by Mason, V. F.
This is an absolute law among us all.
“Very well. I hope you are ready for the consequences of your actions.”
Oh, I am ready.
I repeat inwardly the verse that has been my mantra for the last decade as if reading it again from my tattered notebook, my only source of comfort in that hospital bed covered in the smell of antiseptics, which still twitches my nose.
Five Names
Their initials burn my skin with my every breath.
Four lies.
They destroyed my life.
Three Secrets.
They have the power to ignite an inferno in this quiet town.
Two Events
They forever stripped me of my sanity.
One vengeance.
Only then will I find peace.
Madman
The night sky booms with thunder, lightning striking in the middle of it, and I can see the ocean getting restless, the waves swaying back and forth signaling the brewing storm coming soon.
A harsh wind swooshes over me, hitting me in the front, cooling my heated skin and bringing much needed relief.
I open my arms wide, a bottle of whiskey in one while the other holds a cigarette. My black shirt is unbuttoned, flaring behind me as my bare feet step on the rough concrete of my balcony.
My hair blows back and a smile pulls at my lips when I hear another boom of thunder and the heavy rain starts to pour, soaking me instantly, but I pay no attention.
The cool water from the sky cleans the blood smeared all over my body from my latest play in my dungeon, and it seems like the devil himself celebrates my latest hunt with me.
Gulping the rest of my drink greedily, I throw the bottle on the floor where it shatters, sending glass flying in different directions. It will be impossible to find it all until morning.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and despite the rain, I take it out and press it to my ear. “What?”
There is silence at the other end of the line for a moment, and without looking at the display, I know who it is.
Only he likes to create such anticipation in his opponents, friends, and victims alike. “She’ll be back soon.” Callum’s voice is void of any emotion, so it’s hard to get what he means although those four simple words light up an inferno building inside me. “It’s on, Madman.” With that, he hangs up on me, not even waiting for a reply, not that I would have given him one.
Thousands of emotions, one darker than the last, slam into me while deep rage strains every vein in my body.
He didn’t give me a name or any other information—the fucker is secretive like that—but I don’t need him to tell me who he means. I already know.
It’s a wonder I’ve let them all live this long after they’ve kept her hidden away from me for a decade.
Gulping breath into my lungs so the red haze in front of my eyes will go away, I walk inside the house, the glass crunching under my feet and digging into my skin, probably scarring me in the process.
I have so many scars marking my body that several new ones won’t make a difference.
Strolling through the space to my office, I turn on the light, giving me a perfect view of three different blackboards on the otherwise bare white walls.
On the right side, I have all the serial killers involved in my case—the ones who took what’s mine a long time ago when I trusted them to take care of it.
They deceived me.
On the left side are the people involved in Arianna’s death—those who burned her to ashes on this land we all call home.
And right in the middle is a blackboard that has only three pictures on it with different lines connecting them.
One woman who has no face and two men by her side, wanting opposite things from her.
I’ve waited patiently for her revenge for a decade, not touching those attached to us, and used my skills on other people. No one will know the patience it has required from a monster like me, the amount of rage I had to rein in just so she could have her fun first.
She might think she has come here for revenge, that she is the mastermind of her fate and complicated trap, but the reality is very different.
All this is a twisted web of my creation, and everyone involved are merely pawns who have been sitting for a decade on my chessboard, which is located on the table right beneath all the boards.
Walking closer to it, I pick up a black pawn and move it forward, anticipating their next move.
Their loss is inevitable as I won’t rest until each piece on the chessboard is destroyed, leaving only the king and queen at my mercy, so we can settle the score once and for all.
Once upon a time, a sinner, a priest, and a madman played a dangerous game.
Where all of them burned in the ashes of their passion and betrayal.
Chapter Two
“In your faith you will find an answer to all the pain inside you.”
The words of my teacher, Pastor George, echo in my ears every single day of my life.
But oddly enough, atonement doesn’t come and faith has no light in this darkness that I’m living in.
I’m a priest.
Whose sin of the past haunts me wherever I go.
Eachann
The time ticks loudly on the wooden clock behind me, signaling it’s close to evening prayer, and I decide to finish one last thing before calling it a day and grabbing my clerical clothing.
After all, I’m the priest in this church of ours, and this town is nothing but anal about their church masses.
The pen scratches against the paper in the silent room as I continue to write yearly reports, my brows furrowing at the amount spent by Gloria on the rice.
Jotting one last thing down, I close the journal with a loud thud and place it to the side on the big pile of finished reports.
Swirling on my chair, I’m about to get up when five knocks rattle my door. “Come in,” I call out, and Laura bursts inside, almost falling to the ground. “Laura, what a beautiful surprise.”
She jumps in the middle of the room and starts dancing, shaking her arms and legs wildly while chanting, “Guess who sold a house today? Guess who sold a house today?”
A grin spreads on my mouth and I wink. “Laura Campbell.”
She points two fingers at me and does the firing a gun motion. “The one and only. No one will be able to tell me now I’m wasting my time.”
I hold back the desire to tell her that one single sale will hardly count for anything with the family. She is so happy it’d be a crime to ruin her mood.
“Which house?” I ask and the smile slips from her lips, while worry crosses her expression.
Interesting.
She usually reserves this look for family gatherings. And since my connection to them, I have to be front and center to witness it. During those moments, I always want to reach out to her and reassure her that she doesn’t need their acceptance for anything, but it’s easier said than done.
Some childhood habits are hard to ignore. I should know.
She drops on the chair in front of me, rests her elbows on her knees, and raises her eyes, as if trying to glue her stare on me. “Laura?” I probe, finding it oddly unsettling, because she never keeps her mouth shut in my presence.
Come to think of it, her mouth is never zipped in anyone’s presence, and there isn’t a person in this town who doesn’t know about her life. That’s how much of a sharer the girl is.
She exhales heavily, her locks flying a little up on her forehead before she speaks and with it turns my world on its axis. “The Griffins’ house.”
Nothing but dead silence follows her words, interrupted only by the clock ticking loudly. Memories crash into me like one powerful wave after another and I sway a little, tightening my hold on the top of the chair while I struggle to breathe.
Memories, as I discovered through the years, sentence you to life in prison with no option of parole. Maybe so we can remember our sins over and over again and beg for for
giveness that will never come.
“I’m sorry, Eachann.” Laura gets up and comes closer, placing her hand on my shoulder, but I shake it off, emotions sinking deep inside me, too raw for her comfort. “But she really loved it and wanted the biggest house available in the town.”
The Griffins’ house is not about the size though, and we both know it.
No, it’s about prestige and the magnificent view it gives.
Despite them not belonging to the elite in town, they possessed the house that was passed down to them, generation to generation. And oddly enough, no one from the elite tried to take it away from them before or after their deaths.
Probably no one wanted to be haunted by the ghosts that for sure would have choked them all.
“She?” I manage to rasp through my dry throat, and Laura nods, biting her lip while she worriedly sweeps her gaze over me.
“Her name is Cassandra Scott.”
Cassandra.
Tasting her name on my lips sends a weird feeling spreading through me that no priest vowing to commit to the church should experience. “Did you tell her the truth?” A small hope still shines inside my chest that maybe once she knows the full tragedy that happened in that house, Cassandra will run away or choose something else.
Then she wouldn’t be taking away the only place where I can atone for my sins.
Through the years, I never worried about losing it, because who would want to live there? The walls of the house almost reek with despair and devastation.
Besides, Griffin was one surname no one ever wanted to utter in this town, for everyone feared their own skeletons in the closet.
Laura hesitates before replying, but her hesitation is an answer in itself. “Yeah, and she doesn’t mind. I’m sorry; I really am, but…” She pauses and then mutters, spilling the words quickly, “But maybe now you can move on.”
Move on.
A humorless chuckle escapes me.
Only innocent souls can believe that.
For there is no moving on from what I’ve done.
I’m forever smeared in the blood and darkness that belong to me like a second skin.
Chapter Three
“Those who wear masks of deceit cannot be trusted. People should be afraid of them, as you never know when the steel of their sword will pierce your heart.”
Pastor Joseph used to repeat this phrase all the time during his endless lectures to me on the rare occasions I bothered to visit this fucked-up town.
I never gave a shit about it.
I’m not people.
I’m a madman.
Who seeks the flesh of those who fall for the mask of deceit marking my face every single day of my life.
Madman
The classical music blaring through the space grates on my nerves and once again reminds me why I never allow anyone to use my dungeon.
They fuck with the settings and adjust my torture room to their sick desires, and no fucking way does it fly with me.
Picking up the remote from the table, I switch the music to thumping rock and pump my hand in the air, allowing the sensation to wash over me and fuel my blood with much-needed anticipation.
As I discovered through the years, sometimes anticipation can be a bigger aphrodisiac than the act itself.
The way it nips your skin, awakens the beast inside you, feeds into the desires ruling your life from which there is no escape.
Yes, anticipation is an art in itself.
Rock music was designed by gods; what else can explain its beauty and the constant beat that drives you further and further on edge? Feeding the little voice in your head that tells you, you are invincible.
Oddly enough, only one of my acquaintances, Arson, agrees with me on this one. The rest of them prefer classical music, which makes my ears bleed, for it seems depressing as fuck.
Why they use depressing music on such a joyful occasion like killing is beyond my understanding.
“If it’s about the bank loan…,” the voice mumbles in the back, snapping me away from my thoughts as I’m reminded of his presence. “I will give it all back, I promise. I just need a little bit of time.” A chuckle slips past my lips at this, and it transforms into full-blown laughter as it rocks off the walls of my dungeon, mixing with the especially high note of the electric guitar.
Ignoring him, I put on my black leather gloves, enjoying how firmly they press against the skin, unlike the fucking latex ones that have the tendency to break in the most fun moments.
Squeezing my fingers a few times, I stretch my hands in front of me before wiggling my index finger in the air as if making a count on who to pick. “I can sell the house if you need the debt paid now.” The man speaks again, panic slowly creeping into his voice since I continue to stay silent.
Through the years and countless victims, I’ve noticed that while they fear you, they prefer for you to talk. They believe that if you can reason with a serial killer, he will spare you and let you go.
Which is hilarious really, because if a serial killer bothered to hunt you, you can fucking bet no amount of money or anything else in the world will make him let you go.
Nothing short of blood, torture, and death will be satisfying enough.
“You can tell Bill—”
My raised hand over my shoulder shuts him up, and I pick up the serrated-edged kitchen knife that is coated in snake’s venom. This particular one has the power to sink into the body and spread through it slowly, killing from the inside before a person even has a chance to find out about it.
First, it blurs the mind, then paralyzes you, and then—and this is my personal favorite—it burns a person from inside out until nothing but agonizing pain is left.
Ah, what a beautiful venom that sadly I can’t find on the market anymore, because Lachlan fucking buys out everyone.
I have my reasons to hate the underground king of New York, and this just adds to the never-ending pile of his sins in my eyes.
“Please,” he croaks again, and I’ve had about enough of this dramatic victim.
Turning swiftly, I throw the knife right into his gut, and his powerful scream echoes through the space, filled with so much agony a grin spreads across my mouth.
Ah, now it’s more like my dungeon where victims suffer instead of a man bitching about his state.
Once again, I give Mike a closer look, cocking my head to the side as my gaze sweeps over him.
The man is wearing nothing but jeans that hang low on his waist, and he is wrapped tightly with metal chains to the pole standing in the middle of a smaller circle that almost seems like an altar.
His forehead has a big-ass wound right in the middle from the baseball bat I used on him earlier, and his nose drips blood, probably from my fist, because I couldn’t listen to his moans after the hit with the bat.
He hangs his head low, tears streaming down his face as he watches the knife sticking out of him and blood leaking onto the floor by his bare feet. “Please,” he repeats again from his dry throat, and I clack my tongue.
“No.” This one single word has the power for him to snap momentarily out of his state, and he blinks in surprise.
“No?” he asks, and I shake my head and snatch the mini chainsaw from the table.
“No.” Lighting up my cigarette on the way, I exhale smoke around us and continue to talk as my leather boots thump with each step, probably antagonizing every cell in his body. “Do you like to play the piano, Mike?” I fire a question of my own, and he stills; the breath sticks in his lungs and his face pales. “You know, all those private lessons you give to amazing protégés who will someday become great musicians,” I muse, puffing smoke into his face this time, making him cough a little. “They are your pride and joy.” Leaning forward, I murmur in his ear while he trembles all over, shaking his head in denial to every word, even though we both know I’m right. “The high, the power, the passion you feel for your piano lessons.” I tap under his chin, bringing his gaze back to me so he will
see the madness in me clearly and have no hope left. “That’s what I feel when you are here.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he says, and I nod in agreement, patting his shoulder in reassurance.
“Of course not, Mike. You just wanted them to learn. To appreciate you.” The fucker sighs at this like he is relieved I understand him.
For a second, deep rage clouds my eyes, bringing back the memories that wash over me like a silent movie, showcasing black-and-white images that have the power to destroy my sanity if I don’t hold on to it.
The smells, the screams, the laughter, but also their words.
I didn’t mean to.
No matter what happened, they fucking never meant to.
Why then, if they don’t mean to, do they leave scars and pain and agony behind?
“You know what the difference is between me and you, Mike?” I ask, not really caring for his reply as I turn on the mini chainsaw and the familiar trrrrrr sound erupts, his eyes darting toward it while he swallows hard. “I mean every fucking thing I do and don’t feel remorseful about it.” Wrapping my hand around his wrist, I cut off the first finger, and blood spurts over us. His familiar scream rings in my ears and he thrashes on the pole, but no matter how much he tries, he can’t get his hand back.
I move to his next finger and then next and the next, until all his fingers are lying by his toes while the blood around us grows and grows. He’s unable to say anything about it though, his throat is probably torn from all the useless screams he emitted earlier.
Stepping on his cut-off flesh, I grin when it crunches under my assault, and then I fist his hair, angling his head to face me. His hooded eyes make it clear to me the venom has slowly started to work on him, along with the pain. “Music will be the answer to all your prayers.” Disbelief colors his face before he mumbles something incoherent, but I don’t give a shit about that. “There is a special place reserved for us all in hell, Mike. Pray you won’t end up next to me, because I’ll hunt you there too.” Even though I can work on him more, I’m fucking bored at this point.