Twin Artists
"I'm… lonely,"Her voice was barely a whisper.
"…Mr. Ethan, could you… comfort me, please?"
Ethan froze for a second. His hand, resting on his knee, reached out and lightly touched hers out of sympathy.
"I understand how you feel… Mrs. Ramsey.""But I'm still in the middle of looking for your children… and others who've gone missing, including the person behind all this."
"I'm afraid…"
Before he could finish, her hand tightened around his.
"But you said… you understand, didn't you?"
Her smile returned, but this time, it wasn't the same.
"You understand how I feel… don't you?"
A stillness filled the room.
Ethan began to sense an odd pressure around his wrist.
The air had changed—become denser.
He gently pulled his hand away as politely as he could.
"I… I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't think I can help you the way you need."
Mrs. Ramsey fell silent for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"…I understand."
Her voice was steady, but her face was heavy with visible sorrow.
The house fell quiet again.
Ethan could feel a weight pressing down around him—something unseen.
He changed the subject.
"Uh… Mrs. Ramsey,""If it's not too much to ask…""Could I take a look at your children's room upstairs?"
Silence.The ticking of a wall clock was the only sound.
Mrs. Ramsey nodded.
"Upstairs. On the right. The light doesn't work… the bulb's out."
Ethan murmured a thanks and climbed the stairs.
Each step creaked beneath his feet.
…
He opened the twins' bedroom door slowly.
A musty scent wafted toward him—dust, old paper, stale air.
Two beds sat parallel, their blankets perfectly folded as if untouched.
On the desk were torn pieces of paper with horror-themed drawings—headless people, faceless creatures, human nugget meat…
The walls were plastered with horror game posters. In some corners, strange printed images had been pinned up.
Ethan crouched down and examined the floor under Cole's bed.
There were scratch marks—something had been dragged out.
He reached under and pulled it out.
A thick, black sketchbook.
No name. No design.
But some pages had been torn out—and others were smudged, as if someone tried to hide what had been there.
He flipped to the first page.
…
A sketch of a dining table.
Three people sat around it.
The person at the head of the table wore an apron, holding a knife and fork.
On the plate in front of him—was that… a pie?
Ethan froze.
Then turned the page.
…
Scrawled text read:
"##s#a… So respectable and ##n#h# at the same time."
Below it was a sketch of a face.
Unfinished—unrecognizable.
He turned another page.
What he saw next sent a cold churn through his stomach.
A boy was strapped to a metal chair.Not just any chair—something like a child-sized electric chair.
His head was covered with a sack. Arms and legs bound tightly with straps.
His fingernails had been pulled out.
Skin peeled from his shins, exposing raw muscle underneath.
Ethan's hand trembled.
He didn't want to imagine…
If this wasn't just a picture… if this was real…
Was that what the missing kids were going through?
He reached for a cigarette.
His hand shook so much the pack nearly slipped from his grasp.
He bit one between his teeth, but didn't light it.
Just stood there… breathing.
…
Who could do something like this?
Not just a lunatic.
This was someone with time… space… and victims who obeyed.
…
Soft footsteps approached from behind.
Getting closer to the twins' room.
The door creaked open slowly.
Mrs. Ramsey.
She stood there, as if trying hard not to look inside.
"Mr. Ethan?"
He removed the cigarette from his lips.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"It's nothing really…""I just wanted to let you know I'll be stepping out for a bit."
"Oh… I see. In that case, I'll come back another day."
Ethan spoke politely as he stepped out of the twins' room, the sketchbook still in hand.
But before he walked away completely, he turned back.
"…May I ask you something, Mrs. Ramsey?"
She lifted her head slowly.
"Did your boys ever talk about someone in particular?"
"I mean… a close friend, or someone they looked up to?"
Mrs. Ramsey paused.
"Yes… I think they did."
"Lately, I heard them talking about someone quite often."
"Someone from school… or maybe somewhere else. He seemed older… but they really admired him."
"They didn't tell me much directly.""Mostly they whispered to each other, so I didn't pry."
"Like when kids have their own secret hero…"
Ethan took out his notebook and began jotting everything down.
"And did they ever go out? Outside the house?"
"Sometimes, yes…""After school, they'd go bike riding. Like usual."
"Did they say where?"
She furrowed her brow, then answered slowly:
"If I remember right… sometimes into the woods behind the school."
"…Or to that friend's house."
"Thank you, ma'am. That helps a lot."
"You're very welcome."
Ethan thought to himself: That's the same place Billy mentioned.
Just then, Mrs. Ramsey reached out and gently held his hand.
He stiffened——but didn't pull away.
"Please… find them," she said, voice trembling ever so slightly.
Her other hand softly cupped his cheek.
Ethan looked into her eyes——the eyes of a woman holding both hope and sorrow.
"You and I… we share the same eyes,""The eyes of people who've lost something that mattered."
She smiled faintly.
"I trust you, Mr. Ethan."
Then her hand slipped away from his face.
"I should be going now…""See you again soon."
"…Yes, ma'am."
She walked away.
Ethan stood there for a moment, glancing down.
His hand was clenched tight.
He slowly opened it.
…A key.
He exhaled softly.
"Guess I'll stay a little longer."
This time, he walked to Kyle's bed.
Everything looked normal—neat.
Then he turned to the wardrobe in the corner.
He opened it carefully.
Just folded clothes—nothing unusual.
But at the very bottom… hidden under the pile… was an old box.
It was locked.
Ethan knelt down.
He tried the key Mrs. Ramsey had slipped him.
It fit perfectly.
A metallic scent hit his nose as he opened the lid——or was it something else?
He wasn't sure if it was rust… or something far more unpleasant.
He began pulling the items out one by one.
A tape player and old cassettes—industrial noise music, distorted and eerie.
Worn plastic toys with chipped paint.
An old camera. Photos—just ordinary family pictures, it seemed.
Then… a glass jar.
A jar full of teeth.
Far too many. Not just baby teeth.
Dozens of them.
And not all human.
Some were unmistakably animal—dog, cat… maybe worse.
Ethan froze for a second.
These kids… or maybe just Kyle… had some deeply twisted fascinations.
Then his eyes fell on the last item in the box.
A diary.
Bound in dark leather——in pristine condition, unlike everything else.
He opened it.
The handwriting was neat—painstakingly neat for someone so young.
The first page read:
June 14Today was like every other day—crappy and boring.Nothing special, except Cole stole my cake from the fridge again.I think I'll steal something of his in return…Maybe something that's stuck to him.
June 16School's still stupid.The teachers don't make any sense—they don't get real art.
Only we do. Just the two of us.
Cole draws. I collect.
We make a good team, don't you think?
June 18The sound teeth make when they fall into a jar…clink, clink, clink.
It's nice.
Like dice rolling inside someone's skull.
I found another one today, near the old house—probably a cat's.
Should I write names under the jar?Or maybe just let them "merge."
June 19Someone said we're not normal.
They don't get it.
Art is what turns the ordinary into something true.
Sometimes the truth is ugly.
But we can make it beautiful—if we know how.
June 21We saw him again today.
That presence… it's hard to explain.Charming. Strange. Magnetic.
He was standing behind the abandoned school building.
He doesn't say much…but he listens.
Not like those assholes who laugh at Cole's drawingsor tell me to shut up when I talk about teethor organsor… things people call "weird."
He never laughs.He just nods.
I like that.
June 22Cole said he might be "a real friend."
I didn't argue.
He's kind… but in a way that feels dangerous.
He told us we could "become more than this."
We just had to help reveal what's "underneath."
I don't fully get what he meant.But I want to.
June 24He showed us a photo today.
Old. Black-and-white. Torn edges.
People were sitting at a long table.A pie in the center.Everyone was smiling—even the one whose mouth had been sewn shut.
He said:"This is what a real family looks like."
I want to be in a picture like that.
June 25He called my name today.
Softly. But I heard it clearly.
I like how it sounds when he says it—like I matter.
He told us,"You two are talented.""No one understands art like you do."
He also said:"An artist must suffer—before they can create the real thing."
I didn't get it all…but the words stuck.
They're still in my head.
June 27He asked,"What would you do if someone took your friend away?"
I said,"I'd go get them myself."
He smiled.
And then he invited us to his house.
I couldn't imagine what we'd find there.But I hoped it would leave us speechless.
June 30It was amazing.
Not a single disappointment.
What we saw in that house—It was our heaven.
He said we could come back anytime.
We could barely wait to return.
I couldn't wait to start making my own art.
July 1Today he let us "help."
Not playing pretend.
Real help.
He had us clean the room in the basement.There was a strange smell—so strong we could smell it from the third step down.
He just smiled and said,"Think of it like walking into a gallery. The gallery of a true artist."
At first Cole almost threw up.But after he said that…
Cole nodded and said,"I get it now."
July 2We helped set the dining table today.
He brought out plates—told us it was very important.
"Every plate," he said,"is the beginning of understanding the meaning of what we eat."
I wasn't sure what that meant.
But he told us to sit and stare into the empty plates.
"Look deeper… beneath the shine of the metal."
"You'll see your true self."
And… I think I started to.
I've never felt that before.
July 3Today… we saw him make something real.
He had us stand behind the plastic curtain.
"No noise. No questions," he said.
"Just watch."
I thought I'd be scared.
But I wasn't.
His hands moved slow, steady—like an artist painting a masterpiece.
Cole squeezed my hand—he was scared.
But I wasn't.
When it was over,he slung a bloodied cloth over his shoulder and smiled.
"Next time," he said,"you'll get to do it yourselves."
And I…I can't wait.