The Serial Killer Turned Out to Have a Split Personality

While sorting through my father's belongings, I found an old camera from twenty years ago.

When I turned it on, the screen lit up with photos of strangers being beaten.

In the last photo, my father held up a piece of paper that said “Save me,” his eyes filled with despair.

An anonymous message suddenly appeared: “Your father sent me three photos before he died.”

“This is the first. The second is in your attic.”

Trembling, I climbed up to the attic and found the second photo at the bottom of an old wooden trunk.

In it, my father was chained up, looking fearfully at the camera.

My phone buzzed again: “The third is in the lining beneath your bedroom mattress.”

The moment I lifted the mattress, I saw that my father's throat had been slit in the photo.

And reflected in the image was the photographer: my mother, who had been dead for ten years.