Content warning. This story contains descriptions of violence, disturbing themes, and graphic
imagery that some listeners may find unsettling. Discretion is advised. Calaroga Shark Media,
Hello and welcome to the artist. This episode is titled Strokes of Red,
Philadelphia, nineteen seventy four. The city was a pressure cooker, simmering
under the relentless heat of a summer that refused to break. In a cramped
dingy apartment on the wrong side of town, fifteen year old Thomas Ashton hunched
over his sketchbook, his pencil flying across the page with a mannic intensity.
Thomas. A voice called from the other room, sharp and angry, What
are you doing in there? You better not be wasting your time with those
damned drawings. Again, Thomas flinched his pencil, leaving a jagged line across
the page. Nothing, Dad, he stammered, his voice barely above a
whisper. Just just homework. The door burst open, revealing a man with
a face like a clenched fist, his eyes bloodshot, and his breath sour
with whiskey. Homework. Huh, he sneered, snatching the sketch book from
Thomas's hands looks more like a bunch of sick, twisted shit to me.
He flipped through the pages, his face twisting with disgust. The hell is
wrong with you, boy? Drawing things like this? It ain't natural.
Thomas said nothing, his eyes fixed on the floor. He knew better than
to argue with his father when he was in one of his moods. The
man tossed the sketch book aside, his lip curling with contempt. You're just
like your mother, you know that. A fucking waste of space. No
wonder she left us. With that, he stormed out of the room,
slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the walls. Thomas picked
up his sketchbook with shaking hands, his vision blurring with unshad tears. He
knew his drawings were the only thing that kept him sane in this hell hole
of a life, the only way to escape the constant abuse and neglect that
had been his reality for as long as he could remember. At school,
things were no better. Thomas was the weird kid, the freak who sat
in the back of the class and never spoke to anyone. His classmates would
whisper and point, their voices dripping with cruel laughter. Hey, Ashton,
a boy named Billy would call out, his face split with a nasty grin.
Heard you like to draw pictures of dead things? That true? Thomas
would say nothing, his eyes fixed on it desk, but inside he could
feel the rage building, a hot, prickly sensation that made his hands itch
for something sharp. One day, after a particularly brutal round of taunting,
Thomas found himself wandering the streets of Philadelphia, his feet carrying him aimlessly through
the sweltering heat. He was so lost in his own dark thoughts that he
almost didn't notice the strange man watching him from the shadows of an alley.
Hey kid, the man called out, his voice, a rasping whisper.
Come here for a second. Thomas hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest.
He knew he shouldn't talk to strangers, but something about the man's eyes
drew him in like a moth to a flame. As he stepped closer,
he saw that the man was holding something in his hand, a knife,
its blade gleaming dully in the fading light. You like nice, kid,
the man asked, a slow smile spreading across his face. I can see
it in your eyes, that hunger, that need to see what's inside.
Thomas swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. I I don't know what you're
talking about, he mumbled, taking a step back. The man chuckled,
a low, grating sound that made the hairs on the back of Thomas's neck
stand up. Sure you do, kid, You're just like me, a
true artist, born to paint the world in shades of red. From that
moment on, Thomas was the Man's apprentice, learning the dark arts of murder
and mayhem at the feet of a master. The man who called himself the
Maestro, was a legend in the Philadelphia underworld, a phantom who struck without
warning and left a trail of blood and terror in his wake. The key
to a truly great kill, the Maestro would say, his voice, low
and hypnotic, is to make it a work of art. Elevate it beyond
the mundane the ordinary, to turn each stroke of the blade into a brushstroke
on the canvas of eternity. Thomas listened intently, his eyes wide with a
mix of fear and fascination. But how he asked, his voice trembling slightly,
How do you make something so so brutal, into something beautiful. The
Maestro chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind. It's all
about perspective, my boy, about seeing the world through the eyes of an
artist. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, intricately carved
knife. Take this blade, for example. To the untrained eye, it's
just a tool for cutting, for slicing. But to the artist, it's
so much more. He ran his finger along the edge of the blade,
a thin line of blood welling up in its wake. With this, you
can create something truly extraordinary, something that will live on long after the canvas
has rotted away to dust. Thomas took the knife, feeling its weight in
his hand. It was heavier than he expected, the handle cold and smooth
against his palm. But what if I can't do it, he whispered,
his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. What if I'm not
not good enough. The Maestro placed a hand on Thomas's shoulder, his grip
surprisingly gentle. You have a gift, Thomas, a vision that few others
possess. Trust in that vision and let it guide your hand. He smiled,
a slow, sinister curl of his lips, and remember, the only
true failure is the failure to create, To take the raw materials of life
and death and shape them into something truly transcendent. Thomas nodded, a sense
of purpose welling up inside him. He knew that this was his destiny,
his calling to become the greatest artist the world had ever seen, no matter
the cost. Now, the Maestro said, his voice taking on a new
intensity. Let's go find you a canvas, shall we. Under the Maestro's
tutelage, Thomas began to blossom, his once tentative sketches taking on a new
depth and darkness. He learned how to stalk his prey, how to choose
the perfect moment to strike, and how to turn each kill into a grisly
masterpiece. Thomas watched as the Maestro worked his craft and would recreate the scenes
in his sketchbook. Everything changed when he met Sarah at age seventeen. She
was a vision in black, a gothic beauty with eyes like shards of ice
and a smile that could cut glass. They met at a seedy bar,
the kind that doesn't proof money is money. I like your work, Sarah
purd her face, tracing the scars on Thomas's knuckles. She had noticed the
lonely young man sitting at the bar, drawing, the way you turned death
into something beautiful. It's like nothing I've ever seen before, Sarah, she
said, as a means of introduction. On her right arm, a series
of intricately detailed roses wound their way from her wrist to her shoulder, the
petals shaded in a deep blood red. Thorny vines twined around the stems,
their sharp points seeming to dig into her flesh, a reminder of the pain
and beauty that were so often intertwined. Her left arm was a tribute to
the macabre, a collection of skulls and skeletons that danced and leered in a
morbid ballet. Each bone was meticulously shaded, the hollow eye sockets seeming to
stare out at the world with a haunting, knowing gaze. But it was
the tattoo on her chest that truly captured the essence of Sarah's dark allure.
Just above her heart, a single word was inked in bold Gothic lettering never
more a nod to her favorite poem. She had always thought that she was
different, that the things that brought her joy and pleasure were not the same
as those of the people around her. Now, at age nineteen, she
was sure of it. Thomas felt his heart skip a beat, his blood
humming with a strange new electricity. You you understand, he breathed, his
voice barely above a whisper. No one else has ever. Sarah silenced him
with a kiss, her lips cold and hungry against his own. Were the
same, You and I, she murmured, her breath hot against his ear,
two dark souls bound together by the beauty of the abyss. Sarah silenced
him with a kiss, her lips cold and hungry against his own. Happy
Valentine's Day, she whispered. In that moment, Thomas felt a rush of
emotions he had never experienced before, desire, passion, but also something darker,
more twisted. As they pulled apart, Thomas stared into Sarah's eyes,
a sudden realization dawning on him. He had always been searching for a way
to make his art permanent, to create something that would last forever, and
now he knew exactly how to do it. Sarah, he whispered, his
voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and fear. I want you to be
my masterpiece, my greatest work of art. Sarah's eyes widened, a flicker
of understanding passing between them. What do you mean, she asked, her
voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. Thomas reached out his fingers,
brushing against her cheek with a tender, almost reverent touch. I mean
I want to immortalize you, to capture your beauty, your essence, in
a way that will never fade or decay. He leaned in closer, his
lips brushing against her ear. I am an artist, Sarah, and you
you are my canvas. Over the next few weeks, Thomas planned every detail
of his magnum Opus with meticulous care. He sketched countless designs, each one
more intricate and elaborate than the last. He gathered his tools, his brushes
and blades, preparing them with an almost ritual like reverence. And through it
all Sarah remained by his side, a willing and eager participant in his dark
vision. She posed for him her body a blank slate, waiting to be
transformed by his touch. When the night finally came, Thomas was ready.
He had chosen an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, a place where
they would be undisturbed, free to create their masterpiece in peace. As Sarah
lay on the cold concrete floor, her skin pale and luminous in the moonlight,
Thomas felt a rush of pure, exhilarating power. This was his moment,
the culmination of everything he had ever worked towards. Sarah couldn't help but
feel a flicker of excitement. This was all part of the game, the
elaborate role play that she and Thomas had been planning for weeks. Are you
sure about this, she asked, her voice echoing in the empty space.
It all seems so so real. Thomas smiled, a strange, distant look
in his eyes. That's the point, to blur the lines between art and
reality, to create something truly authentic. He reached into his bag, pulling
out a small ornate bottle. Now I need you to relax, to trust
me completely. Sarah nodded, her heart racing with anticipation. She watched as
Thomas uncorked the bottle, the sweet, cloying scent of chloroform filling the air.
Wait, she said, A sudden flicker of doubt crossing her face.
Is this really necessary? Thomas's smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
Sh he whispered, pressing the chloroform soaked rag against her face, Just
breathe, let the art take hold. Sarah struggled for a moment, her
eyes wide with panic, but as the chemicals began to take effect, she
felt her limbs grow heavy, her mind beginning to drift, and then,
in a sudden, horrifying moment of clarity, she realized the truth. This
was no game, no elaborate cause play. This was real, and she
had made a terrible, irreversible mistake. Oh shit, she mumbled, her
words, slurring as the darkness closed in around her. Oh shit, oh
shit. Oh but it was too late. The last thing Sarah saw before
she slipped into unconsciousness was Thomas's face, a twisted mask of pure, unadulterated
madness, and she knew with a sinking certainty that she would never wake up
again. With a steady hand, he began to cut his blades, slicing
through Sarah's flesh like a brush through paint. He worked slowly, methodically,
each incision a carefully planned stroke in a larger composition. He felt a rush
of pure, unadulterated joy, a sense of purpose and fulfillment he had never
known before. As the hours passed, Sarah's body began to take shape,
a twisted, macabre sculpture of blood and bone. Thomas stepped back, admiring
his work with a critical eye. It was beautiful, a true masterpiece that
would stand the test of time. But even as he reveled in his achievement,
Thomas felt a creeping sense of unease, a gnawing emptiness that he couldn't
quite shake. He had poured everything he had into this moment, this one
perfect creation, and now that it was done, he didn't know what to
do next. The warehouse was a scene straight out of a nightmare. The
stench of blood and decay hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid
tang of chemicals and rotting flesh. In the center of the room, illuminated
by the harsh glare of the crime scene lights, lay the body of a
young woman, or at least what was left of it. Detective Jack Novak
stood at the edge of the scene, his face a mask of grim determination.
He had seen a lot of fucked up things in his years on the
force, but this was something else, entirely Jesus fucking Christ. His partner,
Detective Sarah Pearson, muttered under her breath. What kind of sick bastard
does something like this? Novak shook his head, his jaw clenched tight.
I don't know, but whoever it was, he knew exactly what he was
doing. This isn't some random act of violence. This is its fucking art.
Pearson shot him a look, her eyes narrowed in disgust. This is
the work of a fucking psychopath. Novak shrugged, his gaze never leaving the
body. Maybe, but you have to admit there's a certain precision to it,
a level of skill that goes beyond your average murder. He stepped closer,
his eyes tracing the intricate patterns carved into the woman's skin. It was
like nothing he had ever seen before, a twisted tapestry of blood and flesh
that seemed to defy all laws of nature and reason. Whoever did this,
he said, his voice low and haunted. They're not just a killer,
They're a fucking artist. Pearson scoffed, her hand tightening on the butt of
her gun. An artist more like a monster. Novak nodded his eyes hard
and determined. This guy, whoever he is, he's not your average purpose.
He's got a fucking vision and he's not going to stop until he sees
it through. Pearson paused, her brow furrowed in confusion. He what makes
you so sure it's a man? Novak gestured to the body, his expression
grim. Look at this shit, Pierson, The level of violence, the
sheer fucking brutality of it all. You really think a woman could do something
like this? Pearson's eyes flashed with anger, her fists clenching at her sides.
Don't give me that misogynistic bullshit, Novak. Women are just as capable
of violence as men, maybe even more so given the right circumstances. Novak
held up his hands, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Fair enough, All I'm saying is we can't rule anything out. Man,
woman, fucking alien from outer space. Whoever did this, they're a
force to be reckoned with. He turned back to the body, his expression
hardening once more. But mark my words, Pierson, We're going to find
them, and when we do, there's going to be hell to pay.
In the days and weeks that followed, Thomas tried to recapture that feeling,
that rush of pure, unbridled creativity. But no matter how many times he
tried, no matter how many victims he claimed, it was never quite the
same. He had tasted perfection, had glimpsed the divine, and now everything
else seemed pale and meaningless. By comparison, the precinct was a hive of
activity, the air thick with the buzz of ringing phones and the clatter of
keyboards. In the corner of the bullpen, a whiteboard loomed its surface,
a collage of gruesome crime scene photos and hastily scrawled notes. At the center
of it all stood detective Jack Novak and his partner Sarah Pearson, their faces
drawn and haggard from weeks of fruitless investigation. Tell me you've got something,
Captain Frank Molloy said, his voice grew and impatient as he approached the detectives.
The brass is breathing down my neck on this one. They want answers,
and they want them yesterday. Novak shook his head, his eyes bloodshot
and weary. I wish I had better news, cap, but we've hit
nothing but dead ends. No witnesses, no forensics, no leads. It's
like this guy just vanished into thin fucking air. Molloy's jaw clenched, his
gaze drifting to the crime scene photos pinned to the board. What about the
warehouse? Any connection to the victim Pearson's side running a hand through her tangled
hair. None that we can find. It's just an abandoned building, No
ties to the girl or her family. The only thing of interest is the
way she was, the way she was posed. Novak nodded, his expression
grim. It's like something out of a fucking horror movie. The way her
body was arranged, the cuts. I've never seen anything like it. Paused,
his brow furrowed in thought, I remember something like this. I don't
know seventy one or seventy two warehouse killing, but the details here are different,
and ten years is a long time between kills for a psycho like this.
Novak's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. Seventy one. You think
this could be a copycat, mLOY shrugged, his gaze distant possible. The
original killer was never caught and the details of the case were never made public,
but the similarities are there, even if the specifics are different. Pearson
leaned forward, her voice urgent. But Captain, if this is a copycat,
that means someone would have had to do a deep dive into the original
case files. That's not the kind of thing a one off killer would do.
Malloy nodded, his expression grim exactly, which means we could be dealing
with something a hell of a lot more dangerous than your average psycho. Thomas
sat at the dinner table with his father, pushing the bland overcooked meat around
his plate. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the clink
of cutlery and the occasional grunt of disapproval from his father. But then something
unexpected happened. His father looked up, his brow furrowed in a rare expression
of curiosity. You seem different, boy, he said, his voice gruff
and hesitant, like there's a light in your eyes that wasn't there before.
Thomas felt a flicker of surprise, unused to anything resembling interest or concern from
his father. I I guess I've just found a new appreciation for life,
he said, choosing his words carefully, a sense of purpose. Maybe His
father grunted taking a swig of his beer. Well, whatever it is,
it looks good on you. You don't look so much like a damn ghost
anymore. Thomas felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, a
strained, unfamiliar sensation. Thanks, Dad, that that means a lot.
He took a deep breath, stealing himself for what he was about to say
next. Actually, there's something I've been meaning to tell you. I've decided.
I've decided to go to medical school. His father's eyes widened, his
fork clattering to his plate. Medical school. You, but what about all
that art crap you're always going on about, Thomas shrugged, his smile widening.
I guess I just realized that there's more than one way to make a
mark on the world, to leave a lasting impression. He thought back to
his first kill, to the way the blade had felt in his hand,
the way the blood had looked as it pooled on the ground. It had
been a revelation, a moment of pure, unadulterated clarity, and now he
knew exactly what he had to do. He would become a doctor, a
healer, someone who held the power of life and death in his hands.
But he would also be an artist, a creator of his own twisted masterpieces.
He would use his scalpel like a paint brush, his patience like canvases
ready to be molded and shaped by his will. It was the perfect cover,
the perfect disguise. No one would ever suspect the kindly, well respected
doctor Thomas Ashton of being the monster that lurked beneath the surface. His father
stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then slowly he
nodded, All right, then, he said, his voice gruffed, but
not unkind medical school it is. I guess there are worse things you could
be doing with your life. Thomas smiled, a cold, calculating smile that
didn't quite reach his eyes. Oh absolutely, he said, his voice smooth
and confident. After all, what could be more noble than dedicating your life
to helping others? And as he sat there, basking in the glow of
his father's approval, Thomas couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation. The
world was his canvas now, and he was just getting started next time on
the artist a Killer's canvas. Thomas Ashton's dark journey continues as he enters the
world of pre med at Temple University, but beneath the facade of a dedicated
student lies a monster yearning to create. When Thomas meets Alex and Jenna,
a charismatic couple who embody everything he aspires to be, his carefully constructed world
begins to unravel. A spontaneous trip to Miami awakens a primal hunger within him,
leading to an encounter that will change everything. As neon lights paint the
streets and the the sultry rhythms of South Beach pulse through the air, Thomas
spots his next canvas, a mesmerizing dancer who awakens something deep and dangerous within
him. Will this be Thomas's masterpiece or the beginning of his downfall? Find
out in episode two, Portrait of an Artist, where the line between creation
and destruction blurs in the sweltering heat of a Miami night. The Artist is
a Calaogus Shark Media production hosted by Aidan I Flanagan, written by Aidan I
Flanagan and John McDermott, produced by Mark Francis. Executive producers John McDermott and
Mark Francis. Portions of the podcast may have been produced with the assistance of
AI. If you enjoyed this series, check out the inspiration podcast Murder Weekly,
available wherever you get your podcasts. This show is also available commercial free.
Check the show notes for more info and how you can buy merch for
the artist. Calaroga Shark Media