More Twisted

called, “Did you come back to turn me into another one of your dolls?”
    Marissa backed away. Where was he? She couldn’t hear him.
    Where ?
    Was he—?
    A stream of hot breath kissed her left cheek. He was no more than a foot away.
    “Lucia!”
    She screamed and dropped to her knees. She couldn’t move forward, toward where she believed the stairs were—he was in her way—but she remembered seeing a small door against the far wall. Maybe it led to the backyard. Feeling her way along the wall, she finally located it, ripped the door open and tumbled inside, slamming it behind her.
    Sobbing, she struck a match.
    No!
    She found herself in a tiny cell, four feet high and six square. No windows, no other doorways.
    Through her tears of panic, she saw an object on the floor in front of her. Easing forward, hands shaking,heart stuttering, she saw that it was a porcelain doll, its black eyes staring at the ceiling.
    And on the wall were dark brown streaks—blood, Marissa understood—left by the prior occupant of this chamber, Lucia, who spent the last days of her life in terror, trying vainly to scratch through the stone with her bare fingers.
    The match went out, and darkness surrounded her.
    Marissa collapsed on the floor in panic, sobbing. What a fool I’ve been, she thought.
    I’ll die here, I’ll die here, I’ll die—
    But then, from outside the cell, she heard Antonio’s voice, sounding suddenly quite normal.
    He called, “It’s all right, Marissa. Don’t worry. There’s a light switch behind a loose stone to the left of the door. Turn it on. Read the note hidden inside the doll.”
    What was happening? Marissa wondered. She wiped the tears from her eyes and found the switch, clicked it on. Blinking against the bright light, she bent down and pulled a folded piece of paper from the hollowed-out doll. She read.
    Marissa—
    The wall to your left is false. It’s plastic. Pull it down and you’ll see a door and a window. The door is unlocked. When you’re ready to leave, push it open outward. But first look out the window.
    She ripped the plastic away. There was indeed a window. She looked out and saw the footbridge. Unlike before, the property was now well lit with spotlights fromthe mill. She saw Antonio, with his suitcase, heading over the bridge. He paused, must have seen the light through the window of the cell and knew she was watching. He waved. Then he disappeared toward the parking lot. A moment later she heard his car start and the sound of him driving away.
    What the hell’s going on?
    She pushed the door open and stepped outside.
    There was her suitcase and purse. She tore off the robe, dressed quickly with trembling hands and pulled her cell phone from her purse, gripping it the way a scared child clings to a stuffed animal. She continued with the note.
    You are safe. You have always been safe.
    I am on my way back to Florence now, nowhere near the mill. But believe that I’m no psychotic killer. There is no Lucia. The old woman who told you about her was paid 100 euros for her performance. There was no little boy who drowned; I put the flowers and cross by the stream myself before I came to pick you up at the station today. The football was merely a prop. The blood on the wall of the cell is paint. The drugs were candy (though the grappa was real—and quite rare, I may add). The photograph of me and my “wife” was created by computer.
    As for what is true: My name is Antonio, I have never been married, I made a fortune in computers, and this is my vacation house.
    What, you are wondering, is this all about?
    I must explain:
    As a child I spent much time in loneliness and boredom. I immersed myself in the books of the great writers of horror. They were terrifying, yes, but they also exhilarated me. I would see an audience watching a horror film and think: They are scared but they are alive.
    Those experiences moved me to become an artist. Like any truly great musician or painter, my goal is not simply to create beauty but to open people’s eyes and rearrange their views and perceptions, the only difference being that instead of musical notes or paint, my medium is fear. When I see people like you who, as Dante writes, have lost the true path in life, I consider it my mission to help them find it. The night in Florence, the night we met, I singled you out because I saw that your eyes were dead. And I soon learned why—your unhappiness at your job, your oppressive father, your