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Samuel opened the lid to the small trunk, sending dust bunnies flying. After his nose quit twitching and he could see through the haze, he gingerly reached inside the treasure-filled container, pulling out a feather boa.

"Just what were you into, you old freak," he whispered, smiling at the image of his grandfather prancing around the house with the pink froth around his neck. "I wonder if grandma knew how kinky you were."

He rummaged around some more, moving aside a locket that looked at least sixty years old, ornate and intricate, tarnished from the years. Shaking his head, Samuel kept digging. Next, he came to a photo album. Opening it, he flipped through pages of unfamiliar faces. He threw it aside, sure they were people from his grandparents past in Manhattan, before his time.

He found a few house keys stuffed in an envelope. Tammy, Amber, Rachel, and Tiffany were written on the outside. Samuel assumed they were old girlfriends of his grandfather, although he did not understand why the old guy would have kept them. Whenever he was around his grandparents they always seemed happy, so his grandfather keeping keys from past girlfriends didn't fit. Shrugging, Samuel laid the keys aside, deciding it was just another eccentricity of his grandfathers.

Reaching into the trunk once more, Samuel pulled a shoebox out. Moving under the window for better light, he opened the box and peered inside. Newspaper clippings filled the box.

Samuel pulled the top clipping out, noting the date was July 10, 1945. A chill coursed through him upon reading the article. The piece detailed the gruesome murder of a cocktail waitress in the Bronx. Her body had been discovered in a back alley early one morning, clothes ripped to shreds, eyes gouged out, and body bloodied. There was also evidence of sexual assault.

The next article was about another murdered woman, this one a stripper. She had been found in a dumpster outside the strip club. He eyes were also missing, along with a pendant necklace friends said she was never without.

There were over twenty more clippings, all about women who had been viciously killed. The papers had dubbed the person responsible the Collector, because of his penchant for taking eyeballs, along with personal items, from his victims.

Samuel threw the shoebox across the room, fear and disgust mingling within him, bile fighting to burst forth. "No, it can't be," he whispered into the stillness, watching the shoebox come to rest against the far wall.

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