Brett McBean

TALES OF SIN AND MADNESS

Acknowledgements

Dedicated to Dick and Brian.

With special thanks to the good folk at LegumeMan Books.

THE BEAUTIFUL PLACE

It looked as though nobody had been by for months to clean the sign that stood by the side of the highway.

Simon Fletcher carefully set down the burlap sack on the reddish-brown soil, then dropped his backpack beside it. He raised an arm and brushed away the dirt from the sign with a dry, leathery hand. When he had uncovered the prize, he looked down at the large sack. “We’re heading in the right direction,” he said, spitting out a clump of dust encrusted phlegm. “Coober Pedy twenty kilometres.”

He glanced up and down the wide, dusty highway. Empty.

Thank Christ.

He turned away from the highway and opened his backpack. Pulled out one of the bottles and unscrewed the top. Flecks of dirt fell away and he took no notice of the cloudy water as he downed a small amount.

It had been a clean bottle, once. The water clear and cool. Now all ten bottles were tainted with the filth of the land, the sweat of his journey and the blood of the dead.

Still with half the bottle left, Simon screwed the top back on then put it into his pack with the other bottles, assorted canned goods and the one special thing that he was saving until he reached Coober Pedy. He zipped the pack up then mounted it on his back.

He yanked the scarf from his Khaki’s left pocket, wiped his face and neck, then shoved the damp cloth back in.

“Okay, time to go,” he said, heaving the sack up, and like a gaunt Santa Claus, slung it over one shoulder.

Simon knew the quickest way to Coober Pedy was straight down the Stuart Highway, however, he also knew that the son-of-a-bitches could drive, and he had so far survived staying away from any arterial roads.

Placing one foot in front of the other, just like he had done for the past six months, Simon started off on the final leg of his journey.

Which had begun half-way across the country in Townsville, where he had lived with his wife Tully in an apartment right in the heart of the city. He had forgotten the details of the place now; all he remembered was it had been nice and modern and that he and Tully had been happy.

Happy. He had almost forgotten what that was like, too.

But he was certain he would be happy soon. Once he had done what he had set out to do, then he would regain some semblance of his early life, before the rise of the New World.

He had been at the hospital, his home away from home, when the first reports started coming in from America. Reports of mass murder, chaos and, unbelievably, the dead returning to life. He hadn’t believed it then, but as the days went by and the virus swept over the world, disbelief turned to despair and soon there were reports of it happening in Australia. Everyone from doctors to teachers to librarians speculated on the cause — no one had the answers, least of all Simon. However, he recalled some line from an old horror movie he had watched when he was a teenager, something about the dead walking the earth when there was no more room left in hell. That seemed as good a reason as any, in his opinion.

“Christ, it’s everywhere,” the young man in the bed next to Tully had remarked one afternoon. He then coughed blood and died, his heart monitor displaying a flat-line.

Simon had been thinking of the guy’s remark when, a few minutes later, the man opened his eyes and leapt out of the bed at him.

Fortunately, Tully had been asleep.

Because what happened next was not only ghastly, but in hindsight, monumental: Simon grabbed a pair of scissors that were sitting on the bedside table (right next to the flowers and ‘thinking of you’ cards) and, during the struggle, ploughed the scissors deep into the man’s right eye socket. This time the man stayed dead, and Simon, scared and covered in blood, had clocked his very first kill — the first, as it would turn out, of many.

Simon smiled, his lips dry again. The sun, his constant adversary and companion, fiery and unforgiving, beaming down as he continued his journey south. “How frightened I was,” he said. “I had killed a man. I was certain I would go to jail.” He wanted to laugh, but his throat was too dry. Every time he swallowed he could feel the film of desert dust, taste the earthy soil of the South Australian outback. Even talking was unpleasant, but necessary. “Even though I had seen all the reports on TV, heard all the broadcasts on the radio. Still, I thought what if the guy hadn’t really died? What if I had killed an innocent man, someone who had been as scared and confused as I was?”

Of course, no one had come to take him away. No one cared about the dead patient with the scissors sticking out of his eye.

That’s when Simon first realised the full impact of what was happening. They were now living in a world where murder was accepted, even expected, where it paid to be ruthless and selfish. A very strange and fucked up world.

And nothing he had seen, before the rise of the New World or since, had best exemplified this than Alice Springs. Alice — the centre of Australia. The centre of madness.

Townsville hadn’t exactly been a hive of peace and love — Simon had barely managed to escape from his home city alive — but there had been so much commotion and panic going on in the first stages of the horrid epidemic he had been fortunate enough to make it out; but not before killing a dozen zombies as he left.

He used to be a fleshy man, not overweight, but enough so that Tully could grab onto his flab during sex and use it as leverage. By the time he reached Alice Springs, four months later, he looked skeletal. Even some of the humans remarked that they had seen long-dead corpses fatter than him.

“That’s what you get for surviving on water and cold baked beans,” he had told them.

Of course they all thought he was mad, having walked all the way from Townsville. But they didn’t ask him why, and he was more than happy not to tell them.

“Stay here with us,” they had said. “It’s good, safe. The zombies won’t get you here.”

He had heard about militia activity in America and the UK, but Alice Springs was the first place in Australia where he had come across it. Men — some of them police, a lot of them not — had built makeshift barricades around the town, using trucks, cars, buses and even sacks of dirt. They had stocked up on all the weapons and ammo they could get their hands on. It was a good vantage-point. A town smack-dab in the middle of the Australian outback: a perfect place for crazed armed men to keep watch for attacking zombies.

Simon himself had almost been shot when he first arrived. Expecting either a ghost town, or a zombie-infested trap, what he found was much worse.

“All I want is somewhere to rest and to re-fill my water bottles,” he had told the soldiers concealed behind a rusty FJ Holden. It had taken them an uncomfortably long time to lower their guns, but after deciding he wasn’t a zombie, they finally allowed him inside their utopian world — a world where the people were as dead as the zombies, only they didn’t know it yet. Paranoia, fear, hatred, pain. These were what Simon found in the New World version of Alice Springs. A place where the people were more wary of each other than of any flesh-craving, car-driving, gun-toting zombies that were, so they thought, sneaking around the scorched outback. And yet, even though Simon repeatedly told them that he hadn’t seen any of the undead for weeks, no one would believe him.

Shut away in the muggy, foul-smelling high school gymnasium with other ‘civilians,’ Simon built up a loyal following of distrust, mainly due to the fact that he wouldn’t open his sack and show them what was inside, despite their insistence.

Simon only stayed a few days — it was all he could stand — and he left Alice (including the vile ‘meat-wagons’ which Simon thankfully never got told to go into), before the people got rough and forced the sack open. Some of the parting comments included: “I hope you rot out there.” “May the zombies eat your heart.” “You should’ve stayed with us.” “You’ll die out there.”

So far Simon had yet to regret his decision. It hadn’t been a hard choice anyway, in his opinion. He would rather face the zombies than live in a world where madness was King and abomination the Queen.

That had been almost two months ago, and since then he hadn’t come across any more militaristic-style towns. He had come across a few zombies, wandering aimlessly near the South Australian/Northern Territory border; either lost travellers dead from exposure or local townspeople who hadn’t left for better food prospects. They had been mumbling about needing new souls to survive and had been weak from lack of nourishment — even zombies could get famished, he had learned. They hadn’t posed any threat, so he had just kept on walking.

That had been his last zombie encounter, aside from the cars last week. He didn’t know if they had been zombies or humans, but nobody had come, so he guessed it didn’t matter. Either one could be as dangerous.

Simon knew from his six-month pilgrimage that if he didn’t stop to replenish his liquids and give his feet and legs a rest, he would become delirious from fatigue and dehydration. There were times when he was sure he was going to die, lying on the hard, sun-cracked earth, his adversary blaring down on him, feeling as if he was being baked in a giant oven; he barely had the strength to get the water from his backpack. He even considered using what lay at the bottom of his bag to ease his suffering.

What had got him through those times was his promise to Tully. Knowing that if he died, her fate would lie with the evils of the New World, and he couldn’t let that happen.

“Not long to go,” he breathed as he set down the sack and then his backpack. He grabbed one of the water bottles and downed a small dose, dribbling some of it over the lumpy sack.

He was putting the bottle away when movement caught his attention. He turned and spotted a dingo coming towards him. The animal walked with deliberate steps and it wasn’t until it got closer that Simon saw the trail of intestines being dragged through the ochre-filled soil behind it.

Simon knew how vicious animal zombies could be — like humans, animals seemed to grow in ferocity when they came back from the dead. A once meek tabby would become a raging feline; a harmless pigeon would come back as a squawking feathery missile; snakes came back even more lethal, even though, fortunately, he had only encountered a few. And a dingo, an already dangerous animal, would become more vicious and blood-thirsty. Simon had fought a number of them during his sixth month trek, including a large male he had encountered while exploring Finke Gorge.

But the one that was limping towards him was no threat. Aside from being severely wounded, it looked old and in dire need of food.

Simon stood his ground and waited. The sack was behind him, as was the backpack. The dingo bared its teeth as it approached. Always the hunter.

Simon felt sorry for the creature. It was only doing what came instinctively.

That’s why, when the dingo ventured within touching distance, eyes cloudy but alert, Simon grabbed the animal around the back of its neck and snapped it before the creature got a chance to attack. Then, while it writhed on the ground, feebly trying to get up, Simon picked up a weighty rock and bashed in its head. He stopped once the dingo’s brain coated the red earth around its flattened head.

“Sorry, mate,” Simon said, letting the rock drop to the ground. “No hard feelings.”

His eyes drifted from the dingo to the desolate plane — a seemingly never-ending expanse of red and orange, dotted with purple and the green of spinifex, all blanketed by a rich blue sky, and realised, perhaps for the first time, how utterly quiet it was. He really was in the middle of nowhere, lost in a vast desert of unrelenting heat and dust, a lifetime away from the horrors of the real world, a world that was in the grips of an apocalyptic nightmare. A world that was dying.

The late afternoon sun called him back with its penetrating rays and he knew he had to get going, had to get to Coober Pedy before night descended over the land.

He gathered his things together then started off. He estimated another half-an-hour until he reached his final destination.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “Almost there.”

He thought back to when he first started out. How he had dreaded the journey, even though he knew he had to make it. The desire to see Australia’s outback was never strong in him; he didn’t care if he died never having seen it. Tully, on the other hand, had always longed to visit the outback. A real cowgirl at heart, an adventurer who loved the outdoors and getting dirty. That spark, however, died when she was diagnosed with leukemia. After that, she no longer dreamt of white-water rafting, or skydiving or traversing Central Australia in a four-wheel drive. Pretty soon her main source of exercise was hurrying to the bathroom to throw up — a result of the chemotherapy. It was the most painful thing in the world to watch her fade away. It wasn’t just the hair-loss, or the way her cheekbones began to jut out, or her increasingly gaunt frame. It was her loss of spirit that was the most difficult to bear. Of knowing that she would never get to see the outback, particularly Coober Pedy with its underground homes, churches and hotels, which, for some reason, held a particular fascination for her.

“Get me out of here,” she had whispered to him the morning he killed his first zombie with the scissors. “Please, don’t let me die in here, surrounded by all this. I don’t want to end up like them.”

He always had a hard time listening to her talk about her death. He knew it would be inevitable, the chemo just wasn’t working, but he hadn’t prepared himself for her end.

“Take me away, far away, somewhere beautiful.” Her body had been pumped with so much morphine she couldn’t even open her eyes.

A few hours later, Tully deeply asleep, the zombie on the floor with the pair of scissors jutting from his eye, Simon decided to honour Tully’s wishes and take her away.

It didn’t take him long to get everything ready. He dressed his wife in jeans and an old T-shirt, filled his backpack with bottles of water and junk food that he looted from the abandoned cafeteria (it was all that was left), and found an empty sack in the storage room. It was the only way he could foresee carrying Tully half-way across the country, since he didn’t want to drive. Driving meant using roads and highways, and that meant lots of zombies. No, Tully had wanted him to take her away from it all, and that’s exactly what he was going to do. No cities, no roads, no civilization, no zombies.

Before they left, he injected her with more morphine, then bundled her into the sack, along with a years worth of the drug he took from the hospital pharmacy. He hoped Tully would be out of it for the entire journey and miss seeing all the blood-shed and insanity.

After battling his way through the city, stopping off at a supermarket to stock up on canned goods (mostly baked beans, vegetables and meat), he set off on his journey, stopping only to sleep, to stock up on provisions when he came upon a deserted town and to keep Tully both hydrated and doped up on painkillers, letting her out of the sack often, but only when he was certain there was nobody around. His only prayers had been for the cancer to stay away long enough so that Tully could be alive when they reached their destination.

And so, six months after setting off, a lifetime’s worth of death behind him, Simon Fletcher arrived at Coober Pedy.

It was late in the afternoon — the setting sun was to his right, yet it was still blisteringly hot, and a mild dust storm had sprung up. The storm whipped at Simon’s face, stinging his cheeks and forehead like millions of tiny nails.

“A fine welcome they’ve given us,” he called back.

He stood atop a small cliff overlooking the town and was struck with how empty the place looked. There were sprinklings of shabby buildings, most with corrugated iron roofing, and lots of cars and trucks just sitting collecting dust, some of them parked right in the middle of the street. Simon guessed that the locals had either left this god-forsaken place a long while ago, or they were all lying dead in some underground dugout.

Or maybe they’re hiding, waiting to mount an attack?

No, there was no sign of life or death here.

Gazing down at the town, Simon couldn’t understand why Tully had wanted to visit this place. It was ugly, Simon could think of no other word for it — there was hardly any foliage, aside from some gum trees and mulga bushes dotted about the arid land, and the hills of dirt and rock and the myriad of mining craters that littered the surrounding area reminded Simon of the Mars landscape, only less inviting. The only indication of the underground dugouts was the ventilation shafts that poked up through the soil.

He spotted a petrol station below, empty save for a Ute parked beside a bowser, the hose still plugged into its petrol tank, and wondered what had taken place here. Had the zombies attacked suddenly, or had news of the genocide scared them all away?

Simon glanced at the Stuart Highway and thought of all the thousands of people that the stretch of bitumen led to. What was happening out there? What was the world’s fate? Who was winning?

He found, not surprisingly, the fate of humanity didn’t really matter to him. Here he was, at what seemed like the end of the world, and all that mattered to him was Tully. The entire journey, six months of scorching heat, dry winds and aching muscles, was all for her.

It was time to make things right and give Tully the greatest gift he could give her.

It was time to fulfill his promise.

He trudged down the incline, his svelte body long since past the barrier of exhaustion, and made his way through the town, spying into shop windows and the occasional above-ground home to see if there were any signs of life, other than the irritating dust storm that assailed his face and hands.

He wandered past forgotten mining equipment, past touristy opal shops that still displayed their ‘open’ signs, until he finally came upon one of the underground churches Tully had so often talked about. It was funny, her being so interested in such a place, considering she was an atheist, yet that’s where he took her.

An annex provided shade around the front area, and a cross adorned the clay above. He gripped the doorknob, turned it, and was relieved when the door opened. He stepped inside.

With the door closed, the smallish room was remarkably cool. A few lamps had been left on; they lit the room in an orange glow. He didn’t expect to find anyone inside, and sure enough, the place was empty. With its white clay walls, rows of wooden pews and figure of Christ nailed to the cross looming behind an unassuming pulpit, the church was simple in style, yet there was an air of beauty and solace that Simon hadn’t felt for a long time. “I have to admit,” he said. “It is quite amazing.”

He set the sack down on the solid earthen floor, then his backpack, which he opened and grabbed a bottle of water from, and finished it all off. There was no use conserving it now. He still had another full bottle left, for when Tully woke from her slumber.

When the bottle was empty, he went over to the sack and pulled the strings, opening the sack up and exposing his sleeping wife.

“Hey there. Guess what. We’re here.”

She didn’t answer him of course. She was still doped up on morphine, but he had purposely withheld her dosage for the last few days, so hopefully she would come out of her catalepsy soon.

Simon bent down and lifted her into his arms. She was light — barely 30 kilograms — and she was deathly pale, but she still looked beautiful as she slept. He carried her over to one of the pews and laid her down. He brought over the last bottle of water and sitting down next to her began dabbing the warm liquid onto her lips. “Soon, it’ll all be over baby. Don’t you worry.”

It was some time later when Tully began to wake. Simon was asleep, dreaming of people shuffling towards him without heads, arms extended, reaching out for him, when Tully’s soft groans brought him back to the world of the living.

“Tully,” he said, his throat raw with grainy dust.

She looked up at him with cloudy eyes. She had a hard time focusing.

He gently lifted her head. Thin tufts of hair were starting to grow back, although it wasn’t a sign of improving health. He placed her head on his lap. “Hey babe. Welcome back.”

She opened and closed her eyes, her vision trying to regain its full capability after so long dormant. “I…I…”

Simon bent down and kissed her forehead. “Don’t try and talk. You’ve been asleep for a long time.”

“Water,” she said, coughing weakly.

The water bottle he had been using now lay spilled at his feet, but there was enough left, so he picked it up and gave some to Tully. “Not too much,” he said and took the bottle away.

“I don’t… feel too good.”

Simon nodded. “It’s just the sickness.” Why bother telling her the truth? Six months in a sack without solid food, that’s not something she needed to know. That was his personal journey. All that mattered was the moment. All Tully needed to know was where she was and that she was safe.

“We’re in Coober Pedy,” he said, lightly stroking her head. “You’re finally here.”

“I am?” she said, trying her hardest to smile. But it seemed she didn’t have enough energy left for that.

“Sure. Look around.”

He lifted her to a sitting position, keeping strong hold of her. Moistening his hand with the water, he rubbed her eyes. “Is that better?”

He heard her expel air. “I don’t believe it,” she said breathlessly. “I am here.”

“Yep. That’s right.”

“I love it,” she said, expelling more hard-earned air.

It was a world away from the cold, sterile environs of the hospital. A world away from the vile carnage of the zombie plague. It was Tully’s world. She had deserved it.

Holding tight onto her emaciated frame, Simon could feel her short breaths. Knew her body wouldn’t be able to cope for much longer. Food wouldn’t do her any good, nor would any drug. It was the cancer, nothing more. It was eating her up, like zombies eating flesh, and she didn’t have much time left.

“I’ll be right back,” he told her, making sure she was in a secure position before he left. He went over to the backpack and reached in, ignoring all the empty water bottles and canned goods, until his hand finally touched what lay at the bottom, hardly used save for a few zombie snakes and some particularly aggressive human zombies.

He pulled the revolver out.

Flipped open the chamber and gazed at the two cartridges sitting side by side. Felt, for the first time in a long while, true happiness, then flipped the chamber back and walked over to Tully.

“I want you to know that I love you more than life itself,” he said, bending his knees so his eyes were level with Tully’s. “And I always will.”

“I know. I love you too.” She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.

“I wanted to make your dreams come true,” he said. “I wanted to take you away from everything; from all the pain. I wanted to show you beauty.”

“You have.”

He raised the gun and aimed it at Tully’s brain. It was the best way, he had learned.

He recalled what Tully said to him a few weeks before the rise of the New World — “I don’t want to die in the hospital. Not in such a cold, horrible place. Please, whatever you do, just promise me you’ll take me away and let me die somewhere beautiful, somewhere good. Promise me you’ll do that?”

He had a promise to keep. It’s what Tully wanted.

“I love you Tully,” he said as he wound his finger around the trigger.

Tully managed to open her eyes one last time and gaze at the divine surroundings, at life as it should be — simple, honest and beautiful. She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

Then the church echoed with the sound of everlasting peace.

NOTES:

This was my contribution to the Delirium chapbook The Rising: Necrophobia.

I received an email one day from Brian Keene asking if I’d be interested in writing a story based in his world of The Rising and City of the Dead. I immediately said yes — I would’ve been a right idiot if I had said no. I felt it was a great honour, and I was excited to be a part of the project. Until the reality of it set in, and then I started to panic. Writing a story set in another writer’s world? Based on one of the most popular and influential horror novels of the last decade? Ahhhh!!! I didn’t want to screw this up.

My first decision was to base the story in Australia — not only did it make sense, since I do live in Australia, but I thought it’d be interesting to set an hitherto American-set story in another country; to see how my country would be coping with a zombie outbreak and the wrath of Ob and his minions.

I decided to set the story in quite possibly the scariest place in Australia — the Australian outback. Vast, desolate, it’s a horror writer’s dream (and if you’ve seen Wolf Creek then you know what I’m talking about).

Eventually the panic died down, and I wrote the story. And I’m proud to say it’s probably my personal favourite of all my short stories.

AMANDA’S GIFT

The house smelled of death and decay. At least that’s what Julia thought as she stood beside Claire in the kitchen.

“Somebody should burn this place down,” Claire said. “It’s disgusting. Been empty for years and after what happened…Christ, I’m surprised nobody has already.”

“Did you remember to bring the tank of gas and matches?”

“Hardy fucking har.” Claire kicked a crumpled beer can. It skipped through the dense layer of dust, clanging to a stop at the graffiti coated fridge. “Damn college kids and their parties. They treat this place like it’s some cool hangout joint.”

Julia turned and looked at her sister. Even through the hazy darkness she could still make out her scowl. “It is some cool hangout joint — well at least to them.”

“They screw as well. Big tough jocks taking their prom dates here to make-out and impregnate them. Little princesses probably think it’s cool and romantic.”

“Hardly.”

Claire met Julia’s stare. “For a writer you’re not very perceptive. Look around. You can see the bum prints in the dust.”

Julia had taken a look around — well, so far only the kitchen and living room. She had yet to explore the rest of the downstairs rooms or any of the upstairs. So far she had learned that apart from the kids who frequented this house — evident by the truckloads of empty beer cans and spray-painted walls — the house was also used by vagrants. She had landed on a mattress on her way inside. Positioned just below the living room window (which was the easiest way into the abandoned house, because the boards that had been put there to keep trespassers out had been pulled off and re-nailed so many times that a light tug was all that was needed to gain entrance) the mattress had been damp and smelled of piss and vomit, and a tattered sleeping bag lay just beyond the rancid excuse for a bed. She had just been glad nobody was sleeping on the mattress when she fell onto it.

“Would you hurry up and do whatever it is you need to do,” Claire said, rubbing her arms.

“Cold?”

“Yeah, it’s like fucking Arctic in here.”

It was in fact eighty-eight degrees outside, and inside was stuffy and airless. Julia could feel drips of perspiration running down her back and sliding into the crack of her ass, making it itch. She used her pencil to ease the discomfort. “I haven’t got the atmosphere of the place yet. I need more time. I need to get inside this house and its dusty floorboards and cracked walls and…”

“Ghosts that inhabit the rooms.”

“There are no ghosts here. You know I don’t write that haunted house crap.”

“I didn’t mean the Casper type, Jules.”

Julia turned away from the hard stare of her sister and looked down at the blank notepad. It was begging her to write something down. “You can wait outside if you want. I’ll be okay.”

“Shit, I thought you’d never offer.”

“Just keep watch, okay? That is why I brought you along. Lord knows it wasn’t for your sunny disposition.”

“Thanks a bunch, Sis. Really.”

“I won’t be long. I promise. I just need to get down a few notes and then we can go.”

“The sooner the better. I don’t like this place, Jules. Really. It’s evil.”

“Just because something evil happened here, doesn’t mean it’s haunted. It’s just a house.”

“Then why are you here?”

Julia noticed the slight grin on Claire. “Yeah, okay, just go wait outside. I’ll be out soon.”

Julia waited for Claire to leave before stepping forward towards the dark hallway.

Now I can really concentrate. With no one to bother me I can really soak up the ambience of this place.

She knew what had happened in this house a few years ago, had read the newspaper articles and felt suitably sickened and sad. It was horrible, there was no denying that, and she did feel guilty about coming here. But she needed somewhere with a strong past, a place empty of people but not of violence and character. And this place, because of its horrid past, had all that and more.

As she walked down the corridor, the flashlight causing shadows to dance upon the walls, she began to get a tingly sensation in her belly — a mixture of nervous excitement and, yes, fear.

There was an energy in this place, Claire had been right. Only it wasn’t evil. No, it was something else, something palpable.

She stopped, shone the flashlight at her pad, and balancing the flashlight, pencil and notepad, began jotting down thoughts at a rapid pace — things such as the look of the house, the feel and smell of the house, what she was feeling, why she was feeling it, possible ideas for characters and story — anything and everything that popped into her head.

If only I can capture all this in my book. If I can manage to make the reader feel like I do now, I’d have a bestseller for sure…

She stopped writing. Her body momentarily froze.

She thought she had heard a young girl crying.

But it had been so fleeting, so faint, that it could’ve been her imagination.

“Hello?” she said, her voice stronger than she felt inside. “Anyone here?”

She waited for a response.

Nothing.

It was probably her mind playing games with her. But what if it wasn’t?

This is the sort of shit you write. You need to experience these feelings, need to experience fear in all forms.

She started down the hall, towards the room where she thought the crying had come from, her pad and pencil clasped firmly in her right hand, the flashlight slippery in her left. The door was open a fraction. She stopped, waited, listened. Her mouth felt dry and gritty, like she had downed a cup of sawdust.

She wanted to kick the door open and shine the flashlight into the room, like some groovy detective in one of those pulpy crime stories or Hollywood movies, but instead she inched the door open and waited until it was all the way against the wall before she raised the flashlight and scanned the room, giving any maniac inside plenty of time to prepare and attack. Nobody did. The only movement in the room was a scurrying black spider. It moved away from the glare of the light and into a huge, ornate web, disappearing, destined to remain there until either she left or some unfortunate insect got stuck in its trap.

Julia stepped into the room, swiping the flashlight over the roof, floor and corners, coming to the conclusion that it had once been a bedroom, most likely a child’s, but now it was gutted save for a few empty beer cans and chip packets.

No girl.

Julia waded through the junk on the floor, kicking up volumes of dust, keeping the light on the wall, fascinated by the wallpaper. It was peeling and where there wasn’t the usual spray-painted tags and obscenities, patches of filth that could’ve been shit or vomit or food or blood defiled what had once been pictures of fairies, elves and wands.

A little girl’s room?

Julia was suddenly overcome with feelings of loss and sadness.

Was it that something so pretty and innocent had been so brazenly tainted? Or was it something else, something deeper that had to do with what happened in this house?

Eyes blurry, Julia turned her back to the wall. She wiped her eyes and let out a quivering breath. “Get a grip, Jules.”

It wasn’t like her to get so emotional. She was glad Claire wasn’t around to see her blubbering over stupid wallpaper.

As she cleared the last of the tears from her eyes and stepped forward to leave the room, the light reflected off something on the floor. It wasn’t very bright, but the shimmering piqued Julia’s interest, so she wandered over to the other side of the room and crouched down to investigate. Underneath a film of brown dust was a photograph. She gripped one end and shook off the dust, coughing as particles entered her lungs.

Brilliant Jules. Just brilliant.

She wiped the rest of the dirt off on her sleeve then directed the flashlight at her discovery.

The small photo was of a family: a man and woman, both young and attractive, a boy of around ten and a black spaniel sitting beside the boy. They were standing in front of a white weatherboard house with large leafy trees flanking them. A typically modern, upper-class suburban family. Julia turned the photo over, but there was nothing on the back to identify them. The photo was, however, severely creased down the middle, so both the dad and dog had white lines running the length of their bodies. It looked as though whoever owned the photo had kept it folded over for a long time.

What’s a photo like this doing in here?

A photo of a young teenager, dropped by one of the many horny trespassers she could understand, but a photo like this seemed out of place.

A noise from behind made her jump. She whirled around and shone the light into Claire’s face. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Claire said, shielding her eyes from the glare. “I got nervous waiting outside all by myself. Can you shine that flashlight away from me please?”

Julia dropped the light to Claire’s stomach. “Well I’m all done here. We can go.”

“Thank God. This house…”

“I know it gives you the creeps. I admit, it’s starting to give me the willies too.”

Claire looked past Julia and scanned the room. Her expression changed from disgust to astonishment in a matter of seconds. “You know, I think this is where they found her. I think this is the room where it happened.”

“Where what happened?”

Claire sighed and dropped her shoulders. “What else, the little girl. Amanda Waters.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I think I remember reading something about a room with fairies and stuff like that on the walls.”

Julia didn’t recall anything about a room with fairies, but she hadn’t read as much about the case as Claire. “Well all the more reason to get out of here.”

“I hear that, sister. What have you got there?”

Julia followed Claire’s gaze and realized she was talking about the photo. “I found it on the floor.”

“And…?”

“What?”

“Did you lose it last time you were in here fucking some college stud?”

“I just…shit, let’s just get out of here, okay? We’ll stop off at Lucky’s. I’m buying.”

“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night.”

Julia tucked the photo into her cut-off’s right pocket then followed Claire out of the room with the fairies and elves and wands.

* * *

Julia awoke to a blindingly bright room and the temperature an already scorching ninety degrees. With eyes half-opened, she sat up and saw that she had forgotten to close the curtains. The windows were open but there wasn’t much of a breeze coming in.

“Brilliant Jules,” she muttered and then the dull throbbing she got only after a night of too many vodkas settled in. Her mouth tasted like an ashtray and her stomach felt queasy. She also needed to urinate badly, so she swung her legs over the side of the bed and hopped down. She stretched, farted and saw that her sheets looked like someone had dropped a bucket of water over them.

I’m surprised I’ve got any water left in me.

Julia frowned. The photo lay just below the damp pillow.

Was I looking at it before I fell asleep?

She didn’t recall doing so — after getting home last night she had a cool shower then went straight to bed. Then again, everything after the third vodka was hazy. Julia shrugged, plucked the photo from the bed and put it on the bedside table, then hurried into the bathroom.

She emptied her bladder, washed her hands then stepped into the shower, turning on the cold tap a lot and the hot a little.

She showered for twenty minutes then hopped out. She felt nice and cool.

I’ll be hot and sweaty again soon enough, she thought, patting her body lightly with the towel.

She didn’t mind the warm weather — but this heat wave was too much. She had planned on doing some writing today, but always found it hard to concentrate when the mercury was up so high.

Just have to write nude and keep plenty of…

There was a tiny mark just above her left breast. It was faint, like a smudge of dirt. She rubbed it, but the mark didn’t come off.

Damn dirty house, she thought, thinking back to last night. She dabbed some soap on the towel and rubbed her skin even harder, but it still wouldn’t come off.

“Great,” she said, the smudge now surrounded by a red hue.

It looked like her body had decided to bestow her with a nice new blemish. It seemed so out of place. Her body was tanned, smooth and tight in all the right places — not bad for a woman approaching forty.

Probably a bruise, she told herself as she hung the damp towel on the rack.

She left the bathroom and entered the kitchen where she prepared a bowl of fruit and some coffee — even if she was living in the fiery depths of Hell she would still need her morning fix.

Heat be damned, she thought and continued with her breakfast.

* * *

It was impossible. She just couldn’t concentrate. The funny thing was, it wasn’t the heat that was the problem, nor the hangover.

Every time she tried to write, her mind would wander to the photo. Who were the people in it and how did it end up in the house?

She finished off her sixth cup of coffee, switched off the computer and headed into the room where the photo was waiting for her.

She picked it up, lay down on the bed and sighed. “You’re keeping me from writing, you know.” In the light of day the photo looked dirtier and more worn. It was faded around the edges, which she hadn’t noticed last night. But everything else looked the same — same smiling faces, same weatherboard house, same crease running down the middle. So why was she so fascinated by this remarkably mundane picture? So much so that it was interfering with her work?

Was it a puzzle to solve? Was that it? She had always loved mysteries and detective stories when she was young — it was the main reason she was writing them today — so it seemed natural that she would be interested in something like this. A misplaced photo left in a deserted house. A house that had been the scene of a most vile act.

Was it connected to that? Julia wondered.

Highly unlikely, she decided. Still, the picture did look recent — the clothes, the hairstyles all looked modern and even the house and foliage looked similar to those in her neighborhood. Was it possible, then, that the family lived close by?

I know — the handsome young father is a real estate agent and he recently went through the abandoned house with a client and when he went to give the client his business card, the photo he kept in his wallet of his family fell out and he didn’t notice. That seems likely. Boring, but likely. Or how about this: the boy was taking the spaniel for a walk and decided to take a peek into the infamous house and while he was in there, something scared him and he took off, dropping the photo as he left.

Either seemed plausible. Julia smiled and even though she felt silly, she closed her eyes and pictured the husband coming into her apartment, wearing only a pair of jeans, upper body tanned and muscled, the bulge in his pants straining to get out…

The girl screams and tears are flowing down her cheeks as the man starts forward, eyes glowing with evil lust…

Julia screamed and banged her head on the headboard. Her body was streaked with sweat and she was breathing hard.

Jesus Christ what the hell was that!

One moment she had been daydreaming about the guy in the picture, the next…

Julia sat up and touched the back of her head. It was tender, but when she looked at her fingers, there was no blood.

“I need to get out of here,” she said and hopped off the bed.

It was only when she picked up the phone and went to dial Claire’s number that she realized she was still clutching the photo. She placed it on the coffee table and rang her sister.

* * *

As she was getting ready, she glanced at the closet mirror and saw that the bruise, or whatever the hell it was, had gotten bigger.

Impossible, she thought and stepped closer to the mirror.

But sure enough, the dark blotch had doubled in size since this morning. “Great, just great. Why couldn’t this happen during winter?”

With a loud sigh, she pulled off her white tank top and delved back into the closet to find something that would cover the mark up.

* * *

“They never caught the guy.”

“What?”

“The guy that killed Amanda Waters, that’s what.”

“Oh, right. Yeah I knew that. So?”

“I’ve been re-reading everything about her abduction and murder. Wanted to refresh my memory since, well, since we were at the house where it happened.”

“Thought you said the place should be burned down?”

Claire nodded and shoved a heap of salad into her mouth. “It should be,” she mumbled. She swallowed. “Doesn’t mean I can’t read up on the case.”

Julia scanned the crowded café. Even though they had elected to sit outside with all the smoke and hot air — Julia hated air conditioning even more than cigarette smoke — she still felt closed in and uncomfortable. She had hardly touched her club sandwich. “Did you keep all the articles or something?”

Claire shrugged. Her round, pasty shoulders jiggled. “Yeah. That weird?”

Julia nodded. “Sure. But look what I do for a living.”

Claire grinned and continued devouring her Greek salad. “So anyway, I was right. That’s where they found the little girl. In that room with all the fairy stuff on the walls. I tell myself I shouldn’t read about it. It scares the shit out of me. I can’t believe I was there last night. The things you talk me into. Julia?”

At the sound of her name Julia looked up. “Huh?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, sure.” She hadn’t.

“What’s the matter? You sound like crap on the phone, tell me you have to get out of the apartment and want to meet me for lunch, then when you’re here you’re off on another planet. And what’s the deal with that top? It’s hotter than Hell and you’re wearing a shirt with a collar? Usually I have to beg you to put on some clothes.”

“Just…it’s my writing. I’m having trouble with it in this heat. It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit it’s nothing. It’s that house isn’t it? It’s gotten to you.”

Sometimes Julia hated that her best friend was her sister. She couldn’t put anything past her. “Well it got to you, didn’t it? You’re the one reading up on the murder.”

“You’re right, my love. But at least I admit to being affected by it.”

Julia stood up suddenly. Claire jumped back a little. “What?”

“Let’s go. This place is too crowded.”

“Okay,” Claire said, eyeing Julia’s half-eaten sandwich.

“I’ll get us a doggy bag, okay?” Julia said, taking her purse out of her handbag.

“No, I’ve got this one. You paid for the drinks last night.”

“It’s okay, really…” The photo fell onto the table.

“Hell, Jules. You’ve still got that thing?” Claire reached out and picked up the photo. She studied the small, wrinkled picture. “Hey, the father’s pretty cute,” she said. Her brow furrowed. “You know, they look kinda familiar.”

Julia snatched the photo from her sister and pocketed it.

“And you’re carrying it around with you?” Claire chuckled. “Why?”

“I dunno,” she snapped. “No reason. Jesus, do I have to tell you everything? I like it. It…” she thought of the most plausible answer that came to mind, “it helps with my writing. Like a muse, a reminder of the house.”

Claire stood and put up her hands. “Okay, whatever. Make peace, not war, remember?”

Julia threw down two tens, put away her purse then walked out from under the annexed café and into the glaring sun.

“Hey, what about the sandwich?” Claire called.

“Just take it and eat it on the run,” Julia called back, shoving her hand into her left pocket to make sure the photo was definitely there.

It was and it made her feel a whole lot better.

* * *

Julia listened as the phone rang out for the fifth time that night. She knew it would be either Belinda or Cindy. She usually went out with her old college friends Saturday nights.

Julia didn’t feel like it tonight, though. She didn’t feel like seeing or talking to anyone, and that included whoever was on the phone. She considered taking the phone off the hook, but couldn’t be bothered getting up to do so.

She lay naked on the bed, on her side clutching the photo, the window open, curtains drawn but billowing with each sigh of the wind. The television was on but the volume was low.

She had been staring at the photo for the past few hours. Claire had been right — the house had affected her more deeply than she first thought.

The spot on her body had grown since this afternoon. It now ran from the top of her left breast to the center of her chest — a sort of oblong patch roughly the size of a matchbox. She had no idea what it could be: cancers didn’t grow that fast, and it didn’t hurt like a bruise would.

Had she picked up some disease from the house?

She didn’t want to go to the doctors — they terrified her. She wanted to tell Claire about it, but not tonight. Tonight she just wanted to lie in bed with the photo. It was the one thing that gave her comfort, the one thing that kept her mind off the heat, the writing and the blemish.

She smiled at the family in the photo, pretended they were smiling back at her. She had named them — the man was Sebastian, the woman Heather, the boy Craig and the dog Sammy. Silly, she knew, but she didn’t care. There was something about the photo, something special. She was drawn to it.

She still wondered who they were, where they lived and what the photo was doing in the house. But those questions seemed less important now than the photo itself, the energy and solace it gave her.

She turned on to her back and blinked hot sweat from her eyes. The heat was getting to the picture too. A small portion of the photo was completely gone, as if what used to be there never existed in the first place.

Where did you come from? she wondered, placing the photo against her chest. It felt hot, hotter than her skin, yet she didn’t take it away. There was something calling her, something or someone, she was sure of it, and just as she was about to open her eyes to see if it was coming from outside…

There were fairies and elves and wands everywhere, only they were tainted now by evil. The room was dark except for a solitary candle, and it not only flickered against the dirty old mattress with the horrible smell, but something else, something small and shaking. A human form, with long golden hair and dirty clothes. The person’s head was buried in the mattress — seemingly asleep. Then a sound, a thumping sound, and the candle wavered, as if something moved very close, causing the light to flicker over the fairies and elves and wands. A man. Tall, large, hairy. He enters the room, holding a bag, smiling and then the person with the long golden hair wakes up, looks towards the man and starts to scream. It’s a girl and she screams and tears are flowing down from her eyes as the man starts forward, eyes glowing with evil lust…

“Julia!”

Julia awoke, body bathed in sweat, breathing in quick gasps, unsure if the person calling her name had been part of the dream.

Dream? Fuck, that wasn’t a dream, that was a nightmare.

“Julia! Hey you up there!”

Julia sat up and the photo fell off her chest.

It was Cindy.

Hopping out of bed, Julia walked over to the window and pulled aside the curtains. Two stories down standing on the sidewalk were Cindy and Belinda.

“We’ve been trying to reach you all night,” Belinda called. “What’s up?”

“I’m not feeling too well guys. I’m going to have to give tonight a miss.”

“Okay, suit yourself,” Cindy shouted.

“Say, this isn’t a peep show hon,” Belinda said. “We all know you’ve got a great body, but you don’t have to make us feel bad.”

“And you’ve got a tattoo now? When did that happen?”

Julia looked down and saw the blotch had grown again. It was now double the size of a matchbox.

Oh Christ.

“What is it?” Cindy called. “A love heart?”

“A Unicorn?”

“I know — the Stars and Stripes?”

“I have to go, sorry guys. Have fun.” She shut the window, pulled the curtains closed then dashed into the bathroom. She switched on the light and gazed at the blotch that covered half her chest. “Oh God,” she whimpered. “What’s happening to me?”

She stepped closer to the bathroom mirror and examined the growth more intimately.

She suddenly felt dizzy.

“It can’t be possible.”

She saw the photo reflected in the mirror — a faint and blurry image, but there was no mistaking the house and the trees and the three people and dog. They were all there, smiling at her, the man and mutt broken by the crease.

She dashed out of the bathroom and over to the bed, to the photo that lay on the sweat stained sheets. She picked it up. The picture was almost entirely faded.“What’s happening!” she cried and fell to the floor, clutching the photo to her chest, the photo folded on its crease as it was meant to be.

The phone rang.

Not Belinda or Cindy this time.

Julia got up and staggered to the phone. With an unsteady hand she picked up the handset. “Hello?”

“Jules it’s me. Are you okay? You don’t sound too good.”

As much as she wanted to tell her sister everything, she just choked back tears and answered, “I’m fine.”

“Okay. Listen, I’ve got something really amazing to tell you.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Julia said. The photo was hot in her hand. All she wanted was to savour its energy, be with it and nothing else. She didn’t want any distractions.

“But Jules…”

“Just leave me alone!” She dropped the phone, the receiver dangling off the coffee table by its cord. “No more,” she sobbed and fell to her knees.

Am I going crazy?

She wanted answers. Needed them.

The image on her chest meant something. It wasn’t just some cancerous growth or mutant bruise — it was a sign, it had to be.

“Tell me, please. What do you want?”

Clutching the photo to her heart, as if it were her lifeblood, she saw…

The little girl screams and tears are flowing down from her eyes as the man starts forward, eyes glowing with evil lust. “I have something for you,” he croaks. He digs into the bag and pulls out an old rag and a knife. The little girl screams and begs the man to leave her alone. She tries to run, but the man grabs her by her golden hair and punches her in the face. Sobbing now, the little girl lies still on the mattress, while the man shoves the rag into her mouth. He clutches the knife in his hand and with his free hand, undoes his pants, freeing his erect penis. “I have something else for you. Something you’ll really enjoy.” He grins and laughs and kneels down, pulling the little girl’s nightgown up around her waist. “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt. Just stay quiet and it’ll all be over soon…”

She is the girl. She’s hurting, scared and afraid. She knows the bad man that’s been hurting her and touching her. But she doesn’t want to think about that now. As the bad man presses down on her, she squeezes her eyes shut and thinks of Mommy and Daddy and Sammy and, yes, even her rotten brother Craig. Of last summer when they all went to the beach and swam and played volleyball and Mommy kept on hitting the ball into the water. She made Daddy go in and get it. Sammy was running around chasing the gulls, silly doggy.

As the pain rips through little Amanda, she keeps a firm hold of her photo and tries to block everything out. Everything except the good memories. Like the day she took the photo. The one she managed to grab before the bad man had taken her. The one that he hasn’t found yet, because she keeps it hidden, keeps it folded and hidden so the bad man won’t find it and tear it up. She clutches the photo hard and tries to remember the day, the very first time Daddy let her use his camera and Daddy and Mommy and Craig all stood outside their house while she waited for them to stop kidding around so she could take the picture. Even Sammy managed to stay still long enough for her to take the picture. “Cheese,” she had said, then pressed the little button. After they had gotten the photos back, Daddy had said that hers was the best one out of them all and he let her keep it in her room, beside the bed, which is where it stayed until the bad man came. But she still has it and keeping it close to her heart makes her feel that Mommy and Daddy are close and that everything is going to be okay. They are going to come and take her away, because the mattress stinks and she wants to go home, away from all the fairies and elves and magic wands…

Julia was awoken by a soft rocking and somebody speaking her name. When she opened her eyes, she at first saw only darkness. Then a light, shining down upon her.

“Jules, hey Jules.”

It was Claire, crouching down beside her.

The stench hit her next — a disgusting, but familiar odor of beer, piss and dust. But most of all it was the stench of death and decay.

She sat up and saw she was in the abandoned house, surrounded by fairies and elves and wands. She was on the mattress, her body covered with a jacket, but she was naked underneath.

“What happened? Why did you come here?”

Julia was startled by the unfamiliar voice. “Who’s there?”

Two people stepped into the beam of the flashlight. Two very familiar people.

“Jules, this is Amanda Waters’s parents — Heather and Sebastian.”

Julia gazed up at the two people. They looked different than the picture — older, not as attractive.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you on the phone. The photo you found, it was of Amanda’s family. After I got home from our lunch, I dug through some old articles and came across the one I recognised them from. I knew I had seen them somewhere before. They live nearby, so I contacted them and told them about what you had found. They wanted to meet you, see the photo, but when we came by your house and you weren’t there, well, I figured you had come back here. Hoped, really. You had me scared hon.”

“Do you have the photo?” Heather said, tears in her eyes.

Julia looked down to her right hand. She nodded. She unfolded the photo and handed it to Heather. Wiping tears from her eyes, she grabbed the picture and held it up to the light.

“What’s this?” Sebastian said, his voice more baffled than angry.

“What do you mean?” Julia said.

“Is this the picture you found here?”

Julia nodded.

“I thought you said it was the one Amanda took of us a few weeks before she…” Heather bowed her head and cried.

Claire and Julia frowned at each other. “I don’t understand,” Julia said.

Sebastian handed her the photo.

Instead of a family smiling in front of a weatherboard house there was a man. A hairy man with evil, lustful eyes.

“It’s Geoff Campbell.”

Julia gazed into the wrecked face of Sebastian Waters. “Who?”

“Geoff Campbell. He’s the janitor at Amanda’s elementary school. Why do you have a picture of him?”

Julia opened the jacket and looked down at her chest. The growth was gone. Completely and utterly gone — not a hint of the photo remained. Her body was blemish free again.

Julia handed the photo back to Sebastian. “It’s a gift to you. From Amanda.”

NOTES:

Believe it or not, this story came about because of the movie 8 Mile. I was watching the movie one night, and there was a scene set at an abandoned house (or maybe it was a house after it had been gutted by a fire — it’s been a while since I’ve seen it).

As so often happens with stories, they just pop into your head seemingly out of nowhere. Sometimes it happens while you’re driving, or taking a shower… or watching a movie. Just seeing that one scene sparked something inside my head, and the idea of the ghost of a murdered girl came to me in that moment.

While I like to think that the story was in me and would’ve come out eventually, I still wonder — if I had never watched that movie at that time, would I have ever written the story? While you’re all dwelling on that little mind-bending idea, I’ll just thank Scott Silver, Curtis Hanson and Eminem for the inspiration behind the story.

STOLEN LIVES

“Who was on the phone?” Jerry said.

Ray, standing by the entrance to the lounge room didn’t speak. He merely gazed at his friend, who was watching the television, beer in one hand, scratching his crotch with the other.

After a notable silence, Jerry pried his eyes away from the football game and looked at Ray. “So? Who was it? Kim?”

Ray shook his head. “Not exactly.”

Kim, Ray’s wife and his sixteen-year-old daughter Rebecca, hadn’t been home when Ray and Jerry arrived almost an hour ago. Ray had been desperately waiting for his wife to call since then.

“What the hell’s the matter, man? You okay?” Jerry had a goofy smile on his face. “They’ve been kidnapped,” Ray said.

Jerry frowned and took a swig of his beer. “Who has?”

“Kim and Rebecca.”

Jerry shook his head, his long greasy hair swishing about his gaunt face. “You’re a fucking riot, Ray,” he sniggered. “Kidnapped.”

“I’m not kidding,” Ray said and started crying. It wasn’t often he cried. He hadn’t cried when his father died. Nor when his brother died. Nor when his first wife died. Not even when…

But he had to in this instance.

After a short but forceful bout of crying, Ray finally managed to gain some control. He wiped the tears and snot and looked over at Jerry.

Jerry looked shocked, probably from seeing his best mate weeping more than hearing the news of the kidnapping. He stood, placed his beer on the table and walked over to where Ray was standing. “Who was that on the phone?”

“The kidnapper,” Ray said.

“What did he say?”

“That he has my wife and daughter.”

“Well what does this fucker want? Money? Jesus, you’re not exactly rolling in cash. You’re only one step up from poverty. You live in a shit-hole of a place, just like the rest of us. What can he possibly want?”

Ray shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

Jerry ran a hand through his hair. “Oh man. This is fucked. I can’t believe this is happening. So that was really him on the phone? Just then?”

“For Christ’s sake yes!” Ray cried. Jerry was his best friend, had been for over twenty years, but he could be an incognizant idiot sometimes.

“Do ya think we should call the cops?”

“No way,” Ray said and made his way to the couch. He sat down and hung his head. “He’ll kill ‘em both if I call the cops.”

“How will he know if we’ve called them?”

“Because,” Ray said. “Hand me a beer, will ya?”

Jerry grabbed an unopened can of Melbourne Bitter and handed it to Ray. The can had lost its icy chill, but it was the last one. Ray had been just about to go to the bottle shop to pick up some more when the kidnapper called. He popped open the lukewarm can and took a long drink. It tasted horrible, but it hit the spot. “What’s the time?” he said to Jerry.

Ray’s watch was broken. Busted one night when he had fallen to the pavement, drunk. He was trying to save up to buy a new one.

“Nine-thirty-eight,” Jerry said.

“Okay, that gives me a little over twenty minutes to decide,” Ray muttered, taking another drink.

“Twenty minutes to decide what?” Jerry said. He sat down in the single chair adjacent to Ray.

Ray gulped down the rest of the beer then threw the can across the room. It hit the wall with a dull ting! He looked at Jerry. “He’s going to kill either Kim or Rebecca. I have to choose which one.” He put his head in his hands and shed more tears.

He gathered his composure again, quicker this time.

“We have to call the police, Ray,” Jerry said softly.

“He’s going to call back at ten o’clock. If I don’t answer, he’ll kill ‘em both. There’s not enough time for the police to do anything. That wouldn’t even be enough time for them to set up a tap on my phone.”

“Well what are you gonna do? We can’t sit here and do nothing. Fuck! He’s got your wife and daughter. We have to do something.”

“What can we do?” Ray said. “I don’t know who he is or where he’s taken them.”

“Well you can’t play along with his game. That’s for sure.”

“I have to,” Ray said.

Jerry stared at him, his thin face contorted so he looked like some evil little gnome. “Why? He’ll probably kill ‘em both anyway.” He winced. “Sorry, Ray. But it’s the truth.”

“I can’t take that chance,” Ray said. “He said if I don’t decide then he’ll decide for me.”

“So? It’s better than you having a death on your conscience.”

Ray shook his head. “It’s not that simple.” He breathed deeply. “If I don’t choose, or if I don’t answer the phone or if he feels in anyway that I’ve called the cops he’ll kill Kim and Rebecca in the most painful way imaginable. Torture of every kind, the kidnapper said.”

“And if you do choose?”

“He’ll kill whoever I decide quick. With a single shot to the head. And let the other one go.”

Jerry nodded slowly. It seemed the situation was becoming clear to him. “That’s fucked,” he said.

“So I have to decide which one dies, and soon.”

“How about I drive around? See if I can find them. Or at least find some clues.”

“It’ll be a waste of time,” Ray said. “You won’t find anything. Including Kim and Rebecca.”

“Well I can try,” Jerry said, and started to get up.

“I said don’t worry.”

“Hell. Why not?”

“If he hears you coming, he’ll kill ‘em both. That’s if you find them, which you won’t. So don’t waste the petrol.” Ray stood. He was too emotional to be sitting down. He needed to move.

“Okay, if you say so,” Jerry sighed and sat back down. “So what the hell does this guy want? He must want something? What’s the point of kidnapping your family?”

“He doesn’t want anything,” Ray said. “No money, no nothing. Just…” As he paced back and forth, what the kidnapper had said rolled around in his head.

“Just what?” Jerry asked, craning his neck so he could look at Ray.

“I did ask him what he wanted. I told him I would do anything. Give him anything. He just laughed and said all he wanted was to have fun.”

“Jesus,” Jerry said, turning back and shaking his head.

Ray kicked his old card table that sat to one side of the room, dirty from years of cigarette ashes and beer stains. He sent it crashing into the wall. One of its legs snapped off. “Fuck!” he roared. “How could this happen? How could some stranger just come into my house and take my wife and child?”

“God I wish we knew where he was,” Jerry said. “I’ve got my shotgun in the van.”

Ray continued wearing out the carpet between the TV and the entrance to the kitchen. “Okay, let me think this through,” Ray said.

“Think what through?”

“What do you reckon? Who I’m going to choose.”

Jerry made a face. “You’re not really going to decide are you? Shit. You can’t, Ray.”

“I have to. I have to pick one to save the other.”

“But…come on.”

“What do you suggest, huh?” Ray barked, stopping and gazing at Jerry. “My wife and kid are out there somewhere, trapped by this psycho mother-fucker, and if I don’t pick one of them to die, then he’ll torture them both. And do you know what he told me? That he has a boot full of tools — pliers, hacksaw, hammer, nails… Fuck man. I don’t wanna even think about what he has in mind.” Ray took a much-needed breath. He felt faint. He could really do with a beer. “We haven’t a clue where they are, and I’ve only got…” He looked down to Jerry’s watch.

“Fourteen minutes,” Jerry said.

“Fourteen damn minutes before he rings back and wants an answer.” Ray continued pacing. “Okay. Let’s make a list.”

“A list?”

“You know, one of them pro and con lists.”

“You’re not doing your fucking shopping, Ray. This is your wife and kid’s lives we’re talking about.”

“I know that,” Ray said. “but this is the easiest way I can think of to decide. You got any better suggestions? What if it was Carol and Brad who were kidnapped and you had to decide which one to kill? How would you decide?”

“That’s easy. Brad’s a loser. A drugged up fucker. I’d choose him.”

Ray let out a quick, demented laugh. “Bad example.”

“Anyway, it’s different with you. You’ve got a great daughter and a great wife.”

“That’s why I’m making this list,” Ray said. He bolted into the kitchen and grabbed a pad and pencil. He brought them back to the lounge. He sat down on the couch and drew up a rough graph. Four columns — a pro and a con for Kim and the same for Rebecca. “Let’s start with Kim,” he said. “Okay. Pro — I love her.”

“You love both of ‘em.”

“Well it’s a start. Jesus. Okay, how about this. I’ve known her for longer, therefore I’ll miss her more.” He scribbled it down.

“Fair enough,” Jerry said. “But look at it this way. Since you’ve known her for longer, you’ve spent more time with her. That’s a con.”

Reluctantly, Ray wrote it down.

“Also, she’s had a longer life. She’s seen more things and done more.”

He wrote it in the con column. “Okay, another pro. She’s my soul mate. I can’t kill my soul mate.”

Jerry nodded.

Ray added it to the pro column.

“Sex, you’ll miss the sex.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ray said. “A big pro.”

“But you can always re-marry.”

“I can always have another daughter,” Ray said. “Forget that. Doesn’t go on the list.” He looked down at the scrap paper. “Okay, so far that’s four pro and two con. How much time do we have?”

“Seven minutes.”

“Okay, Rebecca. Pro — I love her. And she hasn’t been on this earth for as long. Only sixteen years. Hasn’t had a chance to really live.”

“Again, the other side of that is since she hasn’t had a long life yet, she won’t miss it as much.”

Ray frowned. “Pretty fucking stupid, but okay.” He wrote it down. “Con. She’ll be more affected seeing her mum die than Kim will be about seeing Rebecca die.”

“Ya think?”

“I think it’ll screw her up in the long run, yeah. Maybe I’ll be doing her a favour killing her. I mean, seeing her mum being blasted away will be like dying a hundred times.”

Jerry shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I’m putting it down,” Ray said.

“You really think this guy will let either of them go? I mean, they’ve seen his face. Heard his voice. He won’t take that chance.”

“Only a person with a really sick mind would be doing a thing like this. Who knows how his mind works? He really might be getting off on me having to choose. Maybe the killing is just an end to the more important act of making me live the rest of my life knowing I gave the order for one of my family to be killed.”

Jerry shrugged.

“Well I have to hope that’s the case, anyway. Besides, maybe they haven’t seen his face. He might have knocked them out and is keeping them blindfolded or something.”

“I suppose. So what does that make? Two each for Rebecca?”

Ray looked down at the sheet of paper. He nodded. And tried thinking of more reasons not to choose his daughter. “I can’t think of anything else for her,” he said after a bit.

“Neither can I,” Jerry said. “So what does that mean?”

In a voice that sounded more like a little kid’s, Ray said, “It means I’m gonna choose Rebecca”

“Are you sure? Christ man, she’s your daughter. Your daughter!”

“I know that,” Ray growled. “But what else can I do?”

Jerry didn’t reply.

“Exactly.”

They didn’t talk for the next few minutes. The silence was broken when the phone rang. It sounded very loud, louder than usual. Ray gazed at Jerry. “This is it.” He stood up and hurried into the kitchen. Jerry was close behind.

“He’s early,” Jerry told him.

On the fifth ring, Ray picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“That’s no way to greet your mother.”

“Mum?” Ray gasped.

He heard Jerry mutter, “Shit,” from behind.

“Yes. Is everything okay, Raymond? You don’t sound…”

“Listen Mum, I can’t talk. I’m waiting on a very important call. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Well I can’t believe you. Treating your own mother like this.”

“Sorry. But I have to go.” He turned to Jerry. He was holding up his arm and pointing to his watch.

Ray nodded quickly. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay? Bye Mum.” He hung up. “Fuck! What time is it?”

“Right on ten.”

Ray shook his head. “I hope the kidnapper didn’t try calling. He’ll probably think I was on the phone to the cops. Damn!”

“You should’ve just hung up as soon as you knew it was your mum.”

“I can’t just hang up on my moth…” The phone rang. Ray grabbed it. “Hello?”

“Hello again.” It was the voice of the kidnapper.

Ray swallowed. “You’re right on time.”

“I said I would be. Now, have you made a decision?”

“Yes,” Ray said.

“Good. Now you didn’t call any unwanted people, did you?”

“No. I swear. I kept my word.” Ray could feel hot breath on the side of his face. He turned to find Jerry leaning in close, trying to hear the conversation. “Get away,” Ray whispered, and Jerry backed up.

“Who was that?” the kidnapper said. “Is there somebody with you?”

“No. Nobody but me.”

“I thought I heard you talking to somebody.”

“Uh-uh,” Ray said, his heart practically bursting from his chest.

“I hope you’re not lying to me.”

“I promise. I’m all alone.”

Silence. Then, “Okay. I believe you. Now, the decision. Your wife and daughter are dying to know.” The kidnapper laughed.

“How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?” Ray said. “How will I know you’ll let the other one go?”

“You have my word, Ray.”

“And you promise just one shot? To the back of the head? No suffering?”

“Yes. Unless you try to trick me in any way. Then both of your little darlings will know the meaning of real pain. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now…who’s the lucky winner?”

Ray used all his energy to speak. “Rebecca,” he said quietly.

“A surprise choice,” the kidnapper said. “Your daughter. Okay, it shall be done. Bye.”

“No, wait. When will I see my wife?”

“Soon enough.”

The phone went dead.

Ray held onto the receiver for a long time before Jerry took it off him and placed it down.

“You did what you had to do,” Jerry said. “I’m sorry, Ray.”

It was easily the most sentimental thing Ray had heard Jerry utter.

“I can’t believe it,” Ray said. “My daughter is dead. I’m never going to see her again.”

Jerry grabbed Ray around the shoulders. Ray couldn’t help it. He just let it out. He cried for what seemed like an eternity.

* * *

They were sitting in the lounge, drinking cold beers that Jerry had gotten from the store over an hour ago when there came a quick rapping at the front door.

Ray jumped up, spilling his beer over the floor and rushed to the front door. He flung it open and saw Kim.

Kim looking old and tired and dirty. She fell into his arms, crying.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now. You’re all right.” Ray picked her up and carried her into the lounge. He laid her down on the couch. “Get some water,” he told Jerry.

Jerry, looking positively dazed, nodded and bounded into the kitchen. He came back and handed the glass to Ray

Ray gave the glass to Kim. She finished the water in one mouthful.

“I can’t believe it,” Jerry said. “That mother-fucker told the truth. He let her go.”

Ray nodded. He brushed hair away from Kim’s face. She was pale, but had stopped crying.

“He made me shoot her,” Kim said, her voice raspy. “That bastard made me shoot my own daughter. Told me I had to or else…” Her words broke up and she began sobbing.

Ray held her close. “It’s over now, darling. Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Farm,” she said between sobs.

“Farm? What about a farm?” Ray said.

“That’s where he took us. That’s where Rebecca is.”

Ray glanced at Jerry. Jerry’s wild look told him he was thinking the same thing. “Which farm? Whereabouts?” Ray asked.

“Off Taylor Road.”

“I know it,” Jerry said. “You want me to call the cops?”

“Fuck them. You can get out there quicker than they can.”

Jerry gave a quick smile, then he took off for the front door. “If I find him, I’ll bring him back. We can take care of the fucker ourselves.”

“You do that,” Ray called, and then Jerry was gone. Ray heard the sound of Jerry’s van roar to life and then the tyres screeched their way from his driveway, off into the night.

“He’ll be gone for at least half an hour,” Ray said.

Kim wiped her eyes, sat up and smiled. “Dumb fuck. He’ll probably spend all night trying to find the kidnapper.”

Ray chuckled. He stroked Kim’s blonde hair. “He means well. And he is our only witness, after all. He’s important to us.”

“True,” Kim said. “You got a beer? I could really use one. Putting on that voice really fucked with my vocal chords.”

Ray hopped up, went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He wandered back, handed the can to his wife. “And you did a pretty good job of it, too. There were times I actually thought I was talking to a man.”

Kim popped open the top and took a swig. “Ah. That’s better. You know, I felt like an idiot. All that pretending. I almost laughed a few times.”

“Well good thing you didn’t,” Ray said. “You know I would’ve laughed too. And that would’ve blown our whole plan.”

Kim nodded. “I know.”

“It worked, though. You should’ve seen me,” he said, kissing Kim on the lips. “I was great. I cried, I got angry. I cried some more. They should give me a fucking Academy Award for my performance. And it’s a good thing I made you talk like a real kidnapper. Our good friend Jerry was breathing down my neck. He probably heard most of our conversation.”

“I thought I could hear a voice. So you were lying to me,” she said.

They both laughed.

“So it all went okay?” Ray asked.

“Like clockwork. That daughter of ours is as dead as the horse shit that covered the damn paddock.”

Ray nodded. “Good. No more worries.”

“No more worries,” Kim said. “Hey, that’s what I wanted to ask you. Who were you on the phone with?”

“You tried calling earlier?”

“Yeah. It was ten o’clock by my watch.”

“My mum. She called just as we were expecting your call.”

Kim laughed. “Good old Mum. I bet you were shitting ya self.”

“Hardly. But I think I did manage to get on her bad side.”

“That’s strange for her to ring so late, though. I mean, she normally goes to bed at around eight-thirty, nine, doesn’t she?”

Ray nodded. Then he grinned. “Maybe she found little Rebecca?”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Kim said, finishing off her beer.

“Wouldn’t matter, anyway. She’d be nothing but bones now. She’s had sixteen years of rotting away.”

“True. Still, can you imagine if your mum did ever find the remains? God, what were we thinking when we buried her in your parent’s backyard?”

“We were young. And scared. We’d just had a baby and didn’t think we could look after it. And besides, it’s not every day you kill your own daughter.”

“No, it’s every sixteen years,” Kim said, with a chuckle.

Ray smiled. “So did she realise what was happening?”

“Sure. I mean, she had to have been wondering why I was driving her out to the middle of nowhere. And then when I tied her up. She sort of figured it out then.”

“About who we were?”

“No. That I was going to kill her. I had to tell her about what we did all those years ago, and who she was.”

“How’d she take it?”

“As expected. Badly. Anyway, at least she found out why we didn’t have her birth certificate and photos of her in hospital.”

“I guess we shouldn’t have burned those things after we killed our daughter,” Ray said. “But sixteen years,” he mused. “Wow, it doesn’t seem that long ago. You know what? It sounds silly, but I’m going to miss her. She was a good Rebecca. Fooled everybody, including my mum. Pity she had to start asking questions. At least we got to her before she rang the hospital.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life.” Kim noticed the sheet of paper sitting on the table. She reached over and picked it up. “What’s this?”

“Oh, that’s my list. I made it when I was deciding who to kill. It was kinda fun, actually. Made Jerry’s head spin, though. Couldn’t believe I was deciding the fate of my family on a list.”

Kim smiled. “Well it’s good to see I won. You really do love me.”

Ray grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her tight. “You bet I do.”

NOTES:

This was my contribution to the ill-fated Family Plots anthology. For people who aren’t aware, the basic story: Wild Roses was a small press that started up in Australia, back around 2002. They started off well, first releasing Rage by Steve Gerlach, then my debut novel, The Last Motel. They were set to release other titles, including The Wicked by James Newman, and Family Plots (which was to be a huge anthology, consisting of just about every horror writer going around at the time), but these were never released by Wild Roses. Even though the demise of Wild Roses left a bad taste in the mouths of many authors and readers, I am glad this story is finally seeing the light of day.

THE NEW RELIGION

In the cavernous chapel, thick with the smell of blood and burning oil, Reverend Fred Barnett, in a black felt hat and long black jacket, had already begun his sermon. The light from the gas lamps adorning the brick walls flickered over the congregation. As Nathan moved over the cobblestones that had only been laid last week — this church, like many around the country, was still being remodelled — some of the converts stirred at the sound of his footsteps.

He knelt beside his best friend Joe in the back pew and they exchanged a nervous greeting.

“Late again,” mouthed Joe.

This was the fifth time in a row Nathan had been late. He was lucky the door hadn’t been locked, as was the norm after mass started. And he didn’t want to miss tonight’s mass — it was sacrifice night, to commemorate the death of Annie Chapman.

Nathan shrugged, bowed his head and listened to the reverend’s oration.

“…hundred years since our Lord graced this earth, two hundred years since the beginning of the new-world and in this bicentennial we pay tribute to the first and greatest of them all — His mystery, His fame, His legend — and pay homage to all who have followed in His footsteps. We honour the five apostles: Peter, Ted, Peter, Kenneth & Angelo and praise holy Not-Virgin Mary, for she sacrificed the most to the Lord. In the year two-hundred AR, at the dawn of the third century, we are fortunate enough to be closer to the truth than ever before; soon our true messiah will be named. Let us pray…”

Nathan took the bible from the back of the pew in front of him, ran a hand over the ominous visage of their cloaked god on the cover and watched Joe hesitate, a sheen of fear flash across his face before he picked up the small tome. Joe’s parents still believed in the old religion, a world that was rapidly dying, and Nathan understood the guilt Joe felt every time he stepped inside the White Chapel.

Clasping the holy knife he wore around his neck, Nathan glanced up at the walls; flanked by movie posters (everything from The Lodger to From Hell part 3) and artists renditions of the Lord and his five divine feats were the smiling effigies of Peter Kürten, Ted Bundy (Nathan’s favourite apostle), Peter Sutcliffe, Kenneth Bianchi & Angelo Buono; emblems of the new religion, a new passion that was sweeping the world They were much cooler, in Nathan’s thirteen-year-old opinion, than the chipped and desecrated statue of the old-world god strung up on a cross, now locked away in the storage room waiting to be taken to the wreckers. As one newspaper proclaimed of their new Lord: he is now bigger than Jesus.

“Turn to chapter nine, verse twenty-five, line seven,” the reverend ordered.

And Nathan, along with the congregation, intoned: “I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping…”

NOTES:

I’m a ‘Ripperologist’ — one of those sick puppies who have an unnatural fascination with the crimes of Jack the Ripper. So when Cat from The Red Light District website had, as her inaugural flash fiction contest, a Jack the Ripper theme, I had to jump in and write something. This story won third place.

And for the record, of all the suspects that have been named, I lean towards the mad butcher Joseph Levy (though ultimately I believe it was a local nobody of the ‘disorganised’ variety of serial killers).

For anyone with an interest in the Ripper case, please check out my Jack the Ripper site, Saucy Jacky: http://saucyjacky.wordpress.com/

THE GENIUS OF A SICK MIND

Simon slipped the key in the front door. It was his fourth attempt. “There! Finally got it.”

Sherry chuckled behind him. “About time, darling.”

Simon pushed the door open and stepped inside. The house was in total darkness, so he slammed his hand to the left of the doorway and ran it clumsily along the wall until he found the light switch. He flicked it and the hallway lit up.

Sherry slipped past him, and Simon watched her arse as she walked down the hallway. The slim, tight blue dress hugged her round behind perfectly.

Feeling himself begin to go hard, Simon broke his gaze and slammed the door shut. He wandered down the hall and stumbled into the bedroom, where Sherry was sitting on the bed, taking off her shoes.

Simon smiled and threw the keys onto the mattress. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Make sure you’re naked when I return.”

Sherry giggled as she flung the second shoe to the ground. “What makes you think you’re getting any, mister?”

“Two reasons. One, we’re both drunk. And two, I don’t know about you, but I’m horny.”

Sherry laughed. “Where’re you going?” she said.

“To take a leak. Where else?” Simon turned and left the bedroom. He walked slowly down the hall and headed for the bathroom. His bladder was full of bourbon. He had lost count how many he’d downed after the fifth drink.

Great restaurant, though, he thought.

And it had also been a great surprise. Sherry had met him at his work and had taken him to a new restaurant, an Indian place not too far from the city, where they ate divinely, and, of course, had a little too much to drink. He had initially been worried that he’d forgotten their wedding anniversary, or perhaps Sherry’s birthday. But she had smiled and reassured him it was simply because she wanted to. Simon had left it at that.

Simon switched on the bathroom light. The bright glare hurt his eyes. He squinted and soon got used to the harsh glow. Simon staggered over to the toilet and lifted the lid. He urinated forever, flushed the toilet, then turned to his left and headed into the small laundry room. He flipped on the switch and staggered over to the deep stainless steel basin.

“Fuck!” he screamed.

He stumbled back and fell over his legs. Simon crashed to the hard floor, knocking his head on the tiles with a dull thud. A sharp explosion shot through his skull and he saw flashes of bright light dance before his eyes.

Sherry came dashing in, wearing only her bra and panties. “Simon, what happened?”

She hurried over and helped Simon to his feet. Still dazed and clutching the back of his head, Simon gingerly pointed to the washbasin.

“Are you okay? Let’s go on out to the lounge and sit down on the couch.”

But as soon as Sherry let go of Simon’s hand, his legs buckled and he fell on his behind. Sherry gasped and struggled to get him back on his feet. “I’m sorry, darling. I thought you could stand by yourself.”

She finally managed to get Simon to his feet. This time, with her right arm around his waist and her left hand holding onto Simon’s, she walked him into the lounge room and over to the leather couch. She carefully sat him down.

“How are you feeling?”

He moaned.

Sherry straightened up. Simon didn’t collapse into a heap on the floor — he stayed sitting up, his hand resting at the back of his head.

“It better have not been a damn spider,” Sherry mumbled, grinning slightly. Leaving Simon, Sherry hurried into the laundry room and over to the basin. She stepped up to the sink and peered down. What she saw was a severed head. It was staring right up at Sherry, its eyes partially open. It had longish hair and its mouth was locked in a grotesque gape, as if about to speak.

Sherry backed out of the laundry, out of the bathroom. It was only when she was out in the hallway that she screamed. She turned and ran into the lounge. Simon was trying to stand up. “Simon! Oh my God, Simon! There’s a fucking head in our sink!”

Simon nodded slightly as he finally managed to stand upright all by himself.

“So I noticed,” he sighed. Simon shook his head and craned his neck. “Damn that hurt.”

“We have to call the police,” Sherry said quickly. She hurried over to the phone and stopped. Stuck on the handle was a small piece of paper. “Simon, there’s a note.”

Simon staggered over to Sherry. “Well, read it.”

She bent down and lifted the note off the phone. It was folded in half. She opened the note and read it out loud.

“Like your present? Ha Ha. Oh, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, look in your laundry sink…Done it?

Now, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to meet you, but I had other things to do. You understand.

I’ll make this short and sweet. Go into the kitchen and open the fridge. There you’ll find another present. One I think you’ll like more than the other one. And don’t think about calling the cops…I’ve cut the phone line and I know where you live, remember!!!

That’s all for now. See you in the kitchen.

Ciao.

P.S. don’t put any clothes on, darling. I like you just the way you are…”

Sherry looked up at Simon, tears in her eyes. “Oh my God. How did he know I wasn’t going to be wearing any clothes?”

Simon was bewildered. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on. Think we should call the cops?”

Sherry shook her head. “No. I mean, he warned us not to. Besides, if he knows I’m not wearing any clothes…” Sherry threw down the note and picked up the phone receiver. She placed it to her ear and heard nothing. No static; just dead air. “He’s cut the phone.”

“Shit!” Simon spat. “What are we going to do?”

“Go into the kitchen,” Sherry said.

They both hurried down the hall and entered the dark kitchen. Sherry turned on the lights and they both scanned the room. There was no sign of any intruders.

“How did he get in?” Simon whispered.

Sherry shook her head. She began walking towards the fridge.

“No, hey!” Simon called. “I’ll look.”

Sherry turned around. “And bang your head again? You stay there.” She approached the large fridge. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the handle.

“Be careful, darling,” Simon said, his voice quivering.

Grinding her teeth together, Sherry flung open the door. Resting on the top shelf was a large, bloody machete.

“What is it?”

“It’s a machete,” Sherry said.

Simon hurried over and peered inside. He reached in and took the large machete out. The blade was grimy with both wet and dry blood and there was another note attached to its handle.

Sherry grabbed the note off the machete. She opened it and, again, read it aloud.

“It’s me again. You get the idea how this works. This was the weapon used to kill the poor person.

Now, my love, take off your bra and go into your bedroom. Look in the closet.

If you both don’t do what I say, well, you don’t wanna know. Believe me.

Ciao.”

Sherry scrunched up the note and threw it down to the kitchen floor. “I don’t believe this. I’m not going to take off my goddamn bra for some sick weirdo.”

Simon was still holding the machete. “I think you’d better,” he said. “Who knows what kind of psycho we’re dealing with.”

“He’s not watching,” Sherry said.

“How do we know?” Simon asked.

Sherry looked at him hard, as if this were all his fault. She quickly unfastened the bra and let it fall to the ground.

Simon gazed at the perfect curves of her small breasts. Her nipples were hard and they were covered in goose bumps. His penis began to stiffen.

“Oh God,” Sherry groaned. “You’re sick.”

Simon’s face went hot, and he could tell he was blushing. He shrugged. “Sorry,” he said.

“Come on,” Sherry said sharply. “What are you going to do with that?” She nodded towards the machete.

“Take it with us. You never know,” he said.

Sherry turned around and hurried out of the kitchen, Simon following close behind. They arrived at their bedroom, and Sherry went over to the closet.

“Wait!” Simon said. “This time I’ll look. I’m the one with the machete. Okay?”

Sherry nodded. Simon strode up to the closet and took a hold of the knob. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered.

“Just hurry up and do it,” Sherry told him.

Holding the machete firmly in his left hand, Simon flung the closet door open. He was ready to strike, but frowned and lowered the machete when he saw nothing in there. “Can’t see anything,” Simon said.

Sherry joined Simon and studied the dim closet. She squatted down and saw blood on the carpet. “Simon! There’s blood.”

“What?” Simon crouched down and saw a small pool of blood seeping into the carpet.

They both flinched when a drop of blood fell from the bunch of clothes and landed on the floor.

They both stood up. Before Sherry had a chance to do it, Simon flung the hanging clothes to the side and gasped.

When Sherry saw the headless body hanging by a thick hook, she jumped back and began crying.

Simon stepped closer and studied the corpse. He guessed the head in the sink belonged to this body. It was a woman, and judging by the flat stomach and long slender legs, she used to be young, perhaps around the same age as Sherry. Blood sheathed the lifeless body like a can of paint had been poured over it.

“Is there a note?” Sherry asked from behind.

“Jesus, do I have to look?”

Sherry huffed. “Fuck! I’ll do…”

“No,” Simon said. “You wait there.” There wasn’t much of a stink, so the body couldn’t have been dead for long. Still, Simon held his breath and stepped into the closet. He wrapped his arm around the body and searched for the note. The skin felt icy cold and sticky from blood. He could feel himself wanting to gag, but he swallowed and continued the grotesque hunt. “I can’t feel anything,” he called back. “Maybe it’s…” He stopped. He closed his eyes and tried hard not to puke.

“What? What is it? You find the note?”

Simon nodded slowly. “Sure did. It’s up her…bottom.”

Sherry couldn’t help but snigger when Simon said that word. It sounded strange for a gown man to call it a bottom.

“You wanna take the note?” Simon barked.

“No, no, I’m sorry, Simon.”

Simon took a deep breath and gripped the note with the tip of his fingers. He pulled it out with care, he wasn’t sure why, and let his breath out when he had fished it from between her cheeks. He jumped back from the body and threw the note down. It fluttered to the floor. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Simon panted.

Sherry bent down and picked up the note.

“Don’t touch…” Simon began.

Sherry straightened up and looked at him. “We have to, Simon.” She unfolded the bloodstained note.

“Greetings and salutations! If you are reading this it means you have found the lovely lass. And yes, to answer your question, her head is currently sitting in your laundry sink. Now, take off your panties, dear.

And sir, can you please…”

Sherry stopped reading and looked up. Simon’s mouth was gaping, and he was panting hard. “What is it?”

Without uttering a word, Sherry continued to read.

“…can you please close your mouth. You look like a goddamn fish.”

“It doesn’t say that. Give me the note.” He snatched the note off Sherry and scanned down the page. His face drained of colour. “This isn’t right. How can he know that!”

“I don’t know,” Sherry muttered. She started to take off her silk panties.

“What are you doing?”

“Have to do what he says.” She tossed them onto the bed.

Simon gazed at her nakedness. “Why? Why the fuck do we have to play his fucking game?”

“Do I need to answer that for you?” Sherry said. “I’m not sure what kind of freaky nut we’re dealing with, but I’m sure as hell not going to take any chances. We might just get out of this alive if we obey what the note says.”

Simon didn’t know what to say. He simply held up the note and continued to read.

“Good. Now, both of you go back into the lounge. Behind the T.V. is another surprise. I know it’s hard, sir, but don’t fuck her just yet.

But she does look good, doesn’t she?

Remember, don’t call the cops. Or else I’ll gut you both.

P.S. I want sir to read the next note.

Ciao.”

Simon threw the paper down. “What do we do?”

Sherry shrugged. “Let’s fuck. He might enjoy it.”

Simon blinked. “What? Are you kidding? You wanna have sex?”

Sherry strolled up to Simon and draped her arms around him. Her breath still smelled faintly of sweet bourbon. “So do you want to?”

Simon could sense the body strung up behind him in the closet. But, despite that and what was happening, he still felt a stir of arousal. Sherry looked and smelled so damn good.

He cupped his hands on her buttocks and squeezed. “Let’s do it,” he said, not really believing he had just said that.

“You would want to,” she sighed. “You sick pervert.”

She pushed him with a generous amount of force.

He almost toppled over into the closet. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” he said.

She was heading out the bedroom door. She turned around and said, “I was just testing you. I wanted to see what you’d do. I guessed right.” She shook her head and marched out the door.

“Hey!” Simon called. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He jogged out the bedroom, muttering, “Shit.”

He joined Sherry and grabbed her and spun her around. “I’m really sorry, Sherry. It’s just, all this shit. It all seems so surreal. I lost my head.”

Sherry gave him a scowl. “Fine. Let’s just get into the lounge and see what the sick fuck wants next, okay?”

Simon nodded and let go. He felt rotten.

They headed into the lounge without speaking. Sherry was already at the television set by the time Simon entered the lounge. He saw Sherry bending over the set, searching for whatever grotesque object was hidden there.

He couldn’t help but stare at her. The way she was bent over, her smooth round buttocks…

“Holy shit,” Sherry gasped and straightened up.

Simon managed to avert his eyes just as Sherry turned around. He couldn’t imagine what she would’ve done if she’d caught him.

But what she might’ve done completely left his brain the moment he saw the large handgun Sherry was holding. “He gave us a gun?” Simon said. He just about laughed.

“And a fucking big one at that. I don’t know much about guns, but this one looks pretty damn powerful to me.”

Simon stepped forward. “Here, let me have a look at it.”

Sherry threw a piece of paper at him. It bounced off his chest and landed on the floor. “You’d better read that first.”

Nodding, Simon snatched the note off the floor and opened it. This note was typed, just like the rest of them. Simon began;

“I cannot keep this lie going any longer. If Sherry ever found out about her and I, it would break her heart. I love Sherry but I cannot do this to her any more. I hate myself and what I have become. Please let the Lord forgive me.

I bid the world farewell…

Simon Gerty.”

He looked up at Sherry. “What’s this?” he whispered.

“Your suicide note,” Sherry said with little emotion.

Simon found he couldn’t swallow. Tears fell from his widened eyes. Sherry stepped up to him, a ghastly grin on her usually exquisite face.

“You think I didn’t know about her,” Sherry told him. “I’ve followed you two around for months. Watched you two kiss, hold hands…hell, I even watched you two fuck behind that bush in the park last week. That really pissed me off. That’s when I got the idea.”

The sudden urge to urinate overwhelmed Simon again. He tried desperately to control his bladder, but the need was too strong.

“Oh my God,” Sherry said when she noticed the spreading wet patch on Simon’s pants. She shook her head and smirked.

Soon hot urine dribbled down his legs and onto the carpet. Simon wanted to move his hands, to try and fight with her. But his arms wouldn’t comply with his brain. Instead, he whimpered.

“I hoped you wouldn’t recognise her face,” Sherry continued. “But I really messed her face good, so I didn’t think there was any chance of that. Same with her body…Lord knows you got to know that well.”

“W…why?” he breathed. He wanted to say more, but didn’t have the air in his lungs.

Still, she knew what he had meant.

“I just wanted to have fun. Play a game with you. Some might call it sick. I call it genius. I can’t believe you fell for the notes. I mean, who the fuck would know what I was going to wear before I was going to do it?” She chuckled. “Me! That’s who.”

Sherry looked him deep in the eyes. “Plus I wanted you to see just what sort of woman you cheated on. Tease you with my body, which you so willingly gave up, all for that…that whore. And the best part is, it looks like it was all you. Your fingerprints and yours only are on the murder weapon. Your fingerprints are all over the dead woman’s body. And your fingerprints are all over the suicide note.”

In a flash of movement so sudden that Simon didn’t see before it was too late, Sherry stuffed the barrel into his mouth.

“Not to mention you have reason to kill yourself.” She then blew his brains out through his head.

As the machete fell to the floor and Simon was sent flying backwards, Sherry laughed. “Didn’t I tell you to close your fucking mouth?”

She watched as Simon crashed to the lounge room floor, then hurried into the bedroom. She had to act quickly.

The first thing she did was to slip on the black gloves she had hidden inside the bedside drawer. Then she had the freedom to get dressed and gather up her bag. She picked up the rumpled note and stuffed it into her bag. Then she closed the closet door, grinning as she did, and dashed out of the room. Running through the kitchen, Sherry stopped to collect the second note, then hurried into the lounge.

She rubbed the gun thoroughly before wrapping Simon’s right hand around the handle then placed it where she guessed the gun would’ve dropped if Simon had been holding it. The last thing she did was place the suicide note on the coffee table. She wandered over to Simon and crouched down.

“Rot in hell, you pervert.”

She stood up, took off the gloves and shoved them into her bag, along with the first note. She threw the bag to the couch then rushed to the phone.

She plugged the cord back into the socket, then picked up the receiver and called the police.

NOTES:

My first ever published story.

This first appeared on the Horrorfind website, back in 2000. I had just started writing, this was about my third or fourth attempt at a short story. I knew about the site from the various message boards that were around at the time (the old Masters of Terror, I think, and others I can’t remember the names of now and are probably long gone or morphed into some other site). I had heard of the name Brian Keene, the fiction editor at the time (this was before he was the Brian Keene). I decided to submit the story, see what happens. To my great surprise, I got the email back from Brian saying how much he loved the story, that it reminded him a lot of the great Richard Laymon. I was stoked; more than stoked. I was delirious. To not only get an acceptance of a story I had written, but then to be told it reminded the editor of my all-time favourite writer (and whose writing was a big influence in this story, as well as my writing in general)! Boy, that was a great day! Pity we haven’t heard from Brian since…

HEARING THE OCEAN IN A SEASHELL

(Your weakness will be your downfall…)

“Back late.”

Jackson nodded to the night watchman behind the desk — an elderly yet still strong looking black man — then headed towards the elevator.

“Been awfully quiet tonight,” the old man said, now smiling. “How about you — have a good night?”

Jackson didn’t answer as he hurried past. He heard the night watchman mutter “Asshole,” but Jackson didn’t care.

He arrived at the elevator (commonly referred to as ‘the deathtrap’ by the tenants), hit the ‘up’ button and waited.

When Jackson heard the rustle of a newspaper and then the watchman sigh, he figured either the old man was saying, Well fuck you, or he was so apathetic towards his work he just didn’t care what was going on in the building.

Still, Jackson glanced over his shoulder and wondered if the night watchman suspected anything.

Why would he? He’s an old man who sits on his ass all night.

Jackson squinted, trying to read the headlines splashed across the front of the newspaper, but he couldn’t quite read them from where he was standing.

The elevator chimed, signalling its arrival. Jackson turned around and stepped inside. The compartment was bathed in a light the colour of pale urine and the stale vomit and cigarette smell never failed to sicken him.

(I can’t believe you. You sicken me. I thought I knew you, but I guess I was wrong…)

He jabbed the number 6 button with his index finger, saw the old man tip one corner of the newspaper and eye him, then the elevator doors closed.

Thank God I’ve got a better life than that.

When the elevator jolted to life and started its rickety ascent to the top floor, Jackson took a long, relaxing breath then leaned back against the grubby brown panelled walls of the elevator. He was safe.

Nobody had followed him.

Unless there are a group of policeman waiting for me in my apartment.

He thought it hardly likely; after all, the old man had said it had been a quiet night. But what if he had been lying? What if he had been covering for the rotten pigs?

What is the correct term for a group of cops? he wondered. A gaggle? A herd? A flock?

Jackson was mulling it over, when the elevator stopped at the first floor.

The doors opened.

Jackson waited.

When nobody entered, he straightened, walked to the open doors and looked out. There wasn’t a soul around.

“Damn eleva…” He stopped when he spotted the baby.

It was sitting with its legs crossed and was gazing right at him. Jackson smiled. The baby didn’t smile back. “Hey there, fella. What are you doing out here?”

The baby — he couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a boy — didn’t make a sound. It didn’t laugh or cry or gurgle. Just sat there in the middle of the hallway, rocking back and forth. Staring. Looking sad.

The doors began to close.

Jackson stepped back and let them shut.

Where are the parents?

He leaned back against the wall and shrugged. It was none of his business. Maybe the kid belonged to a hooker and she didn’t want to take it in with her while she conducted business. Couldn’t find a babysitter, so she had to bring it to work.

Whatever the reason, Jackson didn’t care. What did play on his mind was how miserable the baby seemed. But did babies get miserable? Could they have those complex emotions at such a young age?

Jackson wondered what would become of the kid when it grew older.

I can’t worry about such things. I have my own problems.

He knew it was silly — he didn’t even do anything tonight — yet he couldn’t quite shake the feeling something wasn’t right. Was Gloria telling him something? Was she telling him not to go up to his room because there were a gaggle of cops waiting?

What are you trying to tell me, Gloria?

* * *

He was born in the tiny Midwestern hamlet of Belford. He was the second child, his brother Michael was born three years prior, and according to his mom, his had been an especially easy birth.

They lived in a two-storey house just outside the township. His parent’s owned and ran the local pet store — Sean and Deb’s Friendly Pet Store — where his earliest memory was sitting in the back of the store petting a tiny white kitten, his mum smiling and maybe even crying a little.

The thing he remembered most from his early years was lots of laughter. Everyone in his home seemed happy, even his older brother, and everything was good.

* * *

The elevator stopped at the third floor.

Jackson sighed. The ride up to the sixth floor was slow enough in the building’s relic of an elevator without it stopping all the time.

It was usually dead this time of night. That’s why he liked using it so late — there was no one around to see him. Apart from the night watchman.

The doors opened and the invisible man walked in.

It was either that, or the elevator was playing up.

He moved towards the open doors. Saw some kids laughing and playing down one end of the hallway.

“You damn kids,” he called out. “You been messing with the elevator?”

They ignored him and kept on playing.

“Hey! I’m talking to you kids!”

Little shits, Jackson thought.

(You’re a lying shit. I trusted you. Loved you. Wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. And now this. This is what you are? I can’t believe I was so stupid…)

The kids remained in the shadowy confines of the hallway, and as Jackson continued watching, he soon realized that the kids weren’t playing at all — well at least not tag or hide-and-seek. There was one kid, smaller than the others, who was standing by the wall that wasn’t laughing. He had his head down while the other kids poked and made fun of him.

Heartless little fucks.

Jackson now heard what they were chanting: “Son of a whore, son of a whore.”

“Stop teasing him, you brats!” he yelled. “Go home and stop playing around with the elevator!”

They ignored him, didn’t even look in his direction.

What am I a friggin’ ghost?

“Son of a whore,” they continued, giggling and poking the helpless kid.

The doors started to close, and as much as Jackson wanted to go out and stop the teasing, he remained in his transient cocoon.

It’s none of my business anyway, he thought, even though it incensed him seeing that kind of cruelty.

Where the hell are all the parents tonight? Are they in one room having an orgy or something?

He thought it was supposed to be a quiet night. Well, according to the night watchman — who may or may not have been lying about that, and who may or may not know about his secret life.

Jackson was growing nervous. He was certain Gloria was trying to tell him something, and he was certain it had something to do with him being caught.

Should I go back down to the lobby? What would happen if I did? There might be cops waiting for me there as well. That damn night watchman probably called up to the cops in my apartment and told them that I arrived back and now there are more waiting for me downstairs in case I try and run.

The more he thought about it the more he was positive he had been caught. Somehow, the cops had traced it all to him.

I didn’t do anything tonight. How could they have found me? All I did was walk around. They can’t arrest me for that.

* * *

Some of his fondest memories were the years he attended Belford Elementary. He was already good friends with most of the kids in Belford, so to him, going to school was just like being on summer vacation, aside from the schoolwork of course, but he didn’t find that a problem. In fact he used to help out kids that weren’t quite as bright as he was. He made even more friends that way, girls included. Because in those magical years before the hazards of adolescence took over, girls weren’t the scary, alien beings they were to become. It was a great time, where the mere smell of a girl didn’t send him wild with hormones, but simply meant another person to play ball with, another friend to eat ice-cream with and ride around town. He was one of the most popular kids in Belford Elementary, and everything was good.

* * *

He was deciding whether or not to press the button for the fourth floor and change his direction down to the lobby when the elevator stopped at four anyway.

Jackson stepped back.

The doors opened. There wasn’t a herd of cops waiting for him.

There wasn’t anybody around that Jackson could see.

(I won’t be around anymore. This is the last time you’ll ever see me. But there’s something I have to tell you before I leave. Something you won’t want to hear…)

Jackson relaxed a little and planted his foot in the doorway.

He had to make a choice: keep going up to his apartment, or press the down button? If there were cops waiting for him in the lobby, he could at least try and make a run for it. If he could make it out to the street he might have a chance of losing them.

I’m just being paranoid. There are no cops waiting for me. They haven’t got anything on me. They haven’t got any clues…

But he hadn’t read the papers today so he couldn’t be totally sure about that.

He contemplated taking the stairs down, that way he could sneak a look at the lobby and see if there were in fact a flock of cops waiting for him.

But the stairwell smells even worse than the elevator.

After some deliberation Jackson took his foot away and decided to ride the elevator all the way to the top.

But the doors didn’t close. Even when he slammed his hand against the ‘close’ button. Repeatedly.

“Come on,” he growled. “What’s wrong with it?”

Again he got the sense Gloria was trying to tell him something important.

Other than we have ghosts in the building?

He spotted the emergency phone on the wall and considered calling the night watchman and telling him the elevator was acting up because of an electrical fault, the kids on three, or the place was haunted.

Or Gloria is sending me a message.

Jackson didn’t hear the door open. It was only when he heard the cries that he looked out at the hallway and saw two men running towards him. His first thought was that there was a fire, although he couldn’t see any smoke.

“Is everything okay?” Jackson called.

The older of the two suddenly grabbed the younger one by the throat and dragged him backwards.

Shit! There was no emergency other than his sudden need to get the hell out of here.

Come on, he thought as he pressed the ‘close’ button over and over again.

He didn’t want to bear witness to whatever was going on between the two men, yet as he waited for the doors to close, he watched as the older man threw the younger one to the ground and tore off his pants. When the older man started taking off his own pants, Jackson knew with a sinking feeling what was going to happen.

Doesn’t he see me standing here? What the hell is he thinking? At least I do it where no one else can see.

The boy — even though Jackson couldn’t see the young man’s face clearly, other than how pale it was in contrast to the black shadows, he was certain the guy was no older than twenty — began crying and begging. “No, please, don’t. Please Uncle, don’t.”

Jackson’s stomach lurched. His throat went dry.

Had he heard right? Did that boy just call the man uncle?

Oh Jesus.

Jackson slammed his fist on the ‘close’ button.

Close! Come on close!

He didn’t want to watch. If the younger person had been a girl, then that would’ve been okay. But not this. Anything but this…

The older man was on his knees now, most of his face shrouded in shadow, only his depraved grin visible, his pants bunched around his ankles, body thrusting with each act of violation.

The boy continued to cry. “No! Uncle, no! It hurts!”

Jackson was crying as well.

What’s happening? Gloria? Where are you? What’s going on, Gloria?

The cries of the young man seared into Jackson’s brain. He wanted so much for them to go away.

(I’ve found out about you. Yes, that’s right. I’ve found out about your past…)

He had already blocked out the vision, but there was no stopping the awful sounds, even with his hands over his ears.

He gasped at the jolt. When he felt the rise of the elevator, he opened his eyes and took his hands away from his ears. He wiped away the tears, looked to the ceiling and let out a shaky breath.

Something weird was going on tonight. First the baby, then the children, and now the uncle and his nephew. It was all so horrible.

And familiar.

That’s what scared him the most.

He knew he should pick up the emergency phone and call the night watchman. Tell him about everything he had seen tonight.

But he couldn’t move his arm to the red phone on the wall.

I’ll call when I’m safe in my room, he decided. When I’ve got a few glasses of scotch in me.

He would be in his room soon enough.

Unless…

The carriage rattled to a stop at five.

No! Not again! Why?

He remained pressed up against the back wall, wondering what horrors awaited him outside.

What have the ghosts got in store for me? he wondered. Gloria? Do you know?

* * *

Unlike a lot of the other teenagers, he didn’t want to leave Belford and move to a bigger, more exciting city. He was content living at home. Michael had moved to New York City in the hope of joining a band and becoming famous — he played the drums — and even though his brother often sent him postcards begging him to come to the Big Apple, he just didn’t want to leave his parents and Belford and the friends that remained.

Even his favorite Uncle, his dad’s brother Walter, had come to stay. He took over Michael’s room and was a loving, funny, generous man who often drove out of town on business and would come back with gifts like new sneakers or a bunch of comic books.

He loved living in Belford. He would even help out at the pet store to earn some money, which helped fund his dates with some of the best-looking girls in town. So even though New York did sound exciting, he couldn’t leave Belford behind. There was no need to leave, no reason he could see, anyway. Everything was good.

* * *

The doors opened. There was a man. Jackson couldn’t tell exactly how old he was but the man was sitting in a chair with his back towards the elevator, a little way up the hall, where not much light shone onto his still form. He had short dark hair that was closely cropped, that much Jackson could see, and appeared to be doing nothing much at all.

Still, he made Jackson uneasy.

What the hell is he doing?

Jackson swallowed. “Ah, excuse me sir. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

The man didn’t answer.

Jackson wasn’t surprised. He had been ignored by everyone else tonight, so why should this man be any different?

Jackson tried again. “Did you press the elevator button? Who are you? Why are you just sitting there?”

The man responded with a strike of a match.

Jackson moved away from the wall and crept up to the open doors. He watched as the man held the match up to his face.

He’s just lighting a cigarette, Jackson thought with some relief.

Jackson waited for the man to light up the cigarette. When the match burned out, the man struck up another then continued to sit staring at the small flame.

(I know it all. Everything, your entire life has been one big lie. And I know it all…)

Jackson grew anxious. “Get me out of here,” he muttered.

The man threw down another charred match and lit a new one.

“Get me the fuck out of here, Gloria.”

But the doors remained open.

The elevator was playing with him, teasing him, just like the kids had been teasing the poor kid down on three.

“I want out of here.”

He didn’t understand what was happening, what Gloria was trying to tell him, but he did know that the building was supposed to be quiet tonight.

What do they want from me? Who are they? What are they?

Jackson was shaking now. He hadn’t felt the need to fulfill his fantasies tonight, which was why he had only wandered about, but he knew tomorrow he would have to go out and find a willing participant and show her that there were in fact guardian angels in the world and they controlled everyone’s lives.

“Gloria,” Jackson cried, and still the man didn’t turn around.

The elevator seemed to grow darker and smaller. He wanted to escape and leave the damned elevator behind, but he was too afraid of running past the man and seeing his face. He was scared of what he might see.

Of who the man might be.

I’m going nuts. That’s it, isn’t it, Gloria? I’m going crazy.

(I thought you were just a bastard, just a lying, disgusting man. But now I know it’s more than that. It’s worse. A lot worse. The funny thing is, a small part of me wonders if you’re entirely to blame. That you didn’t have the full say in how your life turned out. Maybe, just maybe, you really are crazy…)

The elevator doors closed.

About time, he thought, and was glad when the figure of the man in the chair was wiped away.

Jackson wasn’t well. Aside from the shakes he was sweating cold torrents.

He desperately needed a drink.

It was the longest elevator ride Jackson had ever experienced. He vowed he would never use the elevator again. After tonight he would only use the stairwell, even if it was dark and repugnant and full of dope-fiends. Even the nights when he fulfilled his needs, he would take the stairs; regardless of how much effort it took.

The elevator stopped at his floor.

* * *

He eventually moved out when he was eighteen, but it wasn’t because he was sick of Belford or his parents. No, he still loved them, including Uncle Walter. He just felt it was time to see the world, to make something of himself. He took a train to New York to visit Michael. It was supposed to be just a short visit, drop in and say hi, experience all New York had to offer and paint the town red, as they say, but he wound up loving the city and decided to stay. At first he stayed with his brother, but Michael soon fell in love with this black lounge singer, so he had to find his own place, which he did; a small two room apartment in Queens. He got a job at a meatpacking plant while he sorted out just what he wanted to do with his life.

It wasn’t a great job, the pay was just okay, but he met some really great guys there and went out every night drinking and having a swell time. He now understood the allure of the great city, understood why his brother had wanted him to come and stay, and he fell in love with the Big Apple, then fell in love with a stunning brunette a year later.

Life was great.

* * *

With a final jolt, the carriage settled into place and the doors eased open.

Piece of shit elevator, he thought, but was relieved he had made it to the top floor.

He would tell the super tomorrow that it probably needed a good looking-over.

But for now, he just wanted to get into his apartment and…

Jackson let out a high-pitched whine when he saw them.

No no no no no no…

He froze inside the elevator and stared in incredulous horror at the sight that was presented before him.

Jackson had seen plenty of murder in his time, yet seeing the carnage that lay sprawled on the dirty orange and brown carpet made him feel ill.

It was unreal, like he was watching a movie — the woman on the ground, the man kneeling over her, cutting into her lifeless body.

The feeling of déjà vu was strong, as was the nausea and confusion.

Help me, Gloria. Please help me!

The killer stood up, turned and walked out of the shadows, towards Jackson.

“Leave me alone,” Jackson cried. He rushed over to the panel and hit the ‘down’ button.

Nothing happened.

He grabbed the red emergency phone and placed it to his ear.

Static rang loud. The receiver crashed to the wall as it dropped from Jackson’s grasp.

The killer continued forward.

“What do you want?” Jackson yelled. “Get away from me. I won’t tell. How can I? I’m the same as you.”

The killer stopped when he reached the elevator. Gazed in at Jackson.

Jackson gazed out at the killer. And saw…

(Who are you really? I don’t know. And I don’t think you do, either. You have two worlds, two realities. And now, as I’m standing here, I don’t know whether to pity you or hate you…)

He screamed.

An enormous grinding roar shocked Jackson silent. The elevator began to quake. Jackson backed into a corner and crouched down. Tears flowed from his eyes.

It can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be…

He had to have imagined it — it simply wasn’t possible.

As the elevator continued to shake like some ride at a fun fair, Jackson came to the conclusion that what he had just seen was an illusion. Perhaps he had invented the whole thing — there was no body on the ground, no killer coming to get him.

Just my mind playing tricks, that’s all.

But what wasn’t an illusion was the elevator. It was having a major fit and Jackson knew he had to get the hell off of it before he got seriously injured.

Jackson wiped his eyes and stood up. He almost slipped, but managed to hold his footing.

There’s nothing out there, he thought. There’s no killer, no body; it’s just my imagination.

He readied himself, opened his eyes and looked out.

He gasped.

She was standing there, looking right at him. All alone. There were no knife wounds, no blood on her. She looked as beautiful as ever — soft, white skin, flowing raven hair. And those eyes…angelic, knowing eyes.

“Gloria,” Jackson muttered.

He hadn’t thought about her for years. Had completely pushed her out of his mind. Last time he had seen her was five years ago, yet she looked just as he remembered her. She hadn’t changed a bit.

“What are you doing here?” Jackson said.

“Your life has been a lie,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “And I’ve found out the truth, Jackson…”

The elevator was suddenly plunged into darkness. Jackson shrieked.

Sparks started raining down on him. The elevator continued to dance and there was a frightening metallic popping sound, followed by a downward shift.

Jackson hurried towards the corridor, but when he reached the open doors, he was thrown to the floor by an invisible wall that felt like gelatinous water.

It wasn’t going to let him escape.

“Help me,” he called out to Gloria.

“You were born in Belford, that much was true, but everything else you told me was bullshit. Your dad was a drunk and your mom a cold, uncaring woman. They didn’t run a pet store, but your dad did work in a funeral parlor while your mom brought home strangers passing through…”

“That’s not true,” Jackson cried. “My mom loved me…” Jackson slipped over as he attempted to stand. Gloria just stood and watched and continued talking.

“Your mom almost died giving birth to you, and she never forgave you for that. When you were a baby she used to leave you in your cot in her bedroom while she fucked the strangers. Your brother used to come home and catch her and take you away. He used to bring you into his room and shut the door and cry. Said that all you did was stare at the wall and rock back and forth. He loved you, Jackson, but he was worried about you. The only comfort you seemed to get was from a stray cat. But you killed it when you were five. Your mother found you with it, its neck broken…”

“You’re lying!”

“Your brother left home when he was sixteen, couldn’t take the abuse any longer. You never heard from him again. You remained at home with your drunken father and slut of a mother…”

“Bitch! I knew there was a reason why I left you.” Jackson again tried to stand, but was only rocketed backwards by the shuddering elevator.

“You grew into a very distant child. You had no friends at school and were teased and beaten up regularly…”

“I had a lot of friends!”

“Girls weren’t interested in you and you withdrew into yourself even more as you got older. You started setting fire to things when you were fifteen and your parents sent you to a reform school in Upstate New York…”

“No!”

“And they told you never to come back. You left the reform school when you were eighteen, and moved to New York where you did get a job in a meatpacking plant, however, you never stayed with your brother and you never had any friends…”

“For Christ’s sake help me, Gloria! Help me out of this elevator!”

“You were in and out of detention centers, even went to jail a few times. You were living a sad life of petty crime in some dump in Queens when you met me…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You had me fooled for awhile, made me fall in love with you and think you were something you weren’t. Told me a lot of bullshit stories about your bullshit life, but I found out the truth. I know the truth about your Uncle Walter, too. Why he really bought you those gifts…”

“It’s going to crash! Help me! I’ll die if you don’t help me!”

“But I didn’t think you were capable of raping someone, Jackson. Christ, look at you. I bet you won’t even remember this in a few years. I bet you wipe it all away and make up some fantasy like you always have. Well I hope you stay behind those bars and are never allowed out. Because I’d hate to think what might happen if you are released. Your weakness will be your downfall, remember that. Goodbye Jackson.”

Lying in the darkness of the elevator, sparks raining down, unable to escape, Jackson watched as Gloria began to fade. “Gloria, wait…” But she was gone.

He was left with nothing but his buried memories and a broken elevator.

There was an earsplitting snap! as the cable finally broke.

Only the night watchman was awake to witness the destruction as the elevator plummeted six-floors to its final resting-place in the lobby.

And the truth shall set you free…

* * *

He eventually got a good job in advertising and soon after he and Gloria moved in together, into an apartment in Manhattan. They lived not too far from his brother and his wife and they all went out to bars, watching his brother play in his band whenever they performed, listening to his wife sing.

It was a great life.

Only it slowly got worse. He was still in love with Gloria, yet she became more distant, coming home late and flirting with men in the bars.

He told her to leave (he was paying the rent, after all), when he found her in bed with some guy, and even though she begged him to give her a second chance, he refused and she left.

He remained in the apartment, even after the building started going to the dumps, and only had one-night stands. He didn’t want to get into a relationship again and be hurt.

Five years passed and he all but forgot about Gloria.

He fell in love with the single life, going out every night searching for women.

It was what he was meant to do. He came to realise that.

And in those quiet nights when he sat alone in his apartment and reflected on his life, he knew that when it came time to meet his maker and his journey flashed before him as they say it does right before you die, he would see a good life, one of purpose and joy and happiness.

The truth.

It was what his guardian angel had always promised.

NOTES:

One of a handful of stories set in New York City, and one of many to deal with serial killers — both topics which fascinate me to no end. My twist on the ‘seeing your life flashing before your eyes’ notion. Just a side note — this story mentions the fictional small town of Belford. Even though it rates only as a passing mention here, the town will be featured in future stories, namely the coming-of-age novel I’m working on at the moment.

A QUESTION OF BELIEF

The man was standing at the edge of the cliff, gently swaying back and forth, gazing down at the lapping sea.

At first glance the Reverend thought the man was merely enjoying the resplendent view. After all, that was why Reverend Bill Blight was up here. He was taking his regular afternoon walk along the cliffs, enjoying the marvel of the ocean.

But as he neared the man, the Reverend couldn’t help but notice his tattered clothes. They flapped and danced in the wind, shredded bits of cloth hanging on by the smallest of threads.

He knew this man wasn’t sightseeing — far from it.

The Reverend felt his heart quicken. To see an unfortunate man like this, obviously fed up with the world, filled him with sorrow. He had dealt with many discouraged souls over his forty years of ministry and he had come to discern the signs of self-destruction.

It was his duty to help this man; it was what his life’s work was all about.

The Reverend started deliberately towards the man, and as he neared, caught a whiff of a pungent stench. It smelled of fish that had gone foul, coupled with garbage that had been left out in the sun for too long. The Reverend held his breath, but tried to maintain a pleasant face. He could hear the sea breaking against the shoreline, and the gentle crowing of birds as he stepped up to the stranger.

“Hello, my son,” the Reverend said, letting his breath out. “Beautiful view, isn’t it? Such a glorious day.”

The Reverend turned and looked at the man. He gasped, short and restrained. He had not been prepared for such a sight. The man’s face was extremely pale and there were small chunks in his cheeks and forehead where flesh was missing. What oozed from the wounds was clear and runny.

And the man’s eyes were glassy. The Reverend saw no life in those eyes, no sign of any recognition of his surroundings.

This man is extremely sick.

“It’s okay,” he said to the man, steadying his voice. “I can help you.”

The stranger continued to rock back and forth, gazing out at the sea.

“What’s your name?”

There was no response.

“My name is Reverend Bill Blight. Can you tell me your name?”

The stranger lifted his arm and pointed towards the ocean. He opened his mouth and emitted a low cry.

“Yes, that’s the ocean,” the Reverend said.

The man groaned again, this time with more determination.

The Reverend nodded and smiled.

Maybe he is mentally handicapped, and has wandered from the hospital, he thought. Although he didn’t know of any mental hospitals close by.

“Come, my house is near. You can come back with me and have something to eat.”

The Reverend took a gentle hold of the man’s arm and felt that his shirt was damp. It wasn’t overly wet; it felt as if the winds had blown his once drenched clothes almost completely dry. He started to lead him away from the edge of the bluff.

But the man broke free and began to grunt tenaciously, standing again by the edge of the cliff.

Poor man seems to have a deep affection for the ocean, the Reverend thought. He smiled and gripped the man’s arm once again.

“Come now. I can take you back here later, after you have had something to eat and get cleaned up.”

This time the man went with the Reverend, although he continued to whimper as he was led from the ocean.

The Reverend’s cottage was a comfortable ten-minute walk from the ocean. The tall, wispy grass that covered the cliffs ran all the way back to his house, and the dark sandy soil allowed for very little lush foliage. To the back of his cottage was a collection of small hills. They rose out of the ground like clumps of green clay. It was his own little nest, not too far from town or the church, and up to a few years ago he had felt safe, content living there.

Now the house contained too many unhappy memories.

The late afternoon sun was beginning to soak into the horizon when they arrived at the cottage. He led the man inside and sat him down at the kitchen table.

“We’d better tend to those wounds, my friend.” The Reverend wandered into the bathroom and grabbed a tube of antiseptic cream, some Band-Aids, and a bag of cotton balls. He wandered back to the man and placed the items on the old wooden table.

“This might sting a little, okay?”

The man stared vacantly at the door.

The Reverend dabbed some antiseptic onto the cotton ball and gently patted the cream into the gory wounds. The man didn’t flinch or shriek out in pain. Amazed, the Reverend continued to clean and dress the wounds.

Next he filled the bathtub with steaming water. He had to help undress the man then he threw the dank clothes into the bin. He helped the man into the bath, gave him a bar of soap, then closed the bathroom door and left him to his privacy. In his bedroom he laid some old work clothes out, then strolled into the small lounge room where he took out the phone book and looked up nearby hospitals. There were only two, the closest one being an hour’s drive.

He phoned the first hospital. They had no reports of any patients missing.

He called the second hospital, and was told the same thing.

He thanked them and hung up, puzzled. Who was this man?

Maybe he had come from a private home. If that were the case, it would be near impossible for him to find out where the stranger came from. He had checked the pockets of the man’s clothes before throwing them away and had found no identification.

All he had found was a small, ragged diary lodged in the back pocket of the man’s trousers. Its pages were damp so he had left it to dry on a rack in the lounge.

The Reverend left the phone and headed to the bathroom.

He knocked on the door, then entered.

He frowned. The man was sitting in exactly the same position as he had left him — knees up and clutching at the bar of soap.

He shook his head and grinned. “You look about as dirty as when I found you.”

Emitting a small sigh, the Reverend sauntered up to the bathtub and took the soap from the man’s grasp.

* * *

When the Reverend walked into the kitchen, the man was standing by the window, gazing out at the darkening sky. He was clothed in the Reverend’s old work garments, and smelling a lot cleaner. However he looked quite hideous all bandaged up.

The Reverend smiled and walked over. “I will take you back to the beach tomorrow, okay?” He took the man’s arm and was met with resistance. “Come on, you can’t see much now. I promise I will take you. We can spend all day there.”

He led the man to the table. He remained seated while the Reverend prepared the dinner.

“How does beef stew sound?” the Reverend called over his shoulder. He knew full well he wouldn’t get a response, but he didn’t care. He quite liked having the company, even if the company was a simpleton. He turned back around and started cutting the meat.

An hour later, the Reverend took a large plateful of mushy stew over to the man and placed it down in front of him.

“There ya go,” he said with a nod. “Good and hearty.”

The man sat staring at the heap in front of him. He didn’t seem to have any idea as to what to do.

The Reverend took the spoon and shoved it into the man’s hand. He then demonstrated the motion of putting spoon to mouth. Like an artless child, the man copied the Reverend and mouthed a spoonful of the stew.

“That’s the way,” the Reverend said.

But the moment the man tasted the stew, he jerked forward and spat it out.

The Reverend jumped back to avoid the mess. Groaning, the man stood up, toppling the chair over, and dashed over to the bench.

“What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

The Reverend was frightened. Frightened he may have given the man something he was allergic to. Whatever it was it seemed he needed a drink of water.

But that wasn’t what the man went for.

Instead of going to the sink, he snatched up the lump of raw beef that was left over from the stew and rammed it into his mouth.

“Good grief,” the Reverend gasped.

The man tore into the meat like a voracious animal. Blood trickled down his face and chest.

Sickened at what he was witnessing, the Reverend rushed up to the man and grabbed the meat off him.

“Stop that,” he ordered.

The man, his face smeared with orange gore, lowered his eyes.

He suddenly seemed ashamed of his behavior. The Reverend threw the chewed bit of meat into the bin and washed his hands in the sink. He then took the man into the bathroom and washed his face and hands with soap.

Afterwards he set him in his bedroom and closed the door.

He figured the man could do with a good rest.

* * *

The night was beginning to cool. The Reverend was sitting by the open fire, reading the man’s diary. The heat from the fire had dried its soggy pages, though a lot of the diary was unreadable.

The dampness had smudged some of the writing. Finding the diary had come as quite a surprise to the Reverend since it meant the stranger wasn’t mentally handicapped, like he’d initially thought. He had read most of the contents, those that were still readable, and had found nothing much of interest.

He turned one of its crinkled pages and found it barely readable.

So he turned again.

May 18, 19 –

This is my second nite abord the “Coup L’Aire.” The rest of the fellas, which numbers around 35 seem quit nice. The captain is bit rough, but arn’t they all?

My boss, French they call him, is a alright guy. I don’ know why they call him French, since he don’t have a accent.

This is gonna be a short entry tonite, as I am dog tired. Tomorow we stop at Hati (I think thats how its spelt) to colect boxes of suger. That should be fun, as I hear from the guys that there are always a lot of naked woman running around and that they are into spells and vodoo and stuff.

I spent the entire day fixin machines and checkin the ropes. It aint glamorus work, but it pays alright.

The Reverend smiled. He would have to teach the man spelling and grammar in the coming days.

He turned the page.

May 20, 19 –

Boy, what a day and nite we all had! There is alot to tell so I’ll try and be as quick about it. I don’t wanna spend all day writing. I’ll likley to be fired if I did that.

So yesterday we arived at Hati. We all hopped off at a placed called Port-au-Prince and were told where to go to get the boxes of suger. Well, we spend all day carting boxes and boxes of suger onto the ship — and let me say that suger is damn heavy — until they were all on bord. Well, right off the bat I thought this place spooky. All these black folk walking around wearing strange clothes, speaking this funny languige. I’m no racist or anything, but that was the way I felt.

So afterwards, the captain tells us that we are going to be staying overnight here. He says we all needed the rest. I agreed with him!

A group of the boys told me they were getting a lift over to a place called Mariani (spelt correctly?) where it was thought to have vodoo priests and real life zombies (yeah right!).

I laughed and told them I was going to stay in the city with the others (there werent many — most of them went to that Mariani place). I was so dog tired, you see.

Anyway, at around two in the morning the fellas came back, all ecsited and smelling of booze. They woke some of us up and told us what happened.

They said they had been drinking for a while and all decided it was about time to see some real life zombies. They all took a walk through the small town and found themselfes in forests. They came across a large field, they rekon where some of the suger we’d been hauling was grown, and saw some strange things. They said they hid and watched some weird ceremony involving singing and dancing. They also rekon they saw some real life zombies, but I have my douts. In any event, this is where it gets even more scary.

After the ritual was finished and all the people were inside the houses, the fellas snuck into the field and started messin around with the suger canes.

They started acting all silly and pretending they were zombies and performing the ritual. Soon an old woman came out of the house and saw them.

She started yelling and throwing beads around. Well, the fellas got out of there quick smart.

When they told me that I laughed. Afraid of an old woman! But that’s there story. I better go, because I wrote enough. ‘Sides, Swampy is sick and I have to tend to the fella. I think a couple of the others have catched his flu, because there complaining of feeling sick too. I say they just want to get out of work!

That’s where the diary ended. The Reverend sighed.

That’s some story, he thought. I’ll have to ask him some time about… A wretched cry permeated the small cottage. The Reverend jerked in his seat. He threw down the diary and struggled out of the soft chair.

“What on earth…?” he mumbled as the cries continued.

He bounded through the cottage, at a speed his age would barely allow, and arrived at his bedroom. Panting hard, the Reverend shoved open the door and turned on the light. The man was writhing on the bed, his face a horrible contortion of agony. He was grabbing at his head and moaning. Some of the bandages had been pulled loose and blood had begun to seep from the wounds. The Reverend quickened over to the man and tried to take hold of his arms.

“Take it easy. Hey, come on now.”

“It huuurts,” the man bellowed.

The Reverend, astonished at the man talking, momentarily lost his hold, and the man struck the side of his head with his flailing arms. The Reverend grunted and fell to the floor.

“HURTS… COMING… STOP,” the man cried.

The Reverend rubbed his temple and stood up with wobbly legs. He looked down at the man and frowned. What was wrong with him? Why was he talking now? It was almost as if he had been in a trance and was only now coming out of it.

“C…calm down,” the Reverend breathed. He grabbed the man’s arms and pinned them down. “It’s okay. Are you in great pain?”

“Coming,” he forced out. “Get away…it huuuurts,” he sobbed.

“What?” the Reverend said. “Coming, who’s coming?”

Without warning the man sat up, breaking the Reverend’s hold.

Breathing rapidly, the man, whose complexion had grown even more pallid, opened his mouth.

The Reverend stood back and watched intently, waiting for whatever it was he was going to say. Instead, the man made a gurgling sound and blood started to flow from his mouth.

The Reverend rushed to the man. “Oh please, God. Help this man.”

Thick, mucus-filled blood poured from the man’s mouth and his eyes began streaming with tears.

“I’ll call the ambulance,” the Reverend told him. “Don’t you worry.”

But the man grabbed the Reverend’s forearm with a ferocious hold. “Let go,” the Reverend choked. “I have to call you an ambulance.” He tried to pry the fingers off, but there was no give. “Stop!” the Reverend shrieked.

But the man tightened his grasp so much that the Reverend expected to hear his bones crunch at any moment.

He clawed at the man’s hand, and just as he was about to give up, the man stopped squeezing. The blood that spewed from his mouth turned black and his eyes bulged large and fearful.

With one last cough, the man fell back to the bed. The hand that had been holding onto the Reverend dangled towards the floor.

The Reverend remained still for a moment, stunned.

Then reaching cautiously over the body, he placed his trembling hand to the man’s neck and using two fingers, checked for a pulse.

As he feared, there was none. He placed his head across the man’s chest and listened. He could hear no heartbeat.

Quickly, the Reverend crossed his chest and said a prayer.

Opening his eyes, he stared down at the deceased man. It occurred to him he hadn’t even known the man’s name.

He reached down and took a hold of his hand.

“It’s okay,” he said in a soft voice. “The Lord will take care of you.” He patted the limp hand and gently placed it across the man’s bloody chest.

He turned around and left the bedroom. He wandered into the lounge, where the open fire was still burning strong, and fell into his chair. He would have to call an ambulance, something he thought he’d never have to do again. He tried to move, but found he didn’t have the heart to. There was no emergency, really.

The man was already dead. Still, the sooner the better.

He glanced up at the picture that hung on the wall. It filled him with immense sorrow. Back when he was a young man, he used to think that everything served a purpose. All events, every living creature, be it good or bad, was put on this earth for a reason.

That every moment in your life taught you something.

Therefore, when a tragedy befell, he took that as the Lord’s way, something that needed to happen in order for others to learn from and, hopefully, to live a fuller and more meaningful life.

That’s what he used to believe.

The first time he began to question his belief was when his wife died two years ago from brain cancer. Seeing her wither away had been the most heartbreaking thing his eyes and heart had ever witnessed.

And when she finally had passed away, he was left feeling empty. He had felt no comfort from the Lord. He had wanted no help from the church.

The night she died, he had stared up at this very same picture and felt, for the first time, no joy or solace in the figure of Christ giving his life to save mankind.

In the years since, his faith had been in continual question.

He went to church and performed the sermons dutifully, and he even prayed every night, though he thought, perhaps, it was more out of habit than anything else.

And now this stranger.

There seemed no point in him dying. What possible use could it serve, when he was perfectly willing to care for this unfortunate man?

As the Reverend grew older, his belief in fate and purpose had diminished. Up to the point that now, as he gazed upon the shimmering picture of Christ, he felt anger.

He reached over and picked up the phone book.

A dim flicker of light fell into the room. Quickly he dropped the phone book and stood up.

He wandered into the kitchen, leaving the lights off, and headed for the window. He peered out and saw only darkness.

Can’t have been a ship, he thought. There are no ports here.

He knew that many ships passed through the not-to-distant ocean, but they always ran parallel to the shore. The nearest port was a couple of hours away.

His next thought was maybe a traveller had happened upon his cottage. But he could see no person, no torchlight.

There was a movement behind him.

The Reverend turned and saw a figure lumbering towards him.

He shuddered. His immediate thought was that an intruder had broken in. He was about to plead to him that he had no money, but then the figure stepped into the path of the moonlight.

“Impossible,” he whispered.

For the thing that was ambling ever closer was the stranger.

The bandages flopped with each step, and his mouth, forever gaping, dribbled the black muck he had vomited just before his demise.

Or apparent demise, the Reverend now thought.

I didn’t check his pulse properly, that’s all. And his heart must’ve been too weak to hear.

“A…are you all right?” the Reverend said, even though he knew he would get no answer.

The man continued closer. His unblinking eyes were expressionless. He left a dark trail of blood as his feet scraped along the wooden floor.

The smell was ungodly; it enveloped the Reverend with a stench twice as horrible as when he had found him.

Despite common sense, something deep inside told him that this was no living man. He was certain there had been no pulse, and the Reverend had seen enough death to recognise its ugly face. This was a creature sent by the devil, and it was shuffling closer.

The Reverend turned and hunted for a formidable weapon.

He sifted through the drawers until he found a large kitchen knife. When he turned back, the thing was no more than five feet away.

“GET AWAY!” he shouted, brandishing the thick knife. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

There was no cease from the monster.

Black blood gurgled from its mouth and as it neared, it raised its arms in a sick parody of an embrace.

“Please, go away,” the Reverend pleaded.

With stiff, cold hands, the brute cupped the Reverend’s throat and squeezed.

The Reverend pried at its hands for release, but found the grip was too tight. He choked and struggled, felt his strength beginning to wane. He had to do something before the life was strangled from his body.

So he plunged the knife down. He sent the blade through the top of the thing’s head with such force that he managed to ram the knife all the way down to its handle.

The thing cried an almighty roar and blood gushed from its mouth. It brought its hands up to the buried knife and was coated in a torrent of red gore. Letting out one last scream, its body went limp and it sank to the floor.

The Reverend, eyes wide and face covered in blood, was in disbelief. Disbelief of how this man could have been walking, disbelief of what he had just done. He was a murderer. He had killed one of God’s creations, even if it was hideous to look at.

“What have I done?” he whimpered.

I will be punished severely for this.

He turned away from the sprawled thing and rushed out the door, into the mild night. Standing in the tall grass, he vomited long and hard.

When his stomach was empty, the Reverend wiped his mouth and straightened up. The breeze felt good as it lilted against the cold sweat dripping from his face.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw a light flicker. He glanced in the direction of the beach and saw a gleam of light. It wasn’t very strong; it was almost as if a mist of yellow fog was being shone through the darkness.

The Reverend began walking towards the ocean. For a short time he forgot about what was back at his cottage, lying dead on the kitchen floor. The source of the light became his immediate preoccupation.

Perhaps there’s somebody up ahead with a torch, he thought. The person could be hurt.

The light faded.

The Reverend stopped and frowned at the relinquishment of the mysterious light.

Even if there is somebody up ahead, I can’t take them back to my house.

Still, he continued.

He tramped along the sandy ground for five more minutes before he came upon the cliff where he had met the now deceased man.

He could see no person with a torch. He stepped closer to the edge and peered down at the ocean.

The Reverend was staggered to find a ship. It was moored a little way up the beach and he could see hordes of figures stepping off. Some were already out and walking along the dark beach; a few were walking down the steep stairs that led onto the sand.

He couldn’t possibly count all the dark figures, but the Reverend guessed there were at least twenty that he could see. And there was bound to be more inside the ship, waiting to hop out.

The tiny portholes that coated the ship’s exterior were lit up, including a powerful torch at the bow of the ship.

There’s my mysterious light, the Reverend thought.

He wondered why they had chosen to land the ship where they had. He thought maybe they were having problems that required them to land immediately.

He stayed for a while and watched the groups of dim figures make their way onto land. It was only when he caught a whiff of a familiar stench that a wild chill surged through his body and he decided to leave.

Turning his back on the ocean, the Reverend started off towards his cottage.

He jogged most of the way, and by the time he arrived, he was panting harshly and sweating. He stopped by the open door.

He inhaled deeply before stepping into his cottage. He closed the door then locked it. That horrid, familiar smell down at the ocean had instilled a grave fear. He had a strong feeling something unnatural was going to happen.

Acting on that instinct he went about locking the windows and shutting the curtains. There was no back door, so he only had to worry about making sure the windows were secured.

When he was finished, the Reverend slumped in his chair by the dwindling fire.

Now what do I do with the body? he wondered. The thought about having to clean the mess vexed his already cloudy mind.

Seeing that the fire needed stoking, the Reverend hopped up and threw some more logs on. Soon the fire blazed healthy and he sat back and sighed.

What possible ramifications will this ghastly night have? the Reverend wondered. He wanted to forget everything that had happened. Everything he had done. How could he go to church and talk about peace and prayer now?

Above the crackling of the fire, the Reverend heard the faint sound of moaning. He turned and looked towards the kitchen, almost expecting to see the man lumbering for him, the knife protruding from his head. Never would he have thought such things before tonight, and that scared him almost as much as those deep, long groans that seemed to be getting louder.

The Reverend stood and headed into the kitchen. The form was still lying on the kitchen floor, motionless and bloody.

But now the Reverend could hear that the sounds were coming from outside. He carefully stepped around the body and up to the window. He flung the curtain aside and peered out.

At first he saw nothing; he only heard the unearthly wail of many voices.

Then he saw the dim figures approaching. The Reverend drew in a fearful breath. Out of the perpetual darkness at least thirty men were striding towards him.

“What do they want?” he whispered.

It wasn’t until they had ambled closer, as they stepped into the moonlight that the Reverend saw them properly. Most had dreadful wounds inflicted on their bodies. Some had chunks of flesh missing from their necks; some had parts of their face torn off. One man had no arm below the elbow. Their clothes were ragged; some wore nothing but strips of fabric.

Were these the people from the ship?

Has to be, he thought.

He closed the curtain and turned around.

“What happened?” he said down to the body. “What abomination have you brought here?”

Panic began to rise up in the Reverend’s heart. He rushed into the dim lounge. Confusion and terror set in, in equal parts.

The first bang against the door came as a surprise to the Reverend.

He shrieked. He gazed over at the front door and heard the thumps of the people.

Not people; people don’t look like that. People don’t come to a man’s home and act this way.

He heard the breaking of glass and turned to see shards flying onto the kitchen floor.

“What do you want?” the Reverend cried. “I am a man of God. I have no money and have done no wrong!” I have killed a man, he reminded himself.

He saw one of the figures clawing at the broken window.

Another face appeared and both groaned while trying to climb in. The banging continued with force at the front door.

The cries became louder and from somewhere in the cottage, perhaps in his bedroom, he heard more glass breaking.

He closed his eyes. He knew they had surrounded the cottage.

Within minutes they would be inside.

The Reverend fell to his knees. He heard scraping all around him and more smashing of glass. Grunts rose and fell with every thump.

The front door gave way slightly. One of its hinges snapped off and the door splintered, allowing for a hand to snake its way through.

The Reverend turned his head and saw that one of the fiends at the window was almost inside. He was bleeding profusely from the many cuts the broken glass had given him. He didn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest, however.

The moans from down in his bedroom were louder now.

They pounded in the Reverend’s ears, almost drowning out the sound of the fire.

The Fire!

The Reverend stood up, dashed over to the open fire and carefully clutched a half-burning log. With the makeshift torch, he hurried down to his bedroom, and stopped at the door. A half a dozen of the creatures were already inside, menacing towards him. More were clambering at the broken window. Their expressionless faces drooled blood, and the Reverend was momentarily caught thinking about the stranger.

He was brought back when a hand clutched at his shirt.

Crying out with disgust, the Reverend struck the creature with the flaming log. It howled and reeled back, cowering with hands in front of its face.

Throwing the log into the room, the Reverend slammed the door and left the cries of the monsters behind.

In the lounge the situation was even more dire. With the force of a dozen murderous creatures, the front door had been forced open and the kitchen was now packed with their ghastly forms.

He noticed that a few were feasting on the body of the stranger.

Turning his back on the army of fiends, he scanned the tiny lounge and spotted the man’s diary. He grabbed it and hurried over to the fire. He leaned into the glaring heat and dipped the tattered book into the flames. The pages immediately caught on fire. With the blazing book he went around to all the curtains and set the old fabrics on fire. Soon a fierce blaze enveloped the cottage. The noise of the rampage was replaced with painful cries as some of the monsters were caught in the fire.

Finished with the curtains, the Reverend stood and looked up at the picture of Christ. With flames curling all around him, he said, “I don’t know why you have felt it befitting to afflict a simple, honorable man like myself with such horror. If it is punishment, I accept it and take responsibility for my actions.” He paused before adding, “and my beliefs. May God have mercy on my soul.”

He tipped the flaming book over himself and his screams joined with those of the creatures.

NOTES:

Religion fascinates me.

I’m not a religious person; I wasn’t raised by religious parents. Yet, the idea of organised religion still fascinates me. I guess a lot of it has to do with the close association religion has with horror. The Bible could be considered the original horror book. Countless atrocities have been carried out over man’s lifetime in the name of religion. One of the scariest novels of all time (The Exorcist, for those of you playing at home) is a religious-themed horror story.

So this is my religious story, coupled with my other favourite topic — zombies

THE COFFIN

Doug could feel the cigarette lighter clamped in his sweaty hand. He knew he should flick it on, but something kept stopping him. Nerves? His trembling hand? Or finding out that he was stuck in this tomb with no possible way out?

Just flick the lighter on, he told himself. You might be inches away from an opening and not even know it.

But he couldn’t see any hint of light in front. Just blackness.

If only he could pluck up enough courage to simply press his thumb on the flint. Why couldn’t he? Was he that terrified of what he may or may not find?

He blinked warm tears from his eyes. The ache in his neck was beginning to turn into real pain. If he didn’t rest his head soon, he might not be able to move it at all. But there was a sumptuous puddle of terror-induced vomit waiting for him just inches from his nose.

As a diversion, Doug again tried to see if he could worm his way backwards. Clenching his teeth and using the bottoms of his hands, he pushed down against the cold, adamantine floor. Strained his arms until every muscle howled with pain. But his body didn’t move an ant’s dick. He relaxed, blew out a long hot breath and cursed.

Couldn’t go back. He had clearly established that fact. And he couldn’t go forward. He knew it was just as narrow ahead as it was at this section. Because during his panic-stricken period when he first realized that he was stuck, he had tried moving forward, only to find he had forced himself into an even tighter wedge.

He felt like a cork in a champagne bottle. Only no one was going to come and pop him free.

A sharp pain coursed through Doug’s neck. He winced. Keeping his head up was taking its toll.

I have to, he thought.

With a moan, Doug let his head drop to the metal floor. The right side of his face landed in the hot watery mess. The texture alone was enough to make him gag — but then there was the smell. Rancid and immediate. He suppressed another upchuck, and to avoid thinking about the vomit, he concentrated on how good it felt to be resting his head. The severe ache that had been nagging at his neck was beginning to subside, and he felt mildly drowsy, despite the pillow of puke.

Now if I could only muster up the courage to flick on the lighter.

A crazed laugh escaped from Doug’s lips. Why could he lay his head in a pool of vomit, but not flick on a stupid lighter?

He closed his heavy eyes.

Tiredness washed over him.

He fell asleep…

…and dreamed of men chasing him — big, dark men, like the ones who really had chased after him. Only in this dream he had the money to pay them. But for some reason they chased him anyway. He dreamed of ugly old abandoned motels and scummy bathrooms where the only place to escape from these dark men was not through a window, but up into an air duct. And in his dream the walls and ceiling of the air duct suddenly began to close in. Only he could see all around him like it was daytime, and the duct was slowly pressing in on him and he couldn’t do anything about it. Closer and closer until each side of the duct was touching his body. He screamed…

And kept on screaming until he realised that he was awake and that the duct wasn’t closing in like a garbage compactor.

He was just stuck. Like he had been for the past forty minutes.

Or longer? How long was I out for? he wondered, and felt the silver-plated lighter still in his hand. Hadn’t dropped it while he was asleep.

I have to, he thought. There’s no other way.

But what if the duct seems to go on forever? What if there’s absolutely no way out except forwards or backwards?

Then again, what if he found a trapdoor or something?

He was determined not to die trapped in this air duct that smelled of stale piss. And if lighting up this metal coffin might help in that cause, then he had to do it.

He raised his arm off the floor. Like his head, it felt heavy and he could feel bits of puke stuck to his skin. He set his thumb on the flint, paused while he savoured the darkness one last time, then clicked down. Sparks flew but no flame ignited. He tried a few more times.

“Damn,” he muttered, feeling his valiancy slipping with each unrequited click of the flint.

The lighter caught on the fifth try.

A small flame danced, but it wasn’t enough light to see what was around him or up ahead. So he slid the tiny switch that allowed for more lighter fluid across, and the flame grew.

Now he could see every wall and the ceiling of the air duct. Grey metal covered in dust and mould. Then he settled the flame in front of him, to see, finally, what lay beyond.

Doug wailed and pissed his pants.

The skeleton was no more than a metre in front of him. Its outstretched arms were reaching out to him, like some demented attempt at a hug. Doug could see its broken fingernails — chipped in places, completely smashed in others. He looked at its face. Even though he knew that this person would’ve died a most awful death, the way the light bounced off its skull, it looked like it was laughing at him.

Doug didn’t laugh back.

Because fate was no laughing matter.

NOTES:

This story is all about fear. Well, my own personal fear.

One of my worst nightmares is being stuck in a tight place with no way to move. Just the thought of not even being able to move my arms gives me chills. What would make it worse would be knowing there’s a way out, being able to see the light, or a door, but unable to get there. You’re just stuck, unable to move, unable to do anything except stare at freedom and wait…

THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME

Dr. Eric Stelig had never seen anything like it in all his time as administrator at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He stood just inside the recreation room of what was affectionately known as the ‘psycho ward’ — Ward C — and gaped in revulsion. He had seen some pretty damn repugnant stuff in his time, but this was the worst. Not because it was any more disgusting than the other things, because it wasn’t. No, this was bad because of what it represented.

“How the fuck could this have happened?” Stelig muttered.

“I don’t know,” Adams said with a long sigh.

Stelig turned and looked down at the Senior Doctor. The short, balding man was sweating and he looked pained. “Why wasn’t it stopped? Jesus Christ, what’s next, a friggin’ breakout?”

“It all happened so fast, Sir. We couldn’t stop it.”

“That’s not a good enough answer,” Stelig growled. “What the hell were you idiots doing while all this was happening?”

Adams stuttered.

“Probably balling the nurses, or dreaming of balling the nurses.” Stelig shook his head and looked back at the carnage. “How the hell are we going to cover this up?”

They could cover up the deaths of one, maybe two people — he’d done it numerous times in the past — but fourteen? How the hell were they going to cover up the deaths of eleven mental patients and three nurses?

Stelig gazed around the large room, awash with blood and shit, at the fourteen dead, each and every one with their tongue either bitten off or ripped completely out of their mouth, and shuddered.

How could one man have done all this? he wondered.

“Where’s Warren now?” Stelig asked Adams.

“In the infirmary.”

“What? Why isn’t he in confinement?”

“We found him in the corner.” Adams pointed over at the far left-hand corner of the room. “He was lying in a fetal position, crying, mumbling, speaking nothing but gibberish.”

Stelig huffed. “So the psycho has gone completely nuts. They’re all nuts. Why the fuck is he in the infirmary?”

“Because both his eardrums were pierced.”

Stelig moaned. “Christ. He did that to himself?”

Adams shrugged. “Looks like it. We found a plastic bread knife next to him. Shit, you know how hard he would’ve had to…”

“So Warren’s deaf?” Stelig cut him off.

“Ah, yeah. Apparently.”

“He can still talk, can’t he?”

“If you call the nonsense coming out of his mouth talking, then yeah, he can still talk.”

Stelig turned away from the massacre. His eyes welcomed the change of scenery. “Let’s go. Maybe I can get some answers out of him. Shit, I wanna know why he did this. Why he may have single-handedly fucked up my career.”

Before…

The man sits in the corner, not looking at anything in particular, softly humming. He does nothing else all day except sit in the corner and hum.

He doesn’t speak with the others, not because he hates them, but because that would mean disrupting his glorious hymn.

Even now, as the black man glides the funny looking hairy thing around him, he doesn’t stop humming. Like a humming-bird, which is what the black man calls him.

“Hey there, humming-bird. How you going today?”

The man smiles quickly, never ceasing his song, never missing a beat. He can’t miss a beat, or else he’ll lose his stillness.

The black man, who wears the same blue uniform every day, continues pushing the funny hairy thing back and forth, around and around. “And how am I doing, you ask? Well, I can’t complain. The ticker’s still beating and the paychecks keep on coming. And I have wonderful friends like you to keep me company.” The black man chuckles.

The man stares at nothing and keeps on humming. He likes the black man. The black man likes his humming. Unlike certain other people. But that, like other things, he keeps to himself. He never tells his secrets to anyone.

“I say, you ever going to change your song, humming-bird?” The black man says. “Doesn’t matter. Me, I don’t mind. Shit, I don’t mind at all. It’s comfort, isn’t it, humming-bird? Familiarity. Me, I like comfort as I get older an’ older. With my wife gone and the kids all grown up and living their lives, comfort’s all I have. Ain’t that right, humming-bird?”

The man smiles. The black man always talks about his wife gone and his kids living their lives. Every day he talks about the same thing. And every day he stops pushing that funny hairy thing while he talks. But the man doesn’t care. He just looks at nothing and keeps on humming.

And hopes the bad man hears him.

He hasn’t heard a peep out of the bad man for awhile. They might still be punishing him — or he could be sleeping. But even in sleep, he knows the bad man can hear him. And that makes him smile. His secret.

“Yeah, my life ain’t too bad, humming-bird. I got this job. Hell, it don’t pay too well and you’d be disgusted at some of the things I have to clean up. ‘Specially in the bad wards. Psycho ward’s the worst. I’d give up half my paycheck if I was allowed to only clean this ward. ‘Cause this here ward’s the best. It’s clean, quiet and I have people like you to talk to.”

The man knows what’s coming up next. He’s heard it a million times. But he likes hearing this part. It makes him the most happy.

“Unlike that psycho ward. Shit. It gives me the creeps every time I go inta that ward. All those eyes watching me, all those devil minds wondering how they’re gonna get me. They piss and shit and spew and leave their spunk all over the floor, just to spite me they do. I’m convinced of it. Just to make my life hell. I’m almost seventy, humming-bird. I don’t got no time to be worrying about some nutter coming at me with god-knows-what and killing me.”

The black man stops to take a breath. He’s almost seventy, and he hasn’t got the wind in him like he used to. Not like back when the man first arrived here and the black man was young. Well, younger than he is now. But he’s always liked the man’s humming. Never told him to stop it like those men in white.

“But, I need the money. That’s a fact, humming-bird.”

The black man sighs, grips the funny hairy thing and begins to push it along the floor. “Still gets me that you people up here are put in the same place as those crazy nutters down there. Shit, you’re no more dangerous than my old Grandma used to be, God rest her soul. And she was the nicest lady in the world.” The black man shakes his head and makes a funny clacking sound with his mouth. “See ya humming-bird. Thanks for listening.”

The black man walks away.

The humming-bird continues to hum.

The man’s aware of things going on around him. They think he’s simple or something, but they don’t know. He knows about the large man in white doing the business with one of the women in white, the women who wear those funny hats. He also knows the large man in white has a ring on his finger, just like the ring the man used to have, only now it’s gone — taken from him by the men in white when he first arrived at this place. He knows about the small man in white that does the business with the drooling woman who lies in bed all day. He does the business when it’s dark and there are no other men in white around. He also knows that the bad man hates his humming. Always has. But these things he keeps as secrets. He’s a humming-bird, and humming-birds never talk, just hum.

The man’s good at keeping secrets. Everyone says so. That’s why he’s here. The big policeman who had yelled and hit him thought so. Said he’d make a good spy — doesn’t give nothing up, he had said. Wanted to know about Julie and Sam and little Debbie. But that was the man’s business. Not the policeman’s.

He didn’t tell his secret to the old doctor, either. The old doctor with all his wrinkles and white clothes. The doctor didn’t hit him, but the man still didn’t tell the old doctor about Julie and Sam and little Debbie. The man knows about Julie and Sam and little Debbie. Of course he knows about them, but it’s his secret, and that’s that.

The man hears the voice of the bad man.

It makes the man excited — although he doesn’t express that excitement outwardly. He continues to sit in the corner and hum, although he does move his head slightly to the right, and looks at the hole in the wall.

It’s through this hole that he hears the bad man. His voice is faint and tinny, like he’s hearing the bad man’s voice through a radio box. The man gazes at the crisscross of the metal plate that covers the hole, and hums. Softly, gently, lyrically. Hums and hums. He hums to the hole, pretends it’s Julie and that the crisscross is her smiling face. Pretends that she likes his humming and that she is smiling and asking for more. Yes, that’s what the man likes to imagine when he hums into the hole — his wife sitting there loving his voice and his humming, not telling him to stop it, stop that infernal humming or else she’s going to leave him. Thinking those bad thoughts makes him angry and loses his stillness. That’s why he tries not to think those bad thoughts and instead pictures Julie smiling and loving his humming.

“Stop it! Stop that fucking humming!”

It’s the bad man.

“Stop it. Get out of my head!”

Five years. Five years the man has been humming into the hole. Five years the bad man has been telling him to stop it.

The man smiles. Continues to hum.

It’s his biggest and best secret. No one knows. Not even the bad man knows. No one knows except him. And maybe the black man. The man’s not too sure, but he thinks the black man might know about it. But that doesn’t matter, because the black man likes his humming.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you! Stop it. Stop it!”

The distant voice sounds even angrier than yesterday. And he was furious yesterday. So furious that he had to be gagged and put in restraints. The man had heard it all through the hole in the wall. It had made him smile, almost laugh. But he can’t laugh, because that would break his humming.

The man doesn’t know why, but it seems only the bad man in the bad ward can hear his humming through the hole in the wall.

“I’m just going to ignore you. Hmmm… hmmm… see I can hum too. Hmmm… shut the fuck up!”

Every day for five years. Every day the bad man shouts at him to stop it. Of course, the man never does. After all, he’s a bad man and bad men deserve what they get. The black man with the funny hairy thing isn’t a bad man. The black man likes his humming. The black man hates cleaning the bad ward. And the bad ward is full of other bad men. However, the man is convinced that the one who yells at him to stop is the worst.

The funny thing is, the bad man doesn’t even know who it is that’s humming. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from. Some days he thinks the humming is in his head.

The man’s heard the change in the bad man over the five years. Heard the bad man become angrier and more confused. Without even seeing the bad man, he’s noticed the change. More and more the bad man is put in restraints. More and more the bad man yells and bangs things around. Yet no one knows. The men in the white clothes don’t know what it is that’s causing the bad man to act so angry. They don’t hear the man’s humming through the hole in the wall. They know he hums, but they don’t know he hums to the bad man. Don’t know that every day, every hour, every moment he’s filling the bad man’s head with his lyrical madness.

It’s a secret. Between the bad man and himself, (and maybe the black man — but he won’t tell).

The man hears the bad man crying. Soft sobs that drift up through the hole in the wall.

“Why won’t you stop? Please just stop.”

But the man keeps on humming.

The bad man keeps on crying.

It makes the man happy, content. Almost as happy as when he slit the throats of Julie and Sam and little Debbie.

Now all is quiet. The man can’t hear the bad man’s crying.

Still the man hums, but he listens. Listens hard to what lies beyond the hole in the wall and Julie’s smiling face.

A period elapses, a period of about five minutes before the man hears noises coming from behind the hole in the wall. Noises that are distant, yet distinct.

Humming, the man listens. And hears screaming. Lots of it. But he also hears the bad man — who is also screaming, but they’re inaudible cries — the only word the man recognises is “stop”.

The man wonders just what’s going on. He’s never heard anything like it before, not in the five years he’s been humming to the bad man.

The commotion lasts a good twenty minutes. Faint screaming, chairs and beds crashing, voices lost and found, then lost again. It all rolls around in the man’s head and for a moment he loses his timing and stops humming.

Visions of Julie’s body, torn and bloody fill his head. Pictures of Sam writhing around on the floor, clutching at his spurting throat. Images of little Debbie cowering in her bed, the covers pulled tight around her face, her scared, wet eyes peering over the top of the sheets. They all meld into one glorious specter of blood and flesh.

When the vision fades, the man hears that the commotion far away has stopped. No more screams or furniture crashing.

The man feels his stillness beginning to wane. Realising he has stopped humming, the man starts up and immediately he feels good again

All is quiet now, except for somebody sobbing. The man knows instantly it’s the bad man crying. Only this time it’s a different crying — happy, resolved; not the angry sobbing the man is used to.

Perhaps the bad man has been subdued again.

However, when the man hears the cries, cries he’s certain are the white men, from behind the hole in the wall, cries like, “Oh my God!” and “What in the hell happened!” the man knows something bad has happened. The bad man has done something terrible.

But then, the man already knew that.

It’s what he has been expecting to happen. He wasn’t sure when it would happen, but knew it would happen. It’s what he’s been hoping for, praying for, planning for.

And the best thing is — nobody knows. It’s just his little secret.

His and the bad man.

The man continues to hum, not looking at anything in particular.

After…

Standing just inside Ward D’s recreation hall, Stelig scanned the room, then shook his head. “We’re wasting our time. Warren’s nuts. He’s a liar.”

“He may be a cold-blooded killer, but he’s no liar. Hell, he ‘fessed up to his crimes the second the cops caught him.”

“Yeah, but blaming someone else for what he did today…Christ, what a nut job.”

Adams shrugged. “I just don’t see why he would lie about a thing like that.”

“Because he’s bonkers, that’s why.”

When Stelig had gone to the infirmary to question Warren, he found the man strangely calm. He was tied down to the bed, bandages over his ears, and answered all of Steligs’s questions about what happened. Stelig had to write each question down on a piece of paper, but Warren, still able to talk, had told him the same thing over and over again — that he wasn’t to blame. It was somebody else in the building. They had done it. They had killed all the people. They were responsible for his ears.

So, along with Adams, Stelig had searched the entire hospital — every floor, every ward, every room. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find — one of the inmates cowering in one of the bedrooms, clothes covered in blood, gory knife clutched in his hand, perhaps. That would’ve been something. An answer.

So far, with Warren not claiming responsibility, he had turned up squat.

This was the last ward, the last floor. The top floor. If he found nothing here, then he would have to go back to see Warren.

Stelig spotted the cleaner, Sam Goodfrey, and called him over. The elderly black man placed his mop against the wall and shuffled over. “Yessir?”

“Sam, you see anything unusual here today?”

“Like what, Sir?”

“Any of the patients acting weird, any of them missing for awhile?”

The cleaner looked down at the floor, licked his lips, then looked back up. His eyes reminded Stelig of a puppy’s — only this puppy had bags the size of large suitcases under them. “No Sir. No strange business. Why?”

“Well, I suppose you might as well hear about it. You’re gonna hear about it eventually. There was some nasty business in Ward C.” Stelig paused before saying, “All the inmates were killed. As were three nurses.”

The old man gasped. He put one wrinkled hand over his mouth. “Good lord. That’s horrible. How did it happen?”

“Warren Spencer.”

“He killed them all?”

Stelig nodded.

“Well we’re not entirely sure yet,” Adams said. “Warren claims it was somebody else. Another inmate. We’re looking around the hospital, trying to find information on who else could have done it.”

“I’m positive it was Warren,” Stelig said. “Still, be on the look-out for any of the inmates acting…out of the ordinary.”

“I will. Yessir, I surely will.”

“Okay. Thank you. And I don’t need to tell you that this goes no further than this building. Nobody needs to know unless absolutely necessary. Understand?”

The old man nodded. “Of course, Sir.”

“Good. Continue with your work.”

The cleaner nodded, turned then walked slowly back to his mop and bucket.

“Was it just me, or did that old fart look happy with the news?”

“Maybe, I dunno,” Stelig said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

“You think he knows more than he’s letting on?”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous. He’s an old man. He’s a cleaner. What could he possibly know?”

Adams shrugged his round shoulders.

“I’m telling ya, this is a waste of time. These patients up here, they’re about as harmless as…” Stelig thought of the first thing that came to mind, “as a bunch of puppy dogs.”

“Might I remind you, Sir, that they are criminals.”

“Most of these patients are just crazy. Harmless, but crazy.” Stelig looked down at the stubby Doctor. “Might I remind you that this is the good ward, the quiet ward? The patients here haven’t displayed any signs of violent behavior since committing their crimes. Hell, they’re not the least bit violent. Not now.”

“How about Harris over there?” Adams pointed to the man sitting in the far corner of the room. “He butchered his entire family.”

Stelig huffed. “That was five years ago. He hasn’t displayed any signs of violent or aggressive behavior since. He went willingly with the cops, never even put up a fight. Hell, Harris is more harmless than anyone here. All he does is sit in that corner humming to himself.” Stelig stopped and looked over at Harris. Watched the man stare into space, grinning stupidly to himself. He listened to his humming.

“Christ, think I’d go crazy listening to that all day,” Adams said. “He sings the same three notes all day. Nothin’ else. Can you believe it?” Adams chuckled. “Enough to make anyone crazy. Don’t know how the doctors and nurses up here can stand it.”

Stelig sighed. He had always felt sorry for Harris. Wasn’t sure why, but there was something pathetic about him. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Still, it proves my point. They’re all harmless in here. Nuts, but harmless. We’re wasting our time. Warren did it, and he knows it. Doesn’t want to take the blame, that’s all.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t see why he’d lie, that’s all.”

Harris looked at Stelig then. Turned his head and gazed into the Doctor’s eyes. Unease shot through Stelig’s body. The man still hummed the same three notes, but now he was wearing a lopsided grin. It would’ve been almost comical were it not for the intelligence in his eyes.

It unnerved Stelig, although he would never admit it.

Stelig turned around and tried to shake his discomfort. “You’re too trusting, Adams. That’s your problem. Come on, let’s go. There’s nothing here.”

As the two men walked down the corridor, Stelig began humming.

“Catchy tune,” Adams said with a smile.

“Huh?”

“You were humming the same three notes as our resident singer.”

“Was I?”

Adams nodded.

Stelig’s unease grew. He smiled, but when he spoke his tone was serious. “Well I just hope I can get the damn tune out of my head.”

NOTES:

I wrote this story for the anthology Asylum Volume 3: The Quiet Ward. For those of you who don’t know, the Asylum anthologies were a wonderful group of books that dealt with, funnily enough, stories set in and about asylums. Each book was about a different ward, or a different type of mania — there was the violent ward, the psycho ward, and the third and last book, the one this story appeared in, was the quiet ward.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yes, I did pinch the title from the song of the same name by Led Zeppelin.

TEMPTATION OF THE RIGHTEOUS PATH

Screaming. All around him people were screaming. Incomprehensible wails and darkness pressing down like a giant’s foot destroying everything that got in its way. It’s the end. Really and truly the end. But there was one last decision that had to be made, one last act of indulgence and then it would all be over…

He jerked awake as a hand grabbed him. “Huh? wha’?”

“You’ve been chosen. Come on, get up.”

Aleister P. Donaldson squinted up at the person whose arm was latched onto his Armani jacket and vomited.

“Whoa, hey there, now, fella. That’s no way to greet your saviour now, is it?”

Aleister hocked the last of the vomit to the alley floor and tried to get his head around what was going on. Did the old man just call himself my saviour?

Now the old guy was pulling Aleister up, and managed to do so with remarkable strength. “If I didn’t feel like shit right now, you’d be dead, old man,” Aleister garbled and then a headache exploded like a thousand nuclear warheads had just gone off in his head.

“Come on, hurry.”

“I ain’t going no…” Aleister was pulled across the alley into an open door and was inside a gloomy room before he could finish his feeble protest. He felt queasy and almost vomited again, but suppressed the urge and fixed his crooked tie instead. Once his mind had stopped spinning, he collected his groggy thoughts and said, “Okay, tell me just what the hell is going on here. Have I been kidnapped?”

“Peaches!”

Aleister jumped at the sudden cry.

“No peaches,” the old man who had dragged Aleister into this place said to some other old man sitting on a crate marked peaches. “We have to discuss our destiny.”

“Destiny?” croaked a female’s voice. “I can tell you about destiny. I was destined to become a star. Broadway Queen they called me. Had the looks, the voice, the talent, the…”

“Peaches!”

“No, I didn’t have any fucking peaches,” the woman barked. “But I did have a nice set of melons.” She laughed, loud and wet.

“Melons,” the peaches man said and giggled.

“Quiet please! The Saviour wishes to speak.”

Aleister felt dry, weak and horribly filthy. However, he was used to all that. Being woken from a dream and dragged into some dingy room was something new.

That’s right, I was dreaming, wasn’t I? People were screaming, and I had to do something before the giant’s foot squashed everyone. Christ, what did I have to drink last night?

Now the headache had settled in for the long haul and his mind was beginning to blow the drunken cobwebs away, he saw he was in a bar, a very old and very much disused bar, but a bar nonetheless. He didn’t recognise it — the place must have closed down before Shauna left him and he started on his long and bleak spiral to the bottom. Aside from the Saviour five people were sitting on either empty crates or discarded chairs. They all looked unwashed and wore layers of ratty clothes and aside from the two women, all had long gray beards.

I was kidnapped by a bunch of bums?

Aleister chuckled, but doing so hurt his head, so he stopped.

“Listen, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna leave and go home.”

“No, you can’t go,” the Saviour said. “No no no, not good at all. You have been chosen. As we have all been chosen. No, you can’t go. The world depends on you.”

Aleister gave a rummy grin. “The only thing that depends on me are the bars. I keep them in business you know.”

“I was in show business,” Broadway Queen said. “Yep, could’ve been a star.”

Aleister noticed the dreamy gaze in her eyes, then the mouse she was stroking. It didn’t look too active.

“Say, that’s a nice mouse you’ve got there,” Aleister said, tucking in his shirt and slowly backing towards the door. “What’s its name?”

“Rat,” Broadway Queen said.

“That’s a strange name for a…” His stomach squirmed. “Oh.”

“Where are you going?” the Saviour said. He rushed from his position near the long and dusty bar over to Aleister. “You can’t leave. The world needs you.”

The skeletal looking bum stepped up to Aleister. Aleister stopped. He didn’t want to piss this guy off — he looked old and frail, but there was no telling what kind of mental state he was in. “Look,” Aleister said. “You’ve made a mistake. I’m not one of you. My name’s Aleister P. Donaldson and I work on Wall Street. I had a, well, let’s say a rough night…”

Rough couple of months is more like it.

“…and I must’ve fallen asleep in the alley out there. Now, I don’t know what it is you people are doing in here, and I’m sure it’s great and really important, but I feel like crap and all I want to do is go home, puke my guts out and sleep. Okay?”

The Saviour gazed at him with intense, piercing eyes. He reeked something terrible — a combination of garbage, urine and alcohol — but when he opened his mouth to speak, Aleister stumbled backwards.

Good Christ! The stench that wafted from his maw was not of this world.

“He spoke to me and told me to find six people,” the old man said, softly. “Six people who will be spared the wrath of His almighty. He told me I would know them, and indeed I found them all, except for one. Until now. You are the last one, Mr. Donaldson. I am your saviour and you will stay here and do as I say.”

“He? You mean…?”

The Saviour nodded. He then picked out what looked like a baked bean from the tangle of his beard and popped the little morsel into his mouth. “Come, sit.”

By day Aleister was a powerful broker, someone who knew what it meant to be on top, and most definitely knew how to stay there. He was good at barking orders, at getting someone else to wipe the shit from his ass; so why in god’s name was he letting some old vagrant lead him to a vacant crate? Why was he sitting beside some stinking garbage-feeder who looked like Abe Lincoln’s great grandfather?

Either I’m still dreaming or I’ve gone completely crazy.

No, I’m just going to rest up for awhile, sober up and then get the hell out of here. No harm in that. Hell, this might even be amusing. A good story to tell on Monday.Aleister turned to the bum sitting next to him. The gangly old codger turned, farted and extended his hand. “Hi boss. Name’s Jack.” He had cold eyes set deep within a very thin and filthy face.

Aleister declined the offer of shaking hands. He may have been a cheating, bombastic prick, but he was no diseased wino. “Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m worth millions.”

Jack frowned and took back his arm.

“You got a last name, Jack?”

Jack smiled and it wasn’t a pretty sight. “Surely do. The Ripper.”

It took a moment for Aleister to put the two together. He nodded. “Right. Okay. Just don’t slit my throat.”

“Why would I do that?” Jack said, frowning again.

“Never mind,” Aleister said.

“I say we get this meeting started,” one of the bums that had yet to speak said. “Court’s now in session.”

“I don’t see a judge or any bailiffs,” Aleister quipped.

The man turned and faced Aleister. He looked a tad younger than the others and had a stern glare. “Well then, sir, you are an idiot. The Saviour is the judge and we are the bailiffs.”

Something vaguely familiar about this man…

“Who’s the defendant?” Aleister inquired.

“The world, of course.”

“Lawyers?”

“We act as both bailiffs and lawyers.”

“Impressive,” Aleister said, wading through the swamp that was his memory, trying to remember where he had seen this man before.

“Judge Stevens turn around. We have important business to discuss.”

“Holy crap!” Aleister cried. “You’re Judge Henry Stevens? The same Judge who tried that actor fifteen odd years ago? Who was it…?”

“Bruce Harris,” Judge Stevens said with a nod. “Yes, I do believe that’s I.” He looked almost proud that someone had recognised him.

Aleister remembered from the television a stately, impeccably groomed man with a soft face and a rich voice. The person sitting two crates in front was gaunt and had glazed eyes. His gray beard was knotted and full of odd bits of food and beside him was an old briefcase that looked as battered and had it as the Judge did. “Christ man, what happened?”

Judge Stevens huffed. “Bruce Harris.” He turned back around. “Court’s now in session. Our Saviour presiding.”

The Saviour sighed and stroked his Z.Z. Top style beard. “Thank you, Judge.”

“Welcome,” Judge Stevens said in a deep voice.

Unbelievable, Aleister thought, and felt some pity for the guy.

“Rat’s hungry,” Broadway Queen announced. “We need to feed Rat. Anybody got any food?”

“Peaches!”

“Rat doesn’t like peaches,” Broadway Queen said. “He only likes roast carrots.”

“Roast Rat!” cried Peaches and everyone in the room — including Aleister — laughed. Everyone except Broadway Queen. She held Rat up to her face and muttered, “Don’t listen to them Rat. They’re a bunch of meanies. Yes they are.”

“I don’t think he can hear you,” Jack said.

“I think he’s deaf,” Judge Stevens said.

That rodent’s about as deaf as you people are sane, Aleister thought, but kept quiet. He didn’t want to upset anyone.

“Can we all please quiet down and discuss the plan?” the Saviour pleaded. He reached behind, grabbed an imaginary glass and drank whatever was supposed to be in it. “Ah,” he said and placed the invisible glass back on the counter. “Okay, can we begin?”

“I’ve already announced that court’s in session,” Judge Stevens said. “I can’t do anymore than that, can I?” His face began to turn red.

“No, you can’t,” the Saviour said.

The Judge nodded.

“Peaches needs to pee!” cried Peaches.

The Saviour rolled his blood-shot eyes and sighed heavily. “The end is nigh. But okay, if you need to pee, then pee.”

Not a bad idea.

Aleister stood.

Beside him Jack gasped. “No, please don’t kill me. I’ve got no money. I’m only a whore. A filthy, penniless unfortunate.”

“But I thought…” Aleister shrugged. “Never mind. Don’t worry, old Jack, I won’t kill you.”

“Oh thank you sir.” He bowed his head and muttered what might’ve been a prayer.

“And where do you think you’re going?” the Saviour asked.

“To the bathroom — that is allowed, isn’t it?”

“Well…”

“Peaches is going.”

Aleister watched as Peaches stood, unzipped his pants and unburdened himself on the floor.

Aleister shook his head then started towards the men’s room. “I won’t be long.”

“The end is nigh,” the Saviour repeated. “We have to get going as soon as possible.”

“Noted, boss. Don’t worry, it won’t take long. If I need to take a dump, do I have to get your permission again?”

“Permission?” The Saviour looked baffled.

“Permission to do peaches,” Peaches uttered, finishing up his business.

“Just hurry back.”

“Sure,” Aleister said, and glanced at the puddle on the floor, caught a whiff of its rank smell, then turned away, to the only person in the room that had yet to speak. As he walked past, he saw that the woman was dark — not only dark skinned, but dark in nature — for she wore a black shawl around her head and had blank eyes. She was breathing, so at least that quelled any concerns that the woman had passed on, but she didn’t move or twitch or anything. Just sat there staring at the Saviour.

Fucking creepy, Aleister thought.

He entered the men’s room and stepped up to one of the urinals. He emptied his bladder in a torrent of left over alcohol, and feeling better for it, decided to try and vomit up any last remaining poisons from his body. It wasn’t hard to do — the smell in the bathroom alone would’ve made him gag anyway.

He was just finishing up, when he heard a small squeaking sound from behind. He washed his mouth out, straightened, and turned to the row of stalls.

The noise came again.

Aleister walked up to the only stall with its door closed and pushed it open. He jumped back, sickened.

He hated rats. Especially live ones. There must have been at least ten of them — big New York suckers, most the size of a small poodle.

Aleister wanted to close the stall door but didn’t want to get that close to them.

They looked like a sea of gray and brown — some were scurrying on the floor, others poked their heads out of the toilet bowl. He wasn’t quite sure what they were eating, but it both looked and smelled like ten-year-old shit and Aleister, sheathed in cold sweat, suddenly got the urge to pull off one of his four-hundred dollar Italian loafers and hurl it at the congregation of over-sized rodents.

The shoe smacked a few of them hard, and they let out a high-pitched screeching. The rest scattered and Aleister cursed and bolted for the door.

He was stupid; now there were not only a bunch of pissed-off rats but he had lost an expensive shoe.

He flung open the bathroom door and almost crashed into Broadway Queen. Fortunately he was able to stop himself before he got a mouthful of street-scum and disease.

“What did you do to my babies?” Broadway Queen cried. Standing, she was a large woman. “Did you hurt them?”

“They’re fucking rats, lady,” Aleister said.

Broadway Queen, eyes teary (or was that pus?), stomped into the men’s bathroom, her strong and unpleasant odor leaving a trail that seemed to linger around Aleister.

“Fucking nutcase,” he mumbled and walked with uneven steps over to the bar.

“Hey, you got any drink?” Aleister asked the Saviour, who was looking at him with questioning eyes.

“You’ve upset Broadway Queen,” the Saviour said.

“Yeah, well, her babies upset me first. Got a bottle of Jack handy?”

“I’m Jack,” said a voice from behind.

Aleister spun around. “If your last name’s Daniel’s, then come here and let me drink you.”

Jack stood. “How did you know my last name was Daniel’s?”

“I thought it was The Ripper?”

Jack’s eyes grew large and he shied. “Are you Jack the Ripper?”

“Yes, and if you don’t sit down I’ll slit your throat.”

Jack sat down, placed his hands in his lap and sat very still.

With a sigh Aleister turned and faced the Saviour. “So, how about that whiskey?”

“There is plenty of whiskey downstairs.”

Aleister clapped his hands together. “No shit? Great, well then let’s go and get some.”

“It’s for later.”

“Later?” Aleister looked around the room, glancing over his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He couldn’t see any stairs.

Have to wait it out a little longer.

He smiled at the Saviour, who didn’t smile back, then walked back to his crate and sat down.

Beside him Jack started shaking.

“Hey, I was only kidding. I’m not really Jack the Ripper.”

Jack slowly turned his head and gazed at Aleister out the corners of his eyes. “Really?”

“Nah, name’s Bundy. Ted Bundy.”

Jack smiled and he shot out his hand. “Hi Ted. Name’s Jack. Last name The Ripper.”

This time Aleister took Jack’s hand and shook it.

What the hell, he thought.

His body itched for some whiskey. Needed some. It was too long a way home on the subway (could he even face the subway without some booze?) and the bars charged for it. If he stayed, he could have some free alcohol — and lord knows how many bottles were left in this place after closing down. The friendlier he got with these people, the better chance he had of scoring some liquid gold.

Jack’s hand was slippery. Aleister took his own hand back and noticed there was now a red smear on his palm.

What the hell is that?

He was about to bring his hand close and smell the sticky substance, but decided some things were best left unknown. He wiped the grime off on his pants just as Broadway Queen came out of the men’s room. She was blubbering.

“He killed Ratsy and Ratso.”

Ratsy and Ratso?

Aleister clamped his lower lip between his teeth to stop himself from laughing.

“They’ve gone to a better place,” the Saviour said.

“Bullshit! He murdered them. In cold blood.”

“Hickock and Smith,” Peaches said. “Don’t know if they liked peaches or not.”

“We should hang him,” Judge Stevens grumbled. “Yes, a good old fashion hanging.”

“Just like Hickock and Smith,” Peaches said.

“They were just rats!” Aleister exclaimed.

“They were peaches!”

“Hmmm… yummy, stewed peaches,” Jack said.

“Stewed rats,” Peaches said, giggling.

“Stewed kidneys,” Jack said — he wasn’t giggling.

“You’re talking about Rat’s brothers,” Broadway Queen said. “They were murdered, just like my brothers were. I was about to star in Cats when they were killed.”

“Cats and rats!” proclaimed Peaches.

“Stewed cats and rats,” Jack said with a nod.

“I was going to be in Cats!” Broadway Queen cried. “I was going to be a star.”

“Star?” Judge Stevens huffed. “I tried a star once. Bruce Harris. Son-of-a-bitch liked wearing women’s clothes, did you know that?”

“Cats!” shouted the Saviour. Everyone in the room stopped talking and looked at the old man.

The room, for once, was silent.

The Saviour had his arms raised, like some TV evangelist, and he looked over the group with a knowing gaze. Even Aleister waited in anticipation of what the old coot was going to say.

“Cats!” he cried again. “Was a load of crap.”

The room erupted with applause and Aleister noticed even Broadway Queen was clapping.

Amidst all the admiration, Aleister heard Peaches cry, “Peaches!”

Who the hell are these people? Rejects of society that’s what they are. Sad, pathetic lost souls. The people that time forgot.

Aleister closed his eyes and thought of the whiskey flowing down his throat and the hot sweetness spreading through his body.

Soon they’ll get the bottles from downstairs. Just hang on a little longer.

The raucousness died down. Aleister opened his eyes and looked over at the Saviour.

“Now, we’ve all had our fun and food. Party time is over. I have gathered together here on this thin raft six people, six people chosen by God Almighty Himself to be Noahs of this life and when the world ends and mankind is wiped out, we, and we alone will be spared, and we will then begin the task of starting the race over again.” He stopped, grabbed his imaginary glass and took a drink.

Is that what this is about? They think the world’s going to end?

Aleister groaned. It was bad enough that he was in a room full of crazy old bums, but they were religious freaks too?

Just as long as I get my free whiskey, I couldn’t care if they thought they were sent here from the future.

A sobering thought.

“We seven will be all that’s left when the world closes her curtains. But fear not, my chosen ones, for the Earth will still be here, and it will be reborn again, like the human race will be reborn again, and she will be beautiful and pure.”

“Like Peaches!”

“That’s right, my dear fruit merchant. Just like peaches.”

The little man sitting atop the peaches crate laughed and nodded and Aleister thought he had never seen a more pathetic creature.

Aleister raised his hand.

“Yes my son?” the Saviour said.

“When’s the whiskey coming?”

“Soon, my son. Very soon.”

Aleister’s mouth began to salivate.

“I’ll have a whiskey sour, please,” said Jack.

“Oh, and I’ll have a mint julep,” said Broadway Queen.

“Later,” the Saviour said, his shoulder’s dropping. “Later later later later later!”

Aleister felt kind of bad about upsetting the Saviour. “Sorry Saviour,” Aleister said. “Go on.”

The old man seemed to brighten a little. He straightened. “Thank you, Mr. Donaldson.”

“Court’s now in session,” Judge Stevens said.

The Saviour left the bar and walked over to one of the grimy windows with wire meshing over it presumably to keep the vandals out (or us in), his long tattered coat flapping as he went. He peered out. They all waited for the Saviour to come back and stand in front of the bar. “We haven’t got much time. The apocalypse is coming, it’s getting dark outside.”

Aleister checked his watch. It was only eleven-thirty in the morning. He looked back at the window, saw that yes, it did look dim out there, but reminded himself that the window did look out onto an alley. Plus the window itself was thick with dust and mold.

Poor deluded fool.

“Everyone down to the cellar,” the Saviour said.

Now we’re talking. Cellar means alcohol!

Aleister stood along with the rest of the bums. They all seemed pretty nonplussed about it all — except for the Saviour of course.

“Okay, Doreen, you lead the way downstairs.”

Doreen huh?

Aleister watched as the black woman, who hadn’t uttered a word or moved the entire time he had been in here, started walking. Judge Stevens followed, then Peaches, Broadway Queen, Jack, with Aleister bringing up the rear. The Saviour fell in behind Aleister, picking up his invisible glass as he left the bar.

Soon Doreen stopped at a door, which was situated around the back of the bar. She opened it, then stepped through.

So that’s where the stairs were hiding, Aleister thought.

He stopped when he reached the door. There was a narrow landing just beyond the door, then stairs that stretched a long way down to the cellar.

He turned and faced the Saviour. “There is whiskey down there, right?”

“Of course,” the old man said. His breath fogged Aleister’s head with hot, overwhelming fumes. “There are lots of things down there — food, water, beds. Everything we need to last us for at least two months.”

Aleister’s breath was sucked from his body. “T…two months?”

The Saviour nodded. “Haven’t you been listening, Mr. Donaldson? We are going to shut ourselves down there while the world destroys every living person. We have to wait sometime before we can emerge and be sure the world is safe. I’m sure He will give us a sign when it is safe to come out.”

Aleister’s throat was dry — he needed booze bad.

“In the meantime we’ll sing songs, tell stories, eat and drink like kings, and, of course, procreate.”

Aleister gazed down the long staircase. The full realisation of what these nutcases were doing hit him and for the first time since he could remember, the dizziness he felt wasn’t from drinking.

“You’re crazy,” he gasped. “All of you are nothing but crazy fucking bums. The world isn’t ending. For Christ’s sake, we’re in an abandoned bar in Manhattan. The world may be fucking bleak out there — I guess you people are testament to that — but it’s hardly coming to an end.”

“Stop this nonsense Mr. Donaldson and go down into the cellar. Doreen is waiting.”

Aleister frowned at the Saviour. “She’s waiting? For what?”

“For you. She likes you. She told me. She wants to have many babies with you. Imagine that, two months of making love with my sweet Doreen.”

“Doreen’s your wife?”

The Saviour laughed. “No, my daughter.”

“But she’s bla…”

Oh what’s the use? How can you reason with a nutcase?

From down below, Aleister heard the unmistakable cry of “Peaches!”

“Come now, we really must be going. The end is nigh. We will be safe down in the cellar.”

No amount of free alcohol was worth this — of that Aleister was certain.

Who am I kidding? There’s none down there. I must’ve been crazy to think there was.

Aleister pushed past the Saviour.

“You can’t leave.”

“Right, I’m one of the chosen.”

“You are. We need you. Doreen needs you.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Doreen. I don’t give a fuck about any of you pathetic drunks.”

Aleister turned and walked towards the door that led out into the alley.

“But you need us,” the Saviour called. “It’s your destiny.”

Destiny my ass, he thought.

As he neared the door, he looked back and saw the Saviour staring at him. Aleister shook his head. “Have a nice life bud. Say goodbye to the others for me, huh?”

The Saviour gazed at Aleister, and with a knowing twinkle in his eyes and a slight grin said, “You’ll be back. You’re one of us, Mr. Donaldson, whether you realise it or not.” With a bow of his head, the Saviour stepped back and closed the door. Aleister was all alone up in the main room. “Well, screw you,” he said and felt something heavy in his pants. He shoved his hand down his left pocket and to his absolute delight his fingers grasped his hip flask. He didn’t realize he had it with him, wondered why he hadn’t noticed it until now.

Who cares?

He pulled the small stainless steel container out. He shook it. The container was half full.

His heart rose and his soul lifted. “Thank you, Lord,” he said and unscrewed the top and drank the entire contents of the flask.

“Ah,” he groaned. “That’s the stuff.”

Feeling better now and able to tackle the subway, he shoved the hip flask back into his pocket, then gripped the handle and opened the door.

He heard screaming outside, lots of screaming, but told himself this was New York, so what else did he expect?

Crazy bums and their stories, he thought and stepped out.

Into the waiting darkness.

NOTES:

I like ambiguity in stories. If done well, it can add mystery to the story and, hopefully, make the reader think about the story long after they’ve finished reading. As I’ve tried to do with this story. Is this just a simple story about a group of delusional bums? Or is it an apocalyptic story? Or is it about the effects of alcoholism…?

You decide.

And let me know, ‘cause I have no idea myself…

THE GARBAGE MAN

It was a few minutes after ten o’clock when they arrived at the rubbish tip.

George Fisher gazed down at his ten-year-old son and whispered, “You wait here. I’ll come and get you once I see that the coast is clear.”

Bobby, looking the picture of pre-pubescent innocence in his favourite, “I hate hippies,” Cartman T-Shirt and red shorts, nodded. He set the rubbish bag which contained the neighbour’s cat, Mojo, on the ground.

George stepped up to the ten foot high corrugated iron gates. Nailed to the left of the gates, on the metal fencing that surrounded the rubbish tip, was a sign that read: Private Property. Trespassers will be shot — or worse.

George swallowed.

It was an almost perfect summer night — pleasantly warm, no wind, but one glance at that sign turned his body cold with fear.

George knew the tip’s owner, Edmund Mullroy, well enough — he saw him damn near every day at the slaughterhouse (the tip’s nearest neighbour, about twenty minutes on foot, and where George and his brother, Tony, both worked). He was a quiet guy, hardly ever smiled, was always chomping on a cigar, but he seemed friendly enough. George doubted that Edmund was the type to shoot trespassers unless he had good reason to. The sign on the fence was surely a scare tactic to ward off troublemakers, but that didn’t mean George was any less apprehensive about entering the tip unannounced.

Located in a heavily wooded area on the outskirts of town, at the end of a dirt road, the tip wasn’t for public use. Edmund happily collected the town’s rubbish once a week, but if you needed to get rid of some unwanted junk in a hurry, you had to get Edmund’s OK first. There was always the option of driving the half hour to the city tip, but most people in town were content to let Edmund run the tip his way.

They wouldn’t be so content if they knew about Edmund’s other, secret business, George thought.

George knew, and in truth he wasn’t sure which one terrified him more: the sign on the fence promising to shoot any trespassers (or worse!), or knowing what it was that Edmund kept secretly stashed among the piles of rubbish.

Cold beads of sweat trickled down George’s face.

He didn’t want to be here. He wished he was home, relaxing in front of the television, smoking a joint. But he was here for Bobby, he had to remember that.

At least he didn’t have to worry about some vicious guard dog. After Edmund’s last dog, Funky, died five years ago, he had never bothered replacing the smelly old mongrel. Edmund once told George, in a rare instance of conversation, that he could never replace Funky; had no desire to; that another pup would require too much training, too much time and energy, things he no longer had.

George had thought it a pity at the time, but now, on the verge of sneaking into the rubbish tip after dark, he couldn’t have been more relieved knowing there wasn’t a dog on the other side of the gates looking at tearing out his throat.

The gates were shut; locked by a heavy-looking chain. But George was able to force the gates open just wide enough and push through the gap, using one hand to stop the gates from flinging back and crushing him.

Once inside the rubbish tip, George straightened. He eased out a breath and scanned the property, looking out for any sign of Edmund.

The tip looked like every other he had been to: mounds of rubbish, like tall, shaggy anthills, were lit by floodlights perched atop the fence. Over to one side of the property was a long, possibly once white trailer house that sat on stumps with steps, as well as a ramp, leading to the front door. Its façade was grimy, ugly and worn, just like its owner. Lights were on inside the trailer though Edmund’s van was nowhere to be seen.

With any luck that meant he was out and would stay out until George and Bobby had left. But George knew that just because the van wasn’t visible, it didn’t necessarily mean Edmund wasn’t home, maybe he parked his van out of sight, in case some low-life came sniffing around for a quick buck.

As if anyone would want to steal that piece of shit, George thought, and then metal clanging behind him caused his balls to shrivel to about half their normal size.

George whirled around and saw Bobby squeezing through the narrow gap between the gates.

“I thought I told you to wait outside until I said it’s all clear,” George scolded, though he was more startled than he was angry.

“Mojo got lonely,” Bobby said once he was inside the tip. There was a lop-sided grin on his young face, and his doe-eyes seemed to be boring straight through George.

“Fuckin’ Mojo,” George muttered. “Well, Edmund doesn’t seem to be around, so let’s get this over and done with, and then we can go home.”

“It smells in here,” Bobby said.

There was a particularly strong foulness in the air. Aside from the usual rubbish tip stink — a combination of rotten food and mouldy, long forgotten furniture — there was a horrible sweetness that lingered just below the surface: the smell of death.

“Try not to breathe in too deeply,” George told him.

No, wait, we’re here to make sure the kid doesn’t turn into a psychopath. This is like smoking, right? Make ‘em smoke ten packs, one after the other, and then they’ll never want another smoke again, isn’t that the idea? So I should be encouraging him to breathe in deeply, until the stink makes him ill.

“I don’t mind the smell,” Bobby said, casually.

A picture flashed through George’s mind, of Bobby sitting cross-legged out in the backyard, gore-soaked knife in one hand, eviscerated cat in the other.

“Well you should mind,” George said. “It’s a horrible smell. It should make you sick.”

Bobby shrugged. “Why are we here? Is it to bury Mojo?”

George sighed. “You’ll find out soon enough. Come on.” George started forward. Bobby followed, dragging the lumpy, increasingly wet bag across the ground with all the care of a sack full of rocks.

George scanned the piles of rubbish, unsure of what exactly he was looking for. All he saw were mountains of junk, piled high with an assortment of items such as old chairs, toasters, lamps, a few worn sofas, smashed television sets, and, of course, hundreds upon hundreds of rubbish bags.

Is that them? George wondered. He didn’t think so. He doubted Edmund would risk leaving them out in the open for all to see.

From behind, Bobby said, “Do you hear that?”

George stopped, listened. All he could hear was the thump thump thump of his heart. He turned to his son. “What do you hear?”

“Someone crying. Sounds like it’s coming from over there.” Bobby raised an arm and pointed.

George followed the line of his son’s finger — straight to Edmund’s trailer over on the other side of the property.

George listened again.

He thought maybe he could hear something: a soft whimpering. Sounded like a female crying. But Edmund lived alone, and he had no family.

It’s just the wind howling (but there is no fucking wind). Or…

“A television,” George finished. “Probably just old Edmund watching a movie.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Bobby muttered. “Can we go over and see?”

George turned back to his son. His lop-sided smile and wide eyes were reminiscent of Christmas morning and how he looked upon first setting eyes on the presents sitting under the tree.

“No. We shouldn’t even be in here. We’re not gonna go spying into someone’s house and risk getting caught.”

“But…”

“But nothing. You’re not to go near that house, you got me? You’re to stick with me and do what I say, or else you’ll be sorry.”

Bobby’s face turned forlorn, dark. He cast his gaze downward.

“Come on, I wanna get this over with,” George said and started walking.

When he heard no bag scraping along the ground, he stopped and turned around. Bobby was standing with his head still bowed, the rubbish bag no longer clutched in his tiny hand but sitting on the ground.

“Pick up the bag and let’s go.”

Bobby didn’t move.

“Get your arse in gear!” George growled, his voice coming out shaky rather than the sternness he was aiming for. “You’ll get a good arse-whooping if you don’t pick up the bag and start movin’ those skinny legs of yours.”

With a sigh, Bobby bent down and snatched the rubbish bag from off the ground. He began shuffling forward.

George turned and continued walking.

Soon Edmund’s house was behind them and the crying merely a ghost in George’s fragile mind (had to be the TV, definitely had to be, couldn’t have been anything else…could it?).

As far as he knew, Edmund wasn’t like Tony, but knowing what he did about Edmund’s secret work, he had to wonder.

Jesus I hope I’m doing the right thing by Bobby here. I hope I don’t make things worse.

But what else could he do? He didn’t exactly have a myriad of options at his disposal for dealing with his son’s problem.

Bobby Fisher wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t soft in the head or anything like that. He was quiet, always had been. Even as a baby he hardly cried.

Concerned with the kid’s apparent lack of verbal skills, George had taken him to the doctors when he was five. Nothing wrong with him, the doctors had said. He wasn’t mentally handicapped — far from it. He was, according to them, bright for his age. He was just an inordinately quiet kid.

An inordinately quiet kid who likes to snap the necks of cats and then see what their insides look like.

As Bobby got older, things got progressively worse. He remained socially awkward, an outcast, without friends (not that he seemed to care). But the real concern started when he took to lighting fires in the backyard, and the startling number of dead birds and other small creatures he left lying about, usually with their heads pulled clean off.

George had wanted to believe these were just the actions of a normal pre-teen boy.

Is that another beheaded bird lying in the grass? Chalk up another casualty in Bobby Fisher’s war on all things avian. Another small, but potentially hazardous fire in the backyard? Oh well, boys will be boys.

But George knew the signs. If he wasn’t so heavily into reading true crime books, in particular the ones written by the FBI guys, he wouldn’t have picked up on them. He would’ve just smacked the kid, told him not to do those things again, and that would’ve been the extent of his involvement in the matter.

The cat was the final straw. After discovering his son playing with Mojo’s intestines in the backyard after dinner, he had to face up to the truth. And in doing so, he knew he had to do something to stop Bobby from going down the same murderous path as his uncle. The first thing that came to mind was the old smoke-till-they-choke routine.

George’s parents had forced him to smoke until he puked when they caught him sucking on a cigarette when he was around Bobby’s age, hoping against all hope that by doing so it would put him off the habit for life. And it worked — for about six months. He started up again (the first couple of times he lit up his stomach had revolted, but that soon went away) and had been smoking ever since.

Would a similar experiment result in a similar outcome for Bobby?

George hoped the more extreme situation would elicit a more extreme — and permanent — result, but Christ, he still couldn’t stop himself from wondering whether or not he was doing the right thing by his son.

They passed mound after mound of rubbish, the smell of things rotten and burnt thick and growing stronger. Finally, rounding a large pile of trash containing mostly rubbish bags and stacks of white-goods, George saw it.

He knew straight away he had found what he’d come for.

“Over there,” George said, pointing to ten or so holes in the ground. Most were wide enough to fit a large bull.

Bobby looked up. He frowned. “Are we throwing Mojo in one of them?”

George nodded.

“Is that why we came out here?” Bobby didn’t sound too impressed.

“That’s one reason.”

And though that was true, getting rid of Mojo was more of a happy convenience than the actual reason George had made his son hike for miles at night to reach Edmund’s rubbish tip.

Now he had seen how Edmund destroyed the evidence of his secret work, it was better than George had expected. Mojo would find a nice home in one of those pits.

“Why didn’t we just dig a hole in the backyard?” Bobby asked.

“I’ll show you,” George said. Palms sweaty, nerves twisting in his body, George walked over to one of the pits. The stench of death grew overpowering as he neared.

Standing at the edge of the pit, he gazed in. He first noticed the useless bits and pieces of cattle that Edmund collected from the slaughterhouse, some were stripped of flesh, others still retained scraggy bits of hair; all were unrecognisable as parts of an animal. Then his eyes focused on the rubbish bags underneath the sprinkling of animal off-cuts. It was these that interested George.

“It’s just more rubbish,” Bobby said, coming up beside his father.

George swallowed. His mouth was as dry as the soil they were standing on. “That’s not just any rubbish , son.”

In a small voice, Bobby said, “What do you mean?”

George turned to his son. “There are dead bodies in those bin bags.”

Bobby’s mouth popped open and his eyes widened. “For real?”

George nodded. “These pits are full of bodies, left here to rot among the animal carcasses.”

Although “left to rot” was just an expression in this case. George knew for a fact that Edmund burnt the contents of the pits. Working at the slaughterhouse, it was common to see thick, putrid black smoke drifting from the tip (“Looks like old Edmund is smoking his cigars again,” the men would often joke). The blackened ground around the pits was further proof of Edmund’s particular method of waste disposal.

“Where did the bodies come from?” Bobby said, expression still fixed with awe. “Are they Ed’s?”

“Well, not exactly,” George said.

Edmund Mullroy wasn’t your average garbage man. His job of collecting the town’s rubbish once a week, along with the slaughterhouse’s, was his bread and butter, his legitimate work. But Edmund was also involved in more sinister activities.

He collected — and disposed of — dead bodies. The victims of the many serial killers living in the nearby city, and the one lone murderer in town: Tony Fisher.

The killers would call Edmund any time, day or night (usually night) and then he would go to their homes, or some other designated drop-off location, and pick up the rubbish bags containing body parts or, in the case of the slightly squeamish, whole bodies. Then he would take the bodies back to his rubbish tip, where they would be destroyed, no questions asked. Because as long as the means was legal, it was Edmund’s right to destroy the rubbish as he saw fit. So no one batted an eye whenever Edmund lit his fires. They just didn’t realise what else was being destroyed along with the slaughterhouse refuse.

George wasn’t sure of the exact figure, but from talking with Tony, George estimated Edmund serviced close to a hundred killers in the nearby city, those who realised that disposing of bodies the old fashioned way, à la John Wayne Gacy, was too risky and always led to being caught.

George didn’t approve of his brother’s killer ways, but he wasn’t about to turn Tony over to the cops. This was his brother he was talking about, his own flesh and blood.Tony had practically raised George after their mother died when George was eight and his father sunk deeper into the bottle. Still, he’d had many long talks with his brother about why he felt the need to kill people; had even begged him to stop, but like a gambling or drug addict, he couldn’t, despite promises he would.

So George kept quiet about his brother’s nefarious activities. But really, what the fuck business was it of his, anyway? People would always kill one another — it was the human way. What would locking up one more achieve in the grand scheme of things?

George figured Edmund must have a similar philosophy — why else would he have agreed to help Tony (as well as all the other killers) when Tony approached him during a routine collection at the slaughterhouse seven years ago? But after what George had heard — or thought he had heard — tonight, maybe Edmund had a more personal reason to help out Tony and the rest of the murderers.

George learned of the arrangement some time later when Tony spilled his guts one night after they had emptied a bottle of J&B. How Edmund would come and collect Tony’s “dirty laundry” (the code word for a dead body) in exchange for a small cash payment. For that little extra money, the murderer would be alleviated from the hassles of getting rid of the body, as well as have peace of mind that the evidence would be destroyed.

George had to admit, as gruesome as the whole business was, it seemed like a good deal.

Apparently Tony had heard about Edmund’s business through “friends” and thought it a great idea. According to George’s brother, Edmund had been running his successful side venture for close to thirty years, and as far as George knew, the cops had no idea what was going on.

George had promised Tony he would keep quiet about Edmund’s side business, and until tonight he had held true to that promise.

George loved his brother, but there was no way in hell he was going to see his only child follow in Tony’s footsteps.

He was going to show Bobby the reality of murder, what dead, mutilated human remains looked and smelled like. Bobby needed to realise the consequences of such murderous impulses. He needed to be shocked out of wanting to rip the heads off birds and slice open the bellies of cats.

“Throw Mojo into that pit,” George said to Bobby, pointing to the closest neighbouring pit. His mouth was beginning to taste foul, like there was a thick layer of mould on his tongue.

Bobby hurled the rubbish bag into the hole. “Goodbye Mojo.” He turned to George and said, “Should we say a prayer?”

George spat on the ground. “No, we haven’t got time,” he said, wiping his mouth. “The real reason I brought you out here, is to show you what a dead body looks like.”

A light clicked on in Bobby’s eyes. “Yeah?”

George sighed heavily. “Don’t look so goddamned excited about it. Death and murder isn’t something to be excited about. It ain’t cool. Killing someone isn’t fun. It’s messy and nasty and wrong. Just like killing Mojo was wrong.”

“But it was fun,” Bobby said, softly, and started rubbing his bottom. There was probably a nice bruise on his cheeks by now.

George gazed hard at Bobby. (“There’s nothing wrong with your son, Mr. Fisher. He’s a normal, healthy boy. In fact, he’s bright for his age. He’s just…inordinately quiet, that’s all.”). “You stop that kind of thinking right now. I’m going to show you just how ugly death is. By the time we get home, you’re never going to want to see another dead human ever again. Got me?”

Bobby nodded reluctantly.

“Good. Okay, wait here.” George turned to the pit. His stomach did flip-flops at the thought of hopping down into that mess to retrieve the rubbish bags.

He was used to blood and bone, but being elbow-deep in dead cows and pigs was a world away from dead human body parts.

Just remember, this is to help Bobby.

Instead of hopping down straightaway, George sat on the edge of the pit, legs dangling, like someone testing the waters before jumping into a pool. Finally, he took the plunge and stepped down.

The smell, already strong and caustic, hit him like a speeding locomotive: a combination of cooked meat, old flesh and other foul odours that George didn’t want to think about. As it was he struggled to keep down the two hotdogs and three beers he had had tonight for dinner.

He stepped over animal remains. The lumpy rubbish bags underneath made it difficult to get a steady footing. Once he had steadied himself, George bent down and seized one of the rubbish bags near the top of the pile. He yanked it free.

Whatever was inside the green rubbish bag was heavy and bulky, and strained the bag to almost breaking point. Blood, looking dark purple, sloshed around inside the bag as George started to heft the human remains out of the pit. He glanced up at Bobby. He was looking down at George with wild anticipation.

You’re gonna see what death really looks like, kid. Up close and personal. Ugly, filthy, smelly…

The grumble of a van’s engine was like a knife slicing up George’s spine.

His body went cold.

“It’s Edmund. Hide!” he barked.

“Why? It’s just old Ed,” Bobby remarked.

“We’re breaking and entering, remember? It’s against the law. He won’t be too happy if he finds us here. So hide!”

“But…”

“Hide, dammit!”

“Where?”

George, his mind drowning in panic (I didn’t even hear the gates!), struggled to think of an answer. “Behind one of the rubbish piles,” was all he could offer his son. “Go, hurry, I’ll be right behind you.”

Bobby shrugged, turned, and was gone.

George dropped the rubbish bag, reached up and, resting his hands on the rim of the pit, started hoisting himself up. But as his feet left the floor of dead things, his right foot slipped, he lost his grip, and he fell backwards. He landed on an uncomfortable and wet bed of both hard and squishy body parts. “Fuck,” he whined.

Quickly picking himself up, he gripped the edge of the pit again and, with the sound of the van getting louder by the second, eased his head up. He caught a glimpse of headlights pushing through the night. He popped his head back down.

“Fuck,” he whined again, voice sounding an octave higher this time.

He was trapped. He would be discovered for sure. And then what would happen? Would he be shot, like the sign promised? Taken inside Edmund’s trailer and tortured? Would he be driven to the city and be delivered to one of Edmund’s clients as a present? Maybe he would be spared. Maybe George could claim to have been drinking and had wandered to the tip, fallen into the pit and drifted into a drunken sleep.

Sure, he’d believe that. Face it, if I get caught, I’m screwed.

And if that were to happen, George just hoped that Bobby would be okay. But with no one to look after him, to try and keep him on the right path in life, George doubted he would be.

Holy Christ, you’re not dead yet! Just get your head together and think of a way out of this!

But with an extremely limited choice of places to hide, and with his time running out, George didn’t fancy his chances of surviving to see the morning.

Think, think, think…

The idea struck him like a hammer to the back of the head.

It was a sickening thought. George couldn’t believe he was going to go through with it, but it was the only idea he could come up with.

He lay on top of the dead animal parts and rubbish bags. With gritted teeth, he began scooping the various odds and ends over his body like a skin and bone blanket.

After covering his head with a sizeable bit of animal carcass, he laid still, hoping he blended in with all the junk around him.

Lying among the human and cattle remains, keeping his eyes and lips firmly closed, George listened to the guttural noise of the van, its engine popping and spluttering and getting louder.

When the van sounded like it was right on top of him, the engine dropped to a low, steady hum and then George heard a door open.

He waited. There was a period of long silence.

Something brushed against his hand and he very nearly cried out, but he managed to swallow the scream.

The silence seemed to stretch on forever and George started to wonder if Edmund had left. Maybe everything would be okay after all, he thought.

Then he heard talking: faint, muffled.

George’s first thought was that Edmund was chatting to one of his client’s victims that he had brought back with him. Perhaps a friend for the one already in his house.

But the more they talked, the more it sounded to George like a friendly conversation.

Not a victim, then.

Had to be a friend.

But Edmund didn’t have any friends; at least, none that George knew of. Then he thought, with a cold, sinking feeling — maybe it was a killer from the city, one of Edmund’s clients.

Oh Jesus…

“This one?”

It was Edmund’s slightly muffled voice — worn, grizzled, like a much-loved leather jacket.

“Yep, that one.” This voice was softer, higher.

Bobby?

That second voice had sounded remarkably like the kid’s. But it couldn’t have been.

Suddenly a great weight was dumped on George.

He fought hard to stop himself from crying out in pain.

Another object was heaped onto George; this one thankfully wasn’t as heavy.

Christ I’m being fuckin’ buried alive here!

“Are you sure you want to watch?” Edmund said, his voice now even more muffled. “It can get very smelly. All that dead flesh cooking…”

“I like to watch fires,” answered the young voice.

Bobby. That’s definitely Bobby!

“If you say so.”

“And then I wanna see the rest of the dead bodies in the van.”

A dry, growling laugh. “Sure thing, kid. Now, stand back. You’re about to get your first lesson in dirty laundry disposal — destroying the evidence.”

Finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, George struggled in the pit, no longer caring about being shot, just wanting to escape. But with all the sudden extra weight on top of him, he couldn’t move.

Suddenly there was a pattering above, like the sound of rain against a tent, and then the suffocating smell of petrol filled his head.

Oh hell no! Oh Jesus for the love of God no!

A bright kid. A normal kid. An inordinately quiet kid.

I like to watch fires…

And then one engulfed George Fisher.

NOTES:

The angle in serial killer stories that I find the most fascinating isn’t the forensics, nor the hunt for the killer; it’s the killers themselves and why they do what they do. Why did they become heinous murderers? Is it innate or is it more to do with their upbringing? Most of my stories — novels included — have to do with serial killing in some capacity, usually containing major or minor characters who are serial murderers. In this story, I pose the question — what would you do if you noticed the hallmark signs of the beginnings of a serial murderer in your child?

WHO WANTS TO BE A SURVIVOR!

Part 1: The Setup

The physically unimpressive man strolled up to the security guard with an impudent smile. He carried a large and torn gym bag that was soiled, and its original brand name and logo had faded from time and wear.

As the guard looked the man up and down, his immediate thought was that he was some sixties reject. But this guy couldn’t have been much older than thirty, so he was most likely a sixties wannabe. The guard smiled to himself but nodded diligently as the little man approached.

Wonder what sort of drugs this guy has, the guard thought, eyeing the worn bag.

“How do you do?” the man said. He gazed at the guard’s nametag. “Mike.” The man grinned.

“What can I do for you?” the guard said.

The man scratched his bald scalp and sniffed.

Cocaine, the guard surmised. Would’ve thought dope.

“Hot night,” the man said. “Real stinker.”

“Certainly is. I’d much rather be in there than out here.”

The small hippie laughed at the guard’s comment. A real belly laugh that seemed inappropriate for such a slight remark. He soon calmed, wiping his eyes.

“I hear that,” the man said. “Show started already?”

The guard nodded. “Afraid so, sir. Do you have a ticket?”

The man sighed and muttered under his breath. “Yeah. Been waiting a long time to see Marty’s show. Came all the way over from San Francisco. By bus, man.”

The guard took in a deep breath and checked his watch. He looked back down at the bearded man. “I suppose I could let you in. But I’d have to take you in myself and wait until they go for an ad break.”

“It’s live, isn’t it?” the man asked with an almost manic smile.

“Sure is. One of the only few left. May I have your ticket, sir?”

The man nodded. He placed the bulging bag down onto the pavement and zipped it open. He shoved his arm inside and rummaged around. “It’s in here somewhere. Probably fallen…Ah! Here it is.”

The man stood back up.

The guard held out his hand. “The show has only just started, so…”

His breath was stolen from his mouth the moment the knife entered his stomach.

“Take that you fucking pig,” the man spat, as he rammed the blade into the guard’s stomach and chest repeatedly with furious jabs. Blood gurgled from the guard’s mouth and he could only grunt with each thrust of the knife.

He felt the warm trickle of life’s fluid as he grabbed at his mid-section and stared dumbfounded at the unremarkable man below.

“Fucking pig! Worthless purveyor of the establishment’s fascist ideals!”

The guard dropped to the warm concrete, thinking thoughts of yachts sailing out in the ocean and movies that were set in New York. He was only vaguely aware of the man calling out. As he lay on the sticky pavement, with scenes of Taxi Driver running through his blurry mind, he heard the cries.

“Let’s go! Hurry up!”

He also heard the sound of many footsteps as they stamped past his body. He faintly heard and felt a few of them spit on him. He also felt the quick blows of a couple of feet kicking him.

His mind was blurry with images of Serpico when he died.

* * *

There was a knock at the door of the control room. Craig stood up. “I’ll get it guys.”

He wandered across the dim room. He flipped the lock then swung the door open. He smiled and nodded.

Craig stepped aside while the two men ventured into the smoky control room.

“Hey, who are you guys?” one of the control men said.

The one in front pulled a gun from inside his jacket. “Don’t any of you move or we’ll blow a hole in your fucking head.”

Craig shut the door and locked it.

“We’re running this show, now,” the one with the gun said. “Get your asses over in that corner.”

All four men looked over at Craig, their eyes brimming with confusion and fear.

“Do what he says,” Craig told them.

They all hopped out of their chairs and shuffled over to the designated corner. The second man pulled a rifle from his bag and held it at the small group. “Surprise!” he shouted. He cackled as they all flinched.

“Which one speaks to the cameramen downstairs?” the first man asked Craig.

“I’ll show you.” Craig joined his accomplices at the large desk and sat down. He slipped on a set of headphones. “What do I tell them, Flag?”

The man sat down and slipped on a second set. “Can you make it so I can talk to the cameramen?”

“Sam said I was in charge up here.”

Flag sighed. “Okay. Sam said just to use one camera.”

“Hey, you gonna let Shorty boss you around like that, Flag?”

“Shut the fuck up, Bobby.”

“Yeah, keep quiet,” Craig said.

Bobby sniggered and turned his attention back to the group in the corner. “Which one’s the director?”

“I am,” a small, skinny man answered. “Are you terrorists?”

“Hell no,” Bobby chuckled.

“Well, then what do you want?”

“To teach everyone the evils of tele…”

Flag whirled around. “I thought I told you guys to be quiet.” He gazed a warning at Bobby. “Can’t you keep quiet?”

Bobby nodded. “Sorry, Flag.” A raving grin spread across his chubby face. “Can we shoot ‘em? Huh, can we?” He jabbed the rifle towards the cowering men.

“Jesus no,” Flag sighed. “Sam said not to kill them. We will need their help.”

Turning back to the controls, Flag gazed at the array of small screens that relayed what each camera downstairs saw. On most of the screens, Marty Laffin was standing in the centre of the stage. One screen showed the band. There was also a regular TV, showing them exactly what was being broadcast into millions of homes across the country. Flag would have to keep particular watch on that screen.

Craig nudged Flag. “I’m ready. You call the FBI. The phone’s over there.”

“Okay,” Flag said.

* * *

The audience applauded and laughed. With two hundred ardent fans clapping and tittering, there was no need for canned laughter. The noise was so raucous, in fact, that the screams out in the corridor went unnoticed.

Marty Laffin grinned and waved for the audience to cease their ovation for a moment.

He waited until there was silence in the theatre, then pausing for just the right amount of time, quipped, “And that’s just this week.” The laughter went up a few notches with whistles and howling. He raised his arm and was just about to introduce Dave Morrison and the band, when the back double doors crashed open.

All heads turned and Marty chuckled.

“Well, what’s this?” he said, thinking perhaps this was a skit he had purposely been told nothing about. He looked over at the producer and expected to see his face trying hard to hide a sly smirk. Marty frowned to himself when he saw the producer looking just as baffled.

Marty guessed there must’ve been around twenty people. “Well, hey there kids,” he called. “A bit late aren’t we?”

Some of the audience chuckled, while others watched with interest.

Marty gazed down the camera and shrugged. “I knew I should’ve come to rehearsal.”

Some more nervous chuckles from the audience.

“Okay, take your seats,” Marty called, trying to reassure the audience.

A man came dashing down the theatre and up to the stage. Marty’s face dropped and he backed away.

“Hey, now. Just stay there, okay? We don’t want any trouble.”

Marty could hear, off to the side, the producer calling for security.

The scruffy man jogged onto the stage, carrying a shabby looking bag. The one thing that particularly unnerved Marty was the wild stare in the man’s eyes.

“Just stay calm, Marty.”

The man spoke with such coolness that chills prodded at Marty’s skin. Marty glanced over at the large cameras and saw red lights still glowing on all three.

Why haven’t they switched us off yet?

“Ah, we’ll be right back after these messages,” Marty said down the lens of camera one. But the cameras remained on.

The audience was restless. They muttered questions and most had confused looks on their otherwise unconcerned faces. They weren’t sure if this was part of the show.

Marty tried to get the attention of either of the cameramen, but stopped when the man brandished a large knife, one covered in blood.

On stage, under the lights, sweating and with nerves pulling at his gut, Marty Laffin realised then just how serious this situation was. He watched as the others in the group made their way to the entrances. He noticed they all carried similar bags.

Turning his eyes back to the madman on stage, Marty saw him wink.

“Just stay cool, okay?”

He then turned and faced the audience. “Good evening, television watchers. My name is Sam, although you all can call me Uncle Sam. If you all do as I say, you won’t get hurt. My family is currently presiding over all the exits, so if you wish to escape, I’m afraid you can’t. Not only are they locked, but if you do try, you will find yourselves on the wrong end of a bullet.”

All two hundred audience members gasped and turned to make sure he was telling the truth. Most began to cry when they saw the figures by the doors, bags by their feet, guns cradled in their hands.

Marty glanced up at the dark control room. He wondered why the hell the police hadn’t been called yet. And where in the hell were the security guards? He told himself he had to remain calm, do what these psychos wanted, and most of all, to try and save himself from these people.

“Ah… excuse me.” The meek voice came from the floor manager. He stepped away from the darkness. The plump man was wearing a fearful frown.

“Yes?” Sam said, smiling.

“I’ve, ah, got a message from… Shorty.”

“Is he on the headphones?”

The floor manager, Bill, nodded.

“Good. Tell him everything’s going to plan down here.”

Marty watched as Bill relayed the message.

“He said…same up here,” the floor manager said.

The man nodded.

“Hey! What’s going on here?” The call came from a man in the audience.

Marty wanted to shout to that man to shut up. But his mouth was so parched that, even if he did have the courage, he wouldn’t have been able to speak, anyway.

There was a long pause before the man said, “A cleansing.”

What does that mean? Marty wondered. And how did they get into the control room?

“Well, what do you want from us?”

Marty heard some of the audience whispering at him to keep quiet.

“That will all become clear soon,” the man answered. “But for now, let’s get this show back on the road. Shall we?”

He turned around and grinned broadly at Marty. “Shall we?”

Marty nodded slowly; he was having trouble breathing and he felt like he might faint.

“Ray! Slide!” the man called.

Two of the man’s cohorts came running up onto the stage. They looked young, perhaps in their late teens, and both were bald and carrying guns. That their faces looked so young and fresh was all the more frightening, considering the evil yet vacant gaze in their eyes.

The man still had his eyes fixed on Marty. “Do you keep your guests in the greenroom?”

Marty nodded.

“Where is that?”

“Ah, down there, through the back doors. Then go down the stairs and all the way to the end of the corridor. It’s the last door on your right.”

The man grinned a thank you.

Marty felt dismal for telling this man the location of the celebrities. But he figured that if he didn’t, they might very well kill him and find it anyway.

“Go,” the man ordered the two young followers.

They nodded and hurried off.

The man turned and faced the audience. “There’s nothing to fear. You are all in the hands of Uncle Sam now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

The man stopped talking. All became quiet. The theatre remained still until the faint popping of gunfire echoed up; four quick shots.

Shouts and cries spewed from the two hundred audience members. Disbelief hung in the air. That some of the most famous icons on this planet were dead, shot in a split moment, wasn’t fully comprehended by most people in the theatre. Included in those was Marty.

How can this be happening? Marty wondered.

But he told himself he had nothing to fear. He was one of the biggest talk show hosts in the world. His program was beamed to more countries than any other. He was so famous it was practically a protective shield.

I’m going to be all right, he thought.

That was why Marty Laffin wasn’t prepared for the sudden lunge by the man. In an instant, the man stabbed the knife into his jugular. Marty screamed from the intense pain. But the scream soon became gurgled as blood filled his throat.

He heard the screams of the audience and felt the blood pouring down his chest.

“Die you fucking pig. Die!”

Before Marty fell to the stage floor dead, he heard the shouts of the man’s posse. They cried out with joy, and Marty thought, amidst the whirl of suffering, that this was some sort of triumph. As if this was all a game to them.

The last passage Marty heard, as blood flowed from his throat, was the man crying out, “Death to television! Live in purity! Welcome to the game of survival!”

Part 2: The Game

1: (from the house of George and Francis Murly)

It was just an ordinary Friday night for George and Francis Murly. They had cooked up some popcorn, the old fashioned way in a pan with insalubrious amounts of oil, and were sitting on their old, tattered synthetic fiber couch with the tall electric fan blowing much needed air onto their aged faces. The T.V. was locked onto an umpteenth re-run of The Sound of Music.

“I’ll tell ya. This heat’s gonna be the death of me.”

“Oh go on,” Francis laughed. “It’s not that bad. You’re just an old grouch.”

“Am not,” George huffed, stuffing a large mouthful of popcorn into his mouth.

“I’ll tell you what will do you in. Eating too much popcorn all at once. You’ll choke.”

George huffed one more time and snatched up the remote. “I’m sick of this damn movie. Seen it, well, at least fifty times.”

“Oh you have not,” Francis chuckled and scooped a small amount of popcorn into her mouth. “You’ve seen it the same number of times as I have. About four or five.”

“That’s enough. I’m seeing what else is on.”

Francis shrugged and continued munching on the popcorn. She didn’t care, just as long as they had something decent to watch.

George flicked though various programs: movies, sports events, documentaries, before he stopped on channel six.

On screen was a scrawny, unkempt looking man. He was behind a desk and smiling a toothy smile. He nodded to somebody off the screen.

“Who on earth is that?” Francis gasped. “He looks dirty.”

“Be quiet,” George snapped. “I wanna listen.”

The camera panned to the rather haggard looking band leader, Dave Morrison. He cut the band off with a limp wave then leaned into the microphone. “And now. Heeeeeere’s Sammy.”

As the camera panned across the stage, settling on the man behind the desk, there was only the smallest amount of clapping. It was faint and sounded strange, echoing through the theatre. The man behind the desk smiled and joined in on the clapping. “Thank you, Dave.” He pulled the desk microphone closer. “Welcome, viewers, to…‘Who wants to be a Survivor!’” He raised his arms in a flailing manner. The few claps and whistles again filled the air. The camera remained positioned on the man.

“My name is Sam. I’ll be your host for the night. The old host, Marty Laffin, is dead. I punctured his throat with this knife.” He brought up a large, grimy knife. “Like this,” he said. He then mimed the way he stabbed Marty, rolling his eyes and lolling out his tongue as he mimicked the way Marty had looked as he died. Then he placed the knife onto the desk. “Well, I suppose you viewers want to know what this new show is all about. You heathens!” he bellowed.

The microphones around the studio just managed to pick up the response of numerous people, who also shouted the word, heathen.

“Your religion is television! May you be scorned by our Lord and Saviour!”

Again, the mimicking from around the studio.

The man gestured with his hands for quiet. He gazed directly down the camera and said, “I am your only hope of salvation, people. Let us not be ruled by machine and propaganda, let us be free and live the truth of the way.”

He shook his head. “Before we begin tonight’s events, let me share with you, potential converts, videos of recent sacrifices that needed to be performed in order for us, human and fellow man, to be cleansed of the evil we call television.”

He nodded to somebody off camera.

The studio was replaced with a shaky image of a small house. It was night. Whoever was holding the camera was jogging up to a door. The sounds of laughing and whispering could be heard. Somebody, not the cameraperson, rang the doorbell and then somebody whispered for everybody to be quiet. The door soon opened and a young man answered with a look of utter surprise.

“What’s thi…” he managed to start before a horde of people, some looking no older than twenty, rushed past the camera and pushed their way into the house. There was a lot of hooting and laughing while the cameraperson ran down to join the others. The group had the man on the ground, along with a woman, and was tearing the unfortunate couple’s clothes off, yelling, “Heathens! Worshippers of evil!”

The camera remained focused while the two screaming people were stripped naked and tied with ropes to the legs of a table. In front of the camera were at least ten people and they were now all holding knives and guns. They whooped and shouted at the two bound and terrified people, and with the ever present eye of the camera, they proceeded to slice and stab at them for around five minutes. Finally, the carpet soaked with blood, and the couple gasping every last blood-filled breath, the gang shot the two people — the man in the head and the woman in the chest.

The camera followed as some of the gang dipped their fingers in the blood and wrote, all over the large television set: THIS IS EVIL and DEATH TO MASS MEDIA.

Lingering one last time on the severely butchered bodies, the screen went black.

The screen changed back to the bright lights of the studio and the man sat behind the desk sporting a maniacal frown. “Well, well, well,” Sam said. “How’d ya all like that?”

The sounds of mass crying could be heard in the theatre.

“Bill, ask Shorty if we’re still on the air.”

Bill talked into his earpiece, and then nodded.

“Good,” Sam said, grinning. “Good.”

“This is awful,” Francis huffed. “Turn it off George.”

“That looked so damned real,” George muttered. “Wonder what this show is?”

“It’s sick, that’s what it is. Some people have a sick sense of humor.”

“But that little bald guy is funny. In a peculiar sort of way.”

“Well I’m not watching it,” Francis said and stood up. “I’m going to bed.”

George waved at her to be quiet, and Francis huffed and marched out of the lounge room.

2: (from the house of the McGregor family)

Stewart McGregor knocked on the door of his parent’s room, waited for a few seconds, then stepped inside. His father looked up from his paperback and smiled.

“Hey, Stew. What is it?”

His mother still had her head buried in the folder of her current case.

“Mom, Dad,” he said.

His dad slipped off his reading glasses and frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“I think you both better come and look at this.”

The three of them walked into the lounge room, where the T.V. was still on. Stewart asked his parents to sit down on the couch and he took one of the chairs beside it. On the screen a bald man with a long, unwashed beard was sitting behind a desk.

“That looks like the Marty Laffin set,” Luke McGregor said.

“It is. Well, was,” Stewart corrected.

“What is all this?” Pam McGregor said. “What’s going on?”

“I think you’ll be interested in this,” Stewart told them both. “That man, he killed Marty Laffin. On screen. Right before the camera.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Luke chuckled.

“It’s the truth,” Stewart said solemnly.

Both Luke and Pam gazed at their twenty-year-old son. They saw it in his eyes.

“Oh my God,” Pam muttered. She flicked her eyes toward the screen. “Who is he?”

“A terrorist?” Luke asked.

“I don’t think so. I think he’s some sort of cult leader. Like Charles Manson or David Koresh. Calls himself Uncle Sam. He’s taken over the show.”

“Jesus,” Luke muttered.

“He’s already shown a video of the gang murdering a couple at their home. It was…horrible.”

“Where’s the police?” Pam said.

Stewart shrugged. “He hasn’t said anything about the cops yet. But he must have it all under control because he ordered two of his followers to shoot the guests.”

“He shot celebrities?”

Stewart nodded. “And the show’s live.”

They all turned and faced the television screen.

A very frightened woman was sitting in one of the chairs beside the desk. She was a heavyset woman with a lot of make-up, which was now streaming black and red torrents down her chubby face.

“Here we have Doris. Welcome, Doris, to Who Wants To Be A Survivor!”

The only sounds were the blubbering of the woman and the clapping of the bald man.

“Doris hails from…where did you say?”

She responded with a loud and wet onslaught of crying.

“Let’s say Miami. She looks like she comes from Miami, doesn’t she, Dave?”

The camera panned wildly across to the bandleader. He gave a forlorn glance at the camera, then nodded ever so slightly. The camera just managed to catch some of the other band members. A few were crying. The camera lingered on Dave for a while before returning to the little man at the desk.

“Don’t talk much, do ya Dave?” He chuckled. “How are you doing up there, Shorty?”

The man looked beyond the camera. Somebody muttered. The man nodded then turned back to Doris.

“Shorty, Bobby and Flag are all going fine,” the man said with a grin.

Doris sniffled and wiped her nose and eyes.

“Now, here’s how we play the game. I’m gonna ask you ten questions. If you answer all of them correctly, you live, if you answer even one wrong, I’ll give you a choice on how you want to be killed. Understand?”

The woman, who was bawling uncontrollably, attempted to run away. She was stopped by two bald men who grabbed her and shoved her back into the chair.

One of the men leaned close and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and remained in the chair.

“We all settled down?” the man asked.

“Yes.” The woman spoke softly.

“Okay. First question. How…” He stopped and looked over at Dave. “Hey Dave, how about some music for Doris? Some thinking music.”

He grinned when Dave began playing a soft, moody arpeggio pattern.

“Perfect. Now, Doris. How many balls did Hitler have?”

The woman sniffed and looked at the man with a peculiar frown. “W…what?”

“How many testicles did Adolf Hitler have?”

The woman swallowed and whispered, “One?”

“Very good,” the man laughed. “That was an easy one to begin with. Next question. What’s the capital of Australia?”

With a fearful frown, the large woman looked to the floor and sobbed. She shook her head.

“Hurry up. Only ten seconds left.”

There was a faint shout from the audience. The microphones barely picked it up, but the word, “Canberra”, was heard.

The man rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Canberra?” the woman said, looking up at the man with a hopeful stare.

The man looked past the camera and nodded.

A gunshot blasted and everybody in the audience screamed. The man stood up and raised his hands. “Silence! All be quiet or else you will suffer the same fate!”

The music stopped. It took a little while before the audience quieted down. With the sounds of many crying, the man sat down and said to the camera, “Turn around and show it.”

There was a whirl of motion until the camera rested on the dark audience.

“Lights!” shouted the man from behind.

The theatre illuminated to reveal the horrendous sight of a man whose head had been blown apart. Those around him were splattered with the man’s blood, as well as gooey bits of brain and tissue. As one woman vomited, the camera swiveled back to the man at the desk.

He had a large smile.

“We don’t allow cheating on this show, do we, Dave?”

A quick pan to Dave showed him with his head in his hands and crying. The camera went back to the man.

“Dave’s a little distraught at the moment. But we’ll continue. I’ll ask you another question, okay, Doris?” He looked at the audience. “And no more yelling out the answers.” He turned back to a shaking Doris. “Which one of Saturn’s moons resembles the Death Star from the movie Star Wars?”

Doris choked back tears. She looked as though she might throw up.

“Come on, only ten seconds left. Which one looks like the Death Star?”

“I don’t know!” Doris screamed. “The biggest,” she sobbed.

“No!” Stewart McGregor cried at his T.V. set. “It’s Mimas. Stupid woman.”

“Stewart,” his mother gasped. She stared at him, grimacing.

“Sorry,” Stewart said without turning his attention away from the TV.

“I’m afraid that’s incorrect,” the man behind the desk sighed. “The answer I was after was Mimas. Now, how would you like to die?”

It was all too much for the woman. She screamed a high-pitched wail and jumped out of the chair. The two men grabbed her again, this time pushing her back into the chair and pinning her with their gloved hands. She struggled and fought but had no luck in breaking free.

There was a shout from the audience and the cry of, “Nooooo.”

By order of the man at the desk, the camera turned and found an old man running up the aisle, hands waving in the air. Tears fell from his eyes. “Doris! Leave her alo…”

His cries were cut off when a gun was fired and the man fell to the theatre floor. From the shaking camera it was revealed that the man had been shot in the back, and as he gasped for life, the camera panned back to the front and showed a smiling bald man and a hysterical woman.

“Alfred!” she cried. “Al…freeeed.”

“How do you want to die!” the man shouted above the racket.

The woman continued to weep violently. The man looked over at the two bald men and nodded his head.

Raising their guns, two bullets were fired into the back of the woman’s head. Her face exploded and she plunged forward onto the floor.

Pam McGregor screamed and covered her eyes. “Why aren’t they stopping this?” After a quick hitched breath: “Why can’t they turn the cameras off?”

Luke leaned over and gave her a large hug. “I don’t know honey. I don’t know.”

“I think there’s about twenty or so in there,” Stewart said. “And they all have guns.”

“Probably holding the audience hostage,” Luke said. “Using them as a sort of shield so the cops can’t break in.”

“That’s what I figured,” Stewart said. “I mean, it’s better to kill a dozen people than two hundred. Right?”

His father nodded.

The McGregor family was drawn back to the screen when they heard the unmistakable voice of the leader of the cult.

“Come on. Any volunteers?”

The audience remained silent.

“How about you?” the man said, pointing towards the audience.

The camera swung around and showed a large man. He was sitting in the second row and was trying to look tough despite the obvious fear in his eyes.

“That was the guy that called out earlier,” Stewart informed his parents. “Wanting to know what was going on and what the man wanted.”

“Brave man,” Luke huffed.

“Or stupid,” Stewart said, looking over at his father. They both grinned quickly, then turned back to the television.

“Yeah you,” the man said. “You had a lot to say earlier. Come on up.”

The large man stood up and looked around sheepishly. The camera showed the horde of bald followers cradling guns and grinning. They were standing at two meter intervals around the perimeter of the theatre.

The large man walked out of his row and started up the aisle.

“Give the man a round of applause,” the man at the desk shouted. He started clapping, but, not surprisingly, the audience remained still and left the man to perform a solo.

“Dave, how about some music?” he called out. “Something jazzy.”

As the camera tracked the large man, a feeble rendition of “One” from A Chorus Line filled the theatre with sickening travesty. The man walked on to the stage and sat down in the chair that hadn’t been used by Doris.

The man at the desk motioned his hand for the music to stop.

“Well, what’s your name, big boy?”

The immense figure gazed at the bloody corpse of Doris. He closed his eyes, his face pale. “John,” he said.

“John! Welcome to my show. You know how the game works. I bet you have watched a lot of game shows in your time, being the mindless zombie that you are. You are programmed by the rich pigs on what to like, what to watch, and they send secret messages through the T.V shows that fuck with your brain. I know how they work, and so does my family!”

The man stood up and raised his arms as if joining in on a chorus of “Praise the Lord!” in his local church.

“This is the evil that must be destroyed! It was put on this earth as a test of our faith and conviction of our souls!”

The man closed his eyes and listened to his followers sing out his testimony. The camera remained on the sweating man. Finally he sat down and took a deep breath.

“We will convert you all and reveal the true evil.”

He opened his eyes and grinned at the large man. “Music please, Dave.”

Again the arpeggio piece was heard in the background.

“First question, Little John. What is the evil which we are trying to dispel?”

The large man looked to the audience, then back at the little bald madman.

“Ah, television,” he said.

“That is correct!” the man proclaimed. “There is hope for humanity yet!”

He wiped a stream of sweat from his brow and sighed. “Next question, Little John. Who won at the end of the first Rocky movie, and how?”

John frowned. It was a frown that could’ve suggested he was confused as to why this man had asked him a relatively simple question. He cleared his throat.

“Ah, Apollo Creed won. By, the, ah, he had the most points?”

“Very good.” The man clapped. “You must be a Rocky fan?”

“Yes.”

“Me too. Brilliantly made films. You’re doing very well, Little John. Isn’t he, Dave?”

The camera swung around.

“If you say so,” Dave said, his fingers moving rapidly up and down the keyboard.

Panning back to the man, he sat smirking, nodding his head. “That’s right, Dave. If I say so. Next question. How many people did Andrei Chikatilo kill?”

John gazed down at the lifeless body of Doris and began to sob.

“Do you know?” Luke asked his son.

“Fifty-three. I’m pretty sure he has the record.”

“I don’t think John knows,” Luke sighed.

“I can’t watch,” Pam McGregor cried and stood up. “This is horrible.”

She stormed out of the lounge. A moment later she popped her weeping head around the corner of the doorway. “But let me know if he gets the question right, okay?”

3: (from the dorm room of Mike Barry and Lou Montgomery)

“Hurry up, Little John. Time’s running out. How many people did Andrei Chikatilo brutally murder?”

Lou Montgomery threw a handful of potato chips at the television screen. “Come on, John! Take a guess for Christ’s sake!”

“Do you know?” Phillip Adams said, kicking Lou in the back.

Lou turned his head and stuck up his finger. “No. Do you?”

The other guys in the room laughed.

“Face it, both of you are morons,” Jay Waterhouse said. “If either of you were up there, you would be killed. He killed fifty-three. You see, he was allowed to murder so many and remain undetected for so long because of the bullshit Russian totalitarian system…”

“Shut the fuck up,” James Gardiner said. “John’s time’s up.”

With the room falling to complete silence, all men gazed at the television screen.

“…but I’ll give you a guess,” the bald man said. “Because I’m such a nice guy.”

The blubbering man wiped his eyes. “Please don’t kill me,” he bawled. “Please!”

The man behind the desk sighed. “Take a guess.”

“Thirty-five,” John cried.

The man shook his head deliberately. “Uh-uh. Soooryyyy,” he sung. “Guess you should’ve been paying more attention to world issues instead of watching the evil brainwashing machine. Now, how will you like to die?” He turned and looked directly down the camera.

“Fucking creepy guy,” Phillip Adams muttered.

The men in the room murmured in agreement.

“I hope you are all enjoying my show at home. I bet most homes in the country are switched on to me tonight.”

He turned to the hysterical man. “John! Choose your fate!”

Into the frame walked the two bald henchmen. They grabbed John’s arms and pulled them away from his face.

“Answer our leader!” one of them cried. “Answer or we’ll choose it for you!”

The door of the dorm room opened and Mike Barry walked in. He glanced over at the group of friends sitting on the floor and on the bed, his bed, and closed the door.

“Hey, Mike,” Lou called over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe what the fuck is going on.”

“Yeah, I heard,” he said, throwing his bag onto the floor. “Some guy came rushing into the library and told us that some psycho cult had broken into the Marty Laffin show and was killing people. I though it was a joke at first, but…”

“Choose to be shot!” Phillip Adams yelled.

“Really,” Jay Waterhouse huffed. “I would choose to be stabbed in my groin until I died of blood loss.”

All but Mike laughed.

“You all are sick,” he said. “How can you get enjoyment from watching people get killed?”

An uncomfortable hush blanketed the room.

“We’re not enjoying it,” Lou finally said. “It is horrible. You’re right. But it’s real. This is really happening, right now.”

“Yeah, it’s reality,” Jay added. “Like watching the news, or one of them reality shows. Only this ain’t censored. Hey Lou, can you pass me the chips.”

A gunshot, loud and authentic, blasted through the small dorm room.

“Holy shit,” Phillip muttered.

“Damn, I missed it,” Jay sighed. “What happened?”

“John chose to be shot. In the back of the head.”

“Best way to go,” Jay said, nodding.

“This is fucking unbelievable,” Mike groaned.

“Take a seat,” Lou called. “Come on, Mikey. We’re not making fun of the situation. It’s all just so… unbelievably horrible.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna take a shower,” Mike said.

Phillip shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Mike glanced over at the screen. What he saw mortified him. The camera was lingering on the dead body of the man. The way he had fallen to the floor, right next to some woman, his face, or what was left of it, was staring straight at the camera.

“Disgusting,” James Gardiner said.

The camera panned back to the host. The bald man with the long beard was grinning. He looked across at Dave Morrison. “How do you think the show’s going so far?”

The camera swung to a very pale and puffy eyed Dave. “You’re sick,” he breathed. “Killing innocent people.”

The camera remained on a tearful but angry Dave. There was a murmur from off to the side, presumably where the bald man was.

“Why do you people listen to this psycho?” Dave cried, looking towards the audience. “He’s talking about television brainwashing people, but that’s what he’s doing to you! He’s using you people! He’s preying on your vulnerability and brainwashing you all!”

One of the man’s followers rushed across the stage, into the view of the camera.

Dave remained behind the large array of keyboards. “Fuck you! I’m not afraid of you sick people. You’re nobodies, insignificant los…”

The audience gasped with fright as the bald man rammed a large kitchen knife into the top of Dave Morrison’s head.

Gasps turned to screams and the clamorous stomping of feet swarmed the soundtrack. The camera suddenly pivoted upwards, showing the rafters of the ceiling, gunshots ringing out in droves, before the screen turned to static.

“Jesus, what happened?” Jay Waterhouse said.

“Did ya see the way the knife…?” James Gardiner sighed and shook his head.

“I’d say the cameraman fainted.”

They all flinched at the sound of Mike Barry’s voice.

“I thought you’d gone to have a shower?” Lou asked. He turned and looked at his roommate. He sat on the far bed with a glazed stare.

Mike Barry shrugged. “The shower can wait.”

4: (From the house of the Layford family)

Julie wandered back into the lounge where her fifteen-year-old daughter was staring into the white snow of the television static.

“Finally got a hold of him,” Julie said. She slumped into the chair with a sigh.

Thalia Layford turned her head. “Is Dad at the police station?”

“Yeah. He stayed behind with a handful of other officers.”

Thank God, she thought.

Thalia glanced back at the screen, saw the show hadn’t come back on, then stood up and sat down in the chair beside her mom. “Does he know what’s going on? What did he say?”

Julie grabbed the packet of cigarettes from off the coffee table, yanked one out and dangled it from her lips. “Apparently it’s a madhouse in the city. FBI, cops from all over New York. Dad said that one of the men from the cult rang FBI headquarters just as the show started, and told them they had taken over the Marty Laffin show. He told the Feds they have thirty members and they all have guns and have locked all the doors.”

Julie stopped to take a breath. She fired up the cigarette.

“It’s okay, Mum. Dad’s not over there. He’s back at the station, safe.”

“I know,” Julie said and gave her daughter a quick smile. She puffed harshly. “But he still might be called in. These guys are absolute maniacs. They’re a cult. Do you know what that means?”

Thalia rolled her eyes. “Of course I know what a cult is. I’m not an idiot Mum.”

“No,” Julie chuckled. “I mean, do you know how cults usually work?”

“What do you mean?”

Julie inhaled deeply before continuing. “Cults often commit mass suicide. They would rather die by their own hands than be captured by the police. Well, in truth, it’s the leader who doesn’t want to be captured, and he orders for his ardent followers to join him in the kingdom of heaven, or some bullshit like that.”

“Wow,” Thalia muttered.

“Exactly.” She took two quick puffs. “And they don’t care who they take with them. In this case, I wouldn’t be surprised if they set fire to the place.”

“Really? Wouldn’t they just, I dunno, shoot themselves or something?”

Julie shrugged while blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Perhaps. But they have a whole audience, plus… police, to kill.”

Thalia gazed down at the floor. She now understood fully why her mother was so scared. “You know, you should really stop smoking.”

“I know,” Julie huffed.

“What else did Dad say?”

“Well, apparently, if anyone fu… messes with them in any way, like turning off the power, they’d kill as many people as possible. Their orders were that they were to remain on the air, until they were finished with the show. Whatever the hell that means. Then they’d let the survivors go. They said they are going to… sacrifice, a few people, but…” She stopped to stub out the cigarette. “They basically said it’s either half a dozen people dead or two hundred. It’s the FBI’s choice.”

“They blackmailed them?”

“In a way, I suppose.”

“Did Dad say what the cops are going to do?”

“He had to go before we got to that. He said he’ll ring back soon, though.”

They were both as surprised as each other when the familiar sounds of the show came back on. They turned their eyes to the screen.

“How you holding up?” Julie asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to watch this, you know. This isn’t a movie…”

Thalia gave her mother a fleeting frown. It told her she knew all that, so be quiet.

The camera showed the bald man sitting behind the desk, his face flushed and dripping with perspiration. There was something slightly different, however. It soon became apparent that they were shooting the show at a slightly different camera angle.

“Welcome back,” the man said down the camera. “We had a little technical difficulty.”

There was a lot more crying than usual coming from the audience.

“We had quite a wild time in here,” the man chuckled. “It’s a shame you all at home missed it.” He leaned over the desk. “Well, let me show you the aftermath,” he whispered.

The camera panned around. It showed bodies slumped where they fell, some with their heads blown away, some with gory holes in their chest and stomach. Lots were sprawled on the theatre floor and a fine mist of smoke was still present in the air. It was pretty evident what had happened. A few of the bald cult members were still busy re-loading their guns.

There was still a good hundred audience members left, and they were all either weeping or staring at nothing, possibly on the brink of madness.

The camera left the carnage and settled back on the man. “We told them not to try and escape,” he said. “We warned them. Ah well, sorry for the inconvenience, folks. The cameraman fainted, and in the process pulled out a cord or something. But we have another one — Shaun, on camera, two? Yes, camera two.”

He turned and looked past the view of the camera. “How are my boys doing upstairs? We still on the air?”

There was a faint murmur of talking and the man nodded.

“Good,” the man said and turned back to the camera. “That was Bill, the floor manager. He’s still alive,” the man said and chortled. “Give us another look at Bill, will ya Shaun?”

The camera swung around to the plump floor manager. The pale man glanced fleetingly at the camera then cast his head to the floor.

“Give Bill a round of applause,” the bald man shouted and clapped his hands. His followers joined in, but nobody else.

“Thanks Bill, you’ve been a great help tonight.”

The camera was turned back to the man.

“You see, I’m afraid my boys are all alone up in the control room, now. Seems the director and his pals decided to make a run for it during all of the commotion. They got as far as the control room door.” He shook his head. It was obvious he was beginning to lose a bit of self-control. He was scratching his scalp continuously and stumbling over his words.

“What shall we do now?” he asked one of his followers.

The camera swung around to the bald cult member. He shrugged and shook his head.

“Dunno, Sam. Sacrifice more people for the evil ways of television?”

“Nah, fuck that,” the man said.

A quick pan back to the leader.

“I know!” he proclaimed. “Let’s destroy the house of the devil!” He stood up and raised his arms. He wore a vicious grin.

“It’s time for us to prove our worth to the Lord. Let’s burn this motherfucking theatre down!”

The phone rang in the Layford house. Julie hopped up. “That’ll be Dad.”

She rushed into the hall and picked up the phone.

Julie wandered back after two minutes. She fell into the chair.

“What did he say?”

“Emergency Services Unit are going to raid the theatre,” she told her daughter.

“Well it’s about time,” Thalia said.

Part 3: The Pay-Off

It was clear, when the ESU officers had finally gained entrance into the building, that they were definitely not dealing with a terrorist group. The general concurrence from all law enforcement was that the group inside were a cult, but they weren’t ever completely sure until the lock was carefully, and quietly picked, and they saw no members standing in the foyer. A terrorist group would always have people guarding it.

A cult might think to place guards, but that was only in the minority; most cults were disorganized and led by morons with more charm than brains.

This cult was obviously in the majority.

The ESU had set up with rapid precision, keeping the noise to an absolute minimum. They had checked the security guards that lay sprawled in their own blood, but they were long dead.

Now, twelve ESU officers stood in front of all three entrances to the theatre. Within the group of four by each door, two men held assault rifles, while the other two held a small but powerful battering ram. Their orders were relayed through earphones by the commanding officer who, outside, held a portable television.

With guns poised and battering rams ready, the officers inside the building waited for that one final order.

From behind the doors, the leader of the cult shouted: “It’s time for us to prove our worth to the Lord. Let’s burn this motherfucking theatre down!”

Immediately afterwards, the officers received the order.

* * *

Sam gazed out at the sea of terrified faces. His thoughts were on how masterful his plan was. On how brilliant he was.

He knew there would be mass hysteria when he first set fire to the theatre, but his people would be standing by the doors, firing bullets into anyone trying to escape. He felt no guilt about killing his followers, after all, they were nobodies, runaways with no ability to think for themselves.

Fucking morons, he thought. They’d believe I was black if I told them so.

But he did love the power. He was a god to these people. That aspect he would miss.

Never know, I could get another group together after I’m far away from here, he thought. Change my look, go to another country…

At once, all three sets of doors were smashed open and officers came barging into the theatre.

Sam watched, stunned, as a dozen or so armed police swarmed the room.

“Put the weapons down and place your hands on your heads!”

The audience screamed as Sam fell under the desk.

Watching from his impromptu cubby house, Sam saw that each officer had their rifle pointed at the cult members. Even the ones that had been carrying the battering rams were now armed with rifles.

“Put your weapons down now!” the heavily armed and protected officers screamed.

There was a moment of hesitation, as the members thought about which path to take.

But, just as Sam had preached to them time and again, the disciples of Uncle Sam’s family chose to go down fighting rather than be captured.

All armed members raised their guns. From around the theatre came the thunderous onslaught of gunfire.

The cult members guarding the entrances were pummeled with bullets.

By the end of the battle Sam’s entire cult had been shot. No officer was injured.

“Sam,” one of the officers called. “Come out with your hands on top of your head. If you come out firing, we will be forced to shoot. This is a warning. Come up slowly.”

With the faint cry of ambulances and the audience being led from the theatre, Sam stood up.

“Please, don’t shoot me. I, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t the leader, you see. They forced me to do this. I was a patsy.”

Sam continued to insist on his innocence as two officers handcuffed him and led him out of the theatre.

“Hey, what happened to Flag and Shorty and Bobby?” Sam asked as he was escorted outside.

“They’ve been taken care of,” one of the officers said.

“Good,” Sam said. “I hated those fuckers. Flag, he was the leader, you know. He was the one that set this whole thing up.”

* * *

Two men sat under the shady cover of an umbrella, sipping coffee amid the crowded café.

“Okay, Bill, what’s your full name?”

“William Anthony Crivelli. But I prefer Bill.”

“That’s Italian?” The man from the newspaper smiled.

“Yes. My family was originally from Venice.”

The man scribbled on his notepad. “You don’t mind, do you Bill?”

“Of course not. How else are you going to get the story?”

The man smiled and nodded. “Okay. What was your job at the Marty Laffin show?”

“I was the floor manager.”

“How long were you the floor manager?”

Bill inhaled and gnawed on his lower lip. “Geez. A long time. I joined not long after the show started. Took over after Carlo…Carlo, I don’t remember his last name, but anyway, that was, oh, about fifteen years ago.”

“You were good friends with Marty?”

“In a way. Very private man. Didn’t have too many close friends. So I guess you could say I was a friend. I had dinner at his house a couple of times.”

The two men chuckled.

“How are you coping after what happened? I mean, you sound like you’re coping all right, but it’s been, what, only a few days.”

Bill sipped his café latte and shrugged. “I have trouble sleeping; the occasional nightmare. All the usual things. But as you say, it’s only been a few days. My wife has been wonderful, so have the kids.”

“That’s great,” the reporter said. “Family is the best therapy. Now, what do you think when you hear or see the man, Sam Drayton?”

“Hatred.”

“You don’t feel, I don’t know, pity?”

“The man murdered over a hundred innocent people. He was a nobody, a loser who would do anything just to be noticed.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Is that why I think he did what he did? Yes. From what I’ve heard from the police, Sam Drayton was a bum. He didn’t work, he collected money from the government, while he preyed on gullible, destitute people. Kids, some of them.”

“He was an aspiring actor and comedian, did you know that?”

Bill nodded. He took another sip of coffee. “He got rejected from every audition he went for, apparently. Tried for years to become a successful actor or comedian. Never got anywhere. You ever see that movie, The King of Comedy?”

The man from the newspaper nodded.

“I think he got pissed at the industry. Thought the whole world was against him.”

The reporter looked up. “You sound like a psychologist.”

Bill smiled. “That’s just my opinion.”

“You think he did all that for revenge?”

“Well, I think there’s a little more to it than…” Bill stopped when he noticed a man standing by the table. He had long hair and was incredibly thin.

“Can I help you?” Bill said.

The reporter turned around.

“Are you Bill Crivelli? The Bill Crivelli?”

“Yes,” Bill said.

“Wow. I can’t believe it’s really you. I saw you on T.V. man. I think you’re a hero.” The man held out a small book and a pen. “Co…could you maybe sign this for me?”

Bill nodded and took the notebook from the beaming man. “What’s your name?”

“Ray,” the man said proudly.

Bill wrote:

To Ray. If you believe in yourself you can overcome anything. I did.

All the best,

Bill Crivelli.

He signed and dated the page. He handed the notebook back to Ray.

“Wow,” Ray muttered as he read the inscription. “Thank you so much Mr. Crivelli.”

“Nice to have met you,” Bill said.

As Ray shuffled from the table, the man from the newspaper smiled at Bill.

“Do you get that a lot now?”

“Sure,” Bill said. “I get stopped all the time by people who can’t believe it’s actually me. I’ve signed so many autographs these last few days. It’s strange. I mean, who am I? Last week I was just a floor manger on the Marty Laffin Show. Now, I’m recognised everywhere I go.”

“Do you mind?”

“I like it,” Bill said. “I always wanted to be famous. Just yesterday, I got offered a guest role in a hit T.V. show.” He grinned. “Due to legal matters I can’t name the show yet.”

“I understand,” the reporter said.

“I’ve even got an agent now,” Bill continued.

“You’re going to be more famous than Sam Drayton.”

Bill’s smile faded a little. He finished off the coffee and gazed at the young reporter. “Yeah, I guess so.”

More famous than Sam Drayton.

Those words haunted Bill for the remainder of the interview.

NOTES:

My second published story, and my second to be posted on the Horrorfind website. I wrote this back in 2001, just as reality TV was really taking off. It infuses my love of tacky game shows, late night talk shows, and my fascination with cults.

A LIGHT FOR ROSE

The first time Clayton saw the light, he didn’t think much of it.

He was trying hard to fall asleep when a flash of light forced his eyes open. He lay gazing at the window. The light, or whatever it was that had shone at him, was gone.

Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…

As the footsteps continued above, a second flicker caught his eyes.

He rolled on to his back and stared up at the darkness.

Lightning perhaps? he thought, even though it was a sultry summer night.

He shrugged it off and was about to attempt another restless slumber, when once again a gleam of light flickered into his apartment.

Clayton sat up.

The light vanished again, only to reappear moments later, glinting through the window like sun reflecting off a car’s windshield.

Only it was night and he was five stories up.

Just what I need, he thought. If the footsteps weren’t bad enough.

He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the prickle of stubble, and sighed.

Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…

Tiredness sat heavy on him, like the oppressive heat of the past few days, and even though he wanted to sleep, needed to, the footsteps of his upstairs neighbor kept him awake.

He glanced over at the alarm clock. The red numbers glared back at him: 12:51.

He had ten more minutes of footsteps marching above, and then he would try and get some much-needed rest.

Not if this damn light continues.

Just like the footsteps, it too seemed to have a definite rhythm.

Where’s it coming from? he wondered.

The light blinked on and off for another ten minutes. It eventually stopped, along with the footsteps.

“Finally,” Clayton breathed, lying down and closing his eyes.

He could now try and sleep. The footsteps would be back tomorrow night; hopefully, the strange light wouldn’t.

Clayton fell asleep soon after.

* * *

The light returned at twelve-fifty the next night, just as the footsteps started.

Clayton was in bed watching some old black and white movie and drifting off to sleep when his eyes were hit with the same sharp, almost glowing light.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes and cursed.

Not again.

Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…

He was too aware of the footsteps now and knew there was no way he was going to get to sleep until both the footsteps and the light had stopped.

He turned off the television, threw the remote down and hopped out of bed. He didn’t bother turning on any lights — the faint glow of the moon let enough light in for him to see his way around.

He stopped in the middle of his apartment, looked up and shook his head.

Stop your damn worrying, Rose. Keeping me awake won’t bring him home any sooner.

Of course, he knew one way he could solve both his and Rose’s problem. It would only require a bit of guts on his part and a willing soul on Rose’s.

Yeah right. Who am I kidding? A gorgeous woman like that wouldn’t want anything to do with me.

Then there was Rose’s husband, Hal, to worry about. And Clayton certainly didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.

Clayton wandered over to the refrigerator and grabbed a lukewarm Coors Light. He popped the can open and took a mouthful. It was tepid and bitter, but did the job.

He stood by the fridge and watched the strange rhythmic flickering of the light. Listened to the steady beat of Rose’s footsteps.

Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…

Clayton walked over to the window. Sirens and the sound of tires screeching and the occasional scream wafted up through the open window. Somewhere a baby was crying. He liked to keep the window open during the warmer weather. He liked having some air flowing into his stuffy studio apartment, and he didn’t mind the sounds of the city.

He looked down at the alley. Thought perhaps it was somebody with a flashlight playing games with him. He saw nothing but shadows and dark shapes. Shapes that could’ve been the trashcans and abandoned shopping carts that littered the alley — or perhaps something more sinister.

Whatever was down there in the foul alleyway, it certainly wasn’t the source of the light.

It continued to flash at him.

It reminded him of the light catchers he used to have as a boy. The way the sunlight or moonlight used to cast its reflection through the hundreds of tiny mirrors, as the catcher twirled slowly with the wind.

There was no light catcher hanging from his window now.

Maybe in the future, when he got back on his feet and was able to afford some swank apartment on the Upper East Side. When he moved out of this dump, moved out of The Village, then he would buy as many light catchers as he wanted.

He gazed up at the full moon and took a sip of beer.

His mind wandered with thoughts of a new and better life. By the time he had finished his beer, it was past one o’clock and the footsteps had stopped and there was no more light.

He turned away from the window, tossed the can to the floor and hopped back into bed.

He stayed awake until Hal arrived home, thinking about the light and what, or who, was causing it. The light didn’t return and he eventually drifted off to sleep.

* * *

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

Geoff sighed. “Christ, Clay. I set up these interviews for you and you don’t even show up. What the hell kind of message does that send out, huh?”

“Listen Geoff. I’ve been real tired lately. Haven’t been getting much sleep. I just overslept today, that’s all.”

“That’s all? Well listen, buddy, I’ve managed to set up another interview with my boss the day after tomorrow, eight-thirty sharp. Think you can handle that?”

Clayton wanted to tell him that he didn’t really want the job, that he didn’t want to gain fifty pounds and lose his hair like Geoff. But the guy was his best friend and he was sticking his neck out for him. “Sure. Thanks.”

“Be early, huh? Wear a nice suit and act real sorry about today.”

“I will.”

“Now tell me. What’s up? Why are you so tired lately? You don’t work, you haven’t got a woman to keep you up, and you hardly go out anymore.”

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping, that’s all.”

“There are drugs for that.”

“I don’t want to take drugs. You know that. It’s nothing serious. Just…”

“Just what?”

Clayton knew what Geoff was going to say, but he had to tell someone.

“That Rose babe still keeping you up?”

“Yeah.”

Geoff laughed. “She still pacing back and forth waiting for her dear husband to call every night?”

“Yeah.”

“I tell ya, that Hal is one lucky man. What I wouldn’t do to get into her pants.”

“That’s not all that’s keeping me up,” Clayton said.

“Okay. So what else is?”

“A light.”

Geoff was silent for a moment. “Huh?”

“For the last two nights there’s been this strange flickering of light. It’s as if someone is holding a magnifying glass up to the moon and shining it into my apartment. Only it flickers. On and off. For about ten minutes and then just goes away.”

Clayton waited for the laugher, for the snide comments.

“Dude, you really need to get some sleep,” Geoff chuckled.

“But what could it be? I don’t know where it’s coming from or what’s causing it. It seems to go away once Rose goes to sleep.”

There was a long intake of breath from Geoff. “Well, what do you think it is? A U.F.O.?”

“No, of course not. I dunno.”

Clayton did have his ideas, but they were all ludicrous, and he knew the kind of response he would get from Geoff if he told them to his friend.

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Right. Nothing,” Geoff said. “Listen, get yourself some rest. Go to the interview, knock’em dead, get the job, and then you can move out of Greenwich Village and into my building. There’s a free apartment just waiting for you buddy. Just imagine the parties we could have. Look, why don’t you go up to Rose and keep her company until Hal comes home…?”

If only you knew how many times I’ve thought about that.

“…At least she won’t keep you up with her pacing. You’ll be too tired from all the…”

“Yeah yeah,” Clayton said. “Thanks for the advice.”

Geoff laughed. “Okay Clay. I’d better be off. Catch me after the interview, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Good luck, huh?”

“Thanks.”

Clayton hung up the phone.

Went back to his dinner of beer and pizza.

It was a little after nine-thirty.

* * *

Clayton sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. His eyes were heavy and he knew he should be sleeping, but he wanted to see if the light came back again tonight.

He had racked his brain trying to work out what could be the cause of the light, and even though he was sure there was some simple explanation for it, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was something more intriguing, like somebody being kept prisoner was trying to communicate with him by the only way they could — by somehow flicking a light into his apartment.

He knew that was highly unlikely, merely a product of watching too many movies, but the light had to come from somewhere. There had to be a reason for it.

Thump thump thump thump… Thump thump thump thump…

“And the time at the sound of the footsteps is twelve-fifty,” Clayton said and smiled.

He listened to Rose pace up and down, pausing to turn around when she reached each end of her apartment.

He’s called every night for the past two weeks. He’ll call again tonight.

Of course, if he had the guts…

Light glinted into the apartment. He sat up straight and watched, and soon realized he was holding his breath. He let it out gently as the light shimmered again.

His mysterious light was back — and just like the other times, it was the same pattern.

He stood, and as he wandered over to the window, his thoughts about it being a cry for help seemed more logical. It looked like some kind of signal.

It was a bright moon again and a warm night. He could feel a gentle breeze seeping in. He looked down at the alley. He noticed movement down there among the shadows. His heart began to race. What if he was right and down in the alley was his prisoner trying to reach him?

The distant sound of trashcans being hit made its way up into Clayton’s apartment.

As he leaned forward in the hope of a better view, his eyes caught a glimmer of light.

It vanished soon after, but in that moment, he was certain that the light was coming from somewhere directly ahead, not down in the alley.

Probably just some cats, he thought as the noise below continued.

He turned his attention from the alley to the warehouse opposite.

His window, like all the apartments on this side of the building, faced an old warehouse that had been closed for years. The FOR RENT sign had long since been defaced by graffiti and its dark, empty rooms were now home to the odd vagrant and junkie. It was big and dirty and empty and ugly. Not the nicest view to have, but considering the type of tenement he was living in, it was appropriate.

The light did seem to be stemming from that direction, but Clayton couldn’t make out exactly where it was coming from. The way the light flickered on and off, it could’ve been coming from anywhere.

But what’s causing it?

Clayton stared so long and hard into the dark windows of the warehouse that his eyes began playing tricks. He thought he saw the dark shape of a person — a person sitting in one of the rooms.

Clayton blinked and shook his head.

Christ, I’m seeing things.

He looked back into the room where he thought he had seen the dark figure, but saw only blackness.

He smiled.

Amazing what the mind can conjure up when looking into darkness.

The light glinted once more, then vanished.

From upstairs he heard the muffled voice of Rose.

Made it safely through another night, it seems.

With a sigh, Clayton turned away from the window. He wandered over to his bed and hopped in.

Questions floated around in his mind, questions he was still trying to answer when he drifted off to sleep twenty minutes later.

* * *

It had been a long, boring day. Clayton had gone to the store and bought some chocolate, coffee, bread, cigarettes and more beer. He was running low on cash, so he could only afford the essentials. The only interesting thing that happened was seeing Rose. She had been outside, leaning against the building, smoking. Hal hadn’t been around, Clayton assumed he was upstairs sleeping, and she had smiled at him as he walked up the steps leading to the front entrance, carrying his groceries. He had wanted to say something witty, but only smiled and nodded, then went on his merry way.

I’m an idiot, he thought as he sat waiting in the darkness of his apartment, a can of Coors Light clutched in his sweaty hand. I had an opportunity to talk to her, and what did I do? Smiled like a moron and kept on going.

It was some consolation that Rose had smiled at him. But he figured she was that sort of person — kind and gregarious and smiling at everyone as they went past.

He liked to think she had smiled at him because she fancied him. Liked to think it was some signal for him to come on up when her husband was out tonight.

Which is what I should be doing right now instead of sitting here waiting for the light.

Clayton jumped when the footsteps started. He let out a nervous chuckle.

Thump thump thump thump… Thump thump thump thump…

He wasn’t sure why he was so keyed up tonight. He had been on edge ever since seeing Rose this afternoon.

He took a drink and watched the window.

She is hot, though.

He pictured the way she looked today — tight white tube top and short cut-off jeans.

Thank the Lord for summer, he thought, and continued waiting.

When the light didn’t appear, even after a few minutes of listening to Rose upstairs, Clayton sighed with disappointment.

Where is it?

He turned and glanced at the clock. He saw his answer. It was only twelve-thirty. Based on the last three nights, the light wouldn’t start until twelve-fifty.

Still twenty minutes to go.

It was Rose that was early.

Poor woman, Clayton thought. She’s getting more and more nervous as the nights wear on.

He wondered what kind of state she was going to be in after a month of waiting and pacing.

Perhaps she would be grateful for the company. After all, she did smile at him, so she obviously knew he lived in the building and thought of him as a friendly neighbour.

I can’t. That’s not me. I’ve never gone up to a virtual stranger’s apartment and asked if they wanted company. She’ll think I’m a weirdo or something.

Still, the notion excited him.

Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…

And she was alone up there. Young, beautiful, anxious, probably in dire need of a strong arm to comfort her and keep her warm until hubby called.

He thought about his conversation with Geoff last night. About what Geoff had said to him — “Look, why don’t you go up to Rose and keep her company until Hal comes home? At least she won’t keep you up with her pacing.”

Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose.

Except his teeth if she told her husband when he arrived home.

But he won’t be home for another hour. Imagine that — a whole hour with Rose. I’ve got to grow some balls and take a risk every once in a while.

He decided it was worth risking a few teeth for the chance of spending some time with Rose.

Clayton stood up and headed for the door. He was still in his jeans and T-shirt, so he didn’t have to change, however he did stop off at the bathroom to use some deodorant and mouthwash before leaving.

He opened the door a crack and peered out at the dim hallway. All was quiet, so he walked out, closed the door and crept toward the stairs that led to the top floor.

He didn’t need to be so sneaky, considering people came and went all throughout the night (there was business being conducted in the building other than men tending to the needs of poor helpless women), but he felt sly and even a bit shameful.

After all, this was a married woman he was going up to see.

Clayton took each step carefully, and when he reached the top, was relieved that he didn’t encounter any late night visitors.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans then proceeded down the hall.

Usually Clayton was the first to complain about the poor lighting in the building, but tonight he was grateful for it.

He stopped at apartment 612.

I’ve come to help you, Rose.

Still, good intentions didn’t mask how nervous he was feeling. He glanced over his shoulder at the rows of doors and expected one to open any moment and for some nosy neighbor to tell him to get the hell away from there, that her husband is a cop and that he’d better be careful.

He raised his arm, but didn’t knock.

He also reminded himself that if he was successful and Rose did let him in, he would miss out on seeing his light.

Come on, Clay. What’s more important? Sleeping with a beautiful woman, or watching some stupid light?

He knew the answer, yet as he stood there in the hallway, arm poised, the whole idea suddenly seemed ludicrous and juvenile. Perhaps someone like Geoff would be able to go through with it, but Clayton wasn’t like Geoff, and up until this moment, was glad for that.

Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…

The footsteps were faint, yet loud in Clayton’s heart. He knew that the moment he turned around, he would never be back. This was his one and only chance. His one opportunity to be with someone as attractive as Rose. Maybe afterwards he would finally get some fucking sleep.

It was in everyone’s best interest for him to knock on the door.

From somewhere below, a door slammed.

Clayton jerked, startled.

It had sounded like the front entrance door.

Clayton pictured Hal coming home early and making his way up the six flights of stairs. Imagined Hal walking through the door and catching him in bed with Rose. Imagined the carnage that would inevitably follow.

She’s still pacing. He hasn’t called yet.

He might want to surprise her, Clayton reasoned. Might have stopped off and bought some flowers and chocolates.

That was enough.

Clayton lowered his arm with a sigh.

Coward.

Better a healthy coward than a broken, but satisfied, man, he thought.

Clayton turned around and hurried towards the stairs. He didn’t care so much about making a lot of noise as he bounded down.

He wanted to make it back to his apartment before his imaginary Hal made it to the fifth floor.

He didn’t pass anyone as he dashed to his apartment. He opened the door, stepped into the familiar darkness, and felt safe.

Huffing and sweating quite generously, he noticed that the time was twelve-fifty two.

Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…

The footsteps continued upstairs, as loud as ever, but they only reminded Clayton of a missed opportunity and he wanted them to stop now more than ever.

And to make matters worse, there was no sign of the light.

He walked over to the window and looked out across at the warehouse. It was the right time, yet nothing flashed.

He felt sad, like he had lost a small part of himself.

Still, he waited at the window until the footsteps stopped and he heard Rose talking upstairs.

The light never came. He would never know the real cause of the light now.

It also seemed he was wrong about Hal coming home early to surprise Rose.

I should have knocked, he thought.

Feeling foolish, cowardly and a little disappointed, Clayton got undressed and hopped into bed.

Despite everything that had happened, or maybe because of it, he fell asleep quickly.

* * *

Even though he felt terrible in the morning, Clayton was able to get ready for the interview. He showered and shaved, had two cups of coffee for breakfast and donned his one and only good suit. He stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and liked what he saw.

I’ll knock ‘em dead.

He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.

He was shocked to find the hallway crowded with police. Some were talking with occupants of the apartment building; others were walking up and down the staircase that led to the sixth floor, which, Clayton saw, had yellow police tape tied to its posts.

“Clayton!”

Clayton looked over to see Herbert Jones. Herbert was another fifth floor resident and liked to know everything that was happening.

“Jesus Christ, what a circus,” the old man said, grinning and shaking his head. He was still in his bathrobe.

Clayton gazed at the diminutive, gray-haired man. “What the hell happened?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

Clayton shook his head.

“Young Rose Hawkins was murdered last night.”

Clayton’s head swirled. “Murdered? Rose?”

“That’s what I said. She was butchered. While she was asleep. Cops think it’s the work of that serial killer. You know, the one that kills women while they’re asleep in their homes.”

“They do?”

The old man grinned, displaying shriveled yellow teeth. “Nah, not really. That’s only what I reckon. But I bet I’m right.”

Clayton watched the goings on in a daze. Police dashing about, taking statements, looking for clues. It was all so surreal.

“I’ll bet the cops will want to talk to you,” Herbert said.

“Huh?”

Clayton began to panic. Did they think he did it? Did somebody see him last night?

“The cops. They’ll want to speak to you. I mean, hell, you do live right under the poor girl.” Herbert leaned in close. He smelled of sweat and coffee. “Did ya hear anything last night?”

Clayton shook his head and relaxed a little. “No. Only her footsteps.”

“Waiting for Hal?”

Clayton nodded.

“He’s the one who found her. What a thing to come home to, huh?”

“I heard her speaking to him,” Clayton said, his thoughts trailing off, remembering the events of last night.

“It seems that between her speaking with Hal and him coming home, the killer broke into their apartment. Must’ve been watching her or something I reckon. I mean, how the hell else did he know when to break in and get her?”

“That’s when I fell asleep,” Clayton said, his voice distant.

“Well you should have heard the commotion after Hal found the body. Christ, the place was packed with cops and paramedics. You didn’t hear any of it?”

“No.”

Herbert whistled. “Boy, you sure are a heavy sleeper.”

“Well I’ve been tired lately. Do they know who did it?”

“They’re the cops. What do you think?” Herbert laughed. “Hal’s their main suspect at the moment, but that’s not because of any hard evidence, just standard cop procedure. They’ve been talking to everyone in the building all morning, but they haven’t found any clues, apart from the one the killer left behind. Shit, the only clue they do have is because the killer was careless.”

“Left what behind?”

“Well, according to Mrs. Dally up in room six-sixteen, they found a necklace of some sort. Big old glass thing. Wasn’t Rose’s or Hal’s, according to Hal. So they figured it had to have been the killer’s. Of course, the cops won’t admit to that. There was a struggle, you see. Apparently Rose fought like a…” Herbert stopped when a policeman walked over.

“Who are you?”

It took a moment for Clayton to realise that the cop was speaking to him. “Clayton Patterson.”

“You the one who lives in this apartment?”

Clayton nodded.

“Well then, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions,” the policeman said, flipping open his notebook. The policeman eyed Herbert. “Do you mind, sir?”

“Sorry, officer.” Herbert scurried off, his bathrobe flapping behind him.

“Okay, son. What’s your name again?”

“I’m late for a job interview,” Clayton said.

The policeman huffed and one side of his mouth curled. “Son, you’re going to have to miss this one.”

Clayton dropped his briefcase. It clattered to the floor, its emptiness echoing his own feelings. “I didn’t want the job anyway.”

The policeman nodded. “Your full name, please.”

* * *

Clayton glanced at the alarm clock: 12:50.

He waited. When the footsteps didn’t come, he let out a sigh.

Not that he was expecting any.

Still, there was something missing now. It was too quiet. It seemed he had gotten used to the late night ritual.

He glanced over at the window, at the stream of moonlight that cut a bright line into his apartment. There was no light, either.

Nor would there ever be, Clayton knew.

It had vanished, along with Rose’s life.

Clayton shivered, despite the warm breeze drifting in through the open window. And even though he was exhausted, there would be no sleep for him tonight.

NOTES:

I’m a big fan of murder-mystery stories, and magazines such as Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock. I wrote this story specifically with the idea of submitting it to Ellery Queen. A tough market, and sure enough, a few months later I received my first rejection letter from the legendary mystery magazine. But, not too long after, Eric from Nocturne Press came to me asking if I had anything I could send him for the premiere issue of Post Mortem magazine. I had this story fresh in my mind, so I sent him the story, he liked it and bought it.

THE CYCLE

It was as unbelievable and grotesque as anything he had ever seen.

The sign read: Road kill for sale. Good ‘n’ fresh.

That was ghoulish enough, but it was what was written beside it, crudely, in fading red paint that really appealed to Craig’s sense of the macabre: Souls for sale.

Wearing only jeans and a cap, Craig Becker stepped out of the dust-coloured Jeep Cherokee (its air conditioner had been on the blink for the past few days, since around Montgomery) and towelled the sweat from his face with his black Easy Rider T-shirt which stank of long drives, cheap motels and, suitably, of weed. His body was tanned and, despite the love handles that were creeping over the sides of his jeans and the curls on his chest that were starting to gray, in good shape.

Flinging the damp shirt across the back of his neck and shoulders to block the fiery sun, Craig crunched over dirt to the stand by the side of the road. The stench of dead flesh was strong

Contrary to what the sign proclaimed, the road kill looked neither good nor fresh — flies swarmed the collection of dead possum, fox, deer and other assorted road kill and buzzed around the scores of tins.

“Howdy,” the man sitting behind the stand said, accent typically southern.

“G’day,” Craig said. “Hot.”

The man stood, looked up at the rich blue sky and nodded. “Suppose it is. What can I do you for?”

The man was stick-thin and ugly. Not ugly in the deformed, inbred way that Craig had seen in countless films, but in a ‘poor son-of-a-bitch got the bad end of the deal, looks like a monkey crossed with a weasel, no woman with one good eye would ever go near’, sort of way.

“Saw your sign. Thought I’d stop and take a look. It’s not every day you see this kind of thing for sale.”

Thin lips peeled back, unveiling stubby yellow teeth. “No, don’t suppose you would see this kind of thing in…England?”

Craig shook his head. “Right blood-line, wrong country. Australia. Melbourne.”

“Aus… tra… li… a,” the man said thickly. “What brings ya’ll the way down here? Grand Canyon’s about a thousand miles that away.”

“I’m no tourist,” Craig said, pointing to his cap. “I’m a regular Joe.”

The rat-like man squinted up at the cap. “I love Bush,” he read. “That supposed to be some kinda joke? Who’s Bush?”

Lordy, Craig thought, but smiled and said, “It’s a play on words. You know…George Dubya as opposed to a lady’s…” Craig could tell by the man’s blank stare that this guy knew a hell of a lot about road kill, and that was about it. “Anyway,” Craig said, scanning the array of dead animals, “I’m driving around America, doing the quest thing, trying to find the real America, just like Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper.” Craig went for his T-shirt, but decided against it. If the guy didn’t know who the President of his own country was, then he surely wouldn’t know…

“You mean like in that movie? Easy Rider?”

“That’s right,” Craig said, surprised. “Except I’m riding in a Jeep, not on a Harley. Not nearly as romantic, but hell, don’t wanna die before I see this country. Don’t wanna end up as road…” Craig swallowed. “Name’s Craig, by the way.”

“Almus,” the man said. “You hungry?”

Craig hadn’t eaten anything since the bacon and eggs this morning. He wasn’t a big fan of either food, but the diner — Patty’s Good Eat In — had offered little else that wasn’t deep fried, or that didn’t require him to look up a dictionary to find out what it was.

“Sure,” he said. “You got a barbecue going nearby or something?” Craig looked past the stand and into the woods, but couldn’t see a house.

“No,” Almus squawked. “I meant did ya want to buy some road kill?”

Craig’s stomach lurched. Was this guy serious?

A distant cry cut Almus’s laughter short. It had sounded like some big cat or a wolf. Almus looked over his shoulder, and when he turned back, he looked unnerved. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to laugh at ya.”

“Forget it. So people buy these dead animals…for food?”

“’Course. Why else?”

Craig thought for a moment. “To get stuffed and mounted?” he offered.

“This here’s good eatin’. You’d be surprised how tasty these critters are. An’ it’s a good business, too. It don’t cost nothing for me to get them; I just wait ‘til some animal is run over, then I scrape it off the road, clean it up a bit, an’ sell it.”

“You sell many?”

“I do all right.” He turned to the line of strung up, flat-as-a-pancake carcasses, tails hanging limply, fur bloody, dead eyes glaring. “Now, I’ve got fox, beaver, wild cat, deer…”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Craig said, the hot afternoon air making it difficult for him to breathe. All he could smell was baking meat. “I’m suddenly not that hungry.”

Almus shrugged. “Suit yourself.” A gleam sparkled in his otherwise glassy eyes. He moved over to the table next to the one that housed the road kill. Craig followed. “Would you be more interested in one of these?”

Tins of varying sizes sat atop a splintery table. There were around twenty, the smallest being the size of a coffee tin, the largest the size of a paint can. Most of them were rusted and full of dints; some still bore their labels, though most of the brands were faded, and those that Craig could read he had never heard of.

“These the souls?” Craig asked.

Almus nodded, the twinkle in his eyes growing more fervent.

There was something distinctly odd about this man — and it wasn’t just his homely looks or that he sold road kill and souls by the side of the road in backwater, USA. Craig sensed purpose in him, a deeper intelligence that he was trying desperately to cover up.

“When a varmint is killed, their soul escapes and floats up to heaven…or down to hell, depending on what God sees fit. Only, if you’re quick enough, you can catch the dead critter’s soul. You have to be quick, mind you, or else you’ll miss your chance. And you gotta know how to catch it.”

“And you know how to?”

“I got ‘em right here, don’t I?”

Craig eyed the rows of tins, could barely contain his smile, but was fascinated by this man and what his bizarre roadside stand represented. It was capitalism at its most primitive. Yessiree, he had definitely found the spirit of America.

“Whose souls are they?”

“These road kill, mostly.”

“Can I see one?”

Almus shook his head. “’Fraid not. You have to buy one first before you can open a tin up. These are mighty powerful things. They may be the souls of simple animals, but they’re souls all the same.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Buy one and find out.”

It was all bullshit, of course. Craig knew this was just a clever, albeit morbid, way of making money off of stupid and equally morbid tourists. During his two-month road trip, he had seen roadside vendors selling bottled air, water that was supposed to cure cancer, even locks of pubic hair from virgins. In a land where everything was for sale and nothing was too absurd, selling the souls of dead animals was just another way of squeezing every bit of milk and sucking all the honey from her generous and bountiful supply.

Craig could do without the moldering carrion being passed off as edible food…

Surely people can’t really buy and eat the animals…

…But the idea that souls could be captured and contained, and then sold on the side of the road was wondrous and ghastly at the same time. What kind of mind thinks up something like this? Craig wondered. Either a really clever one, or a delusional crackpot who really believes he has the essence of life for sale. Craig hadn’t decided which one Almus was yet.

“You got a wife?”

Craig looked up into the archaic face of Almus. “No. I mean I had one, but she’s…dead.”

Pain ripped through Craig’s chest.

Sorry, Rachel.

“Just thought you could buy one for her, or yer kids. Make a nice present.”

“No kids either.”

Just as well, he thought. Wouldn’t have wanted them to go through what I went through with Rachel.

Annoyed at Almus for dredging up memories he had tried so hard to forget, had driven so many miles to put behind him, Craig decided it was time to hit the road again, so he plucked his wallet from his back jeans pocket. “How much for one of the tins?”

“Depends on the soul. The bigger the tin, the bigger the animal, the bigger and more powerful the soul.”

Craig scanned the assortment of tins. His eyes locked on to the large one. “That big tin, what animal was it and how much?”

If he was going to buy one, why not make the most of it? He could afford it and this guy looked like he could use the money.

Almus breathed a long sigh. When he smiled, his lips trembled. “Glad you asked.”

A howl, long and sorrowful cut the still afternoon air like a blade through flesh. It sent chills up and down Craig’s back.

He noticed Almus grin, and once the cry had stopped, Almus said, “That tin contains the most powerful soul of all. A human’s.”

Craig blanched. “A human’s? As in a person, a human being?”

“That’s right.”

This was taking the gimmick a little too far, but he had to ask. “Where’s the body?”

“Long gone,” Almus said. “Besides, that would be in plain bad taste, hanging a human like it was ordinary road kill.”

Craig almost laughed.

Bad taste? Take a look around you, bud.

He guessed it didn’t really matter what was supposed to be in the tin; it was all bull anyway. He was in it for the funhouse aspect of it, not for any magical power it may contain.

Hell, if there really is a human soul in there, maybe I could take it home with me and give it to Rachel. It might help her. Craig felt the sting of regret. Not funny, he thought.

“Okay, how much?”

“Twe…thirty bucks.”

Craig was used to haggling prices — he worked at a used car lot back home — and had used his bargaining skills countless times during his trip around the States, but decided not to bother this time. After all, thirty dollars was a good price for a human soul.

Craig handed Almus the money.

Almus thanked him, then handed Craig the tin.

It was heavier than Craig expected.

“Well, I guess that’s it then,” Craig said, cradling the tin under his arm.

“Just remember, a soul is a powerful thing.” Almus winked.

“Right,” Craig said. “I’ll be careful.”

“You made the right choice. I think you’ll be happy.”

I’ll be using it to piss in, but thanks all the same.

“Are you sure you don’t want to buy some road kill? I’ll do you a special price. I’ve got a nice fresh one killed this morning. There’s not much to eat around here and it’ll be dark in a few hours. If you’re planning on camping, you might want some fresh meat.”

Craig was planning on camping out tonight. He had provisions in the Jeep that he had bought at a store after eating at Patty’s — some beef jerky, canned cheese and crackers, a chocolate bar and a six pack of beer — but a nice bit of meat would be damn delicious. Craig took one last glance at the fly-ridden corpses, pictured himself cooking the fox over an open fire, and knew it was something he just couldn’t stomach.

“Sorry. Maybe some other time.”

Almus nodded and smiled.

It was a sly smile, one of secrets untold.

And for the second time since stopping at this roadside stand, Craig sensed that its vendor knew more than he let on.

It’s just the heat, Craig told himself, turning and heading back to the Jeep. It’s frying your brain.

Yet he couldn’t shake the presence of Almus and his smile, even after he was far away from the dead animals and cheap souls.

* * *

The sun cast a pinkish glow over the horizon. The world was settling in for the night, and Almus was still sitting behind the stand. Waiting.

It had been hours since the man left, coasting down the defunct highway in his swank Jeep, unaware of what he had in his possession. How much longer was he going to wait until he opened the tin? Even if the man from Australia didn’t believe what was inside the tin to be real, surely human curiosity would be getting the better of him by now.

The waiting was killing Almus. Not literally, of course, but the caustic pain he had been enduring for thousands of sunsets was nothing now compared with the waiting.

Hopefully, the pain would end tonight.

As the sun was swapped for the moon, Almus lit the gas lamps and the purple landscape turned to blackness. He didn’t need the light, didn’t need the sign to be seen by a passing car now (not that many vehicles came by this stretch of highway anymore — that man had been a stroke of luck), but it did keep the creatures at bay, only if by sight.

As the mosquitoes started swarming the light, Almus looked down at the crumpled money that lay on the table — a twenty and a ten — and smiled.

He had thought thirty sounded like a fair enough price. The man had seemed willing enough to pay.

More than willing, Almus thought, and wondered what the man had been hiding, what thing from his past was he running away from?

Something to do with his wife, Almus figured. Dead? No. She was alive, Almus sensed. He had met a lot of people sitting by the side of the road, and none of them had bought what the man had. It takes a special kind of person to hand over their soul; someone hurting, lost.

Almus knew about pain all too well.

Not much longer, Almus hoped.

He wasn’t particularly worried. He knew the man would open the tin eventually.

Beside the man’s payment was another ten. Except this note was a lot older; Alexander Hamilton was fading and lines streaked the green paper like a cracked mirror. A reminder. As if he needed another one.

Everything was cheaper in those days, Almus thought ruefully.

He had really played up the country hick for the man from Australia. Almus wasn’t what you would call sophisticated, but he wasn’t quite the rube the man thought he was. It was all about the sale, and Almus had known what he needed to do and say to make it, without forcing the man to buy the tin.

Night was in full bloom, and, right on schedule, the creatures started in chorus — wolves howled, foxes barked, owls hooted, crickets chirped.

“I hear you,” Almus bellowed. “Hound me all you want to, I ain’t gonna budge.”

He could tell — they all knew he was leaving tonight.

He also knew that beyond the glow of the lamps, a thousand eyes stared at him, hating him, haunting him.

Wishing they had what he had; or rather, that the man had bought one of their tins instead.

Almus looked up at the hanging carcasses swamped with insects.

The howls and hoots and hisses sounded like a symphony of scorn, but Almus didn’t care anymore; just like the constant pain that ebbed and flowed through his emaciated body, he would be rid of them soon.

The back of his head where he had been shot caused him the most grief, but his body, where the car had run over him, also made it most uncomfortable for him to move without pain shooting through his body. There was nothing he could do or take for the pain; all he could do was what he had been doing for well over thirty years now — he waited.

* * *

Craig popped open a can of Coors Light and took a much-needed drink.

The beer was too warm for his tastes, but it helped take the sting out of what Almus had unwittingly dredged up. Besides, after half a dozen more he wouldn’t care if it was tepid.

Road kill for sale. Good ‘n’ fresh.

Souls for sale.

Christ, Craig thought.

Rachel.

Double Christ.

He belched a combination of jerky, cheese and Snickers (which had been almost completely melted), then drank another can of beer. His tent was up, he had eaten, and as the night had grown cooler, had made a fire in the middle of the small clearing he had happened upon for the night’s camp. There was nothing left to do now but drown his memories and try and sleep.

The night creatures called out to one another, their purpose known only to them. To Craig, their howls and hoots were mocking laughter. Somehow, they knew about Rachel, what she had become, how he had abandoned her. Knew about his stop at Almus’s. The tin he had bought. The sly smile that even now as he gazed into the licking orange flames he could see on that hick’s dog-ugly face.

Thirty bucks! The animals were laughing to each other. The Aussie fool paid thirty smackers for an empty tin. Ha! What was he trying to prove? Who was he really buying it for? Himself? Hardly. What was he thinking? Fool. Ha!

It was the hillbilly’s fault. Asking if he had a wife. Whose business was it of anyone’s but Craig’s? He had just started to get his life back. He was enjoying the open road, no responsibilities, no work, no wife…

Now, that was all gone. All because of Almus.

How was he to know? Craig thought. He didn’t know about Rachel, how she had changed. Didn’t know the kind of person she once was.

Craig choked up, remembering her laughter — a sweet giggle that rolled into a belly of laughter.

He finished the beer and wiped his eyes.

The laughter grew less frequent, while the manic episodes slowly clouded her life. Oh sure, the doctors said she wasn’t manic, nor was she suffering from dementia.

Yet they couldn’t explain her violent, abusive outbursts. Her hateful words, full of bad language she never, ever used to speak.

Her entire outlook on life changed. The people around her, those she loved most, became her enemies — at least in her mind.

Craig received most of her hate.

“I wish I’d never met you” she would shout. “You damn fucking cunt! Our son would never have died if I had never met you!”

Irrational.

Their son had died during labor. It was hard for the both of them in the years that followed, but their love had held them strong like crazy glue.

Until the change.

A change that Craig tried to bear, tried to understand and accept.

But he couldn’t. He just wasn’t that strong.

If the change in her personality had been the early symptoms of brain cancer, he would’ve stayed with her.

She had the tests. No cancer.

Other than her personality transformation, she was in great health.

It was like she was a different person. The Rachel that once was, was dead.

That’s why Craig had left and travelled to America, to get away from it all…away from her. He had needed to get as far away as possible and travelling to another country seemed the best solution, if not the right one.

“I needed to find myself, just like in the movie,” Craig said to the woods.

But he was beginning to think maybe he was searching for something other than freedom.

Like an old tin?

Craig gazed at the Jeep parked ten feet away.

“What the hell,” he said and got to his feet.

He opened the back door and found the beaten old tin snuggled amongst the assorted junk he had accumulated thus far. He was again shocked at its weight, even for a tin of its size, and closing the Jeep’s back door, headed back to the fire.

He sat down on the log and held the tin in his hands, curiously hesitant about opening it.

There’s nothing in there, he told himself. Then why won’t you open it?

He didn’t believe Almus and all his talk about collecting souls from the dead animals, trapping them before they escaped. But there was something unusual about the man — that smile, that knowing look in his eyes — that Craig couldn’t quite figure out.

Would Almus really have sold him an empty tin?

Then he thought: what if there was something inside waiting to lash out with deadly fangs, or crawl out with eight hairy legs, or sting him with a lethal tail?

He was all alone out here, far from the next town, a doctor, or a hospital. The closest thing to civilization that Craig knew of was Almus and his roadside stand.

Not a comforting thought.

Craig didn’t recall seeing a car parked near the stand, or even a bike.

Either the old coot did live close to the stand, or he walked a long way to get to work.

Keeping a firm hold on the lid, Craig shook the tin. Nothing rattled inside.

He let out a nervous breath. Really is empty.

He chuckled.

Set the tin down, reached over and grabbed another can of beer. Opened it, gulped it down, listening to the crackling of the fire and the cries of the animals.

Not laughter anymore, Craig thought; their cries were more intense, beckoning.

They wanted him to open the tin.

This is what you’ve been searching for, they seemed to be saying to him. You paid for it, why not open it? It’s yours. Aren’t you just the least bit curious?

Might give you some answers. You want to put Rachel behind you, don’t you?

Open it and find out.

“Ah fuck it,” Craig muttered and exchanging the can of beer for the tin, pulled off the lid.

A rotten smell, like swamp gas and dead flesh spewed out and clouded Craig’s head.

“Ugh!” he gasped, throwing the tin to the ground. It rolled towards the fire. Craig jumped up, not wanting it to land in the flames, but the tin stopped short.

The stink remained.

Craig turned away from the fire and gagged, worried that he had inhaled too much of whatever it was he had set free from the confines of the tin.

What’s too much? Christ, I don’t even know what the hell it was I breathed in. Chemicals? Dangerous gas? Remnants of mouldy cheese?

He spat globs of phlegm to the ground, even washed his face with what was left of the beer. He could still taste and smell the rancid odor.

I spent thirty dollars on a toxic canister!

He was going to pay Almus back. He was going to drive back to that roadside stand and open up every one of those tins and shove Almus’s repulsive, money-grubbing face into each foul smelling tin until he choked to death.

At once the night fell silent.

All animal noises ceased; only the crackling of the fire echoed around the dim, shadowy woods.

Craig’s already racing heart sped up more, and cold sweat seeped out of every pore.

It was too quiet.

Then a voice: “Thank you.”

Craig drew in breath. “Who’s there?” He gazed out towards the trees, to where the voice seemed to have come from. “I’m armed, so show yourself.”

He didn’t have a gun, or a weapon of any sort; didn’t believe in them.

Now he wished he did.

Because out of the woods stepped Almus.

Only he looked different.

“Stay back,” Craig warned, his voice quaking.

“I knew you would open it sooner or later,” Almus said, grinning. “It’s human nature. I know.” As he ventured closer he winked, only this time, his eyeball rolled from his left socket, jolting to a stop as the nerve ran out of length. Like a gory yo-yo, the eyeball bounced up and down a few times, before coming to a stop against Almus’s chest.

Craig whimpered. The beer he had consumed threatened to come out unannounced.

“It’s funny you should pick this clearing. Back in those woods was where I buried my body. You see, I’m no different than the animals back at the stand,” Almus said. “I’m road kill, too.” Almus hobbled closer, the light from the fire revealing his true form.

His collar bone protruded from his neck, causing his head to lean to one side. One arm was missing, torn at the elbow, while the other was bent backwards and jiggled abnormally as he walked. His upper body was bloody, clothes ripped, exposing deep, nasty-looking scars that seeped a rainbow of fluids, while the bottom half offered an assortment of intestines, fat and muscle. Some shiny, wobbly organ slipped out of the wound in his stomach and slithered to the ground. Smiling, Almus squished it as he stumbled towards a stunned and nauseous Craig.

Almus sniffed the air. “Ah, the smell of freedom,” he said through a bulging black tongue. He touched the top of his head, which was a mess of blood-soaked hair and splintered skull. “Old Wilmer was quick, that he was. And you know something, his smelled a lot worse than mine. You were lucky. Wilmer’s soul had been trapped for nearly a hundred years when I came along. Paid a pretty penny for it too.”

Craig knew he had to get to the Jeep, or to the road; had to get away from this…creature, this madman.

“I’m not a ghost, nor a spirit. I’m sort of like a soulless, physical representation of my dead self. Without a soul, I can’t leave this world. But you’ll find all this out yourself. You see, you bought the tin, you opened it; you have to suffer the consequences. One soul replaces another. Like mine did Wilmer’s. Wilmer wasn’t the first and you won’t be the last.”

Almus’s mangled body ambled closer.

Craig no longer smelled the putrid fumes from the tin. All he could smell was Almus — a stronger and more disgusting emanation that was blood, faeces and death.

Craig’s mind screamed run!

“You’re my saviour, Craig. As I was Wilmer’s. There’s only one final act that needs to be done and then I’ll be totally free.”

Craig ran; he ran for the highway, leaving the maimed figure of Almus — or whatever that was back there — alone in its crazed world of souls and road kill, calling “Who will be your saviour, Craig?”

With the moon guiding his path to the safety of the highway, Craig dashed past pine trees and jumped over bushes. The night was still, as if all the creatures were watching, and when he spotted the road up ahead, he ran even faster, bladder full, eyes watering, mind a whirlwind of dismay and confusion; he heard Almus’s laughter, a joyful cackling, then a blinding light shone in his eyes, and the creature bearing down upon him gave a screeching cry, the lights grew bigger…

Craig felt incredible pain, a sense of his body being torn apart…followed by something else being torn apart, though there was no pain, only the feeling of leaving his body, then a man’s smile, a sly, knowing smile…

* * *

A car pulled over to the side of the road — a station wagon full of kids in the back, and suitcases tied to the roof. The driver, a rotund, red-faced man, said something to the woman beside him, then hopped out and waddled over to the stand.

This could be it, Craig thought. Oh please let this be the one.

“Howdy,” the man said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He was wearing shorts that were much too tight, a Yankees baseball cap and a T-shirt that said Support the troops. Support Bush.

From the car the kids laughed and yelled.

The man turned and shouted, “Quiet!”

The kids obeyed.

The man turned back, face pleased. “Sorry. Kids are restless and we’re, well, lost.” He shrugged, as if to say this kind of thing happens all the time and surely the poor sap behind the stand will know how to get back to civilization.

“You know how to get back to route seventeen?”

Craig ignored the constant pain that gnawed at his body and smiled politely. “Sorry partner. Can’t help you there.”

The man frowned, lines forming across his pudgy, sweaty face. “What the hell kind of accent is that? Canadian?”

Craig wanted to scream, to let this doughy conservative sweat-ball know how much pain he was in, that his insides felt like they were turned upside down and his head felt like a tomato that had been squashed, but knew he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to be free from this pain, from this void existence he was living. “Australian,” Craig answered. “Interested in purchasing something for the kids? The wife perhaps?”

The man looked up at the sign, then back down at Craig. He looked as though he had just sniffed shit. “You’re kidding, right pal?”

Steady, Craig told himself. Can’t lose it. There hasn’t been anybody by in at least a month. “Forget about the road kill. How about a soul?” He looked down at the large tin — dented even more now than when Craig had first seen it — hoping the man would follow.

Can’t ask him to buy it, he has to decide for himself, but hell, there’s nothing to say I can’t influence his decision.

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” the man huffed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Selling this crap to people.” He wiped his dripping forehead and coughed. “And that hat, it’s disgusting; I’ve got kids in the car. And besides, who are you to make fun of our leader? You’re not even an American.”

With a scornful look, the man made his way back to the station wagon and drove off, the kids making faces at Craig as they left.

He sighed.

Not even an American.

Right.

Craig sat back down. The glaring sun was bright in his eyes, and it would’ve been hot, if he could feel it. All he could feel was pain.

His eyes fell to the money on the ground. His payment. Thirty dollars for a lifetime of hell.

He had tried tearing the bills up, burning them, even eating the money; but no matter how many times he got rid of the two bills, they always came back.

A constant reminder.

Just like the animals in the woods; unseen, but present at all times. Always waiting.

For someone to buy their tin.

For Craig to go mad and try and escape this godforsaken roadside stand. Then they would attack, seek their revenge; didn’t matter that Craig didn’t start it — he had continued it, just as Almus had.

Even now he could hear them laughing at him, knowing he had to stay behind the stand until that special person came along.

He hoped it wouldn’t be too long.

Surely someone wanted to buy a soul.

NOTES:

This story was written with the old E.C. comics in mind, like Tales from the Crypt. I’ve done a fair bit of travelling around the States myself, so I thought it’d be interesting to have my main character as an outsider, too (though I didn’t encounter anything as bizarre as the roadside stand in my travels). My third novel, Torment, is a continuation of this story, so if you’re keen on reading more about road kill and cheap souls, then check it out (Craig even makes a cameo appearance).

THE PROJECT

As a child he was deprived of the one thing he had wanted most.

It was only during the past month that he had thought of the perfect way to get that thing — he would make his very own.

* * *

Night one — the Snare

“How much?” Hartford said.

“That depends on what you want, darlin’.”

Hartford licked his lips and grinned. If only she knew, he thought. “Will five-hundred suffice?”

The hooker’s eyes lit up. “Five hundred? Holy crackers boy, you want the works, don’t ya?”

Hartford nodded. “Surely do. The works.”

The hooker leaned in close. She smelled strongly of perfume. “I’m gonna show you the best time of your life, darlin’. You’re gonna go off so hard N.A.S.A. is gonna want to use you for a rocket.”

Hartford gazed at her body. In this scorching New York heat, even the nuns wore skimpy clothing, so what this hooker was wearing almost gave Hartford wood. And that hardly ever happened.

Well, maybe I could fuck her, Hartford thought. Wasn’t in the plan, but what the hell.

“Anyplace you prefer to do it?” the hooker asked.

“I have this nice house in Newark.”

“Boy, you are a long way from home.”

Hartford nodded. “I know, but the best hookers are found in Manhattan.”

The prostitute giggled. “I like that. So, where’s your car, lover boy?”

“Not parked too far away. Come, I’ll show you.”

Hartford started walking down the darkened street. The hooker followed, high heels clacking against the pavement with each step. “Say, what’s your name anyway, big spender?”

“Name’s Ed,” Hartford called back. “Just call me Ed.”

* * *

Hartford crawled off the bed, stood up, and wiped his mouth free of the saliva. His penis quickly went limp. “Well, that was fun,” he said down to the naked hooker.

She lay on his bed, eyes half closed, the hand marks on her throat turning purple. Hartford turned away and headed into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of Sprite. He downed the drink in one noisy swallow. “Ah. That’s better. You want one, love?” he called, and laughed. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Letting out a burp, Hartford strolled back into the bedroom to the dead hooker (Petula, she had told him her name was).

He grabbed her by the feet and dragged her off the bed. When her head landed on the carpet with a loud thud! Hartford cringed. “Damn!” he growled. He hoped he hadn’t ruined her cranium. That could fuck up his project. But he had read that the skull was a very hard object, so hopefully one knock wouldn’t do it much damage.

He continued shuffling backwards, out through the bedroom door and down the corridor.

His original plan had been to get her into the bathroom. It was completely tiled, plus he had the benefit of the bathtub. An altogether easier place to clean. But the damn whore had wanted to go into the bedroom. He didn’t think telling her he wanted to do it in the bathroom would’ve been a problem.

I think my biggest mistake was not saying yes when she asked me if we planned on taking a shower.

And Hartford didn’t know what the hell she was talking about when, after he told her he didn’t want to have a shower, said, “Hey, I ain’t into scat and golden showers or none of that shit.” After that she kept insisting on going into the bedroom. Cozy and romantic, she had called it.

As he dragged her body into the bathroom, he vowed that next time he would take no shit and demand they go into the bathroom. This was his first time, so he still had a lot to learn. He could forgive himself this once.

He switched on the bathroom light. With a lot of effort, he got the body into the tub. Afterwards, he needed another glass of Sprite to cool down.

Never again will I let them persuade me, he thought. Too much hassle.

The sex hadn’t been all that satisfying, anyway. She seemed to have had a swell old time, but he had come lifelessly and only by imagining what his project would look like finished.

Hartford left the kitchen and went into the garage. He pulled the light cord and a dim glow filled the muggy, airless room. He shuffled over to where he kept his newly bought tools, and took the hacksaw and hatchet.

He headed back to the bathroom. He placed the hacksaw on the tiled floor, and with the hatchet, began whacking into the hooker’s neck. Her body jumped with each chop, and Hartford found it hard to get a good steady whack. So he hopped into the bathtub and, kneeling, straddled her belly. It made the job easier, and by the time Hartford had reached her spinal cord, he was covered in blood, flesh, and specks of windpipe. And he was hot. If he learned nothing else tonight, he had found out what a tough job it was severing a head. So he turned on the shower as he replaced the hatchet with the hacksaw. He leaned backwards and let the lovely cool water wash over his head and body. Sufficiently cooled and cleaned, Hartford got into a position of good leverage, then started sawing back and forth against the chipped and bloody spinal cord.

After a strenuous ten minutes, Hartford finally snapped the spinal cord from the body. He fell back into the shower spray and let out a jubilant cry. Sure he was tired, but he had done it. He had taken the first step. He reached forward to the wet, gore-soaked body and picked up the head. Dark blood dripped from the sinewy stump. The hooker gaped at him, as if utterly stunned by her current condition. Hartford brought the head close and kissed its blood-caked lips.

Soon the head would be nothing but a bare skull, its top sliced off and the brain removed. But in the meantime, Hartford sat revelling in his accomplishment, laughing at his joy — and marvelling at the severed head.

Night two — the Two Toms

When Hartford spotted them on the corner, he let out a squeal of delight. Most of the street lamps had been smashed, but a few remained lit, and from the glare, he could see they were just what he was looking for. He pulled up alongside the two men and wound down his window. Hot, garbage-filled air blasted in.

“Hey there,” the one wearing the purple fedora said. He wandered over to the car. The other stayed back, smoking a cigarette and scouting the neighbourhood for potential customers and cops.

“You after a good time?” he said, leaning into the open window.

“Sure,” Hartford said. “The best.”

“Well you’ve come to the right place,” the man said, and giggled. “I’m the best in Queens. But you’re not a cop are you?”

“A cop? Hell no,” Hartford said.

“Well that’s good. I was hoping a cutie like you wasn’t no cop. That would’ve been a shame. So, what’re you after?”

“I want the works,” Hartford said, remembering what the hooker had said to him last night.

“Well that requires a lot of dough, baby.” The man straightened and looked over Hartford’s car. “You sure you can afford me?”

“Sure,” Hartford said. “I can afford both of you.”

“Both,” the man gasped. He scratched his black skin, a dubious look on his face. “Boy, how much cash have you got?”

“A thousand,” Hartford said and showed him a thick stack of notes.

“Well I’ll be,” the man said. “You just wait right there, honeybunch.”

Hartford watched as the dude with the purple fedora hurried over to the man smoking the cigarette. He spoke to him for a short time, then they both came over. “You’ve got yourself two of the finest loving that money can buy,” purple fedora said. They hopped in and slammed the door. “Ooh, it’s nice and cool in here,” purple fedora said.

In the rear-view mirror, Hartford could see the other man — solid and rather mean-looking. A complete contrast to the petite features of purple fedora.

“You’re right,” the man with the cigarette said. “He is cute.”

“So where’re we going?” purple fedora said. “To some great big penthouse in Manhattan?”

“Afraid not,” Hartford said. “A regular house in Newark.”

“Boy,” purple fedora said. “You sure are a long way from Kansas, Dorothy.”

Hartford laughed. “Yeah. But the best men are found in Queens.”

“Don’t you know it,” purple fedora giggled.

“You’re kinda quiet, aren’t ya?” Hartford said to the smoker.

The man wound down the window, tossed the cigarette stub out, then rolled the window back up. He shrugged.

“My boy here is just shy. But he’s real good. You’ll see. He can suck cock like you wouldn’t believe. So, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Just call me Ed.”

“Ed huh?” purple fedora said. “Okay.”

“And what’s yours?”

“Just call me Tom.”

“And what’s his? Dick or Harry?”

Tom laughed. “I’ll let you find that out for yourself.”

* * *

Hartford was in the bathroom, naked and sticky with blood, gazing down at two severed heads. His arms were a little sore from the work last night, but he had powered through both men and had their heads off in less than two hours.

It had gone a lot smoother than it had the previous night. Both men had happily gone into the bathroom (this time Hartford had told them he wanted them all to have a shower first), and stripped without hesitation or question. And neither of the men had put up a fight when, all naked and in the bathtub, Hartford had plunged two kitchen knives into their throats. They hadn’t put up a fight because they weren’t at all expecting it. One moment Hartford was bending down to grab some (nonexistent) condoms from the pockets of his pants; the next each man had a wooden handle sticking out of his jugular.

It was as simple as that. And Hartford didn’t have to bother about performing any sexual acts. That sort of thing didn’t interest him in the slightest — he was much more excited about making his project.

Now came the real messy work.

He had found out last night just how messy stripping the skin off bodies was (cutting out the brain wasn’t exactly a charm, either). You not only had blood to contend with, but tissue, fat, and bone. Which, he had to be careful not to cut or chip in any way. He had been up all night and most of the morning working on the first part of his project. He then took a quick two-hour nap before spending the rest of the day stitching and sewing and cutting and fitting.

He had become somewhat proficient during that time, and would only get better.

So, with the razor-sharp scalpel clenched tightly in his hand, Hartford began slicing away the face of purple fedora.

* * *

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Hartford finished the second part of his project. And he was very proud of his work. It had taken him less time to make three, than it had to make just one. The smaller ones he had made exactly the same as the first. As for the larger one, he had to strip the skin off the two bodies, as per usual, but this time he had to go further. He had to cut out the ribcage from one of the men. And that proved to be awkward, time consuming, and oh so messy. By the end, he had seemingly endless coils of intestines, some fatty livers, a heart, kidney, black sticky things that Hartford guessed were lungs, a stomach, piles of flesh, and a whole lot of gooey muck that didn’t seem to be anything.

Hartford had vomited a few times from the rank stench, and he of course had to be careful when taking the ribcage out, as any damage to it would destroy the quality of the work, and he would have to go through it all again just to procure another ribcage. But it had all gone smoothly. And with his magic touch with a needle and thread, Hartford had constructed his best ever.

It was drawing near. His project was almost complete.

Night three — a Bass Act

Hartford was too worn out to drive all the way to New York that night. Working almost non-stop for two days and nights, with about two hours sleep, had taken its toll. However, he wanted to finish his project. He longed to see and feel it.

So he called two of his work mates (ex work mates now, Hartford thought with some bitterness) — Dave and Rochelle. Dave was his second cousin, a tall, lanky guy, funny, popular at work. Rochelle was attractive enough, was also popular at work, but not especially funny. They had been married for about two years now. He didn’t particularly like either one of them, but he had worked with them both for about five years, and Dave was a relative, so it was a sure bet they would come over. He figured it’d be a good time to settle some scores. Plus, he needed two spines.

“Hi Dave.”

“Hartford?”

“Yeah, of course it’s me. How are ya?”

“Yeah, fine. Ah, what’s up?”

“You busy tonight, buddy? You and Rochelle?”

There was murmuring in the background. Then: “Why?”

“I thought maybe you two would like to come over for some drinks. Talk about what happened. Words were said in the heat of the moment, things I’m sure we all regret. It would be nice if we could all make up. I don’t want my old job back or anything. I just thought we could settle things. Whaddya say?”

A long pause. Finally: “Ah, I guess. Okay. Sure. We’ll be over in an hour.”

“Super. See you then.”

* * *

Just over an hour later, Dave and Rochelle turned up. “Evening Hartford,” Dave said.

“It’s good to see you,” Rochelle said as she followed Dave into the house.

“Glad you both could make it. Come in and sit down.” Hartford led them into the lounge room. Dave and Rochelle took a seat on the sofa. “Drinks?”

“Please. I’ll have a whiskey. On the rocks.”

“And I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Rochelle said.

Hartford nodded, hurried over to the drink cabinet and made the drinks. When he returned, Dave smiled up at him. “So. What’re you up to? Things going well?”

“Can’t complain. Been working on a new project, as a matter of fact. Top secret, though. So I’m keeping busy.”

“Is that so?” Dave said and took a sip of his drink.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve got snacks in the kitchen. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Really, there’s no need,” Rochelle said.

“No, it’s my pleasure.” Hartford hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the frying pan. He then strolled back.

“Really, we’re not hun…” Dave started, but when he saw the pan raised in the air, he gasped.

Hartford brought the pan down hard, and it cracked Dave’s head with a loud thong!

As Dave flopped to the floor, Rochelle screamed and dropped the glass of gin and tonic. “OHMYGOD!!” she cried, and that was the last utterance she ever spoke.

* * *

There were a few annoyances Hartford had to deal with. Namely, cleaning the small amount of blood that had soaked into the carpet, dragging the two bodies into the bathroom and taking off their clothes. He found these tasks menial and uninteresting. But, as he was too tired to bother about getting a prostitute, they were unavoidable.

After doing those bothersome jobs, Hartford settled down to the real work. He hacked off their heads and sawed off the tops (Dave had a real big head, which was perfect for Hartford’s needs). Then he opened up their chests and stomachs and tore out all their organs. He didn’t mind the mess and smell anymore. And he didn’t even vomit once. Finally he had Dave and Rochelle’s spinal cords. He held one up and tested its elasticity. It bent nicely.

“Sensational,” Hartford muttered and felt a warm tingle surge through his naked body.

He washed himself off in the shower, just to cool off, then took a long drink of Sprite.

Next he sliced off the skin. And as with all the other times, he only cut the skin from the torso: this had the most surface area, therefore was the most useful. When he had four gory slabs of skin (one complete with two saggy breasts), Hartford scrubbed them free of all flesh, tendons and blood, then dried them using the hair dryer. He took the two spines, the slabs of yellow, wrinkled skin and the two skull tops into his work shed. In there he also had hordes of leg and arm bones, three more skull tops and two spines he got from the hooker and purple fedora. He spent the rest of the night and early morning making the final parts of his project.

* * *

By seven o’clock he was finished. Done hammering the final nail into the leg bone, he fell back into his chair and cried. They were tears of exhaustion, but mostly they were tears of happiness, because he was finally going to have one. All he had to do was put all the pieces together, and then it would be over. Well, not quite. He still had one more thing to do. But that could wait.

So, wiping the tears from his blood-streaked face, he gathered all the parts and took them into the house, into his special room. Afterwards he got dressed, stuffed all the remains of Dave and Rochelle into a garbage bag and carted them outside. Along with all the other remains, which he had kept in his shed, he built a huge fire in his backyard.

He stood and watched the blaze for about an hour, transfixed by the glorious and soothing motions of the flames. And to him, the rancid odour of cooking flesh was the nicest smell in the world.

Finally, after stacking more wood on the fire, Hartford headed inside. He took a shower, cleaned the bathroom thoroughly, and with a can of Sprite in his hand, sat down in the chair by the phone.

* * *

Frank Wainwright stepped out of his car, slammed the door then turned and gazed at the house. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered and coughed. “This is freakin’ nuts.”

He threw his cigar to the pavement, hitched up his pants and headed for the front door.

Ten years, he thought. It’s been ten damn years and then what? A damn phone call. Son-of-a-bitch wants to see me.

He shuffled up the steps and stood by the door. And waited. And coughed. Was he really ready for this? Did he really want to see him after all this time?

Then why did you drive all the way over here? You’re curious, that’s why. Haven’t seen your boy in ten years.

He took a shallow, phlegm-filled breath then rapped on the door.

Maybe he’s broke. Needs some cash. Yeah, that’s probably it. Got no friends, so who does he call? His dear old dad.

The door opened and Hartford smiled out at him. “Dad! It’s good to see you.”

Frank nodded. He wanted to say: Jesus Christ, but held back. His son looked terrible. Sagging eyes, pale complexion and a gaunt face. He was barely recognisable.

“Come in, Dad.”

Frank stepped inside the darkened house. The door shut behind him. “You could use some light in here, Hartford. A bit of fresh air, too.”

Frank’s senses weren’t exactly in tiptop form, but even his crusty old nose could detect some strange smell underneath the thin layer of pine-scented cleaner.

Christ, he’s really let himself go, Frank thought.

“So I was surprised when you called me. I was watching the game. Didn’t even know who it was for a moment.”

“Yeah, it has been a while, hasn’t it Dad.”

“Please, call me Frank.” He coughed.

“You sick? Because you look well, Dad. I’m sorry, Frank.”

“Ah, you know. Just the perks of getting old. You’re looking well, too. Keeping busy and all that?”

Hell this is awkward, Frank thought. He would much rather be at home, getting drunk, watching the tube. He didn’t even know why Hartford wanted to see him. To catch up? To try and mend broken ties?

“Yeah. I’ve got things to keep me busy. But my life isn’t all work. Matter of fact, I had Dave and Rochelle over last night for some drinks.”

“Dave and Rochelle? You mean your cousin Dave and his wife?”

Hartford nodded.

What the fuck? Frank thought. He knew that Hartford had been fired from that tailoring place a month ago. Apparently Dave and Rochelle fired him for constantly being late and not working hard enough. Well at least that’s what Charlene had told him. It was the last time he had spoken with her before she died.

Why would he want to have them over for drinks? Frank wondered, but he found he didn’t care. There were more pressing matters that needed to be dealt with.

“Ah, I don’t mean to be rude, Hartford. But why did you call me? Why did you want to see me after all this time?”

Hartford grinned. Frank was reminded of a skeleton.

“I’m glad you asked. There’s something I want to show you.”

Hartford led Frank down the gloomy house, to some double doors. He stopped. He turned and faced Frank. His face had suddenly become hard and distant, a remarkable change from the sickly skeleton of just a few moments ago. “You remember when I wanted that drum kit, and you wouldn’t let me? How I asked and pleaded, but you refused?”

Frank nodded.

“How I cried and cried? Mom wanted me to have one, told me I could. But you refused and said no.”

“You were only ten,” Frank said and coughed. “That was twenty years ago. Why are you bringing it up now?”

Hartford smiled, turned and flung open the doors. “Well I have one now, Daddy.”

Frank stepped into the room. And in that room, lighted by reds and yellows and blues, he saw pictures covering the wall — all photos, and of a woman at different ages. It didn’t sink into Frank’s head straightaway, but when it did, it felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Every picture was of Charlene.

“Jesus Christ,” Frank muttered and turned away from the shrine to Hartford’s mother, to the exhibit that sat in the middle of the room. Garish lights at the back lit its grotesque form. “Jesus Christ,” he said again, this time in a soft, high voice.

Hartford came around and sat behind the—

What the fuck is that!

—and grinned. “Do you like it? I made it all by myself. You see, Daddy, I finally have a drum kit.”

Frank took one look at the cymbals made from shards of skull, mounted on leg bones; drums that were made from human skins, pulled tight over laughing skulls; and the large bass drum that had two dried, wrinkled breasts hanging at the front, and vomited. He staggered to the doors, but they were locked.

“You’re not leaving. I need an audience for my maiden performance,” Hartford called.

Frank wiped the spittle from his mouth, turned and looked at his son through bleary eyes. Hartford picked up two whittled arm bones, twirled them between his fingers and began to play.

NOTES:

This is one of my early stories, written years ago as a tribute to three of my favourite subjects (for lack of a better term): serial killers (in this case, specifically Ed Gein), seedy New York movies (like Taxi Driver and Driller Killer), and, of course, drumming (I have a degree in music, majoring in drums/percussion).

And no, in case you’re wondering, I’ve never been tempted to make a drum kit like the one in the story, but I do wonder how it would sound like when played…

THE SCARY PLACE

“Hey kiddo, wanna help me mow the lawn?”

This was the day I had been waiting for.

“Really? You mean it?” I said, gazing up at Dad wide-eyed.

Dad, standing by my bedroom door, smiled, then nodded. He was wearing his usual weekend gardening clothes: old ripped jeans, faded blue flannelette shirt, and his thinning silver hair was concealed under a much loved Collingwood Magpies football hat.

I tossed aside the computer magazine I had been lazily flicking through, jumped off the bed and followed Dad through the house, down to the back door. Mum was out food shopping, so there was an air of mischief, of naughty boys doing naughty things. I knew this wasn’t true, I knew Dad would have discussed me helping him mow with Mum, but it was far more fun to pretend that we were doing this behind her back, that we were carrying out some important secret mission.

Outside, the morning was humid, sticky from a night of on-again, off-again rain. The lawn looked like a lush sea of green, just begging to be cut.

I followed Dad up to the Victa mower, which was sitting on the garden path beside the back lawn like an obedient dog waiting for instruction.

My belly tingled with excitement and anticipation.

For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to help Dad with the mowing. When I was little I would sit by the back kitchen window, gazing out at Dad pushing the lawnmower, chopped grass and pulverised twigs and leaves spewing out from the underbelly of the beast, wishing I could be out there, helping. When I was a bit older and allowed to go outside (“But don’t stand too close, or you’ll get hit by a flying twig,” Mum would caution), I would stand on the path watching Dad, sun blasting down, the earthy aroma of freshly cut grass — the best smell in the world. Sometimes, I would pretend to help Dad by pushing my toy lawnmower over the soon-to-be-cut grass.

But I was always too young to use the real lawnmower. “When you’re older,” Dad would say. “The lawnmower’s not a toy, you know.”

As if I needed to be told that. I knew the lawnmower wasn’t a toy. I knew the difference between the blunt plastic blades on my beloved (and now gone, long ago given away to charity) toy mower and the very real and very sharp blades on Dad’s Victa.

The day I turned thirteen and Dad said, ruffling my hair in a gesture of fatherly affection, “You’re growing up, Son. Soon you’ll be chasing after girls,” I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was allowed to help him mow the lawn — for real this time.

Because I wasn’t a child any more. I was growing up and deserved to be treated as such. Long gone were the hours spent playing cowboys and Indians in the backyard (me playing both sides), or playing with my toy dinosaurs in my own version of The Land That Time Forgot among the gum trees and hydrangea bushes. And I no longer believed that the narrow stretch of untamed wilderness between the neighbour’s fence and our garage, with its towering weeds, was a dark forest fortress, home to razor-toothed dragons and mean, smelly trolls.

I had moved beyond such childhood games and fears. I was ready to tackle grown-up things.

“Okay kiddo, grab some goggles and a pair of gloves.”

I noticed two sets of goggles on the ground next to the mower, along with two pairs of gloves, and Dad’s old petrol-powered Whipper Snipper.

I reached down and picked up the goggles and gloves, and once they were on, I waited for further instruction.

“Good, now grab the Whipper Snipper and follow me.”

I hesitated. Frowning, I said, “What about the lawnmower?”

“Later. First, I want you to cut some weeds. It’ll help you get used to handling a bladed tool. Then, you can help me with the mower.”

My shoulders slumped as my excitement deflated.

The Whipper Snipper, while it looked cool enough, was a poor substitute for the lawnmower. It was a growling pussycat, whereas the mower was a roaring tiger.

I was growing into a young man, and young men mowed lawns, not snipped weeds.

Still, I picked up the Whipper Snipper, which was heavy and cumbersome to hold, and shuffled behind Dad, down to the back of the garden.

I didn’t know where he was taking me, until he turned and led me to the back of the garage.

“I want you to cut the weeds down this side area.”

I stared down the narrow stretch of wilderness between the fence and the garage. The weeds were so tall they almost concealed the timber panelling and the metal wall, and the high brick divider at the far end was no longer visible.

“Now, this Whipper Snipper is no toy, so there are rules and safety precautions. You’re to wear the goggles and gloves at all times, and never, and I mean never, stick your hands into the end of the Whipper Snipper while it’s still turned on. That goes with the mower, too. The blades on both machines will slice your hand until all you’re left with is a bloody stump. Understand?”

I nodded, pretending to listen, but in truth my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of trolls and dragons.

“If something gets caught in the blades, always turn off the power first, wait until the blades have stopped spinning, and then, with gloves on, pull out whatever it is that’s obstructing the blades.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I muttered.

“So that’s the safety taken care of. Now, I’ll show you how to use this baby.”

Dad spent the next ten minutes teaching me how to get the engine started, about using the primer and the throttle, how to handle the tool properly, the best way to cut down weeds; he even reiterated the warning about not putting my hands into the blades while they were still spinning, and he made damn sure I knew where the on/off switch was located.

“Okay, that about does it. She’s all fuelled up and ready to go. Come and get me when you’ve finished. And be careful.”

I opened my mouth to speak, to protest, but Dad turned and left before I found my voice. I stood watching with my goggle-eyes as Dad vanished behind a tall spruce.

Soon I heard the mower start up. It took Dad three pulls of the cord to get the Victa going, each time the engine farting, then spluttering out, but finally the engine grumbled to life and my heart sank some more.

I felt abandoned, betrayed. How could he do this?

I wanted to be out there mowing the lawn, where it was wide and sunny, not about to set forth into the alley of weeds, which seemed darker, and was probably colder, too.

But I had a job to do. I had to be mature about this, had to be brave and do the job as best I could.

I turned towards the scary place of my childhood.

The area had always been thick with weeds, a jungle in my young eyes. It scared me back then, and as I stood facing the corridor of weeds I realised I still retained some of those childhood fears.

The first and only time I ventured into that forbidding wasteland was three years ago. I made it about a third of the way down, when I felt something slimy brush against my leg, heard something growl. I bolted out of that narrow alcove and didn’t stop until I was in my room, cowering in bed under the covers.

But I was older now, and armed with a formidable weapon, so I had nothing to be afraid of. All I would find down there would be a long forgotten tennis ball, maybe a dead possum or bird. Nothing slimy. And certainly nothing that growled…

I hunkered down, laid the Whipper Snipper on the ground and, just like Dad had demonstrated, pressed the primer button about ten times, then gripped the cord and pulled. The engine kicked into gear on the second go. The blades started spinning, whirring like an angry tabby. I got to my feet, licked my lips and, pushing down on the throttle for extra power, stepped into the forest of weeds.

There wasn’t much room in the narrow alcove. The high wooden fence to my left and the metal garage wall to my right restricted my movements.

I cut the grass as best I could, and as I worked, exhaust fumes spewing out of the engine, the pungent smell of petrol clogging up my nose, I thought of all the stray cats I had seen wander into this grassy area. I used to think that the reason I never saw them again was that they had been gobbled up by the trolls and dragons. Sometimes, when I was feeling particularly imaginative (or was that particularly scared?), I would wonder if the cats were really the trolls in disguise, having magically transformed themselves into seemingly harmless animals in an effort to lure me into their lair.

But that was just silly kid’s stuff. There was nothing in here but weeds and dirt. Only a kid would be scared of make-believe monsters, and I was no kid.

What about real monsters? I wondered.

Spiders and other creepy crawlies never bothered me, but now, as I plunged deeper into the wall of weeds, I had to wonder about redback spiders, wasp nests, even snakes lurking in the grass.

I swallowed, glad I was wearing pants and not shorts, grateful for the Whipper Snipper gripped tightly in my sweaty gloved hands.

I continued to mow down the weeds, giving the Whipper Snipper more gas whenever I hit a particularly think clump. It was tough going, but soon I was a third of the way down the corridor of weeds. I stopped, drew in some deep breaths, the thick blend of petrol and cut grass lingering in the air. I glanced back at the small area I had just cleared. Chopped weeds littered the ground. The ones I had missed stood arrogantly upright, but I would get them on the way back.

I thought of the two-thirds I still had to go, an area I had yet to step foot in. An area, as far as I knew, unexplored by anyone currently living in my house. I was heading into uncharted territory, and the prospect made me just a tad uneasy.

But I continued.

I was beyond the halfway point when I heard something slithering among the weeds.

I froze mid-chop, released my grip on the throttle, then switched off the power.

I heard the slithering again, saw the weeds up ahead shake, like something was moving fast through the undergrowth. I feared I would wet my pants.

It’s a dragon, a small voice said. Or a troll.

Don’t be silly, I thought. Dragons aren’t real. Trolls aren’t real.

It was probably just a cat, or a snake — hopefully a non-venomous one.

Again the small voice spoke: Maybe it’s a troll pretending to be a snake.

I looked beyond the alcove, to safety, only a few metres away.

I was tempted to make a run for it.

No, I told myself. You’re not giving up. You’ve come this far, just keep going and soon it’ll all be over.

I thought of Dad over on the other side of the garage and how disappointed he would be if I came running back, cheeks wet, telling him I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t complete the job because I was too scared.

Dad now thought of me as a young man, had entrusted me to do a man’s job, and I couldn’t let him down.

I couldn’t let myself down.

I eased out my breath and with all the thirteen-year-old courage I could muster, I ploughed on ahead. I wasn’t going to let some unseen monster scare me away.

Not this time.

Still, I made sure to sweep the Whipper Snipper extra low, just in case there was a snake slithering nearby. I moved swiftly, my desire to finish the job at an all-time high, knowing that with every step I took, every weed I chopped, I was getting closer to the end, closer to being able to leave the scary place.

I had almost reached the brick wall when I heard the laughter.

It was a low, mean chuckle.

A cruel, taunting giggle.

“No, you’re not real,” I said, though I was beginning to wonder if that was the case. The sensible part of my brain knew the laughter had to be my imagination, just a product of my fear; the lingering part of my childhood told me there really were trolls hiding somewhere within this forest of weeds.

Instead of turning back, screaming, like I had done that day three years ago, I kept going, slicing through the weeds with purpose. If there were trolls and dragons hiding, laughing at me, I hoped I would lop off their heads with my fearless Whipper Snipper.

“You’re not going to scare me!” I cried, the Whipper Snipper’s throttle on full, the blades spinning wildly.

Chop!

“I’m not a kid any more!”

Slice, whack!

“You can’t frighten me!”

Soon I was face-to-face with the brick wall, panting, sweat pouring down my pale, freckled face. I took my hand off the throttle, then killed the Whipper Snipper’s engine.

I turned around and surveyed my work. Aside from a few missed weeds, I had successfully turned the forest into a bed of lifeless grass.

I nodded. Smiled.

I had done it. Not only had I completed the job, I had conquered my chief childhood fear.

There were no trolls or dragons after all.

I started forward, eager to tell Dad about my accomplishment.

Something on the ground caught my eye.

Something old and plastic, sprinkled with dirt, grass, and a few snails.

I set the Whipper Snipper on the ground, crouched, tossed away clumps of weeds and gazed upon what I had unearthed.

My smile broadened, my heart twinged with a nostalgic ache — part joy, part sadness.

“What are you doing here?” I said, feeling foolish talking to a toy, but there was no one around to hear me. Dad was still busy mowing and there lived a deaf old lady next door. “I thought Dad gave you away to charity?”

Apparently not. I guess he couldn’t be bothered driving to the charity bin that day, instead deciding to toss my toy lawnmower down the narrow stretch of untamed wilderness between the fence and the garage.

My once prized possession now lay half buried under the bottom of the garage. Only its orange handle and some of its blue plastic blades were visible.

I pulled off my right glove, reached down and gripped the grimy plastic handle. I didn’t know what I hoped to do with the toy once I had it out: clean it up and keep it for my son when (if) I had one? Give it a proper send off, one I felt it deserved? Whatever the reason, I started working the toy out of the tight spot that it had called home for the past seven or eight years. Centipedes scurried away at my rude intrusion.

It was harder than I expected; the damn thing wouldn’t budge. I dropped to my knees, whipped off the second glove and, with my other hand, took hold of the plastic blades and tried again.

I pulled hard at the toy lawnmower, my arms straining. I wondered how on earth the toy could be so tightly wedged under. It was like somebody had deliberately tried to hide the thing. I was about to give up trying to pull the toy out and begin digging in the dirt, hoping that would do the trick, when I heard a hissing sound and suddenly the handle began curling around my wrist, like a plastic orange snake.

“What the…” I gasped, at first not believing what I was seeing.

But when I felt the cold, dirt-encrusted handle start to tighten, I knew my eyes weren’t playing tricks.

I screamed, terror and pain gripping me in equal measures.

“Dad!” I cried. “Dad, help!”

I clawed desperately at the handle, tried prying the plastic off my wrist, but the handle was wound too tightly. I felt around for the Whipper Snipper, but my hand touched only dirt and chopped weeds.

The ground began to fall away around the toy.

“Dad,” I cried again, only this time the cry was more like a squeak.

Where is he? I wondered. Why isn’t he coming to the rescue? Isn’t that what dads were supposed to do?

He’s not going to save you; nobody’s going to save you, the small voice said.

I started weeping then, as the soil continued to be sucked down into an ever-widening hole. The toy lawnmower started pulling me forward as it, too, was drawn into the black void.

I fought uselessly against it, hot tears streaming down my face making small mud puddles in the dirt. I was only thirteen years old and didn’t have the strength.

I was dragged head-first towards the gaping hole under the garage, my right arm disappearing into the darkness. I was smacked in the face by the smell of wet dirt, old grass, petrol fumes and something else, something foul like a million gassy farts that had been trapped inside the hole for a thousand years.

I heard a noise within the darkness; a deep swishing, like something slicing the air, over and over again.

It sounded horribly similar to the whirring of mower blades.

Or a dragon gnashing its teeth.

I tried stopping myself from being pulled into the hole by gripping the bottom of the garage with my one free hand. But the force dragging me forward was too powerful.

I let go before my left arm was snapped in half.

My arm was plunged into the darkness and I groped around, hoping for something, anything, to grab onto.

My hand touched something slimy. I yanked back my arm, not realising until my arm was out that I had something in my grasp.

I stared in horror at the souvenir I had brought back from the inky depths, at the Collingwood Magpies football hat clenched in my tiny hand.

“Daaaa-dddeee!” I cried one last time, as my toy lawnmower vanished into the blackness, followed by my head.

The rotten stench of bad eggs and petrol grew more pungent, the blackness was as deep and thick as a night-time desert sky. The whirring noise grew louder and I felt wind whooshing against my face.

I heard dirt pattering on metal, like rain against the garage roof, and rocks being carved up and turned into a thousand tiny pebbles.

Then a voice, ancient, cold, full of dirt and grit said: “I told you to be careful. I told you not to stick your hands into the blades. The lawnmower’s not a toy, you know.”

“We’ve missed you,” said another voice, this one higher-pitched and giggly. “You thought you were too old to play with us. But we tricked you. You’re still just a kid. You’ll see, you’re never too old to play with us…”

Still holding onto the hat, and with legs kicking, I was dragged fully into the darkness.

And play we did.

* * *

“Hey kiddo, wanna help me…?”

Darrin Thornton frowned at the sight of his son’s empty room. Usually on weekends Ben spent the entire day in his bedroom, reading, watching DVDs, or surfing the ‘net.

“Wonder where he could be?” Darrin muttered. He left his son’s room and headed into the kitchen, where his wife was busy unpacking the shopping from the green environmentally friendly bags.

“There are more bags out in the car,” his wife said in her typically playful, almost girlish voice.

“Ben’s not in his room,” Darrin said. “I was going to ask him if he wanted to help me with the mowing today.”

His wife paused, a packet of pasta in her hand. “I think I hear him outside. He must be playing.”

Darrin listened, heard the distant sounds of playful shouting.

“He’s too old to be playing,” Darrin huffed.

“He is not,” his wife said as she put away the pasta. “He’s only thirteen. He’s still just a baby.”

“He may be a baby in your eyes, but he’s growing up, Jayne. Our baby’s becoming a young man. And I want our young man to help with the mowing. I know he’s wanted to help ever since he was little.”

As Darrin headed for the back door, the unmistakable sounds of a boy trapped in that weird and scary place between childhood and adulthood coming from somewhere out in the backyard, his wife said, “Just make sure he’s careful. I don’t want him poking out an eye from a flying twig.”

Darrin nodded, adjusted his Magpies hat, opened the back door and went out to find his son.

NOTES:

This story is almost completely autobiographical (I say almost, because naturally, I was never pulled under the garage by a troll). In the house where I grew up, there was a narrow area between the bungalow and garage and the neighbour’s fence. I was forever scared of that area. I’m not exactly sure why; perhaps it was simply out of fear of getting bitten by a spider or even a snake. But I think there was something else that frightened me about that narrow alley. I think it was a fear of the unknown, as most of the time it was populated with tall weeds and so in my mind anything could have been lurking within the grass. I hated venturing into that area, as I sometimes had to do whenever a ball was hit or tossed down there by accident. But, I did it, and I did it as quickly as I could, running out of that narrow space fast and always expecting to either feel the sharp pinch of fangs at my ankles, or for something evil to grab me around the legs and drag me down. Sometimes, usually whenever my cousin would come to visit, I would be goaded into seeing how far I could walk down the narrow space before I got too scared and ran away. I don’t ever remember making it more than halfway to the far wall. It wasn’t until years later, when I was a teenager and had to help cut the weeds, that I finally made it all the way down the alley that lay between the garage and the fence. And even then, my childhood fears were never far away.

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

Doreen was in the kitchen when Lucas awoke.

She was slumped in one of two bar stools that were parked side-by-side at the bench, a Peter Jackson angled between her right index and middle fingers, listening to the radio. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was in almost total darkness; the only illumination came from the lounge, and the multicoloured lights wrapped around the Christmas tree.

“Mummy, look, I can see Santa!”

Doreen flinched at the sound of her six-year-old, muttered something unpleasant under her breath, then reached over and flicked off the radio (“…the fires that are ravaging the Victorian bushland are spreading…”). She drained what was left of the Jim Beam, took a deep drag of her cigarette and, with an even deeper sigh, slithered off the stool and headed into the lounge room.

Lucas, her darling baby-boy (not a baby anymore, kid’s growing up — and that thought was like a sledgehammer to her chest) was sitting up straight on the couch by the front window. He was wearing only his red briefs and the sweat on his slightly chubby body glistened with blue, red, green and yellow. Like his mum, his blond hair was plastered on his head, looking like he had just stepped out of the shower. The fan, perched in the middle of the room, turning like a watchful eye, blades spinning, didn’t do much to cool anything — damn thing just ate up energy.

Doreen, slumped against the lounge room arch, took another drag and, blowing out smoke, said, “What was that darling?”

Without turning around, Lucas (as he had recently asked to be called; he had just gotten into the Star Wars movies) said, in a whisper of awe: “I can see Santa. He’s coming. He’s really coming.”

Doreen remained under the archway separating the dining room from the lounge. She wanted to go over and sit next to her son, wanted to hold him, comfort him. She knew, in time, she would have to. But she also knew that once she did, she would never get back up again.

Luke had fallen asleep some hours ago watching Candles by Candlelight on TV. Doreen had only been half-watching; she was more interested in what was on the radio — the updates on the bushfires. Luke had desperately wanted to stay up and wait for Santa, but the six-year-old in him conked out at around nine-thirty, just as the fires reached the Brayshaw property, ten kilometres away. That’s when Doreen had switched off the television and turned off all the lights. She had settled in the kitchen, the radio on low, the bottle of Jim Beam still half full, and waited, in the dark, praying Luke would stay asleep.

“Come and look, Mummy. I see him, in the distance. His sleigh. It’s red.”

Doreen wiped her stinging eyes and stepped into the lounge, a trail of cigarette smoke following like a white cloud of doom.

Doreen took a seat next to her son. She stubbed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray, adding the butt to the ever-increasing mountain, and then turned to her son. She brushed damp strings of hair from his forehead. Sniffling back tears, she looked out the window.

“See?” Luke said, pointing. “That small red light in the window. It’s him, isn’t it? It’s really him.”

Doreen looked. Saw the reflection of one of the Christmas lights that wound around the mangy old plastic tree. She managed a brief smile. She tousled his hair. “I reckon it is,” she told him. “Santa’s on his way.”

“Bringing lots and lots of presents?”

It wasn’t so much a question as a statement; after all, Luke had always received presents in the past. Every year her bedroom closet had been filled with stuffed toys, action figures, computer games, DVDs, and of course the perennial favourite: new clothes and underwear.

Not this year.

This year all that clogged up her closet were clothes that were already in danger of becoming out of fashion; worn-out shoes; boxes of photo albums — things that would burn easily.

Half of their belongings were now in boxes, ready to be taken to nowhere. Ever since losing her job at the bank two months ago, they had been placing their lives into boxes.

Doreen turned her eyes to the imitation pine tree. She had bought it twenty years ago, when she and George were first married. They didn’t have the money to buy a real tree. It didn’t matter. There had been presents under it — as there had been for the next eighteen years after that. Only then the presents sat under a real tree, with real pine smell. Even when George left, five years ago, taking with him his Porsche and her faith in love, there were presents under the tree. The fake plastic tree remained in the closet, while real ones were brought in, decorated, watered, and then discarded once New Year’s Day rolled around, left to brown and die outside, until eventually it was taken away.

Nineteen long years the plastic tree had waited. And just over twenty days ago, with Luke sulking and Doreen spitting angry, resentful remarks at her six-year-old (“We can’t afford a real one this year”; “Stop your whining and be happy with what you’ve got”; “A real one is too much effort to take care of anyway, and besides, with the water restrictions…”), the plastic tree had finally been given its second showing.

I’ve come full circle, Doreen thought with bitter humour, eyes hard on the empty space under the tree.

When she turned back to the window, she saw another light. This one was farther in the distance, and a lot bigger. At the moment it was an orange hue, like the sun was setting. Only this was no sun; similar in many ways, but different in one very important fact — it was edging closer.

As tears stained her ruddy cheeks, Doreen cleared her throat to speak. Though her voice still cracked and popped like an old vinyl record. “Do you want to take a cold bath, Luke?”

Eyes fixed on the hovering red light in the window, Luke barely shook his head.

“Aren’t you hot? Wouldn’t a nice cool bath feel good?”

“I don’t want to miss Santa.”

“You won’t, honey. I’ll come and get you when he arrives.”

“I want to stay and watch the light,” Luke said, pouty.

“Okay,” Doreen sighed, rubbing her temples. “You stay and watch the light.”

Something small bumped into the window. Doreen gasped. Reflected in the Christmas tree lights, she saw a beetle flapping against the window.

“Look Mum, a Christmas Beetle,” Luke said, his attention momentarily diverted from the red light.

“So it is,” Doreen said and watched as the beetle flapped for a bit and then left. It was smart, it knew what was coming. It was leaving the area, leaving for safety. It obviously had somewhere to go.

Unlike them.

They had nowhere to go — no home, no family. Everyone else in the area had evacuated. Some had even stopped off and told Doreen to get away, take Luke and leave now. It wouldn’t be long before the area was awash with flame.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" each of them had asked, breathless, faces sweaty.

"Yes", Doreen had lied. "Yes, we’ve got somewhere to go."

At that, they had left. And Doreen had gone back to sitting on the couch, staring at the TV.

It had been over three hours since the last person came by, telling her to leave.

“I think it’s getting closer,” Luke said, his gaze back on the light in the window.

Doreen turned her bleary eyes to her light. “Yes, I think you’re right, darling.”

Unlike Luke’s imaginary Santa light, her light really was getting closer. Instead of an orange hue in the distance, she could see flames now. And smoke. Thick, curling smoke that turned the clear summer night into something resembling a foggy Christmas Eve in England.

“I smell smoke,” Luke said, sniffing the air.

It was the smell of burnt timber, Eucalyptus and an end to their pain.

Doreen wrapped her arms around her son.

“Maybe it’s Santa’s sleigh,” she said.

“Like an old train?”

“Yeah. Maybe the elves stoke the fire. That’s how come Santa can fly all around the world in one night.”

“Wow,” Luke said, his elbows resting on the arms of the couch, chin digging into his palms. His gaze remained fixed on the red light. “I wonder what Santa will be like when he gets here.”

“Tired, probably,” Doreen said, closing her eyes off from the burning light. “He’ll probably be tired and want something to eat and drink.”

With the smell of smoke, hot and acrid, filling their world, Doreen continued to hug her son and together they waited for the light to arrive.

NOTES:

One night when I was around eight or nine, my family and I went over to a neighbour’s house on Christmas Eve. We were all sitting in the lounge room, the adults chatting and the kids sitting on the floor around the Christmas tree. Then, in the window, I saw a red light. The light seemed to be hovering in mid-air, and when I told the other kids, we all grew excited, sure it was Santa riding in the sky in his sleigh. We told the adults, and, rather than stating the truth and telling us it was simply the reflection of the tree lights, they humoured us and told us that maybe it was Santa riding with his reindeer. Well, it was about the most exciting moment of my young life — an actual Santa Claus sighting! I remember leaving our neighbour’s house that night thrilled beyond words, and it made an already special time of year even more magical.

It was this event that I immediately thought of when I was asked to write a story for Tasmaniac’s inaugural Festive Fear anthology. As I began to think more about the story, knowing I had to write more than a kid seeing what he thinks is Santa Claus (and make it dark, as this was a horror anthology), the hot Australian summer and the devastation it can cause to the bush sprang to mind, and ‘Christmas Lights’ was born.

An eerie side-note: a short time after writing the first draft of ‘Christmas Lights’, Victoria suffered its worst-ever bushfire tragedy, resulting in over 170 deaths and the destruction of numerous country towns and over 2000 homes. I considered not submitting the story to the anthology; I didn’t want to be seen as exploiting the tragedy (even though I wrote the story before the bushfires occurred). I spoke with Steve Clark, head honcho at Tasmaniac Publications, about it and we both ultimately agreed that the story wasn’t in bad taste, and that, if anything, the story would be even more resonant and pertinent. And it just goes to show — real life can be infinitely more terrifying than any fiction tale.

MAD FRED

THE ARGUS, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1892

MAD FRED PART 1

—♦—

FREDERICK DEEMING: THE MAN OF MANY FACES

—

TALES FROM THE KAISER WILHELM

—

MR. DREWN PLANS THE CRIME OF THE CENTURY

When Frederick Bailey Deeming was hanged a little under four months ago, the world sighed with relief in the knowledge that the 38-year-old English-born murderer could kill no more. But with the recent murders of two prostitutes in Melbourne’s north-east, and the various ghostly sightings in a house in Windsor, one has to wonder — is Mad Fred really gone, or is his spirit back for more blood?

Some claim the two Melbourne murders are that of a Jack the Ripper copycat. After all, the first body was found on the morning of August 31st, and the second on the 8th of this month — the exact dates of two of the Ripper murders. But if they are the work of a cruel and bloodthirsty copycat, why start with Jack’s third victim? Why in the city of Melbourne? And why four years after those in London’s East End?

What of the sinister sightings at the small brick house on Andrew Street? Neighbours claim they have heard strange noises and seen things that cannot be explained and yet the house has remained unoccupied since Deeming left the property Christmas Day of last year, the day after he killed his wife, Emily, and buried her body under the hearthstone in one of the bedrooms.

In this special three part report for The Argus, we’ll take a look at the heinous crime for which Mad Fred was hanged. By speaking with those close to the events you’ll gain unprecedented access to both the man himself, and details concerning the ghastly crime; details never before revealed, including startling revelations from a prison inmate of Deeming claiming to be Jack the Ripper. We’ll also take a look at the reported ghostly sightings, speak to those who say Mad Fred’s ghost still haunts the Andrew Street house, and we’ll visit the locations of the two prostitute murders. Then you can decide for yourself whether a madman is on the prowl, or if a ghost is indeed haunting Melbourne; the ghost of the man responsible for what has come to be known as the crime of the century.

Frederick Deeming was a man of many faces. The Cheshire-born fraudster and multiple murderer could be both charming and ruthless. One of the passengers onboard the Kaiser Wilhelm II, the ship that brought Deeming and his second wife to Melbourne on the 15th of December, saw this contradiction first-hand. “I detested the man I knew as Albert Williams,” 24-year-old Brisbane seamstress Kate Jensen said. “To others aboard the ship, he could be rude, bombastic. He would often boast about his travels abroad, claiming he had been to more places than most men would ever see. He said he had fought the Zulus in Africa — would even brandish a knife and tell people he had killed many Zulus with it. Then, without a second thought, he would turn into a paranoid creature and accuse passengers of stealing from him, including his wife’s valuable jewellery. We all thought he was mad. But, he was always loving and caring towards Emily. She would often talk to me of his affections towards her, and their excitement at arriving in Melbourne and starting a new life together. It seemed there were two people living inside the one body.”

But Deeming’s strange behaviour didn’t stop at his fanciful tales of being abroad or accusations of theft.

“My cabin on the ship was opposite the Williams’ so I saw and heard many things,” Kate continued. “I heard Albert carrying on conversations with his canary. Quite extraordinary conversations that had to be heard to be believed.”

Fred Deeming brought with him to Melbourne a canary, which he seemed to treat better than his own wife. According to the carrier hired to take the recently married couple’s possessions to their new home in Windsor, Fred had ridden in the coach with his canary, while Emily was made to travel on her own to the house by tram. And after the murder, Fred could be seen riding around in a sulky, parading the canary in its elegant and ornate cage.

“He would talk to the bird as if it were human,” Kate remembered. “At times he would recount his exploits around the world, talking for hours on end about his heroic adventures on the high seas and fighting the Zulus. Sometimes I would hear him laugh with the bird, like they were telling the gayest jokes. Other times I would hear him speak in angry tones, usually about devilish things like disease, death and murder. Whenever he would talk to the canary about his mother, he would end up crying. It was all rather sad, and very strange. Like I have said, we all thought he was mad, but never did I think he was capable of such horrific things — nor did I ever suspect he had killed his previous wife and three children. It turns my blood cold thinking I slept so close to him all that time we were aboard the ship.”

On the subject of Fred being Jack the Ripper, Kate gave a nervous laugh and said, “It’s hard to imagine an Englishman doing such ghastly work as what Jack did to those fallen women — even knowing what Albert did to his two wives and children. And yet…” Kate’s face drew long and distant. “Now that I think back, there was something in his eyes that scared me. In those moments of madness, when he would stomp about the ship claiming his property had been stolen, I wanted desperately to be away from him. Still, I do find it hard to believe that Albert could’ve committed those crimes in Whitechapel. I know that’s what the papers have been saying, but I can’t quite come at the idea.”

Another passenger aboard the Kaiser Wilhelm II also finds it difficult to come at the idea of Deeming being the notorious Whitechapel murderer. “I knew both Mr. and Mrs. Williams well,” Alphalton corn merchant Sydney Oakes said. “I became rather good friends with the pair whilst travelling on the steamer heading for Melbourne. It was true, Albert could be a little unusual, but he was always affectionate towards Emily. I saw nothing but love there, which makes it so hard for me to comprehend that Albert could’ve killed Emily in such a way. Still, there was nothing about the man that ever made me think he was capable of the atrocities committed in Whitechapel four years ago. He boasted of murder, but always in reference to black fellows. And with his strong Lancashire accent and generally charming way about him — no, I can’t see Albert stalking the streets of London’s East End, slaughtering loose women.”

When asked why he thought Deeming had murdered his wife, Oakes stuttered and started preening his moustache. “It had to have been an accident,” Oakes finally answered. “They probably argued, and Deeming accidentally struck his wife and killed her. I’m sure he didn’t mean to do it. I guess he panicked and, not wanting to be caught, buried her under the hearthstone.” Didn’t Mr. Oakes meet up with Deeming in January, only a week or so after Deeming had murdered his wife? “That’s correct. We had a drink at the Baths Hotel in Bourke Street.” I asked Oakes what Deeming’s disposition was like during that meeting. “He seemed like his old self — charming, gay and ever boastful. He riled some of the patrons in the bar with his flamboyant talk and gestures. I thought there was going to be a brawl.” Didn’t he think it strange that a man who had brutally killed his wife only a week before could act so brazenly cheerful? “Maybe it was simply his way of coping. Or maybe he genuinely had no remorse. It’s hard to say. I never saw him again after that. Next time I heard about Albert Williams, they were saying his real name was Frederick Deeming and that he was suspected of killing his wife, Emily. I have to say, that threw me. I still have trouble placing that man with such horrible deeds. And I still can’t believe that body I saw in the morgue was Emily. It didn’t even look human, let alone a lady I knew to be so kind and sweet.” Mr. Oakes got up from his kitchen table then and poured himself a glass of gin. “Poor Emily,” he muttered.

Poor Emily indeed. The 26-year-old from Rainhill, had no idea about her new husband’s past, nor what he had planned for her. And Fred Deeming certainly had her murder planned. It was no accident, no spur-of-the-moment act of violence that saw her end up buried in concrete under the hearthstone of the bedroom fireplace with her skull smashed and her throat cut.

It was only two days after landing in the British colony’s second largest city that Fred Deeming went to a local ironmonger and bought all the tools needed to help conceal his wife’s dead body under the house in the hope that the body would never be found — or at least, not discovered until long after he had left Australia.

The owner of the ironmonger shop in High Street, John Woods, remembers Deeming as both a flamboyant character, and a surly man. “When he first came into my shop, he was a loud, larger-than-life character. He wore lots of expensive-looking jewellery, and spoke with a distinct English accent. Along with his large ginger moustache, he stood out like a fishmonger at the opera. The man, who called himself Drewn, ordered from me cement, sand, a broom, spade, a pan and a trowel. He was pleasant, if a little brusque at times. However, a different man entered my store the next day. He claimed that the tools and materials had never been delivered to his house as ordered. His manner was cold, angry and quite frankly, he unnerved me. His eyes held a kind of blankness, and I could see him spiralling into a rage at a moment’s notice, so I swallowed my pride — I was sure his order had been delivered — and took all the materials he had ordered the previous day personally to his house in Windsor. On the way, Drewn explained to me that he needed the items for work in his yard, however, when I arrived at the house, I noticed that the yard was in no need of work. I made the comment that the yard seemed perfectly fine to me. Drewn looked frazzled, and in a huffy tone, said that it wasn’t the yard that needed work, but a copper boiler. Well, that seemed fine too, but I kept quiet this time. The man was clearly riled up enough already, and I didn’t fancy pressing him. So, after dumping the tools and materials at his house, I left. I was already uncomfortable in the man’s presence, but his strange behaviour regarding the items and their purpose simply compounded my unease. When the police came to me months later to ask me about Drewn and I learnt of the dreadful nature in which Drewn had done away with his missus, I felt ill. To think, it was my materials and tools he used to seal his wife’s body under the fireplace.” Mr. Woods, a slim, middle-aged man with striking black hair and beard, shuddered noticeably as he stood behind the counter in his shop. Though he could not have had any way of knowing the diabolical use that Fred Deeming had for the cement, trowel and other items, the knowledge that he had sold Deeming these things obviously still weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Mr. Woods isn’t the only person to have feelings of guilt. Though, like Mr. Woods, he couldn’t have known what was to happen, the owner of the Andrew Street house, local butcher John Stamford, regrets letting the house to Mr. Deeming.

“I was fooled by his air of respectability,” said Mr. Stamford. “Here was this finely-dressed Englishman, wanting to rent my house. How was I to know he was a scoundrel and a cold-blooded murderer? Christ, I didn’t even know the bloke’s name till later, when he came to my shop with a small parcel, telling me he was going to mend some nail holes in the wall of the house. Cement he reckons was in the parcel! Blimey, it was probably the knife he used to do away with his missus.”

Stamford’s estate agent, Mr. Charles Connop, also admits to being fooled by the Englishman’s noble exterior. “I only met him a couple of times. He seemed like a perfectly reasonable gentleman to me. He paid a month’s rent for the house on Andrew Street, even though he clearly hadn’t planned on staying that long. He must’ve had it all planned out in his head before ever setting foot in Melbourne. I met his wife, too, once. She seemed like a timid creature — pretty, but quiet. What a horrible end she came to.”

And so, with the house rented and with all the tools necessary to cover up the dastardly deed, Fred Deeming was all set to murder his new bride. He had the madness to carry it out, and the cold cunning to cover the evidence.

In the next part of this special report, we’ll take a look at the crime itself, speak to those who discovered the ghoulish burial site, as well as neighbours who say they have seen and heard strange things in the Andrew Street house. We’ll also take you inside the murder house, so be forewarned — only the strong of heart need continue reading about this most ghastly of crimes.

THE ARGUS, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1892

MAD FRED PART 2

—♦—

A MOST HORRIBLE CRIME UNCOVERED

—

A TOUR THROUGH THE DEATH HOUSE

—

GHOSTLY SIGHTINGS

57 Andrew Street is a small, unassuming brick cottage. It sits by the side of a narrow, unpaved street in the modest suburb of Windsor, flanked by other modest, but attractive brick and weatherboard houses. Standing outside its front fence, pretty shrubs adorning the front lawn, it’s hard to believe that such a ghastly crime could have been committed inside.

But on Christmas Eve of last year, a crime the likes Melbourne had never seen was carried out inside the brick cottage. A man by the name of Frederick Bailey Deeming first fractured his wife’s skull with a battle-axe and then slashed her throat with a long-bladed knife. Afterwards, he dumped her naked body beneath the fireplace, filled in the grave with concrete he had mixed himself, and then covered the make-shift grave with the hearthstone. Her body wasn’t discovered for over two months.

It was the house’s owner, Mr. John Stamford of High Street, who first realised something was amiss.

“I was showing a prospective tenant through the house that day (3rd March). When we came to the first bedroom, there was a most disagreeable smell in the room. Not surprisingly, the lady left, and upon closer inspection of the room, I found that the hearthstone was raised, like it had been tampered with. I called my agent, and together Mr. Connop and I lifted the hearthstone. The smell grew worse. It was a most repugnant smell; it reminded me of dead flesh. Only this was worse. The smell seemed to burn my nostrils and scald my throat. I told my son to go and fetch the coppers, and once they arrived, it took them a couple of hours to uncover what lay in the concrete casing.”

Mr. Stamford, a solidly-built man in his forties, shook his head and his face blanched. “It was a sight and smell I’ll never forget.”

Neither will Constable Webster, one of the policemen who helped dig the body free from the concrete that evening in March. “I had to destroy the clothes and uniform I was wearing afterwards, as they were saturated with the stink of decayed flesh. I burnt them in the fireplace, but even that didn’t completely take away the smell. I think the stench will be permanently entrenched in my nose. The smell was so dreadful that I retreated from the house on a number of occasions, and I was still sick even after I arrived home. As for the body itself — well, let’s just say I will never forget its horrible, mummy-like state. I hadn’t seen anything like it before, and dear God I hope to never see anything like it again.”

“She had been down there for over two months,” Mr. Stamford said. “Two months! Can you imagine what she looked like? Just a mass of decayed flesh. Like one of those Egyptian mummies, only oozing slime. Christ, her hair and scalp came away from her skull while the coppers were digging out the body. The whole thing was just a disgusting, revolting mess.”

So what of the neighbours? What were their reactions upon hearing the ghastly news, and did they suspect anything strange of their new neighbour?

“I about fainted when I heard what had happened,” Irish-born Mrs. Fiddymont of 59 Andrew Street said. “My dear Owen had to catch me as I fell. I had never heard anything so dreadful in all my life.” Sitting at her kitchen table in the four-room weatherboard, Mrs. Fiddymont looks like everyone’s grandmother. She has a kind face, though her eyes as she recounts to me her memories take on a distressed look. “I only met Mr. Drewn a couple of times; his wife even less. She generally kept to herself. I met her only once, just after they had moved in. I was out the back hanging up the washing when she wandered outside. The fence separating our properties isn’t very high, so I could see the girl just fine. She had a sad way about her; not that she was upset or crying mind you, but she looked forlorn. I called out to her a couple of times before she turned to me. It was like she was lost in her own world. Anyway, I introduced myself, and asked her if she wanted to come over for some lemonade — it was hotter than the devil’s furnace at that time. She seemed taken aback by the offer, like she wasn’t sure what she should say. Before she answered, Mr. Drewn appeared at the back door and called her inside. That was the last time I saw the poor girl alive.” What of Mr. Deeming, or as she knew him, Mr. Drewn? “Never once did I suspect that the tall, dashing Englishman was capable of such horrible acts,” Mrs. Fiddymont answered with a huff. “He was always immaculately dressed, and polite. Although I do have to say, that on more than one occasion, I heard arguing coming from next door. It never seemed like much to me, just the usual marital spat, but still, I do remember hearing Mr. Drewn make numerous references to his mother, like she was living in the house with them, although I never saw an older woman in or about the premises. That did make me uneasy.”

Another neighbour, Louisa Atkinson, a washerwoman residing at no. 60 Andrew Street, also heard the couple quarrelling, and was probably the last to see Emily Williams (nee Mather) alive. “I was walking past the house at around 7pm on Christmas Eve, when I heard Mr. and Mrs. Drewn arguing. I stopped to listen — they were, after all, new to the neighbourhood and I was curious. After a few minutes of hearing them fighting, I heard a crash and shortly thereafter Mrs. Drewn came out the back door and started walking up and down the side path, like she was especially nervous. I told Emily that perhaps she should leave this place for a little while, but she simply smiled and said everything will be all right soon. I could tell she was frightened, but I thought it wasn’t any of my business, so I didn’t press the matter any further. I watched Mrs. Drewn return to the house, and that was the last time I saw her.”

Does Louisa know what they were arguing about? “It was something to do with a letter, that much I know. And about a woman named Kelly. I guess Mrs. Drewn thought her husband was having an affair with a woman named Kelly, or some such thing. I also heard Emily mention the police. I guess she never got around to calling them.”

When asked whether she was aware that one of the Ripper’s victims had a surname of Kelly, and that it has been alleged that Fred Deeming once corresponded with this lady, Mrs. Atkinson grew extremely pale. “I don’t read much in the way of newspapers,” she said. “I don’t know all that much about the murders in London. I know there was some talk of Mr. Drewn being Jack the Ripper, but I never knew about him corresponding with one of the victims.”

It was at this point that Mrs. Atkinson severed the interview, saying she needed to lie down.

Mrs. Fiddymont, however, is fully aware of Saucy Jacky’s crimes and the rumours of Fred Deeming being the notorious murderer. “I admit, I do find the more sordid stories fascinating. My dear Owen used to read to me about the atrocities in Whitechapel on a daily basis. They were so awful, yet so enthralling. To think, such a similarly revolting crime happened only next door to me, and that the man is thought to be the Ripper himself!”

Does Mrs. Fiddymont believe Deeming was the person responsible for the murders in Whitechapel?

“I don’t see why not. I wouldn’t have thought a man of such distinguished features could brutally murder his lovely wife and then bury her body under the fireplace; and yet he did. So I now think Mr. Drewn was more than capable of murdering those prostitutes. And Mr. Drewn was always well-dressed, usually in a top hat and long black coat, which is what the Ripper was supposed to have worn. In my view, Drewn was Jack the Ripper.”

So let’s take a look inside the murder house.

Though the interior looks like any other — the white-washed walls are clean, the high ceilings smudged with the usual amount of soot that blankets the city during the winter months — there’s a coldness inside, colder even than the weather outside. Not a draught, but a general feeling of unease, of darkness. You can tell immediately that something tragic happened here. Perhaps that’s why the house hasn’t been let since Deeming left on Christmas day last year, leaving behind an empty brandy bottle, a stale loaf of bread, a tin of condensed milk and some half-burnt luggage tickets. Walking down the hallway, the floorboards have an especially hollow sound to them. Yet there is hardly any echo, even though the house is absent of furniture. It’s eerie, and I’m thankful I’m here with the owner of the house.

I’m first shown the other rooms of the brick house, including the small bathroom and backyard. While there’s nothing overtly different or strange about any of the rooms, there’s still an undeniable presence that lingers like a black cloak over the house. As I walk through the rooms, I think about the tales of ghostly sightings and strange noises witnessed by some of the neighbours, and they don’t seem out of the realms of possibility. In fact, it’s in the small bathroom where I feel a cold wind wash over me and I’m sure I can hear water rushing down the sink.

“Many nights since Mr. Drewn was hanged I’ve seen a light in the bathroom of no. 57,” Mrs. Fiddymont said. “No other light in the house, just in the bathroom. It’s only a small window, high in the wall, but there’s no mistaking that someone or something is in there with a lantern, and it’s usually quite bright. The first couple of times I went and got my dear Owen, and he saw it, too, so it wasn’t just my imagination running away from me. A few times I’ve been woken during the night by the sound of water rushing down a sink, like someone is emptying a bucket of water, and when I get up and look out the window, I see the light in the bathroom.”

I’m here during the day and the bathroom spooks me — I wouldn’t want to be in here at night. I imagine Fred Deeming hunched over a bucket filled with water and cleaning his bloody hands, and then tipping the tainted water down the drain. I wonder if Deeming has continued this tradition even after death — washing his hands on two separate occasions, with more to follow?

“I’ve even seen a shadow inside the bathroom,” Mrs. Fiddymont continued. “A figure wearing a top hat. I see him moving about inside that awful house, and I get chills right up and down my spine.”

The longer I stay in the house, the more I’m convinced there are sinister forces at play. I ask Mr. Stamford whether he feels a dark presence in the house, and he shakes his head. He doesn’t like being in here due to what happened, but as far as ghosts and spirits are concerned, he doesn’t believe in any of it.

I mention Mrs. Fiddymont and the light in the bathroom, and also about another neighbour, a young man by the name of Alfred Spedding, who told me about seeing a dark figure coming and going from no. 57 at night. A dark figure wearing a top hat and cloak. According to young Mr. Spedding, who lives at no. 55, he used to see Mr. and Mrs. Drewn leaving their house wearing evening wear, as if they were heading off into the city to go to the theatre. He said Mr. Drewn would always be wearing a top hat and black coat; his wife a lovely green dress with white trim and an ornate green bonnet. Well, according to Mr. Spedding, as well as the ghostly figure in the top hat and cloak, he had also seen another ghostly figure walking around the property, as if in a daze. Mr. Spedding said that this figure was a lady and she was wearing a green dress and bonnet.

Then there were the sounds of a lady screaming, a man crying and even the sound of a shovel digging up earth, coming from inside the house.

“Numerous times I’ve been woken by the sound of a woman’s screams,” said Spedding. “First I thought it was coming from another house, but after a while, I realised it was coming from next door. It was always at the same time — shortly after 2am — and always the same scream — twice, short and sharp, unmistakably that of a lady’s.”

“Oh I’ve heard crying from inside that awful house,” Mrs. Fiddymont admitted. “Usually around 2am, and the only word I can understand is ‘mother’.” Does she think it’s the ghost of Fred Deeming? “I’m sure of it,” Mrs. Fiddymont said with a firm nod. “I used to hear that man crying on occasion, and it sounded just the same.”

And what of the sounds of digging? Well, according to both Mrs. Fiddymont and Mr. Spedding, a couple of times they have heard such sounds coming from inside no. 57, whenever they were in their outhouses in the middle of the night.

I tell these stories to Mr. Stamford, but he just looks at me, shrugs his shoulders, and then takes me into the bedroom where Deeming buried his wife.

The moment I enter the room, I’m hit with a feeling of dread. It’s like something is trying to draw the air from my lungs. My breathing becomes laboured. And though it’s been six months since the body of Emily Williams was discovered under the hearthstone, though the room has been thoroughly cleaned, I can still smell a sickening sour smell in the air, like rotten apples mixed with decayed meat.

I ask Mr. Stamford whether he smells the horrid stench, and he simply remarks that he does smell a faint hint of death, but that it’s probably the stink still entrenched in his nose.

Trying to put the smell and the sense of dread to one side, I look around the room. It’s a medium-sized room, with one large window opposite the door and a wardrobe over in one corner. Next to the wardrobe is the fireplace. Built into the brick wall, the fireplace is currently a black, empty cavity — no remnants of a fire, recent or otherwise, remain. Mr. Stamford leads me across the deserted bedroom, to the area in front of the fireplace.

There is no evidence — aside from the smell — that a body was ever buried beneath the hearthstone. No evidence that the floor was ripped up to dig the putrefying corpse from its shallow grave. The area around the fireplace looks like any normal hearthstone.

While crouched by the hearthstone, I begin to hear what sounds like scratching from beneath the floor. At first I think it might be a rat, but the sound is too deliberate; it sounds like fingernails scraping against wood.

With a gasp I straighten and turn to Mr. Stamford, who is looking at me with a baffled expression. I tell him what I hear, but he says he can’t hear a thing.

I listen again; the sound has stopped.

With the stench of death getting stronger, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, I leave the room. Out in the hallway, my head starts to clear and my breathing returns to normal.

The entire house has a disturbed presence within its banal walls; but that room has evil in its heart. As I leave the house and step out into the foggy afternoon, I know I never want to enter that room again. A horrible crime may have been committed inside nine months ago, but something unholy still resides there.

Whether it’s the ghost of Mad Fred Deeming, or simply some residual energy left behind, I’ll let the reader decide. Some people, such as Mrs. Fiddymont and Mr. Spedding, claim there are most certainly ghosts inhabiting the house; others, such as Mr. Stamford say there’s nothing out of the ordinary happening — other than the horrible memories of a ghoulish crime.

Another person who thinks it ludicrous that Deeming’s spirit is haunting the streets of Melbourne is Walter Smith, the hangman at Melbourne Gaol.

“I put the noose around his neck myself and then watched as he dropped through the hatch, his neck snapping as quick and clean as you like. There ain’t no way his spirit is up and walking around after that. Also, it just don’t make sense that Deeming’s spirit is restless and wandering around cutting up prostitutes. I know what he done was horrible, but he must’ve been a religious man, because when the Sheriff asked him if he had any last words before the lever was thrown, you know what he said? ‘Lord receive my spirit’. And the Lord don’t refuse a man such a request, no matter what he done wrong here on Earth. So Deeming’s spirit has to be in heaven, not trapped down here, causing more pain and terror. You know what I reckon? Now I don’t mean no disrespect, but I reckon some newspaper man is behind the murders, doing it to drum up business. They say it was a newsman who wrote that Dear Boss letter and come up with the name Jack the Ripper, not the killer, in order to sell more papers. That’s what these recent murders smell like to me — a way to sell more papers.”

In the final part of this special report, we’ll take a look at the recent prostitute murders, where they were killed, and the similarities to two of the Ripper murders four years ago. We’ll also hear the startling revelations from a Melbourne Gaol doctor as well as a prison inmate of Deeming’s, revelations which are bound to make you think twice about whether it’s the work of a copycat killer, or something otherworldly.

THE ARGUS, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1892

MAD FRED PART 3

—♦—

LITTLE LON — THE SCENE OF THE LATEST PROSTITUTE MURDERS

—

WAS DEEMING JACK THE RIPPER? STARTLING REVELATIONS

—

THE MADMAN OF MELBOURNE: COPYCAT KILLER OR GHOST?

The area known as Little Lon is well-known for its vice and crime. A dirty, cramped collection of weatherboard cottages and brick buildings, it’s a dark, smelly enclave full of prostitution, opium dens and the roughest pubs in Melbourne. This small slum area on the fringes of Melbourne city is a far cry from the theatres and boutiques of Collins Street. While it’s not quite the desperate slums of London’s East End, where thousands of sad and poverty-stricken men, women and children live in absolute squalor, Little Lon still isn’t a place any respectable person would want to travel through after dark. There are respectable families living in shacks amidst the choking stench of rotting refuse and industry, but they are outnumbered by the drunk and drug-addled denizens who crawl out after dark and while away the nights in a haze of immorality.

Here you’ll find the many brothels owned by Caroline Hodgson, better known as Madame Brussels. Mostly two-story weatherboard terraces and large brick houses, these brothels seem to be everywhere on Lonsdale Street. You’ll also find a scattering of pubs, such as The Duke on Little Lonsdale, where the roughest types swill beer and gin till the early hours. Away from the meagre lighting of the main streets lie dark laneways, where vice and the unmistakable stink of opium chokes the rotten air.

It was down one of these grim alleyways where the first prostitute was found murdered, in the early hours of August 31st. 42-year-old Emma Doyle, originally from Ireland, was found with her throat cut and her abdomen sliced open, her innards protruding slightly from the wound. Doyle, a known prostitute, had last been seen strolling east down Little Lonsdale Street, alone, at around 2am. At just after half-past three, a man coming home from work found her body lying on the bluestone outside his tiny brick cottage in Castletown Place, a dark, narrow alley running off Little Lonsdale.

The time and date of the murder, as well as the injuries, were all consistent with that of Jack the Ripper’s third victim, Mary Ann Nichols, whose mutilated body was found in Buck’s Row, Whitechapel.

Standing outside the row of six red-brick cottages in Castletown Place, I get a sense of déjà vu. The area eerily resembles the photos of Buck’s Row from the Whitechapel murders of four years ago; it’s almost like I’ve stepped back in time and place. Shining my bull’s-eye lantern on the ground outside the brick cottage, I can still see traces of blood on the cobblestone and in the gutter. I can almost see the mad killer crouched by the body, first slicing the poor woman’s neck, and then going to work on her stomach. Just like the Ripper slayings, nobody saw or heard anything, even though half a dozen families live in the string of cottages where the woman was murdered.

It’s just past 10 o’clock in the evening, the fog thick and the smell of rotting waste strong and putrid, but speaking with some of the locals, it’s clear that Little Lon stays open all night. According to one local man, who drinks regularly at the Black Eagle Hotel on Lonsdale Street, this small district flows with people all night. There’s no difference between 10 o’clock and 3 o’clock. A street walker I came across agreed — there are people everywhere, all the time, coming and going. And yet, with the murder of Doyle, nobody saw or heard a thing.

It’s true, Castletown Place is an especially dark alley, with only one gas lamp not quite half-way down, leaving most of the alley cast in darkness. Still, standing here on a chilly spring night, I see people walking by constantly along Little Lonsdale. Not ten minutes go by before someone walks by me in the alley — either leaving for work, coming home from work, or using the alley for solicitous purposes. It’s hard to imagine how a person could kill and slice open a woman and not be caught red-handed.

But, that’s just what happened in Castletown Place.

And also what happened just last week, the second Melbourne prostitute murder.

Less than a mile from Castletown Place, to the north of Little Lonsdale, is another alley, buried among the cramped housing and filth of the squalid city block.

Cumberland Place is the long middle street within a grid of six other streets. It’s one of the wider alleyways in Little Lon, and in it resides families from Ireland, China and Eastern Europe. Bare-footed children run and shriek and laugh down the sloping alley, as dirty as the street itself. Horse manure sits in piles next to scraps of rubbish. Lines of clothing streak the back and even front yards and most of the cottages, while kept neat by the residents, are still flimsy-looking shacks that seem ready to tumble at the slightest breath of wind.

Standing on the corner of Cumberland and McCormack Place, the morning chill having given way to a bright, uncharacteristically warm September day, I wonder how the killer ended up here, deep within the warren that is Little Lon. The nearest brothel is a few streets away, and though there are pubs in the vicinity, they’re not as notorious as the ones found on the main thoroughfares, such as Lonsdale Street. Yet, sometime in the early hours of the 8th of this month, a woman was brutally slaughtered in the backyard of the corner house on Cumberland Place. Like the murder a week prior, and like those in Whitechapel, no one heard or saw a thing — even though a family of five were sleeping inside the house.

I’m shown into the backyard by one of the residents of the green weatherboard cottage, a lady by the name of Joyce Snell. The yard is entered from the street by a side door, one that, according to Mrs. Snell, is never locked. “Nobody locks their doors in this neighbourhood,” she said. “We all know one another, people are always coming and going, day and night. You don’t need a key to get into the backyard; anyone can open the door and step in.”

The yard itself, like many in the area, is small and, aside from the toilet in the far corner and a table along one wall, sparsely populated. A path of cobbled bluestone leads from the back door steps to the small outhouse. Mrs. Snell shows me the spot where the woman was killed.

“My eldest son found the body,” Mrs. Snell said, her voice shaking; she is clearly still in shock. “He was outside at around 6am, when he spotted something on the ground by the back wall.”

Mrs. Snell points to the section of broken concrete near the stone wall that backs onto Providence Place, a narrow alley running parallel to Cumberland. There are still smudges of reddish-brown on the wall, between the cracks. “He first thought it was a pile of rubbish someone had dumped in our yard, or maybe one of the local men lying drunk. He went over to investigate and by the light of his candle, saw the body of the woman. She was all cut open.”

46-year-old Tess Haynes, another known prostitute, was found with her head nearly severed from her body and her stomach sliced open. Her insides had been removed from her body and laid over her right shoulder. Some organs were gone entirely.

“It was the most horrid sight I have ever seen, and will not likely forget it till my dying day. I see that poor woman with her belly lying open and her guts spilling out every time I close my eyes.”

So neither she, nor any members of her family heard anything? A struggle, a cry for help?

“No,” said Mrs. Snell heavily. “We’re all light sleepers, and yet no one heard a thing. And it must’ve happened not long before Johnny got up to go to the outhouse — my husband was out in the backyard around five, and he never noticed a thing out of the ordinary. I’m sure he would’ve seen the body lying by the wall if it had been there.”

According to Mrs. Snell, the backyard is often used by prostitutes to conduct their business. A lot of the backyards in the area are known sex-hangouts, places to give prostitutes and their clients some privacy, somewhere out of direct view from the coppers.

“We’ve had to shoo away many couples copulating in our yard,” Mrs. Snell said. “It’s not uncommon to come outside in the dead of night and find a man and woman involved in salacious acts. Sometimes the yard is used by drunks either too frightened or too full to go home for the night. So, they stumble into the nearest yard and curl up.”

Will she and her family be locking the yard door from now on?

“Heavens no,” Mrs. Snell huffed. “It’s a horrible thing that happened, but it wouldn’t be sensible to lock the door. Besides, who can afford a lock anyway? Still, I am sick of people coming by all the time and gawking into my yard; ghoulish folks eager to see the scene of the crime. And it’s not just kids, but adults, both men and women. They should know better.”

In the short time I’ve been in the Snell’s backyard, at least a dozen faces have either appeared over the fence, or people have entered the yard to catch sight of where the second crime was committed.

Having seen the body, does Mrs. Snell think the killer was that of the supernatural kind, or does she think merely some mad copycat?

“I don’t believe in ghosts, and what I saw that morning was most definitely real. I’m sure it was some crazy person either trying to recapture the glory of Jack the Ripper, or is doing it for a sick joke. All the talk in the papers of Deeming being the Ripper, and with his ghastly crimes and recent hanging — it’s enough to make anyone mad. It could be anyone; someone in the neighbourhood I’ve known all my life — it could be you, for all I know.”

Mrs. Snell laughs; I laugh back, and tell her it’s a ridiculous notion. I’m not even from around here.

“I know. But for someone not familiar with the streets, you certainly found my house easily enough. Usually it takes reporters all day, and asking around at neighbour’s houses, to find our little cottage.”

I can smell blood from miles away, I tell Mrs. Snell jokingly. It’s the reporter in me.

So, we have two murders that resemble the infamous Whitechapel murders of four years ago, both in date, time and modus operandi. Are we dealing with a copycat killer or the ghost of Fred Deeming?

“Most definitely a copycat,” police constable Adam Neil told me. “I’ve seen enough death to know that a man is behind those two butcherings in Little Lon, not a blooming ghost. And rest assured, we’ll do everything in our power to catch this maniac before he kills again. I mean cripes, whoever this guy is he ain’t doing a very good job of replicating the Ripper killings — he started with the third victim, so what does that tell ya?”

Maybe Jack didn’t kill those first two women, I tell PC Neil. I’ve long been of the opinion that the Ripper was responsible for only five killings, not the nine that is generally attributed to the Whitechapel fiend, with Nichols being the first and Kelly the last. And if that is correct, then wouldn’t that mean that either the copycat is in fact very knowledgeable about the Ripper crimes, or go a long ways to substantiate the idea that it is the spirit of the Ripper committing the murders, the spirit of Fred Deeming?

“Phaw!” PC Neil said, a deep frown creasing his young brow. “That’s a tall one if ever I heard it. The Ripper killed nine women, and there ain’t no such thing as ghosts. So this joker cutting up street walkers, whoever he is, is a fool and don’t know his history, and we’ll catch him, don’t you worry ‘bout that.”

So, was Deeming Jack the Ripper?

We know that Deeming was capable of murder, and particularly violent and callous ones at that.

Certainly the newspapers around the world were quick to connect Deeming with the Ripper. After all, he’s a Brit and killed his two wives and three children by slashing their throats. He admitted to buying knives in Whitechapel at the time of the murders, and a London dressmaker identified Deeming as being with her on both the night of the double murder in Whitechapel, and the morning after, where he showed great knowledge of the Eddowes murder. Apparently they were together on the 30th of September, and met up again the next morning. Though Deeming had told the lady his name was Lawson, the dressmaker identified the man she was with, and who frightened her with talk of the mutilations, as that of Fred Deeming when showed a photograph of him. It’s also interesting to note that Deeming’s father tried to commit suicide numerous times by cutting his own throat with a knife.

“He had a great hatred for his father,” Doctor Shields, a physician at the Melbourne Gaol, told me. “His father used to beat Frederick as a child, savage beatings that must’ve taken a great toll on the boy, both physically and mentally. He turned to his mother, with whom he had a close relationship, and who, as a Sunday school teacher, drummed into him the wages of sin and punishment. He told me how much he loved his mother, and how devastated he was when she died in ‘75. Frederick was in his early twenties at the time. As much as he loved his mother, he loathed his father more. When I met with him in prison, I found him dull and moody; he told me he often fantasised about his past, that he wished his mother was still alive. He told me he talks to her, every night at 2am, and that she tells him things, including telling him to kill his wives and children. When I asked him about his father, he grew red-faced, incensed, and he roared how he wished he was the one who had slashed his father’s throat, because he would have done it properly; wouldn’t have botched it all those times like his father had. After speaking with the man, I have no doubt his mind was afflicted with a kind of madness, partly borne from his childhood, partly due to a disease of the mind from late stage syphilis. He told me that he had gone searching for a woman who had given him the venereal disease, intending to kill her. Of this he said with a peculiar voice: ‘I’ve had my own back, anyhow, as more than one of them found out.’ He believed in the extermination of all such women.”

When asked if he suspected Deeming of being Jack the Ripper, the doctor refused to answer. However, he did make one last comment regarding Deeming, which was as strange as it was puzzling.

“Not only were his parents deeply religious, but they were strongly superstitious and believed in the spirit world, and claimed to have psychic powers. Deeming told me that his father used to tell him that he had the devil in him and would come to a terrible end, and his mother even prophesied that he was born to be hung. When I saw Deeming, he was forever clutching the Book of Common Prayer, and in his cell they found other books, such as Hymns, Ancient and Modern and Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. He never mentioned it to me, but I tend to suspect that his parents passed onto him their belief in the spirit world and their psychic ability.”

But surely the most damning statement in regards to Deeming being the Ripper comes from an unlikely source — one of Fred’s inmates at Melbourne Gaol.

The man, who asked to remain anonymous, contacted me when he heard I was writing this article and after hearing about the murders of the prostitutes in the city. Wanting to unload what he knew, perhaps to lift some of the guilt he had been carrying around with him for the past five months, he told me this remarkable story, which he swears is true and came straight from Deeming himself.

“He was a strange one all right,” the prisoner said. “We’d hardly been introduced when he starts telling me stuff, real intimate things, like how and why he killed his wife in Windsor. Says she found out his secret, just like the first one, and that once that happened, he had to do away with her. He tells me that his wife found his letter from Mary Kelly, and that because of what it says in it, as well as some items she found along with the letter, she asks him whether he knows anything about the murders in London. He says they argued, but he managed to calm her and tell her he had nothing to do with them. He waited till she was asleep before he done the deed, but that she woke up just as he was creeping up to the bed, and she screamed a couple of times, then he smashed her head with an axe, then slashed her throat. He then went on to say how he dumped her body in the floor and then covered her in concrete. Well, I was stunned, of course, listening to this man spew all this guff. Without a breath he then goes on to tell me about his first wife and kids, and how she found out his secret, so he had to do them in, too.

“Finally he stops and I ask the question — what secret did your wives find out? ’Well, about me being Jack the Ripper, of course,’ he says. Well I just about fell out of me cot. I didn’t believe him at first — thought he was just pulling my leg. But then he goes on to explain about the murders, saying that he done them because he was exterminating the class of women that gave him the syphilis. He says that it was his dead mother who told him to carry out the extermination. He says he killed five whores, five diseased whores who needed to be punished for their sins, stopping when he killed the one that gave him the disease in the first place. I wouldn’t have believed him if not for the look in his eyes as he was telling me all this, a mad sincerity that convinced me he was telling the God’s honest truth. I’m as certain now as I was then — I was sharing a cell with the Ripper himself!”

I’ll leave it to you, dear readers, to decide whether Fred Deeming was telling the truth to his fellow prisoner, or whether this inmate was lying altogether. If both were telling the truth, then the truth of the Whitechapel fiend has finally been revealed, and all you have to ask yourself now is whether Jack the Ripper’s ghost haunts the house in Windsor and is now repeating his crimes here in Melbourne.

With the 30th of September quickly approaching, we all wait with baited breath to see if two more unfortunates are murdered in the slums of Melbourne. Police presence has been heightened, but will that stop the madman of Melbourne? If it’s a mortal killer, then perhaps. Then again, they never caught Jack in Whitechapel. But if it’s a spirit at work, then it’s safe to say that three more women will be brutally slaughtered before the year’s out, and there’s not a thing anyone can do to stop it. Whatever happens, we here at The Argus will keep you informed and up-to-date with this most baffling and bloodcurdling of cases.

—Manfred Cohen

NOTES:

When asked to contribute a story to the Evileye Books anthology The Evileye Annual Compendium of Dastardly Plots & Sublime Debauchery (not yet released at the time of writing) I decided I wanted to write a story that used a real life crime or mystery as its centre-point, as this fitted in with my Evileye Books series, The Garbage Man. I tossed around a number of ideas. I even researched and began a story concerning Harold Holt’s disappearance in 1967, but nothing ‘clicked’. What I really wanted to write about was Jack the Ripper, as I have a strong interest in the Ripper case. But, the Ripper was a UK-based crime, and I wanted to set my story in Australia — again, to echo The Garbage Man. Then I remembered there was an Australian connection with the Ripper — Frederick Deeming, a popular contemporary Ripper suspect who moved to Australia a few years after the Ripper murders and brutally murdered his second wife, and was later hanged for the crime in Melbourne Gaol. This was perfect — not only could I write a story dealing with the Ripper, but set it in Australia. I did copious amounts of research into Deeming’s life (including taking a visit to his home in Windsor, where he murdered his wife, Emily), as well as research into Melbourne in the late 1800s and newspapers of the late nineteenth century, in order to create an authentic and accurate newspaper article that would be at home in an 1891 edition of The Argus. I hope I succeeded, but even if I fell short, I still had a lot of fun researching and writing this particular story.

For anyone with an interest in the Ripper case, please check out my Jack the Ripper site, Saucy Jacky: http://saucyjacky.wordpress.com/

UNBORN LIVES

“Why are they doing this? We didn’t do anything wrong!”

You agree, but you wish the woman would shut up. Her breath reeks of stale cigarettes, which you should be used to, but it sickens you more than the fetid air wafting in through the tiny holes dotting the darkness.

All you know is that you’re in a forest somewhere, lying face down in a box. There are no animal noises, only the occasional chanting from the unseen masses outside, and the frequent yammering of the stranger beside you, whose name you asked a little while ago, and whose response was: “What does a name matter at a time like this?”

How you got here is a mystery. You can’t remember what you were doing at the time of your kidnapping, but you can remember everything else: you were born in Melbourne, Australia; you have a wife and two kids; and you work at a computer software company — although you now feel as though you haven’t really lived your life, merely viewed it like a movie on fast-forward.

With a jolt, the box starts to move; a gradual ascent, like a roller coaster beginning its climb to the top of the rise.

The woman screams once, loud and piercing. “OhmyGodwhat’shappening?”

You hear her trying to break free, but you know that’s not possible. The box doesn’t allow for much movement.

The woman soon gives up trying. She goes back to sobbing and uttering familiar phrases such as: “Why are they doing this?” and, “I haven’t done anything wrong.” But this time she adds, “…have I?”

Is this punishment? you wonder.

But you haven’t done anything wrong, either.

Nothing you can remember, anyway.

And then a strange voice says:

You won’t do anything wrong. Not now.

You look out the nearest hole; see the forest moving by slowly and then you glimpse dark figures below.

There’s about fifty, all wearing dark clothing, and chanting. You can’t see their faces and although their voices are many and echo through the dense forest, you can’t understand what they’re saying.

The woman sobs: “I have a husband. I’m only thirty-eight. I haven’t even lived. Christ I need a smoke.”

She’s the same age as you, and this fact scares you, though you’re not sure why, and like her, you too ache for a cigarette.

The compartment becomes hotter and as the trunks of the pine trees become the tops, you lose sight of the figures below, though not before one of them looks up and you glimpse a white skeletal face, grinning.

The image stays with you, even when you close your eyes; you can’t rid your mind of the face — it’s eerily familiar — and when light pushes through your world, you open your eyes to a luminous orange pulsating through the holes, and the woman turns and looks at you, tears glinting off her milky white cheeks. “There’s a fire,” she says flatly. She doesn’t blink. “A huge furnace. We’re heading straight towards it.”

“What did we do?” you cry. “Why are they doing this to us? We’ve done nothing wrong!”

But you would have, the voice intones. That’s why we’re stopping you before you could do the damage.

There’s a jolt. You feel the box turning.

You dare to look outside.

What shocks you the most is the sheer number of boxes following yours up the conveyor belt; a seemingly endless sea of smooth brown crates, all punched with tiny holes, so they resemble chocolate Swiss cheese, all, presumably, containing bodies within.

As the flames get nearer and the heat more intense, you notice, stamped in bold red on the side of the box closest to yours — 24, fire, accidental, number of deaths: 5. On the box behind — 17, fire, deliberate, number of deaths: 16.

And underneath, the one common bit of writing, printed in smaller letters — by order of the Death Prevention Agency, sanctioned by the World Peace Organisation.

What in Christ’s name is the World Peace Organisation? you wonder.

And whose deaths are they preventing?

Certainly not yours.

Your vision expands to see other conveyor belts — hundreds of them all over the land, crisscrossing each other over and between the statuesque pine trees. There are thousands of boxes rolling through the forest and these are the signs you can make out: Serial Killers; Motor Vehicle ‘Accidents’; Gang related Shootings. You watch with a sickening punch to the stomach as the boxes in their respective groups are: sliced with over sized swords; rammed into each other with powerful hydraulic arms; and shot at with all types of guns.

You turn away from the ghoulish sight. Catch a glimpse of a large sign over your section just before your vision fills with orange. It reads — Fire-related Deaths: Accidental & Deliberate.

The woman lets out a soul shattering scream. You’ve never smelt human flesh cooking before (you never got the chance), and it’s worse than anything you’ve ever (would have) smelt.

You close your eyes, hoping to shut your mind off from the horror, but you see the spectre of the grinning skeleton, only now it’s surrounded by a red glow which infuses its eyes with demonic glee and the only sound coming from the woman now is her sizzling flesh.

The skeleton smiles, says without moving its rotted mouth:

Two by two, just like on the Ark.

The punishment fits the crime.

What crime? you scream in your head.

The crime you would have committed. Had you been born.

But I remember my life — my wife, my job!

Future events that were projected into your mind. We wanted to show you what would have been, the life you would have lived. You deserve at least that much.

When you feel the sting of fire, you hazard a guess as to what your box reads: 38, fire, accidental (surely not deliberate), number of deaths: 4.

You think you’ll miss your wife and kids.

But you’ll never get the chance to find out.

NOTES:

This is one of my few sci-fi stories, inspired by some of the more socially-minded sci-fi stories such as Logan’s Run and Minority Report. And like those stories, ‘Unborn Lives’ stems from a fear of technology; or, more accurately, a fear of the abuse of technology (as well as the Government). It’s a fear that constantly plagues my mind — not only the over-reliance on it, but the concern that it will someday take over our lives to a point that’s dangerous to our well-being and even to our individual freedom.

COME MORNING

…I will be free. Free to taste the sun without a wall of concrete around me. Free to run where I like, when I like, how I like.

But first, the night.

For fifteen agonizing years I’ve been holed up in this room, my life a routine of sleep, shower, eat, shit, play — but not too much play — rest, eat, sleep…

Fifteen years waiting for tomorrow to come and it all comes down to this.

One night.

One night that, once done, will spell the end of my burden and the beginning of my life.

One night.

For two lovers, parting the next morning, one night feels like a blink of an eye, painful in its brevity. But for a kid waiting for Christmas morning to arrive, unable to sleep, night seems to roll on forever.

One night and then I’ll be free. Gather up my clothes, my belongings, say goodbye to the heavy clanging, the even heavier silence, the violence and the madness, the rotten food, the rotten guards, the crying. All left behind in a capsule of my mind, fading with each passing day, until the memories leave only a whisper of a mark and the long years will seem like no time at all.

But first, the night.

Lights out, like every other night, only tonight isn’t like those other nights for tomorrow brings shower, maybe a shit, but not eat, and not play; at least, not the way they say. No, tomorrow I will eat pancakes or eggs over easy. A pot of coffee you say? Bacon strips, waffles and fresh fruit if you please. And I will play, oh yes I will play, but not on the concrete like so many dogs, lifting this and bouncing that, eyes watching from the towers. I will play, but on a soft mattress in a soft room with a soft lady — or a hard one. Whichever I can afford.

So one night is all I have to endure before I walk out into the light; but night can be long, it can be lonely, and too many thoughts can roll around in too many heads. So though I anticipate the coming of the dawn, it will be a hard night this night, the hardest one of them all.

I lay in my cot, like a good obedient boy, trying to drown out the cries, the slapping, the groaning, by listening to my heart, my breath. I stare out at the darkness, at the bars that have crisscrossed my life for fifteen years, waiting for sleep to overtake me, for I know that when that happens, the night will pass like a bird by my window. I will wake and the darkness would’ve turned to light and then they will come for me and I will be free.

Free.

Such a small word, but one containing all the heartache and joy of all the men, women and children in all the world.

I’m not tired, I’m much too excited, but still I close my eyes, think of what life will be like once I’m out of this prison.

I see trees spreading their wings and long cracked roads leading to somewhere, anywhere. I see bars at night, smoky women, stained eyes and good times. I see a girl lying on the ground, pants ripped, exposing tender white flesh…

My eyes flash open.

I frown.

I can’t think of such things, I’m not allowed to. I’m not supposed to, I’ve been cured, I’ve done my time, so I shouldn’t be thinking of flesh and sex and violence. I’ve left that in another time, I was a different person then. I’ve had fifteen years of shedding my skin. I’m all better now.

Again I close my eyes and imagine simple pleasures: staying up and watching the late show; being able to hop in my car and go cruising; calling my ma on the phone, day or night. These are the things I should be thinking about.

Sometime later I drift to sleep.

When I wake, the room is still gloomy with night. The block is quieter now, only the jab of crying, or a punch of laughter kills the silence. Probably Wilson three rooms down; in for murder, he’s as crazy as they come. But he’s not mad. I remember when I first arrived here, many, many nights ago, how he had cornered me, told me if I gave him all of my cigs, he’d only rape me once. Well, I gave him all my cigs and he did rape me, but more than once. A lot more.

I think of this and I’m all primed to laugh, but it halts in my throat. I almost laugh not because I enjoyed it, but because I’m going home tomorrow and Wilson will still be here, asking the next piece of fresh meat for all his cigs.

I hop out of my cot, needing to pee. As I pee, I turn and stare out the window, see only chalky blackness through the bars. I think of all the times I’ve stared out this window, and a tear drips down my face, into the bowl. I’m gonna miss that window, those bars; my sole companion during my dark times. It was with me when I flew to Rio and danced with all of those girls, also when I traveled to Greece and sat sipping a beer, watching the yachts sail past, whiteness all around me. It was with me when I hitched a ride to Florida, and when I drove to Nevada. It was also there when I opened my wrists using a filed pen lid, and it was certainly there to watch over me when I cried endless tears.

I finished pissing and, tucking myself in, I look to the cold floor and wonder where all the tears I’ve spilled have gone. I picture an underground river flowing with all the tears, blood and semen of all the men who have called this hell home, and I picture myself dropping down into it and floating away.

It is then I laugh; short and breathy. Why think such a thought? I am no longer bound by these walls; come morning I am free, I have no need for a dirty river. That is a thought of a doomed man, not of a free one.

And so I jump back into my cot, thoughts of the morning floating through my head and miraculously I fall back to sleep.

Next time I wake, the block is asleep, it seems only I am awake at such an ungodly hour. But what hour is this? The room is still as thickly black as before, it feels like time has hardly shifted. I sit up, put my chiseled feet to the rock floor and saunter to the end of my world.

I clutch the thick bars and stare up at the clock, its round, watchful face winking at me. One it tells me; five hours till rise and shine, knuckleheads. It feels like it should be later, but that’s the curse of time, and I shuffle on back to my cot to sleep out the rest of the night.

But sleep does not come easy now. My mouth is dry, my stomach aching, and I just wish it was morning so bad my head hurts. I go over and rinse my mouth, take a moment to sigh and at my cot I sit, not lay, head in my calloused hands.

Why does it seem that this night of all nights should be the longest? Why doesn’t sleep just take me and drop me down once morning shows herself, in all her beauty? It will kill me to have to sit here in the gloom and wait out the night, and surely not even the devil himself can be so cruel.

I have spent too long in this accursed place, and maybe, I think with a gut-curling thought, it will not give me up so easily. Maybe the longer you stay, the more you belong to it, the more it owns you, the more flesh and blood and tears it takes.

I shiver. I hear a dog bark from somewhere that’s not here. Sleep is what I need, sleep and a cold glass of beer and a woman lying unconscious on the…

I slap myself; a hearty, stinging slap. As I blink cold tears away, I know it’s this place that’s filling my head with these evil thoughts; it’s not me, it can’t be me, it’s…

“Always been you,” says a voice, deep and dark.

I gasp and snap my head towards the end of my world. “Who’s there?”

A burp, a sigh. And then that sooty voice, bouncing off the hard cracked walls: “Nobody. A friend. An enemy. Whatever.”

The voice feels familiar, but I can’t grasp it. I stand, step one, two, three paces and stop. I can smell the blood-smell of the metal before me. “How’d you get in here?”

The man, sitting cross-legged in front of me, is shrouded in shadows; he smells of damp towels and old urinal cakes. He takes a swipe from his paper bag. “The question is, how did you?”

I open my mouth to answer, but instead I ask, “What did you mean by ‘it’s always been you’?”

The old man (how do I know it’s an old man if I can’t see his face?) grinds gravel, but then I realize he’s laughing. “You blame this place for your evil thoughts, but this place blames you.”

“I don’t understand.”

The stranger scratches himself and swishes around the paper bag, a bag that smells suspiciously like wine — and not the good kind. He drinks more of the paper bag. “No, I don’t suppose you do,” he says.

“Give me some of your paper bag.”

“Get your own,” he answers.

“I will, tomorrow, when I leave, but right now, I need some of yours.”

The old man howls with laughter. He remains sitting on the other side of freedom, a dark blob.

“Guards!” I yell. “Hey, there’s a bum here, and he won’t give me any of his paper…”

And I awake. Immediately look beyond the end of my cot, but there’s no old man behind the bars.

A dream, I think, and smile, but not because of the dream, but because it means I was asleep. But then the fact that I’m thinking this means I’m awake, and because it’s still dark, the smile washes away.

“Damn it,” I mumble, wanting just to wake when the sun does, but it seems I’m destined to wake every five minutes.

It certainly was a strange dream. I sniff the air. I smell old, sweat-stained towels and a smell all too similar to the time I peed my cot.

It’s the smell of the old man, but he’s not there, just an empty space.

I lie back, close my eyes and think about the old man’s voice. So familiar; not unlike my father’s deep growl. His voice used to scare me when I was young — he used to scare me. He opened his veins when I was eleven and what splashed out looked more like red wine than blood. He was barely forty when he died, but to my young eyes, he seemed ancient. Apparently I look a lot like my father — same narrow eyes, full lips and dark wavy hair — but I don’t see the resemblance.

I lie with my hands over my heart, eyes shut to the darkness, and try and sleep, but sleep is like water flowing down a stream — there, but not there. I’m unable to grasp it and flinging my eyes open I heave a heavy sigh and sit up.

This is the ultimate punishment. Somehow the warden has struck a deal with the devil and has made the night twice as long as usual. The beast! I just want the morning to caress the night, even a hint would be a blessing, but no, the night is a leaden thing, unmoving, stubborn, and doesn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon.

I fear looking at the clock, for what terrors it has to show me, so, staying on my cot, I turn and look at the wall, the wall that has been a constant friend throughout my stay. I reach out and finger the multitude of grooves, nicks, wedges — all so familiar, their mystery help keeping me sane. What was the reason behind this groove? Who chiseled this nick? Was the previous occupant crying, laughing, or dying when he carved this wedge? Long days and even longer nights I’ve laid here dreaming of the past, imagining the men who have come before me: their history, their deeds, their personality. I’ve had conversations with these make believe characters; sometimes it seems they’re more real than any of the men locked in here with me. More real than anyone I used to know on the outside. I will be sad to see them go, but alas, time has come to say goodbye (if time hasn’t decided to stand still).

I turn from the wall and wonder again if I should gaze out at the circle of life and see if it means me harm or kindness.

Or is that too cruel a game?

Yes, I decide, and again close my eyes and attempt to fade into sleep. Because surely, if I can achieve that, the next time I wake, it shall be morning and I shall be free at last.

Sleep comes, dreams come. I dream of an unborn baby, curled inside its mother, only the womb consists of thick heavy bars and instead of an umbilical cord, there’s a long needle which feeds blood and a milky substance and clear, salty water. The baby is sleeping, smiling, sucking its thumb and as I watch, the baby grows.  It grows into a newborn, then a toddler, but it doesn’t stop there. I scream at the toddler to wake up, to break the bars down and leave the womb — it’s getting much too big for the womb — but it doesn’t heed my calls. It continues to grow, into a five-year-old, then ten, and I can see the womb stretching, bloating, and I scream, I cry, and yet the kid seems oblivious to the situation. It continues to suck its thumb and receive the blood and milk concoction. It grows more; teenager, young adult. The bars split. Then I hear the snapping of flesh and muscle, and when it reaches its thirties, it opens its eyes, turns, stares at me, smiles, and then there’s a wild explosion of guts and tissue and blood. I wake, screaming, sweating, heart thumping at a rapid rate. I cease screaming when I realise it was a dream, but my scream continues to echo long after I have stopped.

It’s still dark inside my room, and I’m convinced the night will never end, that something has gone wrong with the world. Maybe the night is stuck, unable to move forward for day to take its place. Or maybe God has fallen asleep at the wheel; or worse, died during the night.

I kick my legs onto the floor and walk the three paces to the bars. I have to look, need to look. I close my eyes, figure it has to be at least three. Three I could handle, only three hours then until, "Rise and shine, knuckleheads", and I could handle that, yes, that would be fine.

My eyes flutter open and, swallowing my fear, I gaze up at the pearly white clock and I feel my heart split in two. I shake my head. “No, no, it can’t be. It can’t be!”

The clock is teasing me, it’s toying with me; it has to be, because surely more than five minutes has passed since I last cast my red, bleary eyes upon its face. Its long hand has to have shifted more than five tiny minutes. I blink, thinking I have read it wrong, the shadows are misguiding my eyes, because I know it has to be five past three, not five past one, no, not that.

I look again, and now it’s four past. I scream. “Guards! Guards! The clock is broken! The clock is broken! Fix it, you bastards!”

I listen, nobody calls back. It’s dead quiet tonight.

“The clock’s not broken, you are.”

I flip around, my back straddling the bars and stare at the old man, standing like a dark, stinking statue near my cot. “How did you…?” I breathe, my lips forming a grimace. “How did you get in here?”

He tips more of the paper bag down his gullet. His smell is a solid mass of rottenness, watering my eyes and churning my gut. “You think you’re ready to leave?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Really?”

I nod.

“You think this place is ready to let you go?”

“I…” I don’t know, I hadn’t given it much thought, but I don’t say this. “It’s just a place.”

“Just a place,” the old man grumbles. “And this is just a paper bag.” He laughs, and it sends a cold wave of ice crawling up my back.

“I don’t…”

“Understand? Yes you do.”

“I just want to wake up and see the sun rising. I just want to leave this place. I deserve that much.”

“You want to wake?”

“Yes. But I’m not asleep. I need to sleep first.”

The old man grins, even though I can’t see him, I just know he is, I can feel his sly smile, and suddenly I’m lying back on my cot. I sit up and look around. I’m all alone, and darkness is like a claw that has gripped my room and will not let go.

I feel tears stain my cheeks and I won’t go to the clock and look, I can’t, my sanity won’t allow itself to be punched and kicked anymore.

Why won’t this night end? I cry inside and I leave my cot and stand by the window, looking up, feeling the hint of a breeze. Through the bars I see stars, then a cloud passes that resembles a dead, naked woman. I stand that way for a long time, thinking how, during the dark times, I would often stand this way and dream that the breeze was the breath of a curvy blonde, or a mysterious brunette; I would smell peach, or vanilla, or strawberry and I would imagine lips pressing down on mine. I would never picture a face, the idea was good enough, and I would be transported from this dungeon into a world full of possibilities, where cars were fast and women were ripe for the picking. My world, a world…

“That doesn’t exist,” says the old man.

My reverie breaks and I twirl around and yelp, “I thought you were gone?”

The old man is now slumped in one corner, paper bag sitting beside him, the sour smell of vomit now a most unwelcome addition to the mélange of putrid vapors.

“You’re full of shit and you know it,” the old man whose face is still covered by shadows croaks. “You still have the demon in you, you always will. I should know.”

“No… I…” I stumble, looking to the bars, wondering if they were already open, maybe I’m allowed to leave? But no, the bars are in place, and it’s still night, and why, oh why won’t the morning come already? “Are you my father?” I ask.

The old man nods. “Let me ask you — what’s waiting for you out there?”

“Plenty,” I say, the wall cold against my back.

My father gurgles. “Like?”

“Well…”

“You got no wife, no kids, and your mom doesn’t want anything to do with her rapist son.”

“Fuck you,” I spit, but the spit has no venom.

“But here, well, here you’ve got everything you need…”

“I hate it here,” I say, and that’s the truth, I do, I hate the routine, the suffocating boredom. I hate concrete and metal and plastic and numbers and the smell of blood, semen and sweat makes my head hurt and my spine crumple. “I just want the morning to come,” I tell my long-dead dad. “That’s all, I’m just waiting for the sun to shine and then I’ll be out of here.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then that’s easy.”

I swallow, taste hope. “What do you mean?”

The old man grips the bottle wrapped in paper and raises one raggedy arm. He releases his fingers and the bottle falls. With a sound like a baby’s scream, the bottle smashes to the cold floor, spreading red wine and glass.

I wait for a guard to come, but it doesn’t happen.

I turn to my dear father; of whom my memory consists of nothing more than the smell of alcohol and the size and power of his fist.

That, and the time I found him in the den one evening, slumped in his chair, something like red wine oozing from his wrists, staining the carpet below.

“There’s your way out,” my dad says, nodding his shadowy head to the floor.

I frown down at the small pond of wine and glass. “There’s nothing there.”

“I know, but you won’t listen. Still, if you want the morning to come, look harder.”

Yes, I want the morning to come, I think I tell him. That means I’m free, I can leave this construct of torture and step out into the free world.

But the night…

“Is there for the taking, if you want it. If you really want this pain to be over, then all you have to do is climb through the hole, jump down into the river, and float away.”

I swallow. Taste blood. “I see no hole.”

“Yes you do. It’s there. It’s always been there. People don’t realize that anything is there for the taking if they look hard enough. Take this paper bag. I looked, and I found it. Now I’ll always have it, just like you’ll always have this place.”

“But I’m leaving this place.”

“As you wish.”

And then I see the hole. Just big enough for me to slip through, it’s like the spilled wine was acid and ate right through the concrete. “Where does it lead?” I ask.

“Hop down and find out.”

I get down on my knees. I hear the glass crunch, feel pricks on my knees and hands, but they don’t affect me. I peer down into the hole. I see a river rushing by not five feet from my face. A deep red river, with streaks of creamy white, like strands of milk have been poured into a tub of ketchup. It smells sickly sweet, like wine.

“Just hop down into the river, float away and soon it’ll be morning and you’ll…”

“Be free,” I finish. I wonder how long this river has been flowing; wonder if any of the other prisoners have ever swam its red tide to freedom.

“Go on,” my father urges. “You can do it. It’s your destiny. If you don’t, the night will never end.”

I nod. Go to say goodbye and thanks to my dad, but when I turn around he’s no longer sitting there.

But his smell still fills my head as I sit on the edge of the hole, then lower myself down.

I hold onto the edge of the hole until my arms are fully extended and I’m knee-deep in the river. I take one last look up at the small section of my world I can see, my world for the past fifteen years, and then let go.

I drop into the river, get a mouthful of saltiness as my heads dunks under and when I surface I see pipes flashing by overhead.

At first I’m scared. The river is flowing fast and I don’t know where it’s taking me. The water is warm, not cold and refreshing like I expected, and sticky.

The river snakes through the dim steel and concrete corridor.

Soon the surroundings get lighter. I begin to relax. I kick up my legs and lie on my back, letting the rushing river take me away.

The shade of night lifts and sunlight, so bright it hurts, is unveiled and finally the night is over and I smile. I cup some of the river in my hands and then tip my hands toward my face. Red runs down my arms like mini rivers and I laugh.

I wonder — will the guards see the hole when they come into my cell to tell me it’s time to rise and shine, knuckleheads? Or will it have closed over, leaving only the broken glass and spilled wine?

One thing’s for sure — I know that come morning, the guards will open my world and stand there looking at the empty cell and, scratching their heads wondering where the bottle of wine came from, say, “Why on earth would he escape? He was free to go today.”

They won’t know the real reason; that I had to, or else the night would never end.

And with a shake of their heads, they will turn and leave, the smell of piss and wine drifting in the air, leaving me in peace, leaving me to enjoy the morning light.

NOTES:

This story was born out of one night’s frustration at being unable to sleep. I usually don’t have much trouble getting to sleep, but on that particular night, I simply lay in bed, staring at the darkness, unable to fall asleep. As you’d expect, my mind started wandering, and I started thinking what if I could never get to sleep, and what if, because of that, time stood still and the night refused to end? What if sleep was the signal for time to continue clicking away and for night to eventually end and for morning to come, and since I couldn’t sleep, the world would remain on pause indefinitely (these are the strange things us writers think about whilst battling insomnia)?

Thankfully I did fall asleep, the world continued turning, and the next morning I sat down and started writing a story dealing with a person’s desperation at wanting night to end and morning to come. ‘Come Morning’ is essentially a poem written in prose form (I think of it as a hybrid, a proem, if you like), and although I don’t write many poems, this style seemed to suit the story.

JUNKIES

The moment the meeting ended, I headed straight for the food and drink table. Though I wasn’t hungry for the assortment of biscuits and donuts, my stomach was grumbling, so I reluctantly grabbed an Anzac biscuit. As I took a bite, a crowd started forming around me. A low muttering buzzed around my head as the motley group of strangers indulged in banal small-talk, most seeming to welcome the change of pace after an hour of bearing their souls to their fellow addicts.

A figure sidled up beside me and snatched a Styrofoam cup from the stack next to the large tin of instant coffee. “First time, huh?”

I had swallowed the tasteless bit of biscuit and grudgingly taken another bite before I realised the figure was talking to me. Half-turning, I looked at the man standing next to me. He was taller than me, but younger, by about ten years. The young man was thin to the point of deathly — it looked like someone had stuck a Hoover in his mouth, pressed the ‘on’ button and proceeded to suck all the air from his body. His cheekbones were shockingly straight and pronounced, like two chiselled L shapes. A junkie for sure.

“Yeah,” I muttered through a mouthful of biscuit. I swallowed. Fought hard not to gag.

“So you’re an eater,” the junkie continued, tipping a couple of spoonfuls of dark brown granules into the cup. He then filled the cup with hot water and without adding any sugar or milk, took a thirsty slug of the instant coffee. “I was friends with an eater. Nasty habit. Are you still seeing movies?”

I nodded.

“Thought so. Wearing a jumper in this heat, I figured you were still exhibiting signs of the addiction. What movie’s currently playing?”

“An old black and white foreign film,” I said, scratching my arms — the woollen fabric was making my skin itch like crazy. “I think it’s Kurosawa, Seven Samurai by the looks of it.”

Frustrated, I tossed back the half-eaten Anzac and tried my luck with a donut. I tasted first the sugar, then the fried dough, and lastly the jam that oozed out like a cut and bleeding heart. It should’ve been delectable, but instead the concoction made my stomach lurch. After months of eating nothing but my peculiar diet, proper food, including sweets, now tasted like damp, mouldy cardboard. I looked for a bin to toss away the foul donut.

“Can’t stomach the real stuff, hey?”

The junkie had followed me.

I groaned internally. I didn’t feel like talking — I had done enough of that tonight. I simply wanted to try and appease my hunger with the free food and drink and then be on my way, back to my apartment and the cravings that’ll inevitably turn up as I lay in bed, trying desperately to sleep.

“I guess not,” I said, turning, trying to smile, but knowing it would’ve come out as a twisted grimace.

The junkie now held two Styrofoam cups. He handed one of them to me. It was full of steaming black liquid.

“My friend, the eater, she used to like coffee. It was the only real bit of nourishment she could stomach.”

“Used to? You mean she was finally able to kick the habit?”

The junkie shook his head. “’Fraid not,” he said. “She died almost six months ago. Binged on Hitchcock DVDs. She had a thing for Hitchcock.”

“They are tasty,” I said, swallowing back some coffee, hoping to drown out the memories of nights dining on Hitch’s lush late 50s period (they tasted like veal and roasted potatoes), and afternoons munching on his early British films (a more hearty taste, like stew and stout).

“Yeah, Sara certainly liked the older films. She reckoned they had a more refined taste — Casablanca was her favourite. Christ, she must’ve eaten at least thirty Casablanca DVDs in the time I knew her. She used to keep a stash of them in the back room of the MovieTime she worked at — she was the night manager at the Bentleigh store for years, and used to host after hour parties most weekends, which is where I met her — because she was afraid her boyfriend would find out about her eating addiction. Me, I never could get into the eating side of things. I’m more of a…well, I guess you could say I’m not afraid of needles.”

I nodded, drank some more coffee. This guy was right — coffee didn’t make me want to retch.

“I’ve been sober for close to a month now. Hardest fucking month of my life. I still miss it. Christ how I miss it. The black inky film running through my veins…” The junkie sighed, chugged back some coffee. “Tape was my drug of choice, especially the horror and action movies of the 80s. They had a real charge to them; they gave me a buzz like you wouldn’t believe.” Junkie smiled, and I was worried his cheekbones would tear open his skin.

“Did you ever try film? I hear that’s the ultimate rush.”

Junkie nodded. “A couple of times. I couldn’t afford film, so it was only on those rare occasions when I managed to score an invite to one of those exclusive parties given by some movie producer that I got to sample some golden glow.”

I had heard about those parties. I had never been to one, but apparently the guests were treated to the finest of films, the cleanest, most pristine prints of Fellini, Bunuel, Scorsese; expensive DVD imports from Japan and Italy; rare laserdiscs and hard-to-find video tapes –both VHS and Beta. Yes, those exclusive parties were supposed to be a cinema junkie’s dream, and just the thought of scoffing down one of those expensive Japanese DVD box sets of Grindhouse made my heart beat faster and my head swirl.

“I tell ya, film beats all. I mean, tape is fine. It’s the working man’s drug of choice; but film…man, once it’s been boiled down it looks like velvety chocolate — none of the grittiness of tape. But, I’ve given all that up. It was taking over my life. I had to stop. It would’ve killed me otherwise.”

I knew how this junkie felt.

Eating nothing but video tape and DVDs for the past four months, night and day, breakfast, lunch and dinner, had taken its toll on me. I had gained a considerable amount of weight (tape and discs contain a surprising amount of calories), and my toilet habits were irregular at best — and what I pushed out was startling; a weird combination of metallic sludge and lumpy spools.

But, I couldn’t stop.

From the moment I tasted my first DVD (accidentally, while trying to clean some smudges off my copy of The Godfather using my finger), I was hooked. Rather than a nothing taste, or a vaguely metallic tang, the DVD had tasted like succulent rib eye with a red wine and mushroom sauce. And by snapping off a shard and munching on it, the disc had tasted even better. Soon I was raiding my DVD collection, devouring my John Waters box set in two days (cheap but tasty, like a cheeseburger or pizza); my Chaplin films in a day’s binge (like warm apple pie), and sneaking in midnight snacks of my collection of John Hughes DVDs (surprisingly Italian in flavour).

I also began taking apart my dozens of old videos and munching on the rolls of tape. While they weren’t quite as satisfying as DVDs — they didn’t have the purity of taste and could occasionally taste a little stale — they did last a lot longer and had a flavour all of their own: earthy, robust, like homemade pea soup or meat pie. Some even tasted like popcorn (mostly the 80s action flicks like Running Man and Cobra).

I couldn’t get enough, couldn’t consume enough movies.

I found an online group of other movie addicts, and discovered the addiction didn’t stop at just eating. There were people who injected film and tape; smoked tape; snorted crushed DVDs and laserdiscs; drank copious amounts of liquefied tape, sometimes following the mug of beer-tape up with shots of film; and wilder party animals who popped pills made from a combination of everything (they were mostly people who only watched big budget Hollywood fare at the cinema — not true film connoisseurs). Across the country video store managers hosted clandestine movie parties so addicts could get together and amid a room full of drug paraphernalia, watch movies and indulge their vices. They were the grungier version of the parties hosted by the studio executives.

It was a popular, if at times intense, underground scene, but it finally got too much for me when, starting a few weeks ago, I noticed my skin was beginning to take on a muddy tinge, like my body had been rubbed with dirt, and the texture started feeling odd, like plastic, but still flexible — much like video tape. And then the images started playing behind my eyes, like my brain was plugged into a movie projector — a constant flow of images that appeared suspended in space and made it difficult to differentiate between what was really happening in the world and what was in my head. But most frightening of all was the chest pain I had felt yesterday. I had gained almost forty kilograms since I started eating DVDs and tape, and it seemed my body had finally had enough. Tucking into Cool Hand Luke for lunch, the taste of eggs and beer on my lips, I started feeling short of breath. My heart had done somersaults, and I felt an ache pulse through my chest.

Panicking, I had dumped the remaining slice of DVD into the bin and vowed to quit consuming movies. I searched online for a support group; found one near my home. Tonight had been my first meeting for recovering movie-holics, and as I stood there finishing off my coffee, I suspected it wouldn’t be my last.

I threw the empty cup into the bin, sighing at the thought of the job that awaited me when I got home. I had started throwing away my monstrous DVD and video collection today, but there was still well over half left, which amounted to close to five hundred discs and tapes.

My mouth started watering at the thought of all that food.

“I best be getting home,” I said to the junkie. “Gotta throw away the rest of my stash.”

The junkie smiled, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. “I know that pain. I still haven’t fully recovered from getting rid of my junk. Don’t, ah, suppose you want any help?”

My first instinct was to say no; that I hardly knew this guy, and besides, I didn’t want anyone to see me cry as I threw my precious cargo into the bin.

“Make the job a lot quicker. And easier, too. I’ve been there. I know how hard it is.”

I considered his offer and decided that it would be good to have someone helping who understood this addiction. “Sure, why not?” I said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. You live far away?”

“Only a ten minute drive.”

“Great. I’ll follow you.”

As we headed for the door, I looked around and noticed the hall was close to empty. Most of the other over eaters, junkies, alcoholics and smokers had left, leaving the scout hall a vacant, echoey shell.

We stepped out into the warm night air. Samurais rode past on horses through a fierce sheet of rain.

“Don’t suppose you have Wild at Heart on video?” Junkie asked, slipping out a lighter and flicking on a flame.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I love that movie. Really gets the blood pumping.”

I nodded. “It is a good one. Although I prefer Blue Velvet. Has a more…unusual flavour to it. Almost French.”

Junkie turned to me and grinned.

I grinned back.

Yes, it was good having another movie buff by my side.

NOTES:

It’ll come as no surprise to many people, but I’m a massive film-nerd. So when I was asked to contribute a story to the wonderful website the Horror Drive-In, I knew I wanted to write something that dealt with movies. After all, the site is primarily a place where other movie-buffs get together and chat about everything from Fellini to John Waters (we talk about other things besides movies, such as books and music, but movies — especially those of the horror and exploitation variety — is the main topic of discussion). I soon hit upon the idea of movie obsession; people, like me, who not only love to watch movies, but love to collect movies as well. I knew the folks at the Horror Drive-In would dig a story about movie obsession (as a lot of them are as obsessed about movies and collecting as I am), and so I took the notion of movies as a drug and ran with it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brett McBean was born and raised in the suburbs of Melbourne, Australia. A child of the ’80s, he grew up on a steady diet of He-Man cartoons, Steven Spielberg movies and audio tapes such as Summer Hits ’88. And yet, somehow he managed to turn out normal (well kinda…). He started playing drums at age ten and after high school, studied music at Box Hill College, one of Victoria’s most renowned music schools, where he earned an Advanced Diploma. Shortly after completing the music degree, he turned his attention towards writing, and he now prefers to pound the keyboard rather than the drums.

His books have been published in Australia, the US, and Germany, and he’s been nominated for the Aurealis, Ditmar, and Ned Kelly awards. He is a member of the Australian Horror Writers Association, where he has been a member of the judging panel for the Australian Shadows Award (2008), the AHWA Flash & Short Story competition (2010) and a mentor in their mentor program. He still lives in the wilds of Melbourne with his wife and German shepherd. Visit him on the web at brettmcbean.com.

LEGUMEMAN BOOKS

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Extreme and/or Unusual Fiction for

Extreme and/or Unusual People

Also by LegumeMan

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The Place In Between by The Reverend Steven Rage

Snake Jaw by Andrew Gallacher

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Copyright

PUBLISHED BY

LegumeMan Books

Copyright © 2010 Brett McBean

Cover Art Copyright © 2010 Andrew Gallacher

Design Copyright © 2010 The Spatchcock

isbn: 978-0-9870496-4-3

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the express written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law

Content

Brett McBean
TALES OF SIN AND MADNESS

Acknowledgements

THE BEAUTIFUL PLACE

AMANDA’S GIFT

STOLEN LIVES

THE NEW RELIGION

THE GENIUS OF A SICK MIND

HEARING THE OCEAN IN A SEASHELL

A QUESTION OF BELIEF

THE COFFIN

THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME

TEMPTATION OF THE RIGHTEOUS PATH

THE GARBAGE MAN

WHO WANTS TO BE A SURVIVOR!

Part 1: The Setup

Part 2: The Game

Part 3: The Pay-Off

A LIGHT FOR ROSE

THE CYCLE

THE PROJECT

THE SCARY PLACE

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

MAD FRED

THE ARGUS, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1892 MAD FRED PART 1

THE ARGUS, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1892 MAD FRED PART 2

THE ARGUS, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1892 MAD FRED PART 3

UNBORN LIVES

COME MORNING

JUNKIES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LEGUMEMAN BOOKS

Copyright