Velvet Graves

The first body was discovered behind the old Marrow Theater—propped up like a forgotten prop, red velvet ribbon stuffed down her throat, eyes wide and glassy with terror. Her lips had been sewn shut, delicate threadwork pulled tight with surgical precision.

Detective Lorne Vale crouched beside the corpse, gloved fingers grazing the ribbon. He'd seen overdoses, gang killings, domestic horrors—but this? This was something else. The velvet was clean. No blood soaked it until the throat turned it dark. And in the woman’s palm was a note written in fountain pen:

>“To die beautifully is an art. –S.”

The press dubbed the killer “The Seamstress.” Vale hated it. Not because it was inaccurate—but because it fit too well.

---

Three days later, another body. Male, mid-thirties, left slumped in a theater seat in the Marrow’s derelict balcony. Same velvet down the throat. Same stitched lips. Same note.

The theater had been closed for decades—ever since the Hollis fire in '82. The blaze claimed nearly the entire family, including Eliza Hollis, the town’s last true aristocrat. Only her daughter survived. Clara Hollis. Seven years old. Disappeared for thirty years. Then last month, she came back.

Clara bought the theater. Quietly. Paid in cash.

“I want to restore it,” she told the city council, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. “The town has forgotten its elegance. Its drama.”

Vale remembered her vividly. A porcelain girl in funeral black, even at the age of seven. Now grown, she looked untouched by time—pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and those same lifeless eyes.

---

Vale pushed past caution tape and stepped into the Marrow Theater for the third time that week. The air inside was heavy with mildew and something sweeter—cloying, like decaying roses. The lights didn’t work, but the old stage lights flickered to life as he moved down the center aisle.

Someone was watching.

Backstage, he found her.

Clara Hollis stood in front of the old mirror wall, gazing at her reflection. She didn’t flinch when Vale entered.

“You returned quickly, detective,” she said. Her voice was smooth as smoke.

Vale motioned to the velvet curtain. “Odd hobby, restoring a place where half your family died.”

“I find ruins comforting,” she replied, turning. “And ghosts rarely bother me. They’re quieter than the living.”

He stared at her hands—black lace gloves, tight. Always the gloves.

“You knew them,” he said. “The victims.”

“I auditioned them,” she answered without hesitation. “They weren’t very good.”

Vale blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I posted ads for actors. I offered roles. They came, they auditioned... and they died.”

Her smile was paper-thin.

“You’re confessing?”

“No,” she said, “I’m curating.”

---

He left, heart pounding. No warrant. No proof. But his gut howled.

That night, Clara hosted an invite-only “dress rehearsal” for what she called Velvet Graves: A Tragedy in Three Acts.

Vale went in with a wire and backup waiting outside.

The theater was candlelit. Half a dozen guests, dressed in black, sat silently in the first row. On stage, a velvet coffin. Clara emerged from the wings in a blood-red gown, her gloves gone.

Her hands were hideously scarred—burns running from fingertips to wrists. A legacy from the fire. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they were earned later.

She began to speak.

“Welcome to the closing of the curtain. Tonight’s performance is for the final role.”

Vale stood.

“You’re under arrest—”

But before he could finish, the stage trapdoor opened beneath the coffin. A body tumbled out—fresh, mutilated, stitched with loving detail. And the crowd applauded.

They weren’t guests.

They were disciples.

Clara turned to Vale, smile widening.

“Detective,” she said sweetly, “I saved the last act for you.”

---

They lunged.

He shot two. Ran.

Blood sprayed across velvet seats. Screams rang out, rehearsed and real. Vale reached the exit—

—but the door was sealed.

Trapped.

Backstage. Hallways like veins. The walls pulsed with heat. He staggered into the prop room and found them:

Photos. Names. Measurements. All the victims. All labeled as cast.

On a pinned board was his photo.

> Role: The Interrogator. Final Scene.

---

Vale kicked down the side exit just as backup arrived. SWAT stormed the theater. They found bodies. Costumes. Blood.

But Clara was gone.

No trace.

Only a note pinned to the coffin lid:

> “Every tragedy must end in silence. Curtain falls. –S.”

---They searched for Clara Hollis for weeks. The theater gave no more answers—only echoes. Forensics found nothing of value. The disciples refused to speak. Every surviving member had stitched their lips shut literally, just like the victims. Some died from infection. The rest were committed.

The Marrow Theater was condemned, locked behind iron bars and legal red tape. But even from the outside, some claimed they could hear muffled sobs behind its velvet curtains.

And Detective Vale?

A month later, Vale quit the force. He doesn’t sleep much. He doesn’t talk much. But sometimes, in dreams, he hears the velvet rustling.

Sometimes, in the mirror, he sees thread pulling at his lips.

Sometimes, when the curtains flutter, he swears he hears applause.

---

END.