Chapter 20

Your wife asks why you were awake so late. You tell her that you lost track of time while reading, and she smiles, reminding you that you have always had a habit of becoming absorbed in unusual subjects. She has seen you become fascinated by forgotten historical events, obscure films, abandoned buildings, and strange stories that most people would dismiss after a few minutes.

You smile and agree, allowing her to believe that Mangler Max is simply another passing curiosity. The ease with which you conceal the truth troubles you. You have not technically lied, but you have deliberately withheld the one detail that would transform her understanding of your interest. You have begun imagining her as part of the fantasy

Later that afternoon, you check the forum again. Someone has replied to your question. "Depends on what you're looking for." You stare at the words, irritated by their deliberate evasiveness. You have encountered enough self-important enthusiasts on obscure forums to recognize the familiar performance of someone pretending to possess privileged knowledge.

You begin typing a response asking whether there is a public schedule or an official website, but before you finish, a private notification appears. The same contributor has sent you a direct message. "Have you ever seen Max perform?" You answer that you have not. The reply arrives almost immediately. "Then you don't know what you're asking about."

You feel a flicker of irritation and ask whether the writer actually knows Mangler Max. Several minutes pass before another message appears. "I know what people come to see." You lean back in your chair, suddenly aware of the silence around you. You ask what that means, expecting another cryptic remark about fear or theatrical spectacle.

The answer is stranger than you anticipate. “The husbands think they're getting their wives back when Max is finished with them. That's the cruelest part. He sends them home breathing, walking, and wearing their wedding rings, but he makes damn sure nothing about their lives will ever be the same again.”

You read the message several times. It reminds you of the husbands' confessions, of the shame and helplessness that seemed to overwhelm them when their wives were placed at Max's mercy. You ask whether the performances are staged, whether the women are genuinely abused, and whether the husbands know what is going to happen to their wives.

The writer ignores the first two questions. "The husbands always think they know." You stare at the answer, feeling the same uneasy fascination that has accompanied your investigation from the beginning. You ask why Mangler Max only accepts married women. This time, the response takes considerably longer.

"Because a wife comes with someone who has something to lose." The words leave you cold. You type another question, demanding to know what Max actually does to the women. The reply is brief. "That's what every husband wants to know. Until he finds out."

You remain motionless before the screen. The exchange could be an elaborate hoax, another piece of theatrical nonsense designed to cultivate the legend. Yet the writer's answers seem to understand the precise nature of your curiosity, including the shameful questions you have never dared to ask aloud. You realize that you are frightened of what this stranger might tell you, but the prospect of ending the conversation without an answer feels almost intolerable.

You ask how someone would attend a performance. The response comes after a long pause. "Are you married?" For a moment, you feel as though the conversation has crossed some invisible boundary. You have encountered that question in old accounts, rumors, and supposed invitations, but seeing it addressed directly to you produces a sensation unlike anything you have experienced during your investigation.

You know that the question is hardly extraordinary given the mythology surrounding Mangler Max, yet your fingers hesitate above the keyboard. Then you type yes. "Does she know you're interested?" You feel a sudden flush of embarrassment. Your wife does not know about the hours you have spent studying Mangler Max, the photographs you have examined, or the fantasies that have gradually become entangled with your ordinary married life.

She certainly does not know that you have begun wondering whether you could bring her to one of his performances. You consider answering dishonestly, but something about the exchange makes deception seem foolish. You type that you have not discussed it with her.

"She's your invitation. She is your entrance fee." The words appear almost immediately, followed by another message. "If you ever want to know what he does, you'll have to bring your wife. That’s the price of forbidden knowledge." A cold sensation spikes up and down your spine. You would never do that, would you?