Chapter 25
CHRISTMAS DAY
Itook the gun with me and waited in the forest, like a wild animal. I stared at my watch, waiting for the clock to strike midnight. When it’d be Christmas Day. A few minutes later, in the cold, unforgiving darkness—the clock struck midnight.
I got up, my legs sore, my body aching, my head pounding…but I marched on, through the snow, using the trees as leverage to keep myself up. I knew that this was the end, but I didn’t care. I had been forever changed, and I knew the person responsible.
After all of these horrible, traumatic days—after all of the people I had murdered in cold blood…I knew the truth, I only needed to confirm it. Everything I had blocked out, in my mind, concerning the dark truth surrounding my family’s massacre—would come to light.
I had to face it, after 20 years.
I had no other choice.
After a good while of stalking forward, braving the howling winds that seemed to slice at my face—I walked through an opening, out of the forest, that led to an open, snow-covered field.
There it was—the abandoned white church.
It sat quietly in the heavy winter snow.
Its white paint was faded, blending in with the world around it.
Snow piled up against the cracked wooden doors, and icicles hung from the roof.
The windows were broken and covered in frost. A leaning tower stood tall and strong, a giant wooden cross coated in ice.
I dared to walk over to it, my heart pounding in my ears. When I reached the entrance, I took a deep, cold breath. I pushed open the heavy doors as they screeched and whined.
When I stepped inside, layers of snow covered the empty, dusted floor and the long abandoned pews. It was dark and quiet inside. As I walked forward quietly, the sounds of my footsteps echoed over the massive overhead arch of the building.
Stained, decorative panes of glass reflected the specks of moonlight creeping in. I didn’t see him at first, but when my eyes adjusted to the darkness—there he was. A lone, shadowy figure at the end of the great hall, standing in front of a headless ceramic statute, a sharp, curved weapon in hand.
I pulled out the gun and kept it at my side—prepared for the worst. As I got closer, I saw a half-frozen, zombified man, who looked just like me. It was like staring into a dark mirror. I gasped and stopped dead in my tracks.
I couldn’t believe it—I didn’t want to believe it, but it was the dark, horrible truth.
The man stepped forward, the light from the moon illuminating his face more clearly.
He was dressed in all black—a tattered sweatshirt clung tightly around his thin frame, and ripped cargo pants hung loose around his legs.
The half-torn boots he had on seemed to fuse with his veiny, frosted feet—his frozen toes peeking out of them.
“Hello brother,” he said in a haunting voice.
I gasped quietly, that voice—it brought back so many memories. I already knew who it was. It was unmistakable. My gut felt like it had an iron belt constricting it, crushing me so hard the air was being sucked out of me.
“Lincoln…it’s you. You’re alive.”
It was my twin brother.
After so many years of believing he was dead…he wasn’t, he was alive—standing in front of me, like an undead corpse from our dark past.
He nodded slowly. “I’ve been playing a long game of revenge, brother.”
I shuddered, a cold spear rushing down my spine, my limbs trembling…I couldn’t believe it. Lincoln, my twin brother, had been the one.
He abducted Angela.
“Why? Why do all of this? Why…why abduct Angela? Why mutilate her? Why, Lincoln? Why?” I asked softly, confused as to why my own brother wanted to torment me with such a horribly twisted game.
Lincoln rose the hatchet in his hand and pointed it at me angrily. “Because you abandoned me! All those years ago! I know the truth.”
I shook my head, not sure what he was referring to. “What are you talking about?”
Lincoln rested the hatchet on his shoulder. “When I…killed our foster parents. I asked you to come with me. You didn’t listen. We could’ve protected each other—while on the run from the police. We could’ve met here. I told you, the abandoned white church, but no…you left me to die!”
I remembered it all. The memories I had blocked out, what had truly happened that day—20 years ago. I now knew the truth. Colton Kilhouser was my brother, Lincoln Frost.
He was the one who had murdered our foster parents. My mind conjured a dark figure to explain the events that had been told to me—over and over again.
That Colton Kilhouser had killed my family and that Lincoln was dead. Colton never existed, it was a name—an alias…to hide the tragic truth.
The voice I had been hearing was his, all along. Fragments of my shattered memory coming back to haunt me.
“I’m sorry, Lincoln. You killed our foster parents. I was terrified of you. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t leave with you that day.”
Lincoln paced back and forth, fury present on his darkened face. “Do you know what they did to me? Do you understand it? He faked my death, named me Colton Kilhouser—to mold me into his own personal serial killer.”
My breath came up short, guilt burning in my stomach. “Doctor Tuttle?”
He nodded. “He was fascinated with the minds of serial killers—that sick bastard. Doctor Tuttle would order me to kill targets he deemed dispensable—his rivals, and the people who criticized him. I always left painted dolls where I killed my victims. The doctor found it incredible how I was never caught.” He paused for a moment, shutting his eyes, most likely remembering all the people he had killed.
“The newspapers started calling me the Dollhouse Killer.”
It all made sense—the pieces were fitting together. Colton Kilhouser was the killer alias that my brother used, the one that was forced upon him. In a way, Lincoln Frost still died that fateful day—a dangerous serial killer born in his place.
“Why would they fake your death? Why choose you?”
He scoffed at me, shaking his head. “I was a young boy, who killed…Doctor Tuttle nurtured me into a serial killer from a young age. He told me it was right—to lash out at a world that hated me. Tuttle funded all of Hamonte’s campaigns, so that’s how I ended up in his grimy hands.
He convinced me that no one ever loved me.
From bouncing around dirty hell holes, to Mercy’s Light, to our foster home…
no one ever wanted us. I listened to him, because he was the only person I had—because you left me behind, and betrayed me. ”
I couldn’t believe how Doctor Tuttle had manipulated my brother’s mind, it was sickening. He molded him into a serial killer for his own disturbing motives.
“How did you do all of this? The gifts at my door? Clara’s body in George’s basement? The game you’ve been playing…you were like a shadow.”
“I had a lot of time to plan. I knew it all because Tuttle told me everything, over so many years. He knew about Clara’s cover-up, Mayor Hamonte’s secrets—how he controlled the Whisper’s Creek police department.
” He sighed heavily, the burden of it all weighed on his shoulders.
“Tuttle was a sick man. He kept Clara’s body after Detective Castillo killed her.
He wanted it as leverage against Hamonte—just in case he needed it. ”
It was all so much—so many secrets, lies and truths being revealed after 20 years.
Lincoln scoffed and stared at the ground. “I’ve been planning this for so long, you have no idea. The people I’ve killed…the things I’ve done, for Tuttle. That’s why I finally killed him. You know what pushed me over the edge?”
I paused for a moment, not sure on what he was about to say. “What?”
“Tuttle sent me to kill Angela. That restoration project she was planning? She was looking too closely into things, into the funding for the institute. She would’ve caught on—so she needed to go.
That was my opportunity. First, I killed Tuttle.
He always saw me off when he sent me to execute people.
That was his biggest mistake. Then I went to your house and took her—dragged her all the way here. ”
I staggered backwards, almost dropping the gun, an ice pick plunging through my heart. “What? She’s…dead? She’s dead?” I asked shakily, tears streaming down my eyes, my cheeks flushed. “Why? Why would you do that?” I sobbed quietly.
“I didn’t kill her. She’s still alive.”
I had some relief from that statement, but not nearly enough, after everything I had gone through. “You’ve put me through so much hell, Lincoln. Where’s Angela? Please. Where is she? She’s innocent in all of this. Please!” I begged him.
He shook his head slowly. “No. I’m not done yet.
You will understand why I’ve done all of this—to slowly destroy you.
I wanted to mold you into a killer, just like how Tuttle molded me into one.
” He shut his eyes, tilting his head upward.
“The way he forced me to do his bidding, he convinced me that he had saved me and that I owed him my life.”
“How? How does that make any sense? This is all insane, Lincoln! Absolutely insane!”
He opened his eyes, bringing his head back down.
“I played this game with you because Tuttle had played it with me. 25 days to execute. 12 gifts that related to the person I needed to kill. I decided to do the same, and put my own twist on it—just for you.” He let out a dry laugh.
“I knew how much you loved Angela because of Tuttle. Then it all came back to me—he reminded me of when you abandoned me, betrayed me…left me behind with a monster!” he shouted ferociously.
I breathed in deeply, not knowing what to say. I couldn’t believe that my own brother had done this to me. He had forced me to become a killer, just like him.
I knew the outcome of his twisted game.
I had become the Xmas Day Butcher. This is what he had wanted all along.
This is what his long game of revenge led to. He forced me to become a killer.