more of a visage, an illusion… or maybe even coincidence. Instead, Violet knows all too well who sits before her. He appeared to her for the first time only six months after Red was put away.

“Watcher.”

“Little Miller,” The Watcher jeers. The Watcher is wearing a gray sweatshirt, one like Red used to wear, black pants, and red dress shoes. The strange shoes are eye-catching enough, but a dark black stain stretches from his shoulder to hip, with plenty of splattering across his chest. Violet swallows as nausea begins to crawl up her throat. "You look like you are in a bad mood today.”

"L-leave me alone," Violet manages. She drops down to pick up her keys and sneaks a glance over her shoulder. The backdoor to the kitchen is closed, and no one is in the parking lot nearby. A cold wind pushes against the back of her neck and sinks into her very bones.

“I don’t like what you’ve done with your windows, Violet. I miss checking in to see you at home.”

“You’re not real. And I live on the third floor,” Violet answers. She balls up her fists and digs them into her eyes. When she opens her eyes, he’ll be gone again. He’ll vanish and may reappear again, but she needs him to go away.

“What made you so mad?” The Watcher asks.

“None of your business,” Violet mutters into the palms of her hands. “You are just something I am making up in my head. Why should I talk to you?”

“Don’t feel guilty about a bad day at work. All people can be a little irrational at times… It’s only human nature.”

“No.”

“So, you haven’t gotten back at that co-worker bitch for taking everything from you?” The Watcher asks. Violet peeks between her fingers. Her car hood is empty. Yanking her hands away from her face, she whips around to The Watcher who now stands beside her. His eyes are empty, emotionless, as he looks down at her. Violet returns his look, less scared but more fascinated. She hadn’t seen her brother in eleven months, so to see this shadow of his appearance tears at her heart. She tries to focus and remain calm.

“‘Taking everything?’ I have nothing left to give.”

“That’s not what you said when she stole your boyfriend two years ago.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore…” Violet unlocks her car and walks away. She has worse things to worry about.

***

Violet’s apartment building is a 70s-era cement high-rise made up of several floors. The parking lot loops around the building and Violet, always arriving after rush hour, parks all the way in the back, with her car facing a strip of woodland.

Curled up in her front seat, Violet sits hugging her knees with her shins pressed up against the steering wheel as she cries again. Every moment she is alone, she often feels herself slip away and her entire façade falls apart. She can’t help it.

Nothing has been the same since Red got into trouble. No one treats her as they used to. Everyone expects her to be either suicidal or a homicidal maniac. It’s all due to her “traumas” and the “violence” she was exposed to through her family, but it only makes her feel like a ticking-time bomb in a tight space.

Every day passes bleakly, punctuated with pain. Red is probably going through much worse than she is, and that thought keeps her working and surviving at the bare minimum, but besides that, she hardly feels the will to do anything.

Wiping her eyes, Violet sniffles into her hands and dabs her nose on her sleeve. A soft pitter-patter of rain bounces off her windshield as she takes a steadying breath.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispers to herself. “Just go outside, get to your room, and then you can go to bed.” Go to bed, forget about today, and then survive tomorrow.

Violet’s phone begins to ring. Eyeing the intrusion, Violet reaches for it, but her hand hovers. The ringtone continues to peal, mixing with the growing volume of raindrops. Sighing, Violet picks it up and holds the phone up to her ear.

“Hello?” Violet asks.

“Is this Violet Miller?” the caller asks. The voice is smooth, young, and masculine.

“This is her,” Violet answers. She wipes her nose again and sits up, pushing her feet down to the floor.

“Miss Miller, I have been trying to reach you—I am an intern at a local news station for Brent Mater, and we would love to have you come over for an interview about your experiences this last year.”

Violet cringes. The vultures are back.

“If you think—”

“I don’t want to make any assumptions, I’m sure you have been swarmed by other media sources. I hope I am not making you feel that way.” The voice warms and the intern speaks kindly. It isn’t the usual pushy begging she is used to. Violet bites her lip.

“I’m not sure if I want to talk about it,” Violet answers. “I don’t want to answer absurd questions about my brother.”

“We want to know how you have been doing. Share some of your story instead. You are innocent of any crime, but you have been punished unjustly due to your proximity to the event, don’t you think?”

“I guess so…”

“I—we—want to help. I think this can be a good opportunity for you to clear the air,” the intern says. “But I won’t push you, of course.”

Violet frowns and blows out her cheeks with a sigh. She taps the steering wheel and then streaks her fingers across the fogging glass of her window. It is going to get dark soon.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea. She has felt unheard and attacked all year. Maybe speaking up before the first-year anniversary can help with some of the rerun stories sure to come.

“Where is your office?”  

Somewhere, in the distance, The Watcher laughs.

***

Violet is sitting in a tall fold-out chair, In one of the backrooms at “Your Voice Maters,” a small newsroom and local radio station. Light, stage, and props crew members pass by as they prepare for other shoots nearby. Sitting with her hands knotted in her lap, Violet looks rather normal. Her hair is freshly washed and brushed. She has on a light layer of makeup, dark eyeliner, shaped brows, and soft purple lipstick. Her nails are unpainted and her legs, unseen underneath her dark slacks, are unshaved; but, to a passerby, the assumption that she is just a normal girl with her life together can be made.

Inside, Violet feels like she was shaking to pieces. She clutches her hands tighter, trying to keep a soft smile on her face anytime any of the crew looks her way. She already drank three cups of water and desperately needs to pee, from either the water or nerves alone, but is too nervous to get up and ask for the bathroom.

“Mr. Mater will be out to see you in a few minutes,” a crew manager says.

Lights flick on and warmth washes over Violet’s skin. She cringes in the brightness until her eyesight adjusts and then the chill of the large room returns. A young man approaches her.

“You must be Violet,” he says.

Violet startles and nods, bobbing a little too far forward in her chair. Scooting back, she holds up a hand to block her eyes and get a clear view.

“Yes, I am.” Violet answers. “And you must be Brent Maters?” She recognizes the news anchor from television right away. Brent is tall and slender in his beige suit. He wears a white undershirt and black tie. A little triangle of light-blue fabric sticks out from his breast pocket. He has a gleaming smile and a slight curl to his oiled hair.

“That’s right. Thank you for reaching out to us. I am eager to talk to you about your experiences,” Brent says.

“Reaching out?” Violet repeats. Brent takes his seat across from her. A lamp shade and a coffee table are moved between them for a “living room” set up and an electric anticipation fills the room. “One of your interns reached out to me first.”

Brent, preparing his notes, looks up at Violet. “That’s possible, I guess. I’ll have to check and thank whoever did that… are you alright with the cameras? They will be filming for my own use, but all things considered, this is a private interview until we prepare our segment for release next month. With your approval, of course.”

Violet looks at the crew gathering around them, and the cameras’ black eyes pointed at her.

“Yes, that’s fine.”  

Everything falls silent. Violet begins to sweat; a cold drop rolls down her back. Should she really be doing this? Did she make the right decision in coming here?

Brent breathes in and assumes an air of compassionate authority. He leans forward in his seat and fixes his eyes on Violet.

“Violet Miller, thank you for joining us today.”

“Thank you for having me,” Violet recites, as she practiced in the mirror that morning.

“Now, we all know it has been an especially long year for you. Everyone in Mayfield—across the country—is familiar with your brother’s story and conviction as the Mayfield Mutilator, but one detail is consistently forgotten. Often, you are lumped in with the story, almost as if you were an accomplice to the crime. But today, I want to shed light on your experience and what you have gone through.

“Violet, how are you doing today?” Brent asks, rolling straight into the interview.

The simplest of questions can be the worst. Violet takes a shallow breath, trying to control her facial expressions. Don’t frown, don’t bite a lip, don’t look bothered. Of course, she is not fine, but she can’t say that, can she? Imagine it, “Oh, life sucks.” That would not go over well.

“I’m taking things day by day,” Violet answers. Good. Vague.

“I’m sure. It’s been eleven months, as of this week. Would you say you feel as if that time has passed?”

“It feels strange. My life kind of stopped once my brother was arrested. And, as I told one of your interns on the phone, I can’t really move on or try to heal either, with the constant reminders.”

Brent lets a beat of a moment pass by. Something flickers over his shoulder. “I don’t want to be brash, but I think everyone has been wondering about the same question. I am asking this without assumptions, I just want to know your thoughts…” he trails off. Brent gives Violet a comforting smile before his expression hardens into one of practiced calm. “Do you know how your brother got into the situation he did?”

Violet’s eyes widen. This is the question she was dreading. But Brent is the only person to ever phrase it truly without the tint of assumption that, “did your brother do it?” carries.

“Not really. I know he was going through a hard time, but we talked often. We have been close since we were kids, and I didn’t think such a thing could happen.”

“Do you think he did it or that he would be capable of doing such things? If these questions are too hard to answer, you don’t have to answer me. Please take the time you need.”

Violet sits still, her head moving slowly side to side. “I never thought for a moment that he would ever be capable of such a thing. I still don’t think he is.”

Brent leans closer. “And why is that?”

Violet doesn’t answer. She wrings her hands together.

“It’s okay. You can speak freely here,” Brent says.

“Everyone thinks I am crazy for still caring about him. No matter what, he is still my brother, and I will always love him.” A tear rolls down Violet’s cheek.

“Of course. What are these other people saying?”

“Your question hinted at this earlier. Because I am his sister, people not only assume he is a killer, but they say I will turn out to be just like him as well, because of my proximity to him as family.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Violet’s lip trembles. “I feel trapped. Red has gone through so much; we have gone through so much.”

“Can you tell us about that? Is this why you think your brother is incapable of such acts of violence?”

“Yes.” Violet straightens up and looks at the cameras, more out of anxiety. Everything she is saying might be broadcast in the future. All the people who have turned on her since the incident, everyone who treats her like a psycho could eventually watch this, judging her.

Brent gives her a comforting look and whispers for her to, “go on.”

“I still do not think he did it. I’ll admit, maybe that is my brain’s attempt to process everything and protect myself. Red is no stranger to violence, but as a victim of violence. I don’t think he would ever wish such pains upon someone else.”

“And why is that?”

Violet shrugs. “It’s not really my story to share. I was there, but this is his experience too.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. You are the only one speaking out for him.”

Violet takes a deep breath. “Okay.

“My brother and I have always been very close. We’ve always depended on and have helped each other. Growing up, our parents were abusive. Being my older brother, Red protected me the best he could, but there was only so much he could do.” More tears trickle down her cheeks. Brent grabs a box of tissues from the coffee table between them and hands them to her.

“Thank you. We were physically, emotionally, and verbally abused. I would be locked in closets for not listening to my parents for hours at a time. We were beaten with rocks, belts, fists… one time my mother burned my hand on the stove for simply being underfoot when she was in the house.”

Violet lifts her arm, showing a smooth white scar on her lower wrist and palm. The shimmer over Brent’s shoulder grows stronger and suddenly, The Watcher himself in a red dress suit and shoes appears to peek in on the interview. Violet stiffens.

“Much worse happened, but I don’t need to tell you about that,” Violet finishes.

Brent watches her calmly, his hands steepled in front of his chin. “At what ages did this happen?”

“From when I was three until I was seventeen. Red got me out of there.”

“I see,” Brent says. He looks to the cameras and then back at Violet. Violet sets the tissue box down carefully on the table, her eyes locked on The Watcher behind Brent’s shoulder.

“Because of that, I know Red would never hurt anyone else. He always tried to protect me and because of that… despite everything, I know he never hurt those people. He would never leave me either. It’s always been the two of us and he would never separate us.”

Behind Brent, who is nodding as he listens to Violet, The Watcher throws his head back in raucous laughter. The guffaws bounce around the room and reverberate deep in Violet’s chest. Both the light above the stage and the lamp between Violet and Brent surge and then darken with a whine.

“Everyone, hold on—hold on!” a manager shouts into her earpiece and holds her hand up for silence. Brent, straightening up from flinching, looks at Violet with wide eyes.

“Are you okay? Let’s take a breather for a minute while they figure that out.”

Violet looks over Brent’s shoulder, stifling the glare that threatens to burn across her features at The Watcher. He grins at her, his mouth snaking into a slimy sneer.

The managers test the lights and check the connections before giving Brent a thumbs up to continue. Without hesitation, he dives back in.

 “Violet, just a few more questions to finish up. Did you know Alice Reeds?”

“No, I did not.”

“Our viewers also want to know: do you think the police framed your brother in an attempt to calm the public? To show that the ‘killer’ was off the city streets?”

The Watcher’s smile grows, flashing his teeth in the studio lights.

“That thought haunts me every day.”

***

Later that evening, Violet enters her apartment and makes a b-line for the bathroom. Stripping off her outfit and throwing her clothes on the ground, she turns on the shower, and lingers by the bathroom mirror as the water slowly heats up.

The eyeliner, mascara, and foundation on her face look alien to her. It feels like a sham, as if she is pretending to be okay, pretending to act normally in front of that news anchor. Rubbing her face, she starts to smear the mascara across her brow and down her cheeks. She rubs it into a cloud around her eyelids and temples, smudging the kohl and oils across her skin.

Steam begins to mist the edges of the mirror.

What would Red have done in her shoes? What would he have done if he was not found guilty, and could return to the life he deserved? Would the public never let him live down what he was accused of—in the same way they tortured her—or would he be able to forget all the horrors and continue to live, as they struggled to do for years?

Stumbling over to the shower, Violet rips open the curtain and steps into the hot water. The stream bounces off her head, sinking its steamy fingers into her hair, and rushes over her shoulders. She closes her eyes and lets the water beat against her face and wash the smears of her make-up away.

Red was always the strong one. He always told her things would be okay. Violet wipes her eyes, steps out of the direct stream, and fixes her eyes on the wall. Her conditioner and shampoo sit on a shelf and her half empty bodywash is on the windowsill, before textured glass.

Everything was fine until the weeks leading up to Red’s arrest. Violet even called him several times, worried after hearing about the Mayfield Mutilator on the news. Red told her everything was going to be okay. But in the end, it wasn’t alright. Something or someone had hurt him.

Sinking to the shower’s floor, Violet collapses onto her bottom, letting the water thunder over her and the cold air from under the shower curtain shiver goosebumps up her legs. She can’t imagine how Red would handle all this. She can’t even imagine how he is handling everything right now.

***

A long hallway stretches under a checkered pattern of fluorescent lights and shadows. The hallway is lined with dark doorways and no people in sight.

Violet stands alone, under a flickering light as the cold floor sinks into her bare feet. Shivering, she rubs her arms and looks around.

“Red?” Violet asks. “Is someone here?”

Footsteps echo up the hallway.

“Someone? Where am I?!” Violet turns to run but the scene goes black, and The Watcher appears before her in a hospital gown.

“Have you been imagining what it is like?” he asks. The Watcher’s arms and head are covered in bandages. Only one eye on his face is visible and his parted lips are chapped and peeling from the dry hospital air. “Do you want to know what your brother experienced?” He begins to laugh.

Violet backs away, turning to run, but only darkness stretches before her. She reaches out with her arms and kicks her legs as if to jump, mimicking any movement of escape but she feels as if she is suspended in space. Violet shakes her head and claws at her hair within the web of a nightmare. Maybe if she can scare herself or hurt herself just enough to feel pain, that will signal her body to wake up. Anything. Anything to escape this dream.

Violet screams until her screams transform into a gasp as she wakes and surges upright in her bed, back at home.

Violet lies back in a tangle of blankets. She sucks in air as her heart flies in her chest and she tries to catch her breath. Her breast heaves up and down as the sweat on her skin dampens the bed sheets.

“It was just a dream. It was just a dream...” She relaxes back with her head on her pillow and opens her eyes to her dark room. There is a small spot of light on the ceiling where the streetlight outside shines through the crack of her cardboard-covered window. Her fan is on; the comforting hum tells her where she is.

As Violet’s breathing slows, she breathes in deeply and taps her cheeks to further herself from the nightmare and its heavy grip. Violet breathes in again, her nostrils flaring, and her diaphragm stretching, when a sour-coppery smell fills her nose.

The smell is heavy. It fills her senses like an oozing odor. It burns and clings to the very hairs on her skin as if absorbing her in the all-consuming scent. Violet’s eyes begin to water, and she reaches around, patting the covers around her body to see if something is there.

Was she eating in bed again before she went to sleep? Did something spill and go bad?

Violet 's hand reaches and dips into something warm. Her fingers freeze as if they just stuck themselves in cement. Carefully lifting her hand, she brings her thumb and index finger together, feeling the viscous substance now dripping from her nails.

Lunging at her bedside table, Violet turns on her lamp and her whole bedroom swirls into a red, dizzying view.

Violet’s bed is covered in blood. It was not the sweat of a horrible sleep but someone’s blood. It streaks across her pillows and clumps on the comforter. Pink and gray bits of matter are strewn across the end of her bed and are spilled across the carpet.

Worse than any nightmare, Violet loses the ability to even react or scream. A choking sensation closes her throat, and her body shuts down as it simplifies all functions into the funneled choice of fight or flight. Her mind switches into survival overdrive—Violet leaps out of bed and goes to the door when her foot connects with an object on the floor and sends her sprawling.

Violet cracks her head on the doorjamb and a sharp whine begins to fill her ears upon the gathering coattails of a splitting headache. Sitting up shakily, she turns around, covering her face. She must be back in another dream and never truly woken up. She doesn't want to look at the sight before her, but she has a growing sickness at what it might be...

Peeking through her fingers, the body of her coworker, Sarah, lies at the foot of her bed. A knife stands up from her chest and multiple wounds cover her mutilated body. Her blood is on the floor, on the covers, and all over Violet 's own naked body. The room begins to tip and Violet slumps over as her stomach empties itself all over the floor. All the dismal late-night snacks, the binge eating, and everything she put in her body the day before spews out to mix with the blood and viscera.

Violet starts coughing as a feral cry tingles her throat. She leans over to check on Sarah, moving dumbly as if she is unsure if she is even awake, and presses her fingers against her cold, lifeless throat. Violet screams and jumps back, pressing against the wall and kicks the lifeless legs away from her.

Violet turns to open her bedroom door, but her hands slide off the handle, too slick to grip. She grasps it with both hands and finally gets the door open when a tsk-tsk-tsk sounds behind her.

Violet freezes with both hands wrapped around the door handle. Trapped, she turns to The Watcher who is now sitting on her bed. He is dressed in a bright yellow raincoat, splattered in blood, and holds a butcher's knife in his hand.

“What did you do?!” Violet screams. She jumps up and lunges for The Watcher; the plague of her family's problems, the monster that got her brother in trouble. She tries to grab his arms and slap his face but just like the door, any attempt at a grasp slips away. The Watcher smiles as she struggles. He catches her wrists and forces her to calm down.

“What did I do?” His grin widens and his eyes trace down her bare skin. “Or what did you do?”

Violet pulls away and runs for the door. The Watcher cackles behind her, his voice growing louder as she throws the door open and runs into the hall.

“Come what, come may, let's let The Watcher in the Snow play, play, play all day...”

Violet careens down her hallway and rushes into the bathroom, her feet slipping and leaving red streaks on the bare tiles. She slams the door shut behind her, locking it fast. Collapsing to the floor, she crawls over to the toilet, averse to even look at her own hands as they mark the stain of what just happened. She cradles herself around the toilet bowl for a time as her nausea subsides and then she crawls into the shower and grasps numbly at the shower handles, turning them red. Once the shower comes to life, the cold-water rains down on Violet’s head and pools in red puddles around her body.

“Come what, come may, let's let The Watcher in the Snow play…”

The bathroom door remains closed and locked. Violet starts to rub her hands together, further spreading the blood along her palms, and up and down her fingers. She rubs harder. Crying. She grabs some soap and rubs some more, but the soap only lathers into pink bubbles.

The red water swirls down the drain as The Watcher’s voice echoes within the mist.

“Let the Watcher in the Snow play, play, play, all day…”

***

Footsteps echo down a fluorescent hallway. The steps clump by, casting interrupting shadows in the hallway’s glow, leaking under the door of a patient’s room. The footsteps grow quieter as they disappear in the distance.

Redmond “Red” Miller lies on the tiled floor of his room with his cheek to the floor. His eyes are wide open, sunken, but bright with a brewing plan.

His body is thin and on the edge of being emaciated. His hair is cut short, and his skin is sickly pale, drawn from the lack of sunlight after being in and out of the hospital and his current residence for a whole year. A deep scar divides his thin hair, stretching like a white hair line from his temple and across his skull. Dressed in a thin shirt and scrub-like pants, the words, “Mayfield Psychiatric Ward,” stretches across his back.

“Nighttime watch, final steps, one last time…” Red mutters. After the guards outside his door walk by, he gets up and goes over to his door. He feels a surge of energy in his very soul, shaking through his flesh. After losing four months of his life unconscious in the hospital due to his gunshot wound, Red went through three grueling months of physical therapy. His hospital stays and further time at the psychiatric ward flicker through his mind like a flip book. It makes each step he takes all the more powerful, despite the existing tremble still in his limbs. There was a time where that wasn’t possible on his own or without assistance. To be able to close his hands around the door handle and insert a bobby pin, he took from a nurse last week, into the lock… These simple actions thrill him. He is in control and now, he is ready to take back his situation.

Sneaking out of the room, Red enters the hallway. The hallway has scuffed white tiles and white walls with many doors. Red drops to his knees, grasping the slippery tiles as his shaking legs and arms move robotically, just as he has practiced. At the end of the hall is a pair of locked double doors. Red reaches the doors and presses his back against the wall, pulling his legs in, and waits until the next round of guards enter to pass through the hallway. Each carries a baton and handcuffs on their belts.

Red sticks his hand out and catches the door before it can close and with his breath held, he slips through and out of the ward. He goes down another hallway and comes to an open door with a doctor’s lounge inside. It is miraculously empty. The room is full of cabinets, a couch, television, and two fridges. Two windows open the room to the sight of a dark night outside and a door leads to a closet full of white coats, extra scrubs, and more.

Red strips off his hospital clothes and pulls on a pair of blue scrubs and then digs up a cap and a face mask. Pulling these on, he shakily stands and walks over to a line of lockers with different names scribbled on the front. Radisson, Johnson… Xia… Popping open a few, he finds a pair of Nike shoes in his size. Next to the shoes is a wallet and a pair of keys. Snatching the keys and emptying the wallet of its cash, Red smiles. The fancy doctors won’t be missing these.  

“So far, so good,” he croaks. Using the couch to study himself and stand up, Red grabs a cart with a trash can on it and uses this as a makeshift walker to walk steadily down the hallway, in case anyone sees him. Rolling the trash can, he goes back out into the hall and passes a sleeping security guard on his way down to the parking garage.

As Red sneaks through the hospital, keeping his head down as he passes any overnight staff. He focuses on placing his feet one after the other. As he walks, he wrestles with his situation and what to do next. He has no idea how long he has been here outside of the random updates doctors or nurses give him. Someone saying “three months” or “two weeks” had passed, didn’t register in his brain. He doesn't know when he got here or why. Shouldn't he be locked up in a jail somewhere? Forever buried in a prison for all his sins? He still wasn't sure about what happened on the night of the murders. It was unclear where The Watcher’s actions ended and his own began. One thing he did know was there was no way the police would ever find him innocent in such a damning situation.

The night of his murder spree, Red had a moment of clarity when he came back to himself, covered in blood. He got off on an insanity plea, which landed him in this psychiatric ward, but that moment when he returned to himself haunted him once he woke up and began to recover. Weeks spent bedridden, he would stare at the ceiling, replaying the moment in his head. What actions had been his own? Which ones had been The Watcher, if any?

Once physical therapy began to take up more and more of his days, slowly distancing him from weeks of uncontrollable bowels, being hand fed, and having his ass wiped by the nurses… he began to come up with his plan as little parts of his body came back to him and resubmitted to his control. One he could sit up again; he started looking out his window to the parking lot outside. Once he could walk again, nurses would join him on strolls up and down the corridor, exercising him, while he focused on all the different doorways, halls, and exits…

Red reaches the end of a hallway and takes an elevator down to the parking garage. Once the doors ring and open at the bottom, Red pushes his garbage can cart out onto the floor. He fumbles in his pocket for the car keys before lifting them up and clicking the little remote. The movement of his thumb, the breath held in his chest, all holds still in anticipation of the remote.

 At the end of the garage, a blue sedan lights up and beeps in response.

“Thank goodness...” Hurrying over to the car, Red opens the door and collapses into the seat. This was the farthest he has ever walked unaided during the last several months. He pulls his trembling legs in and shuts the door with a slam. He shoves the keys in the ignition and the radio fizzles to life with a pop song.

Red puts the car in reverse and drives safely out of the hospital. On his way out, a sign stands near the street, pointing to where he came from. “Mayfield general psychiatric ward.”

Driving away from the hospital, Red pulls up to a red light at an intersection as he tries to get his bearings on where he is. Red drums his fingers on the steering wheel, looking over his shoulder and around on each intersecting street, half expecting red and blue lights to appear in his rear-view mirror at any minute. He swallows and tries to stay calm, focusing on the traffic light. He needs to get away and then everything will be fine. Maybe in a few months, he can call Violet, and let her know where he is. But for now, he had to run. Paranoid, Red’s eyes trace the sidewalks and all the dark gaps between buildings along the street, half expecting a haunting figure to appear. Red shivers.

The song on the radio ends and a newscast begins. “Breaking news tonight. Another murder has been reported and the body of an unidentified female has been found at a local apartment complex, the third body to be found this week. It has been a year since the Mayfield Mutilator last struck and while the accused, Red Miller, had been found guilty of these murders, a potential copycat killer may be on the loose. More at 9:00...”

No. What was The Watcher up to now? Has he targeted someone else with his damned games while Red was trapped in the hospital? A feeling of boiling poison and desperate dread roils in Red’s gut. He steps on the gas as the light turns green and takes a sharp turn around the corner. There is an abandoned property near the hospital that would be the perfect area for a possible strike. He knows all too well after waking up by himself covered in blood in an abandoned building last year.

***

Next to the Mayfield General Hospital, an abandoned motel sits just shy of a bare winter wood. A full moon hangs in the bare sky above, and a chilly wind scrapes its way across the overgrown parking lot out front.

Standing outside his stolen care, Red casts a look back at the hospital glowing with thousands of bright windows in the distance. Parking near where he stole his car from is a bad idea, but he has no choice. Pushing away from the car, Red hurries toward the motel before his nerves can get the better of him and force him to turn away from the unknown horrors laying ahead.

The motel is a single-story building. The windows are busted, and the front door is decorated with a few strips of loose do-not-cross tape fluttering in the wind. Rushing to the door, Red is hit with a familiar sickly copper smell. Stumbling, he leans on the doorframe and waits, forcing his eyes open, as he adjusts to the darkness. Sweat drips down his brow and he quivers, fighting the urge to collapse into a ball or to run away from this reoccurring nightmare.

Slight gray lines, reflections of the moonlight outside, start to divide the darkness into different shapes and sizes. A lobby comes into view with an open door to a room on the right, and a blocked entrance on the left. In the mess of gray, black, and shadowy shapes, the floor is covered with the cooling bodies of the dead.

Red coughs, his empty stomach doing flips. He trembles at the scene before him. It can’t be. It can’t be happening again…

Several bodies, or what used to look like bodies, cover the floor. Hands are separated from arms, chests are decimated into unrecognizable piles, unseen blood coats every inch of the place, and something squishes underneath Red’s Nike shoes.

Pushing through the horror with one goal in mind, Red steps in and wades to the open door, keeping one hand on the wall for support.

In a room facing the woods, a bright pool of moonlight leaks across the floor. In the light, a girl lies asleep in a motel bed with her back to the door. Blood trails through the room and up into her bed, as if her own body is leaking away but red footsteps on the floor betray signs of life. Long dark hair trails from her head and drapes over the mattress.

Red creeps into the room and he reaches for the girl. Red clenches his fist then slowly extends a finger to trace her shoulder with a light tap.

Nothing happens.

Taking a breath, Red steps closer and grasps her shoulder, rolling her over and shaking her. A flash of horror sinks into his stomach as the face of his sister. It is Violet lying on the bed, soaked in the victims’ blood.

“Violet? Oh no, no, no,” Red moans. He begins to shake her with both hands. Her bangs scatter across her face, sticky with blood. Her brow twitches and her head flops to the side. “Violet! Wake up!”

Her dark eyes open as his voice echoes into the dark hell of the abandoned motel. Violet’s eyes widen and contract, as if taking in a sight she doesn’t recognize. Her lips curl and she sits up, slashing out at Red.

“Leave me alone!” she screeches. Violet fumbles around, grasping at her blankets as if looking for a weapon.

“Violet?!” Red yelps. He stumbles back into the wall and balances himself with an effort.

“I told you not to mess with me again. I am not giving in to your games, Watch—”

Red’s heart drops. The moonlit room shifts into sudden clarity as his little sister, strong, brave, kind, Violet, sits on the edge of the bed with one hand in the air and another at her own throat, as if to quell whatever panic is rising inside.

“Violet, it’s me,” Red whispers. “I’m not him. I’m not The Watcher in the Snow…”

Violet looks at Red, her anger fading. She lets go of her throat and smiles.

“Red? Really, Red?” she asks.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Red!” Violet bounces off the bed, her bloodied clothes and body are stained a dark saturated red, nearly black in the dim light.  “You won’t believe what happened.”

“What happened?!”

Violet takes his hand. She tugs him toward the door, back out to the destroyed lobby, but Red resists and stands his ground. She looks up at him with a pout.

“Tell me instead. Are you okay? What happened to you?” Red asks.

Violet smiles. Her gaunt face stretches into a mask of sheer joy as if some twisted surgeon had shaped her clownish look with filler to give life to the horrific glee shimmering across her features.

“I found someone to play with,” Violet answers. “I led them here and told them I wanted to play. No one seemed to listen to me at first, but once I stabbed the first person, they all joined in on the games.”

“W-what?”

Violet strokes Red’s hand and starts to giggle. She looks out into the lobby and then back at him.

“I missed you; I wished you were here. You would have so much fun. The Watcher knew that.”

“Tell me what you did. Did you hurt those people?”

Violet frowns. “No. They wanted to do it too.”

“Do what?” Red presses. He glances out the window, checking for anyone watching them, and for the dark approach of The Watcher. He never imagined it would go after Violet. Why would it bother her? Didn’t it get what it wanted when Red was arrested?

“I showed them their true colors.” Violet whispers like a gleeful child trying to talk secretly to their friend during naptime. She giggles again. “I showed them their insides… if they hurt me, I removed their hands. Everyone was so determined to be together… I mixed them all up once they were on the floor…”

Red’s head spins. His stomach turns and the entire room around him slopes into a tilt. Gripping Violet’s hand, Red debates letting go or yelling at her horrifying accomplishments. When he woke up with Ted Ralph’s head in his hands, he had no memory of committing such an act. He wasn’t sure if he had killed any of those people he was blamed for, but here was Violet, admitting to a slew of the Mayfield Mutilator’s crimes.

Violet suddenly stops talking. She sniffs and picks up a piece of limp hair on her shoulder, sticky with dried blood. She tugs on it and then frowns. She rubs her face, streaking the blood further and crumples her brow. She looks up at Red as her eyes widen. Her nose flares and her shoulders shake as she begins to draw in panicked breathes.

“Red?” Violet whispers. Her whole body begins to quiver, and her hand tightens on Red’s like a vice. “Red, is that y-you?”

Red nods, not trusting his voice in this moment. Tears begin to pour down her face and Violet rushes in to wrap her arms around her brother. Red tenses for a moment, a small corner of his mind preparing for the slash of a knife or some cruel weapon, but only her thin arms reach around and pull him close with a sudden warmth.

Violet begins to sob. Her whole body is racked with waves of anguish. Red, unable to support the both of them, sinks to the floor with Violet safely in his arms.

***

Two Months Later

Traverse City, Michigan is a small city sitting in the cusp of the two-armed Grand Traverse Bay. On a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of February, snow coats the ground and the occasional snow-plow interrupts traffic with a rush of metal-scraping-cement, and a slew of car-denting salt thrown behind.

Red sits at the wheel of a rusting Ford truck as he pulls out of a Denny’s near the lake. A pile of groceries tips over in his back seat, and he keeps one hand on a bag of fast-food in his passenger seat.

Red passes through traffic easily as snow-heavy clouds crowd the sky above. His hair, recently dyed red, has grown to his shoulders, and a scruffy beard keeps his face warm from the winter’s cruel touch. Pulling into a local hotel’s parking lot, he turns off the engine, and gathers his things.

***

Violet is lying on top of her bed, watching the news, when Red comes into their room. He drops the groceries down on the floor and hands the Denny’s bag to Violet. She sits up and eagerly accepts the food with a smile. Her violet hair has been cut short and dyed black. She has lost some weight in the recent weeks, after her year of stress-eating, and Red has grown stronger with lots of pacing and a combination of sit-ups or push-ups to build his body up to a working condition after his long stay at the hospital. There wasn’t much else for them to do in all their spare time.

“It’s been two-months since the state-wide manhunt began after the two siblings, Redmond and Violet Miller, committed another murder spree just one-year after the Mayfield Mutilator’s first appearance—”

“Good thing we left the state,” Red says. Violet, already opening her food nods. She looks at the television with a frown.

“I don’t remember much of anything,” she whispers.

Red sits down next to her and pulls a blanket around her shoulders. “Me neither.”

“I’m sorry,” Violet says.

“Why are you sorry?”

“You spent a whole year away. Four months in the prison’s hospital, six in a psychiatric ward… and the whole time I was just lazing about feeling sorry for myself.”

“What you were going through was also horrible. We know he feeds on that.”

“But I should have done better. You went through much worse. Even Sarah… she was a bitch to me, but she never deserved to die…”

Red puts his arm around Violet to comfort her and turns to the television. They start to eat in silence, with no conclusive theory about what really happened to them. The news shows an aerial view of a group of people in high-visibility vests searching in an open field.

“The search continues. The Mayfield Police Department has been in contact with the governor as efforts are being made to widen the search nationwide. This is Mayfield’s number one news center. Thank you for joining us.”

The newscast turns to commercials as the darkening snowstorm gathers outside. Somewhere, out in the snow, The Watcher stands by himself, dressed in his classic dark leather trench coat with a slew of knives hanging on his belt. He looks up to the darkening sky as the snow beings to fall and stick to his face. The Watcher chuckles, his voice growing louder over the empty landscape.