Elias

2022年7月23日，上午11点23分。 美国，缅因州，晨曦镇， 距离圣光教堂约920米外，某废弃建筑物屋顶。 伊里亚斯调整了下AXMC狙击步枪的两脚架。金属的哑光枪身与房间的阴影完美融合。窗外，破碎的玻璃与钢筋，像被水泡肿的苍白骨骸。 随着天色黯淡，我的侵略者奔赴灯下。 高耸的尖塔——哥特式的彩绘玻璃——钟楼。教堂厚重的橡木门，被推开。谁？ 镇长。和他的哈巴狗们。 他的耳边，暂时出现尖锐的耳鸣，掩盖了他低声哼唱的音符。晨光中，他们将见证我被控诉的罪愆。 为了此刻，他昨晚几乎一夜没睡，在教堂附近踩点，评估目标的可能路线，寻找最佳射击位置。尽管早已不知做过多少次，他依然感到难以遏制的兴奋；像捏死虫子一样，碾碎他人生命。 熬夜造成的耳鸣终于消失。他不再哼歌，放慢呼吸，用鼻子吸了三秒气后，再通过嘴呼气。心静神宁；让心率降低到稳定的节奏，让心率与他脑中节拍器的滴答声同步。 镇长——他都懒得记住名字的虫豸——会付出代价。 都是因为他。“晨曦镇开发计划”？那些外来者，和闻到黄油的苍蝇差不多，“嗡嗡”地蜂拥过来。再也没有宁静了；都因为他。 两年了；伊里亚斯终于等到了机会。他最想杀死的家伙——从他目前的位置看，正站在教堂讲台上，表情生动，对底下的开发商们侃侃而谈。瞄准镜放大了每个细节。 他戴皮革手套的手指，抚过消音器表面。光滑。 他身边的小型测距仪，计算着风速和风向。11公里每小时，东风——右调三个刻度；距教堂920米。他的呼吸，在面具后沉重，兜帽仿佛也成了禁锢。只有一次机会。 镇长死；那群猪被吓跑—— 然后，他会他迅速拆解枪械，放进手提箱，离开这栋废弃建筑物楼顶。 ……无论是否命中，为了安全，他都会立马撤离。虽然他百发百中，不管是两年前开始的一系列杀戮，或者更早之前的……无一失手。但谨慎，总没错；也是他能毫无顾忌，持续自己病态游戏的关键。 一阵微弱的风穿过碎玻璃。他喉咙一紧，最后的吸气调整，然后—— 脚步声在他身后响起。 轻柔，宛若石头溅入水潭。 他面具下的瞳孔骤然放大，从地上爬起，猛地转身： “谁？！”

男人行走着。 犹如洋洋得意的捕食者，穿过被鲜血扭曲的世界。HK416宛若餍足的情人，弹夹空空，柔驯地躺在他的手里。时机已到，是时候推翻你的霸权统治了。 他从腰间皮带抽出刀。皮革手套摩挲作响，空白面具下无动于衷的蓝眼，犹如潜伏怪物的冰洋。 他继续低声呢喃着歌曲。你所剩的时日不多，我已将目光锁定你。 2022年9月7日，傍晚18点18分。 美国，缅因州，晨曦镇， 晨曦湖露营地。 血到处都是。 人体以不可能的姿势扭曲，压垮帐篷，打翻烧烤架。他们的脸颊，胸前，后脑——至少各有一个黑漆漆、发焦，渗出枯萎血液的弹孔。 伊里亚斯抬起头，摘下兜帽，仰面品味打在自己面具上的夕阳，享受渗过腥滑空气的温暖。“我没有机会用刀。”他自言自语。八英寸长的猎刀，在他的指间翻出冷冽、晃眼的刀花。 但他依然感到了满足。和两个月前成功狙击镇长，安静的满足不同，这次是不同的极乐——源于数量。 12个人。新纪录。 ……这些猪。 在不该来的地方拱食槽，哼哼唧唧，玷污了晨曦湖的宁静，玷污了晨曦镇的宁静。他让他们明白了，他们的音乐品味，有多糟糕；而他们的尖叫……又有多悦耳。 呵呵…… 但盛宴总会收场。 他得清理现场，抹除自己的痕迹，就像以往一样，遁入阴影。但也许，这次他可以留下些纪念品？毕竟，12个人。晨曦镇终于有幸与她挚爱的杀手，行吻手礼。 是留下他的签名？还是他的弹壳？亦或他的一块黑袍布料？ 面具底下的笑容，露出尖牙。算了，可不能把她惯坏了。 伊里亚斯熟练而迅速地拆解HK416，将零部件放进单肩背包。他有充足的时间收拾现场，并且根据他的提前调查，不会有人打扰。 空气变冷了。重叠的松树摇曳着，倒影被湖水中的红色夕阳切割。天色不过短短几秒，已然黯淡。营地中间的篝火在风中抖动，微弱得随时可能熄灭。 杀手微微偏头，听到了什么。 他重新握紧猎刀，走向篝火。 上面烤的蜂蜜牛肉已经焦了，沾满湿腻的人血。一个倒霉蛋倒在旁边，脑浆流了一地。他踢开尸体，坐到篝火旁的矮凳上。 他的脚边是一个睡袋，起伏着，明显存在生命痕迹。他轻轻用战术靴踩上睡袋，稍微用力，感受到了柔软的弧度。 “睡得比猪还沉。”伊里亚斯难以置信地摇头，好笑的同时，恶意重新沸腾。 他“刺啦”一声用刀划开睡袋。 “醒醒。” 他的嗓音，轻柔得如同抚平的天鹅绒，然而他的手，猛地拉扯她的头发：看她睁开的双眼朦胧，听她溢出的吃痛呻吟。 “恭喜，我的公主。”他低声说，“你是第十三个。”

2022年10月31日。 伊里亚斯站在镜子前，戴上面具。 晚上8点32分。 他拔出猎刀，模仿电影里的姿势，然后歪了歪头。 他推开房门—— 美国，缅因州，晨曦镇街道。 ——踏入另一个世界。 孕育着冬天的空气，顺着面具缝隙滑入。冷的，湿的，混合着人群的欢乐。街道上装饰着彩灯，骷髅，南瓜，而他的舌尖还残留着上个月的血腥。 这个小镇有自己的特别之处，连串的谋杀夺不去她的光采。永远覆盖着糖霜。永远可口，年轻，动人。 我渴望你的嘴唇，亲爱的。 他哼着曲子没入人群，融进缤纷的制服海洋。他看到了迈克尔·迈尔斯，弗雷迪·克鲁格，杰森·沃赫斯甚至向他打了招呼；唤起了淡淡的怀旧情绪。往年的万圣节，他成为他们；而今年，他只能成为鬼面。 他不喜欢鬼面；太业余了。但没办法，扮演名单上只剩那几个角色了，对比下，鬼面还算马马虎虎。 “是真的。”他回答路上拦下他的人，向她们展示他的猎刀，“见过血。” 她们的笑容在淡化。伊里亚斯面具下的眼微眯，玩笑似地补充:“我在练习的时候，不小心划伤过自己。” 她们明显松了口气。“据说那个连环杀手喜欢戴面具，就像电影一样。”她们叽叽喳喳，“不知道万圣节的时候，他会不会混进来。” “你们挺了解的。”他的微笑被掩盖，“希望你们不会遇见他。” 其实遇见也没事。对于那个杀手，万圣节是一个窗口，是观察时间……就像狮子，巡视自己的领地。而非进食。 这个时间点，晨星广场人太多；在意识到之前，他已经游荡到了湖边艺术走廊。世界，仿佛突然被按下了静音，只有他一人站在中间。 难以置信的令人满意；独自一人的感觉。为了这份宁静，他多么愿意再来一次湖畔屠杀。完全值得。 他微微挪开面具，呼吸新鲜的空气。他不喜欢鬼面的另一个原因——糟糕的通风。他自己的就没有类似的问题。他靠着湖边栏杆，轻轻哼着歌。但更多的是为了你的鞭子，亲爱的。 鬼魅般的面具，和桂黄的月亮映在湖水中。他低着头，幻想着溺死者的模样。唇边扬起一抹微笑。灯光冷了，鸟叫了一声。该回家了。 而明天，怪物也该回家了。 他的脚步与簌簌风声一致，回荡在空旷的湖边步行道。而在和谐中，出现了噪点。 伊里亚斯仰起头，仔细听取动静。如此熟悉…… 几乎像闻到血腥味的猎犬，他的身体自动前往另一个方向。重重叠叠的松树里，他见到了两个人影交缠。 他们如此亲密；像两个缝在一起的泰迪熊。他们身体如同两只跳跃的音符，合拢，分开。一曲……受虐者的探戈。 伊里亚斯都不需要小心，男人过于投入。他的战术靴踩过落叶覆盖的地面，他的手伸向黑袍之下，腰带上的猎刀。 现在，他能看见男人的暴虐。如同发情的野兽，用粗壮的身体磨蹭稍小的轮廓。他认得这种节律，施暴者的节律。 他高举起刀，面具下的表情毫无波动。 一下。 两下。 三下…… 直到他的眼前变成红色，他的呼吸变得沉重。 “没事了。你现在安全了。”伊里亚斯单膝跪在女孩身前，声音低低的，温柔得不可思议，用染血的手套整理她凌乱的衣服，“但甜心，你能帮我个忙吗？” 他噗呲拔出刀，递给她。 “我万圣节不杀人。” 放轻的声音，宛若叹息。

July 23, 2022. 11:23 AM. Dawnlight, Maine, USA. On the rooftop of an abandoned building approximately 920 meters away from St. Luminara Chapel. Elias adjusted the bipod of his AXMC sniper rifle. The matte black of the rifle blended seamlessly with the shadows of the room. Outside the window, broken glass and twisted steel framed the view like the swollen, pale bones of a drowned corpse. In the dying of the light, my aggressor runs under the lamps. The towering spire, Gothic stained glass, and bell tower loomed above. The heavy oak doors of the chapel creaked open. Who? The mayor. And his lapdogs. For a brief moment, a sharp ringing filled Elias's ears, drowning out the quiet hum of the tune he was murmuring. Morning light they'll get to see the crime committed on me. He had been waiting for this moment, scouting the area around the chapel late into the night, mapping out potential escape routes and finding the perfect vantage point. Despite the countless times he'd done this before, the thrill was always the same. It was like crushing a bug underfoot—obliterating another's life with cold finality. The ringing in his ears subsided. His humming stopped as he steadied his breathing, inhaling through his nose for three seconds before exhaling through his mouth. He calmed his mind, syncing his heartbeat to the imagined ticking of a metronome in his head. The mayor—an insect whose name Elias hadn’t even bothered to remember—would pay. It was all his fault. The "Dawnlight Development Project." Outsiders had swarmed the town like flies drawn to butter, buzzing incessantly. Peace was a distant memory, all thanks to him. Two years. Elias had waited patiently for this opportunity. The one he hated most was now standing on the chapel's pulpit, addressing the developers with animated confidence. Through the rifle’s scope, every detail came into sharp focus. Elias ran a gloved hand over the silencer, its surface smooth beneath his fingers. Beside him, a compact rangefinder calculated wind speed and direction: 11 kilometers per hour, easterly—adjust three notches to the right. Distance: 920 meters. His breathing was heavy behind the mask, the hood over his head pressing down like a cage. This was his one shot. The mayor would die. The pigs would scatter. He would dismantle the rifle quickly, stow it in his briefcase, and leave the rooftop of this abandoned building. Success or not, he'd vanish immediately. He always did. He never missed. Not during the string of killings that began two years ago, nor during the darker deeds from before. Perfection was his craft, but caution was his safeguard. It was what allowed him to continue his twisted game unchecked. A faint breeze whispered through the shattered glass. His throat tightened. One last breath, steadying himself for the final adjustment, and— Footsteps behind him. Soft, like a stone dropping into still water. Elias's pupils dilated beneath the mask. He scrambled to his feet, spinning around with a sharp, guttural bark: "Who’s there?!"

The man walked forward. Like a triumphant predator, he moved through a world twisted by blood. The HK416 rested in his hands like a sated lover, its magazine empty, its sleek frame docile in his grip. The time, it has come to destroy your supremacy. He drew a knife from the sheath on his belt. The leather of his gloves creaked, and his blank mask concealed eyes of icy blue, as indifferent as the frozen depths of the ocean. He continued humming softly to himself. You don't have long. I am onto you. September 7, 2022. 6:18 PM. Dawnlight, Maine, USA. Dawn Lake Campground. Blood was everywhere. Bodies lay twisted in impossible angles, crushing tents and knocking over barbecue grills. Their faces, chests, the backs of their heads—each bore at least one blackened, charred bullet wound, leaking lifeless streams of blood. Elias raised his head, pulling back his hood to let the dying sunlight hit his mask. He tilted his face, savoring the warmth of the light as it filtered through the blood-slick air. "I didn't get to use the knife," he muttered, flipping the eight-inch hunting knife between his fingers with practiced ease. The blade gleamed coldly, flashing with every turn. Still, satisfaction swelled within him. This time, it wasn't like the quiet triumph he'd felt two months ago when he'd taken down the mayor with a single shot. No, this was a different kind of euphoria—one born of numbers. Twelve. A new record. The pigs had come where they didn’t belong, snorting and rooting around, desecrating the peace of Dawn Lake, of Dawnlight itself. He’d shown them. Made them understand just how atrocious their taste in music was—and how exquisite their screams could be. A low chuckle escaped his lips. But all feasts must end. He'd have to clean the scene, erase his traces, vanish into the shadows—just as he always did. Though, perhaps this time, he could leave a souvenir. After all, twelve lives were something special. Surely, Dawnlight deserved a token from its beloved killer. A signature, perhaps? A shell casing? Or maybe a scrap of his black cloak? The smile beneath his mask stretched, revealing sharp teeth. No, best not spoil her too much. Elias dismantled the HK416 with practiced efficiency, placing the parts into his shoulder bag. He had plenty of time to tidy up; his prior scouting ensured no one would disturb him. The air was cooling. Overlapping pines swayed gently, their reflections fractured in the lake's crimson sunset. In mere seconds, the light had dimmed, the campfire at the center of the site flickering weakly, on the verge of dying out. He paused. Tilted his head. He'd heard something. The knife was in his hand before he even registered the movement. He approached the campfire with deliberate steps. The honey-glazed beef roasting over the fire had burnt to a crisp, now slick with streaks of blood. A hapless corpse slumped beside it, brain matter spilling into the dirt. Elias nudged the body aside with his boot and sat on a low stool near the fire. At his feet lay a sleeping bag. It moved. Slowly, in faint, rhythmic rises and falls. Life. He pressed his tactical boot lightly onto the bag, feeling the soft curve beneath. "Sleeping deeper than a pig," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. He couldn't decide whether to laugh or revel in the malice bubbling inside him. With a sharp, fluid motion, he sliced the sleeping bag open. "Wake up, princess." His voice was velvet, smooth and deceptive. But his hand was cruel, yanking her hair to force her eyes open. Her dazed gaze met his, and in that moment, his chest surged with dark delight. "Congratulations, babygirl," he whispered. "You're number thirteen."

October 31, 2022 Elias stood in front of the mirror and fastened the mask to his face. 8:32 PM. He pulled out his hunting knife, mimicking the pose he'd seen in the movie, then tilted his head to one side. He opened the door— Dawnlight, Maine. The streets of the town. —and stepped into another world. The air, carrying winter's promise, seeped through the cracks in his mask. It was cold, damp, tinged with the cheer of the crowd. The streets were decked out in festive lights, skulls, and pumpkins, but the metallic taste of last month’s blood still lingered faintly on his tongue. This town was unique, a place where even a string of murders couldn't strip away its charm. Dawnlight always felt sugar-dusted—sweet, youthful, vibrant. I ache for the touch of your lips, dear. Humming softly to himself, Elias slipped into the crowd, blending effortlessly into the sea of colorful costumes. He caught glimpses of Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger, Jason Voorhees—some even waved at him. Nostalgia stirred faintly in his chest. On past Halloweens, he had been them. But this year, he was stuck as Ghostface. He didn’t like Ghostface—too amateur. But options had been limited, and compared to the other roles left on the shelf, this one was … passable. "It's real," he told a group of girls who stopped him, brandishing his hunting knife with a slight flourish. "Seen blood before." Their laughter faltered, fading into nervous smiles. Elias narrowed his eyes behind the mask, then added with a playful tilt of his voice, "cut myself during practice." Relief washed over them visibly. "You know,” one of them said, "there's this serial killer people talk about—wears a mask, just like in the movies … Wonder if he'll blend in on Halloween.” "You seem well-informed." His hidden smile curved darkly. "Let's hope you don't meet him." Not that it would matter if they did. For Elias, Halloween wasn't a hunting night. It was a window—a time to observe. Like a lion surveying its territory, not hunting prey. By the time he realized it, the crowd had thinned, and he'd wandered to the Lakeside Gallery Lane. The world felt muted, as though someone had turned the volume down. He was utterly alone, standing in the stillness. It was satisfying in a way that defied description. Being alone. For this peace, he almost wished to relive the lakeside massacre again. It would be worth it. Sliding his mask up slightly, he took in a deep breath of fresh air. Another reason he disliked Ghostface—terrible ventilation. His custom mask never had that problem. Leaning against the rail by the lake, he hummed quietly to himself. But much more for the touch of your whips, dear. The ghostly mask and the honey-gold moon reflected in the water. Lowering his head, he let his mind wander to the image of drowned corpses. A faint smile crept onto his lips. The lights grew colder. A bird called out once, sharp and brief. It was time to go home. Tomorrow, the monster would go home, too. His footsteps aligned with the rustling wind, echoing softly along the empty lakeside path. But amidst the harmony, something disrupted the rhythm. Noise. Elias stopped, tilting his head to listen. The sound was familiar. Like a bloodhound catching the scent of prey, his body moved instinctively. He followed the sound into the shadows of the dense pines, where he found two figures intertwined. They were close—intimate, like two stitched-together teddy bears. Their bodies moved like music, notes colliding and separating. A tango of masochism. Elias didn't need to be cautious. The man was too absorbed in his actions. Crunching over fallen leaves, Elias reached beneath his cloak, drawing his knife from its sheath. Now he could see the man's brutality, his rough, beastlike motions as he ground his larger frame against the smaller figure. The rhythm was unmistakable—the rhythm of a sadist. Raising the knife high, Elias struck. Once. Twice. Three times … Till the world before him turned red, his breathing heavy beneath the mask. "It's okay now. You're safe." His voice was impossibly gentle as he knelt before the girl, adjusting her disheveled clothes with bloodstained gloves. "But, sweetheart … I need you to do me a favor." With a sickening squelch, he withdrew the knife and held it out to her. "I don't kill on Halloween." The words escaped his lips, soft, fleeting, like a sigh.