The house sat at the end of a quiet, dead-end street, nestled beneath the shadow of tall, swaying trees. A modest two-story home with white fences by the side that had faded to a dull gray over the years. The front porch sagged slightly, and the windows, though clean, were old, framed by chipped paint and warped wood. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cooked meals, worn leather, and the faintest trace of Emma''s lavender perfume.


    Emma stood in the kitchen, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, strands of it escaping and outlining her flushed face. She wore a simple green dress, wrinkled from the day''s wear, her feet bare against the cold tile floor. The dress was old, comfortable, the kind of thing she wore when she wasn''t expecting visitors, but it suited her. There was a time when Martin loved seeing her in it, but now, it was just another part of the life they had built—a life that felt like it was crumbling.


    The argument had started like many others. A spark from something small—dishes left in the sink, an unfinished conversation from days ago, something trivial that wasn’t really the point. However, the tension between Martin and his wife, Emma, had been building for weeks, like pressure behind a dam, waiting for the right moment to burst.


    From the kitchen, Martin’s eyes darted around the living room outside, taking in the details without really seeing them. The dishes in the sink, the way Emma’s cardigan was tossed carelessly over the back of a chair… the shadow that moved just outside the house.


    Was he imagining that?


    She was in front of him now, her face twisted in frustration, words tumbling out of her mouth faster than she could control them. He could hear the venom in her voice, the anger that mirrored his own. But tonight, something felt different. The air crackled with something darker, something neither of them had ever acknowledged.


    "You never listen, Martin!" Emma shouted. "It''s like you''re not even here anymore! Where are you, huh? What happened to us?"


    He didn’t respond. His hands, large and calloused from years of work, trembled. He refused to answer, because he knew if he did, it would only make things worse.


    But Emma wouldn’t let it go. She stepped closer, her eyes burning with anger. "Look at me! You can’t just shut down every time we have a fight!" He tried to walk away but she clearly wasn’t having it, "You think you can just walk away?"


    She reached out, grabbing his arm, and that’s when it happened. A split-second decision he didn’t remember making. He turned away, yanking his arm free, but the anger still buzzed, a live wire. Without thinking, his hand shot out, not to hurt, just to push her away—until it hit her chest, too hard, too fast.


    Emma stumbled backward, her eyes wide with shock. Her foot caught the edge of the table, and she fell, her head striking the corner with a gut-wrenching crunch. The sound reverberated through the room, louder than it should have been, louder than anything he had ever heard.


    Then silence.


    For a moment, Martin just stood there, his mind struggling to catch up with what had happened. Emma lay on the floor, her green dress fanned out around her, her hair splayed across the tile. Her chest didn’t rise or fall. The reality of it hit him like a freight train. His breath snagged, momentarily stuck in his chest, as he stumbled toward her.


    "Emma…?" His voice was a whisper, a plea for her to move, to say something, anything. But she didn’t. Her vacant stare remained glued to the ceiling, as if searching for something beyond. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands shaking as he reached for her broken neck, searching for a pulse he knew he wouldn’t find.


    As expected, there was nothing. Just the coldness of her skin seeping into his very bones.


    The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls pressing in as the pressure of what he’d done squeezed the air out of his lungs. His stomach churned, threatening to empty itself, but he swallowed hard. He couldn’t break down. He had to think. He had to fix this.


    The police. The thought sent relief through him, and his first instinct was to grab his phone and call for help. But then his mind caught up with him. He wasn’t just anyone. He was a man of authority, the one who was supposed to handle situations like this, not create them. If he called the police, if they found out what had happened, there would be no explaining it away. No mitigating circumstances. Just the fact that he murdered his wife.


    He looked down at Emma again, her face pale and still, and something inside him cracked. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he forced them back. Martin stood slowly, his mind racing. He needed to hide her and fast. His heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled toward the bedroom, his mind blurred by fear and panic. He grabbed a bed sheet from the linen closet, the soft fabric feeling heavy and wrong in his hands.


    Returning to the kitchen, he knelt beside her again, carefully wrapping her in the sheet. He tried to avoid looking at her face, tried to ignore the growing chill in her skin as he worked. But as he pulled the sheet over her head, the wind howled through the small crack in the kitchen window, lifting the edge of the sheet as if mocking him. Her face was exposed again, pale and lifeless, eyes staring blankly into the void.


    Martin recoiled, his breath catching in his throat. He quickly covered her face again, the image burned into his mind. He couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t undo it.


    With trembling hands, he lifted her body, struggling under the weight of it, and carried her down the narrow staircase to the basement. The darkness swallowed them both as he descended. The air reeked with the smell of damp concrete and old, forgotten things. He set her down in the corner, delicately arranging the sheet around her so that nothing was exposed. The basement felt like a tomb, cold and silent, and the thought of leaving her there made his stomach churn.


    But he had no choice. He couldn’t let anyone find her. Not until he figured out what to do.


    He climbed back up the stairs, closing the basement door behind him, and collapsed onto the stairwell just outside the door. His breaths were shallow and uneven, dragging painfully his lungs, and the sobs he had been holding back finally broke free. He buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaking as he wept.


    What had he done? How had it come to this?


    Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time had lost all meaning. As he sat there, all he could hear was the sound of his own sobs, the consequence of his actions pressing down on him with a suffocating intensity.


    Then he heard it.


    The sound of the living room door creaking open.


    He froze, his breath catching in his throat. The sobs stopped instantly, replaced by a cold, creeping fear that wrapped itself around his spine. He listened, straining to hear over the pounding of his own heart. The wind whispered through the crack in the window again, but this time it wasn’t just the wind.


    There was someone in the house.


    Martin stood slowly, his knees shaking, and reached for the doorknob to the basement. He turned it, locking the door with a soft click, and then made his way cautiously toward the living room. The door was wide open, the cold night air blowing in, sending a shiver down his spine. He scanned the room, but there was no one there.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    However, there were footprints. Muddy, wet footprints, leading from the door toward the hallway. Toward the bedroom.


    Martin’s heart felt like it might burst. He didn’t call out, didn’t make a sound. Whoever was in the house, they didn’t know he was here. He could use that to his advantage. Moving as quietly as he could, he slipped down the hallway, his eyes on the footprints that led toward the bedroom.


    The door was ajar. Inside, he could see the edge of his bed, and just beyond it, his shotgun, propped up against the wall. His head filled with possibilities, trying to piece together what was happening. Was it a break-in? Had someone seen him?


    He couldn’t take any chances.


    Martin walked closer to the bedroom, careful to keep his footsteps light, and peered inside gently. Nobody was inside. He slowly picked up his shotgun and weighed it in his arm. He needed to get out of here. His eyes flicked toward the back exit of the house. He could slip out; avoid whatever was waiting for him in the rest of the house. Better safe than sorry.


    But as he locked his bedroom door and turned away, something cold and heavy clamped down on his shoulder. A giant hand. Strong, unyielding. The strength from that hand alone was enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder.


    Martin’s breath hung in his throat like a trapped bird, panic burning in his chest as his mind flashed back to the moment he had turned away from her. Could it have been different? Was there a moment, a split second where he could have changed it all? The what-ifs were endless, and they clawed at his sanity.


    He tried to pull away or use his shotgun, but another hand, equally massive, covered his mouth and nose, pressing a handkerchief against his face. The chemical smell filled his nostrils, sharp and overpowering.


    His vision blurred. The shotgun fell to the floor. The room began to spin, and then everything went dark.


    When Martin came to, his head was pounding, and his body ached in ways he didn’t understand. His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was the ceiling above him—white, sterile, with a single bare light bulb dangling from a wire.


    He tried to move, but he couldn’t. His arms were pinned to his sides, his legs bound. Fear flowed through him as he realized he was tied to a table, his body held in place by thick leather straps.


    A shadow moved in his peripheral vision, and he turned his head as much as he could. A man stood over him—a giant of a man, with pale skin and cold, almost white eyes. He wore a surgeon’s mask and gloves, his bald head glistening under the harsh light.


    Martin’s breath came in short, panicked gasps. He tried to speak, tried to plead, but his throat was dry, and no sound came out. The man didn’t seem to notice. He was focused on something in his hand—a long, sharp knife that glinted in the light as he slowly sharpened it.


    The sharp sound of the blade scraping against the stone filled the room, a sound that sent shivers down Martin’s spine. He struggled against the restraints, but they held fast.


    The man finally looked up, his eyes locking onto Martin’s. There was no emotion there. No recognition of Martin as a person. Just cold, detached calculation.


    Martin managed to croak out a single word. "Please…"


    But the man didn’t respond. He didn’t even blink. He simply stepped closer, raising the knife.


    The first cut was shallow, a thin line of fire across Martin’s cheek. He screamed, the sound echoing off the walls of the small room, but the man didn’t react. He just continued, the knife moving with surgical precision, peeling back layers of skin as if he were carving a piece of meat.


    Martin’s screams grew louder, but no one came. No one heard. The man worked in silence, his face expressionless as he flayed Martin alive, stripping away his skin piece by piece, layer by agonizing layer.


    Time lost all meaning. Martin’s world became an endless cycle of pain and terror. He begged for it to stop, for the pain to end, but the man just kept going, as if he were performing a routine surgery.


    At some point, Martin’s soul finally gave in. The pain became too much, the terror too overwhelming, and the darkness swallowed him again. This time, it didn’t let go.


    Four days later, Vanessa Ross knocked on the front door of Martin and Emma’s house. She had been worried. She hadn’t seen them in days, and they hadn’t answered any of her calls. It wasn’t like them to disappear without a word.


    When there was no answer, Vanessa tried the door. It was unlocked. She hesitated for a moment, and then pushed it open, stepping inside.


    "Hello?" she called out, her voice ringing through the empty house. "Martin? Emma? Is anyone here?"


    She walked further inside, her footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. The house was unnervingly quiet, the air heavy with a strange, metallic smell that made her wince. She didn’t know what she expected to find, but it wasn’t this.


    She reached the living room and froze.


    Martin was there, lying on the couch. But he wasn’t Martin anymore. His skin was gone, peeled away, leaving only raw, red flesh behind. Maggots had already begun to appear on as many areas of decomposing, skinless, flesh they could find. Blood was everywhere, soaking the couch, pooling on the floor, staining everything in sight.


    Vanessa screamed.


    The sound reverberated through the empty house, carried away by the wind that whispered through the open door.


    Vanessa''s hands trembled as she fumbled for her phone, dialing 911. She kept glancing back at Martin’s body, lying on the blood-soaked couch, his skinless form like something from a nightmare. She couldn’t stop shaking. She couldn’t get the image out of her mind.


    "9-1-1, what’s your emergency?"


    "They’re dead," she managed to whisper to the operator. "Both of them… I think… Please, hurry."


    The minutes that passed before the police arrived felt like hours. Vanessa stood frozen near the door, too terrified to move, too afraid to leave Martin’s corpse alone. When the first squad car pulled up, she practically ran outside, desperate to escape the horror that had taken over her neighbors’ home.


    Officer Daniels was the first on the scene. He entered the house with his partner, scanning the room with trained eyes. The smell hit him first, thick and metallic, the unmistakable stench of blood. His partner gagged but held it together as they approached the living room.


    "Jesus Christ," Daniels muttered under his breath as he saw Martin’s body on the couch. "What the hell happened here?"


    They moved through the house cautiously, checking each room. They found no signs of forced entry, no muddy footprints, and no blood trails— nothing that indicated anyone else had been in the house. It was as if Martin had just… died there, in some horrific, inexplicable way.


    Then they found the basement.


    Officer Daniels discovered the hidden body of Emma, delicately wrapped in a sheet and tucked away in the corner. He radioed his superiors while ordering the crime scene to be taped off, his voice tight with shock.


    As the crime scene quickly became more crowded with officers and two homicide detectives, Detective Thompson and Detective Lewis Lawrence arrived. Lewis had a pale and tense look on his face. He knew this house all too well—Martin was his brother after all.


    He walked through the living room, trying to control the rising bile in his throat. Martin’s body, flayed and mutilated, was unrecognizable. His brother. His own flesh and blood. But he couldn’t let that emotion cloud his judgment. He had to stay sharp.


    Lewis headed down to the basement, where officers were examining Emma’s body. He stared at the sheet-wrapped form, taking in the details. His mind worked quickly, piecing together the timeline, the clues—or lack thereof. He spoke with Officer Daniels and reviewed the scene repeatedly, something gnawing at him.


    Then it hit him.


    "Martin killed her," Lewis said, his voice flat, though the realization tore at him inside. "He wrapped Emma up and hid her in the basement."


    Detective Thompson, who had been standing nearby fidgeting with a rubber band, turned to him. "How’d you figure?"


    Lewis took a deep breath, forcing himself to think clearly despite the conflicting emotions he felt. "Look at the way she’s been hidden. The sheet, the delicate placement. This wasn’t the work of a stranger or someone in a hurry. It was someone who cared about her, who didn’t want to just dump her body. Whoever killed Emma knew her. Knew her well."


    Thompson’s focus remained on the rubber band he was twiddling with. "What about your brother? You’re saying that when he killed Emma, someone else did this to him?"


    Lewis nodded slowly. "Yes. The killer wasn’t here for Emma. They were here for Martin. But first… Martin killed her. Something happened between them. Maybe an argument that got out of control. He didn’t call for help. He didn’t try to get her medical attention. He hid her. That’s the action of a man who knows he’s responsible." Lewis’s voice tightened as he continued to force his words out. "The killer showed up after Martin had already done it. It could have been minutes later, hours even… but Martin’s death was deliberate. Torturous. Someone wanted him to pay."


    Daniels nodded grimly. "So the Butcher got him? Seems like his style."


    "The Butcher?" A rookie officer, fresh to the city, looked up. "Who’s the Butcher?"


    Daniels’s expression turned dark. "The Killers’ Killer. He targets serial murderers, terrorists, rapists, the real monsters out there. When he finds them, he sends them to hell in the most brutal ways imaginable."


    The rookie’s face paled, but Thompson, chimed in, shaking his head. "I’ve studied the Butcher for years. He targets criminals, sure, but this… this is different. The Butcher never flays his victims. Flaying requires patience… precision. This was something else."


    Lewis turned to Thompson, his heart sinking. "What’d you mean?"


    Thompson slightly shrugged, still fiddling with the rubber band as he looked around the house with eyes that were reminiscent of that of a young child. "I’m saying… Martin was punished for killing his wife, yes. But this wasn’t the Butcher. This was something much worse."