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墨書 Inktalez
Chapter Two
I stood in the rain, shivering not only from the cold but also from the chilling discovery I had just made. Those wax figures, the faint stench of decay, and the news about missing women—all clues pointed to a horrifying possibility. I had to uncover the truth.
I pulled out my phone, trembling as I dialed the police station. "Hello, I want to report a case. I suspect that the Wax Museum on the corner is involved in a murder."
"Please provide specific details," came the operator's formulaic response.
Taking a deep breath, I detailed my findings and suspicions. There was a moment of silence on the other end before they assured me that someone would be dispatched to investigate immediately. After hanging up, I took refuge in a café across the street, keeping a close watch on the activity at the studio.
The café was decorated with a hint of European vintage charm, with reproductions of Impressionist paintings hanging on the walls and the air filled with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. The seat by the window offered a perfect view of the Wax Museum's façade. I chose a window seat, ordered a hot Americano, and tried to let the caffeine chase away both my chill and my unease.
Time ticked by slowly; every passing vehicle made my nerves tighten. I kept sipping my coffee, my eyes never leaving the closed door of the studio.
In less than twenty minutes, two police cars quietly pulled up in front of the studio. Several officers swiftly entered the building, and my heart raced. However, to my surprise, that tall man seemed prepared; he calmly cooperated with the police inspection and even volunteered to open every room in the studio.
The officers spent nearly an hour inside but emerged empty-handed. I watched as the lead officer shook hands with that man before leaving, clearly having found nothing suspicious. This was impossible! I had distinctly smelled that odor and seen those eerie details.
Through the café's glass window, I saw that man turn back toward the studio after sending off the police. His silhouette appeared particularly sinister under the dim light, like a ghost returning to its lair. I tightened my grip on my coffee cup, my knuckles turning slightly white from exertion.
Once the police left, I resolved to continue my investigation. As a thriller writer, my instincts told me that there was a larger secret hidden here. I returned home and began searching online for information about this studio.
The warm yellow light in my home contrasted sharply with the cold world outside. I opened my computer and typed rapidly on the keyboard, hoping to find even a thread of information about this mysterious studio.
Surprisingly, this studio had been in existence for over twenty years, only recently moving to this location. Even more bizarre was my discovery that every few years, a Young Woman would go missing near the studio. These cases had never been solved and ultimately faded into obscurity.
I opened an old post on a local forum that detailed one of the missing persons cases. The missing woman was named Li Xiaoqian, a 22-year-old employee at a clothing store. She was last seen on her way home from work, just a few hundred meters from the Wax Museum. Every word in the post felt like a sharp knife, piercing my nerves.
The next morning, I returned to the studio with my camera. This time I pretended to be an art critic interested in interviewing them about their creative philosophy. The tall man—now I knew he was named Chen Mo—unexpectedly agreed to my request for an interview.
"Each Wax Figure is a work of art," Chen Mo said as he guided me through the studio. "We strive for the most realistic effect." His tone was calm, but his eyes sparkled with an elusive light.
The studio was dimly lit, with only a few spotlights illuminating the Wax Figures. Following Chen Mo closely, I scrutinized each figure. They were lifelike, as if they could spring to life at any moment. I could feel my heart racing, and sweat began to form in my palms.
Seizing an opportunity while he was distracted, I discreetly snapped several close-up photos of the Wax Figures. When I reached the figure of a woman in a red dress, Chen Mo's expression suddenly softened. "She's beautiful, isn't she?" he said softly. "This is my proudest work."
The Wax Figure wore a flowing red gown adorned with intricate embroidery. Her skin was as pale as jade, her lips rosy, and her eyes held a hint of melancholy. I noticed a small red mole on her earlobe that looked identical to that of a real person.
At that moment, I spotted an extremely faint scar on the figure's neck, resembling the mark left by surgical stitches. My heart raced as I casually asked, "Is this scar intentional?"
Chen Mo's gaze sharpened instantly. "What do you think?" he retorted, his voice carrying an ominous undertone.
I forced myself to remain calm and continued taking photos. When I aimed my lens at the figure's wrist, I suddenly noticed an astonishing detail: there was an incredibly tiny tattoo—a rose. This discovery sent chills down my spine—three months ago, the missing girl Lin Xiaoyu had an identical Rose Tattoo on her wrist!
"What are you looking for?" Chen Mo's voice came from behind me, colder than before.
I turned to flee but found him blocking the doorway. "Nothing; I'm just interested in the details," I managed to say while striving to keep my voice steady.
"You seem to be too curious," he said slowly as he approached me, a handkerchief stained with some kind of drug appearing in his hand. I wanted to scream, but it was already too late. A pungent odor invaded my nostrils, and the world before me began to spin and blur.
The substance on that handkerchief had a sickly sweet smell that made me want to gag. I tried to hold my breath, but the scent seeped into my lungs regardless. I felt dizzy, my limbs growing weak, my body heavy as if filled with lead.
In the last moment before losing consciousness, I saw Chen Mo looking down at me, a strange smile on his face. "Welcome to my collection of art pieces," he said.
My body fell heavily to the ground, my awareness fading away. Just before I was engulfed by darkness, I heard him whisper softly, "You will become a perfect work of art, just like her..."
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