Fordham/Idol Worship/

Rhonnie Fordham

rhonnief@yahoo.com

68,000 words

Idol Worship

By

Rhonnie Fordham

CHAPTER 1

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren’t any neighbors for miles either. The house’s mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust like a wretched paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house’s tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.

The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn’t believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.

The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house’s creaky front porch. The home’s bricks all faded with age.

Like a forgotten relic, an archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.

Given the house’s many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.

Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car’s tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible’s top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.

The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.

Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren’t the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.

Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.

On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn’t take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.

The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with Maybe some unease in Carty.

"Fuck, it’s gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."

Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"

"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty’s hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let’s explore."

With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch’s battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.

Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.

Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"

"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.

"Who wouldn’t be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.

"I’ve seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn’t even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty’s arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"

Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie’s grasp. "What!"

Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"

Groaning, Carty turned it on.

"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.

"Here’s your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."

Bonnie cracked up.

Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It’s your idea to come here in the first place."

"Man, this ain’t even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."

Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right, Carty thought. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Like maybe they had gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn’t a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.

"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."

Carty chuckled. "Well," she beganas she stole a glance at Bonnie’s shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."

Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."

"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.

"Mmm, but I’m getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty’s bubble butt.

Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How’d you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.

"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.

"Reddit?"

"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty’s arm. "Let’s go."

Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.

Sensing Carty’s unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.

The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie’s love for her in that one pleasant embrace.

They smiled at one another like teenage lovers.

"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.

Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn’t that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie’s kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.

Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch’s first step. "I got what I could for the legend."

Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.

Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."

"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"

In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her like a looming castle.

Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.

Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.

"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.

For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.

Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.

Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.

"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."

Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.

God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie’s silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.

Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should’ve been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she’d used to make Farmer Studbucket’s scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"

"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.

"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she’d ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn’t through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."

Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.

"And she walked over to her husband’s bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."

Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We’ve arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie’s stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."

Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.

Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.

Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.

Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."

Stepping toward Carty, Bonnie held up the mic like a showman greeting their critics. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty’s enthusiastic response.

Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"

Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty’s back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.

The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.

"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. Like a director, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."

At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."

Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climatic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday, Carty thought.

Bonnie slapped Carty’s juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.

"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.

"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.

"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren’t for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.

Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.

"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between the may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.

Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house’s offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in like a worn-out mattress beneath her feet, but she didn’t care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"

"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."

Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair’s loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.

Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie’s arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.

Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"

Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"

Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."

"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"

Bonnie grabbed Carty’s shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"

"No!" Carty yelled back at her.

Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"

At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. As if all those spiders had somehow stopped it.

"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.

Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."

"Shit, let’s get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.

Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"

Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."

Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.

"You ready?" Bonnie asked.

Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."

"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.

"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.

They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.

All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.

"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.

Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn’t straying too far. "No, don’t leave me!"

The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house’s spirits had moved on.

Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it’s nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty’s shoulder. "We’re gonna be fine."

"I don’t know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I’ve got a weird feeling about this place."

Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."

"Yeah, but not like this..."

"Well, I’m here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty’s lips. "And I’ll protect you."

Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty’s nerves. "You better."

"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.

Carty liked it.

But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"

"Uh, yeah," Carty said.

Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."

"God, we’re not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.

Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"

Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"

Bonnie grabbed Carty’s wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"

The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie’s pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie’s passion for the paranormal.

"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I’ll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let’s do this first, okay."

How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.

Bonnie leaned in toward Carty’s face. "I promise I’ll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty’s hand all against her breasts. "I promise."

Carty didn’t have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty’s veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."

Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."

Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.

Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."

With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.

The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.

CHAPTER 2

The couple journeyed through the farmhouse’s narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie’s small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open. Carty refused to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn’t want that sinking feeling of hearing the door slam shut. It was too definitive. Like they were being locked in not just for the night, but forever.

Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. Like a detective sniffing out a breakthrough clue. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.

"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.

Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred like patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that looked like a poor farmer’s attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked like it was designed to be a small child’s hiding place. The small door aged yet functional. Like a well-preserved toy.

But it wasn’t these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren’t any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty’s horror, she thought maybe someone had.

"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.

Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"

Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.

Carty could only groan in dismay.

But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.

Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway’s crooked railing wouldn’t offer much support either.

Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...

Bonnie snatched Carty’s arm, scaring the shit out of her.

"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.

Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.

"What?"

Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty’s shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It’s coming from there."

Carty looked toward the doorway.

And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.

"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.

"Yeah."

Another pop echoed toward the couple.

They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.

Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"

Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie’s enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.

Bonnie grabbed Carty’s hand. "Come on!"

Carty was no match for Bonnie’s powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.

"Just keep filming!"

Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.

Through Bonnie’s small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.

Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.

Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.

It was definitely the farmhouse’s living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.

"When’d that murder happen again?" Carty asked.

Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn’t even look at Carty. "I don’t know, like maybe thirty years ago?"

Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.

Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must’ve been the kitchen, Carty thought. Or what was left of it.

For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose. But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn’t the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?

"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."

"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.

"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."

Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.

"What?" Carty asked.

Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.

Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"

Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."

"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.

Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words looked like they’d been there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse’s walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.

Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!

Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. Like the endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard bought to you by Stanwyck’s resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.

Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.

But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.

"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can’t stay here."

With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."

"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie’s arm, stopping her.

Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"

"What the fuck are you doing!"

Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"

"No!" Carty said. "Someone’s been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."

"It’s just a fire-"

"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.

"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty’s arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit’s probably gone anyway."

"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.

Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty’s smooth cheek. "They’re gone, Carty. And they ain’t coming back."

"I don’t know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.

"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty’s arm. "We can’t stop now."

Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn’t-"

Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."

"I don’t know..."

Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her long. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"

"Bonnie!"

"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.

No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.

The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie’s delight.

"We don’t bite!" Bonnie aid. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."

Carty chuckled and shook her head.

The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple’s soft laughter.

"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty’s hand. "It’s nothing."

"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can’t we just go somewhere else?"

"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."

Carty didn’t argue. She knew she couldn’t due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.

Bonnie caressed Carty’s face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we’ll get on the site."

Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.

"We’ll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said."We’ll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."

Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty’s attention.

Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty’s shoulder. "Like we always planned. We’ll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."

"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.

"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.

"Okay..." Carty relented.

"Thank you!"

"Let’s do this."

Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.

"I love you too."

"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."

Carty followed Bonnie’s gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile’s bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Like they were sculpted from pure disgust and hate.

Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn’t help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.

Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"

Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don’t know. It’s like someone’s watching."

Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone’s always watching."

Carty grinned.

CHAPTER 3

Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty’s film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn’t associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.

Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.

Bonnie and Carty’s lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.

The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.

Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple’s erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.

Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.

All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn’t complaining.

Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie’s head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.

"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.

"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.

With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.

"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.

"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.

Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"

"Carty, the camera-"

"I don’t give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."

"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty’s round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.

Carty cringed at Bonnie’s forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.

"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.

"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn’t the Bonnie she liked.

Bonnie felt along Carty’s butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn’t bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.

"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must’ve been a fucking disaster.

"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.

Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.

"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.

"That’s my girl," Bonnie beamed.

Bonnie’s next smack on Carty’s butt was quick and gentle. More like a love tap that Carty actually enjoyed.

Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."

Bonnie crouched down toward Carty’s smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."

Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie’s kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie’s best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.

"God, you’re perfect," Bonnie said.

Carty grinned. She knew that wasn’t Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.

Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie’s soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.

A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty’s ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song’s words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could’ve been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn’t sound like they wanted to be heard. Not yet at least.

Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.

A set of teeth sunk into Carty’s juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire’s wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn’t no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.

Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"

"Did you hear that!"

The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty’s attention back toward the hallway.

"I don’t hear shit." Bonnie responded.

Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It’s coming from in there!"

Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would’ve never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. Like that of an innocent child. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.

Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair’s paranormal excursions. "Shit..."

Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"

The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.

"We shouldn’t have ever come here!" Carty went on.

Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...

"Let’s fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.

The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.

"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"

Bonnie threw on her clothes.

Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.

"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.

Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I’m just gonna go look."

Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"

"Carty, it’s just for the site," Bonnie said. "We’re just gonna look real quick and see what it is."

"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.

Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.

Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"

"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door’s that way, Carty."

The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, as if it was begging for an audience.

Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.

Bonnie ran her hand along Carty’s shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."

Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever’s here made the Goddamn fire!"

Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let’s just hope it’s a ghost."

Like an amateur field reporter, Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer’s lair..

"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up and hoisted the mic like a weapon.

*

Still filming, Bonnie staggered through the hallway. Her steps slow. Unlike Carty, her filmmaking skills were non-existent. The footage she was shooting would’ve been shaky-cam quality at best or nausea-inducing at worst. Bonnie’s nervous excitement was getting the better of her.

The singing was now deafening, echoing through the farmhouse without the aid of a speaker.

Relying on the camera’s light, Bonnie stopped in the middle of the hallway, searching the ominous landscape for any sign of the singer.

The singer’s voice was harsher. Now not so much a song as it was a mumbled compulsion.

Bonnie listened closely. She could discern the words and could finally understand the lyrics.

Eyes without a face. Eyes without a face, got no human grace...

The singer repeated this same chorus in slow, agonizing fashion.

Bonnie remembered the song. A 1983 pop song. Eyes Without A Face. But it wasn’t being sung with the clear, brooding tone of Billy Idol. It sounded like a harrowing soliloquy from someone in an asylum cell. Not an eloquent ballad courtesy of Idol. This was someone’s serenade to alienation. And they wouldn’t stop. Hell, maybe they couldn’t stop.

Got no human grace. Your eyes without a face...

The singer wasn’t even bothering to hold a tune at this point. Their bitter tone just had to keep repeating these words like they were safe words. Pop music for their sanity.

Eyes without a face...

Holding on tight to the camera, Bonnie waved it around the room. But she didn’t see anything. All the while, the voice continued, seemingly taunting her.

Got no human grace. Your eyes without a face...

Bonnie turned and looked down the narrow hallway. The front door was still shut. No way the singer was outside. "What the Hell..." Bonnie said to herself.

Reaching out of the darkness, Carty’s hand snatched Bonnie’s arm.

For once, Bonnie jumped in fear. "Shit!" she exclaimed as she faced Carty.

"It’s just me," Carty said in a hushed tone. The fact that Bonnie was this jumpy destroyed Carty’s hope that the singing was "just the wind" or some other lame excuse.

"Damn, girl, you scared the shit outta me!"

Eyes without a face...

Hearing the singer’s unnerving cover of Eyes Without A Face, Carty’s frantic eyes searched the room. "Where is he?" she asked Bonnie.

Bonnie broke away from her. "Shit, I don’t know!"

Carty saw the closed front door. Faint hope struck her. They had a straight shot to escape.

Your eyes without a face...

The mysterious voice was more violent and hectic on this time around. Idol’s lyrics now spouted in a wild burst. A burst that came from the staircase.

Carty turned and saw Bonnie rush toward those stairs. "Bonnie, no!" Carty yelled.

Hellbent on securing the footage, Bonnie held her camera out in front of her as she made her way to the staircase. Too determined to notice how shitty her handheld filmmaking was.

"Let’s get the fuck outta here!" Carty yelled after Bonnie.

Got no human grace. Your eyes without a face...

Terrified, Carty ran toward the stairs. Toward Bonnie. She couldn’t let the love of her life confront the eerie voice alone. "Bonnie!" she yelled.

Your eyes without a face...

Bonnie laid one foot on the first wooden step. A grueling creak erupted.

Carty grabbed Bonnie’s arm, stopping her from going further. "Bonnie, please!" Carty pleaded.

Annoyed, Bonnie pulled her arm back. "Carty, just chill!"

Got no human grace. Your eyes without a face...

Both women listened in horror. The voice was louder than ever. And the couple now realized it was coming from beneath them.

Carty grabbed Bonnie’s arm, ready to lead them off to the front door at around 100 miles per hour. "Let’s go-"

The small door under the staircase burst open with great force.

Carty let out a horrified scream.

A masked person emerged from the closet beneath the staircase. A tall, slender figure. Their outfit couldn’t mask what was undoubtedly evil intentions. They wore black leather gloves. A gray hooded bathrobe perfect for an occult ceremony. They made their way toward the uneasy couple.

A black paper-mâché mask with painted red streaks covered the mysterious person’s face. But it couldn’t hide their glowering eyes. The mask was homemade and looked faded with age. A paper-mâché recreation of a melancholy face. A face that wasn’t overtly feminine or masculine. Like an androgynous Angel of death.

The figure’s gloves tightened their grip on the handle of a double bit axe. Both ends of the vicious weapon were clean and pristine. Sharp as Hell as well.

The masked person didn’t say a word or sing the Idol lyrics as they marched toward the scared Carty and Bonnie.

A horrifying realization became clear to both women: they were this singer’s target all along.

Trying to play tough, Bonnie pulled Carty up on the stairs with her. "What the fuck is this!" she yelled at the figure.

Like she was aiming a gun, Bonnie pointed the camera right at the figure.

The singer stopped a few feet away from them. They stood tall and strong, basking in the camera’s glorious light.

Carty stared at the singer, petrified in fear.

"Leave us alone, asshole!" Bonnie yelled.

The singer just looked at them with those unflinching eyes.

Carty couldn’t tell if the masked intruder was either studying them or challenging the couple to make the first move. Even hidden behind a robe and mask, the figure seemed too confident, Carty thought. They weren’t scared like us.

"Well, what the fuck you gonna do, huh!" Bonnie hurled at the singer. "You little bitch!"

Carty looked between Bonnie and the figure, hesitant on what to do. Maybe Bonnie was being too antagonistic, but Carty had seen Bonnie’s tough-butch routine work plenty of times. If there was one thing Carty was confident in, it was that Bonnie could back up that mouth.

"Yeah, you’re just a pussy!" Bonnie continued to the singer. Taunting the figure, she stepped off the stairs and walked toward them. "I got your bitchass on camera now!"

To Carty’s surprise, both the figure and Bonnie were the same height. Close to the same build. Minus the axe, this’d be a fair fight.

"We already called the cops," Bonnie shouted at the figure. She put the camera up toward the androgynous mask. "We got your ass too! Fucking stalker bitch!"

The masked figure’s gloved hands gripped the handle tighter. Their muscles flexed through the robe. The singer belied their uneven voice with real brute strength. Any more pressure in their grip, and the wooden handle would’ve probably snapped in two.

Uncomfortable, Carty watched the confrontation unfold. The figure’s rage seemed to accelerate with each one of Bonnie’s insults.

Bonnie gave the figure a harsh shove. "Get outta the way, bitch!" Bonnie yelled.

But the singer didn’t budge at all. They stood tall. Their broad shoulders were only the beginning of a sculpted frame.

Carty reached into her pocket. She felt her phone. All she needed was the perfect time pull that baby out and dial the cops. Even f she was hesitant to do so considering her and Bonnie’s modest criminal record.

Ready to fight back, Bonnie raised the flashlight up toward that fucking mask. "You stupid bitch-"

In a quick and sudden movement, the singer’s gloved hand snatched Bonnie’s wrist.

"Bonnie!" Carty said in horror.

Bonnie tried to break free but didn’t have a chance. The figure’s grip was harsh and stronger than Bonnie expected. During the struggle, Bonnie dropped the camera.

It hit the ground and slid over by the first step, the camera’s red record light still on. The lens pointed right at the stairway, putting the spotlight now on the frightened Carty.

Bonnie turned and looked toward Carty. "Carty, run!" she yelled.

Leaving her phone in her pocket, Carty rushed toward them. Saving her lover was more important than calling a bunch of bumpkin-fuck police officers.

Using her free hand, Bonnie tried to swing on the figure, but the blows didn’t bother them in the slightest. Instead, their stoic mask just looked straight at Bonnie. No anger on the androgynous face. Just nothingness.

"Bonnie!" Carty yelled. She tried to pull Bonnie away from the clutches of the singer.

"No, go!" Bonnie screamed. She pushed Carty toward the front door. "Get out!"

"I ain’t leaving you!" Carty proclaimed. Channeling her inner Bonnie, Carty raised the wireless mic like a baton.

Acting quick, the singer threw Bonnie back against the staircase.

Bonnie tripped on the first step and busted her ass on the uncomfortable stairs. All the steps caved in slightly beneath her weight.

The singer turned and honed their gaze on Carty.

"Run, Carty!" Bonnie pleaded.

Advancing upon Carty, the figure raised the axe with the flourish of a knight unsheathing a long sword.

Overcome in fear, Carty held on to the mic and backed against a wall. The eerie mask quashed her newfound "bravery."

"Carty!" Bonnie yelled. Cringing in pain, she leaned up on the staircase. "Carty, run!"

The singer held their weapon out and traced both blades against Carty’s fragile face.

"No!" Bonnie cried out. She staggered back to her feet.

Disturbed, Carty swung the mic toward the mask in a pathetic attempt at protecting herself. "Get back!" she said in a loud whimper.

With unnerving agility, the figure dodged the mic. They hoisted the axe back for the fatal blow.

"Oh God..." Carty said, helpless. She pressed her head against the wall, wishing she could dissolve into it before suffering at the hands of the double bit axe.

Bonnie rushed toward them. "Carty!" she cried.

The singer brought the axe down in a forceful swing.

Carty shut her eyes, bracing for the vicious hit.

A messy THWACK erupted in the farmhouse.

Thick drops sprayed across the the floor.

Realizing she was still alive, Carty opened her eyes in confusion. Then she screamed in a bellow of distraught horror.

The axe protruded out the top of Bonnie’s skull. Bonnie had gotten in front of the weapon just in time. Just in time to save Carty.

Bonnie stood still as if the sheer force of the hit had frozen her in place. Blood flowed all down her face and body. Like she was a fountain of flowing red water.

Weeping, Carty looked down at her hands. Another helpless scream escaped her lips. Gallons of Bonnie’s blood had splattered across Carty’s smooth skin.

The crimson spots resembled an incurable disease. Then again, it was. Bonnie was dead. And Carty was next.

The helplessness only further set in for Carty once the masked killer yanked the axe back out without so much as a grunt.

The effortless pull sent more of Bonnie’s blood spraying across Carty’s mortified face.

Bonnie’s corpse tumbled to the ground. The vivid wound had split the top of her head open. Her blood and gray matter spewed out like a spilled bowl of mushy fruit. Bonnie’s face forever frozen in fear, her dead eyes looking straight at Carty.

Horrified, Carty stared at her deceased girlfriend. This wasn’t the Bonnie she wanted to remember. This wasn’t the sexy, confident Bonnie she’d fallen in love with. This was a slaughtered corpse.

A flurry of quick whacks from the figure’s axe ravaged those final moments between Carty and Bonnie. Like an unstoppable machine, the singer swung the axe straight down onto Bonnie’s face, smashing it into a hundred red pieces.

Tears falling down her face, Carty screamed. "Bonnie! No!"

The masked intruder heaved the axe back. The axe’s cleanliness was now marred by thick, wet blood. Both sides of the weapon for that matter.

Quicker than a lion on the prowl, the killer turned and faced Carty. Blood and grue was all over their mask. At least now, the androgynous mask had some literal color.

But their cold eyes chilled Carty to the bone. And the killer didn’t seem exhausted in the slightest. They were just getting started.

Carty knew there was nothing else she could do. She hauled ass for the front door.

The singer lunged right in front of her, blocking Carty’s path.

Panicking, Carty took a few nervous steps back. "No!" she yelled at the singer. "Fuck you!"

The killer matched her every step, even matching Carty’s speed. The gap never closed between them, but to Carty, the mask and axe only seemed to get closer.

"Fuck you!" Carty screamed. She swung the wireless mic at the androgynous mask.

Taunting Carty, the killer dodged her swing with lackadaisical ease.

"You crazy bitch!" Carty screamed at the singer.

In an eruption of madness, the murderer raised the axe and went charging after Carty.

"No!" Carty shouted. Lowering the mic, she turned and ran toward the staircase.

Her feet splashed through her lover’s blood. Hearing the singer’s heavy footsteps, Carty turned and saw them gaining ground. Goddamn, he was fast!

Carty reached the stairs. With the joy of a runner completing a marathon, she put her foot on that first step in triumph. A shrill creak greeted her ears.

Right behind Carty, the killer lunged forward and swung the axe with all their might.

A nasty slice to the Achilles tendon dashed both Carty’s hope at escape. She screamed in a most horrific agony as she fell onto the flight of stairs.

Slipping from Carty’s grasp, the mic went flying through the air and smashed into the wall in front of her.

Helpless, Carty looked at her wound. The cut on the Achilles was rough and brutal. The mark of the axe’s blade wasn’t clean in the slightest.

Like a grisly sprinkler, blood shot out of Carty’s Achilles in thick spurts. Carty couldn’t bear to look at the wound... and looking back at the hallway only meant having to see Bonnie’s mutilated body once more.

Carty grabbed the cut in a pitiful attempt to stop the bleeding. Instead, all she got was a firsthand feel of a dam bursting with her own blood.

She looked over and saw the murderer step right toward her. Their axe only looked to be clamoring for more of Carty. As if one side of the double bit weapon felt left out from the Achilles slash.

Overwhelmed in fear, Carty turned and tried to stand up, but the attempt only stretched her heel’s hack to even greater depths. The window of the wound spread even wider, exposing bloodied muscle within her skin.

"Ah, fuck!" Carty unleashed in an awful scream.

She watched the killer stand up over her. "No!" Carty yelled. She attempted to crawl away, the damaged Achilles making Carty resemble an animal struggling to escape with a trap enclosed around its leg. Straining, she laid an elbow on the next step.

The wooden step collapsed under Carty’s weight. She yelled as her arm disappeared through the busted wood. "Fuck!" Carty cried out, weary helplessness in her tone.

Sitting further away, Bonnie’s camcorder filmed Carty’s agony in all its visceral glory.

Taunting Carty, the killer put the axe to Carty’s face.

An exhausted Carty looked on at the blood-stained mask. Its indiscernible features never failed to terrify her. The mask was somewhere between the world’s creepiest mannequin and the face of a stoic high school psychopath.

"Why?" Carty asked the singer in defeat. She struggled to fight back her tears. "Why are you doing this?"

At a deliberate pace, the killer lowered the axe and leaned in closer toward Carty.

With uncomfortable fear, Carty watched them get closer. "No..." she muttered.

The singer’s gloved hand reached out and stroked Carty’s golden hair.

To Carty’s surprise, their touch wasn’t rough but gentle. Even as the glove tinged Carty’s hair with a redness that mirrored the red stains scattered across the singer’s mask.

Determined, Carty reached out and pulled off the androgynous mask.

Carty’s expression was hit by an unsettling wave of confusion. Somehow, the situation had gotten weirder. And scarier.

Underneath the mask was a human face. The face of a middle-aged black woman. A stern, masculine face with wide eyes and hollow cheekbones. Streaks of red dye in her short hair. Her rough features couldn’t hide her natural beauty. Even given her athletic frame, she could’ve been an unorthodox model if she ever gave a damn about dolling herself up.

The killer looked just as surprised as Carty. Maybe other victims had wanted to see what she looked like before... but no one had ever lived long enough to actually unmask the singer.

"No," Carty said in a terrified whimper. Clutching the mask, she tried to pull her arm out of the busted step. But she was trapped. Trapped with a mysterious female killer.

The murderer leaned back and raised her axe. Her eyes stared down upon Carty. Eyes more expressionless than the mask.

All Carty could do was stare back at the killer. "Please," Carty said, frightened. "Don’t do-"

With primal strength, the killer sunk the blade straight into the side of Carty’s neck, slicing into her precious jugular. The force of the hit made Carty’s head tilt to the side.

Upon impact, the back of Carty’s head collapsed onto a step, busting through the ancient wood. Much like her entrapped arm, Carty’s head dangled through the shattered opening.

Grisly threads of her flesh were exposed. Blood scurried all down her body. All the way down her arms and all the way down to the mask she still held in her dead grip.

The axe still stuck straight out of Carty’s neck. The other side of the weapon had finally gotten its taste of Carty.

Recovering from the kills, the murderer leaned against the stairway’s railing. She stole a brief admiring glance down at Carty’s corpse. Carty was still pretty after all... even after death.

As she took off her gloves like an employee clocking out, the killer’s soft voice drifted through the room. It was the pretty voice she had earlier. Before her singing went off the rails and morphed into a demented compulsion. "Eyes without a face, got no human grace," the murderer sang with the reserved shyness of an awkward teenager at a talent show.

Finishing the chorus, she wiped sweat off her brow. Her eyes gazed over at the camcorder’s beaming light.

Intrigued, the killer approached the camera, stepping through the overflowing blood. She scooped up the camcorder in excitement and tinkered with it. Even a sly smile crossed her lips.

The murderer looked over at both dead bodies. The sexy lesbian couple. The killer almost seemed like she regretted killing off the two hotties. But deep down, she knew she had to. She wanted those sweet kills.

Turning her attention back to the camera, the singer played back all the footage from earlier.

Her eyes were particularly drawn to one specific scene: Carty and Bonnie’s steamy farmhouse sex. The killer traced her finger along the camera’s screen, right over the couple’s nubile bodies. Excitement shattered through the singer’s shield of coldness.

CHAPTER 4

A laptop screen cut to a quick montage of a pretty news reporter investigating all around the country. There she was talking to locals after a fatal shooting in Kentucky. Chatting up a politician in Washington, D.C. Attending a Black Lives Matter rally in Florida. Even eating unusual sweets at a novelty bakery in California. This reporter was omnipresent for all the latest American news and trends.

The first notes of the reporter’s catchy opening theme song blared like a call-to-arms for her viewers. The cheesy music accompanied the arrival of the title: THE REAL REPORT WITH ERIKA LEE.

The credits soon gave way to a shot of a rural highway. A two-lane blacktop without much traffic. Literally the road less traveled.

"Over here, idiot!" a voice off screen demanded.

The cameraman stumbled back to show the one-and-only Erika Lee standing on the side of the road. She held a mic and stared right at the camera. With auburn hair and green eyes, she was young and pretty without a doubt, but she also had a certain "it" factor to her. A subtle charisma that separated her from the wolfpack of bleached-blonde bombshells and rejected models masquerading as news anchors.

Erika wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. She didn’t wanna sit in her chair and preach like she knew what she was talking about. She wanted to hit the ground running and investigate every story thoroughly. Even with all her accolades, she still had enthusiasm and love for the hard work. This wasn’t Geraldo Rivera cashing in on one big story for decades of lazy lectures. Instead, exploring new terrains, getting to know her subjects personally, and going for more than a clickbait headline... well, that was Erika’s life. And she didn’t fuck around either.

"Good evening," Erika began. "I’m your host Erika Lee." Her voice was somehow warm yet commanding. Not to mention a screen presence that was off the charts. She knew she could hold her audience’s gaze with those enchanting green eyes."Tonight’s story takes us from the means streets of Detroit all the way to the rural backwoods of Stanwyck, Georgia."

Erika stepped over to a large roadside sign.

The sign’s colorful words spelled out: Welcome To Stanwyck, Georgia! Watermelon Capital Of The World.

Farmer caricatures, both African-American and Caucasian, dominated the sign like a village of Deliverance rejects. And yes, watermelon drawings were all over it.

"This peaceful small town, most famous for its claim as the watermelon capital of the world, has now become the unlikely host for our shocking Real Report exclusive," Erika Lee said gravely.

The news show cut to crime scene footage inside a upper-middle-class rural house. All the footage shot on a VHS-era hand-held camera.

"For the last twenty years, the notorious Mayberry Murderer has roamed the American South," Erika’s voiceover stated over the footage.

Mutilated dead bodies were shown in the house’s living room. A family of four in literal shambles. Though Erika made sure this footage was appropriate for air, the camera’s distance from the corpses could never alleviate the visceral horror of such a grotesque scene.

"So called because of the killer’s tendency to attack small Southern towns," Erika continued.

The crime scene footage shifted to different clips of small-town yokels banding together to aid police in various manhunts for the Mayberry Murderer. Georgia, Alabama, Florida, Tennessee. They all formed posses of passion. An earnest hunt for an elusive killer.

"Tormenting the locals," Erikaa went on.

The newscast showed a montage of various headlines. The outlets ranged from the famous bigger-city publications to the more-obviously local presses (The Colquitt Chronicle, The Bainbridge Post-Searchlight). Their newspaper brands all besieged by grisly, exploitative headlines: Mayberry Murderer Strikes Again! Another Mayberry Victim Uncovered! No Small Town Safe Under Mayberry Murderer’s Watch!

"While striking fear into the heart of these innocent Mayberry-like communities," Erika stated. "Towns short on resources and police force, but full of warmth and heart."

In a smooth transition, the newscast now played 90s/2000s-era archival footage from various police stations in the southeast. The clips showed local sheriffs receiving mysterious packages and letters. No return addresses listed on any of the mail.

One pot-bellied sheriff in particular was raising Hell. He pointed at a letter with disdain. Erika had elected not to use his audio, but she didn’t need to. The sheriff’s face of rage gave us enough context. Channeling his inner Pat Garrett, the vengeful sheriff was clearly insulting and berating the killer.

"But the Mayberry Murderer is notorious not only for these vicious murders," Erika said.

A video played an interview with a gawky lab expert showing off a few scribbled notes. The killer’s handwriting was almost as harsh as their slayings.

"But also for the cryptic messages they’d send to both the press and police," Erika’s unwavering voiceover continued. "With these messages sometimes turning into horrible threats," she started

In the video, the lab expert motioned toward a large box lying on a table. Torn wrapping paper dangled off the box like a child had ripped through it on Christmas morning.

The cameraman followed the uneasy expert toward the package. The camcorder then took a peek inside, the unseen cameraman doing his best not to recoil in horror.

The pot-bellied sheriff’s severed head lied inside. His mouth was agape in mid-scream. His hacked neck a mangled mess of flesh. This wasn’t a quick swing of the axe. This was a long and slow decapitation. Pat Garrett’s quest for the killer had failed... instead, the Mayberry Murderer had beaten him to the punch.

"Or even worse," Erika finished.

The cameraman pulled back to reveal dozens of more packages lining up on the other tables. They all shared the same stigma of being covered in hideous wrapping paper. All of them with scattered blood stains.

"While these notes and packages from the Mayberry Murderer have given us insight into one of the most disturbing and prolific serial killers of our time," Erika’s voiceover began.

In the newscast, another transition showed a large photograph of all those boxes. Each one had human remains. A different bloodied piece like they were grotesque Christmas surprise boxes. An arm there, an eyeball here, an intestine there. All the mementos could’ve probably been arranged to form a Frankenstein’s Monster of the Mayberry Murderer’s victims.

And they weren’t just from the pot-bellied sheriff either. These were the severed limbs and removed organs of dozens of people throughout the years. The multiple disembodied heads certainly proved this.

White, black. Teenage boys, elderly women. It didn’t matter. The Mayberry Murderer would take out whoever they set their sights on. Whoever was unfortunate enough to encounter this vicious phantom during their violent visits to these sleepy All-American towns.

"They never could reveal the true identity of this elusive psychopath," Erika finished.

The newscast changed to recent footage inside Erika’s quirky office.

"Even as the body count grew, the secrets of the Mayberry Murderer still remain a haunting mystery," Erika said.

The cameraman got a close-up of Erika’s desk. An envelope was resting on top of it. The envelope addressed to The Real Report. Specifically to Erika Lee. No return address, of course.

"But now all of that’s about to change," Erika’s voiceover stated.

The newscast cut back to Erika standing by that ridiculous sign. She was now holding the envelope for all to see.

"This is the letter that was addressed to me from someone claiming to be the real Mayberry Murderer," Erika said. She took a few steps toward the camera for dramatic effect. The walk of a news anchor who was making damn sure you were paying attention. "The handwriting’s nearly identical, but there was no name or any other personal information."

As the camera got a close-up of her face, Erika stared straight at the lens with conviction. "Instead, all they gave us was an address to meet them in this very city. Stanwyck, Georgia. A town once most known for its tasty watermelons and Wal-Mart, now the site of an exclusive one-on-one interview with a monster."

Erika went silent. But it lasted too long. The pause for emphasis turned to several awkward moments. Erika groaned, frustrated.

"What do you want me to do?" the cameraman’s confused voice asked.

Using the mic, Erika waved the cameraman back. "Get a wider shot, Alex! Come on!"

"Okay!" Alex replied as he stepped back.

"You’re making me look like a moron..."

After struggling, Alex finally got the shot "Director Erika" wanted. "Alright, there! I got it."

Back in "Anchor Erika" mode, Erika stepped toward the sign and pointed at it. Transitioning between commanding reporter and controlling director was another one of her talents. "It’s right here in Stanwyck, Georgia where we will meet the Mayberry Murderer inside the famed Crane house." Erika looked right at the camera, making direct eye contact with her audience. "A house where an infamous murder-suicide took place over thirty years ago. And a house many local residents believe to be haunted." Erika paused for dramatic effect. "Is now the place where we will put a human face to this vicious serial killer."

CHAPTER 5

The pre-recorded intro continued playing on Erika’s laptop. Erika herself watched it from the passenger’s seat of her expensive news van.

There’d be plenty of room inside the vehicle if it weren’t for the excess of people and equipment. Not to mention the excess of empty energy drink cans and plastic coffee cups. At least the powerful A/C had rescued the news team from the smoldering Georgia heat.

All the while, the van cruised down a lonely highway. Not much traffic, not many houses. Forests and farmland all over the place. Aside from a few stray trailers or barns, the area looked to be unpopulated.

In the passenger’s seat, Erika’s eyes stayed glued to the laptop. Even off screen, Erika kept her captivating beauty. But her inner drive and motivation were even more noticeable. She focused on her taped intro with the intensity of a passionate quarterback watching game film. The process was "Director Erika" studying "Anchor Erika."

Handling the wheel was J.R. England, the show’s producer and Erika’s laid-back boyfriend. J.R. was a little bit older, but could still match Erika’s attractive looks. Just not her ambition. He actually held the title of being The Real Report’s "director," but it was an in-name-only position. Everyone knew who really called the shots. And it certainly wasn’t J.R.. Not that J.R. minded since it meant less work for him.

Scrunched up amongst all the stacked paperwork and recording equipment in the backseat were two more members of the expedition: Alex Bowen and Dr. Celeste Lewton. Two conflicting personalities forced to sit closer together than they would’ve liked. Neither one of them had spoken a word to the other during the entire trip.

Leaning against a boom mic, Alex the cameraman was somehow sound asleep even though he was blasting heavy metal through his earbuds. With long greasy hair and an unkempt beard, Alex looked like Matthew McConaughey’s slacker younger brother. And he was an even bigger stoner as well.

The awkward counterpart to Alex’s lackadaisical attitude, Celeste looked tortured to be sitting right next to him. And she couldn’t hide her discomfort either. She was a therapist and not the kind you usually see on true crime shows either. Unlike Erika, Celeste didn’t have that screen presence. But she was great in her field, particularly with her expertise on serial killers. And the chance to meet the Mayberry Murderer, the subject who had fascinated her most was too much to let her anxieties get in the way.

However, Celeste’s lingering self-doubts still remained. For all her accolades, Celeste was still socially awkward. In fact, the only time she ever felt comfortable or at ease was when she studied serial killers or outright interviewed these same murderers. She found this much easier than conducting everyday conversations in "normal" society.

Whether it was turning down television appearances from stage fright or forcing herself to engage in stilted small-talk during her book signings, Celeste’s shy demeanor may not have hindered her stardom in the psychological field, but it certainly had kept her from stardom in popular culture. Not to her surprise, the sales of books by experts like herself who actually did real research and knew what they were talking about paled in comparison to their more sensational counterparts.

Celeste also knew that her seriousness and eccentric mannerisms combined with her status as a bespectacled black woman in her late-30s made her unappealing to mainstream America. CNN and Fox would always pass her over during their semi-annual "why are we having so many school shootings?" or "what makes ordinary people serial killers?" discussions in favor of their louder and more obnoxious talking heads. America just wasn’t ready for Dr. Celeste Lewton. And in Celeste’s opinion, they weren’t smart enough to either.

Such was Celeste’s pleasant surprise when Erika and The Real Report team first contacted her for this exclusive. Erika’s enthusiasm had won her over from the start. But the way Erika trusted Celeste’s expertise and vouched for the doctor to the network lent Celeste a level of confidence that was foreign to her. So much so that Celeste didn’t want to let Erika down. This was their joint mission. Their shared dream to solve the eerie riddle that was the Mayberry Murderer.

Annoyed by Alex’s overloud metal soundtrack, Celeste flashed him a glare before gazing out a window. Her indifferent eyes watched the constant farmland roll on by. This was a boring trip that would hopefully be rescued by the excitement of interviewing a serial killer, Celeste mused. That is, if the killer even showed.

With a critical eye, Erika continued watching the pre-taped intro. She looked displeased.

"It’s only fitting that the Mayberry Murderer would choose Stanwyck, Georgia for their interview," Erika’s voice said from the video. "The very type of small community they’ve terrorized for decades."

Aggravated, Erika paused the video. "It sucks."

J.R. looked at her. "What do you mean? What’s wrong?" he asked.

"Everything," Erika said, dejected.

"Shit, whatever..."

"I’m serious!" Erika turned the laptop toward J.R., giving him a front-row view of her appearance in the intro. "Does my hair look bad?"

Simultaneously amused and outraged, J.R. didn’t even bother looking at the paused clip. Erika’s question may as well have come from a pantheon hottie like Scarlett Johansson. "Really, babe..." he muttered.

"J.R.!" Erika demanded like an insecure middle-schooler. "Tell me!"

J.R. kept his eyes on the road. "Babe, I know it’s fine."

Erika shook the laptop at him for emphasis. "Just look at it! Goddamn!"

Overhearing them, Celeste looked over at the couple. Though Erika was confident in her own abilities, Celeste could tell Erika still liked the occasional ego stroke from her viewers... or in this case, from her boyfriend.

Annoyed, J.R. gave the laptop a quick glance. "It looks fine," he said matter-of-factly. He noticed Erika’s lingering uncertainty and flashed her a reassuring smile. "Erika, I’m serious."

"I don’t know..." Erika said, unconvinced. "Is it too late to reshoot?"

Trapped in the back, Celeste could do nothing but watch in dismay. Here we go again...

J.R. rubbed Erika’s leg with a supportive touch. "It looks fine," he told her.

Still not buying it, Erika shut her laptop.

"You look fine, period," J.R. added in a sly tone.

"I look like a wet dog," Erika said in dismay.

J.R. smirked. "You don’t look like a wet dog. You’re too sexy."

"Jesus Christ, what am I doing?" Erika complained to herself, ignoring every one of J.R.’s attempts at reassurance. The plight of being too smart and beautiful for your own good.

Ready to give up on replenishing Erika’s self-esteem, J.R. stared out the windshield. He’d been through this charade one too many times. The plight of dating someone so talented and insecure.

Celeste wasn’t sure how much more of this soap opera she could handle. Thankfully, a vibration offered her a welcome reprieve from the car ride’s stupefying boredom.

Celeste looked down at her phone. A new text from her husband Sean: Did u try them for me? :)

The text made Celeste crack a smile.

Distressed, Erika ran her hands through her hair. "God, the biggest story of my career, and I’m gonna look like a fucking hag," she complained to J.R.

Knowing how melodramatic Erika was being, J.R. didn’t even bother looking at her. "It ain’t that bad, babe."

"Ain’t that bad?" Erika snapped at him.

Celeste sent Sean a picture of her standing next to a huge watermelon statue. The pride and joy of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even with Celeste’s awkwardness, the selfie was still pretty cute.

J.R. looked over at Erika. "Look, your hair looks great, alright!"

With the picture selected, Celeste typed up a text message beneath it: I found the biggest one :)

Erika looked out a window. The rural landscape did nothing to soothe her. "I knew I should’ve straightened it better..." she lamented to J.R.

Celeste sent the message. Through the safe confines of her cell phone, Celeste never had the same overwhelming anxiety she had when talking in person. She’d always considered how even her and Sean’s conversations were much better via text.

"Your hair’s fine, but it’s not all about the hair anyway," J.R. told Erika.

Aggravated, Erika glared at J.R. "Oh, get real! Looking sexy is half the battle!"

"Come on, you don’t believe that shit!"

"I don’t believe in it," Erika began. She put the laptop on the floorboard. "But it’s true."

J.R. scoffed.

"I’m a woman, man," Erika went on. "I can’t just be ugly fucking Walter Cronkite. I have to look good and know what the fuck I’m talking about."

"Which you deliver in spades," J.R. reassured her.

"No matter how much research I do or how smart I am, it always comes down to matching the brains with the boobs."

Staying quiet, J.R. looked out toward the battered highway. He’d heard Erika Lee’s lecture series on gender inequality in the newsroom a time or two. She just usually didn’t get on the rant till the booze came out.

"If my hair’s fucked-up even in the slightest, they’ll disregard what I say," the jaded Erika continued.

J.R. glanced over at her. "Hey, well, if it makes you feel any better, we’ll fix you up in post."

"Whatever..."

"I’m serious," J.R. said. Playful, he wrapped his arm around Erika. "We’ll get you at your best angle, fix the lighting. Make you look thirty-one again."

Laughing, Erika punched his shoulder. "Fuck you!"

Celeste gazed out a window. They’ve really done this the whole trip, she thought. Then again, I haven’t said much anyway. Her trips with Sean would seem even longer because of the silence... even when Sean did his damnedest to get Celeste to talk.

Another vibration distracted Celeste. A new text from Sean: Wish I was there w/ u

Like a bored jokester, J.R. glanced at the rearview mirror, looking straight at Alex. "Hey, Alex!" he yelled.

Alex offered no reply. Between the heavy metal and the deep slumber, no one was reaching Alex for now. Not even Freddy Krueger could wake him.

Erika chuckled. "He’s out."

"Alex!" J.R. yelled again.

In the backseat, Celeste sent her reply to Sean: You missed out on the watermelon festival.

Without warning, Erika turned and looked at Celeste. "So do you have any kids, Dr. Lewton?" Erika asked, eager to make small talk.

Surprised by the question, Celeste looked up at Erika with the same deer-in-headlights expression she had on her very few television interviews. "Oh, uh, please," Celeste began. "Call me Celeste."

"You sure?" Erika asked.

"Yes." Celeste smiled. "You sound like one of my patients."

Erika grinned, pleased to see Celeste exhibit a light-hearted side. "I guess I am a little crazy," she joked.

"Just a little," J.R. chimed in.

"Oh shut up!" the laughing Erika told J.R..

The couple’s antics now amused rather than annoyed Celeste. "I just prefer it to be honest," Celeste said. Because hardly anyone had ever gotten to know her on a first-name basis. That was the real reason. To her, Dr. Lewton felt so clinical. Like she was strictly an expert witness or source. Not a human being. Celeste felt Erika had picked up on this. After all, for all of Erika’s superficial tics, she had the human touch not many reporters or Hell, any celebrities, had. Celeste could tell Erika cared about relating to people just from watching the show. And now Celeste had a front row seat to this admirable trait of hers.

Erika looked at Celeste, Erika’s flawless eyes gleaming with curiosity. "But do you? Celeste."

Celeste cracked a smile. For a second, she realized to her horror she might be blushing. But she didn’t panic. She just wasn’t used to generating this kind of interest from anyone other than Sean. It was Celeste’s brain and knowledge on other people (A.K.A serial killers) that usually drew the attention. Not her personal life. "No, no kids."

"Oh, okay," Erika said, keeping her voice at that trained "Anchor Erika" tone that always sounded polite and respectful.

"But me and Sean, we’re trying," Celeste added. She gave an awkward chuckle. "So fingers crossed."

With a mischievous smile, J.R. glanced at Celeste through the rearview mirror. "Hey, we’ll join y’all soon!"

Erika looked at him in horror as Celeste laughed.

Like a cloying sitcom husband, J.R. faced Erika. "Ain’t that right, honey?"

"Uh, no," Erika said without hesitation.

"Come on! You don’t want no little Erika Lees-"

"I gotta interview the president first," Erika smothered the joke in a serious tone.

"You sure you wanna do that?" Celeste teased. No one laughed or paid any attention to her subtle jab at Trump. As usual, Celeste was left second-guessing her demeanor in these social situations.

"Really?" J.R. said to Erika in disbelief. His eyes only half-ass paid attention to the road. Not that he had much to worry about on this isolated stretch of pavement.

"Uh, yeah," Erika replied. "Not like I can do that shit looking like a whale."

"Not true."

Challenging J.R., Erika turned and leaned in closer toward him. "Uh, who’s the last fatass female anchor you saw interview someone important?"

J.R. smiled at Erika. "Well, I think mommy anchors are kinda hot." Frisky, he reached over and squeezed Erika’s leg.

Without hesitation, Erika shoved his hand away. "You’re getting a vasectomy before that happens!"

"Ouch!"

Celeste chuckled. These cute couple moments fascinated her like a foreigner experiencing humorous cultural differences. Celeste and Sean’s relationship was steady, sure. But it didn’t have these authentic playful moments... and it wasn’t really Sean’s fault either. Deep down, Celeste knew it was her refusal to give in to those fun experiences that held her back from being happy in marriage. She was too awkward. Too serious toward Sean’s goofy humor. Celeste thought back on how Sean often joked she might be better off marrying Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy. Maybe if they weren’t dead, Celeste thought to herself now.

"I mean it," Erika said to J.R. as she grabbed her phone from a cupholder. "This ain’t gonna be The Real Report With Mama Lee!"

"But a vasectomy?"

"Uh-huh." Erika checked the GPS on her phone before looking out the windshield, her focused eyes searching for a specific location.

Another vibration startled Celeste. She opened a new text from Sean.

Watching Erika and J.R.’s rapport had gotten Celeste excited to see Sean’s reply. But disappointment hit her immediately. Sean’s reply wasn’t about how much he loved or missed her, it was this: I miss those melons ;)

Another immature joke from my comedian husband, Celeste realized. Cute...

Annoyed, Celeste ignored Sean’s text and locked her cell phone. He’s not even worth the reply.

Erika’s eyes lit up once she saw a haunting sight on the left. The rusty mailbox. The dirt driveway. The Crane house.

Like a kid anticipating their arrival at Disney World, Erika checked her GPS real quick. This was the house. "Shit!" she exclaimed.

"That one hurt, babe," the oblivious J.R. joked to Erika.

Just as they were passing the driveway, Erika snatched J.R.’s shoulder and pointed him toward it. "That’s it, pull over!" Erika demanded.

"Fuck!" J.R. said.

Intrigued, Celeste leaned forward and got a better view of the house in all its eerie glory. The farmhouse surrounded by woods like a morbid castle surrounded by a moat. Wow, this is it, she realized. The perfect place for the perfect killer.

J.R. hit the brake and made a sharp turn onto the driveway. "Hang on!" he yelled like a ship captain.

The quick turn made Alex lurch forward and face-plant into the back of J.R.’s headrest, awakening the stoner in a pissed-off frenzy. "What the fuck!" Alex yelled.

Smirking, J.R. looked at Alex through the rearview mirror. "Hey, you’re alive, Sleeping Beauty!"

Erika burst out laughing.

"Fuck you, man!" Alex hollered at J.R. He yanked out his earbuds.

"I didn’t tell you not to wear a seatbelt," J.R. replied.

The van rumbled down the bumpy dirt driveway. The occupants felt every bump and dip the driveway had to offer.

"Slow down," Erika complained.

"It’s the fucking road," J.R. replied.

All the while, Celeste’s eyes never strayed from the house. The farmhouse seemed to practically beckon her. Somehow, even with all the build-up, the location had met her lofty expectations.

The rotted wood, the surrounding forest, the rocking chairs. This was Flannery O’Connor meets The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A Southern Gothic house of horrors.

CHAPTER 6

The news van pulled up close to the front porch. Outside, it was yet another quiet summer day. Not much wind. Not even much wildlife was heard coming from those woods.

Aside from the unusual silence, the house was missing something else: Bonnie’s gorgeous sports car. It was nowhere to be seen. Even its tire marks were gone.

*

Inside the van, excitement pulsated through the crew. Their long five-hour drive from Atlanta had finally come to this.

Erika scanned the yard, in search of any sign of the Mayberry Murderer. But she saw nothing. No other cars, no people, the house’s front door still shut.

Erika wasn’t too disappointed, but she’d have liked a better sign that they hadn’t been led all the way out to hicktown by "fake news." "I guess they’re not here yet," she commented, anxious.

J.R. snatched the key out of the ignition. "Ah, give it time, babe."

"I know..." Erika looked over at J.R. "I was just hoping they’d be here waiting or something..."

"Like a welcome party?" J.R. joked.

"No," Erika struggled to explain. She looked on at the farmhouse. "This just better not be a pile of bullshit."

"I doubt it. Not this far out."

From the backseat, Celeste stared at the house. Like she was hoping she’d get the first glimpse of the Mayberry Murderer.

J.R. followed Erika’s gaze toward the house. "Looks like they picked a real winner..."

"I’ll say," Celeste interjected with a smile.

Disinterested, Alex stayed on his phone. To him, Snapchatting various naked bots was more interesting than an abandoned shack.

Like she was trying to hype herself up, Erika took a deep breath. "I’m so nervous..."

J.R. ran his hand up and down Erika’s leg. "Hey, don’t worry."

Erika faced him.

"It’s only one of the most disturbing and prolific serial killers of our time," J.R. teased.

Groaning, Erika turned away. Even more pressure. "Don’t say it like that..."

"Babe."

Erika pushed his hand off her leg.

Like a hostage held at gunpoint, J.R. put his hands up. "Okay, I’m just trying to help."

"It’s fine," Erika grumbled.

"All I’m saying is don’t be worried, alright," J.R. said. He leaned in closer toward Erika, reassuring her. "I know you. Erika Lee doesn’t let anyone, not even fucking serial killers, bother her, alright. You’re strong. And tough."

Erika cracked a smirk.

Smiling, J.R. caressed her face. "You got this, babe."

In the backseat, Celeste watched them in silence. With the kind of observant silence that made her such an insightful therapist.

Right before J.R. and Erika were gonna share a kiss, one of the van’s backdoors slid open with the startling suddenness of a jump scare chord.

Everyone turned and saw Alex jump out the open door. He held a boom mic. His timing definitely intentional. He grinned at the others. "My bad."

"Asshole," J.R. told him.

With smug defiance, Alex tossed his phone on the backseat and walked away.

Erika rubbed J.R.’s shoulder. "It’s fine," she said to him.

Allured by her touch, J.R. faced her just as Erika gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Come on," Erika said. Leaving J.R. wanting more, Erika grabbed her huge purse off the floorboard.

"Yeah, sure," J.R. said. He watched Erika like he was hoping maybe she’d forgotten to give him a kiss on the lips.

Celeste saw Erika place her cell phone inside the purse. Confused, Celeste looked over at a cupholder where her own phone rested. "I thought they said no phones?" she asked Erika.

With a sly grin, Erika looked at Celeste and put a finger to her lips. "Shh! Don’t tell anyone."

"Can I bring mine?" J.R. asked in smartass mode.

Erika glared at him. "No! Go outside!"

"Alright," the intimidated J.R. replied.

Grabbing the door handle to the backseat, Celeste leaned in closer toward Erika. "Well, your secret’s safe with me," Celeste teased.

"Thank you, Celeste," Erika beamed.

"Betraying a psychopath’s trust," J.R. started as he opened the door on the driver’s side. The two women turned and gave him amused looks. "Great start."

CHAPTER 7

The hot afternoon sun annihilated the team with steamy propulsion. J.R. was the cameraman this time (at Erika’s insistence) and followed Erika and Celeste toward the front porch.

In typical fashion, Alex lagged behind them with the enthusiasm of an indifferent Little Leaguer patrolling left field. His sweaty hands held onto the bulky boom mic.

Celeste noticed how quiet and still the area was. The woods must be as abandoned as the farmhouse, she thought.

Sweating bullets, J.R. looked up at the sun. "Jesus Christ," he complained.

"I’m gonna have to redo my make-up..." Erika bemoaned.

"Ditto," Celeste added.

As they neared the porch, Erika looked over at J.R. "You brought the fans, right?" she asked.

"Yeah, they’re in the trunk," J.R. answered.

The team finally got some shade once they stepped under the porch roof. The heavy wooden boards creaked incessantly beneath their feet.

Her gigantic purse swinging around her arm like overstuffed luggage, Erika stopped everyone at the front door. "Okay," she said.

Like Erika, Celeste too had her purse, but Celeste’s pocketbook was much less gaudy and crammed. It was a simple brand. More like a satchel than a flashy accessory. Then again, Celeste was never on T.V. and never had much fashion sense. Even her casual dress contrasted greatly with Erika’s stylish attire.

"Here we are," Erika went on, her eyes gazing around the porch. Her directorial vision scoped out the property. The shattered lamp, the rocking chairs. She liked what she saw.

The porch intrigued Celeste. Even if the countless cobwebs creeped her out.

Growing impatient, J.R. and Alex waited for Erika to find the perfect spot.

"You ready?" J.R. asked in a weary tone.

"Yeah, hold on!" Erika said. After giving the scene one last glance, Erika was satisfied. She waved J.R. back. "Just gimme some space!"

"Why?" J.R. asked, annoyed.

"Just do it!"

Alex flashed J.R. a "I-told-you-so" look that J.R. couldn’t argue with.

With harsh force, Erika jammed her purse in Alex’s grasp, startling him.

"Hey!" Alex muttered. Tilting to the side like an uneven scale, he did his best to balance the boom mic in one hand while hanging on to the heavy purse in the other.

"Director Erika" gave Alex and J.R. a stern look. "Just get the front door!"

Celeste watched Alex juggle the items. To her, Erika’s pocketbook made the difference. The thing could’ve had a boulder in it, Celeste mused.

Straightening her hair, Erika walked back to the front door. She was back in "Anchor Erika" mode.

Following Erika’s orders, J.R. took a few steps back and pointed the camera right at his girlfriend. She was right all along. A wider shot like this undoubtedly captured the aura of the creepy farmhouse better. "That good?" he asked Erika.

"Yeah, you got everything?" Erika said.

"Got it!"

Celeste noticed how there was quite a lot of space between Erika and the rocking chairs. She wasn’t hogging the shot. The decision left Celeste confused. What exactly did Erika have in mind this time?

Just then, Erika locked eyes with Celeste.

The sudden focus from Erika snapped Celeste out of her thoughts. Erika had a way of commanding her cohorts just with a single gaze.

"Dr. Lewton," Erika said.

Awkward, Celeste looked between Erika and J.R. "Oh, right now?"

Laughing, Erika waved Celeste over. "Yeah, come here!"

Celeste released a nervous chuckle. "I’m sorry." She could feel everyone’s impatient eyes latch onto her as she started to walk toward Erika.

Suppressing her growing annoyance with a forced smile, Erika pointed at Celeste’s arm. "You don’t need that on camera either," she joked.

Celeste stopped and looked down at the purse dangling off her arm. "Oh!" she exclaimed, embarrassed.

"There’s our ’psychiatric expert,’" Alex muttered to J.R.

"I’m sorry," Celeste said to everyone.

Erika pointed her toward J.R. "It’s okay, just give it to him."

"Great," J.R. muttered.

Eager to get this spotlight off her, Celeste slid the purse over J.R.’s arm. "Thank you."

"No problem," J.R. replied. Not missing a beat, he got ready to film the scene.

Seeing how light Celeste’s pocketbook was compared to the monstrosity he had to carry, Alex just shook his head in frustration.

Celeste stopped next to Erika. She had the nervous excitement of a nerd ready to join the cheerleader table. "I’m sorry, this is all just so surreal," Celeste said. "Your show, the Mayberry Murderer."

J.R. focused the camcorder on them. "Don’t tell me your camera-shy," he quipped to Celeste.

"I’ll try not to be." Celeste stole a glance back at the front door. Her eyes were drawn to it like a child’s at the entrance to an amusement park’s haunted house.

Trying to relax Celeste, Erika grabbed her arm in a gentle yet firm touch.

Celeste faced her.

"Hey, don’t be nervous," Erika reassured her.

Celeste couldn’t tell if Erika was trying to soothe her out of kindness or because she needed Celeste’s "expert knowledge" for this special edition of The Real Report.

Erika flashed a beaming smile. "Just take my lead."

"Okay," Celeste responded, no less nervous than she was before.

"You’ll do fine."

"You ready?" the impatient J.R. asked.

None too confident, Celeste confronted the camera. She knew at the very least her anxiety was about be on display for all the world to see.

"Yeah, let’s go," Alex chimed in.

"We’re ready," the confident Erika announced. She gave Celeste a sly wink. "You got this, girl."

J.R. looked through the camera. "Alright, action!" he yelled.

On cue, Erika morphed into "Anchor Erika" right before Celeste’s eyes. Erika looked straight on at the camera, fearless.

"We’re now here outside the infamous Crane house," Erika began.

Celeste could tell Erika was owning the moment like a damn pro. She maintained her eye contact and composure, the exact opposite of Celeste’s awkward demeanor.

"A farmhouse notorious for murder and ghosts," Erika went on. She flashed a quick glare at Alex.

Annoyed, Alex held the boom mic closer toward the two women. What Erika wanted, she got.

"Now the scene for this groundbreaking interview," Erika went on to the camera, undeterred.

Trying to emulate Erika’s confidence, Celeste faced the camcorder. But she knew she looked awkward and nervous because she was awkward and nervous.

Fucking center stage, Celeste thought. Why can’t these librarian glasses be sunglasses? I could be like Bob Dylan and maybe look less stupid.

Erika motioned toward Celeste, sending even more nerves running through Celeste’s blood.

"Here with me tonight is Dr. Celeste Lewton," Erika said. "A highly-regarded forensic psychologist."

Just hearing her own name shell-shocked Celeste. Anxious, she just kept making sure she was looking right at the camera.

J.R. looked up and winked at Celeste.

His show of support eased up Celeste’s nerves just a tad.

"Dr. Lewton is the author of several acclaimed books on many famous serial killers," Erika went on. "Most notably Aileen Wuornos and Ted Bundy." She faced Celeste, putting a coveted spotlight on the doctor who dreaded it. "Dr. Lewton, what can you tell us about the research you’ve done on the Mayberry Murderer?"

Blindsided by the bright lights, Celeste paused, struggling to answer. She glanced over at Erika, Erika’s gleaming green eyes begging for an answer. Any answer.

"Dr. Lewton," Erika said, interrupting the awkward silence.

Out of the corner of her eye, Celeste noticed J.R. take a few steps forward for a close-up. This was it, she thought. The Celeste Lewton Dream. I’m ready for my close-up.

Celeste looked right at Erika. "Well, Erika," she finally stumbled out. "The Mayberry Murderer’s no different than many of the other serial killers I’ve covered over the years." Her voice got more stronger and confident. "Most of them are very methodical. Clever. And they know it. They’re very aware of their power and the influence they hold." Unafraid (for the moment), Celeste looked toward the camera. "I’d say they’re even proud of what they’ve done."

"You mean like how the Mayberry Murderer toyed with the media?" Erika asked. "All the letters. The severed heads." Erika’s dramatic hand gestures matched her commanding voice. That typical stellar screen presence. "All these sorts of taunts."

"Exactly!" Celeste said to Erika, excited. The more they got into Dr. Lewton’s territory, the more comfortable she became. "Listen, this level of braggadocio goes well beyond just taking trophies or personal mementos."

In a subtle manner, "Director Erika" moved her eyes toward the camera, guiding Celeste.

Celeste got the hint. Throughout the interview, she made sure to look over at the camera at certain points. Just like a veteran anchor. "I mean the Mayberry Murderer sent severed heads to the Times, for crying out loud!" Celeste’s passionate voice continued. "Doing something like that, to be that confident in your craft. And to taunt the press and police in that manner. It just puts the Mayberry Murderer in a whole other realm! With the likes of Jack The Ripper, the Zodiac, BTK."

"And two of them were never caught," Erika chimed in.

"And I’d say we were pretty lucky to have gotten Dennis Rader."

CHAPTER 8

The Real Report special soon shifted inside. The front door had shut behind the crew on its own, making the brass doorknob almost rattle off. The knob was loose and drooped down like a sad old man. But the crew didn’t pay it any mind. They were eager to get started. After all, they had a show to film and an interview to prepare. Not to mention that it couldn’t be any hotter in the farmhouse than it was outside.

Erika led the way through the downstairs hallway. Celeste right behind her like a dutiful sidekick. J.R. and Alex kept filming as they trailed behind the two women, documenting their every move.

Inside, sunlight drifted in to illuminate the scene. There were no blood stains. No bodies. No traces of the Paranormal Fornication team anywhere. The farmhouse was actually cleaner and nicer than anyone from The Real Report expected.

The group stopped near the staircase. The living room doorway just a few feet away. What appeared to be newer pieces of wood ran up the stairs. None of the steps were busted.

Erika gazed all around the area, impressed by how its condition contrasted with the train wreck of a front porch. "Wow..."

Alex didn’t like the house one bit. He clung to the boom mic, his eyes and ears wide open for the first sign of danger. The blistering heat outside now seemed a little more welcoming than whatever the fuck lurked in here.

Intrigued, Celeste ran her fingers against a small wooden counter. No dust. Celeste looked down the hallway. She couldn’t even find a spiderweb.

The spiders couldn’t have all just migrated to the rocking chairs, she joked. "Has someone been here already?" Celeste asked the others.

J.R. looked at her. "Probably some of the yokels," he guessed. "Haunted house, shit town." Holding the camera steady, he looked through the lens, taking in the strange farmhouse. "You know how that goes."

"Always draws a crowd," Alex joked, his smirk masking his fear.

The answer didn’t satisfy Celeste’s lingering morbid curiosity. She gazed up at the stairs. It was quiet in here as well, she thought. Surely there would be all sorts of critters in an abandoned farmhouse. So why don’t we hear any?

Erika looked on toward the living room doorway. "Maybe it’s the Mayberry Murderer," she proposed.

J.R. cracked a smile. "What? They’re a fucking clean freak now?"

With scholarly seriousness, Celeste faced him. "O.C.D. and other compulsory behavior are a common trait in psychopaths."

Like a team of schoolyard bullies, J.R. and Alex shared hearty laughter. Even Erika smiled.

"She got serious on you," Alex told J.R.

A confused Celeste looked at all of them, feeling like the brainiac in a clique of juvenile delinquents. "What? It’s true."

Erika wrapped an arm around Celeste. "Trsut me, we don’t doubt you, Celeste."

Celeste looked at Erika’s warm expression.

"Just keep doing you, doctor" Erika encouraged.

His laughter dying off, J.R. pointed the camera toward the stairway. "Hey, you guys wanna get a shot over here?" he asked Erika.

Erika’s eyes lit up with excitement. "Yes!" She clapped her hands together as she faced Celeste. "You ready?"

"That’s fine," Celeste answered.

"Alright!" Erika pulled the doctor right in front of the first step. "Ready?" she asked Celeste.

"Yes."

Going into "Anchor Erika" mode, Erika faced the camera.

Before he could get chewed out, Alex held the boom mic closer toward the ladies.

"Well, this is about as creepy as it gets," the chuckling Erika said the camera.

Celeste stole a nervous glance at the stairway. "Definitely."

Erika motioned around the hallway. "We’re here live inside the Crane house. So far, we’ve seen no ghosts, but that should all change once the Mayberry Murderer joins us inside live for an exclusive interview. The first time anyone has ever encountered the murderer and lived to tell about it."

The words resonated with Celeste. In less than a few hours, we were going to meet a still-at-large serial killer. One that would be interviewed by me.

Erika turned her attention to Celeste. "Dr. Lewton, do you think there’s a reason the Mayberry Murderer chose this particular location?"

Celeste flashed a nervous grin. "Well, Erika, until we meet our ’guest of honor,’ all we can do is speculate, I’m afraid." She looked right at the camera, emulating Erika’s intense gaze with the effectiveness a younger sibling copying their cooler older sister. "However, I’d say the Mayberry Murderer would choose a spot that was familiar to them. Maybe it reminds them of their own house or maybe it’s a childhood home." Growing more confident by the second, Celeste faced Erika. "Somewhere they felt comfortable."

Chuckling, Erika looked around the hallway. "It’s hard to describe this as comfortable."

A loud thud erupted from the living room, making Erika’s laugh die instantly. Everyone broke character in a panic as they looked toward the living room doorway. The segment was over. In a farmhouse this silent, that sudden noise may as well have been a gunshot or a scream.

"What the fuck was that!" Alex yelled in fright.

"Come on!" Erika said. Eager to capture something for the show, she took off for the living room.

"No, we should fucking go!" Alex yelled after her.

Nervous, Celeste followed Erika.

"Erika!" J.R. pleaded.

But there was no stopping a reporter on the prowl.

CHAPTER 9

Hot on Erika’s trail, the others entered the living room.

"Erika," Celeste said, worried.

They all stopped and saw Erika standing by an open window. She was turned away from them and looking straight down at the floor. Like she was in a trance from Hell.

"What the fuck, man..." Alex said in an uneasy voice.

"Erika!" Celeste yelled. She rushed toward Erika.

J.R. followed Celeste.

Too scared to do much of anything, Alex stayed behind, clinging to the boom mic like a weapon.

As Celeste got closer to Erika, she saw a small table standing beneath the window. Several stacks of true-crime books piled on top of it. One of the towers had collapsed to the floor and was sprawled out in front of Erika.

"Erika," Celeste said. She stopped next to the anchor. A horrified expression crossed Celeste’s face once she saw one of the books lying on the floor. She recognized it.

"Hey, babe," J.R. said to Erika. He reached toward her shoulder.

Right before he could grab her, Erika turned and faced him with an amused smile.

Startled, J.R. staggered back. "Shit!"

"What?" Erika chuckled.

"You scared the shit outta me!" J.R. told her.

"Me too," Alex chirped.

Uneasy, Celeste leaned down and picked up the book.

"Well, that was our first scare," Erika told J.R.

Whatever was on that book mortified Celeste. She looked over at the other stacks on the table. More fear struck her once she recognized their titles.

Erika motioned J.R. toward the books lying on the floor. "It was probably just the wind."

Alex looked over at the window in disbelief. "What wind!"

"No way the wind’s knocking down that," a skeptical J.R. told Erika.

Breaking out of her shocked state with anger, Celeste held the book up toward the others. "What the Hell is this!" she demanded.

Erika reached toward Celeste. "Dr. Lewton-"

Celeste put the book to Erika’s face. "Tell me!"

The back of the true-crime book featured a black-and-white photo of Celeste in her office. Her studious appearance captured with those glasses and nerdy attire.

"Celeste, I-" Erika began.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Disturbed, Celeste turned the book over and looked on at the front cover’s exploitative title: All-American Psycho: The Ted Bundy Story. By Dr. Celeste Lewton.

Erika’s nervous eyes stared at the cover. "I didn’t know, Celeste," she said, unusually awkward.

J.R. and Alex stepped up closer toward the book. Shock conquered both their faces once they saw the author’s name.

"Oh shit..." Alex said.

"What’s this doing here?" Celeste yelled at them.

Trying to calm Celeste, Erika held her hands out toward her. "Celeste, I didn’t know, I swear.

Celeste glared at the camera. "I swear to God if this is one of those Goddamn prank shows!"

Erika grabbed Celeste by the shoulders. "Look, it’s not, okay!"

"Yeah, it really ain’t," J.R. added.

Celeste backed away from Erika. With distrustful eyes, she looked at everyone in the room. "I don’t understand," she said. She held up All-American Psycho. "If this is here and it’s not staged."

Angry, she pointed the Bundy book toward the stacks on the table. "Then why the Hell are my other books all here then!"

"What?" Erika asked, shocked. She turned and looked over at the table.

All of the books were by the same author: Dr. Celeste Lewton. Her entire catalog of serial killers.

"What the fuck..." Erika muttered.

Alex and J.R. looked at all the other books as well, stunned into silence. Neither one of them even had jokes.

Celeste leaned in closer toward Erika, surprising Erika with her fiery anger. "I swear to God if you brought me all the way out here for a joke-"

"It’s not a fucking joke!" Erika said.

"I expect this shit from Fox!" Celeste went on. "But not from you! I know they can’t handle my theories or they say I’m too fem-psycho for the networks-"

Trying to diffuse Celeste’s rant, Erika held up her hands. "Look, Celeste, I wanted you all along."

Celeste just stared at Erika. When Erika talked, everyone listened.

"You know what the Hell you’re talking about, that’s the bottom line," Erika reassured Celeste. "That’s what makes you different."

"Thank you," Celeste said softly.

"And I don’t know what the Hell you’re going on about fem-psychos or whatever, but that’s not what I’m making fun of at all, Celeste," Erika said. "Hell, that’s why I want you here! You’re smart! You have your own personality. I mean shit, you study killers! You know them!"

"True..." Celeste commented. She liked the passion in Erika’s voice. The fire.

Grinning, Erika caressed Celeste’s shoulder. "Look, I don’t know what the Hell you do to the networks to piss them off, but I had to practically beg them to get you on here."

Celeste cracked a smirk.

"So believe me, I’m not trying to set you up or anything," Erika continued.

"You really had to beg them?" an amused Celeste asked.

"Well, it was worth it."

"But really?"

Hesitant, Erika paused. "Yeah, well, you’re not exactly a household name," she said in that polite "Anchor Erika" tone. That balance between gentle and stern.

Celeste looked off and saw the graffiti across the room. The spraypainted profanity.

"Not yet at least," Erika added.

Knowing she couldn’t argue with her overlooked status, Celeste pointed everyone toward the graffiti. "Check that out," she commented.

Erika stepped closer Celeste and followed her gaze to the wall. Erika cringed at the offensive vulgarities. "Oh my," she commented.

"Fucking savage," Alex interjected.

"Hey, get that shot, J.R.," Erika said.

At her command, J.R. focused the camera on the graffiti. "I’m on it."

Erika turned and saw the despondent nerves etched on Celeste’s face. She rubbed Celeste’s back. "Hey I brought you here for a reason," she said to soothe Celeste.

Celeste faced her.

"It took some convincing, but I got you here."

"Convincing?" Celeste said, skeptical.

"I just told them the truth," Erika professed.

"And what was that?"

Excited, Erika squeezed Celeste’s shoulder and leaned in closer. "There was an old letter the Mayberry Murderer had sent Investigation Discovery before."

Celeste just stared into Erika’s bright eyes. Simultaneous dread and curiosity circulated through her.

"In it, the Mayberry Murderer mentioned several of the outlets and writers they actually respected," Erika went on.

"I made the list," Celeste said, unfazed.

Erika nodded.

"All of you knew this?" Celeste asked. She looked over at Alex and J.R. who avoided eye contact like the plague. That was the only confirmation Celeste needed.

Trying to console Celeste, Erika took her hand off Celeste’s shoulder as she confronted her. "Yes, but it was the only way I could convince them to bring you on!"

"I see."

"I’m sorry. I was gonna tell-"

"I guess they’d rather have that blonde idiot bitch Vicki Lange or Kathy Stern’s fake tits," Celeste said in disgust.

"They’re fake?" Alex said, surprised.

Before Erika could give Alex a death stare, J.R. gave him a harsh shove.

Staggering back, Erika’s purse nearly brought Alex to the ground. "Hey, I didn’t know!"

"But you’re here right, Celeste" Erika continued pleading with Celeste. "I got you here. They knew how important your expertise would be and-"

"And that the Mayberry Murderer wanted me," Celeste finished.

Still trying to convince Celeste that being endorsed by a psychopathic reader wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, Erika threw her hands up. "Hey, it worked, didn’t it! You’re here. You got the dream interview with the killer you’ve been studying for ten years."

Uncertain, Celeste looked at the table. All those books. All her books. The collection looked to belong to Dr. Celeste Lewton’s number one deranged fan. "Jesus... they own all of them..."

"They said they were a big fan," Erika said.

Celeste looked at Erika’s playful grin. To Celeste, it resembled the shit-eating grin of a car salesman. Or a news anchor...

"You should be thrilled," Erika added.

The tombstone radio cut on. Somehow, Kim Carnes’s Bette Davis Eyes engulfed the living room like it came from a lonelyheart’s final quarter around closing time. A 1980s bar anthem transported straight to the Crane house. And proof that the house had electricity after all.

"What the Hell!" a confused J.R. exclaimed.

Startled by the song, the crew turned and looked toward the relic radio.

Alex jumped back in fright. "Ah, fuck this!"

Everyone else looked on at the sight, simultaneously terrified and fascinated.

J.R. lowered his camera. "It’s him..."

"No shit," Erika said.

And there the killer stood by the radio. Her expression shielded by the androgynous mask even as her intense eyes were undoubtedly focused on the news team.

The Mayberry Murderer was dressed casually. Dark tee shirt and jeans. No glorious bathrobe. No axe.

And yet no one spoke to her. Even with a cheesy 1980s ballad bathing the room in melodramatic vocals, the Mayberry Murderer had intimidated the shit out of them without so much as making a hand gesture.

Celeste now realized the killer must’ve entered from the kitchen doorway. Much to her unease, she further realized that they had been stalking them all along in this silent house. Well before the 80s serenade kicked into high gear.

The frightened Alex stared at the killer. "What the fuck, man..."

Without hesitation, the Mayberry Murderer revealed a long butcher knife from behind her back. Her black gloved hand gripped the handle tight, ready to strike and destroy.

The glimmer of the blade sent everyone into a frenzy.

"Shit!" J.R. cried out.

Engulfed by panic and Bette Davis Eyes, Celeste stood still like a statue. The killer’s theatrics fascinated rather than disturbed her.

The Mayberry Murderer lunged toward Alex.

Screaming like a schoolgirl, Alex dropped the boom mic and purse as he jumped back toward the others. His fear cartoonish.

The Mayberry Murderer held the knife out at the others. She stood there tall and strong. Confident.

They enjoyed the tease more than anything, Celeste thought. Like most killers.

"Director Erika" glared at J.R. "Get the fucking shot"

"What!" J.R. yelled at her in disbelief.

Aggravated, Erika knocked J.R.’s camcorder up toward his face. "This is why we’re here! Start filming!"

The Mayberry Murder cried out and lurched toward the crew.

They all jumped back in fright. Alex and J.R. were the only ones who screamed, their feminine shrieks making up for the others.

Cackling with glee, the killer waved the weapon at the terrified group, singling them out like an amused bully.

The others stared at the murderer, confused.

With a therapist’s eye, Celeste watched the killer’s every move, taking note of their mannerisms. This was one Hell of a start.

Gathering up the dumb courage of "Anchor Erika," Erika approached the killer. "Are you the-"

The killer snatched off her mask revealing the middle-aged black female. The red hair dye. The pretty punk features. "The Mayberry Murderer," the killer interrupted with a sly smile.

The others looked on at her in shock. This wasn’t exactly Ted Bundy or even BTK. Not a disgruntled 35-year-old white guy that epitomized the standard American serial killer.

"Whoa..." J.R. exclaimed.

Celeste and the killer locked eyes. A black woman may not have been what Celeste expected, but Celeste knew black female serial killers weren’t exactly rare. Just under-reported. Underrepresented by a white society.

She’s pretty, Celeste thought. And muscular. But those eyes had nothing. Celeste knew her own eyes showed her many vulnerabilities, but the Mayberry Murderer’s had nothing. No emotions whatsoever.

The cold smile still on her face, the killer scanned the others. Everyone was so quiet.

Like she could sense Alex was the most scared, the murderer tossed the mask right toward him.

"Shit!" Alex yelled in fright. He stumbled back, just avoiding the mask.

It landed at his feet. The mask’s soulless face stared back at everyone.

"Well, here I am," the killer announced to the crew. She made a mocking matinee-star pose. An even more psychotic Norma Desmond. "I’m ready for my close-up!"

With Bette Davis Eyes still playing in the background, Celeste thought how the killer’s pose made her look like a singer on a cheesy album cover. One of the really crazy ones.

No one else said a word. Even Erika was silent. Neither "Director Erika" nor "Anchor Erika" knew where to go from here. And the killer’s large knife wasn’t helping.

Disappointed by their timid fear, the Mayberry Murderer held up her hands up. "Relax," she said in a calm voice.

The gesture was more patronizing than anything, Celeste thought.

The killer tossed her knife next to the mask. "If I wanted y’all dead, this room would be painted in blood by now."

"Awesome," J.R. deadpanned.

The Mayberry Murderer glided over to the radio.

Erika flashed the killer a starstruck grin. "Wow! That was beautiful actually."

"Well, thank you," the killer said facetiously.

Celeste kept her eyes on the Mayberry Murderer. She had an impressive physique, for sure. But she carried herself with a certain aura of grace. Her footsteps were heavy now, but Celeste knew that when the time was right, the murderer had the stealth of a fucking lion.

The others all watched the killer turn off the radio. No more Kim Carnes to liven up the old, dark farmhouse.

Erika punched J.R.’s shoulder. "J.R.!" She pointed at his camera. "Come on."

The killer set her sights on Erika.

"Right, my bad," J.R. said to Erika. He struggled with the camera before aiming it at the infamous killer.

The Mayberry Murderer removed her gloves as she walked toward Erika. "The one and only Erika Lee," the killer gushed.

She offered her hand to Erika. A smooth, groomed hand.

With a smile, Erika completed the exchange. The killer’s grip was strong but not uncomfortable.

"The only anchor I could ever stomach," the Mayberry Murderer added.

"Thanks," Erika said. "I adore all my fans."

"I can vouch for that," J.R. commented.

"Even the killers," the Mayberry Murderer quipped to Erika.

Erika kept an awkward smile as the killer chuckled. The murderer’s cute laugh matched her restrained voice. The gentle mannerisms of a brutal psycho.

"Of course," Erika finally mustered out.

"I was just joking," the killer teased.

Amused, Erika joined in on the murderer’s laughter. "Oh, my bad."

Celeste gave Erika a weird look. Erika was acting a little too chummy-chummy. The planned interview with a psychopath was looking more like a cocktail party.

"Well, please," Erika began to the murderer. "Director Erika" waved Alex over.

Hesitant, Alex grabbed the boom mic and moved in closer on the action. Regardless of how Erika wanted it, Alex made sure to stay closer to her rather than the notorious killer.

"Anchor Erika" stared right at the Mayberry Murderer. "What do you want us to call you?" she went on. "What would you prefer?"

The killer chuckled at the question.

"I mean the Mayberry Murderer’s got a nice ring to it, but something a little more personal would be nice," Erika said with a smile.

To Celeste, Erika was giving a coercive smile. The tricks of the trade, but the Mayberry Murderer would not be that stupid.

The killer gave Erika a sly grin. "In that case, call me Caroline then."

"Oh," Erika said, unable to discern whether this was truth or fiction. "That works."

That has to be fake, Celeste thought.

With abrupt quickness, Caroline turned and fixated her sights on Celeste. "Dr. Lewton, correct?" she asked, her smooth voice never stumbling.

Celeste struggled to answer. The spotlight never burned brighter than when it was being controlled by a serial killer.

Erika could see Celeste’s unease. Hell, anyone could. "Uh, yes, that’s her," Erika came to the rescue.

"I see," Caroline commented. She stepped closer toward Celeste. "I thought you might’ve been fake for awhile there."

Uncomfortable, Celeste just stared into Caroline’s calm eyes. Say something, stupid. Don’t show weakness, you know that.

Caroline smiled and pointed toward Celeste’s Ted Bundy book. The back jacket photo of Celeste in all her author glory. "Just a lovely pseudonym."

"No," Celeste finally got the nerve to say. "I can assure you I’m real."

"I see."

Forcing a confident smile, Celeste offered her hand to the killer. "It’s nice to meet you, Caroline."

"Likewise," Caroline said as they shook hands. "I’ve always admired your work."

"Really?" Celeste said, unable to hide her excitement. Goddammit, what are you doing, she realized.

"Yeah, your book on female serial killers in particular was quite something. It was so provocative and different. I fucking loved it."

"Well, thanks," Celeste commented, doing her best to keep her voice as dispassionate as possible. Just like you’re talking to any other patient.

"It really showed your insight into these geniuses."

Disgusted, Alex lowered the boom mic. "Geniuses!"

Caroline gave Alex a disinterested glance. "Yes, of course."

Erika’s harsh glare stifled Alex’s outrage.

"Like women CEOs or doctors, female serial killers do have it much tougher too, you know" Caroline continued to Alex.

Grumbling, Alex listened to "Director Erika" and raised the mic.

"I agree," Celeste said to Caroline.

Carolinn faced her. "Hell yeah, that shit rocked."

Like a flattered student, Celeste grinned. I just hope I’m not blushing, she joked. "Well, I’m glad you enjoyed them. I didn’t know I had that many fans-"

"Oh, I own all your books. Trust me."

"I saw," Celeste said. She glanced over at the table. Even the self-published ones.

"I always respect those who try to understand the darker aspects of the human mind," Caroline continued. She pointed at the stacks of books. "Even those of us who are into more unsavory things."

"Well, someone’s gotta do it," Erika interjected, eager for her moment in the spotlight being shared by Celeste and Caroline.

Ignoring Erika, Caroline looked right at the camera. "So many people just want to demonize what they don’t understand." Caroline’s voice didn’t tremble. Her body and mind at ease. She wasn’t camera-shy at all. "And that’s not the way to live." She looked at Erika and Celeste. "Of course, you know that, doctor."

Celeste kept her sole focus on Caroline. Caroline’s every move. Her every word. After all, Caroline was right... Celeste did want to understand the darker aspects of the human mind.

"They’re not like us!" Caroline lamented. "They’re all too scared to try to understand."

Channeling her inner psychiatrist, Erika’s frenetic hand gestures went into overdrive. "So I sense that you don’t appreciate this disrespect," Erika surmised to Caroline.

Celeste thought Erika looked ridiculous. Like a cloying news anchor overdramatizing a field they knew nothing about. I’m pretty sure Caroline feels the same way.

"Regarding female serial killers in general," Erika went on to Caroline.

"Fuck no!" Caroline responded sharply. "It’s bad enough being a woman much less a woman who kills people!"

Smirking, J.R. leaned out from behind the camera. "Yeah, I didn’t wanna say anything, but it’s kinda strange..."

Before "Director Erika" could quash him with a stern glare, Caroline confronted J.R. "So you didn’t think a woman could do this!" Caroline yelled in anger.

Pissing off a murderer was the last thing J.R. wanted to do. "No, I-" he stammered.

"That I couldn’t slaughter innocent men?" Caroline took a menacing step toward J.R. "That I wasn’t strong enough."

J.R. lowered the camera as he stumbled back. "No, not at all." Looking for back-up, he looked to Erika. He saw her let out an annoyed groan before turning to Alex for help. He just wanted to look at anyone but Caroline. "That’s not what I was saying."

Alex put his hands up, holding them up so high that the boom mic scraped the ceiling. "Dude, you’re on your own."

With all eyes on her, Caroline stopped and pointed at J.R. "You have no idea how much sexist attitudes like that piss me off!"

And indeed, everyone kept watching the killer. Celeste figured Erika probably considered this a ratings field day, but to Celeste, this was a psychological gold mine.

"All these supposed ’experts’ keeping on saying the Mayberry Murderer had to be another fucking white guy!" Caroline continued. "A handsome nutjob like Bundy or a fatass idiot like Gacy! Some great white hype scholar could only pull this shit off! That’s what they all said!!"

With each word, J.R. slunk further and further within his own skin. His masculinity eviscerated.

"God forbid a woman has the strength to pull off all this!" Caroline ranted. "Especially a crazy black woman!"

Stepping in, Erika forced J.R. to hold the camera back up before she faced Caroline. "I’m with you, girl!" Erika said with enthusiasm to spare.

Both Alex and J.R. flashed Erika weird looks.

Caroline gave Erika a half-ass smirk. "Well, I appreciate it," she said to the anchor. Caroline then looked over at Celeste.

Celeste stayed right where she was, silent. To her, Caroline’s gaze felt like it had a lot more to it. Like the gaze of a smitten suitor.

"I mean what you said is so true and it can apply everywhere," Erika went on, trying to get Caroline’s attention.

Not responding to Erika, Caroline walked up to Celeste.

"Not just serial killers," Erika went on to the killer.

"You enjoying this?" Alex taunted Erika, still keeping his voice low enough to not be challenged by Caroline.

Erika glared at him. "Just keep holding the mic, buddy."

"Yeah, I’ll keep bending over backwards for a killer."

Aggravated, Erika got in his face. "We’ll see how fucking moral you feel once the check clears," she hurled at him in a harsh whisper. With that, Erika gave Alex a harsh shove back. "Asshole."

Celeste watched Caroline stop right in front of her. Caroline’s confident stroll was so full of swagger, Celeste thought. So smooth.

"You see, this is why I respect you so much, Dr. Lewton," Caroline said, her voice no longer filled with wrath but respect.

"Well, now," Celeste started with a smile. "That wasn’t really my hypothesis-"

Caroline waved her off. "No, I mean it. You’ve always been the most prominent voice to shoots down this ’it’s always a white guy’ bullshit."

"Well, it is a very popular misconception. Quite sexist, in my opinion."

Caroline grinned. "I agree."

Celeste wondered if it was a seductive smile. Or maybe I’m just giving my own looks way too much credit...

"I think you’re the only writer I know who ever even mentions the idea of female serial killers," Caroline went on in a gentle tone. Like a seductive Lothario, she moved in a little closer toward Celeste. "I thought you explained it best in your Aileen Wuornos book actually."

Celeste released a goofy chuckle. "Oh God! My publishers always say female killers never sale! It’s supposed to be too unrealistic."

The others were surprised by how well Celeste handled Caroline’s unwavering curiosity. By how comfortable Celeste was.

"I try telling them too," Celeste went on to Caroline. "They just don’t understand. These people-"

"Yes, I know," Caroline interrupted. "Those assholes aren’t even worth talking to."

Wanting to join the conversation, Erika stepped toward Caroline. "So is that the reason for this interview then?"

Caroline faced her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"The filmed interview," Erika said, her voice strong yet friendly. "Is this your way of finally telling the world you’re a woman? Your feminist stance against the media."

"Maybe it’s a cry for attention," Celeste said to Caroline. "Perhaps you want to finally get the respect you feel you deserve. After all, you’re such a clever serial killer."

Caroline stared at Celeste, impressed. Celeste knew her shit. "Not bad, Dr. Lewton. Not bad."

"I’ve got to be honest. This is the most audacious move I’ve ever seen."

"Hard to argue with that," Erika interjected.

Caroline gave the camera a self-aware look of total control. Not a hint of worry on her pretty face. "I guess I’ve always preferred being the trail-blazer instead of the follower."

"Just coming out on camera like this is so... brave," Celeste gushed. "I mean it’s one thing to send messages and severed heads, but this is no easy task. You’re going to be on film, showing your face for all the world to see."

"Indeed," Caroline told Celeste.

"But what prompted this need to talk? I mean why now?"

Silent, Caroline’s intense eyes stayed honed in on Celeste.

To Celeste, it seemed like Caroline wasn’t so much answering the question for The Real Report as she was solely for Celeste.

"I guess I feel that now’s the time," Caroline finally answered. "I feel like the media, and people in general, are just ready to interact with a serial killer." Revealing no emotions, she looked over at the camera, scaring J.R. with her sharp gaze. "And a female one at that."

Peeking out from behind the boom mic, Alex glared at Caroline. "You sound proud."

Caroline looked right at Alex.

The killer’s sheer quickness scared the shit outta Alex.

Caroline flashed him a wicked smile. "And why shouldn’t I be?"

Intimidated, Alex hid back behind the boom mic. He wasn’t saying a word.

"You have to admit the numbers are pretty impressive," Caroline continued to Alex, her cold eyes contrasted by that sly smile.

"But why here?" Celeste asked Caroline.

Drawn to Celeste, Caroline faced her.

"Why the Crane house?" Celeste said.

"Yeah, are you interested in the paranormal?" Erika jumped in. "All the legends surrounding this place."

"No, it runs even deeper than that," Caroline said. Reflective, she looked toward the corner wall. The graffiti. The vile words. Bitch. Cunt.

Celeste could see bitterness overtaking Caroline’s distant eyes. The first time she’d shown any emotions or vulnerabilities the entire time, Celeste thought.

"You see," Caroline began. She faced Erika and Celeste. "I’m Bette Crane’s daughter."

CHAPTER 10

The kitchen was more of the same. Narrow windows. Old wooden furniture. Cabinet doors that barely hung on their hinges. At the very back of the kitchen, a hideous screen door led into the backyard.

The kitchen was also about as clean as a long-abandoned house could be. Particularly one with the morbid history and lore of the Crane house. Not to mention the generations of unsavory "visitors" the house had hosted over the years.

There was no litter or trash strewn about. Nothing nasty except for more of the crude graffiti. All on the walls was more of the harshly-spraypainted profanity: Cunt, Whore, and Bitch. All of it directed toward the immortal Bette Crane.

The sight of such disgusting words had only upset Caroline Crane even further. Even if she had hid much of her hurt from the news crew. Only Celeste seemed to pick up on how the derogatory graffiti bothered Caroline. But only through the subtle ways Caroline displayed through her emotions. Her voice tone, her eyes. Otherwise, Caroline kept her emotions in check behind her brick wall of detached indifference.

Sitting at the long wooden table were Erika, Celeste, and Caroline. A weak ceiling light beamed down upon them. Somehow and someway, the house did have electricity, if not great lighting.

Old eerie candles sat on the table’s rough surface. A Pilgrim, a faded Christ, and the American flag. Even a few quirky woodland animals including a deer and a rabbit. These candles would’ve been antiques if they were in mint condition.

Standing near the rusty sink, J.R. filmed the interview. Meanwhile, Alex slouched against the counter, fulfilling his boom mic duties with the pissed indifference of a teenager doing "schoolwork" in I.S.S.

"So what can you tell us about growing up in ’the watermelon capital of the world’?" Erika asked Caroline, her tone a seamless blend of charm and seriousness.

Caroline flashed a weary smile. "It was actually more turbulent than you’d think. Pretty crazy honestly."

The American flag candle caught Celeste’s eye. Particularly since Caroline kept toying with it.

"But how?" Erika asked Caroline. Erika looked around the kitchen, entranced by its Southern fried charm. "It’s all just so pretty."

"Only on the surface," Caroline began. "I promise."

"Why’s that?"

Intrigued, Celeste watched Caroline with those ever-observant therapist eyes.

"It was a farmer’s lifestyle, that’s for sure," Caroline said. "But things were never stable around here." Reminiscing, she looked away. Not at the camera, but out a window. Out toward the dense woods that lurked outside. "Matt struggled," she said with a tinge of sadness. "Both with the farming and with mama."

"So your father’s name was Matt?" Erika inquired.

Caroline looked at Erika. "Yes."

Erika never once looked away from Caroline. She always tried to keep these interviews on a personal level. "So your parents fought often?" Erika asked.

"Let me put it to you this way," Caroline began.

Curious, Celeste stayed focused on Caroline. Like Erika, Celeste was hooked.

"There was a reason she did what she did," Caroline went on.

"You mean when she killed her husband," Erika goaded Caroline on.

"Exactly," Caroline replied.

Celeste could see subtle excitement in Caroline’s eyes. The murder seemed to be a bright spot in the killer’s mysterious past, Celeste thought. "And this was in 1983?" Celeste asked.

"Correct, doctor," Caroline remarked.

"And you were, how old at the time?"

"Five. I was five years old at the time."

Sympathetic, Celeste looked on at Caroline. "That must’ve been tough."

"Not really," Caroline said, her voice showing no remorse or emotion. She remained calm and collected as if she were discussing anyone other than her own family.

Both Erika and Celeste gave her puzzled looks.

"But why?" Erika asked.

"I was kinda glad to see it finally happen," Caroline said. "This was all a long time coming."

Erika leaned in closer. "But what do you mean exactly?"

"My father was abusive," Caroline said matter-of-factly. "He drank a lot. Too much really." She avoided eye contact with them. "And over the years, it just got worse."

The recollections stayed with Celeste. She could picture it all in her morbid mind. Caroline as a child in this Godforsaken house. With her Godforsaken father.

"That morning, they argued right in front of me like they always did," Caroline went on.

In Celeste’s mind, she could picture the events of 1983 unfolding. This kitchen well over thirty years ago. The entire farmhouse must’ve looked so much nicer. Back then, there was no graffiti. The lights were brighter.

It must’ve been beautiful, Celeste thought. A snapshot of rural Georgia in its most glorious state.

"They’d always fight," Caroline reflected. "Every fucking day it was all the same thing. It was all just bickering and bitching." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "It got so bad I’d hide under the table usually."

Celeste envisioned this particular scene. Bette, the black Southern Belle of a trophy wife. Probably in her mid-to-late twenties. A bombshell of a housewife who operated on high-strung emotions rather than her GED-level rationale.

Bette Crane’s argument with Matt was probably a typical Southern slugfest of the sexes, Celeste figured. Many barbs and insults were exchanged with Matt being the complete drunken wreck of a middle-class farmer. From what Celeste had remembered about all the reports she’d read on the case, Matt was at least ten years Bette’s senior if not older. His reputation was piss-poor around Stanwyck as well, partly due to casual racism and partly due to Matt being a drunk asshole for much of his life.

That 1983 argument in the Crane kitchen must’ve been a real shitshow, Celeste figured. Bette and Matt’s argument must’ve been loud and violent. Celeste could see Matt hurling a longneck against the kitchen counter, smashing the bottle into a hundred vicious pieces.

And then Celeste envisioned a young Caroline cowering under the kitchen table. Caroline at five-years-old. A vulnerable child. A vulnerable future killer.

Regardless of the child’s ominous future, Celeste knew how hard it must’ve been for her to witness the day-to-day horrors of her parents’ violent marriage.

"That morning, they fought right in front of me," Caroline stated. "Like they always did."

Erika stayed focused on Caroline. In the past, she’d feigned being interested in most of her interviews, but not now. She was riveted.

"They yelled at each other like usual," Caroline went on. "God, they hated each other. He’d call her a bitch, she’d call him a son-of-a-bitch. What did it matter..."

In her mind, Celeste pictured a drunk and out-of-control Matt screaming in Bette’s face. A confrontation more befitting two fighters in pre-match hype than a married mother and father.

"But something was different that morning," Caroline reflected in a melancholy tone. "I’d never seen him this bad before." She paused, seeming to struggle with her next few words. "He’d never hit her in front of me. I mean I knew he had before... I’d heard him beating on her in their room at night. I’d heard mama’s screams. I’d heard her trying to fight back..."

Celeste could see the harsh slap. She could hear it. The disgusting visual of Matt striking Bette across the face. Bette staggering back, her vulnerable eyes full of painful anguish. Humiliation at the very man she once thought would be her knight in shining armor.

Like she could sense Celeste’s disturbed fascination, Caroline gave her a solemn smile. "Even drunk, my daddy was still a powerful man," she said as if it were a pitiful joke. "They say that’s where I got my strength from. About the only thing that son-of-a-bitch gave me."

Horrified, Celeste considered how Caroline must’ve been during the traumatic incident. The timid little girl must’ve been hiding under the table like a quivering soldier in the trenches.

She was trapped, Celeste thought. At that age, Caroline was probably too scared to even move. All she could do was watch the terrible act behind her big, helpless eyes. Matt on the warpath. Matt hurling appliances off the counter. Matt hurling obscenities at her mother. Matt’s drunken rage veering toward unstable violence.

Celeste knew all this had to leave a traumatizing impression on the future Mayberry Murderer. Those brutal arguments from your own parents would bother anyone.

"When he hit her like that," Caroline said. "I knew it was different. I knew something bad was gonna happen... it was like he wasn’t even trying anymore. He’d just lost his fucking mind."

Battling her emotions, Caroline avoided eye contact with everyone. Even the camera. "I was scared of what he’d do." She looked at Celeste, the killer still possessing a cool detachment. "But what I saw in her eyes scared me even more."

Celeste envisioned how Bette Crane made that ultimate leap toward fierce retaliation. Celeste considered how even with Matt baring down on her and cornering her against the stove, Bette still didn’t back down. She was now fueled by ire. Her anger matching Matt’s rage.

"She looked crazier than him," Caroline continued.

"And then what happened?" Erika asked.

Caroline looked right at Erika. "I guess she’d finally had enough." A sliver of a smile appeared on Caroline’s lips. "She finally retaliated."

The smile wasn’t one born of sadness or weariness, Celeste realized. It looked to be fueled by nostalgia. Even pride.

"She hit him with the damn frying pan," Caroline went on.

In her mind, Celeste could see Bette’s hand straying behind her back as her scheming eyes watched her husband engage in his volatile violence. Celeste could see how discreet Bette was when she snagged the frying pan’s metal handle.

In a wild outburst that startled J.R. and Alex, Caroline gave a savage yell as she emulated her mother’s fatal hit. "One quick hit took him down!!" Waving her hands around, she pretended to swing Bette’s pan down on her daddy’s bloodied head. "She did it over and over again! It must’ve been a hundred fucking times!"

Aided by Caroline’s vivid imagery, Celeste visualized how the murder went down. Bette swung the pan, all the leftover eggs and grease flying off its grimy surface before the hard metal slammed Matt upside the head.

A disoriented Matt staggered to the ground, stunned by Bette’s cathartic release of her pent-up vengeance. The first of many hits.

Caroline lowered her hands, her excitement giving way to her typical cold indifference. "But I wasn’t shocked. I didn’t cry. It was almost like I expected it at that point."

These reflections from a killer fascinated Celeste. Here she was getting a snapshot of the Mayberry Murderer’s formative years. All the things that must’ve influenced Caroline to take the path she took. Her abusive upbringing. Her initial exposure to violence.

All of it would make for a great book someday, Celeste thought. But the superficial pleasures she derived from the interview were overshadowed by the realization of just how much Matt’s murder must’ve had on Caroline. Here was a frightened little girl hiding from her own parents. And to think that even at the ripe old age of five, Caroline showed no real emotion over Matt’s brutal death. Even to this day. So hardened by her mom and dad’s fights that she showed no sympathy or sadness even as her mom bashed her daddy’s skull in with the bravura of a rock star breaking their guitar on stage.

"Mama just wouldn’t stop," Caroline said.

The kill played out in Celeste’s mind like an engrossing movie. Celeste could see a helpless Matt lying on the floor. His weak hands reaching out toward Bette. A Bette that was no longer plagued by hesitant fear but by a flourishing bloodlust.

Bette’s hits would’ve been fueled by sheer brutality. Each one harder than the last as they smashed into Matt’s face. His blood splattering over the table and appliances. Blood dripping from the metal pan. Blood flowing amongst the scattered spilled eggs. It would be a kitchen of death. And Bette would have a victorious grin plastered all over her face. Like she was a prison escapee. An escapee of the Marriage From Hell.

Caroline showed no discernible emotions. She didn’t need no mask. After all, she had no sympathy for Matt. "And I wouldn’t have either. I’d have killed that sorry piece of shit too."

"So what’d you do?" Erika asked in a soft tone. A voice perfected for those moments where an anchor had to press for more information but in a gentle manner. The voice of "Anchor Erika." "During all this. What were you doing?"

With a sinister smile, Caroline looked at Erika. "Absolutely nothing."

"You just watched?" Celeste asked.

"Yes," Caroline began. "I just stayed under the table the whole time." She smirked. "He’d just look at me with those big ol’ eyes of his." Chilling laughter almost kept her from going further. "He couldn’t talk because of all the blood coming out his mouth. He just kept gurgling stuff... maybe he was saying help or bitch, shit, I don’t know. His jaw was almost hanging off his face by then anyway. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t help his ass by then."

"I see," Erika said.

Caroline’s focused eyes never strayed from her audience of Erika and Celeste. "I could tell he was begging me. But shit, I just thought he knew, you know."

"Knew what?" asked Erika.

"That I was a monster," Caroline replied without a hint of a smile on her face.

Celeste could see a five-year-old Caroline leaning forward from the kitchen table for a better look at her father’s final moments. Amidst the pulpy smorgasbord of blood and splattered flesh were Matt’s wide eyes staring back at his daughter, his eyes pleading for help. A river of blood muffling whatever cries Matt attempted. His limp hand extending out for Caroline’s support. And there was the young Caroline looking on at Matt with indifference.

The horrifying realization must’ve hit Matt in his final moments, Celeste thought. That his own daughter was watching him not with sympathy, but with excited anticipation for his grisly demise.

"At first, I couldn’t tell if mama felt bad or not," Caroline told the crew.

"What do you mean?" Erika asked. "About the murder?"

"No, not that!" Caroline scoffed. "She’d been wanting his ass dead for years and I couldn’t blame her. Daddy was a bastard. A gutless asshole."

As she watched Caroline, Celeste thought about Bette’s final hit. A blow from the frying pan that battered Matt’s face in like a watermelon. A gory crescendo for all the escalating violence that had occurred throughout that hot summer morning.

In Celeste’s opinion, Caroline would’ve been watching the gruesome death in wonderment. Like a child entering DisneyWorld for the first time. Matt’s blood and gray matter had probably even sprayed all over Caroline’s precocious face. The Mayberry Murderer’s first literal taste for blood.

Erika leaned in closer toward Caroline. "So what would your mother feel bad about then?"

Caroline looked right into Erika’s emerald eyes. "About me watching."

The comment unnerved Celeste. Her mind drifted back to the kitchen bloodbath from thirty-seven years ago. An exhausted Bette dropping the frying pan and letting it splat into the thick puddles of blood building up on the kitchen floor. Bette was tired and breathing heavy, but she still relished the kill. She still relished her comeuppance over her tormentor.

And then Bette would see her daughter watching her from under the table. Bette’s overwhelming euphoria halted there by the sight of her child.

"But then she gave me this smile," Caroline said to Erika, fondness in her voice. "This reassuring smile..." A glowing grin made its way onto Caroline’s face. As if the memory was so cherished and great that just the mere thought of it made Caroline want to emulate her mother’s smile. "It was like she liked the idea of me seeing her do it."

Celeste could see Bette looking on at Caroline with a deranged grin. Maybe it was a smile driven by a psychotic release rather than maternal support. But to the impressionable Caroline, it was the smile that soothed the young girl of what she just witnessed. A smile that may have encouraged Caroline to feel that the enthralled excitement she felt over the murder was normal. A warm grin that may have started the Mayberry Murderer’s reign of terror. Celeste even wondered if Bette gave Caroline a playful "shush" for emphasis.

"My dad wasn’t a good man," Caroline went on. "I felt no attachment over him whatsoever. He’d hurt us more than anything. He’d hurt her more in the past few years than she ever did in those minutes it took to kill him." She glanced over toward the camera, facing her future audience with screen presence to spare. "I couldn’t blame mama for doing what she did. Hell, I still can’t." With cool calmness, she confronted Celeste and Erika. "I’d have killed his sorryass myself and enjoyed every minute of it."

Celeste continued studying the Mayberry Murderer. Caroline was convincing. Her emotional distance for her traumatic past was in line with other cold-blooded psychopaths.

"So what about her suicide then?" Erika asked Caroline.

Caroline looked right at Erika. Not as much confidence on her face. No quick answers from her lips.

"How did you feel about that?" Erika said.

Silent, Caroline looked off at the graffiti.

For a second, Celeste thought she got a glimpse of solemn sadness on the killer’s face. Even if Caroline’s emotions weren’t ever well on display. The way people wrote or talked about her mother had to affect her in some way. First, seeing her mom die in this kitchen. And then to see how her mom was memorialized with the spraypainted slurs.

"It was tough," Caroline stated. "Much tougher than seeing daddy die."

Erika nodded. A not-so-subtle clue to her viewers that she did care. Or at least she wanted the audience to think she did.

"But I know why she did it," Caroline continued. She faced Erika. "All that pain and suffering. I get why she did what she did."

"But with so much violence-" Erika began.

"No. It was beautiful."

"Beautiful?"

In a creepy realization, Celeste thought Caroline was watching her out the corner of her eye. Had she been watching me this whole time?

"Yes, beautiful," Caroline answered Erika. "Poetic even."

"I see," Erika said.

"It was like she knew I was watching. Like she knew I’d be watching and that she had to leave an impression on me. And she did it the only way she could."

"But even after killing your father-"

"No, he was horrible. He was terrible. But mama... she loved me, but she knew. A black woman in rural Georgia was gonna fry for that. She knew she was gonna get the death penalty, she didn’t have a chance."

Lost in the recollection, Caroline looked at the American flag candle. "She did the only thing she could do. The only way to avoid the agony." She reached out and traced her hand all along the candle’s rugged exterior. Over the faded stars and stripes. "She grabbed the biggest butcher knife she could find and looked me right in the eye." Her hand grabbed a hold of the candle. "Then she stuck it straight into her forehead." With languid indifference, Caroline slammed the candle onto the table, breaking it in half. "She ended it right there."

Erika jumped back for on-air emphasis. Unlike Erika, J.R. and Alex jumped back out of genuine fright.

No tears in her eyes, Caroline stared at the candle with apathy. "She hit the ground heavy. Landed right there in the middle of all of daddy’s blood..."

Celeste watched Caroline’s indifferent gaze. Without a good look at the killer’s eyes, Celeste couldn’t tell if they were in their usual blank state or if there were any signs of Caroline’s soul sneaking in.

"Her and daddy’s blood just filled the whole room," Caroline said. "It all mixed in together." She cracked a weak smile. "And they were both just laying there. They were finally happy. In death."

"That must’ve been tough," Erika commented, over-the-top sympathy in her expression and voice.

"No," Caroline replied. With scary calmness, she faced Erika. "It was a vital experience for me."

"A vital experience?"

"Yes." Her eyes never shifted from Erika... or from Celeste. Those eyes never backed down. "It showed me that even when mama died, I still didn’t care."

Too scared of both Caroline and Erika to say anything, Alex just looked on at Caroline in disgust.

"I didn’t try to stop her," Caroline continued. "I didn’t try to save her. I let mama die. And I didn’t shed one. Single. Tear." Her demeanor revealed her pride over this proclamation. "Even though she was someone I loved. Probably the only person I ever loved. I still didn’t give a shit."

Celeste thought back on that kitchen bloodbath. She could see young Caroline still sitting under the table. But rather than intervene or call out to her mother, the young girl would instead watch Bette retrieve a butcher knife from a wooden knife block.

The blade had to have been long. And sharp. Maybe Caroline was too scared to do anything. But judging by the way Bette kept smiling, Celeste would think Caroline would’ve at least tried to stop her mother. Or even run up and hug her. But instead, little Caroline did nothing. With blank eyes and an equally blank expression, Caroline just stayed under the table and watched. Watched Bette raise the knife in front of her forehead with methodical precision.

And all the while, Bette would just keep looking at Caroline. A comforting smile plastered on Bette’s face for Caroline to see before the bloodshed commenced. Even at that age, Caroline was prepared to see the violence. She was excited. And boy, did Bette deliver.

The daughter and mother maintained eye contact as Bette used both hands to force the blade into her forehead. Even as the knife slid further and further into her flesh, Bette’s gaze would never avoid Caroline.

Blood would spew out of Bette’s cranial like the knife had struck oil. Her blood-stained hands collapsing to the side. The knife lodged into her forehead like a human bullseye. And then like a delayed reaction, Bette’s corpse would collapse into a red river built from the blood of her and her husband. Their bodies laying there like adjoined graves. Their mutilated faces looking at one another. Till death do they part.

Under the table, Caroline would remain calm. Just as calm as she was in the very same kitchen over thirty years later. The bodies and gore would’ve intrigued the little girl, for sure. Curious, she probably would’ve walked up to both corpses, relishing her first exposure to grisly violence.

Like she knew Celeste was thinking about her, the adult Caroline turned and looked at the doctor real quick.

Trying to play off how uneasy she was, Celeste just locked eyes with the Mayberry Murderer. First, the camera, and now getting all this attention from a serial killer. And you thought being interviewed by Psychology Today was rough.

"I don’t know," Caroline began. "I guess the whole thing made me realize how much different I was. That I wasn’t like everyone else. I didn’t have compassion. Didn’t feel sadness." Her distant gaze looked at no one in particular. Not even the camera. "I guess I was just more interested in the suffering of others."

Erika motioned toward Caroline, relying on her flamboyant hand gestures. "So all this started with your mother’s suicide? All these feelings."

Confident, Caroline looked at Erika. Caroline’s face the look of a killer who was comfortable in their own skin. A little too comfortable. "Well, yeah," her calm voice answered. "It taught me everything I needed to know about life."

She sat back in her seat. This was her moment. And she knew she was owning it. "How everything can be taken away in one quick swoop," Caroline went on, her voice strong and steady. As if her upbringing was normal and a mere stepping stone for the glorious monster she would later become. "Everything you ever loved. All of it doesn’t matter. Because all of it can change in one day. One split second. Just like mama and daddy and the life that we had." She looked out a kitchen window, staring off into the back yard like it was a manifestation of her past. If only Caroline had any sort of romantic nostalgia for her past. "All of it gone forever."

Still filming, J.R. and Alex didn’t say a word. Both of them freaked out by Caroline’s morbid reflections.

In a slow and deliberate turn, Caroline looked back at the camera. She smiled. "Mama’s death always stuck with me. It pushed me to become what I am today." Her confident demeanor was unwavering. Her voice never cracking. Even with such horrible memories.

Erika reached out and grabbed Caroline’s hand. A gentle hold that shocked the room much like Erika probably hoped it would shock the world. "I’m sorry," Erika said to her.

Alex and J.R. exchanged worried looks. The equivalent of an animal host going too far with their dangerous subjects was happening right before their eyes. "What the fuck!" Alex muttered.

"I don’t know," J.R. replied. "Just let her go."

Her smile fading, a confused Caroline looked down at Erika’s hand.

To Celeste, Caroline’s expression made it look like she hadn’t had this kind of intimate contact in decades. That is, unless it involved knives and dead bodies.

"That all sounds so terrible," Erika went on.

Celeste watched Erika squeeze Caroline’s hand. Celeste hoped Erika knew the immense danger of this. The risk. Sudden physical contact wasn’t exactly at the top of the list for a serial killer’s preferences.

Erika’s regal green eyes stayed on Caroline, staring down upon whatever soul the killer had. "And to think you were just a child-".

"Don’t be," Caroline interrupted. She pulled her hand back from the anchor’s soft grasp. "It was necessary for me to survive and become what I am."

"How?"

"It turned me from the scared little girl I was into the strong woman I became. Mama killing that bitch did all that. It gave me strength. Without them dying, I’m not out here finding myself. I’m not the Mayberry Murderer! I’m just some random weak black woman everyone would fucking walk over and leave in the ghetto or an alleyway! Or this Goddamn farm!"

Nodding, Erika tried to soothe the killer. "I understand."

Celeste thought how for being such a vicious psychopath, Caroline never showed much of a temper. Even during her tumultuous rants, Caroline wasn’t yelling or breaking candles. She just kept her confident cool wits about her.

Caroline leaned in closer toward Erika. She kept her hands guarded close to her chest. Like she wanted to be as unintimidating as possible.

"No, Erika Lee," Caroline began in her calm voice. "You don’t understand. And no one ever will." Before anyone could react, she swiftly confronted Celeste. "Only you, Dr. Lewton," Caroline said, a flirtatious flattery in her tone. "You’re the only one who ever came close."

Disgruntled by Caroline rejecting her for Celeste again, Erika gave Celeste a displeased look. "Well, that’s why we brought her here," Erika deadpanned.

Celeste gave Caroline an awkward smile. "Well, thank you."

"You have the understanding no one else does," Caroline went on. She eyed Celeste with the impressed admiration she’d only shown toward the doctor. "You’re not a dipshit blowhard. You care about knowing the monsters you study. The monsters like me."

"Well," the flattered Celeste struggled to begin.

"What makes me the way I am. My intelligence, my skill. You want to know this. And on top of all that, you treat me like a fucking human being. Not some fucking freakshow."

"Well, you are. You are a human being, Caroline." Don’t blush or get cute.

Like she knew how much she held Celeste’s interest, Caroline flashed a confident grin. "You’re clever too. Don’t ever lose that, doctor. It’s cute."

Chuckling, Celeste looked at the ground, desperate to avoid eye contact with Caroline and the camera. A female serial killer flirting with me on national television and here I am looking like a middle-schooler. Caroline’s compliments were just so quirky to Celeste... then again, she was more used to her male patients making passes at her.

Erika glanced over at J.R. The stern look of "Director Erika" told him that they needed to leave Celeste and Caroline’s cutesy rapport on the cutting room floor.

Celeste could feel Caroline’s smug grin latched onto her. Like the winning grin of a heartthrob no one could resist. Celeste did her best to keep focused as she faced the Mayberry Murderer. "Well, again, I appreciate the kind words, but there’s no need for it." She felt like Caroline could read right through her forced professionalism. "This is all about you, Caroline, and no one else."

With confident coolness, Caroline slouched back in her seat. Her megawatt smile battered Celeste with far more power than any knife or any other weapon could at this point. "So you think I’m just another charismatic killer, huh, doctor?" she teased. "That my words don’t mean shit. Just bullshit to get y’all to like me."

"Well, isn’t it?" Celeste’s quick response even caught Caroline a little off-guard. "You said it yourself. That’s how all of you operate."

Channeling Erika, Celeste leaned in a little closer toward Caroline. Not close enough to where Caroline could snatch her in one quick movement. Celeste made sure of that. "You want us to like you," Celeste continued.

Caroline just stared at Celeste behind those cold eyes.

To Celeste, even Caroline’s smile had taken on a darker quality. As if the smile wasn’t showcasing arrogance, but masking a defensive anger. Celeste could tell Caroline didn’t like being put on the spot or challenged. Not much different than all the other psychos.

Erika waved her hand toward Caroline, drawing the killer’s gaze away from Celeste. "Well, do you have any other memories here?" Erika asked her. "Maybe something a little more... comforting." She flashed Caroline the "Anchor Erika" smile.

Caroline saw right through the fake pleasantries. Rather than offer an answer, she just gave Erika an annoyed scowl.

"I mean after all, this was your home," Erika added.

Joining in, Celeste looked right at Caroline, no longer afraid to match eye contact with the killer. "Yeah, surely you had some good memories here," Celeste said. She gazed around the kitchen. "I mean it has a certain small town aura to it."

"Like Mayberry?" Caroline said to Celeste in a sly manner.

Celeste grinned. "Well, yeah." She motioned around the kitchen. "It’s like a Norman Rockwell painting. Like an All-American farm. Or like American Gothic." Her voice was more relaxed than ever. As if she were talking to a best friend. Like I always am when talking to killers.

Caroline smirked, amused. "That was Wood."

"Oh, I know that. I was just saying that’s what this whole farmhouse reminds me of."

"Right," Erika chimed in, unable to stay silent for too long.

"I mean it’s lovely, honestly," Celeste went on to Caroline. She smiled. "A pretty farmhouse in the Deep South had to bring you some joy."

Caroline flashed a reflective smile. "I guess you could say it did." She gazed down at the table and caressed its wooden surface. All the dents and scratches didn’t bother her. "There were some good moments. The mornings were usually fun." Pausing, she kept her eyes on the table. Away from the camera. Away from the observant gaze of Celeste. "It’s crazy, you know. I can still see it now. The sun still not quite out yet, all the quiet peacefulness outside. It was so beautiful." Overwhelmed by the memories, she shut her eyes. "The lights would be dim in the kitchen and mama would be making coffee. God, I can smell it now. I could smell it through the whole house."

Instead of the camera, Caroline looked at Celeste with a warm smile. "It always woke me up," Caroline said.

"What?" Celeste asked in a soft tone.

"The coffee. I could always smell it in my room." Caroline gazed over at a counter as if she were hoping to see a 1980s-era coffee pot there. "Mama made it so strong. I loved it. Just the smell could wake me up." Enjoying the reminiscing, she faced Celeste. "I’d go downstairs and she’d have breakfast ready. Me and her would eat. It’d be like six A.M. We could hear the roosters calling us outside. The radio would be on." She chuckled with nostalgic joy. The bright side of the Mayberry Murderer. "It was just our time together, and I loved it. It was the only time we ever had together. And we’d just talk. Mama would tell me stories." Caroline paused as if too many good memories were overlapping in her mind. "That was childhood for me. The good times. Just those moments and memories with mama. That’s when being a kid was fun." Caroline’s smile started to fade into a vague frown. "We did it all before daddy woke up. We had to." Bitter, she looked down at the table’s harsh surface. "That was the only time we ever had away from him. When we could avoid him."

Watching Caroline shift from the sweet reminiscing to the angry reflections, Celeste thought maybe Caroline was about to be on the verge of tears. But then Celeste realized Caroline would never cry. She’d never open herself up to that extent. Not to the very people who came here to commemorate the Mayberry Murderer’s first ever interview.

And Celeste was right. Caroline didn’t cry. She didn’t exhibit much emotion at all as she looked up at Celeste.

"But then he’d always come downstairs," Caroline said, restraining her simmering rage. "Every morning, he never missed a day off on the farm. He never gave us the day off."

"What would happen then?" Celeste asked, back in her reserved and professional mode.

"Then they’d just argue like always." She looked over at the candles. At the broken flag one in particular. "They’d start around seven, right there at the table." Caroline shook her head. "Every Goddamn morning."

"That must’ve been hard," Erika commented.

Caroline glared at Erika. Her glare the equivalent of a juvenile delinquent feeling patronized by the school counselor.

"To go through all that I mean," Erika added, Caroline’s antagonistic expression making her awkward. "That’d be tough for anyone."

"I think what she means is that to go from one extreme of having your mother spend time with you to seeing her and your dad fight like that in a matter of minutes," Celeste aided Erika. "That’s so difficult for anyone to handle, much less a child."

Pleased by Celeste’s expert opinion over the hypothesis of "Anchor Erika," Caroline’s chill gaze looked over at the doctor. "It did bother me," Caroline admitted. "The yelling yell and fighting. And saying terrible things to one another. It was unbearable... even if it didn’t make me cry, I always thought it affected me on some sort of subconscious level."

"It does that to everyone," Celeste commented. "Even to ’normal people’."

Caroline gave a weak smirk. "I know. I know it does." She sighed. "They’d never stop. God, every morning, at dinner, right before bed. I couldn’t escape."

From behind the camera, J.R. noticed how much Celeste was watching Caroline. Dr. Lewton paid close attention to her as if she’d been the killer’s doctor for years. Celeste listening to Caroline’s every word with sympathy and devoted interest.

"They’d always argue over the stupidest shit too," Caroline went on. "But then it’d escalate every time. When he’d hit her... it’d just get worse..." Before Caroline could crack under the sadness, she looked off at the graffiti. At the countless slurs directed to her mother.

From Celeste’s perspective, it looked like Caroline was regrouping. Caroline’s expression had morphed so quickly from a state of melancholy to a brick wall of blankness. She could manipulate and control her emotions like all the other great psychos.

"Then he’d hit me," Caroline said, her voice hollow and stilted. "He’d yell at me and scream at me just like he did to mama."

Neither Celeste nor Erika interjected this time.

Celeste thought it best to give Caroline space for such a personal confession.

"I can still hear them sometimes," Caroline said. She looked at Celeste and Erika. "I know it sounds crazy, but I can still hear mama and daddy arguing." She chuckled. "It’s like I can’t ever escape."

The laughter felt forced to Celeste. Like Caroline was using it as a defense mechanism to stave off her own tormented feelings.

"Even when I go out and have fun, I still hear them," Caroline said.

"Fun?" Erika asked.

"When I kill," Caroline replied sharply.

"Oh." Nervous, Erika ran her hands down her legs. "Interesting."

"So what do you do when you hear them?" Celeste asked Caroline.

Caroline looked at Celeste.

Celeste wasn’t sure if it was a look of contempt or contemplation. "How do you handle that?" Celeste asked her. "When you do hear their bitching and arguing and you’re out killing, how do you suppress it?"

Grinning, Caroline looked down at her hands. "Well, it’s quite easy, honestly." She faced Celeste. "I just kill a shitload of more people."

The nonchalant response unsettled Celeste. It unsettled everyone.

Caroline gave a smug smile for the camera. For her future audience.

Trying to ease the unnerving tension, Erika forced a chuckle. "Okay." She clapped her hands together as she faced J.R. "I think that’s enough for now."

CHAPTER 11

Continuing the pre-game charade for the night’s planned interview, Caroline led the crew up the stairs, giving The Real Report a full tour of the Crane house. An All-Access pass to a psycho’s childhood home.

As Caroline led the others toward the upstairs hallway, the wooden steps erupted with painful creaks beneath their feet. Celeste and Erika trailed right behind Caroline. Still filming the interview, J.R. and Alex were at the very back of the line, far away from the killer. Right where the two men wanted to be.

From her viewpoint, Celeste couldn’t help but admire Caroline’s impressive frame. Caroline’s toned ass certainly fit nice in those dark jeans. But every other part of Caroline’s body was just as fit and firm. Must be the farm background. That and all the physical training it must take to be successful this long at slaughtering people.

"I’m guessing the A/C don’t work," Alex complained. He wiped layers of sweat off his brow.

Caroline gave him a wicked smile. "I’m afraid not."

"Great..." Alex grumbled.

"We barely had it when I was growing up." Caroline looked up toward the hallway as they got closer. "The air conditioning hasn’t worked in probably thirty years."

"So what do you think of all the haunted house rumors?" Erika asked Caroline.

Just the mere mention of the paranormal rumors made Celeste uneasy. She noticed all the cracks and scratchmarks on the walls. The peeling paint. A long strand of ugly wallpaper dangled off like a dead snake.

Caroline laughed. "Believe me, I don’t want to," she told Erika. She stopped and faced the reporter. "The idea of my parents coming back as ghosts. It’s too much."

Erika cracked a grin. "Right."

Eager, Caroline motioned them all toward the hallway upstairs. "Let me show you my room."

"Alright!" Erika said with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

*

The narrow upstairs hallway was cleaner than expected. Like the rest of the house. There was no dust or debris anywhere. No graffiti either. Apparently, the Stanwyck delinquents were too scared to ever come up here to scribble their vicious taunts.

A lone window allowed afternoon sunlight to stream into the dark area. Even with the window’s cobweb of stress cracks, the bright light illuminated a couple of doors lined up on the left side of the hallway. Two doors. A perfect arrangement for a small family to be as close together as possible. One bedroom for Caroline, the other for the Crane parents.

As Caroline led the crew to the last door on the left, Celeste couldn’t help but wonder how the Hell Matt and Bette Crane ever slept in the same bedroom. No wonder they hated each other. I can barely tolerate me and Sean in the same bed, much less sharing it with someone who abused and humiliated me every morning.

Stopping in front of the bedroom door, Caroline faced Erika. "I tried to clean it up some before y’all got here.

Erika grinned. "Oh, you didn’t have to."

"I wanted to." Playful, Caroline waved a hand toward J.R.’s camera. "I can’t have it looking a mess on The Real Report! I watch your shit all the time, girl."

"I figured."

Caroline opened the door. "Alright, this is where it all started."

*

The interview migrated seamlessly into Caroline’s childhood bedroom. After all, it was a natural spot to explore when doing a profile on any celebrity. Including a prolific killer.

And Caroline hadn’t lied. She’d cleaned it up pretty well. No trash, no cobwebs. Even the ceiling light glowed bright. The whole room looked preserved from when Caroline was a child. Or how she wanted to remember it. Rather than being dilapidated like a horror movie set, the room had a homely charm to it. A Southern Gothic homely charm.

Faded wallpaper still hung in the room. Amongst the cute critters roaming wild on the wallpaper’s pastoral backdrop, a few rough drawings could be seen accompanying the animals. Crude drawings and sketches that looked to have come from the scroll of a rambunctious child. Only these drawings looked new. They weren’t fading away. They were fresh.

And the toys. They were old but still looked clean, if not in mint condition. And they were everywhere. From lying on the torn carpet to laying on the raggedy John Deere bed sheets. And these weren’t Barbie dolls either. They were all an eclectic mix of stuffed animals and "action figures." Even back then, Caroline was more tomboy than feminine farmer’s daughter.

A small tent stood in the corner of the room. Not a Disney tent, but a real camping tent circa the early 1980s. It may have been weathered with age, but the rusty poles still stood strong. Several coloring books scattered about next to the tent. Judging by the rips and tears throughout their pages, these books were also relics from Caroline’s childhood.

The room had a few windows looking out into the backyard, giving everyone a clear view into a wondrous sea of green. While now abandoned, the farmland still retained its rural beauty. A vision of nature at its most divine.

Standing near the bed, Erika and Celeste continued their conversation with the Mayberry Murderer in the Murderer’s natural habitat. In their sanctuary of a bedroom.

A few feet away from them, J.R. and Alex kept up their filming duties. Neither of them as enthusiastic about this show as the ladies were.

Caroline motioned around at all the toys. "My mom was the one who bought them for me," she said, nostalgic glee cracking through her coolness.

Erika took note of the large collection. "Oh my..."

"One a month was mama’s rule. That was her reward for me doing good."

Skeptical, Celeste faced Caroline. "You must’ve been quite a good kid then," she said with clinical detachment.

Caroline confronted Celeste. But Caroline showed no anger or wrath. She just stared at Celeste, waiting to hear more.

"It looks like a lot more than once a month," Celeste continued.

Erika chuckled. "Sure looks that way..."

"Well, mama did spoil me," Caroline responded, unfazed.

Celeste looked toward the bed. The John Deere sheets covered up what looked to be one Hell of an uncomfortable mattress.

"I guess that’s one of the reasons daddy always got mad at her," Caroline continued. "And me. One of his excuses to get pissed."

Sympathetic, Erika stepped closer toward Caroline. "Well, it sounds like your mom really did care about you, Caroline." With the dramatic flourish of "Anchor Erika," Erika waved her hand at all the toys. "I mean she did all this for you."

Behind a blank expression, Caroline just looked at Erika. "Right. I know she did."

Caroline saw Celeste run her hand along the bed sheets. "She did the best she could for me." She faced Erika. "Considering the circumstances."

Drawn to Celeste, Caroline started to walk over toward the bed.

"Oh, certainly," Erika said to the killer. Disappointed, she watched her star subject leave her behind.

Caroline pointed at the John Deere blankets. "I used to hide under them."

Celeste faced Caroline, nervous. Caroline was standing just a few inches away from her. The closest she’d come to Celeste yet. And somehow, the killer looked even stronger this up close and personal. "Oh," Celeste’s voice stumbled out.

"It was when they argued and yelled real bad," Caroline went on. She ran her hand along the bed sheet.

Celeste thought Caroline gave the sheet a very soft touch. Like she was caressing her security blanket. "I see," Celeste said.

Caroline stared down at the sheets. "I’d hide under the John Deere and did my best to tune them out." She looked at Celeste. "Especially at night."

Crashing the conversation, Erika stopped next to Caroline, ambushing her in the most polite way possible. "Oh my God, you mean when they were in the other room?" Erika asked in disgust.

Caroline smiled at her. "No, not like that!"

Behind the camera, J.R. cackled. "Nice one, Erika!"

"Director Erika" flashed him a death glare.

"I doubt those two’d ever fuck," Caroline joked to Erika. "Even if they stayed in the same room, I don’t think it was possible." Her voice drifted from playful sarcasm to despondent resignation. "I never heard them do anything except argue."

"I’m sorry," Erika said.

More observant than ever, Celeste watched Caroline walk off toward the tent.

"The loudest they’d ever get was when they argued about daddy’s drinking," Caroline said. She ran her fingers against the tent’s rough fabric. "Ol’ Matt never did like that too much."

From Celeste’s perspective, the mere touch of the tent seemed to send shockwaves of memories into Caroline. Memories both comforting and harrowing. Caroline’s face was actually displaying some semblance of real emotion. No sarcasm or confident indifference.

Sensing the opportunity, Celeste approached Caroline and nodded at the tent. "Did you ever go hide in there?"

Caroline faced Celeste as she stopped right next to her.

"You looked like you were drawn to it," Celeste added.

Caroline nodded. "It was the only thing daddy ever gave me." Avoiding eye contact, she focused back on the tent. "He didn’t give me toys like mama. Just this ol’ tent he had." She displayed a weak smile. "Not like the lazy son-of-a-bitch’d ever take us camping."

"I understand."

"I’d crawl in here when it got real bad." She caressed the tent like it was a long lost pet she’d just been reunited with. "Cover my eyes and do my best to just try and block it all out... even though I knew it was impossible." She paused for a moment.

Just judging by Caroline’s demeanor, Celeste knew this was the closest she’d likely get to seeing Caroline shed real tears. This was the Mayberry Murderer on the ropes with her emotions. "That’s awful," Celeste said with more sympathy than she intended.

Everyone watched Caroline struggle to say anything. No one could see her expression or her eyes.

Maybe she was about to cry...

Celeste took a cautious step toward Caroline, not wanting to get too close. "Caroline, I know how tough it must’ve been." She ran her hand along the tent’s skin, taking Caroline’s lead like a supportive parent embracing their child’s hobby. "To hear them like that every night and every morning. It’s terrible and nothing a child should ever have to see."

Defensive, Caroline pulled her hand away as she looked right at Celeste. "Yeah? Well, how the Hell would you know?"

Celeste looked on at Caroline, the therapist doing everything in her power to act calm and not be scared. Even when someone was trying to help, Caroline fought back with fiery distrust. "My own parents had their problems," Celeste said, keeping her voice low and unimposing.

Erika kept her distance. She figured it best to leave the doctor with her "patient." They could always edit "the session" in post to make it more riveting.

A solemn frown appeared on Celeste’s face. "They divorced when I was around five," she told Caroline.

"The same age as me," Caroline stated, emotionless.

Celeste gave a cross between a laugh and a scoff. "Yeah. Must be something about that age."

"Probably is," Caroline deadpanned.

"But their marriage was a slow death," Celeste said. "They’d been fighting ever since I can remember... and to this day, they still argue." The memories upsetting her, Celeste paused. "Honestly, it sounds like they fought as bad as yours."

"But they didn’t kill each other," Caroline said. Yet another quick response.

Celeste gave a weak grin. "Fair enough." Lost in her bitter past, she gave a quick glance at the ragged tent before facing Caroline. "But I know how debilitating it is to go through that. And as a child, you blame yourself. You have no one else to blame. You just think you’re the reason for their pain and unhappiness."

Unable to argue, Caroline could only look at Celeste. Even the killer recognized the painful truth in the doctor’s words.

"Believe me because I know," Celeste said. "I used to feel the same way growing up. But the truth is, it’s not your fault. It really isn’t. You can’t blame yourself for their problems, Caroline."

Celeste could see the avalanche of emotions starting to build up in Caroline’s wide eyes. Like the dawning epiphany Celeste had seen strike many of her patients when they finally recognized their inner issues. Sure, Celeste was happy to have this Oscar moment on national television. But deep down, she was even happier to be able to penetrate through Caroline’s coldness and help diagnose her problems. Even if she was a psychotic killer.

"It’s not your fault, Caroline," Celeste said. Gathering the courage, she caressed Caroline’s shoulder. Even Celeste herself was stunned she did it. "It really isn’t."

Not showing relief or anger, Caroline gazed down at Celeste’s hand. The doctor’s gentle touch seemed to calm the killer.

"You’re not the one who killed your parents," Celeste went on. "You didn’t beat your mother, you didn’t kill your father."

Caroline locked eyes with Celeste.

"You didn’t kill any of them," Celeste said.

As the crew kept filming "the session," Erika noticed all the coloring books lying near the tent. Several exposed pages showed off the visions of an artistic child. A demented yet creative vision.

Animal caricatures were filled in with all sorts of psychedelic colors, their once-beaming faces replaced by sad expressions. A few extra pictures drawn onto the pages showed various dead stick figures and terrifying illustrations of monstrous creatures. Bold letters scribbled on the pages displayed cryptic phrases: Bloodbath Barn, Farmhouse Of Fear, Feast Of The Critters. As if all these phrases were five-year-old Caroline’s attempt at creating titles for her future biography.

Intrigued, Erika leaned in toward the books for a closer look.

"I know," an uneasy Caroline said to Celeste. "I know you’re right, Dr. Lewton. It’s just hard letting go."

Celeste squeezed her shoulder. "I know it is."

Erika looked over at the wallpaper. All those fresh drawings that were next to the design’s animals were the same monsters from the coloring books. The same slaughtered stick figures as well. All the humans dead. All the monsters strong.

"But you have to," Celeste continued to Caroline. She motioned toward the toys. "There’s a reason you brought all these here, isn’t it."

Avoiding eye contact, Caroline looked over at the tent.

Of course, she hates being put on the spot.

"You brought them here, didn’t you?" Celeste challenged her. "After all this time, you felt the need to bring all your old toys and tent back to your old home."

Caroline broke away from Celeste, struggling to keep her emotions in check. "So what if I did!"

Time to back off, Celeste thought.

Caroline’s outburst drew Erika’s attention.

"It’s my home!" Caroline continued to Celeste. Even though her voice was louder, Caroline still didn’t show any outward signs of rage or anger. Just some minor annoyance. "I can’t just forget about it. Or my parents. They made me who I am."

"Caroline-" Celeste began.

"No. Even with how mama and daddy were, there were good memories. The times where I could escape the pain." She looked down at the tent. "I always knew I could come back in here." Reflective, she ran her fingers along the cherished tent. "It was my secret hideaway."

Both Celeste and Erika were silent. Held hostage by Caroline’s commanding presence. Even Alex was intrigued.

"My escape into another world," Caroline continued. Her harsh eyes stared on at the ugly tent, transfixed by it. Like she could still see that peaceful world within the tent’s cotton covering. That sweet escape from the horror.

Celeste gave Caroline a reassuring smile. "I had books for that," she said in a gentle joke.

Caroline smirked and looked at Celeste. "Yeah, well, I had those as well." She gazed off at the camera, surprising J.R. with the sudden move. "I hid in here as much as I could." Her eyes stayed focused on the camera’s unrelenting lens. "Especially when daddy came looking for me."

The comment chilled J.R. and Alex. Alex looked away, but the eerie wallpaper didn’t help his nerves any.

Celeste took a step toward Caroline. "Is that how you translated your feelings as a child? You’d go into the tent when you got scared."

With her confident coolness now back, Caroline faced Celeste. "You mean before I started killing people?"

The playful response caught Celeste off-guard. Just when she thought she was getting somewhere with the real Caroline Crane, the Mayberry Murderer had returned.

"Well," Celeste struggled to reply. "I know you couldn’t have been killing too much then, obviously."

Caroline smirked.

"I mean you were just a child, but still," Caroline continued. "Even at that age, young children need an outlet for their anger. They need a way to express themselves."

Before Caroline could give another smartass response, Erika approached the two women. "Was it the drawings?" she asked with the confrontational tone of a confident reporter.

Celeste and Caroline faced her. Uncomfortable silence was all that came from Caroline’s lips.

Like a lawyer defending her claim, Erika motioned toward the coloring books. "I saw all the coloring books. The drawings." She pointed at the wallpaper. "I figured you did all this when you were a kid."

"Most of them," Caroline responded, her demeanor and voice keeping their lethargic coolness.

Celeste noticed the multitude of monsters. The violent imagery. A child’s morbid art that looked to have been stolen from the clutches of a psych ward for disturbed kids. Celeste faced Caroline, uneasy. "Is that true?"

Avoiding looking at them, Caroline gazed at the scattered coloring books as if she were gazing into a crystal ball of her most personal memories. "I used to draw," she said with quiet detachment. "I wasn’t very good, but there was nothing else I could do at night. Not when they were arguing and screaming."

Erika stole a look back at the striking art. Striking in a visceral and disturbing sense. "I think you draw pretty good," "Anchor Erika" told Caroline.

Feeling Celeste’s eyes honing in on her, Caroline looked over at the doctor.

"It’s definitely memorable," said Celeste.

Caroline looked at the tent. Her hideaway. "Those are the only drawings I have left.

Celeste gazed at the wallpaper once more. The scribbled art looked rougher and creepier to her than what was in the coloring books. It was too fresh. As if none of the wallpaper art was drawn by a child, but rather, an adult emulating a child-like scroll. Caroline’s scroll.

Still avoiding the human eyes and the eye of the camera, Caroline brushed her hand along the tent like she was running it through holy water. A gentle, careful touch. "I brought them all here with the toys for the interview."

Celeste watched Caroline. The damn tent was like a forcefield to her. Then again, the whole house, not just this room was like that for the Mayberry Murderer.

"I figured they’d be a way to better understand me," Caroline said in a voice that neither Erika nor Celeste could tell was vulnerable sincerity or teasing sarcasm. Caroline pulled her hand away from the tent and faced the crew.

"Do you still draw?" Erika inquired to the killer.

Caroline shook her head. "I’m afraid not." She turned and traced a finger along the tent. "I gave it up once I moved in with Uncle Willie. They made sure I stopped drawing what I really liked."

"Uncle Willie?" Celeste asked.

In one spontaneous, violent pull, Caroline yanked out a pole, causing the entire tent to collapse.

Startled, the crew watched the tent hit the floor with the thud of a heavy stage curtain.

Caroline faced them. Her smirk just as cool and confident as ever.

*

The group left Caroline’s bedroom. The upstairs hallway’s one window offered a glimpse into the scorching hot summer day awaiting them outside. The crew’s next stop for the exclusive tour.

Celeste still thought about Caroline’s erratic behavior in the bedroom. All those drawings and toys. How Caroline veered so much between introspective reminiscing and calculated indifference. Sure, being manic and unpredictable was common for serial killers, but none of them had mastered it quite as well as the Mayberry Murderer.

Caroline led everyone toward the stairs. "I’ll show y’all where the garden is." She looked back at the camera. "It’s where mama grew most of our food."

"Oh wow," Erika commented.

Caroline faced Erika. "It’s not much now, but it used to be beautiful."

"I bet."

Lagging behind, Alex turned and noticed the other bedroom door. Caroline’s parents’ room.

Celeste stepped closer toward Caroline. "So I don’t understand why you don’t try drawing again?" Celeste asked.

Seeing no one looking, Alex wandered over to Bette and Matt’s old bedroom.

"You can try releasing your emotions in that way," Celeste continued. "Artistic expression."

"I agree," Erika chimed in.

"Maybe," an indifferent Caroline commented.

"You had the talent," Celeste told her. "Everyone saw it."

Alex grabbed the bedroom’s brass doorknob. Locked. The one locked door in this abandoned farmhouse. "What the fuck," he muttered.

Caroline stopped at the stairs and gave Celeste an amused smile. "I don’t know. I guess I just prefer flesh over paper at this point."

Horrified, Celeste took a nervous step back. So much for encouraging a new hobby...

Erika didn’t say a word. Not even her corniest or most optimistic one-liners could offset such a disturbing line.

Smirking like she knew she’d just creeped them the Hell out, Caroline got ready to lead the crew down the stairway. "Come on."

"Hey, what about this one!" Alex yelled at them, stopping Caroline dead in her tracks.

Everyone looked over to see Alex twisting the room’s locked knob. The mysterious bedroom was off limits.

Celeste now realized how fast Caroline had led them past the door. How quickly the killer had brushed right past it. For someone so eager to show off their old bedroom, complete with their own hoarded toys and drawings, she didn’t seem to have any interest in this other bedroom. Then again, she didn’t really care for her parents either. Too self-absorbed like all the other serial killers.

"Why’s it locked?" Alex asked Caroline.

A curious Erika faced Caroline. "Yeah, maybe we should take a look."

Not saying a word, Caroline just glowered at the spot.

Watching Caroline, Celeste couldn’t tell if the glare was for Alex or what lurked inside the bedroom. "Isn’t that your parents’ room?" Celeste asked, her tone more challenging than comforting.

With typical quickness, Caroline looked right at Celeste. There wasn’t a scowl or glare on her face. Just a neutral blankness. "Naw, there’s nothing in there," she said, her tone calm and under control. She smiled at Alex. "Nothing worth showing y’all at least."

Alex pointed at the door. "But I thought you said you were gonna show us everything.

"Yeah, just a quick look," Erika said.

Caroline held up her hands and waved them off. "No," she said with calm conviction.

To Celeste, Caroline’s cool, relaxed state masked the real Caroline Crane. The Mayberry Murderer. A quiet rage Caroline could hold within her that was invisible to the naked eye. Invisible to everyone except Celeste that is.

Caroline flashed the crew a cryptic smile. "I’ve got to keep some secrets now, don’t I?"

CHAPTER 12

The back yard was a little bit less of an eyesore than the front. The grass and weeds weren’t quite as towering. One could actually walk through this terrain without fear of stepping in a hole or on a snake.

The forest still loomed on the outskirts of the spacious yard. As did the blistering sun up in the clear sky.

Caroline led everyone toward a stable and shed at the very back of the yard.

Behind them, the farmhouse’s back screen door was wide open. Not held back by any breeze, but by its own stiff hinges.

"Let me guess, watermelon," J.R. joked to Caroline.

"The watermelon capital of the world," Erika chimed in, reiterating this "fact" for the audience.

Caroline chuckled. "No actually. No watermelon."

Caroline stopped and motioned over toward a graveyard of a garden lurking a few feet away. No one would’ve given it a second glance if it weren’t for Caroline pointing it out.

No plants were growing. Certainly no flowers. The garden was nothing more than a small circle of dirt that provided some variety from the yard’s weed infestation. The Georgia sun hadn’t done the vaunted garden any favors over the past few decades either. Whatever had once grown there was long gone. Vanquished by an absent household and unforgiving heat.

"But as you can see we did our best," Caroline said to the crew.

Most of the group looked on at the spot, amused but doing their best to be polite. Alex showed no remorse as he laughed out loud.

"Man, you guys must’ve starved!" Alex heckled.

Erika flashed Alex another one of her patented glares. His heckling faded quickly.

Caroline gazed off at the garden, avoiding eye contact with the others. "No, it was okay," she responded to Alex.

The pitiful "garden" made Celeste wonder how Caroline felt about seeing yet another one of her cherished memories reduced to ashes. Like Caroline’s parents and like so much of the farmhouse’s positive qualities, it was all gone. But Celeste couldn’t tell. As usual, Caroline’s gaze seemed blank. Seemingly a disguise for whatever convoluted emotions the killer kept within.

"I know it’s not much to look at now," Caroline said. She smiled at the crew. "But mama did her best."

"Mama tried," J.R. teased.

Caroline faced him, no humor in her expression. "Indeed."

The stern response made all the humor vanish from J.R.’s face as well.

Caroline pointed over at the garden. "She spent a lot of time out there in that little garden." She cracked a weak smile. "I suppose it was the one thing that kept her sane all those years with daddy." Pausing, she soaked up all the dramatic glory the camera could offer. "Until she killed him."

CHAPTER 13

The crew crowded inside a cramped stable. Even compared to the farmhouse, the stable was in much worse shape. All of its rotten wood was held in place by rusty nails and looked to give way at any minute.

In the back of the stable, stiff wire closed off a once-serviceable chicken coop now deteriorated with age. Most of the wire had fallen to the dirt. Victim to both rust and gravity.

Light poured in through the stable’s many holes and cracks. Nonetheless, scrambling rodents could still only be heard in the stable’s darker corners. The areas where no sunlight (and seemingly no people) had touched in years. Certainly, no horses were here. And no chickens for that matter. Just cobwebs and critters.

Celeste just hoped there weren’t any rattlers or big bears or whatever the Hell rural Georgia had to offer. It was bad enough being in this crumbling shack with a serial killer.

The group all shared Celeste’s apprehension for the stable. Their lingering unease rivaled that of children about to enter a fairground’s haunted house for the very first time. Then again, this lingering unease had been with The Real Report gang since they first arrived at the Crane house.

Caroline stopped near an empty bucket. A bucket once used to hold food or water for the chickens, but now was nothing more than another leftover relic from Caroline’s past. "This is where me and daddy worked."

Erika motioned around the stable. "Well, I’d say it’s help up pretty well," she bullshitted.

Alex cringed.

"Matt built it himself," Caroline told Erika. Like a knowledgeable tour guide, Caroline pointed toward the chicken coop. The dilapidated wiring now encircled nothing but dirt. Somehow, pieces of chicken feed still littered the ground like unearthed fossils. Just like the garden, the coop was another pathetic sight only commemorated by nostalgia. "He’d spend most of his time over in there while mama was out in the garden.".

Celeste gave Caroline a surprised look. "In the chicken coop?"

Caroline nodded. "Yeah." Her unblinking eyes stared on at the coop. "He liked guarding his prized possessions."

"Interesting," Erika interjected.

"The chickens?" Celeste wondered aloud. "He liked them that much?"

"Not really," Caroline said as she smiled at the camera. "He mostly went in there to drink."

"I see," Celeste replied.

"Makes more sense," Erika joked.

Reflective, Caroline stepped over closer toward the coop. "I caught him sleeping in there with a bottle of Jack a time or two." She stooped down and peered into the chicken coop. "Usually he left all the Colt 45 cans in here as well," she added without her typical dark humor.

Rather than hiding behind her languid coolness, Celeste thought Caroline was now showing some barely-restrained bitterness.

"He’d let the chickens peck on them," Caroline continued.

Celeste approached Caroline, but kept her distance. Like a therapist who didn’t want to set off a ticking time bomb patient like Caroline. "Did your mother ever help you with... any of this?" Celeste asked, awkward due to her lack of knowledge on farmwork.

"Not really," Caroline answered. She stood up and faced Celeste.

All the while, Erika gave the two women their space. For all of Celeste’s quirks, everyone in the crew could tell she knew her shit. And they also could tell her and Caroline had a strange yet potent chemistry together. Caroline seemed to trust Dr. Lewton or, at the very least, enjoyed Celeste’s company.

"He made her do all the chores inside," Caroline told Celeste. "She did the gardening, but mostly had to clean the house and cook."

Celeste smiled. "He sounds old-fashioned."

"Oh yeah, of course." Caroline gave Celeste a knowing grin. "You know how that is. The ’woman’s work.’ That’s how he’d say it."

"I know."

With quiet anger, Caroline looked off at the coop.

Celeste couldn’t help but wonder if this was Caroline’s way of disguising her eyes whenever they lost their indifferent glaze. Whenever they started to show Caroline’s real emotions.

"Yeah, he was a real piece of shit," Caroline went on. "Matt was a sexist pig and he never tried to hide it. He never tried to hide any of that shit."

"What’d he make you do?" Celeste asked.

Her eyes looking on at the chicken coop, Caroline didn’t say anything.

Either she’s deliberating on an answer or doesn’t want me to see her upset, Celeste thought.

Finally, Caroline faced Celeste. "I usually worked with him."

"Not inside the house?"

"Nope." Caroline flashed an awkward smile. "Daddy wanted to make me tough, I guess." She paused, knowing she held the stares of everyone in that stable. "And he did."

Her expression stern and serious, Caroline turned and walked toward one of the dark corners.

Lost in thought, Celeste just watched Caroline walk away. At five-years-old, she was already doing farm work. No wonder she grew up into that body...

"Director Erika" looked at Alex and J.R. "Get closer!" she commanded them in a harsh whisper.

Displeased but not protesting, the two men did as they were told.

Caroline disappeared in the corner. Only the back of her outline could be seen by the others.

From Celeste’s perspective, Caroline looked like she’d stepped over into a shadow world that straddled the line between the bright Georgia sun and the darkest depths of this secluded shack.

In one quick snatch, Erika grabbed Celeste’s arm and led them toward the killer.

"So you became daddy’s girl?" Erika asked Caroline before Celeste could stop the anchor.

The two of them stopped a few feet away from Caroline.

Anxious, Celeste stole a glance back at J.R. The camera stayed latched onto her like Caroline’s eyes had throughout the day. Celeste caught between a camcorder and a killer.

Scoffing, Caroline whirled around and confronted Erika. "I wouldn’t go that far."

Much to Celeste’s surprise, Caroline wasn’t wearing a mask or had morphed into a werewolf or changed at all after journeying over to the dark corner. Instead, Caroline Crane just stood there. A sly grin on her face.

The Mayberry Murderer’s movements were so swift, thought Celeste. The muscular body. The sharp wit. The fast reflexes. Maybe Caroline was just born a killing machine.

"I mean he was still Matt," Caroline continued to Erika. "He was still an asshole." She looked back at the corner. "He just liked the extra hand."

"He must’ve made you work pretty hard," Celeste said.

Distracted, Caroline didn’t face the others. All her focus was on the corner. "He did. All day long."

"Did he ever let you work with the chickens?" Erika asked with her earnest serious "Anchor Erika" tone.

"Not very often," Caroline replied. Her voice cool and calm. Her gaze still fixated on that corner.

"Why’s that?" Erika continued.

"Daddy’d only let me handle them for one thing really." Caroline leaned into the corner. No one could see what she was doing in the dark abyss.

"One thing?" a confused Erika asked.

With sudden quickness, Caroline confronted the group, the double bit axe in her hands. The axe was wiped clean of the previous night’s bloodshed. And it appeared sharpened. Both blades.

Everyone looked on in fright.

Alex staggered back in a frenzy. "What the fuck!"

Grinning, Caroline held her hand up like a passive police officer. "Relax, y’all!" She pointed at her ever-so-calm face. "No mask, remember?"

"So!" Alex cried out.

Caroline gave him a weird look. "Why the Hell would I be killing without that?"

"Your ritual?" Celeste asked.

"Exactly," Caroline replied. "No mask, no kills."

Erika smiled. "Well, that’s good."

Keeping her calm swagger, Caroline stepped toward the group, approaching them like a calm professor rather than deranged axe murderer. "Besides," she began.

Behind her, the group saw a large wood stump in the corner. Countless deep hacks showed the stump was the usual placeholder for the vicious weapon.

Caroline stopped in front of the group and gave them a mischievous grin. "Y’all ain’t chickens now, are you?"

Only Erika chuckled.

Yet another example of the Mayberry Murderer’s morbid humor. Celeste pointed toward the axe. "That was for the chickens?" she asked.

Caroline traced her finger along one of the ultra-sharp blades. "Mmm-hmm."

Both Alex and J.R. watched Caroline finish running her finger down the blade. Her touch of finesse creeped each of them the fuck out. Like she was just prepping to use the impressive weapon once again.

Caroline inspected the axe, still not facing anyone. "Daddy made me kill the sick ones."

"Oh my God..." Erika said, horrified.

Like she sensed the group’s collective fear, Caroline avoided looking at them as she concentrated on the axe’s second blade. "I didn’t mind it too much. In a way, I felt honored."

"Because of your father’s acceptance," Celeste stated, breaking through the crew’s tense silence.

"Yes." Caroline looked at the others with a warm smile. "The fact that Matt would let me take out the very things he loved the most. The chickens he’d spent days and weeks raising and nursling." Swept up in the memories, Caroline held the axe up for a closer gaze at the pristine blades. "Hell, I bet he’d treated them better than he ever treated me or mama." She lowered the weapon and faced the riveted crew. "Letting me kill them was the nicest thing he ever did for me." A bitter smile shattered through Caroline’s nostalgia-fueled joy. "I was always just his little lesbo. His little dyke."

Celeste took note of how Caroline could run the gauntlet of emotions when she discussed her life in this old farmhouse. Her swinging pendulum between nostalgic bliss and suppressed rage.

"But then, when he let me get the axe," Caroline went on. "I was his little executioner."

Gripping the axe, Caroline smiled at the camera, savoring the spotlight. She had the confidence of an award-winning actress who’d just killed a monologue and knew she’d owned it.

"Daddy’s little helper, huh," Erika said with a forced chuckle.

Sickened, Alex groaned. J.R. just shook his head at Erika’s tasteless cheesiness.

Without a smile, Caroline just looked at Erika, Caroline’s eyes and face back to their expressionless state.

Erika looked to have lost her confidence. She just floundered with a fake smile as she awaited Caroline’s response.

Celeste hated how awkward this had gotten. At least, Caroline hadn’t started swinging yet.

Finally, Caroline cracked a smile. "More like daddy’s little butcher."

With a playful flourish, she turned and cemented the axe deep into the stump

CHAPTER 14

The next stop on the Caroline Crane house tour was right outside the wooden shed. Like the stable, the shed’s boards were hanging on for dear life with the aid of rusty nails. The whole building itself so decrepit it looked like a shoddy treehouse converted into a shed.

With shattered windows and a busted-in front door, the shed appeared to be daring any trespassers to take a step inside.

Mesmerized, Caroline stopped at the front door. She looked on at the shed, transfixed by yet another mangled memory from her all-too-distant childhood.

The crew stayed a few feet away from Caroline, giving her space.

To Celeste, it looked like the killer was paying her respects. Caroline’s focused gaze certainly looked more appropriate for a funeral of the farmhouse.

While J.R. worked on nabbing a great shot for "Director Erika," Alex grimaced at the shed.

"Looks like an outhouse," Alex grumbled.

Caroline ran her fingers along the shed’s harsh wood, the rugged nails providing an occasional bump amongst its splintered surface.

"Was this where he kept all the farming equipment?" Erika asked Caroline.

"No," Caroline said. Her eyes stayed glued to the shed, her hand brushing against the wood as if she were mistaking it for the axe’s blades.

Celeste believed Caroline’s constant caressing must’ve been one of her obsessive compulsions.

"Then what was it?" Erika asked in her gentle "Anchor Erika" tone.

Caroline faced them real quick. "It’s where he brought me."

Celeste could see quiet pain overtaking Caroline’s forced toughness.

"For what?" Celeste asked. Though she kept her voice at a calm level, Celeste wanted to see more from Caroline during those rare moments where Caroline wasn’t in full control. When Caroline wasn’t putting on a confident front.

And just like Celeste expected, Caroline struggled to answer. The killer looked toward the shed door, avoiding Celeste’s piercing gaze.

To Celeste, Caroline looked embarrassed by her own vulnerability. Whatever emotions the shed had provoked within the killer had rattled her to the core.

"Caroline," Celeste said.

"Just whenever he got carried away," Caroline struggled to answer.

Nervous, Celeste and Erika didn’t say a word. They knew where this was going.

Just let her talk.

Caroline looked off at the farmhouse. From a distance, the home actually looked rather cozy and cute. But judging by Caroline’s tormented expression, the farmhouse’s appearance didn’t matter. All that mattered was her open floodgate of horrific memories. "Mama knew about it. She knew what he did to me. I could tell she didn’t like it... but she was too scared. She couldn’t do anything."

Caroline faced the crew. "She was just glad it wasn’t her being thrown in there!" Caroline yelled in anger. "Getting thrown in there by that sorry bastard!"

Struggling to keep her emotions in check, Caroline looked away and ran a hand through her short hair. "This was all before she’d had enough. She was so weak then. She couldn’t fight back..."

"What did he do?" Celeste said, her strong voice hiding her crippling fear.

Caroline glared at them with fiery eyes. "What do you think he did!"

Sympathetic without showing weakness, Celeste looked right at the killer. "You tell us, Caroline."

Still not shedding tears, Caroline went silent as she looked back at the shed.

For once, she wasn’t courting the camera or me. Right where I want her. "What did he do?" Celeste asked, her voice more gentle this time.

Caroline glared at Celeste. "He beat me!"

The two women made intense eye contact. Neither one of them turned away.

"Repeatedly and with any fucking thing he could get his drunk hands on!" Caroline continued.

The whole crew went silent. Erika didn’t interject at all. "Director Erika" knew not to disrupt riveting television when it was erupting right before her eyes.

Celeste noticed how somehow through the emotional outpour, Caroline never once veered toward histrionics. No weeping, no moping, no real sense of vulnerability. Just thinly-veiled rage.

Regardless of the trauma, Caroline was still holding back. She wasn’t like a normal human who broke down into an emotional trainwreck. She still had that cool control.

"He didn’t have any reason for beating me!" Caroline went on. "He did it cause he wanted to! He didn’t care about me or mama or any of us!"

"Caroline-" Celeste began.

Crying out, Caroline turned and kicked the wooden shed. "You bastard!"

The ferocious kick rattled the entire building. One more would’ve taken that pile of country shit down.

"Shit," Alex muttered.

Uneasy, everyone watched Caroline lean against the shed door.

"I think deep down, he knew," Caroline said. Her face was still a blank canvas. No tears fell from her distant eyes.

Even though Celeste saw no anger, she could feel Caroline’s wrath. Caroline’s despondent cynicism only hinted at the decades of hurt beneath the Mayberry Murderer’s skin..

"He must’ve known I was different," Caroline went on. "But he was too scared!"

Worried, Erika stepped toward her. "Caroline."

Celeste grabbed Erika’s arm, holding her back.

"Let her keep going," Celeste told the anchor.

Erika relented. She trusted Celeste’s judgment.

"He couldn’t understand me or who I was!" a distraught Caroline continued. She glared at the camera. "Who I really was!"

"Caroline, he’s gone-" Celeste started in a soft tone.

Full of rage, Caroline confronted the shed once more. "Look who’s the pussy now, Matt!" she yelled at the site of her many torents. "You hear me!"

Celeste tried to pull Caroline back. "Caroline!" But Caroline was too strong. It’d take more than a meek therapist to bring this psychopath down.

Releasing a battle cry that was more animalistic growl than human, Caroline lunged at the shed, ready to tear it down with her bare hands. "You bitch!"

Celeste struggled to keep Caroline back. "Help me!" Celeste commanded the others.

"Fuck you, Matt!" Caroline yelled at the shed.

With Erika’s help, Celeste pulled Caroline away. At the insistence of "Director Erika," J.R. just kept filming.

Screaming, Caroline kept lunging toward the shed with desperation and anger. Like this was her last chance to vanquish both the shed and her tormented memories of Matt beating her. "You bastard!" Caroline screamed. "You fucking pig! Go to Hell, Matt!"

"I got her," Celeste told Erika.

Celeste grabbed Caroline by the shoulders, forcing Caroline to face her. Celeste couldn’t believe she was getting this close to a monster, but she was succumbing to her doctoral instincts. "Caroline, please! Stop!"

No longer trying to break free, Caroline looked toward the ground. "No!"

"It’s okay," Celeste said. She caressed Caroline’s shoulders. "I’m right here. It’s just you and me."

Calmer but no less disturbed, Caroline kept staring at the ground. "Rot in Hell, Matt..." she mumbled as if she were talking to herself in an asylum cell.

The crew watched Caroline, creeped out by her distant gaze and low, haunting voice.

"Rot in Hell," Caroline repeated.

CHAPTER 15

The hot Georgia sun had finally gone away for the night. No longer illuminated by soothing beams of light, the Crane farmhouse took on a much more sinister look amidst the blanket of darkness.

Even without sunshine, the landscape was still hot as Hell. But now there was no safety net of natural light to ward off whatever dangers lurked on the eerie property. Or on the dilapidated front porch. Instead, there was now no choice but to seek safety inside the confines of the Crane house.

*

It was just after nine P.M. when Alex and J.R. finished setting up all the equipment in the living room. Though exhausted, both of them now had the chance to slack off "behind the scenes." The freedom to shoot the shit as they shared a twelve-pack.

The duo’s many tasks had included setting up multiple cameras, extra lights, and a few portable fans to combat the horrific heat.

They even had to light the fireplace aglow for "atmosphere" at the insistence of "Director Erika." Several old wooden chairs were even set up near the fireplace. Along with the tombstone radio, this arrangement lent the interview the feel of an old-timey horror broadcast.

*

In the kitchen, the three women did their own prepping for the interview. Unlike the men, they actually had screen time. They were the show.

Leaning against a counter, Erika coached herself to confidence. She shut her eyes and exhaled deeply. Meditation before the interview. Erika’s ritual.

Empty cans and snack wrappers scattered across the counter. Remnants of the "supper" supplied by the meager selection from The Real Report’s newsvan.

At the table sat Celeste and Caroline. Two cups of coffee were in front of them. Unlike Erika, neither woman showed any signs of outward stress. Caroline had since calmed down since the shed and was back to being her typical cool, smartass self. Celeste was also doing her best to stay collected around the killer.

Might as well save the panic attack for the interview... when the cameras start rolling.

For the moment, neither Celeste nor Caroline talked much. Another irony Celeste was aware of was how deft she was at talking to patients about serious trauma yet could be so inept when it came to small talk. Needless to say, the first day intros were always the hardest part for her at work. Just like the dinner table was most difficult for her at home.

"Are you ready, doctor?" Caroline asked Celeste, ending the akward silence.

Celeste saw Caroline’s friendly smile. She grinned. "I suppose..."

Erika clapped her hands together. "Okay!" she said in excitement.

Like an overhyped motivational speaker, Erika walked up toward Celeste and Caroline, her eyes specifically targeting Celeste. "Now remember, just relax, Dr. Lewton," Erika said. "Look good, feel good."

"I’m aware, Erika," Caroline responded, annoyed.

Erika took a step back, giving Celeste and Caroline their personal space. "Okay, just offering some tips. I know how stressful these interviews can be. The cameras and all."

Behind cold eyes, Caroline stared right at Celeste. "Trust me, Erika, this ain’t the first time I’ve ever been filmed."

Disturbed by the comment, Celeste looked over at the killer. Jesus Christ, she films her own murders. No wonder she has such a magnetic screen presence.

"I own a camera too you know," Caroline continued to Erika.

Playing off the comment with a smile, Erika leaned in toward the table. "Well, I promise you, Caroline," Erika said in a cutthroat "Director Erika" voice. "There’s a much bigger audience for these kinds of videos."

"Right," Caroline said, her face blank with no humor or anger.

Groaning, Erika wiped sweat off her brow. She was gonna have to touch up her make-up again. "Jesus," she complained to Caroline. "I don’t know how you deal with this shit. It’s too hot."

"You get used to it," Caroline responded.

Erika scoffed.

"Just try killing in it," Caroline teased. "Especially in a robe and gloves." She gave Celeste and Erika a mischievous smile, a confident glint in the killer’s brown eyes. "It’s absolute murder."

J.R. leaned in through the kitchen doorway and looked over at Erika. "Hey, I think we’re all set, babe."

"Okay," Erika responded, not even bothering to face J.R. Instead, she kept her sole focus on Caroline.

"Cool..." J.R. said awkwardly. He disappeared back in the living room.

Erika motioned toward Caroline. "Well. Are you ready for your close-up, Caroline Crane?"

Caroline smirked. "Just give us a moment."

Celeste gave the killer a suspicious look. Us? Does the Mayberry Murderer like me this much?

Sure, it was nice to have Caroline’s trust, but being alone with her wasn’t exactly what Celeste had in mind.

"If you don’t mind," Caroline said to Erika.

Erika forced a shit-eating grin. "Okay, take your time," "Anchor Erika" reassured the killer. "Whenever you’re ready."

Caroline turned and locked eyes with the apprehensive Celeste. "Excellent."

*

The farmhouse property was a showcase of darkness. The only source of light could be glimpsed through the Crane house’s windows. Bright lights, most of them courtesy of The Real Report.

Out on the front porch, Alex leaned against a post, keeping to himself. He wasn’t excited about the interview. Rather than hyping himself up for the show via meditative coaching or soothing coffee, Alex instead had yet another beer. Judging by the three empty cans lined up on the porch, he hadn’t needed much of J.R.’s help to demolish that twelve-pack.

Alex took another disgusted swig as he stared off into the dark forest. Sure, this job had always sucked, he thought. But there was something else at play here. Something else that bothered him. Maybe morality was asking for too much of any news gig, but being involved with this Mayberry Murderer pageantry really sickened him.

Bitter, he looked off at the news van. Thoughts of going in there and getting his phone to call the damn police certainly crossed Alex’s drunken mind. But it was all moot fantasy. He knew Erika had the keys. And she wasn’t giving those up. Not with her dream interview on the line. Nice one, J.R. Just had to give that bitch our only lifeline.

Taking another swig, Alex gazed around the porch. Bad idea. The creepy forest was a much prettier view. At least it didn’t have rocking chairs and a broken lamp coated in the world’s most decadent cobwebs.

"Shit," Alex muttered. Eager for a different view, he peered into a living room window.

Inside, Alex saw the set-up for the interview. The glorious fire. All the big cameras and extra lighting. Erika sat in one of the chairs arranged by the fireplace. In "Director Erika" mode, she barked orders at the overworked J.R.

Alex shook his head in dismay. He finished off the can and crushed it in one harsh squeeze.

*

Left alone at the kitchen table, Caroline engaged with the awkward Celeste. The small talk bothered Celeste more than usual. Somehow, the conversation seemed more invasive.

Celeste took a sip of coffee, using the mug both as a way to dispel the chitchat and as a psychological barrier against the Mayberry Murderer’s reads. Any way she could to avoid the killer’s all-knowing gaze.

Like she could sense Celeste’s discomfort, Caroline leaned in closer. "If you don’t mind me asking, doctor, how old are you exactly?"

Hesitant, Celeste placed her mug on the table. "Oh, pardon?"

Like a flirting heartthrob trying to make up for asking the wrong question, Caroline smiled. "You just look so young," she complimented Celeste. "So vivacious."

"Oh, well, thank you," Celeste said awkwardly. The flattery’s a little much even if it does seem sincere, she thought.

Nonetheless, Celeste could still feel Caroline’s eyes salivating over her. Even without looking at Caroline, Celeste could feel Caroline leaning in closer. Caroline’s movements so slow and seductive. Was she doing all this out of lust or just sheer arrogance?

"I’m used to all those old white guys, you know," Caroline quipped.

Celeste faced her. The killer was mere inches away from Celeste’s lips. Like a murderous Lothario gunning for their next conquest.

The intimacy bothered Celeste, but she knew she had no choice but to go along with it. What else can I do? Move away and reject a serial killer’s advances? And then what? Get killed in the blink of an eye? Celeste wasn’t a dating expert, but she knew that rejecting a murderer usually didn’t end well for whoever was doing the rejecting.

"All those bald old white guys we talked about earlier," Caroline went on with confidence. "How wrong they all are."

"Right." Overwhelmed by Caroline’s seductive mannerisms and her sheer sexiness, Celeste looked back down at her coffee mug. "They’re all idiots." Her hands gripped the mug tighter.

With a tender touch, Caroline laid her hand on Celeste’s wrist. "That’s what fascinated me most about you, doctor."

Celeste couldn’t deny Caroline’s soothing touch. Such soft hands. God knows, how well this woman could use them, thought Celeste in what she hoped wasn’t a Freudian slip.

Celeste looked over at Caroline. If my undivided attention was what she wanted all along, she certainly had it now.

"You were pretty in the photographs," Caroline complimented. She flashed a grin. "Nerdy but cute."

Drawn to the killer’s alluring words and face, Celeste just hoped she wasn’t blushing. "Well, thank you," she uttered out.

Celeste felt stupid. What if she’s just telling me what I want to hear? After all, it’s a trivial trait for almost every other serial killer. So why was Caroline affecting me so much with these compliments? Just because she "sounded" more sincere than all the other losers in my life. Talking me up like I was a therapist Tyra Banks who wrote all these great books. But then again, it’s what I always wanted. Someone who loved my looks and writing. My passion. Even if all the praise came from the mouth of the Mayberry Murderer.

"I mean it," Caroline went on to Celeste. "And you’re a sistah too."

Celeste chuckled.

"I know both of us surprise everyone with that."

"Well, yeah." Celeste gave a playful smile. "There’s a lot of ’middle-aged white guys’ in my field too."

Caroline smirked. "So we got that in common then."

"True."

More flirty than encouraging, Caroline gave Celeste’s hand a light squeeze. "You know, you’re really amazing, Celeste."

Channeling Caroline’s method of avoiding eye contact when emotions got stronger, Celeste looked down at the mug and ran her fingers along the top of it. My compulsion. My nervous compulsion. "Well, not many people seem to think so."

"They’re crazy!"

Chuckling, Celeste kept her eyes on the mug. "Well, I-"

"I just couldn’t believe how you knew so much," Caroline said with excitement. "All those books you wrote. They’re so awesome."

"Believe me, I spent a lot of time on them. It took a lot of research actually."

"I don’t doubt it." With the pretty yet expressionless eyes, Caroline looked on at Celeste as if she knew her smoldering stare would get the doctor all hot and bothered.

And it did. Celeste couldn’t help but look up and admire Caroline’s angular, attractive face. Maybe Caroline was just toying with Celeste for the same self-righteous satisfaction a high school quarterback got when he flirted with the band geek. Or maybe Caroline actually did like Celeste. The only part that bothered Celeste was that she kept catching herself hoping for the latter. At the very least, it was nice to be flattered by someone who did enjoy the books. Even if it was coming from Celeste’s latest dangerous subject.

Celeste gave the killer a weak smile. "I guess you could call it my passion."

"We all have our passions," Caroline responded, not missing a beat.

Caroline’s response only gave Celeste brief pause. Celeste knew good and well what the Mayberry Murderer’s obvious passion was. "Yeah, well, I’ve always liked it," Celeste gushed. "Psychology. The human mind. What really makes killers different from ’normal people’."

Caroline smirked at that one.

"It’s just such a fascinating field," Celeste went on.

"Full of fascinating subjects," Caroline commented.

Their intense eye contact lingered. And so did the sparks.

"Yeah," Celeste said. Trying to downplay the "connection," Celeste pulled away from Caroline’s grip as she drank the last few sips of coffee. A move Celeste considered another one of her shitty attempts at dodging her own emotions as well as the sexual tension between the two women.

Smug, Caroline sat back in her chair. She watched Celeste put the cup on the table.

Unlike the touch of her soft hands, Caroline’s unwavering and laser-focused eyes made Celeste uncomfortable. Like Caroline could see right through Celeste’s vulnerable defense versus Caroline’s romantic advances. Celeste got ready to push her chair back. "Well, maybe we should get-"

Caroline leaned in close, keeping Celeste from getting up. "So who’s Sean?"

Horrified, Celeste looked right toward the killer’s blank stare. Outside of a subtle gleam in Caroline’s eyes, the Mayberry Murderer showed no signs of any particular emotion. She was just cool and steady like always.

"How do you know Sean?" Celeste stammered out. Sure, Sean could be a bitch at times, but Celeste didn’t want him involved in a horror movie scenario where Caroline had somehow kidnapped and tortured him before the crew arrived at the Crane house. And truthfully, Celeste didn’t want to be in a race-against-time time scenario where she had to rescue Sean from the clutches of this conniving serial killer either. Celeste knew she was too awkward and slow to ever succeed in scenario number two.

"How do I know him?" Caroline said as if it were a sadistic taunt. "He’s all over your books."

Celeste began to relax a little. "The acknowledgement section?"

"Hey, I read those too." Caroline grinned. "I told you I like your books.

If she hadn’t been so worried, Celeste would’ve laughed at herself right now. Of course, Sean was in the books. The acknowledgments section in her last seven to be exact. Nevermind the fact that if Caroline is the demented fan I think she is, she would’ve found out who Sean was just from a quick Google search anyway. "Yeah, he’s my husband," Celeste said awkwardly to Caroline. "We’ve been married three years."

Caroline kept focusing in on Celeste. "That’s what I figured. He’s got a strong name."

To Celeste, it looked like Caroline was actually jealous. Or at the very least, Caroline’s barely-suppressed anger was re-emerging. "Yeah, I’ve known him since college," Celeste added, her tone gentle to keep Caroline from getting too angry.

"Is he cute?" Caroline asked, her condescending tone masking what Celeste knew was jealousy.

Celeste looked down at her mug. She wasn’t sure if she should answer or not.

"Tall, dark, and handsome?" Caroline quipped. Her tone wasn’t just condescending. It was sharper than those axe blades.

Not wanting to piss off the killer, Celeste faced Caroline. "He’s attractive. Yes." A careful reply.

Caroline grinned. "Good for him."

Awkward tension permeated the narrow space between the two women.

Looking back at the mug, Celeste avoided Caroline’s staunch gaze. Celeste knew there was nothing she could say to comfort Caroline. Not on this particular subject. After all, Celeste wasn’t sure what to make of Caroline’s advances anyway. Was the flirtation and jealousies all an act?

And why should I even care! This isn’t what I signed up for. Unless The Real Report had morphed into The Bachelorette for serial killers, I’m here to examine the Mayberry Murderer. Not be her fucking trophy wife.

"What about kids?" Caroline asked in what seemed to be a way of carrying on the conversation without seeming desperate.

Readjusting her glasses as a compulsory way to quench her nerves, Celeste confronted the killer’s stare once more.

"You know," Caroline went on. "The ol’ white picket fence treatment."

Celeste replied with a weak smile. "No, not yet."

"Well, why not?"

Celeste felt Caroline’s stare stay on her like a creepy spotlight. "I don’t know. We’ve discussed it."

Caroline offered a rude heckler’s laugh. "Discussed?"

"Well, yeah-"

"You make it sound like a damn business deal!"

Now Celeste was the one getting angry. She looked down at her mug, avoiding eye contact like a bullied child believing the failed adage of "sticks and stones." Celeste realized that unlike Caroline, her temper could never manifest itself into anything more than passive-aggressive self-loathing. "Not really," Caroline said as a weak defense.

Caroline cackled. "I mean are y’all discussing a sale? It’s a fucking child!"

Aggravated, Celeste faced the killer. "Look, we’ve been trying-"

"Discussed!" Caroline howled. "Is there a negotiator between y’all?" She leaned in closer toward Celeste. "Let me guess you made Sean sign a prenup."

Celeste didn’t back down this time. She looked right at the Mayberry Murderer’s dark eyes. "Like I said. We’ve been trying. We’re just being patient-"

"Patient?" Caroline challenged. "And how long have y’all been patient now? Three years?"

Celeste just glared at Caroline. She wanted to think of a smartass response, but her quips didn’t come quite as fast as Caroline’s. Just like middle school all over again.

"You think Sean’s figured it out yet?" Caroline teased. She leaned in closer toward Celeste’s lips as if she were gonna pretend to give her a kiss. "That you don’t give a flying fuck about him."

A tense moment passed by until Celeste finally got her comeback. "I thought you were the one answering the questions."

Glad to be getting under Celeste’s skin, Caroline sat back in her seat in triumph. "The show hasn’t even started yet, doctor."

Celeste pushed the coffee mug away from her, causing it to make an unpleasant sliding noise against the wooden table. The sound certainly didn’t help Celeste’s anxiety any.

Caroline grinned. A confident smile that seemed to slice through Celeste’s fragile flesh. "We’re just getting warmed up."

CHAPTER 16

The fireplace’s flames basked the living room in a glorious light. Three chairs sat by the fireplace, awaiting showtime. Everyone just minutes away from the ten o’clock start.

Leaning against the radio, Erika ran through her note cards once more. The meditation of "Anchor Erika" was over, replaced now by the meticulous preparation of "Director Erika."

As J.R. straightened one of the cameras on a tripod, the front door was heard bursting open.

"I’m back!" Alex yelled from the downstairs hallway.

Turning to look for Alex, J.R. heard the door slam shut with an obnoxious flourish.

Intoxicated, Alex strolled into the room. "We ready?" he asked J.R., Alex’s voice full of cynical rudeness.

Focused on her cards, Erika didn’t even bother looking at the sound man. Not that she ever did anyway unless it was when "Director Erika" had to light a fire under his ass.

J.R. watched Alex stumble toward a boom mic. "Hey, be careful with the door next time!" J.R. barked at him. "Fucking door knob almost fell off earlier."

Alex glared at him. "Yeah, don’t wanna hurt the property value now, do we?"

"Just do your damn job."

As J.R. finished straightening the camera, Alex looked toward Erika with contempt.

Erika continued reading through one of the note cards. "Kills, M.O., family life," she rattled off to herself.

"Are you gonna give the bitch a gift basket on-air too?" Alex lobbied at her. He picked up the mic.

Erika glared at him. She didn’t like being distracted from her ritualistic prepping.

"Shut the fuck up, man!" J.R. told Alex.

"No, I’m serious!" Alex said with asshole sarcasm. He motioned outside. "I can grab a few souvenirs from the van."

"Director Erika" stormed up to Alex and pointed her note cards at him like they were a weapon. "Listen, asshole! In case you couldn’t tell, this is a pretty big fucking interview not just for me, but for all of us! If you’re so Goddamn high and mighty, then get the fuck out and go start your own dipshit blog!" For emphasis, she flung the cards in Alex’s face, pelting him with the collection of notes.

Like scattering butterflies, the notes all sputtered off Alex and hit the ground.

"You’d go broke with that shit anyway," Erika continued to Alex.

Speechless yet amused, J.R. didn’t bother intervening.

A pissed Alex snatched a card out of his beard. "Yeah," he started as he threw the card down. "Well, at least, I won’t have to suck up to a fucking murderer just to get attention."

The ire-fueled eyes of "Director Erika" glared right at him.

J.R. stopped next to Erika, supportive. "Hey, show some respect," he commanded Alex.

Alex scoffed with the glee of a self-righteous hipster. "Respect!" He pointed toward the kitchen, chewing out J.R. and Erika like a pissed preacher. "That bitch is a fucking monster!"

"Alex-" J.R. began.

"What’s the fucking body count now, like twenty!"

"Twenty-one," corrected a calm Southern drawl.

Startled, everyone turned to see Caroline standing in the kitchen doorway. Her beaming smile was well on display. Her confidence ever present.

Erika stared at the killer. Caroline did indeed look ready for her close-up, Erika thought. The Mayberry Murderer was dressed in casual clothes yet still possessed that hardened beauty. She had the looks, the attitude, the kills. Practically a Friday The 13th movie transported onto a sexy yet charismatic female killer.

"Director Erika" could see the dollar signs embroidered on Caroline’s smooth flesh. "Anchor Erika" could see the insane exposure an interview with such a notorious icon would nab.

Even Alex was quiet at Caroline’s presence. His pompous arrogance reduced to overwhelmed fear by a mere confident smile.

"Twenty-seven more unconfirmed," Caroline said in a cryptic tease.

CHAPTER 17

And so it began. The Real Report interview. For such hype and promise, the whole thing started off quite stilted.

Even with all her preparation, "Anchor Erika" had a tough time keeping the conversation engaging and interesting. Then again, it’s not like Erika got much help. Both J.R. and Alex were mediocre crew members who hadn’t helped Erika prep at all.

For that matter, Celeste wasn’t doing much either. And Celeste knew it. The cameras and bright lights were getting to her. But still, even Celeste wondered why Erika kept asking such softball questions. Particularly considering the subject.

And there was Caroline. She slouched in the seat closest to the impressive fireplace while Erika and Celeste sat across from her. Caroline held her androgynous mask, Erika her note cards. Up to this point, Caroline had only been offering uninteresting answers to uninteresting questions.

To Celeste, the killer appeared bored. Sure, maybe it’d keep the crew safe from the Mayberry Murderer’s wrath, but it didn’t make for riveting television. Nor did it offer Celeste the titillating psychological perspective she was looking for.

So far, the luminous fireplace flames were the only successful aspect of the interview, Celeste thought. That and the mask Caroline kept in her lap. But why wasn’t there any blood on it? If the paper-mâché mask was this cherished compulsory disguise, why wasn’t it covered with Caroline’s victims’ blood? Or maybe she’d hand-crafted so many copies of the same mask that it didn’t matter. An entire obsessive collection, Celeste considered with a chill.

Doing her best to liven up the interview, Erika pointed toward Caroline’s mask. "So can you elaborate any more on the mask?"

Like an enthusiastic child at show and tell, Caroline held up the eerie face for the main camera to see. The camera being guided by J.R. "It’s lovely, isn’t it?" Caroline said.

The mask’s blank gaze and blank expression disturbed Celeste. The thing really did resemble Caroline. It was pretty yet abstract. A face you could lust for but never trust. A face of many inner secrets and much torment. Even the mask’s tinges of redness mirrored Caroline’s own quirky hairstyle.

Caroline looked on at her mask, admiring her work. "I consider it my second face at this point."

Behind the camera, an uneasy J.R. secured a close-up of the mask. The uncanny combination of androgynous features and dark colors gave him the creeps.

"Is there any kind of special significance to it?" Erika asked Caroline, disguising her unease much better than the others.

"I guess you could say that," Caroline responded. Careful, she placed the mask back in her lap "I made my first one back in elementary school."

"Oh wow..."

"Third grade actually." Caroline looked down at the mask. Like a security blanket, the mask seemed to calm her amidst the personal questions and all the cameras. "Mrs. Alday’s class."

Celeste noticed how Caroline stared at the mask with a reflective reverence. The killer’s very own Rosebud.

Caroline traced her gentle hand along a red splotch running down the mask’s cheek. "We were supposed to make something that represented how we felt about ourselves," Caroline continued. She faced Erika and Celeste. "Art that captured our internal spirit."

"Right," Erika commented with the polite-host-mediator tone "Anchor Erika" had come to perfect. "It’s interesting-"

Celeste motioned toward the mask. "I noticed it’s neither excessively feminine or masculine."

Caroline set her sights on Celeste.

Annoyed, Erika just kept silent.

"There’s no real defining features," Celeste went on. "It’s just blank."

"Correct," Caroline responded, her gaze never shying away from Celeste. "I wanted it to be completely gender neutral." She glanced down at the mask with the look a proud mom gives her child. "Something that captured who I felt I was." Confident, she faced Celeste. "What I was."

Celeste gave her a skeptical look. Did the mask really mean that much to Caroline? Did it have that much personal meaning? "An androgynous mask?"

"Exactly." Like she was challenging Celeste to call her out, Caroline maintained her intense gaze on the doctor. "The real me."

"But at your age? I mean you had to be real young when you made that."

Left out on the sidelines, Erika let the two women continue their duel.

"Honestly, even then I knew I was different from everyone," Caroline responded. Rare emotion started to crack through her shield of stoicism. "I was always out of place. Weird." She looked off toward the fireplace, avoiding eye contact with the others. "I guess that’s why Matt disowned me in the first place."

Like a detective sniffing out a lead, Celeste picked up on Caroline’s tell. Caroline avoiding eye contact. The killer’s emotional discomfort. "Because of your sexuality?" she asked with clinical detachment.

Caroline gazed into the ferocious flames, the longing in her eyes finally showing itself after decades of being exiled within her dark soul. "Yes," she responded, reflective. "That and the fact daddy always wanted a son."

"That must’ve been tough," Erika interjected, obviously wanting to get her word in.

Celeste gave Erika a disapproving look. Leave me with my "patient." Let me win the Emmys for you.

Caroline faced Erika. "It was." As if picking up on Celeste’s possessive outrage, Caroline confronted Celeste, surprising her with the sudden change in focus. "I think he took the pain of not having a little boy out on me."

Celeste couldn’t help but wonder if Caroline was looking at her because Celeste was a doctor or if it was because Caroline trusted her over the famed anchor.

"But little did he know that all those physical demands he put on me only accelerated my sexual identity," Caroline continued. "Even at that age, I just knew I was different. And I guess in the end, he got what he wanted after all." She showed off a smug smirk. "He got his son."

"Yeah, he did," Celeste said, willingly feeding into Caroline’s massive ego. "A strong son at that."

Amused, Caroline chuckled. "Stop it, doctor. You’re flattering me."

"Well, it’s true. To become this brilliant killer, you not only have to be clever, but strong. Tough."

Caroline smiled, eating up every word of such praise. "Well, thanks. It’s hard getting compliments doing what I do."

Behind the scenes, Alex shook his head in dismay.

Playing along, Celeste grinned at Caroline. "I imagine so." She nodded toward Caroline’s mask. "But do you have a specific weapon you like to use? Or some sort of M.O. in particular?"

Caroline stared at the doctor. Like the mask, Caroline’s face offered no discernible emotions.

Suffering through the staredown, Celeste hoped Caroline wouldn’t back off now. She wanted more info. Celeste gave the killer a disarming smile. "Obviously, you don’t have to share all your secrets."

Caroline grinned. "I prefer the axe."

Like she figured she had to do something with her screen time, Erika nodded her head.

"The double bit axe?" Celeste asked Caroline. "Like the one in the stable?"

"Uh-huh," Caroline replied. "Just like Matt taught me."

Intrigued, Celeste leaned forward and motioned toward Caroline like they were engaging in an ongoing private session. Like Celeste was talking to another one of her regulars. "But does it also have something to do with the lesbian symbolism? With the labrys axe and it’s representation in the lesbian subculture."

Caroline nodded her head. "Very good, doctor."

Celeste couldn’t help but crack a sly smile. It’s not everyday you get the respect of an infamous murderer. The wet dream of any real scholar in this morbid field.

Caroline leaned back in her seat like a confident royal. "I can tell you’re a real pro," she said to Celeste. "Then again I’ve always felt that way about you. It’s even more obvious now that I’m seeing it in person."

Pleased with herself, Celeste’s grin grew even wider.

Erika confronted Caroline. "But you’ve used other weapons as well, right?"

Celeste watched Caroline carefully to see how she’d answer this one. Enough with the flattery, she told herself. It’s back to business.

"Well, of course," Caroline responded. "I mean I constantly gotta change the method, you know." She sat forward in her chair. "Or the M.O. as you would say," she teased Celeste.

Like a girlfriend reacting to her boyfriend’s latest joke, Celeste released a warm chuckle.

Caroline faced Erika. "But especially in today’s world," she went on in a more serious tone. "Decapitate someone with a butcher knife, hang an old lady. I always gotta switch it up. Otherwise, it gets too repetitive. It’d be too easy to spot the compulsions and narrow down the suspects. I’d practically be giving myself away."

"Is that how you managed to avoid the authorities for so long?" Celeste asked, intrigued.

Caroline smiled at Celeste. "I read your books remember." With not-so-subtle flirtation, she leaned in a little closer toward her. "I did my research on how not to get caught."

Celeste stared on at her, amused by Caroline.

"But still," Erika interjected, interrupting their cutesy rapport on purpose. "It just seems do difficult to get away like that today. With today’s DNA and forensics-"

Like a pretentious professor belittling her interviewer’s latest question, Caroline just held up her hand. "It’s much easier than you think." Relaxed and calm, the killer leaned back in her seat. "You’ve just gotta know what you’re doing. That’s all."

"Can you elaborate a little on that?"

"I’m very clever," Caroline deadpanned.

The comment even made Erika crack a genuine smile.

"We’ll just leave it at that," Caroline said.

Behind the camera, J.R. noticed how at ease both Celeste and Erika seemed to be with the killer. Much more at ease than he could ever be.

"Well, what about all the taunts?" Celeste asked Caroline. "Everything you sent to the press." Her hand gestures moved with the compulsive speed of an infomercial pitchwoman. Now I’m probably the one who looks crazy and obsessed. "The letters, the e-mails-"

"The heads," Caroline interrupted with a cryptic smile.

"Well, yeah."

"All for good fun." Relaxed, she ran her hands up and down her toned arms. "Me just flexing my female muscles for the American public."

Celeste was mad at herself for not being able to stop ogling those arms. A killer’s arms. But they were so muscular and smooth. "I see," Celeste finally mustered out.

"You were just showing off?" Erika asked Caroline.

Caroline gave the reporter a flirtatious smile. "If you’ve got it, flaunt it, right?"

Did she ever seduce her victims, Celeste wondered. At this rate, she could seduce a jury... much less me and Erika.

Erika chuckled. "You most certainly did that," she told Caroline with some subtle flirtation of her own. Not that anyone in the room would ever know if Erika’s flirtatious maneuvering was built off of emotion or opportunistic ass-kissing. "It’s all just so impressive, honestly."

"So tell me," Celeste started, stealing Caroline’s attention back away from Erika. "Is that the reason you targeted the press?"

Caroline faced Celeste. Even with Caroline’s blank expression, her eyes stayed latched onto Celeste. Right where they wanted to be.

"Is that why you’d mail your victims’ heads to The New York Times?" Celeste asked.

"I like mocking the press," Caroline stated. Enjoying Celeste’s attention, she slouched back in her seat. "Fooling them’s the best fucking part. The New York Times, Fox. They’re all so easy to dupe. So easy to manipulate."

Fascinated by the rant, neither Celeste nor Erika said a word. Neither one of them wanted to interrupt.

Caroline looked to Erika. "I chose The Real Report because Erika seems like the only honest reporter out there. You’re actually passionate about your work. You actually care."

Flattered, Erika beamed with a smile. "Well, thank you."

"No problem," Caroline said with a heartthrob’s smile.

Giggling, Erika struggled to get the interview back on track.

Celeste couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy. Or at least, she was hoping it wasn’t more than a tinge.

"But, uh, let’s talk more about your first, uh... tragedy," Erika went on. "The killings that shocked Stanwyck, Georgia."

"What’s there to say?" Caroline responded without hesitation. "I was young. I saw it all. I saw mommy beat his fucking brains out."

Caroline’s quick answer caught Celeste off-guard. Caroline almost seemed agitated by the topic.

"But did you feel that this experienced pushed you toward all these other murders?" Erika asked in her most serious "Anchor Erika" tone.

Caroline scoffed. "You mean make me a killer?"

To Celeste, Caroline’s smartass deflections looked to be obscuring weakness. She doesn’t like Matt’s murder being brought up again.

"Losing your parents in such a brutal way," Celeste said, jumping in to assist Erika. "I mean a murder-suicide like that. My God, that must’ve been horrible. Surely it must’ve had some impact on you, Caroline."

Celeste thought she saw a low-key glare appear on Caroline’s shield of a face.

"I mean it’d affect anyone," Celeste went on.

Behind the subtle glare, Caroline hesitated on a response.

"It’s nothing to be ashamed of," Celeste said.

"Right," Erika agreed.

Suspicious, Caroline looked at both women. "Well, that’s certainly how the press would like to spin it now, ain’t it?" Caroline responded, bitter. "I can see it now. The killer’s origins started with a childhood tragedy!" Relying on her typical sarcasm, Caroline’s voice mocked all the pretentious, melodramatic talking heads. "It’s nurture over nature! Her parents made her kill-"

"Look, it’s not just media bullshit!" Celeste protested. "A traumatic incident like that can have an enormous impact on anyone."

"Aw, whatever!" Caroline growled. "That didn’t have shit to do with me! I’m the Mayberry Murderer, not my Goddamn parents!"

Celeste could see the genuine anger in Caroline’s face. She was upset not over her parents’ deaths, but at the idea that Bette and Matt were the reasons for the killing spree. She didn’t want anyone thinking that she couldn’t commit such brutal crimes just off of her own freewill. She didn’t want her background or sob story to negate the fact that she just enjoyed slaughtering innocent people. That she was a born psychopath.

"But still, it was both of your parents-" Erika began.

"Matt was a piece of shit!" Caroline interrupted. Like she knew her emotions were getting the better of her, Caroline did her best to calm herself down as her irate eyes stayed focused on Erika. "He got what he deserved."

Sympathetic, Celeste leaned forward, getting closer toward Caroline. "But they’re still your parents, Caroline. And to see all that happen to them at that age. At just five years old."

Groaning, Caroline waved Celeste off, downplaying the memory. "So fucking what! Matt beat me all the time! The bitch resented me for who I really was!" Upset, she looked off at the fireplace and went quiet, struggling to go on.

A tense silence dominated the room. "Anchor Erika" had to break it. "You said your father always wanted a son?" she asked Caroline.

Caroline nodded. "He told it to me to my face. All the fucking time."

"I’m sorry."

Caroline kept staring at the fireplace, her wounded gaze seeking solace in the flames. "He made sure I knew too. Everyday. He made sure I knew I wasn’t the son he ever had." She paused, doing her best to control the anger and the pain. "He always blamed me... he blamed me for it all the time."

Aside from the anger, Celeste saw a wounded weariness in Caroline’s mannerisms and voice. Celeste now wasn’t sure whether Matt Crane’s murder had traumatized Caroline enough to become a serial killer or if it’d just made her into this cynic who hid their emotions behind a wall of smartass quips.

"I never blamed mama for doing what she did," Caroline said. "Not one bit. Not after how he treated us. I still don’t blame her."

"Even when she left you all alone?" Celeste asked in a gentle voice.

Caroline turned and looked right at Celeste.

The killer still wasn’t showing any outward emotions, but Celeste could see how much the violent childhood continued to affect Caroline. Just mentioning Bette drew her in like a magnet.

"Your own mother left you all by yourself, Caroline," Celeste went on, prodding Caroline with the gentle touch of a caring therapist. "When she killed Matt, she effectively killed any chance you had at a normal childhood."

Caroline smirked. "Normal childhood?"

By Celeste’s estimation, the smirk looked forced rather than fueled by the typical arrogance she’d come to expect from Caroline. Like the smile a juvenile delinquent would give the police as a final attempt to look tougher than they actually were.

"I never had a chance at that shit," Caroline continued. "Not with Matt."

"So you never once blamed your mother?" Celeste asked.

"No! No fucking way."

"But she killed him, and she didn’t even care that you were there."

"Aw, fuck off-"

"She killed him right in front of you."

Aggravated, Caroline glared at Celeste.

"I think what your mom did was selfish," Celeste went on, making sure her voice was calm and respectful even if her words weren’t nearly as gentle. "She killed the one thing you had in your life: your family. And she left you to die, Caroline."

Caroline hesitated. Like her mind was at war between her fondness for Bette and her unease over Celeste’s brutal description of the murder/suicide. "No," she finally said. "Even then, I knew she had no other choice."

"No, she didn’t have to kill-" Celeste started.

"I’d rather see her go out on her own terms than rot with his sorryass for the rest of our lives!" Caroline ran a hand along the side of the mask. "Besides. I came out alright."

The unsettling comment combined with Caroline’s indifferent facial expression gave Celeste pause. She didn’t wanna alienate Caroline and earn her distrust this soon. After all, they were just getting started.

"Well, what happened after that?" Erika persisted for the sake of the interview and her show.

Caroline’s cryptic gaze shifted toward Erika. A robotic gaze that to Celeste could feel like being stared down by an uncaring executioner. Albeit, a really attractive tomboy of an executioner.

"Were you put into foster care or did you move-" Erika continued.

"I moved," Caroline responded as an abrupt answer.

"Where’d you move to?"

Not even trying to hide her contempt, Caroline leaned back in her seat. "Not far enough."

The blunt answers kept Erika at bay. No more questions.

Amidst the lingering silence, Caroline fidgeted in her seat. "Uncle Willie ended up adopting me." She looked down at her mask.

The Mayberry Murderer’s security blanket.

"He was daddy’s younger brother," Caroline said. "His only brother." Struggling to contain her bitter anger, Caroline ran her fingers along the mask’s red splotches.

To Celeste, the killer appeared to be caressing the eerie face.

"Both of them cut from the same cloth," Caroline went on. She looked up at Celeste and Erika. "Both of them treated me like shit."

"So it only got worse?" Erika asked, her voice and eyes full of as much sympathy as any T.V. reporter could muster.

Caroline nodded. "He couldn’t have kids. It only made him more insecure. Like daddy wanting his son." She glanced at the floor for a moment. "He was always just full of this rage. This anger and animosity against me. Or any woman..."

Through watchful eyes, Celeste noticed how Caroline’s cockiness had given way to a subdued resignation. Like when removed from the mask and the glamour of who she was, Caroline was still just an insecure closeted teenager. Or a five-year-old hiding under the kitchen table.

"I didn’t know it was possible, but he was an even bigger asshole than Matt," Caroline lamented.

"Was he married?" asked Celeste.

"I guess," Caroline replied. "If you wanna call it that. The son-of-a-bitch may as well have been married to a Goddamn mannequin."

"I see," Erika chimed in, if for no other reason than to have her voice heard on camera.

Caroline paused. As if she were taking a break from the painful entries of the tragic diary that was her life. "Aunt Rose was useless. She was a total fucking meek." Her grip tightened hard around the mask. "All that bitch ever did was smoke weed and watch T.V." In a rising crescendo, both Caroline’s voice and her grip on the mask grew stronger. "The spineless bitch never once stood up for me!"

"I’m sorry," Erika told Caroline, trying to comfort her. "Anchor Erika" playing hero. "We’re here for you. To help you-"

Caroline glared at Erika. "Yeah, I bet you are!"

Startled by the vicious retort, Erika lunged back against her seat.

Celeste looked on at the confrontation, concerned. J.R. was even more concerned.

"Don’t try playing that sympathy shit for the cameras just so you can get your fucking Emmy!" Caroline belittled Erika.

Erika kept her distance. "It’s not like that."

"Bullshit!"

Celeste could see all sorts of wild emotions breaking through Caroline’s stoicism. Hurt, pain, agony. Hatred.

"I’m just trying to help-" Erika started.

"Well, I don’t need any fucking sympathy for what I am!" Caroline interrupted.

Intimidated by Caroline’s irate glare, Erika stayed silent.

Celeste could tell that Caroline had broken the outgoing anchor. All the cutesy interplay between them had collapsed at the onslaught of Caroline’s bitter breakdown.

Like she wanted to terrify the audience in addition to the news crew, Caroline looked toward the main camera, her menacing rage dominating the silent scene.

J.R. slunk further behind the camera. He didn’t want to get caught in Caroline’s crosshair of a glare.

They were giving her too much control, Celeste thought. Sure, Caroline was showing emotion, but it didn’t matter when all she was doing was scaring the shit out of everybody. I’m gonna have to step up to keep this project afloat.

Celeste confronted Caroline. "You say all this, but what’s all this for then?" she said, her voice calm.

Caroline turned and faced her real quick. Caroline’s movement so fast they reminded Celeste more of an instinctual animal rather than a middle-aged woman.

Keeping her composure, Celeste motioned around the "set." "Why drag us all here and be a part of this big, elaborate show? If it’s not to get our sympathy or to tell us more about you, what’s the point, Caroline?"

Celeste could see the anger building within Caroline. The rage growing beneath the killer’s stoic facade. And even though it frightened Celeste, she wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. This is what Celeste signed up for. Her dream subject.

"There has to be a reason you wanted to do this," Celeste went on. "We’re not dumb. You got your lights. Your favorite anchor. The cameras-"

"Because I’m tired!" Caroline snapped. "I’m fucking tired of everyone shunning me! I’m tired of being ignored!"

The self-indulgent pity party wasn’t quite what Celeste expected.

"If it wasn’t the beatings or the hate from my own fucking family, it was the disrespect by the press!" Caroline declared. "All of them pegged the Mayberry Murderer to be just another fucking white guy! It’s what they wanted."

"So it’s the attention you want?" Celeste said. "The infamy."

"The fame," Erika interjected.

Frustrated, Caroline shook their answers off with a frenetic wave of her hands. "No! Not that, but the credit! The respect I deserve! You think anyone ever gave a good Goddamn about my work or my drawings or anything about me until I got in the killing game? Of course not!"

"I understand," Erika commented.

Even with the portable fans going, Celeste could see the sweat drenching off Caroline. God knows how she ever killed anyone during the summertime wearing the mask and kill gear.

"The press is just like them!" Caroline continued ranting with fiery bitterness. "They’re all just like daddy and Uncle Willie! They’re fucking weak! They underestimate me because of who I am!"

Despite the fans and lighting, Celeste noticed the fireplace’s flames basked off of Caroline’s face, illuminating her with a devilish gleam. Erika must be loving the symbolism. Then again, the allusion seemed appropriate enough. If not exactly subtle.

"No one can handle me!" Caroline went on. She squeezed onto the mask, clinging to her "security blanket." "Not daddy or Uncle Willie. They couldn’t handle the fact that their flesh and blood was a fucking dyke!"

Fascinated by Caroline’s gut-spilling, Celeste kept her unwavering gaze focused on the killer. "Have you ever reached out to your uncle since?"

"Ten years after I left their sorryasses," Caroline stated, her tone now more calm but just as frightening. Like she was hiding a nasty secret she was all too eager to share.

Celeste picked up on Caroline’s shift in demeanor. Caroline’s anger had turned back to her typical smug confidence. "Did you still have this anger?" Celeste asked her. "When you saw him again, did you still have this resentment toward him?"

Joining in with Celeste, "Anchor Erika" channeled the most cringe-inducing aspects of Dr. Phil or Oprah’s fake sincerity and morality. "Did you forgive him?" she asked Caroline. "Did it help you move on?"

"I suppose you could say that," Caroline said. Her smile never vanished from her lips. "All was good."

"Oh, great," Erika beamed.

Celeste maintained eye contact with Caroline. "Well, that’s a positive step-"

"I mutilated them in their sleep," Caroline said in her calm tone.

Celeste knew the killer had been waiting to ambush them with that one. No wonder the smile never vanished.

"Oh..." a disturbed Erika commented.

With theatrical delight, Caroline acted out the murders right before her audience. "I gave twenty hacks to Rose."

Uneasy, Celeste watched Caroline’s wild hands emulate the fatal axe blows with gusto.

"Then thirty blows to the skull for Uncle Willie!" Caroline said in a battle cry. "I tied them both up before waking them up. They had no idea."

Neither Celeste nor Erika said anything.

What the Hell could I say? Celeste thought. Tell her that slaughtering her aunt and uncle shouldn’t be so... cathartic?

Cackling, Caroline looked down at her mask like she was getting its approval. "I looked him right in the eye before hitting him with the axe." She looked toward the main camera. "I made sure he got to see what his little lesbo niece had become."

Erika forced a cheesy grin. "Well, that’s one way to handle family dysfunction."

The comment made J.R. cringe.

Caroline faced Celeste and Erika. "This was all long after I had perfected my craft." A confident chuckle emerged from her lips. "I couldn’t take out ol’ Willie when I was rusty. I had to be prepared. Experienced."

"You mean he wasn’t your first?" Celeste asked in horror.

"Mmm-hmm," Caroline admitted with the pride of a star student. She gave Celeste a flirty smile. "I planned the first one when I was seventeen."

Petrified fear ran through the veins of everyone in that room. For once, even Alex was silent, too scared to crack a bad joke or hop on his ethics soapbox.

"It all went so smoothly," Caroline boasted. "Everything went according to plan. Even when I was just a young, pissy teenager. I carried it out perfectly." Grinning, she looked back at her mask. "No one suspected a thing."

"Can you elaborate on how it felt?" Erika asked, her cringy "Anchor Erika" niceties giving way to the upfront brashness of "Director Erika."

Celeste watched Caroline shift her attention toward Erika. The killer looked so excited to be sharing these morbid secrets.

"It was beautiful," Caroline told Erika. "Exhilarating actually."

Celeste and Erika waited for more, but never got it. Just Caroline’s confident smirk stared back at them.

"So just like that?" Erika said. "That’s it?"

"Yes," Caroline responded. "Just like that. It was all I thought it would be. Their pain, their helplessness. It was amazing." The passion rising under her skin, Caroline leaned in closer toward the two women. "I reversed everything they had done to me and made those motherfuckers pay."

Captivated by the killer’s glimmering big eyes, Celeste knew she had to press on with the questions. Regardless of how eerie and unpredictable Caroline had become, Celeste wasn’t letting go of the Mayberry Murderer. Her dream subject and dream opportunity wasn’t getting away. "What made you finally do it?"

Caroline smiled at Celeste. The sweat-drenched tee-shirt made Caroline look like a post-concert punk rocker.

To Celeste, Caroline’s smile looked bigger and more playful when directed at Celeste than at anyone else. Like Caroline had made Celeste her favorite... Celeste just wasn’t sure why.

"You mean what made me finally snap?" Caroline teased.

"What caused you to start killing," Celeste responded, not backing down. "What made you finally start."

Even Erika was impressed by Celeste’s assertiveness. As if Celeste had become influenced by "Director Erika."

Like this aggressive side of Celeste intrigued her even more, Caroline eyeballed Celeste up and down, the killer brandishing her sexy smile as if it were a weapon. "You really wanna know?"

"Yes," Celeste said.

"I think we all wanna know," Erika said.

Annoyed, Celeste glared over at Erika real quick. Of course, this bitch always wants the last word.

"Well," Caroline began, knowing good and well she now had the room under her thumb. "Would it be a total cliché if I said bullying?"

Judging by Caroline’s lingering smile, Celeste wasn’t sure if she should take the response serious or not.

Erika looked over at Celeste, also uncertain.

Caroline looked right at Celeste. "Well. What do you think, doctor?"

Hating to deal with Caroline’s cocky abrasiveness, Celeste contemplated her response. "cliché, yes. Unrealistic, no."

Erika looked over at the intrigued Caroline. All of Caroline’s attention was on Celeste. After all, she was the doctor’s number one fan.

"From my experience, bullying has a big impact on teenagers and kids," Celeste continued. "Regardless of whether or not you ever turn those wounded feelings into violence."

Not saying a word, Caroline looked down at the mask. Celeste’s answer seemed to resonate with Caroline and crack through her arrogant armor just a bit. Or at least Celeste hoped they had.

"I know," Caroline said. She looked up at Celeste. The confident smile was gone, replaced instead by a reflective melancholy. "I know it all sounds cliché as shit, but I really did just reach the breaking point. With everyone. With Uncle Willie. The attacks. All the bullying at school."

"Had you come out by then?" Celeste asked her with genuine sympathy.

"No." Shame accompanying her rare display of vulnerability, Caroline looked back down at the paper-mâché mask. The vivid red and black colors held her gaze, keeping her from exposing her wounded eyes to Celeste. "But everyone knew." She ran her thumbs along the mask’s cheeks. The softness of the paper did little to improve her mood. "Everyone suspected at least."

"That must’ve been hard."

A pitiful laugh escaped Caroline’s mouth. Not a laugh of joy or sarcasm. But the kind of laugh that emerges from that awful combination of self-pity, tears, and embarrassment.

Even if Celeste couldn’t see the killer’s eyes, she knew this wasn’t the glorified charming Mayberry Murderer. This was the anguish and pain of Caroline Crane.

"The late-eighties," Caroline struggled to say as she kept staring at the mask. "Small Georgia town, a smartass Butch. I never had a chance." She released another one of those pathetic laughs.

Celeste thought it was only a matter of time before she’d be hearing Caroline’s tears. At this rate at least.

"But Caroline," Erika started, her voice strong. "What was the incident? The one that made you finally snap."

Caroline continued looking on at the mask’s blank face, avoiding everyone’s gaze. And all the while, she didn’t say a word. Celeste didn’t even hear her breathe.

From Celeste’s perspective, the killer’s odd positioning was reminiscent of the fetal position.

"Caroline," Celeste said, joining in with Erika to get Caroline’s attention.

But Caroline didn’t face them. She just kept looking at the mask.

Celeste thought she heard a soft voice emanating from Caroline’s lips. What sounded like a softer and more feminine variation of Caroline’s voice. It sounded much less confident and crass.

"What’s she doing?" Erika whispered to Celeste, distracting Celeste away from the voice.

"I don’t know," Celeste said to her. "Let her figure it out."

"What the Hell are you talking about?"

Sweating, Celeste looked around at all the fans. They didn’t seem to be no match for both the fireplace and the natural Georgia heat.

"We have a show to finish," Erika said.

Celeste stole a glance back at Caroline. The Mayberry Murderer looked like she hadn’t moved one muscle. Yet Celeste kept hearing the soft feminine Angel coming from over there. The voice’s words were indecipherable but pretty. But Celeste didn’t see anyone singing. All she could see were the wild red streaks running along the top of Caroline’s hair. They looked like long red eyes on a black canvas. Not much different than the damn mask, Celeste realized in horror.

"Dr. Lewton," Erika whispered.

Waving a hand in front of her face, Celeste confronted Erika. "It’s hot as Hell in here!"

"Yeah, I know," Erika replied. She wiped sweat off her face. "I just did my make-up too."

"Can’t we put out the damn fire?"

"No way."

"Why not?"

"Because I’m the one who wanted it," said a familiar Southern accent.

Startled, Erika and Celeste turned to see Caroline looking right at them.

Caroline motioned toward the fireplace. "I always love a good fire." She grinned at Celeste. "I guess it reminds me of home. The good times."

Celeste noticed how the cool and charismatic Caroline was back.

Caroline faced Erika. "Plus you liked it too right, Erika? The atmosphere."

"Well, it does look great on film," Erika admitted.

"Duh."

Aggravated, Celeste confronted Caroline. "You never answered the question," she said in a strong tone.

"That’s right," Erika chimed in. She faced Caroline, eager for an answer. "What made you start killing?"

Caroline just stared at Celeste with an expressionless gaze, the smile gone from her face.

"Yeah," Celeste started, her focused gaze matching Caroline’s. "What made you become the Mayberry Murderer?

Caroline looked toward the fire. "I don’t know." She faced Celeste. "It just bothers me sometimes to talk about this."

"Isn’t that why we’re here though?" Erika badgered.

"Right," Celeste added. "You wanted us here, Caroline."

Neither her nor Caroline backed down as they continued locking eyes.

"You wanted us here to explain yourself," Celeste went on.

"I don’t know," Caroline said.

"Yeah, you do," Celeste replied sharply. "Just admit it. You like all this."

Intimidated by Celeste’s headstrong comments, Caroline looked at her with hesitant unease. Caroline didn’t seem as confident as she was letting on.

"Talk to us, Caroline," Celeste said in a more sympathetic tone. "We all want to know your story. What made you become the Mayberry Murderer."

Caroline looked back down at her mask. The security blanket. "Honestly, my situation’s no different than any other teenager in the closet."

"What do you mean?" Erika asked. Like Celeste, she kept her focus on Caroline, captivated by the killer’s every word and move.

Restless, Caroline ran her fingers along the mask.

The mask was her reliable distraction, Celeste thought. She’d probably been using it her whole life to distract herself from the stress and pain of her traumatic past.

"I mean every one of us gets treated with disdain and hatred," Caroline said, her tone on the verge of revealing wounded emotions Caroline desperately wanted to conceal. "People act like we choose to be this way. Like we choose to be ostracized." She stroked the mask’s red-stained face. "Choose to be damned to Hell by all these people who don’t wanna understand."

Staying as respectful as any news anchor could, Erika clasped her hands together. "So was this a way to rebel against this resentment?" she asked Caroline. "The homophobia."

Caroline confronted Erika with a look of outraged disgust on her face. "Don’t even go there."

"Go where?" Celeste asked.

"No," Caroline said. "I know what y’all are trying to do."

"We’re not trying to do anything-" Erika began.

"My story’s no different than any other gay girl or boy struggling to be who they are!" Caroline interrupted with a wild fury. "You think a crazy bitch like me is just gonna be their hot new idol! Their lesbo serial killer hero!"

Erika leaned in closer. "But wouldn’t that be something you’d want? This level of power and infamy. To be this hero."

"They deserve better."

"But do you really think that?" Celeste interjected.

Still angry and defensive, Caroline glared at Celeste. "You think I want to be their little anti-hero?"

"I know you do," Celeste responded.

"I agree," Erika said.

Caroline glowered at them. "That’s bullshit."

"Oh, come on," Celeste said. "Why pretend now?" She pushed her glasses up her nose like an unflappable scholar. "We know this is what you want, Caroline."

Caught up in her emotions, Caroline looked off toward the fireplace’s ongoing flames.

"You can say you don’t want to be this martyr for closeted teens everywhere," Caroline told the killer. "But deep down, you crave it. This is what you want, isn’t it, Caroline. To be their killer idol."

Caroline confronted Celeste. Even with the sweat and her stoic expression, Caroline was still so pretty. A pretty face that masked a dark mind.

"I mean, God, you’d kill for it, and you already have," Celeste went on.

Disgruntled, Caroline still showed no emotion. "So you think I’m just a selfish psychopath?" she asked in a calm voice. "Is that it, Dr. Lewton?"

Fed up with Caroline’s dodgy antics, Celeste motioned toward Caroline. "Look, stop feeding us this bullshit! You know what you’re doing, alright. And to do what you’ve done, you must be salivating at the chance of having all these troubled teens look up to you like you’re their damn rebel leader. Their fucking outlaw!"

From the sidelines, Erika looked on at Celeste with a "you go girl" look on her face.

"I bet you must practically want them all to form some sort of Mayberry Murderer cult for you," Celeste said with unrelenting conviction. She was on a roll and seized this chance to get under Caroline’s skin. "You can be the inspirational fuel for their twisted revenge fantasies! Because that’s what you want ultimately, Caroline, isn’t it." Celeste’s steady eyes stared on at Caroline, captivating the killer. "You crave the fame," she continued, her voice now back in its gentle wheelhouse. "The infamy. This level of influence. So why not go ahead and start telling us your story then. Let all your ’fans’ hear it like you want them to!"

The whole room was silent. Only Celeste’s deep breathing could be heard.

"Not bad, doctor," Caroline conceded. "Maybe you’re right."

Celeste didn’t respond. She just kept watching Caroline with the precision of a scientist evaluating their test subject.

"Going back to your first kill," Erika said to Caroline, her strong tone tailor-made for television.

Displaying uncanny quickness, Caroline looked right at Erika.

"What happened at high school?" Erika continued. "What did you end up doing?"

Caroline looked down at the mask.

Her security blanket.

"It was Shannon Taylor," Caroline said, her voice still cool and even. "She was just another typical stuck-up high school bitch." Reflective, she stroked the mask’s cheek. "You know, the kind who’d make fun of all the quiet losers like me."

"What do you mean?" Celeste asked. "What’d she do?"

Caroline gave a pitiful chuckle. "Girls can be cruel, Celeste." Her big brown eyes looked at Celeste, piercing into her soul. "You should know that."

Erika jutted in by way of obnoxious hand gestures and a self-righteous commanding tone. "Anchor Erika" was back. "But your process," she said to Caroline. "How’d you pull off a murder at your age? I mean you were like eighteen-"

"Seventeen," Caroline answered with pride.

The nonchalant answer unnerved Celeste. It wasn’t just that Caroline was proud to kill, but that she had pulled it off before she was even a legal adult. Like a teenager boasting about their first time getting drunk and wreaking have on their neighborhood. Like it was all just a rite of passage.

"Wow, seventeen," Erika said, unable to hide her morbid excitement. "How did you do it?"

Sickened, Alex saw how Erika treated Caroline with the overzealous glee of a smitten schoolgirl.

"I studied her," Caroline said. "I was prepared." There was no hesitation with Caroline’s answers. No deliberation.

Judging by Caroline’s calm demeanor, Celeste knew Caroline was comfortable discussing the subject of murder. Of course, she would be. This was her life. Her passion. Most people want to share their passions. And most killers want to be heard.

"You see that’s the hard work no one appreciates," Caroline proclaimed to an enraptured Erika. "That’s what separates us real dangerous, cunning motherfuckers from idiots you see trying to make the leap all the time."

"The leap?" Erika asked.

"Becoming one of the immortals," Celeste answered. She looked on at the impressed Caroline. "One of the legendary serial killers."

"An icon in other words," Caroline said. Holding the mask in her lap, she leaned forward. "You see, it’s all in the planning. The organization and attention to detail."

"So what happened after all this planning?" Celeste asked, her indifference contradicting Erika’s enthusiasm.

Caroline cracked an amused smirk. "Well, I knew she dated this guy named Brian. He was the handsome football player jock. A fucking idiot, you know the drill."

"Your typical meathead," Erika chimed in.

"Exactly."

Erika’s cold comment made J.R. give her a weird look.

Caught up in the conversation, Caroline continued looking on at Erika’s emerald eyes. "Anyway, I knew where Sarah and Brian always met up at after school. They’d go on out to this old abandoned church on Wathen Road. A real secluded place."

Here we go again, complained Celeste. Caroline back in her element. Back on the subject of her exploits. Her kills. Her passion. Erika just feeding into this shit. We were supposed to get into what makes this killer tick, not glorify her.

"Oh, a church," Erika said.

"I know, they were so desperate," Caroline deadpanned.

"Right."

"I thought surely they could’ve found somewhere else to do that shit." Caroline paused with a grin. "But I’m glad they didn’t."

Erika chuckled. Much to the disgust of Celeste and the others.

These two were chatting it up like home network hosts.

"They picked the perfect spot for me," Caroline went on.

Fascinated, Erika’s gaze stayed fixated on Caroline. "And you followed them in?"

"No. I waited for them outside first."

The response chilled Celeste to the bone. She could envision it like she could the kitchen murder/suicide. A clear and concise mental image.

In her mind, Celeste pictured an old isolated church. A small dilapidated wooden church far from any highway. The property surrounded by colossal trees and overgrown land that time (and the city of Stanwyck) had long forgotten. A crooked cross on the church’s roof. Its ugly sign faded with age much like the building’s white paint. A house of worship left to die by its congregation.

It was probably no different than the Crane house, Celeste surmised. Both of them would’ve had the mystique of a haunted house. Both of them Southern Gothic nightmares.

"I watched them go inside," Caroline said, her voice steady with the rhythm of nostalgic reflection. "They didn’t suspect a thing. Just teenagers being their usual dumb fucking selves."

Celeste envisioned the young high school couple parking a convertible in the pitiful dirt parking lot. They’d be giggling and excited. Young love at its most vibrant and cliché. Shannon and Brian, a jock and cheerleader combo tailor-made for high school glory and a future lower-middle-class married life full of displeasure and wistful reminiscing over the glory days. This was the sexy couple’s peak. Celeste even mused how Caroline probably thought she was doing them a favor by knocking them off in their prime.

And there the couple was, giddy with lust and rebellious confidence as they made their way inside the church. Brian probably held a twelve-pack or a joint, Celeste thought. And they’d walking to their usual spot, a spot Celeste figured was shared by every other rambunctious couple at Stanwyck High. Little did Shannon and Brian realize though that they were walking into a trap.

"And then I followed them in," Caroline stated.

Celeste considered how a teenage Caroline was probably lurking amongst the tall trees. Hidden from the distracted couple’s view. Caroline staring at them with the carnal hunger of a starving wolf. Her beaming, angular face a portrait of a psycho as a young woman.

Right before going inside, Caroline probably slid on that fucking mask. That same fucking mask. Her eerie security blanket. She probably didn’t even have a car, Celeste realized in horror. Who knows how long she’d spent walking to this shithole church? Or worse, who knows how long she’d been scouting the location?

Caroline grinned at Erika, knowing she had the anchor hooked with every detail. "I was so quiet and discreet when I snuck in behind them. It was hard because I was so nervous, but so excited. The adrenaline was insane, man."

All the while, Celeste kept watching Caroline. Both to study Caroline’s enthusiastic mannerisms as well as processing her creepy recollection. She could tell Caroline’s giddy excitement was natural. The immense joy Caroline got from discussing her "passion" was revolting for sure. Yet it wasn’t outside the norm for serial killers either. Particularly the legendary ones. They were equal parts evil and narcissistic. They practically thrived off of the bragging rights. This T.V. special was the ultimate way for Caroline to gush about her exploits for an all-too-enthused wide audience.

"I stayed in the back," Caroline stated to the main camera. "Watching them from far away."

The scene played out in Celeste’s attentive mind. The inside of the abandoned church was probably just as unappealing as its exterior. Celeste believed the wooden benches would line up like coffins. All rotted wood that was battered beyond belief.

The harsh Georgia sunshine seeped in through what was left of the stained glass windows. All the church’s walls and Jesus statues desecrated by spraypaint. And then there was the sight of the handsome teenage couple fucking right there on the altar’s smooth carpet. Like a chorus, the couple made sounds either in unison or through back-and-forth exchanges. Brian’s heavy breathing and hard thrusts. Shannon’s exquisite moans of pleasure. All of it echoed through the long, decrepit chamber and all the way down to the church’s modest front entrance. Right toward the spot where a masked Caroline stood. Her cold eyes latched onto the oblivious couple, her gloved hands clinging to the handle of an axe.

"And then I made my move," said Caroline.

Celeste could picture Caroline descending upon the couple, the killer walking past the rows and rows of benches at the same frantic pace used by predators in the wild when consumed by the urge to hunt and kill.

Even though Caroline would’ve probably been awkward and clumsy with this being her first kill, she probably had her masterful stealthiness from day one. Her soft footsteps would’ve gone undetected even in an abandoned church. Particularly so considering her targets were too occupied to pay her any mind.

Caroline would’ve still had that fucking mask. Gloves and bathrobe. Probably a primitive incarnation of her kill gear. She would’ve been strong even then. The strength to carry an axe without straining. But Caroline still would’ve looked awkward. More like an alienated teen hiding behind a mask than a disguised psychopath beginning their long and illustrious killing spree.

"They didn’t see me at first," Caroline said to Erika, a malevolent smile still plastered on her face. "I’d caught them at the right time. I mean this was all before I’d honed my craft, but with these idiots, it didn’t matter." Smug, she sat back in her seat like a confident crimelord. "They didn’t have a chance."

The words further fueled Celeste’s own internal recreation of the crime. Of course, the couple wouldn’t have seen Caroline approach them with her swift, graceful movements. The footsteps wouldn’t have been loud. The axe wouldn’t have dragged on the ground or inadvertently hit a bench. She would’ve been deathly silent.

And Celeste knew Caroline was right. Shannon and Brian didn’t have a chance. Their sexy rendezvous had probably only grown more intense by this point. Shannon grabbing Brian’s toned ass with delight. Brian’s excited eyes focused on her large breasts. Two teens young and in love. And their sex was hot to boot. Caroline had them right where she wanted.

"Shannon saw me first," Caroline said with fondness. "You should’ve seen that bitch’s eyes. Like she was transported from porn to a slasher in a matter of seconds." With an excited compulsion, Caroline made hand gestures reminiscent of flamboyant filmmakers. Like she was describing her own latest bloody film. "Her eyes were so big and scared. She fucking screamed like the little bitch she was! I fucking scared the shit outta her, and it was amazing! I had all this control." She grinned. "All this power. And over Shannon Taylor. The same bitch who’d made my life a living Hell the past six years. Who’d bullied me. Who’d called me an ugly Dyke everyday! I had her life in the palm of my hand."

Horrified, Celeste watched Caroline go on. Celeste was sickened by how enthralled Caroline was with herself and her first kill. But Celeste also couldn’t shake the look Shannon probably gave Caroline back then in that church. The look of terror. The look of someone confronted with their own imminent and brutal death. The blood-curdling scream Shannon Taylor must’ve released as Caroline hoisted the axe up over the couple.

"Brian never even knew what hit him," Caroline said. "I don’t even think his ass knew why Shannon was screaming." Caroline’s smirk reappeared. "The arrogant bitch probably thought it was for him." Amused, she gazed at her mask and caressed its beckoning face. "He was on top so I got him pretty good first."

The massacre unfolded in Celeste’s mind. Brian must’ve been amused by Shannon’s screams. Celeste could even picture the selfish jock going in for a soothing kiss at that point. And then Caroline would’ve swooped in like a vengeful apparition and plunge the axe straight into the back of Brian’s head. The forceful blow must’ve immediately splattered blood over everything. Probably even over a Jesus statue. Real tears of blood would’ve fallen from the sculpture’s eyes. Brian’s blood would’ve sprayed across Shannon’s face as well. She’d be horrified. Naked, vulnerable, and covered in her dying boyfriend’s blood. His strong body still on top of her, pinning her down. All before Shannon turned eighteen.

"But he surprised me," Caroline reflected, not brimming with as much smug excitement. She faced Celeste and Erika. "I knew he’d be strong but God, he was built like an ox! Even after that first hit, he came after me swinging. And Shannon’s stupidass just kept screaming and tried to crawl away! I was fighting with Brian, but won, of course. But still." Uncomfortable, she looked down at the mask.

Caroline looked embarrassed by the fact her first kill didn’t go over so triumphantly, Celeste thought. As if Caroline knew that without that initial strike when Brian wasn’t expecting it, she very well could’ve been overpowered by the jock in the church. And then she would’ve been caught. That would’ve been the end of the Mayberry Murderer’s reign before it even got started. A fact Caroline seemed rather embarrassed by.

"I had to give him three blows to the head just to get him down," Caroline reflected, her eyes still focused on the mask.

Celeste noticed how Caroline wasn’t acting the kill out with the flamboyant enthusiasm she’d shown earlier. Instead, Caroline stared at her security blanket out of shame.

In her mind, Celeste could even see how startled Caroline must’ve been after getting attacked by Brian. As if she wasn’t prepared for how the dying body can still fight back. Rather than a swift kill, Caroline’s first casualty turned into a bloody mess. Not to mention how Shannon’s shrieks must’ve echoed throughout the empty church like a soundtrack meant to assault the senses. Yet the fatally wounded Brian still wouldn’t have been a match for the teenage Caroline. And then Caroline would’ve wanted to get to her main course: Shannon Taylor.

The Mayberry Murderer would’ve used all her force to retrieve the axe out of Brian’s skull. Then her successive blows would’ve pulverized his face into a pulp of squished flesh and gray matter. Shannon’s cries drowned out by each one of Caroline’s ferocious slams. Caroline was driven by the need to kill that Shannon bitch. And Brian was ultimately just a minor distraction.

"So what happened to the girl?" Erika asked Caroline.

With a sly grin, Caroline faced her. "Oh, she was easy. Much easier than Brian."

Celeste knew right then and there that Caroline’s confidence had come roaring back. The transition from clumsy killer to the efficient Mayberry Murderer would probably begin with Shannon Taylor.

"While I was taking care of Brian, she was too scared to do anything," Caroline said, amused. "The dumb bitch didn’t even know what to do. She wasn’t even trying to fight back when I kept bashing his face in over and over again." Caroline paused, soaking in the glorious memories with the reverence one would have for their childhood or wedding day. "He’d pissed me off when he’d attacked me. He tested me, or I don’t know, maybe it was God testing me, but I did it anyway! I fucking killed him." Overcome with nostalgic joy, Caroline exhaled. "Aw, it was fun. And, of course, Shannon couldn’t go nowhere. She was just sitting there on her ass, covered in Brian’s blood and some of his brains. Hell, his body was laying there just a few feet away from her. And all she could do was scream. Just scream her dumbass off like someone was gonna come and save her! Goddamn, she was a pitiful little twat."

The helpless "little twat" Celeste saw lying on the altar’s ugly carpeting like a Biblical sacrifice. The screaming and cowering Shannon Taylor covered in her sweetheart’s blood. His mutilated corpse was so close to her. His rivers of blood flowing right toward Shannon, colliding against her soft feet.

"I closed in on her before she could do anything," Caroline reflected. "Not that she could do anything anyway." Full of pride, Caroline smiled. "This wasn’t high school." She looked down at the mask. "Shannon couldn’t talk that shit to me anymore. She couldn’t bully me and then have the superintendents not give a shit. No one could bail her ass out anymore." Caroline ran her finger along the mask’s eyes. The compulsion soothed Caroline almost as much as her memories in the church did. "No one could save her. Not her boyfriend or her little bitchy friends."

Celeste envisioned the seventeen-year-old Caroline advancing upon Shannon with a confident stride Caroline had never had up until this very moment. The killer would then stop and stand up over Shannon like a defiant Goddess. And in many ways, Caroline was just that. She got to pick and choose who lived. And who died. In that church, Shannon would cry and scream in horror. She’d beg for mercy from this Goddess of death.

Excited, Caroline looked up at Erika and Celeste, her expression similar to a manic child who couldn’t wait to tell their parents about their game-winning hit from Recess. "I knew she was horrified. I could see it in her blue eyes. The Goddamn blonde-haired, blue-eyed All-American bitch was absolutely fucking terrified. Naked and trapped. Scared." Caroline cackled with glee. "Just how I wanted her."

Such uncontrollable happiness radiated off of Caroline. Celeste knew how uncomfortable Caroline was when she discussed some of her memories. About how her parents fought. Her abuse from Matt. Her time with Uncle Willie and Aunt Rose. But Caroline always became downright elated when discussing the murders in her life.

"I loved hearing those screams," Caroline went on. "It’s what I dreamed of. Her helplessness. Her fucking fear. Her pain." Pleased by her own capabilities, Caroline smiled as she gazed at the fireplace. "Oh, I love it. I still do."

"So what did you do to her?" Erika asked.

Caroline faced Erika. "I got down right in front of her while she kept begging. I kneeled down and took off my mask." Caroline’s confident smile never left her face. "I wanted her to know it was me. Just so I could have the last laugh." She ran her hand along the mask’s face. The reassuring compulsion. "And she just begged and cried. Just a scared little bitch." Savoring the memory, Caroline paused for dramatic effect. "She even said she was sorry. How about that! Saying she was sorry right before I was gonna slaughter her bitchass. Fucking shocking, right?" Bitter, Caroline looked down at the mask. "But I knew she was lying. It was all empty apologies." She faced Erika. "So I lied right back."

The scenario played out in Celeste’s mind. Caroline, the teenage slasher kneeling over her helpless target. A confident and cocky Caroline lifting up the paper-mâché mask not to reveal a hideous monster but a fresh-faced young woman. At seventeen, Caroline probably even had the same haircut. The same sense of style. The same cold eyes. The same evil intentions.

How surprised Shannon must’ve been, Celeste thought. Maybe she even had hope this was all some sort of revenge prank that Brian was in on. The pig’s blood of Carrie minus the terrifying aftermath. But Brian wouldn’t have been moving. His mangled face not the result of fancy special effects but from the violent blows of an axe that was all too real. And all Shannon had to combat the weapon was pathetic apologies.

"I stroked her face like I cared," Caroline said. "Stupid stuck-up bitch probably thought I was trying to hit on her. And all she did was cry and beg." She smirked. "I told her she was gonna be alright. That everything was gonna be alright."

Celeste pictured Shannon still laying on the ground. Tears and snot intermingling on her scared face. All while Caroline’s gloved hand stroked her cheek. Caroline’s way of belittling her victim with the patronizing promises of mercy. Promises that Shannon probably did her best to convince herself to believe.

"After all," Caroline said, her crazed smirk omnipresent. "I was gonna make her the famous little twat she always wanted to be."

"And how were you gonna do that?" Erika prodded.

Never once blinking, Caroline stared right at Erika. "All I did was tell her to hold the axe. That’s all." Caroline chuckled. "She was so confused at first. Shannon had no idea what was going on. But she listened. She did exactly what I told her." Her laughter grew more deranged. "I mean I guess she had to. She had no choice. I just put it right in her hands!" Enthused, Caroline held her hands out, performing yet another violent reenactment for her audience. "Before she could react, I just pushed her hands forward like that!" Like a hammy actress, she thrust out her hands with an emphatic yell. "And forced it right through her thick fucking skull!" A darkness had overtaken Caroline. Even with a grin, her appetite for grisly violence was well on display. Her sheer joy for pain and bloodshed was obvious. "It was perfect! Perfectly executed!"

The "perfect execution" flashed through Celeste’s mind. Celeste saw how the teenage Caroline shoved the axe into Shannon’s trembling hands, goading Shannon as if she were making an impressionable teen succumb to peer-pressure. The Mayberry Murderer comforting the scared teenager with the sincerity of a wolf directing a herd of lost little lambs. And then it happened. Caroline wrapped her hand of long fingers around Shannon’s neck before jamming Shannon’s arms forward, forcing the vicious blade straight into Shannon’s pretty face. Her fate like Brian’s. Nasty and grisly. Their young attractive faces decimated by the mark of a madwoman’s axe. Celeste could picture Caroline’s face coated in her victim’s blood. Red make-up. Fresh red dye for her unique hairstyle. The smug smile still on her lips. A smile that had always had that creepy mischievous glint.

Shannon’s corpse would then collapse backward onto the hideous carpet. Blood spilling out all around her. Her and Brian’s blood and bits of flesh would at least give that carpet a grisly makeover.

"She never looked more beautiful," Caroline confided to the camera.

Celeste could picture Caroline reaching out and running her hand along Shannon’s split head. Calm, gentle strokes amongst all the blood that erupted like a flowing spring from Shannon’s fatal wound. Of course, Caroline would admire her work as well. Admire it with the pride of an artist evaluating her first masterpiece.

"Shannon Taylor in all her dead glory," Caroline gushed. "It was like one of those nasty art projects. You know the ones that are all bloody and shit. Here she was naked and sexy with her head split right down the fucking middle. Like body paint."

The crew all stared at the killer. Each of them may have had feelings ranging from intrigue to disgust, but all of them were mesmerized by what they heard. Held captive by Caroline’s every word.

Celeste also knew how much Caroline was soaking up the attention. She knew she had this audience hooked... Celeste feared how much more powerful Caroline would feel once she saw how her words could impact and influence the lives of millions via ratings, streams, clicks, and views. Brainless gawkers willingly feeding into the mouth of the monster that was the Mayberry Murderer.

Smooth as ever, Caroline looked over at Erika and Celeste. "She was a pretty girl. Even with all the blood and gooey shit everywhere, you could still see her sexiness. You could just sit there and watch the blood flowing down to those big boobs of hers. I mean I thought she looked hotter. To me at least. She wasn’t the fake cunt she usually was."

"So you staged all this?" Erika interjected.

Pulsating with excitement, Caroline nodded. "Yeah, it was perfect! And on the first try, shit. I pulled off a murder-suicide in a church! How creative! How blasphemous!"

"It is."

Caroline flashed a bright smile. "Nobody ever knew or found out. They just thought the bitch got jealous and knocked off Brian and then herself. An overemotional teenager who just flipped out, got jealous and killed her boyfriend. The whole town knew Shannon was a complete bitch anyway."

"But wouldn’t this make you jealous?" Celeste asked Caroline, her voice calm and restrained.

Drawn to Celeste, Caroline looked right at her, intrigue lurking in the killer’s cold eyes.

"Jealous?" Erika said in confusion.

Celeste maintained intense eye contact with Caroline. Even as Caroline never blinked. "I mean you couldn’t really take credit for it," Celeste said. "You couldn’t take credit for any of these murders in fact. All that hard work you did, all that preparation. None of it mattered. In the history of the Mayberry Murderer, those first few kills will never be credited to you."

With amused defiance, Caroline watched Celeste. Her stare reminiscent of the coolest kid in school getting reprimanded yet again and still not giving a fuck.

"Instead, that ’little twat’ as you called her got it all," Celeste went on, her voice now containing outrage she usually hid behind her more-professional monotone. "She got the infamy and the attention. The credit for being a killer."

Dismissive, Caroline looked down at the mask.

"You didn’t murder her or get revenge," Celeste hurled at Caroline with contempt. "You glorified her as a killer. You didn’t humiliate her as a victim, you made her famous for all the reasons you wanted to be."

Erika now had her undivided attention on Celeste rather than Caroline. A "damn, girl!" look on her face.

"And now she’s immortal," Celeste continued. "You didn’t kill Shannon Taylor." Her forced indifference had now given way to a stern glare. "People usually forget the victims, but everyone remembers the murderers. And everyone will remember Shannon as that crazy bitch who hacked up her boyfriend in a small Georgia church."

Silent, Caroline confronted Celeste.

"Hell, at this point, she might be more famous than you, Caroline," Celeste went on.

Caroline smirked.

"I would think that would make you somewhat jealous," Celeste told Caroline. "From what I’ve seen of you and know about you at least."

Scoffing, Caroline waved Celeste off with the indifference of a high school rebel. "Aw, I was too excited to care about all that shit then." She looked on at Celeste’s eyes, keeping up their staredown. And Celeste wasn’t backing down either. "I was still young, doctor. Still figuring myself out." She leaned forward in her seat, talking to Celeste like it was just those two alone in the room. "The jealousy didn’t start until I hit thirty. You see, that’s when I started to care about the brand. When I really amped up my campaign. I started sending the letters, the e-mails. I went all-out with going after the press and police. I wanted the whole world to fear The Mayberry Murderer."

Caroline’s casual demeanor more than her words chilled Celeste. It was all a game to her. Taking lives and teasing the press. Just a gigantic role-play as a conniving serial killer. Only in the case of Caroline, she was actually doing it. And doing a damn efficient job.

Ready to hi-jack the conversation, Erika motioned toward Caroline. "Well, hold up a second. This murder-suicide had to be influenced by your mother, right?"

Contemplative, Caroline looked back down at her mask. She was quiet and not quick with an answer. A rare moment of introspection for the killer.

"I suppose self-consciously that’s what I was doing," Caroline finally said, her voice not as strong compared to her typical brash tone.

Sensing Caroline’s vulnerability, Celeste went for the kill. "I thought you felt nothing toward your mom."

Caroline faced Celeste. "I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to bring more fame to us female serial killers for once." She grinned. "Show everyone that girls really do just wanna have fun. That we can do the same sick shit a man can do. I can be just as strong. Deadly, conniving."

"Conniving?" Erika asked.

"Well, come on! I staged a fucking murder-suicide in a church!" Defensive, Caroline’s hands went wild with overexcited gestures. "With an axe for Christ sakes!"

"Yeah. Fair point."

Unlike Erika, Celeste wasn’t ready to kiss a killer’s ass. Instead, Celeste’s glare remained even if it wasn’t very intimidating. "No, something’s still not right," she challenged Caroline.

As always, Celeste drew Caroline’s attention. Particularly right now as Celeste’s voice was struggling to hide her suppressed outrage.

"To pull something like that off," Celeste went on. "At your age and on your first try. There’s no way. Not even Dahmer or Gacy could’ve pulled that off at seventeen. Not two people."

Caroline looked at her with a despondent gaze. "Who said I’m Dahmer or Gacy?"

"What you did is so audacious, I just don’t think-" Celeste began.

"I killed more than they did," Caroline overpowered Celeste. "Maybe I’m just better."

Now Celeste realized Caroline’s lethargic voice contained thinly-veiled contempt. Even though she did a better job of hiding her emotions than me.

"It almost sounds like you don’t think a woman can slaughter people with an axe, chop them up, and move their bodies," Caroline said.

"That’s not what I meant," Celeste replied.

"If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s pretty sexist of you, doctor."

Pissed off, Celeste pointed at Caroline. "No, I didn’t! That’s not what I said!"

Erika looked at Celeste, surprised by her unleashed anger.

Caroline just gave Celeste that confident smile. Like she knew she’d gotten under Celeste’s skin. And enjoyed it.

"All I meant," Celeste started, deliberating on her response out of fear she’d say something irrational and impulsive. "Was that no one could’ve done something so ambitious with their first kill. No man or woman. Not at seventeen. Not with a damn axe. And not get away with it that easily."

With defiant confidence, Caroline leaned in closer toward Celeste. "Sounds like you’re not buying it, doctor," Caroline teased.

"Well, I’m-" Celeste started.

"You’re telling me you can’t trust a serial killer."

Keeping her composure, Celeste looked on at Caroline. Don’t show weakness. Don’t show your fear. "It’s just unusual to be so audacious with your first kill. That’s all I’m saying. It’s dangerous and tough to kill off two people your first time."

Amused, Caroline sat back in her seat. "So what are you trying to say?"

Erika looked back-and-forth between the two women, watching the match with the intensity of a spectator at a tennis game.

"I want to know more about your parents," Celeste told Caroline.

"I already told you-" began Caroline.

"Just what really happened to them," Caroline said in a forceful voice.

Back onto a subject she disliked, Caroline gripped both sides of the mask as she struggled on a response.

Celeste could spot Caroline’s anxiety from a mile away. She liked seeing the way Caroline’s hands clung to the paper-mâché mask. How they crushed the paper under those stressful grips.

"What really happened to the Crane family," Celeste went on.

Silent, Caroline just glared at Celeste. Not a very subtle one either. This was a glare to kill coming from a literal killer.

"You can tell us the truth, Caroline," Celeste said. "This is your chance."

"I already told you," Caroline said.

"No, you didn’t," Celeste said with conviction. "You just fed us the same regurgitated bullshit."

"No, I-"

"It’s the same bullshit everyone else believed! But not me!"

Overwhelmed by Celeste’s interrogative tactics, Caroline looked down at the mask’s comforting blank face.

"Just tell us the truth, Caroline!" Celeste demanded. "This is why we’re here, right! To record the confessions of the great Mayberry Murderer!"

Caroline looked up at Celeste. Caroline’s eye blank as if the mask had worked its powers once again in helping the killer restrain her emotions. Her security blanket.

"This is what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it, Caroline!" Celeste continued.

Wanting to calm the tension, Erika grabbed Celeste’s wrist. "Maybe we should just move on to-"

Caroline held her hand out toward Erika. "No, please! She’s right."

Erika let go of Celeste’s wrist, stepping out of the way of this ongoing duel.

Caroline gave Celeste a cool grin. "You’re right, Celeste. You’re right about everything."

Determined not to fall victim to Caroline’s charm, Celeste’s harsh expression didn’t disappear.

"I knew you were different than all the others," Caroline said. "All the other doctors and writers. You’re smarter than them."

"You’re not smooth-talking your way out of this," Celeste said.

"Who said I had to?" Caroline’s smile never wavered. Such a sexy smile begged Celeste to trust this killer’s pretty face.

How that smile must’ve helped take the lives of so many, Celeste thought.

"I’m right here, doctor," Caroline stated as if it were an open challenge. "I’m not going anywhere."

"Nobody could believe it, could they," Celeste said with a deliberate, calm voice.

Like a curtain drawing to a close, the smirk on Caroline’s face began to evaporate right before the crew’s collective eyes.

"You were only five years old," Celeste went on.

Confused, Erika looked at Celeste. "What do you mean?"

"She knows what I mean," Celeste told her.

Caroline looked right at Celeste, silent. Her facial expressions offered no emotions, but not even her eyes could hide everything this time. A war was erupting behind Caroline’s haunting brown eyes. Caroline’s wall of stoicism had started to crumble.

"She’s lying about her parents," Celeste continued.

"What?" Erika said in disbelief.

Celeste glared at Caroline. "Aren’t you, Caroline?"

Her demeanor detached, Caroline didn’t say a thing. Without even looking at the mask, her left hand kept caressing the red splotches on the mask’s cheek. Like she was a despondent old woman in a rocking chair.

The compulsion, Celeste realized.

"No," Caroline finally replied. "You’re right, doctor." Her harrowing eyes looked right at Celeste. "No one could believe it."

To Celeste, Caroline’s voice was so much calmer than the unstable emotions she seemed to be hiding behind her eyes.

"And no one wanted to," Caroline went on, not hesitant in the slightest. "They assumed mama who did it because they couldn’t dare face the other possibility. That I was a killer."

Erika and the crew looked on at Caroline, stunned.

But it didn’t surprise Celeste. Not in the slightest. She’d suspected it earlier. Caroline may have been brilliant at hiding her emotions and lies from everyone else, but she was dealing with me. It’s hard to fool someone who’s studied you and knows more about your psychology than your own self. Your tendencies, your history. Your kinks.

"You killed him, didn’t you," Celeste said to Caroline, not as a question but as fact. "You killed your dad."

Contemplative, Caroline looked down at the mask.

"Was it just like Shannon Taylor?" Celeste went on. She leaned forward. "You staged it all like you did with her, didn’t you?"

Caroline glared at Celeste.

"That’s how you pulled off the Shannon Taylor murder-suicide," Celeste said. "That arrangement." She liked seeing the rising anger in Caroline’s face. Any chance to wipe that smirk off her face. "You’d already done it before to your own parents."

"No!" Caroline yelled.

Celeste noticed how Caroline’s hands held onto the mask for dear life. Like Caroline was clinging to a shield. And in many ways, she was.

"I didn’t kill her!" Caroline continued. Upset, she looked back down at the androgynous mask. "It wasn’t like that at all," she said, rare emotion pouring through her voice. "It was Matt. It was always him."

"What do you mean?" Celeste asked. "What happened?"

Avoiding eye contact, Caroline looked off at the graffiti. Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane! Unlike the mask, the disgusting words pushed more anger into Caroline. Anger she felt over the unfairly-disgraced legacy handed to her mother by ignorant townsfolk. The same type of people who’d mistreated and disrespected Caroline.

"Caroline?" Celeste said, a little more sympathy in her tone.

Caroline faced Celeste. "I’ll tell you what happened."

From Celeste’s perspective, Caroline looked to have been holding back tears. The killer wasn’t giving in. To show vulnerability would be to lose control.

"That morning, it was Matt," Caroline said, her reflective demeanor marred by a lingering sense of dread. "He was being his usual self. A drunk asshole like always." She hesitated on the painful reflection.

Celeste could tell the memories were still bothering her. Caroline’s internal pain wasn’t ever over Bette Crane or what Bette supposedly did. It was what Matt did. And ultimately, what Caroline did. Deep down, Celeste knew the key to the origins of the Mayberry Murderer began right here on that day over thirty years ago. In this very house. Not with Shannon Taylor. But with Caroline’s own parents.

Unsettled, Caroline ran her fingers along the edges of the mask. Rhythmic therapy for the vivid recollection she was about to spill. A coping mechanism for the trauma. "Mama was in the kitchen cooking eggs. Making breakfast. Coffee. She kept the radio on." She smiled with warm reflection. "She liked all the hit stations." Soft fondness crashing through her bitter anger, Caroline looked over at the radio. "She’d leave it on every morning." Her smile grew wider. "There were so many good songs."

"What was playing that morning?" Erika asked, partly out of curiosity and partly to join in on the interview.

Caroline faced her. "Eyes Without A Face."

Surprised by the answer, Celeste gave her a funny look. "Billy Idol?"

"Yes!" Caroline responded. "It was mama’s favorite." She smirked at the memory. "He was one of her favorites. Mama thought he was cute. She’d always be talking about him."

Now that Caroline thought about it, Eyes Without A Face was a rather eerie song. A haunting, hypnotic track masquerading as an 80s power ballad.

"It was all perfect," Caroline went on. "It was just me and mama in the kitchen cooking breakfast. Like we always did. I loved it." She paused, savoring the good vibes of the memory while they lasted. "And then Matt’d show up. Like a fucking ghost." She released a cynical laugh. "Like a fucking evil spirit that just wouldn’t die."

"He’d show up every morning?" Erika asked.

Caroline faced the anchor. "Yes. Matt would come in talking shit. Always drunk." Lost in her thoughts, Caroline looked down at the mask as she traced her fingers along its soft edges. "But that morning, he just seemed worse." She confronted Celeste and Erika with intense eyes. "He was so much uglier. So much meaner. He was more aggressive... I don’t know." Doing her best to save face from crying or showing any fear, she gazed back at the mask, avoiding their intrigued faces.

The move wasn’t fooling Celeste. She knew Caroline was hiding from the crew and the cameras. That is until Caroline regained enough cool confidence to face her "audience" again.

"It all happened so quickly," Caroline said, her voice full of longing and regret. In quick, circular motions, she ran her hand along the mask’s red splotches.

Compulsory motions, Celeste thought.

"They were fighting like usual," Caroline went on. "But it was worse this time. They seemed louder. Both of them were angrier. Mama even stopped cooking and threw the frying pan on the table. Like she’d had enough." Upset, Caroline let out a weary sigh. "I tried to tune them out. I tried my best... but there was only so much I could do. I just went hiding under the table." Her voice died off. She quit caressing the mask, but her eyes stayed fixated on its androgynous face. The mask’s blank stare. "I kept hearing Eyes Without A Face the whole time. It was all I could do. It was my escape." She faced the crew. No tears were welling up in her eyes even though conflicted emotions could be seen within them. "I’d closed my ears and kept singing it to myself. I sang it over and over as much as I could." She looked off at the main camera as if she was too shy to look anyone in the eye. "Eyes without a face, got no human grace," Caroline sang in a haunting tone. "Your eyes without a face..."

Celeste watched the impromptu performance, captivated yet disturbed by the way Caroline had regressed to this particular moment. She was back to being the scared little girl hiding under the table. Even Caroline’s singing voice was reminiscent of a lonely young girl singing to herself as a way to cope with her isolation and sadness. Not the voice of a killer in her forties.

The solemn singing tailored off, and an uneasy silence overtook the room. Caroline still refused to look at anyone even though everyone else was looking at her. "They kept fighting," Caroline struggled to begin. "And then Matt went and did it right in front of me. Even though he knew I was right there. He knew I was under the table. That I was his scared little girl! And the sick bastard did it right there in front of me!"

Caroline’s tormented recollection fueled Celeste’s thoughts. Celeste could picture the farmhouse in the early 80s. Like the eerie call of trapped spirits, Billy Idol’s Eyes Without A Face would drift into the kitchen from the living room’s radio. The hypnotic tune providing an elegiac soundtrack to the drunken Matt yelling obscenities at his wife. Of course, Bette would hurl obscenities right back. She’d slam the frying pan down on the table.

All the while, Celeste pictured the five-year-old Caroline hiding under the kitchen table. The young girl would be cowering, her hands over her ears, her eyes shut. She’d sing along softly to Eyes Without A Face as a desperate escape from the domestic horrors surrounding her.

"He slapped mama," Caroline said.

In Celeste’s mind, she could see Matt slapping Bette across the face. And Celeste could hear how ferocious it was. Even when she was hiding behind Billy Idol, Celeste knew that the young Caroline had witnessed the abuse as well. She had heard that hit. The strike that ignited a massacre.

"He looked at me after doing it," Caroline went on, her blank eyes still staring on at the main camera. "He had this drunken smile on his face. Like he knew I wouldn’t do shit. That I couldn’t do shit to my own daddy."

Celeste envisioned Matt’s evil grin. It was probably just like Caroline’s. A confident and conniving smile. Naturally, the monster that was Matt Crane would give his young daughter such a smile after slapping Bette. Like he was challenging his own child. Much like the way Caroline had used her smile toward me, Celeste thought.

Still shaken, Caroline looked over at Celeste. "Mama was too worried about protecting me. She knew he’d finally gone crazy."

The quick painful visual of Bette reaching out toward the five-year-old Caroline ran through Celeste’s mind. Bette would’ve called her name. She would’ve yelled for Caroline. And then Caroline would’ve stopped singing. Caroline would open her eyes to see the terrified Bette. How desperate Bette was to get away. And then, even at that young age, Caroline would’ve known that this time was different than all those other routine arguments between her mother and father. After all, if Bette was scared... then Matt must’ve really lost it. The five-year-old Caroline would’ve know that right then and there her father was dangerous.

"And before she could do anything, I saw him reach toward the counter," Caroline said, her voice trembling. "I saw him snatch the knife and heard that awful slide it made against the counter." Full of tormented anguish, she ran nervous hands through her hair, all over her red dye. She wasn’t acting out this attack. She was still suffering from it. "I heard him and saw him get closer, but I didn’t do anything. I was too scared! I didn’t know what to do...I just sat there under the table.

"Oh God!" Erika said, horrified.

"I saw him run toward her..." Caroline continued. "I saw my reflection on the knife as he got closer and I wanted to tell mama but I couldn’t! She didn’t see him like I did. She was too worried about me. God, I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t say anything. I just couldn’t... I couldn’t say shit." Doing her best to reign in her distraught emotions, she gazed down at the mask. "I wanted to. I wanted to tell her... I wanted to save mama..."

Celeste could picture an absolutely petrified five-year-old Caroline in that kitchen. She’d be too scared to move as her own mother reached toward her to take her away from that awful home. Caroline’s eyes glued to the sight of her father holding out the long butcher knife as he rushed up behind Bette. Caroline scared of her own dad. Scared to see her own frightened reflection looking back at her in the knife’s shiny blade.

"He grabbed mama so quick," Caroline said. "He kept her right there, holding her right in front of me. She was scared, I know she was. But she couldn’t escape. She tried and tried... but he kept her right there. He put the knife right to her throat, and he called her a bitch, a whore. He was awful. Daddy was fucking terrible!" With unsettled terror, she kept staring at the mask. "She begged me to help her, but I couldn’t do anything!" Caroline said in a wounded voice. "I couldn’t help mama..."

In her mind, Celeste saw how trapped Caroline must’ve been. Stuck under that table and held captive by Matt. And all the while, Caroline would’ve been forced to see her mother struggle at the hands of Matt. And there was nothing Caroline could do except watch... Just the thought sent chills down Celeste’s spine.

"And then daddy looked at me," Caroline said. She confronted Celeste and Erika with a blank stare.

The stare reminded Celeste of Caroline’s cherished mask. No discernible emotions were on it. An almost uncanny lack of human expression on Caroline’s face. The real Caroline was still hiding. Still refusing to reveal her internal feelings for all to see.

"He had that smile on his face," Caroline went on. "Mama was crying and screaming for me, but I just stayed right there. I just watched them." Caroline glanced down at the mask before confronting the crew. "And then he stabbed her in the forehead," she said in her steady Southern drawl. "He jammed it real deep."

From Celeste’s horrified perspective, she could see how the scene played out. The quiet yet intimidated little Caroline watching Matt hold Bette at knifepoint. He’d be holding the girl’s mother right in front of her. Holding the lives of the entire family in his twisted hands. What a sick son-of-a-bitch.

Matt would smile at Caroline just to keep her attention. Even while Caroline’s mom would be crying and screaming for help. And as she screamed, and with Caroline as his captivated audience, Matt would shove the knife straight into Bette Crane’s forehead. A brutal jab complete with a loud and horrifying SPLAT! And then Bette’s screams would be no more. Bette’s blood would stream all around the lodged blade like a red spring. Gallons of it would be dripping all over the wooden floor. A fucking mess.

"He seemed pleased," Caroline reflected, masking her emotions. "Even happy."

"My God..." Erika said in disgust.

Caroline maintained eye contact with Celeste and Erika. Even though Caroline’s eyes still rarely blinked. "He snatched out the knife and just threw her down to the ground like she was a slab of meat." Still facing the crew, Caroline’s hand ran along the mask. "He ignored me and leaned down toward her body. He just left me there under the table."

Silent, Erika and even Celeste looked on at Caroline with empathy.

"Mama’s blood floated all the way down to me," Caroline continued, her voice now back in its indifferent state. "I saw daddy just glaring down at her, still calling her names. Still calling her a whore." She paused. "He didn’t pay me any attention at all."

Celeste imagined Matt leaning over Bette’s corpse in triumph. Like in this literal War Of The Roses, he’d come out victorious in a bloodbath. He’d be too busy admiring the grisly cadaver to notice Caroline still there under the table. Matt would’ve kept clinging to the knife. Countless drops of blood dripping off the blade like a leaky faucet. He’d stare down at the deceased Bette with the glee of a pleased painter looking on at their latest masterpiece. The same look Caroline would give to most of her victims.

"He must’ve thought I was too weak to do anything," Caroline said. "That I was just daddy’s scared little dyke." She cracked a smile.

The change in demeanor worried Celeste. Caroline’s smile had that confident beam in it. Her voice was no longer weak and uncomfortable. She was enjoying this part of the memory.

Caroline leaned back in her chair. "The son-of-a-bitch probably thought I’d help him hide her body or whatever. But that wasn’t happening. I was over it by then. I wasn’t scared." Her cold eyes looked on at Celeste. "Hell, I never even shed a tear when he killed mama."

To Celeste’s horror, she could envision Caroline staying under the table. The young girl’s curious gaze watching Matt and the bloodied knife. The five-year-old Caroline enthralled by the vicious murder she’d just witnessed, not repulsed by it. Not at all saddened by her mother’s death. Instead, even at that age, Caroline would have that same intrigued but blank expression on her face. Even as Bette’s rivers of blood ran all the way down to Caroline’s small feet.

"What I said earlier was true," Caroline went on. "I wasn’t affected at all by what I saw. Maybe subconsciously, that’s why I didn’t help mama. That’s why I just sat there and watched." Her frenetic hand gestures kicked in. Rather than causing her pain, the memory was rejuvenating her excitement. "I was excited to see the violence! I was this monster all along. I never cared for mama or daddy. Not even when I was a fucking kid."

"But then, what happened?" Erika asked. "What happened with Matt?"

Caroline gave a cryptic smile. "What do you mean what happened?"

Confused by the question, Erika struggled for a response. "Well, I mean. Once you saw Matt right there. How did you..."

"How did you kill him?" Celeste finished for Erika.

Caroline looked down at the mask as she ran her hand all along the paper face. "He was actually much easier than Brian." She smirked. "He was so stupid he didn’t even hear me. He’s too busy just looking down at mama’s dead body." She faced the crew. "The drunk son-of-a-bitch didn’t hear me creep up behind him. He didn’t even hear me grab the frying pan. Not until it was too late."

With excited fondness, Caroline raised her hands to re-enact the violent act. "He turned around and didn’t see me under that table anymore. And that’s when I saw the fear sink into his eyes. I think he saw the flash of that frying pan right before I swung it into his dumb fucking face."

Celeste saw how the scenario played out. Matt would hear soft footsteps creeping up behind him. He’d turn away from Bette’s dead body and look under the table. Then fear would paralyze him. Caroline wouldn’t be under the table. And then a heavy frying pan would come at him with full blast. Right from the hands of his five-year-old daughter. Caroline had ambushed him with extreme sneakiness. And she was ready to kill.

"Before he could get a really good look, I gave him a big whack in the back of the head," continued Caroline. "Like blaoww!" she yelled as she swung her invisible pan through the air. "He hit the ground so hard. But he was still alive. I’d hit him so hard it looked like the top of his head had caved in. Like it was all disproportionate to the rest of his body, you know. And yet he was still alive. He felt everything." Caroline displayed a proud smile. "And it was great. It was beautiful. All that blood and Matt’s agony. He even tried to fight back, but couldn’t. The son-of-a-bitch was pathetic. He was a weak little bitch. He couldn’t even find the knife he dropped he was so outta it. And there he was laying right next to mama. He was dying in her blood!" Caroline cackled. "And I stood up over him. I watched him struggle. All of it just came outta me. All that hurt he’d done to me, how terrible he made me feel. Now I had the power, and I was gonna enjoy every minute of it."

Full of nostalgic excitement, Caroline looked down at the mask. "I even watched to make sure he saw me before I did anything else." She rubbed the mask’s eye holes in a soothing touch. "I wanted to make sure he saw me like that. To see how much stronger I was than him." Smiling, she faced the crew. "And he did. He saw his little girl holding that bloody frying pan. All the grease and his own blood dripping off it." She chuckled, satisfied. "He was fucking terrified, I could see it in his face and eyes. He was fucked. And his fear made me so happy. He knew I was all grown up." Living through the exhilarating memories, she cradled the mask closer to her. "The adrenaline it gave me. I was just compelled to kill the bastard. Compelled to keep going and finish him off."

"And did you?" Erika said.

Chuckling, Caroline leaned in toward Celeste and Erika. "Of course! I must’ve whacked his ass thirty damn times!" Triumphant, she collapsed back into her seat. "I made sure he felt it too. I dragged out daddy’s death as long as I could." She revealed that evil smirk. "And when he gurgled up blood and tried to speak, I gave him his space. I let him recover just enough so that I could continue hitting him with that frying pan again and again." She leaned forward in the chair as if she were spilling intimate secrets with friends. "You see, the five years he’d spent torturing me and mama were gonna cost him those fifteen minutes I spent bludgeoning his fucking brains out."

"Right," Erika commented with unease.

"He looked at me through all the blood while I was glaring and hitting him," Caroline went on. "All my hits were hard too. But I saved all my strength for those last few." She gazed over at the fire. "Those were the ones that caved in his entire face for good. It sent most of his brains spewing out too. Fucking glorious."

Uneasy, Erika, Alex, and J.R. watched Caroline pause for the dramatic moment. They were disturbed by the account and disturbed by Caroline herself. Only Celeste seemed unfazed, and that was only because she did her best to conceal her fear from Caroline.

"The frying pan got heavier with his blood and all the pieces of his face and brains," Caroline continued as if it were a humblebrag rather than a dark confession. She looked at Celeste and Erika. "It’s funny, you know. At the start of it, all I kept hearing was Eyes Without A Face. It kept playing on and on in my head even after it was over. I just kept thinking about it and singing it as I hit daddy." As if she was hearing the song right now on the tombstone radio, Caroline sat up straight in her seat. "Eyes without a face, got no human grace," she sang in a swift ditty. Then just like, Caroline motioned toward Celeste, back to discussing the kill. "It was just like that. I couldn’t fucking help myself. I loved it. I loved fucking killing daddy and watching him suffer."

Radiating with excitement, Caroline leaned forward, like she was getting closer to Celeste and Erika. "The urge was released right there." She pointed down at her mask. "At that exact moment!" Adrenaline ran through Caroline’s veins, making her hand gestures all the more wilder and passionate. "I felt powerful like a God! Like I was finally free."

Using Caroline’s own words for fuel, Celeste could picture the disturbing murder. There was the sight of the young Caroline bashing Matt’s face in with the bloodied frying pan. Matt’s gooey blood sprayed across Caroline’s once-innocent face. Caroline a child of unusual strength and deadly contempt. A child made to kill. With Eyes Without A Face playing from the living room, Celeste knew Caroline would be singing the lyrics in her haunting, eloquent tone as she continued bludgeoning Matt to death. Each ferocious hit and splatter of blood punctuated by Caroline’s soft rendition of the Billy Idol anthem.

"It was the best feeling I ever had," Caroline continued. "And I knew I couldn’t get caught because then they’d lock me away forever. They’d keep me from ever doing this again, and I couldn’t give that up. I couldn’t give up this happiness and joy. I wasn’t sure when I’d ever get another chance to kill, but I knew I couldn’t risk giving up that feeling. Or the opportunity to recapture it." She looked down at the mask and ran her hand across its smooth face. "The opportunity to kill again."

Celeste’s intense gaze stayed focused on Caroline. "So you staged it? Just like you did with Shannon Taylor."

"It was exactly like that," Caroline replied. "I cleaned up my fingerprints." Playing cute for her audience, she smiled. "Or at least did the best I could. I just knew what I saw on T.V. or what mama had told me from her crime stories. Fingerprints and cleaning yourself and all that shit."

"Wow," Celeste said.

"I slipped the knife in mama’s hands," Caroline went on. "It wasn’t easy, but I managed to do it without breaking her fingers. Then of course, I threw the frying pan on the ground near her." She fixated her gaze on Celeste. "So yeah. I staged a murder-suicide. Just like Shannon Taylor. And just like that, I got away with it."

"And so you did," Celeste stated.

"I made sure there was no way they could blame me for killing daddy. And they didn’t." Caroline flashed a wicked grin. "And why would they? I was only five."

The comment creeped Celeste out to the point where she struggled to hide her unease behind her own wall of stoic professionalism. She’s actually right, Celeste realized. No one would’ve wanted to believe a little girl was capable of that. That a little girl could be that conniving. That a little girl could be that evil.

"The feelings never went away either," Caroline said in a cool tone. Only her confident arrogance was on display now. No other emotions. "They stayed with me forever. The way I felt when I killed daddy... that feeling. I thought about it a lot growing up."

Dealing with a barrage of thoughts, Celeste looked off toward the radio. "During this time, were you still killing?" she asked Caroline.

"No. I had to be careful and wait for the right time."

Celeste faced Caroline. "I know you didn’t kill a person until Shannon Taylor, but what about animals-"

Amused, Caroline waved her off. "God no! I’d never hurt an animal, Celeste. What the fuck."

"Well, that’s good to know," Erika quipped.

"Besides," Caroline started to Celeste. "It wouldn’t be the same. It’s not nearly as exciting to kill Spot or Pebbles as it is a person. I wouldn’t have the same enthusiasm or get the same thrill out of that shit." Not blinking, her eyes seemed to slice into Celeste’s mind. "It wouldn’t give me that feeling."

"I see," Celeste struggled to respond.

Caroline grinned. "I like animals too. They don’t usually bother anyone."

Ever the smartass, Alex leaned in toward J.R. "At least PETA will love her," Alex whispered.

Unamused, J.R. just shook his head. Between Alex’s terrible comments, Erika’s grating bullshit, and Caroline’s disturbing memories, J.R. was veering toward insanity in the Crane house. At least, he wouldn’t be alone since Caroline was right there with him.

"Not like humans," Caroline went on.

Celeste ran her hands up and down her legs, coping with her anxiety. She did her best to match Caroline’s cool demeanor and steady eye contact. And she was doing a solid job considering she was up against a calculating psychopath. "Well, did you ever do anything else to satisfy these urges?" she asked Caroline. "Before Shannon Taylor. I mean how did you deal with these feelings while you were growing up?"

"It’s hard to say." Contemplating her response, Caroline looked off at the fireplace. "Once I was sent to Uncle Willie, I did my best to suppress what I wanted to do. Who I really was."

Celeste watched Caroline keep her focus on the flames. The killer’s demeanor had changed once more. Her voice, her expression, all of it had a morose quality rather than her typical smugness.

"I honestly didn’t do anything that violent," Caroline went on. "Nothing crazy." She confronted Celeste. "I just tried to hold it all in. Even though I really wanted to kill. God, I wanted to feel it again. Murdering, the pleasure. It was horrible going years without it. I tried to be nice and quiet, I did. But where’d that get me?"

Celeste saw the anger rising up in Caroline. An anger dying to get out. But Caroline kept it within. She restrained the rage like only she could. Sealed it off by her impenetrable cool arrogance.

With jaded frustration, Caroline waved her arms around. "It got to the point where I couldn’t stop myself any longer. I couldn’t just be me. I couldn’t be passive anymore and weak. None of that sticks and stones bullshit. All it did was let people walk over me. The bullies, Shannon. Uncle Willie. Just fucking everybody. They just got fucking worse, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer!"

"So is that why you killed her?" Erika asked in her polite "Anchor Erika" tone. As if she was afraid to offend the killer of honor. "Is that what made you finally snap and kill Shannon?"

Despondent, Caroline looked down at her mask. There were no smirks or wild hand gestures. She was alone and avoiding eye contact. For once, she was avoiding the cameras.

"All the bullying," Erika persisted, desperate for an answer. "The emotional abuse from your uncle. Your loneliness. Was that it, Caroline?"

"Yes," Caroline replied. Keeping her emotionless demeanor, Caroline faced them. "It was just too much. It got me. I just... I just couldn’t take it anymore."

Sympathetic, Erika just nodded.

Celeste, on the other hand, was unconvinced. Her skeptical eyes watched Caroline closely.

"Tell me, how did your uncle abuse you, Caroline?" Celeste asked, her voice gentle but commanding. "I mean was it really just him that pushed you back into all this. That re-ignited this urge."

Caroline gave Celeste a smug smile. "You trying to catch me in another lie, doctor?"

Regardless of how much Caroline was trying to get under her skin, Celeste knew she had to stay on the offense. She kept her gaze blank and merciless. Just like Caroline’s. "Well, you said it yourself. Some of these incidents you tried to forget but couldn’t. They stayed with you. They haunted you."

Caroline looked down at the mask, discomfort starting to seep in through her zone of confidence. "I wouldn’t go that far."

"No, it did," Celeste replied firmly. "Something else bothered you, and it still does. Not just the bullies or being called a dyke. There’s way more to it than that."

Silent and still, Caroline kept staring down at her mask.

Celeste knew Caroline didn’t want to face her. Not during her moment of weakness.

Celeste leaned in closer, pressing Caroline further. "Look, Caroline, you can’t go on like this. You can’t keep running away from your past. At a certain point, you have to face the trauma head on."

Not sure what to do, Erika glimpsed through her note cards real quick. As if there was a section covering Celeste’s confrontational approach.

Caroline looked up at Celeste, locking eyes with the doctor once more

"That’s the only way," Celeste told Caroline. "You have to talk about them and be honest."

Feigning a cynical toughness that was combated by her obvious discomfort, Caroline smirked. "I don’t know about all that." She looked over at Erika, commanding Erika’s attention away from the notes with a single gaze. "I doubt Erika Lee signed up for a therapy session."

"Anchor Erika" gave her an awkward smile. "Oh no, you’re fine."

"I can give you more gory details if you want." Showing off her dry wit, Caroline pointed toward Erika. "Violence plus sex should please the advertisers, right? That’s the shit people like to hear. Like what I did to Shannon."

Like she couldn’t disagree, Erika just kept her smile on display.

Caroline looked at Celeste. "They’d rather hear that than see a bunch of killers get cured by your psychoanalysis, I’m afraid."

Fed up with Caroline’s pissy humor, Celeste just glared at her. If I wasn’t an understanding doctor or a total chickenshit, I’d slap the shit out of her.

"All this talk and explaining just takes the fun away," Caroline went on. Playful, she leaned in toward Celeste, the distance between them shrinking to only a few feet. Such intimate hostility. "It makes us killers a little less scary. Don’t you think?"

Celeste sat back in her seat. "Well, why the Hell are we here then!" In an aggressive manner, she motioned toward Caroline. "I thought this was your chance to tell us more about yourself! The Mayberry Murderer! How you slaughtered and tortured your way to the top!"

Caroline reacted to Celeste’s anger with her typical calmness. "Celeste-"

"Look, you brought us here to expose yourself!" she berated Caroline. "To shine this spotlight on your legacy! So why stop now!"

Displeased, Caroline glared at her. "I’m aware."

"So it has to be more than a few punches from daddy or a pretty girl rubbing it in your face to make you snap and start killing people!"

"I already told you!" Caroline yelled at Celeste, showing an unusual lack of restraint with the yell.

From the sidelines, Erika watched with fascination. She wasn’t intervening. Not yet at least. But she was damn sure enjoying the show. Just like she hoped her audience would.

"No, it’s more than that!" Celeste told Caroline. "Something you’re not telling us."

Caroline looked back at her mask, avoiding the sharp eyes of Celeste. To be this criticized and crucified in person was a foreign feeling to the Mayberry Murderer. And she wasn’t handling it well. The stoic wall was crumbling down.

"You said it yourself," Celeste went on. "You could control these urges. You went ten years without even killing an animal."

"I know," Caroline muttered.

"So what did it! What made you snap, Caroline!"

Unsettled, Caroline ran her hands through her hair. "I don’t know!"

"Plenty of other closeted teens deal with the same things everyday. They get bullied. They get made fun of by the preps and jocks in high school. But you don’t see them becoming savage murderers!" Growing more intense by the second, Celeste’s eyes overpowered Caroline. "Racism, sexism. I deal with that too, and I didn’t go crazy and start killing people."

Moving with startling quickness, Caroline glared at Celeste. "That’s not why! That’s not the reaosn-"

"Then what is it then!" Celeste hurled at her. "Tell us! Tell your audience just like you wanted!"

"I can’t! I can’t do it!" Breaking down, Caroline fixated on the mask. "I can’t. I can’t tell you..."

"You can’t keep running from this forever, Caroline. You can’t-"

Caroline glared at Celeste, her eyes full of rage. "He raped me!" she yelled in hardened anger.

An intense silence washed over the room.

The pain in Caroline’s voice was undeniable to Celeste. There was no more of that smartass tone. Caroline looked to be on the verge of tears, her voice cracking. She did feel pain. The monster was human after all.

"Uncle Willie," Caroline struggled to go on. "He fucking raped me." Tears rolled down her eyes. Lots of them.

To Celeste, the teardrops resembled a dam giving way to decades of repressed pressure. Caroline’s expression was no longer blank either. There was pain and melancholy all over it. A discomfort in her expression from both the traumatic memories and from what appeared to be an unfamiliarity with crying. As if weeping was a foreign concept to the Mayberry Murderer. And in Celeste’s opinion, it probably was.

"All my life, he beat me," Caroline went on through the flood of tears. "Treated me like shit just like daddy did. Just like him." She gazed down at the mask, the blank face somehow comforting her through the agonizing memory. "But he crossed the line. Uncle Willie raped me... he fucking raped me..." The tears overtook her words.

As Caroline wept, Erika and Celeste exchanged uneasy looks. The sobbing wasn’t pitiful regardless of how loud and overpowering it was. Caroline’s crying was heartfelt and lacked any of the jaded sarcasm and emptiness that had come to define the killer.

Celeste wasn’t sure how long they should give Caroline. The poor girl needs years of therapy, not a T.V. interview. But Erika’s look veered from sympathy to determination in an instant. Celeste could read Erika much easier than Caroline. And judging by Erika’s expression, Celeste knew she was wanting Celeste to interrupt this moment of silence.

Doing her best to be as respectful as possible, Celeste faced the sad sight that was a weeping Caroline. "Caroline, it’s okay," Celeste said with a little more sympathy than her typical professional detachment would allow. "I’m sorry."

"No, it’s not!" Caroline mustered between tears. "It’s not okay!"

"How old were you?" Celeste asked in a non-pressuring manner. Gone was Celeste’s aggressiveness from earlier. Replaced instead by a soft empathy. "Caroline."

Caroline looked up at Celeste.

Caroline’s eyes looked bigger and more innocent. Even with the red splotches in her hair and the whole murder thing, Caroline reminded Celeste of a scared little child. Like the scared little girl hiding under the table.

"How old were you, Caroline?" Celeste asked again, her voice still soft and respectful. Unlike the one used by "Anchor Erika," Caroline’s tone was genuine and caring. No fake theatrics.

"Sixteen," Caroline responded. She wiped away her tears as more came sliding down her face.

"I’m sorry."

"It was just me and him," Caroline went on. "Aunt Rose was out doing her usual bullshit get-togethers. You know, out with the girls." Full of anger, her hands gripped tighter to the old mask. "She didn’t give a shit about me. Never cared when she left me all alone with that sick bastard." Crying, she ran her hands all along her tear-stricken face with sorrow. "She’d leave me all alone with that fucking monster!" She gazed down at the mask, drawn to the comfort it offered her tormented mind. "It was just me and him. I was alone with him."

Erika and Celeste just watched Caroline, riveted yet horrified.

Caroline never once broke eye contact with the mask. The paper face didn’t just captivate her. It soothed her. The security blanket of sweet youth. "I was in the living room with him," Caroline started, her voice trembling and shaky. "It was Friday night. Friday the thirteenth actually. I didn’t have any friends to go out with or a girlfriend. Uncle Willie wouldn’t even let me drive. I was just trapped there with him. It’s probably what he wanted."

Angry, her grip tightened on both sides of the mask. "He’d always tease me when he got drunk," Caroline continued, her voice becoming stronger through a momentum of anger. "He’d flirt with me usually, but that night, he grabbed my leg. He just reached over and grabbed it and held it so tight. He just kept whispering how fucking beautiful I was. God, it’s all he kept saying. Like he was a fucking robot. I could smell the cheap liquor in his breath, I could feel the bottle brush against my legs as he got closer to my lips. And the whole time, he just kept fucking saying how beautiful I was. He pinned me right there on the small Laz-E-Boy. He held me down."

The fans scattered cool air onto the crew’s disturbed faces, but it did little to help. They were sweating and uncomfortable. Not from the heat but from the dread of what they were about to hear from the killer’s lips.

"I thought he was just joking," Caroline said. "God, I hoped he was just joking. But I knew he wasn’t, I knew he was really gonna do it." Her voice still containing more bitter rage rather than melancholy, Caroline kept looking at the androgynous mask. "I tried to fight back, but he overpowered me. He was strong like me. Like daddy." Her fingers twitched around the mask in discomfort. "The radio was on, and it kept playing Sweet Caroline. It’s what he liked singing to me. And he did it then. He fucking did it while raping me..."

"God..." Erika said in horror.

Holding back tears, Caroline faced the others. "I kept telling him no! God, I kept telling him the whole time! I kept screaming it! But he wouldn’t stop! He kept singing and kept holding me down!" Caroline trembled as if she were reliving the agonizing and grotesque memory. "Goddammit, I tried to fight!" she said with uncontained rage, her words spurting out between heavy breaths. "I clawed his face, I clawed him real fucking good, I punched him, but he overpowered me. He snatched my arm and pinned me down. I was trapped. I couldn’t do anything." In compulsive fashion, her hands ran along the mask’s face.

The worst memory had come out, Celeste realized. The Mayberry Murderer’s real trauma. Celeste did her best not to imagine the terrifying rape. She did her best not to envision it like she had with most of Caroline’s other memories. Celeste didn’t want to.

"And the radio wouldn’t stop," Caroline said. "I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t hear anything. All I could hear was Sweet Caroline." She closed her tortured eyes. "I was his Sweet Caroline." She paused and did her best to corral her spiraling emotions, but not even Caroline could stop all the tears from streaming down her face. "He took my top off and stripped me down." She looked at Celeste. "Piece by piece like I was a fucking animal about to get slaughtered."

"Why didn’t you kill him?" Erika asked. Almost immediately, unease hit her as she seemed to realize how insensitive she probably sounded.

J.R. gave her a dirty look.

At least now I’m not the asshole always asking questions, Celeste thought.

Upset, Caroline looked back down at the mask.

Celeste knew Caroline was avoiding eye contact out of shame. Like she was embarrassed to be the victim of an unspeakable atrocity. Just like how her own victims felt.

"I couldn’t," Caroline said in a soft tone, her voice now at its most vulnerable and uneasy. "I told you I couldn’t. He held me there and was on top of me." She brushed away an onslaught of tears. "I was naked. I felt weak. He said I was just his little bitch. His little Sweet Caroline. It’s all he said. It’s all I kept hearing from him and the radio." Weeping, she caressed the mask’s cheek. "He told me how fucking beautiful I was..."

The room went silent save for the constant rumblings of the fans and Caroline’s trembling tears.

"What happened, Caroline?" Celeste asked, breaking the silence with her gentle therapist tone.

Still crying, Caroline buried her face in her hands.

To Celeste, the sobs looked painful. They sounded even worse.

"Caroline," Celeste began. "What happened?"

In a slow movement that differed drastically from her animal-like quickness, Caroline faced everyone, tears still falling from her eyes. "It happened so slow," she said in a distant voice. "Once he had me really pinned down, he was even worse. He didn’t stroke my hair or try to comfort me like he was earlier." She wiped away her tears as she stared down at the mask. "He was mad and kept telling me I was filthy. He said I was a filthy little dyke and an ugly one at that."

Erika covered her mouth.

"Just an ugly little bitch," Caroline went on, her voice soft yet full of simmering anger. "He didn’t care. The bitch just unbuckled his pants and got on top of me." The tears accelerated down her cheeks. And this time, Caroline didn’t even bother wiping them away or suppressing them. She couldn’t. "The sick fuck didn’t even bother wrapping it. He just fucking raped me. Right there."

Possessed by a wave of rage, Caroline looked up at the ceiling. "I guess I deserved it, huh, Uncle Willie!" she screamed with contempt.

Even through the tears, her anger was full on display, thought Celeste. The unrelenting fury that fueled Caroline’s killing spree. Maybe Caroline was always born to be evil. Born to kill. But the way she had suffered at the hands of her own relatives. The way she was bullied. The horrifying fucking rape. All of it probably just accelerated her inevitable development into the Mayberry Murderer.

Her irate eyes still glaring at the ceiling, Caroline looked to be at war with the world. Or just herself. "This dyke got what she asked for, huh, asshole!" she screamed. "You sick fuck!"

Concerned, Erika reached toward her. "Caroline."

"No!" Caroline yelled at her. With her usual quickness, Caroline looked back at the mask and closed her eyes, still shedding tears. As if closing her eyes would allow her to suppress those painful memories.

"All I heard was the music," Caroline continued, her voice still fueled by lingering anger. "But I felt everything. The pain. Goddammit, he wouldn’t stop!" Like she’s back in Uncle Willie’s arms, she trembles in fear. Her mannerisms and voice escalated to even more deranged levels of hysteria. "There was blood everywhere. He laughed cause he knew he took it from me! My virginity! He took it and the sick fucker enjoyed it! He enjoyed my pain!"

Celeste noticed Caroline caressing the mask again. This time with aggressive, compulsive touches.

"I could feel him touching me with those rough hands," Caroline said, her eyes still closed, her voice down to a scared whimper. "Grabbing me like an animal. He glared at me, breathing down on me." Appearing like a slow virus, piss spread throughout Caroline’s dark jeans.

Unnerved, Celeste looked on at the piss stains.

"He told me I was his little whore," Caroline said through her tears. Breaking down into shambles, Caroline’s sobbing increased at a rapid rate. She couldn’t speak from the distress and sadness. A woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Caroline opened her eyes just long enough to grab the mask and slide it over her face. Behind the mask, she confronted everyone else. Her fragile sadness now concealed from the view of Celeste, the cameras, and Caroline’s adoring "fans."

Of course, the mask gave her confidence, Celeste thought. No wonder she had to wear it when she attacked. The mask was the extra confidence boost. And it was so much creepier when she had it on.

Even though her crying could still be heard, Caroline’s sobbing began to subside. The mask seemed to soothe her. It calmed her when she put it on.

"I was just his little lesbo," Caroline managed to say in a steady, bitter tone. "That’s what he told me." She sifted in her seat. Her wild hand gestures more out-of-control than a college Goth girl putting on disturbing performance art. "He covered my mouth and just kept going faster and faster! I couldn’t stop him even though I tried! God, I tried! But I couldn’t do anything!" Unhinged sobs were heard behind the androgynous face. "All I could do was just lay there and watch." Her hand gestures slowed down. "I couldn’t do anything..." Imbued with anxious unease, she rested her hands in her lap. "I couldn’t..." Her head tilted downward and she didn’t say anything after that. The sobbing got slower and less violent. Her hands didn’t move an inch.

The crew stayed quiet at first. Like they expected Caroline to speak at any moment. But even the killer’s weeping stopped altogether. The mask offered no tells. No one had any insight into what Caroline was thinking or even who the Hell she was looking at.

Which was exactly the point, Celeste thought.

Celeste looked over at Erika, surprised to see Erika looking back at her with an unusually-apprehensive expression on her face. Even Erika Lee was too chickenshit to end the silence with a question. Time for me to play the asshole again.

Doing her best to keep her professional detachment, Celeste confronted Caroline. "What happened after that, Caroline?"

No reply. Caroline’s head kept looking down. Her hands cemented in her lap. Hell, even the piss stain was drying.

Celeste leaned in closer toward Caroline, cautious. Had she gone into a catatonic state? That’s one Hell of a way to end an interview with a killer.

"Caroline," Celeste said. As Celeste got a little closer, Caroline still didn’t move or say a word.

Could she hear me? Could she see me behind that damn thing?

"Did you tell anyone?" Celeste asked.

Still no answer from Caroline.

"Did you tell anyone what happened?" Celeste asked, louder.

"Did you tell your aunt?" Erika asked Caroline.

A few tense seconds passed. No one said a word.

Agitated, Celeste wondered if this was all another big charade for attention. "Caroline."

And then as if answering Celeste, Caroline began to rock back-and-forth in a slow and deliberate manner. Like a nervous grandma.

Celeste and Erika stared at her, disturbed by the sight. The room was silent save for the portable fans and the slight squeak in Caroline’s chair.

"What the Hell..." J.R. muttered. He leaned out from behind the camera for a better view.

Amidst the light from the fireplace, the masked Caroline resembled an inmate from an asylum of nightmares. Small beads of sweat rolled down her neck from underneath the mask. She kept rocking like she was running on batteries. Her slow rhythm matched only by the incessant beat of the fans.

"Caroline," Celeste said.

"Eyes without a face," Caroline sang in a hushed tone, her voice reminiscent of a scared little girl singing alone at night. "Got no human grace, your eyes without a face." She swayed to the song. Her voice as steady as her rocking. And she kept singing in that same timid tone. "Eyes without a face."

The others watched Caroline, freaked out by her "performance."

Had she always been doing this or did her singing just get louder? Celeste wondered.

The worried Erika snatched Celeste’s wrist. "What do we do?" Erika whispered.

Celeste pulled away from her and looked back at Caroline. Even as Caroline’s body moved and her song continued, her mask stayed on the same blank page. "I don’t know," Celeste said to Erika, unease crashing through her "professional" monotone.

The comment certainly didn’t ease Erika’s nerves.

Captivated by Caroline, Celeste just kept watching the killer. Caroline’s rocking stayed the same as her voice grew louder. Her haunting, eerie voice kept repeating those same lyrics on a compulsive loop. As if that mask wasn’t hiding a person but a scratched slice of vinyl on a record player.

"Eyes without a face," Caroline went on. "Got no human grace."

Using the main camera, J.R. zoomed in on Caroline’s mask, filming her singing.

Caroline’s singing must’ve been another compulsion, Celeste thought. Judging by the child-like style, it was a compulsion she’d had for a long time. Since Matt had been beating her and Bette.

Celeste could feel Erika’s emerald eyes piercing into her.

"Do something," Erika whispered to Celeste.

Celeste stayed focused on Caroline. "Caroline," she said in a calm tone.

Caroline’s singing got louder and more frenetic.

"I’m going to count to three," Celeste continued to Caroline, stating her words with a clear yet smooth authority. "And when I reach three, you’re going to be back here with us. In twenty-eighteen."

"Your eyes without a face," Caroline sang on, louder than ever. The fragile beauty of her singing voice had now shifted toward a manic cry. She was not singing from her heart any longer but from compulsion. No emotion or enthusiasm. Like an asylum escapee on karaoke night. "Got no human grace."

"Your uncle’s dead," Celeste said louder, ensuring her voice would be heard over the constant singing. "Uncle Willie’s dead, Caroline. You killed him. You’re here with us now."

Unresponsive, Caroline kept rocking back-and-forth. Her rendition of Eyes Without A Face still played on an eerie loop that was only growing louder.

Celeste was disturbed by how much Caroline had let her compulsions run wild. "When I get to three, you’re going to be here with us on The Real Report," she went on.

"With Erika Lee," Erika added, unable to resist.

Celeste flashed Erika a dirty look.

"Sorry," Erika said to Celeste.

Celeste turned and focused her attention back on Caroline.

At this point, Caroline’s voice blared through the room. The constant onslaught of her repeated lyrics sounded more like compulsive spoken word than any real attempt at singing. "Eyes without a face, got no human grace," Caroline would say over and over again. The lyrics repeated so much she even slurred them at times. But that didn’t stop her from singing. She couldn’t stop.

"Do you hear me, Caroline?" Celeste said.

"Eyes without a face," Caroline started yelling. "Got no human grace."

Celeste leaned in closer toward Caroline. "Caroline!"

And the singing continued. Round and round the unpleasant rendition of Eyes Without A Face went. Caroline’s voice wasn’t getting any better. But it was getting stronger. And more and more unhinged.

"Just do it already!" Erika commanded Celeste. Her tone wasn’t the fake politeness of "Anchor Erika," but the impatient temperament of "Director Erika."

Celeste looked on at Caroline’s continual "singing." Hesitant, Celeste took a deep breath, preparing for the countdown. "One!" she yelled over Caroline’s song. Celeste made sure her voice had the same strong firmness she’d used to call out Caroline earlier.

"Eyes without a face!" Caroline shouted aloud. Her rocking had reached its fastest peak yet. Just like her manic voice.

"Two!" Celeste said.

"Got no human grace!" Caroline continued, moving back-and-forth with the wild movement of a possessed rocking chair. Her body a rambling crescendo of motion and voice.

Celeste paused before forcing herself to go on. "Three!" she said in her most commanding tone yet.

With the fateful number, Caroline came to a dead stop. No singing. No rocking. Her mask showing no signs of life. She was completely still.

To Celeste, Caroline resembled a lost museum exhibit. The mad black woman of the New Millennium. Muscular and masked with hair that fused 70s punk with #MeToo defiance. I guess they’d put me on display next to her. The "neurotic black woman."

"Shit, it worked!" Erika said in excitement.

Turning, Celeste saw Erika step out of her seat and reach toward Caroline.

"Caroline, it’s just us!" Erika said with her friendly "Anchor Erika" tone. Her groomed hand headed straight toward Caroline’s broad shoulder.

Concerned, Celeste lunged toward Caroline. "What the Hell are you doing!"

J.R. looked out from behind the main camera. "Erika!"

"She’s fucking crazy!" a panicking Alex told him.

Celeste was just a few inches away from Erika. "Erika, wait!"

Before Erika could grab Caroline, the tombstone radio cut on with a fury. Billy Idol’s Eyes Without A Face immediately swept over the room. No shouting or compulsive rocking required. Just Billy Idol’s soft singing being serenaded by haunting 80s synths.

"Shit!" J.R. exclaimed.

Startled, both Celeste and Erika looked toward the radio.

"Eyes without a face," the radio taunted them. "Got no human grace."

"What the Hell..." Erika said.

Bursting from her catatonic state, Caroline yelled as she lunged out of her seat with scary quickness.

"Oh fuck!" J.R. yelled.

Caroline snatched Erika in her arms and dragged her toward the radio.

"Oh God!" Celeste said, terrified.

Screaming, Erika did her best to break away from Caroline. All of her attempts weak and pathetic. She had no chance at escaping this killing machine.

"Let go of me!" Erika screamed. She looked on at the others, fear crashing through Erika’s sunny confidence. "J.R.! Help me!"

Standing near the chairs, Celeste looked on at Caroline’s creepy mask. "Let her go!"

The killer never said a word. With Eyes Without A Face conquering the room, Caroline forced Erika toward the towering radio.

Panicking, J.R. ran toward Caroline, Alex trailing right behind him.

"Erika!" J.R. screamed.

In one fast motion, Caroline reached behind the top of the radio and retrieved the butcher knife she had earlier.

That’s why Caroline had been looking over at the damn radio, Celeste realized. Not out of nostalgia. But for a secret weapon.

Erika cried out as Caroline waved the blade at the rest of the crew.

"Caroline!" Celeste yelled. "Put it down!"

Defiant, Caroline put the knife to Erika’s fragile throat.

Erika cringed with immense fear. "Shit!"

Caroline held her hand out, keeping everyone at bay.

Alex and J.R. stopped next to Celeste, all of them terrified. Eyes Without A Face the unsettling soundtrack to this tense standoff.

The song seemed to never end, Celeste thought. Somehow, it had become even more disturbing than Caroline’s own carnal iteration.

"Caroline, please!" Celeste pleaded. "You don’t have to do this. Let her go."

Too scared, neither Alex nor J.R. said anything.

Celeste took a cautious step toward Caroline. "Just let her go."

In a defensive rebuttal, Caroline held the knife closer to Erika’s jugular.

"No, please!" Erika screamed. She quivered beneath the blade. Neither the spunkiness of "Anchor Erika" nor the ball-busty toughness of "Director Erika" was on display. This was "Scared Erika."

Holding her hands out like a negotiator, Celeste approached Caroline and the radio. "This isn’t what you want, Caroline!" Celeste pleaded. "She’s not Uncle Willie!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Celeste saw Erika’s mammoth purse leaning against the side of the radio. The cell phone.

Celeste stopped a few feet away from Caroline and faced her. "Please, Caroline, she’s not who you want."

The blank mask stared back at Celeste. There were no tells on it. No signs of emotion.

"Caroline, don’t do this!" Celeste said, her forced calmness beginning to crack under the stare of the blank mask. She took another step toward Caroline. "Please."

With a playful flourish, Caroline jammed the blade in deeper toward Erika’s neck, ready to make the fatal slice.

Erika squirmed in Caroline’s arms. "Oh God!" she cried out.

Sensing the impending kill, Celeste charged toward them. "No!"

"Erika!" J.R. screamed.

Erika watched in petrified fear as Caroline slid the blade across her neck in one methodical slice.

Celeste staggered back, horrified. "Oh God!"

J.R. lunged toward Caroline. "Erika!"

Alex snagged J.R.’s arm and pulled him back. "Come on!" Alex screamed.

Blood spewing from her wound in dramatic spurts, Erika stared at the others with blank eyes. Erika Lee’s violent sendoff. All to the tune of Eyes Without A Face.

Caroline threw Erika’s body down in front of the fireplace.

Erika landed with a harsh thud. Inches away from Celeste’s frozen feet.

Everyone had a front row seat to the flowing blood oozing from Erika’s neck. All the gore perfectly captured on camera as well.

Basked by both the fire’s burning light and the hypnotic guitar solo of Eyes Without A Face, Caroline raised the bloodied knife, ready for more carnage.

Celeste could see Caroline’s eyes through the androgynous mask. She could see and feel them locked onto her just like they had been the whole night.

She wasn’t flirting with me, Celeste realized. She was targeting me. The Mayberry Murderer expert needed to be dispatched by the killer herself.

Celeste took a few nervous steps back.

All the while, Caroline watched her. Caroline so silent and still.

"Caroline, please," Celeste said. She stole a glance over at Erika’s purse.

"Erika!" J.R. said in an anguished yell. His tear-stricken eyes couldn’t leave his girlfriend’s body. Determined, he tried to break free from Alex. "No, Erika!"

With all his might, Alex did his best to drag J.R. over toward the hallway. "Let’s get the fuck outta here, man!"

Hesitant on what to do, Celeste looked right at Caroline.

Caroline twirled the blood-stained knife. Like she was teasing Celeste. Just waiting for her to make the first move.

Celeste took off for the purse.

Anticipating the move, Caroline raised the weapon and went after her prey. Her sudden and intense movements like that of a hawk upon spotting a vulnerable rodent in the grass.

The sight of Caroline’s ferocious and rabid attack made J.R. finally allow Alex to pull him toward the hallway.

"Go!" Alex yelled.

A few feet away from the purse, Celeste’s scared footsteps stumbled through Erika’s sticky blood. The redness slowed her down, making her nearly slip and fall on top of Erika’s corpse. "Shit!" Celeste yelled.

Near the hallway, Alex turned and stole a look back at Celeste. "Run, Dr. Lewton!" he hollered at her.

Celeste could hear Caroline’s vicious footsteps get closer and closer. Celeste looked toward the purse, desperate.

Then like an apparition, Caroline appeared right in front of the purse. Right in front of Celeste. The doctor was now face-to-face with that nightmare of a mask.

"Oh fuck!" Celeste yelled.

Caroline just fucking stood there. A human blockade Celeste knew she couldn’t get through. Real blood stains covered Caroline’s mask’s red splotches. Her knife begged for Celeste’s flesh.

Celeste staggered back, her feet kicking up more blood. She did a quick scan of the room for any weapons or any help at all. But all that was there were cameras. Countless cameras watching her and Caroline’s confrontation. Celeste stopped and faced the killer.

The Mayberry Murderer continued standing there, looking straight at Celeste. Caroline seemed so unconcerned. Her cool demeanor had only increased when wearing the mask and armed with a weapon.

And even though the mask showed Celeste nothing, she knew what was behind it: that smirk. That evil fucking smirk.

"Go!" Alex was heard screaming to J.R. inside the downstairs hallway. "Fucking run!"

Distracted by Alex’s voice, Celeste turned and glanced toward the hallway.

And Caroline made her move. Her knife raised. Her methodical footsteps descending upon Celeste.

Celeste faced the killer. Immense fear surged through Celeste’s veins. "Oh God!"

The disturbing sight sent chills down Celeste’s spine. Unlike all the slashers Celeste had seen on T.V., Caroline’s slow-motion gait was real. And steady.

Terrified, Celeste bolted for the hallway. Toward Alex and J.R. Toward the front door and a chance at escape.

Yet Caroline didn’t panic one bit as she marched after Celeste. Like she was enjoying giving her targets a head start.

*

The downstairs hallway was quiet save for Alex’s frenetic footsteps. Dark except for the faint beams of light cast off from the living room. Alex struggled to pull the distraught J.R. toward the front door. Behind them, the stairway looked down upon both of them like an indifferent monster.

"I can’t leave her!" J.R. sputtered out. Tears in his eyes, he turned and looked back toward the living room. "Erika!"

Pulling J.R.’s arm, Alex forced them closer toward the door. The sweet smell of escape was oh so close. The ugly slab of a door their one beacon of hope. "J.R., she’s dead!"

Alex made J.R. face him. "Listen, we gotta get outta here before that crazy bitch comes after us!" Alex went on.

Celeste staggered into the hallway. Her face and body overwhelmed with the fear of a teenager trapped in a horror movie. She turned, expecting to see Caroline emerge from the living room doorway at any second. Or to at least hear those cryptic footsteps. But neither of them ever came. All she could hear was Caroline’s signature song playing over and over again on the radio. Where the Hell is she!

Desperate to escape, she looked down the hall and saw J.R. and Alex stop at the front door. Celeste took off running toward them.

Near the door, Alex grabbed J.R.’s shoulder, trying to comfort him. "We’ll get the cops and come back," Alex told him.

Not reassured in the slightest, J.R. looked back. He saw Celeste approaching them. "Dr. Lewton!" he said, relieved to see her still alive.

Alex moved away from J.R. and reached toward the door knob.

Celeste stopped next to them. "Do you have the keys?" she asked, doing her best to stay calm and rational.

Double-checking, J.R. patted his pockets. He felt a slight bump. "I got them!"

Behind the crew, the Mayberry Murderer entered from the living room doorway in a confident stride. Caroline was decked out in her full kill attire. The bathrobe. The gloves. The mask. She was the chilling embodiment of vengeful evil. A feminine grim reaper.

No one else noticed Caroline making her way to the door attached to the staircase. Her cool footsteps showed no panic. She was in total control even though she no longer had the knife. Her casual stroll the opposite of the crew’s collective panic.

In a hard grip, Alex turned the doorknob. "I’ll drive!" he told Celeste and J.R. The knob wouldn’t turn. "What the Hell!"

Nervous, Celeste and J.R. rushed toward him.

"What happened!" Celeste said.

At the staircase, Caroline’s gloved hand opened the small door in a deliberately slow manner. The quietest way to open it.

Gripping the doorknob tighter, Alex tried with all his might to turn the damn thing. "It won’t open!" he yelled at the others.

"Let me try!" J.R. said.

Blocking out J.R., Alex moved in closer toward the knob. "No, I got it!"

Too busy arguing, no one saw Caroline lean down and stick her hand into the stairway’s small room. She had the excitement of a child reaching into one of their secret spots.

Celeste tried to calm Alex and J.R. "Guys, there’s gotta be a way out-".

Alex’s constant fiddling finally did the unthinkable: the doorknob slid right off and fell into his sweaty hand. "Fuck, what the fuck!" he yelled in horror.

"What the fuck’d you do!" J.R. said.

With worried eyes, Celeste watched Alex hold up the dislodged doorknob. The whole situation would be comical if their lives didn’t depend on it.

"I told you to let me try!" J.R. yelled at Alex.

"Fuck!" Alex shouted. Desperate, he tried to stick the rusty knob back in it slot, but it wasn’t fitting in.

At the staircase, Caroline only needed one hand to haul out her weapon of choice from the small room: a blood-stained double bit axe.

With pitiful precision, Alex shoved the knob back into its place. A short-lived victory as it immediately collapsed to the floor. "Fuck!"

"Try budging it!" Celeste said, panic cutting through her forced calmness.

"Let me try!" J.R. commanded Alex

Going ahead of J.R., Alex slammed his body against the door. An explosion of dust sprayed across his clothes and beard.

But the door didn’t give in one bit, its heavy wood hurting Alex more than anything.

"Ow, fuck!" Alex yelled.

"Come on," said J.R. Supportive, he pulled Alex back.

Together, they threw their weight against the door. The tall door rattled, but that was it.

Celeste looked on at the door, trying to think of a plan. Anything.

J.R. groaned in soreness.

"We’re fucking trapped!" Alex screamed. Frustrated, he punched the door.

Like his budge attempt, the punch did nothing but hurt Alex. He drew his hand back in pain. "Fuck!"

Celeste stepped toward them. "Let me try!"

"No," Alex muttered.

"We can get out of here!"

Alex glared at her. "No, we can’t! We’re fucking trapped!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Celeste caught a quick flash of silver as it came hurtling out of nowhere.

The double bit axe slammed into Alex’s head, pinning him straight into the door.

Blood sprayed over Celeste and the screaming J.R.

The sheer force of the blow penetrated through Alex’s face, mounting him to the door like a prized deer head. Blood drenched through the door’s every crevice and crack.

Terrified, J.R. and Celeste looked on at the sight standing before them: Caroline in all her vicious glory.

The gray bathrobe and dark gloves made her look even more menacing. Even more stronger than before. Her muscles seemed bigger. Everything about her a combination of Caroline’s compulsive rituals and her own brute strength.

Celeste staggered back in horror. The androgynous mask had by now indebted itself deep within the most disturbed corners of her subconscious. Regardless of all of Celeste’s interviews with dozens of killers through the years, these corners were now being dominated solely by her research and interactions with the Mayberry Murderer.

Fueled by angry courage, J.R. charged straight at Caroline. "Fuck you!"

Celeste reached toward J.R. "J.R.!"

Choosing fight over flight, J.R. swung a punch at the blank mask.

Caroline snagged his wrist in an unforgiving grip.

"Ah, fuck!" J.R. shouted.

"J.R.!" Celeste yelled.

With her other hand, Caroline choked J.R., squeezing with the carnal strength of a wild animal. Her muscles flexed.

The crazy bitch isn’t even breaking a sweat, Celeste thought.

Caroline lifted J.R. off the ground.

J.R. struggled to break free. His other hand swung wildly, but landed nothing.

Turning, Celeste looked over and saw Alex’s corpse still twitching on the door. His face almost covered by the lodged axe blade. The other end of the double bit axe stuck out like an extended nose.

Growing weaker in Caroline’s deadly grip, J.R. threw another pathetic punch. He couldn’t break free. The grip was so tight, he couldn’t even turn his head. The harsh mask was the only thing he could see.

J.R. tried crying out, but only a weak gasp came out. The man could barely breathe.

Celeste looked on at J.R. They were only a few feet apart, but Celeste couldn’t make a move. Not with the Mayberry Murderer standing right there.

Caroline faced Celeste. Even without her focus on J.R., she was still choking the shit out of him. His life held in her grasp.

Gasping for breath, J.R. looked at Celeste. "Run!" he struggled to shout.

"No!" Celeste yelled. Desperate to help him, she reached toward J.R.

With scary strength and speed, Caroline jammed the back of J.R.’s head into the other end of the double bit axe. Both J.R. and Alex were now skewered on the same stick. A shish kebob of gore.

The large blade protruded out J.R.’s forehead. His mouth forever agape in a struggle to breathe. His lifeless neck loosened in Caroline’s gloved grip.

Screaming in horror, Celeste ran back down the hall. She stole a glance back to see Caroline still standing by the door. Caroline’s mask still watching her.

Caroline turned and tried to pry the axe back out. Straining, she kept pulling, but the old door was clinging to the blade.

Annoyed, Caroline shoved J.R.’s corpse aside as she yanked on the weapon’s handle. Her grunts sounded ferocious. More animal than human.

Following the surreal loop of Eyes Without A Face, Celeste reached the living room doorway. She stopped and looked on at the room’s massacre, horrified.

Erika’s body was still sprawled out on the floor. Her blood everywhere.

Like the radio, the fans and cameras were still on. The flames and soundtrack showcased the grisly scene in a staged light. As if the slaughter was all part of the show. A bloodbath caught on film.

Surrounded by Idol’s creepy vocals, Celeste looked around and saw the purse tucked away near the radio. Erika’s purse was doused in blood.

Celeste took a step inside the room.

A quick tug on her hair yanked Celeste back into the downstairs hallway. Feeling the smooth touch of the glove, she cried out. "Let go of me!"

Celeste was thrown back against the staircase. Her glasses tethered off her face before Celeste caught them in a frenzied panic and put them back on.

In front of her was the mask. The blank stare of the evil killer.

Caroline stood a few feet away, gripping the axe in both hands. Blood dripped off both sides of the axe in rhythmic drops that seemed to never end.

Celeste felt Caroline was taunting her again. Another sick and twisted challenge from the vicious bully. She’s just wanting me to make the first move.

No phone. No front door. Celeste was just face-to-face with evil incarnate. And both of them knew she only had one place to go.

Celeste turned and hauled ass up the stairs.

The first few steps creaked beneath her feet. The railing a rugged touch of aged splinters on her right hand.

Hearing Caroline’s steady footsteps getting closer, Celeste looked back and saw Caroline closing the gap between them quickly. The bathrobe flowed behind the killer like a gargoyle’s wings.

Going off of her terrified adrenaline, Celeste ran even faster. Near the elusive upstairs hallway, Celeste’s foot sank through a rotten step.

Celeste fell forward. "Shit!" She turned on her back to see the double bit axe rise high up above her. Caroline’s mask stared down upon her like a giant towering over helpless prey.

"Leave me the fuck alone!" Celeste yelled, a defiant resilience crashing through her "professional" demeanor.

Right before Caroline could lower the axe, Celeste drew her free leg back and gave Caroline a kick in the chest. Not a Lara Croft kick but just enough to send Caroline stumbling back down the steps.

Celeste looked at her leg, simultaneously surprised and impressed by her own capabilities.

She looked down the stairs and saw Caroline recovering from the blow.

Caroline staggered to her feet. She held the axe up, ready for another try.

Fuck, she’s fast! Celeste thought.

Acting quick, Celeste pulled her foot out the gaping hole and rushed up the stairs.

With each of her steps, the stairs creaked with the pain of an aching old man. Yet it was the all-encompassing sounds of Caroline’s calculating footsteps and Billy Idol’s droning voice that echoed through Celeste’s mind. That motivated her to go faster.

*

Caroline stopped in the middle of the upstairs hallway. Both bedroom doors were closed. Behind her, Celeste heard Caroline’s footsteps running up the stairs.

Frantic, Celeste ran up to Caroline’s bedroom door and snatched the knob. Locked. Panic struck Celeste’s face, sending even more reserves of fear to her already-terrified face. She rattled the doorknob and banged on the wooden door with all her might, but the tall structure wasn’t giving in. Shit!

Her heart dropped as she heard Caroline get closer to that final step. She’s taking her time just to toy with me. She knows she’ll slaughter me so why not give me the head start...

Searching for an escape, Celeste looked over at the other door. The secret room. Caroline’s parents’ room.

Celeste turned and saw the outline of the killer approaching the upstairs hallway. She could make out the beginnings of that horrid mask. The sharpness of the axe. The dark stains all over the blades.

Right when Caroline’s foot hit the final step, Celeste lunged toward the other door and grabbed the knob.

Overwhelming relief soaked her like a soothing warm shower once she saw the door was unlocked. A momentary sensation that was dashed instantly by the alarming sound of Caroline stepping foot in the hallway.

Prodded by Caroline’s looming presence, Celeste rushed inside the room, shutting the door behind her as gently and quietly as she could.

*

Inside the bedroom, Celeste tried to lock the door, but the lock wouldn’t turn. So rusty it appeared forever engraved in its current position. How the fuck was it locked earlier!

She turned and scanned the bedroom. A small lamp standing on top of a wooden dresser was her only source of light.

Like the living room, Caroline’s parents’ bedroom seemed preserved in a 1980s time warp. The dresser’s mirror may have been long shattered, but everything else was nice. Even the lamp seemed like it could be sold at a high price at any antique shop.

A large bed sat in the center of the room with decadent blankets draped on top of it.

In the back of the room was a window that wasn’t shattered or cracked.

The whole room is probably just how Caroline remembered it, Celeste thought. Just how she envisioned it. Shit, she probably fixed it up herself. Just like she did to the rest of this damn house.

A soft breeze ran through the room and gave Celeste chills. She looked over and saw the window was wide open! Euphoria shattered Celeste’s calm demeanor. She had a chance to get out of here alive! Excited, Celeste took off for the window.

Appearing like an invisible force, a pair of gloved hands shoved Celeste toward the bed.

Crying out, Celeste hit the stiff mattress. The mattress felt far harder and lumpier than any mattress Celeste had ever been on. Even compared to the ones from the roach motels her and her blue-collar parents had stayed in during her youth. The motels her parents had spent the majority of their vacations arguing.

Celeste whirled on her back to see Caroline standing in front of the open doorway.

Caroline’s mask looked on at Celeste. Somehow, Celeste could sense Caroline’s sadistic confidence on that paper face. Even Caroline’s grip on the axe was looser. The cocky killer toying with her victim once more. Like she wanted to prolong the pain.

How the Hell did she even sneak up on me, Celeste wondered with terror. I didn’t even hear the Goddamn door open. I didn’t hear the footsteps. I didn’t feel those eyes watching me.

Helpless, Celeste crawled back on the mattress until her hand hit one of those hard lumps. A hard, wet lump.

Celeste’s stomach sank as she recognized what was under those covers even before she pulled them off.

Celeste looked on in horror at two slaughtered corpses lying on the mattress: Carty and Bonnie. Harsh slices were all over their asses and breasts. Blood streaks coursed through their hair. A red dildo jammed down Carty’s lifeless throat.

Celeste figured Caroline had kept them here for a reason. Her victims had suffered long after death. Their naked bodies mutilated and desecrated for Caroline’s sexual pleasure.

The horrifying moment was interrupted by another quick flash of sharp silver. Celeste turned just in time to see the double bit axe approaching her vulnerable head.

Reacting with the speed of Caroline, Celeste rolled off the mattress and just avoided the weapon.

The blade sunk deep into Carty’s forehead with a loud and disgusting SPLAT!

Blood scattered all over the walls. Fresh crimson reinvigorated the mattress’s old red stains.

Celeste sat on the ground, disturbed by what she’d just witnessed. Just judging by the horrific impact of the blow, Celeste knew that had the axe hit her in the back of the head, her entire skull would’ve been split in half. Caroline’s force was so magnificent. A violent force of nature.

With the axe implanted in her forehead, Carty’s mouth fell open, allowing the dildo to collapse to the floor.

It landed right in front of Celeste. Even on its natural red color, blood stains could be seen all over the "toy."

Caroline grabbed the axe handle and struggled to pull the weapon out of Carty’s head. Stuck again.

Annoyed, she glanced over at Celeste.

Sensing the opportunity, Celeste staggered to her feet and ran out the room, leaving Caroline alone with her corpses.

Straining, a frustrated Caroline pulled harder on the axe. It finally popped out with the velocity of a champagne cork. Blood as thick as red wine burst from Carty’s forehead.

The room was silent save for the sound of blood dripping off the bed. And the not-too-distant sound of terrified footsteps careening down the stairs.

*

Celeste ran down the stairs, turning on her hyperspeed for those last few rickety steps. Her feet going so fast, they had no time to sink into any of the stairway’s potential holes.

Breathing heavy, Celeste staggered into the downstairs hallway. The creepy staircase door was still wide open. As if beckoning Celeste to give it a shot as a last resort hiding spot.

Celeste looked toward the front door. J.R. and Alex’s bodies now lied on the ground in front of it. Their pools of blood gave the floor fresh red carpeting.

Petrified in fear, Celeste stared at the sight. She thought about how quiet it was. It was too quiet. There was no more music. No more Eyes Without A Face.

And then Celeste heard the soft arrival of footsteps from up above. A pitter patter of incessant large drops.

Celeste looked up to see Caroline standing at the top of the stairs. The blank canvas of a mask stared down upon Celeste. On that grand stage, Caroline resembled a remorseless Angel Hellbent on collecting souls.

All the while, blood continued dripping off the double bit axe. Over and over. And somehow, there was still clean spots on the blades. Spots Celeste knew were clearly reserved for her.

The dripping blood must be the Crane house’s new soundtrack, Celeste thought. That and Caroline’s unflappable footsteps.

For a moment, the two women made distinct eye contact. And even though Caroline had her mask on, Celeste knew the killer’s eyes were solely focused on her.

She wants me to run. To continue this big chase. This game.

But instead, Celeste didn’t go anywhere. She held her ground. She did her best to mask her fear with a stoic face as she maintained the staredown with Caroline.

And then in a move that stunned Celeste, Caroline made her way down the stairs. One harsh step at a time. The axe ready to kill.

She’s making the first move, Celeste realized. Fuck!

Panicking, Celeste turned and ran into the living room. Her only way to go. Her only chance at escape.

*

In the living room, Celeste came to a startled stop.

The fans and radio had all been turned off. The crackling of the fireplace was all that Celeste heard. And the cameras were no longer pointing at the arrangement of chairs by the fireplace. Instead, they were pointed right toward the living room doorway. Right at Celeste.

Through worried eyes, Celeste looked at the blood on the floor. Blood so red and vivid it looked as fake as the regal blood you’d see in a Shakespeare production. But this was blood without a body. Erika was gone.

"Dr. Lewton," a familiar beaming voice said right behind Celeste.

Celeste whirled around.

A double bit axe hit Celeste’s stomach before she could react. The force of the blow so strong it sent specks of blood onto Celeste’s glasses.

Celeste lurched forward in pain. Blood seeped down both sides of her mouth as if she were a vampire fresh off a meal.

Celeste looked ahead and saw a masked person standing right in front of her. They had the same kill gear as Caroline. Similar black gloves. The gray bathrobe. The same blank stare of a mask.

But it wasn’t Caroline, Celeste realized. It couldn’t be. They didn’t have her height or build. Or strength.

The robed figure took a confident step toward Celeste.

Growing weaker, Celeste staggered to her knees. She grabbed at the end of the weapon’s handle for a feeble attempt to pull it out.

Her blood ran wild all around the blade. Celeste cried out in pain as she pulled but the weapon was lodged in too deep. Her attempts only made it feel worse.

Celeste looked up at the masked person. Behind them, she saw the wide open staircase door. The spot where the figure came from.

Celeste wanted to hurl every name in the book at this psycho, but flowing blood drowned out her obscenities. She couldn’t speak.

With the flamboyant taunt of the Mayberry Murderer, the masked figure held out their gloved hand toward Celeste.

Celeste’s helpless eyes saw Erika’s cell phone in their grasp.

Horrified, Celeste fell back to the floor. She propped herself up with one hand while the other held onto her hacked stomach.

Queasiness hit Celeste as she felt all the blood surging through her fingertips. She stared down at the double bit axe.

These weren’t crime scene photographs or a killer’s confessions. The blood and gore was right here in front of her. It was real. And a lot of it was her own.

Celeste looked up and saw two masked killers now standing before her. Two paper-mâché expressionless masks focused on Celeste.

For a moment, Celeste thought she was seeing double until she noticed a slight difference in their builds. One was far more muscular and toned. The one who had struck Celeste was petite. But not petite enough to where she couldn’t carry that double-bit axe.

The realization unsettled Celeste. "No," she muttered.

The more petite figure yanked off their mask, revealing the pretty face of Erika Lee. Her "Anchor Erika" smile still on display. Realistic fake blood still smeared across her throat.

"Hello there, doctor," Erika said with her patented fake friendliness.

"Oh God!" Celeste struggled to say amidst the horror overwhelming her. "No..."

Grinning with excitement, Erika looked over at the figure. "Not bad for my first time, right?"

Pulling off her mask, a smiling Caroline faced Erika. "Not bad at all," she replied in a flirtatious tone.

Right before Celeste’s stunned eyes, the two women shared a warm kiss. Not one born of spontaneity, but a kiss built off of a comfortable familiarity. An embrace of two impassioned lovers.

"No!" Celeste cried out. She leaned up off the ground. "You can’t do this," she said in a weakened voice.

Amused, Caroline and Erika smiled at each other with the carefree vigor of lovers on the run.

"Please!" Celeste said.

Caroline faced Celeste. "I’m afraid we have to, Celeste," she said with a cool politeness that masked its fair share of condescension.

Erika went through her phone. "We’ve been planning this awhile now."

"Indeed," Caroline added.

Eager, Erika showed Celeste her cell phone.

An intimate photo graced the screen, embedding itself into Celeste’s eyes. The pic showed a naked Caroline and Erika hugging each other in front of a bathroom mirror. Both of them smiling. A sexy couple enjoying their life together, complete with sexy mirror selfies.

"Shit," Celeste said. She wiped blood off her mouth and glared at Erika. "You’re fucking crazy!"

Erika hurled the phone off toward a corner, making Celeste flinch with the sudden act.

The cell phone smashed against the wall. One Hell of a powerful throw by Erika.

Erika smiled at Celeste. "That was the most important part," Erika began. She grabbed a hold of Caroline’s hand. "The planning."

"Exactly, babe," Caroline responded, her lethargic voice contradicting Erika’s overenthused excitement.

Erika squeezed Caroline’s hand tighter.

"When she reached out to me," Erika said to Celeste, her eyes still admiring Caroline’s hardened beauty. "I knew I had to learn more. And I did."

Caroline watched Celeste groan in pain.

Celeste’s blood formed an ocean of a red puddle beneath her. Her bright dress tainted with more redness than Caroline’s streaks.

"I realized then that she was so much more than just the Mayberry Murderer," Erika continued. "She was Caroline Crane."

Caroline faced Erika and caressed her lover’s face. "Just stay right here, baby."

Turning, Caroline gave Celeste a stoic glare.

Erika nodded. "Okay."

Caroline stepped away from Erika and descended upon the helpless Celeste.

A sly grin appeared on Caroline’s face, scaring the shit out of Celeste.

Terrified, Celeste attempted to crawl back, leaving a long trail of blood behind her during the painful and agonizing crawl. She couldn’t get anywhere. She was moving too slow. The axe a literal burden on her chest.

Overfilled with unbearable pain, she stopped and watched Caroline stand up over her.

"No!" Celeste pleaded. She looked over at Erika.

Like a lovelorn fan, Erika just watched Caroline, admiration in her green eyes.

Celeste looked up at Caroline as she leaned in toward her. "No, please!"

Ignoring Celeste’s helpless outstretched arms, Caroline grabbed the axe and yanked it out in one merciless tug.

Blood sprayed out across Caroline’s determined face.

Celeste screamed in agony. As loud as the pain could allow.

Gripping the axe, Caroline grinned at Erika. "It’s Caroline Palmer now, babe."

"Oh, I know," Erika replied.

Clutching her bleeding wound, Celeste fell on her back. Gallons of blood oozed through her fingers. She was too weak to even crawl. Too weak to even try an escape.

Caroline walked up to Erika as Celeste coughed up more blood.

Like newlyweds, Caroline and Erika shared a sexy kiss.

Groaning, Celeste’s head flopped to the floor, her hair splashing through all the flowing blood. Now she had real red streaks, she realized with morbid humor. Like Caroline.

Running her hand along Caroline’s chiseled chest, Erika looked over at Celeste. "We knew this was the only way."

Caroline stepped away and walked toward the downstairs hallway.

Erika motioned Celeste toward the fireplace and cameras. The "stage." "Have me killed off with the rest of my team," Erika continued.

Celeste wanted to scream and talk back, but she couldn’t. She felt like she was being drugged on a gurney. And in many ways, she was just as immobile. Just as helpless. All she could do was stare at the killer couple. Not even Celeste’s eyes were strong enough to showcase her ire.

"Then we’ll disappear forever," Erika went on. A beaming smile crossed her face. A genuine smile. "Just me and Caroline."

Holding Celeste’s modest purse, Caroline re-entered the room and stopped next to Erika. "And it’s only the beginning, boo," she said to her lover.

Desperate, Celeste looked around the room for any solace. But all she got was cameras. Lots and lots of cameras staring right at her. Their red circular eyes offering no sympathy.

Erika ran her hand along Caroline’s arm. "I love you so much," she said with tender emotion to the Mayberry Murderer. "I knew it the day we met. Your passion. Your love."

The heartfelt admission didn’t stop Caroline as she focused a cold stare on Celeste. "I only wish it didn’t have to end this way, doctor."

Leaning up on her hand, an anguished Celeste locked eyes with Caroline.

"For you at least," Caroline added.

Erika chuckled. "True."

Celeste glared at them. Her other hand pressed in closer on her wound. The only way she could apply more pressure.

Grinning, Caroline faced Erika. "You were right, boo. This therapy shit really does work."

Excited, Erika wrapped her arms around Caroline. "Aww, I told you it would!"

Caroline looked at Celeste. "You really were different, Celeste."

Celeste kept glowering at them. Their cutesy bullshit wasn’t gonna make her any less fucking pissed.

Taunting her victim, Caroline leaned down next to Celeste. "You’re so intelligent," Caroline told her. "So unique." She reached out to touch Celeste’s bloodied hair. "A unique, sexy sistah just like me."

Using whatever energy she had left, a disgusted Celeste shoved Caroline’s hand away. One of the few ways Celeste could show her contempt for the couple. "You’re nothing!" Celeste said. "You crazy sick fuck!"

Caroline smirked. "You know, Celeste, I like your strength. I like how you never give up. Even when you’re about to die."

"Fuck you!" Celeste yelled at her.

More amused than offended, Caroline raised Celeste’s purse. "You know, you and me would’ve made one Hell of a strong black couple in some other reality."

"I’m glad that didn’t work out," Erika chimed in.

Uneasy, Celeste watched Caroline open the purse. "What are you doing!"

"I’m just being honest, Celeste," Caroline went on. "Something you’ve apparently struggled with." With reckless disregard for all privacy, Caroline emptied the pocket book out onto the bloody floor.

Celeste reached toward her purse, too weak to hardly move. "No!"

Ignoring Celeste, Caroline scoured through all the items lying before her. Make-up. A coin purse. Birth control. Grinning, Caroline picked up the package of pills. "Oh my!" she teased Celeste.

Caroline dangled the pills in front of the embarrassed Celeste. "You weren’t ever gonna tell him, were you?" she challenged Celeste.

"I couldn’t," Celeste struggled to say. Tears formed in her eyes. "I can’t."

"You couldn’t tell ol’ Sean, huh?"

"He’d leave me if he found out." Tears slid down Caroline’s face, intermingling with the blood. "He wanted a family, but I can’t. I just can’t-"

"You didn’t want one," Caroline said in her typical detached fashion.

Weeping, Celeste leaned in toward her. "No! I had no choice-"

Caroline grabbed Celeste’s arm and gave her a patronizing shush. "It’s alright."

"No..."

"You don’t have to lie anymore, Celeste." She ran a smooth hand through Celeste’s hair. All along the literal blood red streaks.

"No. Please..." Uncomfortable, Celeste felt Caroline brush her hand against Celeste’s glasses. "No." She looked over and saw a grinning Erika approach them.

Erika took one seductive step at a time.

"It’s okay, Celeste," Caroline whispered. She started to force Celeste to the ground.

Celeste tried to stop her but was too weak to fight back. "No!"

Caroline’s grip grew tighter on Celeste’s arm, refusing to let go. "We’re gonna make sure these last few moments are what you’ve always wanted," Caroline told her. "What you’ve always dreamed of."

"Yes," Erika said as she crouched down next to Caroline. "Just like we did to those girls."

"Only Celeste is still alive," Caroline commented.

Still struggling with Caroline, Celeste saw the hunger in Erika’s eyes. "No! It’s not what I want!" Celeste yelled.

Caroline held Celeste down to the ground. Celeste knew she had no chance against the killer’s immense strength. Not with Caroline’s muscles flexing right before her eyes. Caroline wasn’t your average middle-aged woman. She was a mean, lean killing machine. One with a fierce appetite for both murder and sex.

"No!" Celeste screamed. She squirmed beneath Caroline’s firm hold.

"Ooh, she’s feisty," Erika said with a laugh.

Savoring the moment, Caroline traced a hand along Celeste’s breasts. "A gorgeous woman like you," Caroline began to Celeste in a tone that was a combination of comforting and sinister. "Always inhibited by what society wants. You could never accept your true sexuality."

"No!" Celeste screamed. "You’re fucking wrong! I’m not gay!"

Caroline caressed Celeste’s face, making Celeste cringe with the touch. "A husband," Caroline went on in a cynical tone. "Kids. The job. Normal sex life. You had to do all that bullshit!"

"How tragic!" Erika added.

Tormented, Celeste shut her eyes. She was so weak and anguished she struggled to muster any tears. All she had worked up to and built from in her life was about to be taken away by her most notorious "patient" yet.

Caroline smiled at Erika. "I reckon we’ll have to take care of that."

"Mmm-hmm," Erika exclaimed with glee.

Somehow and someway, the tombstone radio began with a sudden kick. As if the mood had to be set for Caroline’s impending cruelty. To the tune of Eyes Without A Face, naturally.

Horrified, Celeste opened her eyes and looked toward the radio in disbelief. The situation couldn’t get any worse.

The song’s intense guitar solo blared through the room. Caroline closed her eyes and took the music in as if she were meditating. "Perfect," she said in an unusually-soft tone.

Leaning in closer, the excited Erika smiled at Caroline. "Menage a trois."

In the mood, Caroline grinned. "Yes."

"Mmm..." Erika said as she fixated her eyes on the terrified Celeste.

"You don’t have to do this!" Celeste yelled. "Please!"

Caroline and Erika leaned in closer, both of them only inches away from Celeste’s body.

"We don’t have to," Caroline began to Celeste, her voice back to its indifferent tone.

Giggling, Erika undid her blouse.

Caroline looked over at Erika, admiring the anchor’s body. "But we want to," she finished, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Get the axe, baby," Erika told Caroline.

"Right! Just watch her."

"Oh, I will," Erika responded.

Celeste could only watch with helpless fear as the killers finished their plans. She was at their complete and utter mercy.

Before Caroline got up to retrieve the weapon, Erika leaned over and gave her a wet kiss. The gesture caught Caroline off-guard. Especially the duration and passion of the embrace..

"Let’s have some fun, shall we," Erika teased Caroline. Erika’s voice and demeanor lacked the cheesy cheer of "Anchor Erika" or the cutthroat sternness of "Director Erika." Instead, she had a scary enthusiasm for twisted violence. This was "Psycho Erika."

Clutching her wound, Celeste looked on at the couple’s carnal expressions. Their evil desires were accentuated by the reoccurring and eerie theme engulfing the room.

Celeste wouldn’t escape any of it.

CHAPTER 18

The excitement from the previous night gave way to a calm, quaint morning. The sun was out, but it was too early for the scorching heat to set in. It was a morning of mercy. Perfect weather.

Holding hands, the dynamic duo of Erika and Caroline strolled past the news van. They walked amongst the front yard’s towering weeds, making their way toward the dense forest off in the distance.

Both of them were clean and wearing fresh clothes. Groomed for their escape. Like two runaway lovers riding off into the sunrise rather than sunset. No fear or concern on either of their faces. They were as calm as their country surroundings.

Together, they left behind the Crane house. They left behind Erika’s career. And most importantly, they left behind Caroline’s latest massacre.

Precise as ever, Caroline made sure to leave nothing behind except what she wanted to be discovered.

A cardboard box sat right outside The Real Report van. But it wasn’t the box itself that was important. It was the calling card Caroline had left behind inside of it.

Blood soaked through the cardboard making it moist. The bottom of the box was soaked with redness and beginning to fall apart beneath the weight of Alex’s severed head. His neck was gooey and coated with hanging flesh. His eyes still wide the Hell open with immense fear. A face forever frozen in horror.

The severed head was addressed to the public. Courtesy of The Mayberry Murderer.

Smoke seeped out the Crane house’s windows. The morning sun hadn’t even hit its stride yet, but already, the Crane house was getting overheated.

*

Inside the Crane living room, gasoline was scattered amongst all the blood. The antique candles and a kerosene lamp lined up on the floor in a trail leading from the living room to the kitchen. Aided by the fireplace’s flames, the house was catching fire and it was spreading rapidly.

Caroline’s cherished American flag candle was lying near the radio. Its spark had incited a long row of flames that led to the tombstone radio like a primitive torture device. A yellow blaze had consumed much of the radio, turning it into a collage of burnt wood and sizzling sparks. Billy Idol was over for now.

Most importantly, the fire had engulfed all the cameras. All the footage from The Real Report. All the footage of Erika and Caroline’s killing spree had perished with the flames.

Not spared by the blaze, Erika’s behemoth purse crackled and exploded like a bucket of charred popcorn.

And just like that, the evidence was gone. Nothing but ashes. Just how the killers planned. With Caroline, it was always about the planning. And the execution.

*

Deep in the woods bordering the front yard, sat a red convertible in a large clearing. Bonnie’s sports car was parked right next to it. Both cars looked so new and pristine that they gave the whole area the look of a hidden car lot.

Emerging from a narrow trail, Erika and Caroline entered the clearing and walked up to the blood-red convertible. Erika approached the passenger’s side, Caroline toward the driver’s seat.

With her typical flashy style, Caroline ran a cool hand along the convertible, tracing her hand over the black stripes that ran across the vehicle’s vivid redness.

Erika opened the door on the passenger’s side and looked over at Caroline. "You ready?" she asked with a smile.

Stopping on the driver’s side, Caroline faced her. "Of course," she responded calmly.

In one quick motion, Caroline threw down the convertible’s black ragtop. She smiled at Erika. "Let’s go."

Grinning, Erika hopped inside.

Before she got behind the wheel, Caroline looked around the woods. As if she was making sure no one was watching. No survivors.

She even looked over at Bonnie’s car. Even though she knew there was no chance anyone survived that Paranormal Fornication expedition.

Pleased, Caroline grabbed at her hair and snatched off a wig, revealing even shorter hair beneath the disguise. Shorter but no less sexy. Caroline was an unorthodox beauty after all.

"Come on, babe!" Erika said with playful impatience.

Caroline smiled at her. "Alright." She tossed the wig in the backseat and slid in behind the wheel.

Erika wrapped her arm around the driver’s seat headrest and leaned in toward Caroline. "Hey there."

Taking her time to toy with Erika, Caroline turned and faced her. "Hey."

Grinning with excitement, Erika gave Caroline a peck on the lips.

Caroline just stared at her with a weak smile on her face. As if such spontaneous affection felt unnatural to Caroline. Then again, she wasn’t used to it. Not ever.

"I love you," Erika told her.

*

Inside the Crane house, the fire had consumed almost everything in sight. The wooden stairs began to burn ever so slowly. The fire had even started sneaking into Caroline’s secret door under the staircase. The ancient house was finally coming to a blazing end.

A cadaver remained in the living room. Celeste’s naked body was sprawled out on a chair. Even with the vicious puncture wounds from the axe all over her chest, Celeste’s corpse was violated and desecrated like Bonnie and Carty’s. Much of the sexual acts were performed on her body long after death.

Celeste’s eyes were still open with helpless fear. A red dildo jammed deep down her throat.

The fire’s flames got closer and closer to Celeste’s corpse. The flames higher and bigger than ever before. The roaring fire set to destroy both the Crane house and its many dark secrets.

*

By the evening, Erika and Caroline were past the state line and well on their way to a new beginning.

Caroline’s convertible had been cruising down this rural four-lane highway for the last five hours, but there was never any boredom or melancholy. Even as the couple didn’t see another car of the road for the last hour. Because, deep down, the couple knew their adventures were just beginning. An unstoppable future awaited them. One full of planning, happiness, and cathartic violence.

Wearing sunglasses, Caroline stared through the windshield with a focused intensity. The wind ripped through her cropped hair, never once messing up her stylized swag. Caroline could make even the most odd tomboy qualities quite sexy. A fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Erika.

In the passenger’s seat, Erika fiddled with the radio. Bulky movie star glasses covered her eyes, but her comfort around Caroline was evident to all. Even if Erika could never be sure just who Caroline really was. Whether Caroline was the sadistic psychopath or the charismatic lover, Erika didn’t care. All she knew was she loved this most unusual woman.

The radio played the audio equivalent of The Real Report. Cheesy, cloying news. Their reporter sounded like an even more fake version of "Anchor Erika." All melodramatics, no substance.

The reporter discussed the harrowing details of how the Crane house had burnt to the ground. Multiple bodies charred beyond recognition found amongst the debris. The entire crew of The Real Report, including Erika Lee herself, believed to be dead. The police totally confused. The city of Stanwyck in a frenzied panic. And not just over the house and bodies either, but of what Caroline left behind. One of the Mayberry Murderer’s signatures: Alex’s severed head sitting in a box like a grisly Christmas gift.

The nasty discovery made the city of Stanwyck and other small towns like it realize that the Mayberry Murderer was still out there. The killer was still on the loose.

"You got anything else?" Caroline asked, keeping her eyes glued on the endless highway spiraling before her.

Erika leaned back and plugged an aux cord into her cell phone. She smiled at Caroline. "We do now."

With that, Erika mashed play on her cell phone. And like a reoccurring feverdream, Billy Idol’s Eyes Without A Face dominated the speakers.

Like a college rebel on her first ever road trip, Erika let out a playful yell as she turned up the radio. "Billy Idol, bitches!"

Caroline flashed her a weak smile. Then just as quickly, she turned her attention back toward the open road.

Soon, they passed a large flamboyant sign: Welcome To Biloxi, Mississippi!

Mississippi. Home to William Faulkner and Biloxi, the "Vegas Of The South."

The future was bright for the Mayberry Murderer. Biloxi a luxurious pitstop for her honeymoon phase before the couple would continue their murderous rampage across the small towns of the south.

With Eyes Without A Face playing on an eerie loop, Erika looked over at Caroline, hoping she’d show her attention and affection.

But Caroline kept her eyes on the highway. Like the androgynous mask did, her sunglasses masked all emotion. They masked all her vulnerabilities and insecurities in the guise of a cool, confident psychopath.

Caroline’s lips moved in a slow rhythm. Yet Erika couldn’t hear a thing.

Concerned, Erika reached over and rubbed Caroline’s arm. "Babe," Erika said in a soft tone.

Aggravated, Caroline pulled her arm away from Erika. She didn’t even bother looking at Erika. She just focused on the highway.

Erika sat back in her seat, her jovial vibes destroyed by Caroline’s mood change. Upset, she gazed out the window on the passenger’s side. She felt alone without Caroline’s affection. Lost without Caroline’s guidance. All Erika could do was just look on at the monotony of endless woodland running along the highway.

Through it all, Eyes Without A Face kept playing. And Caroline’s lips kept moving. She couldn’t help but sing along to the cryptic lyrics in her whisper of a singing voice.

Caroline looked on at the never-ending road. Even though she knew her constant mood swings would never go away or that she’d never recover from the traumas of her life, Caroline knew she always had this song. Idol’s ballad had commemorated her childhood. Her first kill. And all her future murders. The song was her soundtrack.

THE END