What Lies Behind the Mask

Chapter 1

She was six, not much older than a toddler. It was an abnormally cold August night, and she had been sleeping soundly in her bed, dreaming her childish dreams. Suddenly her happy dream changed; vividly, drastically. A shadowy figure broke through her bedroom window, the knife in his hand glinting crimson in the moonlight. She huddled against her pillow, pulling the blanket up to her chin and whimpering softly. Rose wanted to call out for her parents, but it was as if she had lost her ability to speak. The figure drew closer to her, knife brandished menacingly by his side. He ripped the blanket off of her body and put the blade against the smooth skin of her throat. Now that he was closer, she could see that he wore a white mask that completely covered his face. For some reason, this frightened her more than any impending death that was to fall upon her. She swallowed hard and winced when she felt the knife dig into her flesh. A scream then rose from her body and the image vanished when she jolted upright in bed, wide awake.

She ran from her bedroom, tears streaming down her face, to her parents' room. She knocked, her eyes drying already, and waited for her mother to open the door. Nothing but silence came to her. She knocked again, only to experience the same result. Quietly, Rose opened the door, and what met her eyes horrified her. The six-year-old stood in the doorway, gaping in revulsion at her parents. Her father hung from the ceiling fan by his favorite tie, his body a faint bluish color and his limbs limp. Barely containing the urge to scream, she forced herself to look to her mother on the bed. She immediately wished that she hadn't. Her mother's form was barely recognizable. Her body had been mutilated; cut, twisted, and broken into a mangled mess of flesh and bone. Blood covered her, seeping into the pure white sheets. The stains made it look as if one had spilled an entire bottle of red wine onto the bed. Jagged shards of glass were impaled in her lifeless corpse. Rose looked to the window. The large paned-glass window had indeed been broken, and many fragments littered the ground, sparkling like tiny crystals.

The young girl sunk to her knees, covering her mouth with her hands and resisting the urge to vomit. Who would do such a thing? As long as Rose could remember, her parents and been kind and loving people. They had no enemies as far as she knew. So why? Why would someone kill her parents of all people? She sat with her back pressed up against the wall, knees held to her chest. It didn't make sense to her naive mind. She wanted to cry, but not a single tear formed, nor left her puffy eyes. So she sat there, terrified that the murderer would realize that he'd left her alive and come back for her, but too scared to leave that dreadful room.

Within days, her friends and teachers began to question her absence at school. They sent letters, emails, they even tried to call her parents, but every attempt at making contact failed. Within weeks, the police were contacted. One morning, Rose was startled awake by the sound of banging on the door and loud voices coming from outside. She ignored them, staying seated in that same spot in her parents room. Other than getting up for food, water, or to relieve herself, that was where she stayed; with her parents. A few days later, the door was kicked down, and several armed men in dark uniforms invaded her house. She grabbed a blanket from the bed (one that hadn't been spoiled by her mother's violent death) and proceeded to cover herself with it and take her seat against the wall. Several calls of "Clear!" rang throughout her home. Eventually, her door was opened and blanket removed. The policeman looked around the room at the gruesome scene surrounding them both, then examined her carefully. His heart sank.

The young girl before him couldn't be much older than five. Her hair was tangled and messy, and it hung over her left eye when she stood. She was pale and scrawny, looking very close to the skeleton of a child. The pajamas she wore had spots of dried blood in several places, and they looked dirty. The skin beneath her eyes was dark, giving him the impression that she hadn't slept well in many days. But what shocked him the most were her eyes. They watched him, following his every move with exact precision. Nothing escaped her gaze. The pale grey irises told him that this girl knew exactly what was going on. He shifted uneasily. It felt like she was scrutinizing his very soul. Hesitantly, he moved towards her. When she made no attempt to run from him, he lifted her into his arms and held her to his chest.

"It's alright now, sweetheart. You're safe now. I promise." The girl continued to stare, unmoved by his words. "I'm Paul," She said nothing. "Can you tell me your name, sweetie?" Once again, he was met with silence. Paul sighed deeply, then called out to the others. "I found a survivor. A little girl. The poor thing's been through hell."