The red wax trail led Marcus Bell to an industrial neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. A maze of ramshackle warehouses, machine shops, and abandoned factories, a grim and desolate place even in broad daylight. Detective Miller from the forensic lab had confirmed that the wax found on the mirror was paraffin with a red pigment of inorganic origin, probably iron oxide. A type of wax commonly used for… candles. And a red pigment that, while generic, could be significant in a specific context.
After trawling through records of red paraffin purchases in the area, Marcus came across a small, unmarked warehouse on a secluded alley, almost hidden among larger, dilapidated buildings. The exterior was nondescript: a rusty metal door, boarded-up windows, and a faded sign reading "Warehouse #37." But something about the place, a strange, subtle vibration, told Marcus he was on the right track.
He knocked on the metal door, but no one answered. He tried pushing, and the door opened with a metallic screech, revealing a dark, dusty interior. Marcus drew his weapon, cautiously unholstered it, and entered the warehouse.
The interior was dimly lit by the light filtering through the boarded-up windows. The air was thick and charged with a peculiar smell, a mixture of wax, paint, and a subtle metallic aroma that seemed vaguely familiar, though she couldn't quite place it.
The warehouse seemed abandoned at first glance, but as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Marcus began to make out disturbing details. In the center of the space, he saw a large worktable covered in patches of solidified red wax and traces of melted paraffin. Beside the table, an electric stove and several metal containers held remnants of molten wax and powdered red pigment. A makeshift workshop, clearly dedicated to the manufacture of… something related to red wax.
On the warehouse walls, he saw something that chilled his blood. Photographs. Dozens, hundreds of photographs, glued directly to the brickwork, creating a macabre visual collage. Photographs of… girls.
Girls of all ages, from babies to teenagers, in innocent, everyday poses: playing in parks, smiling at the camera, hugging their parents. But all the photographs had been altered, desecrated. Their faces had been scratched out with red paint, their eyes covered with dabs of red wax, their smiles turned into grotesque grimaces with crimson lines.
Marcus approached the macabre collage, examining the photographs with horror and revulsion. He recognized some of the faces of children who had disappeared in recent years, cases he had unsuccessfully investigated. And then, amid the multitude of desecrated faces, he found a different photograph. A recent, unaltered photograph, pinned to the wall with a solitary thumbtack, as if it were the centerpiece of that macabre altar.
The photography of Lisa Kramer.
Marcus's heart raced. He was in the right place. This was Silas Thorne's workshop, his laboratory of perversion, the place where he prepared his macabre masterpieces. And Lisa… had been here. Or still could be.
Suddenly, a dull sound from the back of the warehouse alerted him. A creaking of wood, a whisper… Someone was there. Someone else, in Silas Thorne's red workshop.
Marcus raised his weapon, preparing for whatever he might find. The truth, or the nightmare, was waiting for him behind the door at the back of the warehouse. And he was determined to face it, even if he had to venture into the deepest darkness to rescue Lisa Kramer from the clutches of her tormentor.
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