They say the woods of Pine Hollow don’t take kindly to strangers. But five years ago, a white man named Arthur Vexley moved into an old cabin there — alone, quiet, and far from the town’s edge. No one asked too many questions. Maybe they should have. The cabin was a leftover from another era — wood rotting at the seams, porch slanted, and windows yellowed with time. To most, it looked abandoned. But if you looked closely... you’d see smoke curling from the chimney at dusk. And once in a while... you’d hear music playing from deep within the trees — classical music. Beethoven. Slow and haunting. Arthur came into town once a month, always wearing gloves. He’d buy bleach. Rope. Meat cleavers. Whiskey. Sometimes, freezer bags. And always with that strange little smile — polite, but... off. Like he was amused by something only he could hear. At first, no one suspected him. But then… people started to disappear. The first was Mallory Pierce, seventeen, bright and wild-haired. She rode her bike home one night from her best friend’s house... and never arrived. Her bike was found days later — lying on its side in the leaves — the front wheel still spinning. A few weeks later, it was Peter Winslow, the old man with binoculars and a love for owls. He never returned from his walk in the woods. His dog was found barking at the edge of the hollow, fur matted, leash torn, eyes full of something like fear. At first, folks blamed the woods. Maybe a bear. Maybe something else. But Sheriff Marla Greaves… she had a feeling. And that feeling pointed toward the man in the cabin. “There’s something wrong with that Vexley fella,” she told her deputy. “He looks at you like he’s studying where to cut.” But Arthur was careful. Too careful. No bodies. No blood. Just silence. And in that silence… he thrived. Because Arthur had a secret. Inside his cabin was a chamber of horror. The walls were lined with hooks. Hooks that didn’t hold meat. Freezers, labeled with names like Left Arms, Right Legs, Torsos, Fingers. Each container… chilled. Each limb… precisely cut. He didn’t eat them. He didn’t bury them. He collected them. It wasn’t about hunger. It was about control. He called it The Calling. A voice in his head, that only quieted when he was slicing. The cleaner the cut, the quieter the voice. His journals, hundreds of pages long, were filled with diagrams. Sketches of bodies. Notes like “perfect incision between ribs 4 and 5,” or “Mallory — beautiful structure, ruined by screaming.” Then he took someone who couldn’t be ignored. Rebecca Shaw. A florist. A mother. Loved by the whole town. She closed her shop one evening, left her son asleep in the back, and stepped out to her car. She never made it home. Her brother, Jake Shaw — ex-military, no patience for red tape — took matters into his own hands. He scoured the forest. And after two days, he found something. Rebecca’s scarf. Tattered. Caught in a thorn bush… not far from Arthur’s land. Jake brought it to the Sheriff. “This ends now,” he said. And it did. They surrounded the cabin at dawn. Guns drawn. Silence heavy. But Arthur… was gone. Door wide open. Like an invitation. What they found inside made grown men retch. Body parts hung like tools. Photos pinned to walls. And in the center of it all… Rebecca’s engagement ring. Sitting on a pile of severed fingers. The manhunt began that night. Three days of dogs, choppers, and restless anger. They found Arthur near the riverbank. Mud-caked. Pale. Trying to crawl into a storm drain. His wrists were slashed — not deep enough. Just enough to feel something. He didn’t fight. Didn’t run. Just whispered as they cuffed him: “It’s all in the symmetry. The art of it... you’ll never understand.” At trial, he stared blankly at the jury as they read the charges — fourteen counts of murder. Desecration. Kidnapping. The journals sealed his fate. He was sentenced to life. No parole. No daylight. Just four cold walls and silence — the very thing he used to kill. As for the cabin? The townspeople torched it to the ground one night. No permits. No hesitation. No regrets. Rebecca’s full body was never recovered. Only pieces. Her son, now raised by Uncle Jake, visits a flower bed every year — planted in the spot where her ring was found. They say the woods of Pine Hollow are quiet now. But sometimes… just sometimes… people still hear Beethoven drifting through the trees. And a whisper that sends shivers through the spine: “Perfect cut… just beneath the skin.”