Don’t Mind Me

The house fire had been the town’s salvation. Flames devoured the crumbling clapboard structure at the edge of Delhaven, painting the night sky in orange and black. The blast was so fierce it rattled windows three streets over. When firefighters finally smothered the last ember, they discovered little more than a husk of twisted beams and collapsed stone. In those ashes, the police claimed, were the remains of the monster who had haunted them for years: the Crimson Artist.

For half a decade, his work had been displayed across alleys, warehouses, and deserted homes. Each victim was more than a body—they were an exhibit, a message. His staging was meticulous, as if each murder was a gallery piece curated for the world’s unwilling eyes. The media feasted on it, the public trembled, and the name Crimson Artist became etched into Delhaven’s collective nightmare. But the fire had ended that reign of terror, or so everyone was told. Detectives stood before cameras and declared the case closed. The town, starving for relief, embraced the lie.

They even held a parade. Parents cheered, children waved tiny flags, and banners stretched across Main Street reading Justice at Last. The community exhaled for the first time in years. For a decade after, Delhaven slept in peace.

Until the art returned.

The first body was discovered in an abandoned warehouse, kneeling as though in prayer, arms splayed wide, eyes painted black with soot. Reporters swarmed, headlines screamed, and panic crept back into Delhaven’s streets.

Detective Mara Kellerman stared at the crime scene photos in silence. The staging was familiar, too familiar, but wrong. The lines lacked discipline, the placement too theatrical, too eager to shock. Her partner, Lopez, leaned against the desk and laughed bitterly. “Copycat,” he said. “It happens every time. Some wannabe who grew up reading about the Artist decides to make their mark.”

Mara forced herself to nod. That was the official position of the department, and no one wanted to entertain any other possibility. But inside, unease coiled tight. She had studied the Crimson Artist’s work long after the case was declared finished. She knew his rhythm, his meticulous craft. Whoever staged this scene was not the same man. It was louder, messier—an impersonation of genius. Still, the town only heard one thing in the news:

CRIMSON ARTIST RETURNS?

Miles from the city, deep in the woods where power lines sagged and paint peeled from a rusted trailer, a man watched those same headlines on a flickering television. His face was a grotesque mosaic of scar tissue, jaw twisted by fire, cheek melted into a permanent sneer. His name now was Arthur Vale, though he had been many things in his former life. To Delhaven, he had been death incarnate. To himself, he had been an artist.

The explosion had not killed him. It had birthed him anew. His body carried the marks of flame, but his mind had survived, sharper, more focused than ever. He lived unseen, unremarkable, hidden behind scars and silence. The world had buried him in memory, but he had been watching. And now someone had dared to take his name, to defile his craft with clumsy forgeries.

Arthur traced a finger along the ridges of his scarred jaw and smiled faintly. His work had been philosophy, expression, immortality through creation. This impostor was a vandal, spraying graffiti across his canvas. That could not stand.

The police, desperate to maintain control, had inadvertently handed him everything he needed. On the evening news, they released the imitator’s identity: Tyler Grant, twenty-eight, petty criminal, living with his mother in a sagging house on the outskirts of town. Arthur watched the mugshot closely. Soft face. Weak eyes. No discipline. No reverence. Not an artist. Just a boy who wanted attention.

For two weeks Arthur followed him, a shadow stitched to his routine. Tyler was predictable. He woke late, stumbled to the gas station for cigarettes and energy drinks, loitered in alleys while glued to his phone. No structure, no ritual. He was chaos without purpose, and Arthur’s disgust deepened with every observation.

On a damp night beneath buzzing fluorescent lights, Arthur finally stepped out of the shadows. Hood drawn low, he stood across the gas station aisle, watching as Tyler fumbled with a lighter near the refrigerators. Tyler noticed, unease flickering across his face.

“What’s your issue?” he snapped, one hand buried in his jacket pocket like a makeshift warning.

Arthur tilted his head. His voice was calm, deliberate, almost playful.

“Hmm. Don’t mind me.”

Tyler scoffed, shaking his head, and pushed past him out into the night. He didn’t see the way Arthur followed, silent and steady, into the narrow alley beyond the station.

The air was thick with rot, dumpsters crowding the walls, a single flickering bulb casting jaundiced light. Tyler was too distracted by his phone to notice the world had shrunk behind him. Arthur’s rage pulsed with each step closer. This parasite had dared to sign his name, to dilute his art in the eyes of the world. He would be corrected.

When Tyler finally looked up, Arthur was there, blocking his way. His eyes widened, his mouth opened to form a curse, but the struggle was brief. A muffled cry, a sharp gasp, and then silence.

Arthur worked with the precision of a sculptor, each motion considered. Tyler’s body became his canvas, positioned carefully beneath the flickering light. Blood smeared the brick wall in a single deliberate stroke, crimson against decay, and at the base Arthur left his signature—his unmistakable mark, the flourish no imitator could ever forge.

He stepped back, admiring the scene. The fury drained from him, replaced by satisfaction. It was not his greatest work, but it was a correction, a reclamation. The audience would understand now. The artist had returned.

By dawn, Delhaven was chaos. Sirens screamed, reporters crowded behind police tape, and cameras flashed as officers struggled to block the scene. The headlines were inevitable, each one bolder than the last:

THE CRIMSON ARTIST LIVES.

The president himself addressed the nation, condemning the act as a reminder of evil’s persistence. Citizens locked their doors, whispers filled coffee shops and classrooms, and old fears clawed back to life.

In his trailer, Arthur Vale sat before his television, scars twisting into a smile as the coverage flooded the airwaves. He savored every word, every frantic broadcast. The imitator was gone, erased. His art had spoken, and the world was his gallery once more.

The audience was watching again. And this, Arthur thought, was only the beginning.