It was a beautiful Monday morning in late June. Hudson Rhodes decided he would walk all the way from his apartment in the heart of Blyham to the rehearsal studios on the other side of the river. He set off early, full of enthusiasm for the work ahead, stopping only to collect an Americano from the coffee shop on the corner.

Hudson drew the fresh air into his lungs and exhaled with a satisfied sigh. All was good. The first week of any rehearsal was always a stress, getting the words of the play fixed in his head, becoming acquainted with the rest of the cast and crew, but by the time they had quit last Friday, he’d known they were in a strong position.

He’d spent a few additional hours on Saturday working with Julian, a fellow actor who had a small supporting role in Darkest Blue. Julian was also understudying Hudson in the lead role of Alan, a morally ambiguous American tourist in 1970s Barcelona. Both from out of town, with little else to do with their weekend, they had put in overtime to work on the nuances of Alan’s character and nail the dialogue.

Yes, they were in a great place at the start of the second week. Hudson had insisted on growing his own 1970s style moustache for the play, and even that had filled out in the most impressive way over the last few days. The costume department had initially fitted him with a fake moustache, but he hated to wear it. So much easier and more authentic to sport the real thing.

The city streets were mostly in shade at that time of the morning, until he reached the waterfront. The sun reflected off the surface of the river and held the promise of a golden day to come. Hudson had known very little about Blyham before his arrival the week before. He’d been a New York resident for over a decade, but in the last few years he had spent an increasing amount of time in the UK, working in low-budget movies, TV and theatre. His work had mainly taken him to the major cities—London, Manchester, Birmingham and Edinburgh.

Blyham had come as a pleasant surprise. Much smaller and less metropolitan than he was used to. He’d spent the first few days getting around by Uber and bus, before realising that almost everything was in comfortable walking distance from the apartment. Although his face had started to appear around the city on advertisements for the upcoming play, so far he’d been able to wander without getting recognised too often.

Moving around unnoticed was a trick he’d learnt a long time ago. Invaluable to an actor.

When he reached the Millennium Footbridge, Hudson paused to drink the last of his coffee and enjoy the view. The quayside and waterfront area of the city was quiet and he spent a few moments appreciating the gentle scene. If the second week in the studio were anything like the first, there would not be a lot of time to spend outdoors, or much relaxing. The story and the character he had to play were full-on.

Hudson was ready to embrace it all.

He arrived at the stage door just before nine. It was a full hour before they were due to begin, but he enjoyed the early mornings. Once Darkest Blue opened, he would not experience many of those. Evening performances meant not eating until well after eleven and rarely getting to bed before two or three.

Jax, the stage door attendant, greeted him in a buoyant mood when he entered. “How did your weekend go?”

“Very well.” Hudson grinned. “I kept a low profile. I attempted to check out a couple of the bars close by, but Saturday night seemed a little wild for me. I was back at the apartment by ten-thirty.”

He’d been amazed to discover that the apartment building overlooked a sex club called The Viaduct. He’d amused himself for twenty minutes or so, watching all the guys lining up to go in while he’d enjoyed a nightcap on his balcony. Blyham might be a small city, but it seemed to have plenty going on.

Jax grimaced. “If I’m not working, I stay well clear on Saturdays. This place doesn’t just get wild, it goes mental. Too much for me these days.” She rummaged beneath the desk and produced a pile of mail, secured together with an elastic band. “Fan mail, I assume. It arrived over the weekend.”

“For me? Really. I’m surprised anyone knows I’m here.” Hudson considered himself to be a working actor. He had appeared in a handful of high-profile projects, together with some movies that had attained cult status, but he was not a major star. Fan mail made him uncomfortable, especially as it was not always welcome.

“Autograph collectors, I expect,” Jax said. “There are a few of them locally who write to everyone who appears here. You’re also likely to get some autograph dealers turning up after the show with a pile of glossy photos for you to sign. eBay professionals.”

Hudson chuckled. “I’m familiar with the type.” He shoved the bundle under his arm. “Is anyone else here yet?”

“You’re the first.” Jax released the security door and handed him a visitor pass.

Blyham Concert Hall was a relatively modern building filled with state-of-the-art equipment and spaces. From the outside, it was an impressive site, all floor to ceiling, mirrored windows. The interiors were bright, cool and uncluttered. The play was actually being staged in the more traditional Empire Theatre on the other side of the river, but as there was already a show running there, the production had hired rooms here for the first three weeks of rehearsal.

Hudson made his way to the large, airy room on the first floor, which looked across the river and the buildings beyond. This really was a sweet little city. Once the play had opened and he had more time for himself, he looked forward to exploring further and discovering all it had to offer. There was even a castle a little way down the river that he couldn’t wait to check out.

Last week, the room had been set with a large centre table for the cast and crew to read around. Most of that had been cleared over the weekend, creating a wide, open floor space ready for week two’s more practical rehearsals. He got a glass of water and sat down to look over his mail.

He opened the largest envelope first.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled immediately.

A glossy eight-by-ten photo slid onto the table. It was a shot from a low-budget horror movie he had made in his early twenties, almost twenty years ago. Red Hills Massacre. The scene shown had not even made it into the finished film, having been considered too graphic by the ratings board of the time. Even so, it was an image that provoked uncomfortable memories for him.

He was dressed in nothing but a pair of once-pristine tighty-whiteys. His chest and neck were fitted with elaborate make-up effects to represent brutal injuries. His youthful body was splayed at an unnatural angle, but the camera focused on his bloodied crotch area. With his thighs splayed, it was a gory display of eroticism and death. In the movie, his character was murdered after a prolonged chase by a madman in a mask.

All in his underpants.

Hudson shook out the envelope to see what else was in there. A single note dropped out.

How I like to picture you.

That was it. No request for him to sign the photo or any address to return it to.

Shit. He was no stranger to weird mail, and this rang a very familiar alarm bell.

He checked the envelope again. Like the note inside, the address had been printed. The postmark was from Blyham itself. As he looked at the next item of mail, cold fingers of dread skittered down his spine. The envelope was different, but the print was exactly the same. Inside was another photograph. Another image from Red Hills Massacre. He was in his tight white underpants again, only this time he wasn’t dead. It showed his character walking through his house, unaware of the killer right behind, the grisly axe raised to strike. The killer in the movie was nicknamed Baby Face on account of the creepy baby mask he wore. A grinning face with a single tooth. This time the message with the photo read Dead man walking, followed by a smiling emoji.

Who the hell would waste their time bothering to send him these? Hudson had a sneaky suspicion but didn’t want to risk manifesting it by even acknowledging the idea.

There were two more similar photos and messages—Soon you die and Pretty boy dead—then a couple of seemingly genuine letters from people saying they couldn’t wait to see him in the show. By the time he got to them, he was so unsettled he couldn’t take in what the writers were saying.

The spell was broken by voices in the corridor. The door opened and the director and the producer arrived together, full of new-week enthusiasm. Andie Shapiro was one of the most acclaimed theatre directors in recent years, with smash-hit shows in London and New York. A large black woman in her mid-fifties, she had a personal style ran to colourful silk blouses and masses of jewellery.

“Hey, an actor who can get out of bed on a morning,” she declared in a booming voice as she caught sight of Hudson. “I like it. This is going to be a great week. I can feel it already.”

Even the producer, Rav Millard, was smiling. Rav was fifty-five, overweight and, from Hudson’s impression of him so far, permanently stressed. “Morning, Hudson. Good to see you so keen.”

Andie enveloped Hudson in a wide hug and breathed air kisses on his cheeks. “I hope you got plenty of rest over the weekend. You’re going to need all your energy.” As she stood back, she spotted the spread of photos on the table. “What’s all this?” The note of caution in her voice was unmistakable.

“I just collected them from the stage door,” he explained, leafing through the pictures. “Grim, aren’t they? I hate that fucking movie.”

Rav gathered up the photos and envelopes. “Who gave them to you?” He stacked them in an untidy heap and shoved them under his arm.

“I told you. I just collected them from the stage door.” He caught the look that passed between Rav and Andie.

“We’ve got people to handle your fan mail,” Rav said. “You don’t need to waste your time on nonsense like this. Just pre-sign a stack of promos and we’ll mail them out on your behalf.” He looked away from Hudson, avoiding his eyes.

“They’re not asking for autographs. Well, apart from a couple. The rest are just weird.” Now Andie was avoiding his gaze, seemingly transfixed by something important on her phone. The sense of unease that had been with him since he’d opened the mail continued to grow. “Have there been more of these?” Today was the first time he’d been handed his mail at the stage door. For the whole of the first week there had been nothing. “Have there?”

Andie gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing. A needless distraction, that’s all.”

He stiffened. “It’s a little more than that, I’d say. Someone has gone to the trouble of getting those shots printed, those particular shots, and posted them here with their creepy messages. Pretty boy dead. How many more of these has there been?”

Another loaded glance between the director and the producer.

“A few,” Rav said.

“But it’s nothing,” Andie said. “Just some sad case getting a cheap thrill.”

His head was spinning. “Are they all like this?”

The silence was palpable.

“Pretty much,” Andie admitted after a long pause.

Hudson put his figures to his temples, trying to contain his vexing thoughts. “You’ve been keeping it from me.”

“It’s for the best,” Rav said. “Look how unsettled it’s made you today. It’s just some rando trying to freak you out. Not worth worrying about.”

He laughed incredulously. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to swear and rage at this pair for what they’d taken upon themselves to do. “You do know what happened to me before? I’ve had experience of this shit. I’ve had to take out court orders over stuff like this.”

“I’m sure this is not that serious,” Andie said.

“The fucking post marks are right from this city. Whoever sent those is nearby.”

“A keyboard warrior,” Rav said brightly. “You know what they’re like.”

“We all do,” Andie added.

“They tend to stick to online trolling. Not posting photographs of me covered in blood in just my underwear.”

“We’ve already got a security team looking at this.” Andie’s voice was calm and level. “It’s a precaution. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, and we won’t let anything happen to you. Rav will pass on this latest delivery, and they’ll see what they can do with it. Someone is trying to unsettle you. To throw you off your game. Don’t allow that to happen.”

“Let us take care of this,” Rav said, seeming to grow in confidence. “You need to focus on what you’ve got to do and let me worry about whatever dipshit is sending this stuff. We’ll find them and warn them off.”

“He’s right,” Andie said. “You were brilliant last week and you’re going to blow people’s minds when this play opens. Don’t let a minor distraction get in the way of that. All celebrities get sent shit like this—you know that. It’s nothing. Some sad little reject trying to make themselves feel important. That can only happen if you allow it.”

Hudson took a long slow breath. He knew what they were up to. They were more concerned with their own agenda of getting the play on than they were about him, but beneath it all, he agreed with them. He’d flown all this way because he wanted this role. The play was launching with a four-week run in Blyham, but all indications were that it would open in the West End next year if it went down well here. He couldn’t lose sight of that goal.

“You shouldn’t have kept this from me,” he said. “I want to know if there are any further developments. If they find who is sending them, or if the content gets worse.”

“For sure,” Rav said. He waved the pile of mail. “I’ll get on it now.”

Andie gave a wide smile. “Excellent. Now, let’s not waste any more time, eh?” She reached over and ran her fingers across Hudson’s face. “The ’tache is fabulous, by the way. It looks so sexy on you.”

She hefted her enormous handbag onto the table and began pulling out scripts, pens, and a packet of cigarettes.

Hudson couldn’t stay mad, despite himself. It was time to focus. Even still, it would be a while before he could shake the sense of unease those images and messages had aroused.