Page 70 of X Marks the Stalker
A prickle runs up my spine, the instinctual warning I’ve learned not to ignore. My eyes flick to the mirrors, searching for any inconsistency in the infinite reflections. The door is still closed, the blinds drawn. No cameras. Those were disabled days ago. The space is secure. It has to be.
Still, I can’t shake the sense of something—someone—just outside my perception. My grip tightens on the drill, the hum of its motor too loud in the silence.
“Temporary paranoia,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders to dispel the sensation. “A natural side effect of heightened adrenal response during intense concentration.”
I return to the task at hand, positioning the drill against Wendell’s exposed skull. The whir of the motor fills the room as I create the first burr hole, where he accessed Jorge Vega’s brain. Wendell’s eyes follow the movement, aware of what’s happening. The medication keeps him from feeling the worst of it, but the cognitive awareness remains intact. Exactly as planned.
“What goes around comes around, Doctor.” The drill bites through bone, revealing the pulsing dura beneath. “Though in your case, it’s what gets cut around.”
I step back, admiring my handiwork. The skull flap comes away with a wet sucking sound, revealing the glistening pink-gray matter beneath. Dr. Wendell’s brain—the seat of his genius and his cruelty—pulsates with each heartbeat. Beautiful, in its way.
“There it is,” I whisper, leaning closer. “The prefrontal cortex. Home to our moral reasoning, impulse control, and decision-making capabilities. Yours seems to be structurally normal, which means your actions weren’t the result of a tumor or trauma. Just pure, unmitigated choice.”
Wendell’s eyes roll, fixed on the mirror I’ve positioned above him. There’s something poetic about forcing him to witness his own vivisection.
I select a delicate probe from my tray, holding it up for his inspection.
“This is similar to the tool you used on Michael. Your notes mentioned ‘minimal tissue disruption’ but the autopsy photos told a different story.” I position the probe at the edge of his exposed brain. “I wonder what your tissue disruption threshold feels like from the inside?”
The probe slides in with surprising ease. Brain matter offers such little resistance, like pressing into firm custard. Wendell’s body convulses against the restraints, his muffled screams vibrating through the leather gag.
“Fascinating reaction.” I adjust the angle. “That’s your amygdala responding to extreme fear. The same fear your patients felt when they woke up with unexplained deficits.”
His eyelids flutter, trying to close against the horror.
“Ah,” I say, tilting my head. “You’re trying to escape. Not physically, of course—you know that’s impossible. But mentally. You think if you close your eyes, you can pretend this isn’t happening. Fascinating.”
I reach for the smaller scalpel, the one designed for fine, precise work. “Let me help you with that.”
With two precise incisions, I sever the muscles controlling his upper eyelids. The delicate tissue parts under theblade, blood welling up around his eyes like crimson tears. The severed muscles retract, leaving his eyes permanently open, forced to witness every moment of his own dissection.
“There we go. Much better. Now you can appreciate my technique.” I dab away the blood with gauze. “Don’t worry about blinking—the saline drip I’ve set up will keep your corneas moist. I’m not a monster.”
I laugh at my joke. Wendell’s wide, unblinking eyes follow my movements, unable to escape the sight of his own exposed brain matter reflected from every angle.
“You know, most people never get to see their own brain. You should thank me for this educational opportunity.” I position a different probe at the temporal lobe. “This next part might affect your speech centers. Hard to say exactly—brains are so individual, aren’t they? That’s what makes your research so ethically problematic.”
I apply gentle pressure, watching as slight tremors course through his facial muscles.
“Oops, that was the motor cortex. My mistake.” I withdraw the probe. “You know, for someone who’s spent his career poking around in other people’s gray matter, you seem distressed to have it done to you. Perspective is everything, isn’t it?”
Wendell’s eyes catch on the mirrors, his reflection fracturing into infinite versions of himself. Each one is trapped, restrained, and surrounded by the faces of his victims. His breathing grows more erratic as he shifts his gaze, finding no escape from the multiplied horrors.
The probe hovers between my fingers, poised above the intersection of cuts, when a muffled thump breaks the silence. I freeze, head tilting toward the sound.
There’s a scuffling noise coming from behind the large executive desk I’d pushed against the wall earlier. Something soft but distinct—fabric against carpet, the subtle whisper of controlled breathing.
Someone’s here.
I freeze, setting the probe down on the tray without a sound. One hand reaches for the gun I’d placed there earlier, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip. The weight of it is reassuring, a contingency I hoped not to need but prepared for anyway.
Every sense sharpens. The air turns colder against my skin as adrenaline floods my system. Dr. Wendell’s muffled whimpers fade into background noise as I focus entirely on the desk.
There it is again. The smallest shifting sound, almost imperceptible. Someone is trying very hard to stay silent and not quite succeeding.
I raise the gun and disengage the safety. The soft click sounds loud in the room’s tense silence.
“You know what they never tell you about DIY neurosurgery?” I say, easing around the perimeter of the room. “The absolute mess it creates. My bathtub is going to look like a crime scene tonight. Actually, technically it will be a crime scene, so I guess that’s appropriate. The things they don’t cover in YouTube tutorials, am I right?”
