The Sculptor

The man’s hands trembled as he spoke. “A traveler, much like you. He arrived years ago, claiming to be an artist. He promised to make Harrow beautiful. The townsfolk welcomed him. But his art… it wasn’t natural.”

Elliot’s breathing quickened. “What did he do?”

“He took their faces,” the man whispered. “He said they didn’t need them anymore. He molded their humanity into something… grotesque.”

The old man’s voice dropped lower. “He’s still here. If you want to survive, you need to leave before he finds you.”

The Hunt Begins

Before Elliot could respond, a piercing whistle echoed through the alley. The old man’s eyes widened in terror.

“Run,” he hissed.

Elliot didn’t hesitate. He sprinted through the narrow alleyways, the whistle growing louder and more menacing. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw a figure emerging from the shadows. The Sculptor.

The man was tall and gaunt, dressed in a black suit that seemed to absorb the light. His face was obscured by a porcelain mask, unnervingly smooth except for two empty eye sockets. In one hand, he carried a chisel; in the other, a hammer.

“You shouldn’t have come,” the Sculptor’s voice was calm, almost gentle. “But now that you’re here, let me perfect you.”

Elliot’s chest tightened with fear. He darted into a decrepit building, slamming the door behind him. The interior was a gallery of horrors. Statues of faceless people lined the walls, their poses frozen in agony. The Sculptor’s handiwork.

The Truth Unveiled

Elliot stumbled upon a journal lying open on a pedestal. The pages were filled with the Sculptor’s meticulous handwriting.

“Faces are distractions,” one entry read. “True beauty lies in simplicity. By removing their faces, I have liberated them from vanity, from deceit. They are my masterpieces.”

Elliot flipped through the pages, horrified. Each entry detailed another victim, their lives reduced to a twisted “artistic vision.”

A noise behind him made him spin around. The Sculptor stood in the doorway, his tools gleaming.

“You’ve seen my work,” he said, stepping closer. “Do you understand its beauty?”

Elliot backed away, clutching a rusted pipe he had found. “Stay away from me.”

The Sculptor tilted his head. “Fear is natural. But once I’ve completed you, you’ll feel nothing. Just peace.”

The Escape

Summoning his courage, Elliot swung the pipe. The Sculptor dodged effortlessly, his movements unnaturally fluid. Elliot knocked over a statue, which shattered loudly, the noise echoing through the building.

“Careful!” the Sculptor snapped, his calm demeanor cracking. “They are precious!”

Seizing the moment, Elliot hurled the pipe at the Sculptor and bolted. He raced through the streets, weaving between the faceless townsfolk, who now reached out to him as if pleading for salvation.

Finally, he spotted a gas station at the edge of town. Its lights flickered invitingly, a beacon of hope. With every ounce of strength, he sprinted toward it.

The Final Confrontation

Elliot burst into the gas station, slamming the door behind him. The attendant, a young man with a haggard face, stared at him in shock.

“Help me!” Elliot gasped. “There’s a man… he’s after me!”

The attendant’s expression darkened. “You mean the Sculptor.”

Elliot’s blood ran cold. “You know about him?”

The attendant nodded. “He’s cursed this town for decades. You can’t fight him. You can only run.”

A loud crash shattered the moment. The Sculptor stood in the doorway, his mask now cracked, revealing a sliver of pale, inhuman skin beneath.

“You can’t escape,” the Sculptor said, his voice eerily calm.

Elliot grabbed a canister of gasoline from a nearby shelf. As the Sculptor advanced, he doused the floor and struck a match.

“Stay back, or I’ll burn this place down!”

For the first time, the Sculptor hesitated. His gaze flickered to the flames licking the edges of the gasoline.

Elliot seized the opportunity. He threw the match onto the soaked floor and bolted out the back door. Flames roared behind him, consuming the station and the Sculptor within.

The Aftermath

Elliot didn’t stop running until he reached the highway. A passing truck finally picked him up, and he left Harrow behind. As the truck rumbled away, Elliot glanced back. The town was shrouded in smoke, its eerie silence replaced by the distant wail of sirens.

Days later, Elliot’s nightmares began. In them, he was back in Harrow, surrounded by faceless figures. The Sculptor’s voice echoed in his mind:

“You escaped, but you’ll never forget. Harrow… is part of you now.”