the Collector

 The first time Caleb took a lock of hair, it had been an accident. A single strand had caught on his glove as he brushed past the girl in the crowded train station, clinging to the leather like it wanted to go with him. He had stared at it later, fascinated by the way it shimmered under the light—golden, delicate, perfect.

That night, he placed it in a small glass vial.

By the time the second strand joined the first, it was no longer an accident.

###

The city whispered of missing women, but no one connected the disappearances. They weren’t the usual victims—no clear pattern, no forced entries, no signs of struggle. Just young women with one common trait: impossibly long, beautiful hair.

Caleb was careful. He was patient. He didn’t kill out of rage or desperation. No, his work was art. He took his time selecting each one, watching them from afar, memorizing the way they moved, the way their hair swayed with every step.

When he chose, it was intimate. A slow, deliberate hunt.

Tonight, it was Emily.

She had caught his eye weeks ago—dark chestnut waves cascading down to her waist, thick and untouched by scissors for years. He had watched her in the café, the way she absentmindedly twisted a lock around her fingers, the way it fanned out when she tilted her head back to laugh. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

And tonight, she would be his.

###

She awoke to the sensation of something pulling at her scalp.

Emily’s eyes snapped open, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands shot up, but she couldn’t move—her wrists were bound, her ankles tied. Panic surged through her as she tried to scream, but the gag in her mouth muffled the sound.

“Shh.”

The voice was soft, almost tender. A figure loomed above her, shadowed by the dim light of a single hanging bulb.

Caleb.

She didn’t know his name, but she recognized him. The man from the café, the one who always sat a little too close, who always seemed to be watching.

His fingers trailed through her hair with a reverence that made her skin crawl.

“So soft,” he murmured. “I knew it would be.”

Tears burned in her eyes as she struggled, but the bonds held firm. Caleb sighed, shaking his head.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “This… this is special. You should be honored.”

With careful precision, he reached for the silver scissors beside him, the blade gleaming under the light. He slid them gently through her locks, breathing in the scent of lavender shampoo.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll make sure you’re remembered.”

Emily’s muffled screams echoed as the scissors made their first cut.

And in the cabinet behind Caleb, dozens of vials gleamed—each filled with a different color, a different texture, a different life.

A collection of beauty, preserved forever.