by D. M. Pulley
Her mouth felt sticky with beer. She brushed her teeth twice and flossed for good measure, but the uneasy sense that she no longer fit in her own skin deepened as she went about her routine. She’d become a stranger to herself, cleaning someone else’s mouth in someone else’s bathroom. She didn’t punch strangers and get fired. She didn’t go to abandoned buildings or flirt with drug dealers. She had a job and responsibilities and a father. This isn’t my life.
Kris floated in her exhausted trance back down the hall and into her bed. Her head hit the pillow and she waited for sleep to put her out of her misery. But she just lay there. A pair of voices passed by her window.
“Can you believe she did that?”
“What a slut!”
“Right? Do you think you’re sober enough to drive?”
A car door slammed. An engine started up and the car pulled away. Kris pulled the covers over her head. A minute later, a gust of wind rattled the single-pane windows. She shivered and rolled over.
She didn’t know how long she lay there wishing for sleep when a set of footsteps crunched the broken glass and road slush that collected in the gutters along Thurman Avenue outside her house. It was just another drunk wandering home from the bar, she told herself. But she listened anyway. The sound of hard-soled shoes hitting the pavement grew louder, then stopped abruptly not far from her front door.
Kris sat up in bed. She waited for the sound of a car door. But there was nothing. She pressed her ear to the paper-thin wall. A car rushed past on the next street. A pack of girls chattered like seabirds a block away. But the feet outside her house stayed still. She listened for twenty breaths, until she wondered whether she’d imagined the whole thing. She forced her head back onto the pillow.
Then another footstep fell. Then another. The sound of sand on concrete ground the sidewalk just outside her room.
Don’t turn on the light, she told herself. You’re not home.
A shadow passed by her closed blinds.
Kris slipped out of her bed and crawled silently to her closet. Her heart pounded in her throat as she reached for the shotgun her father had insisted she bring to Cleveland, propped in the far corner. At the time, she’d been furious. I can’t bring a gun to college, Dad!
It wasn’t loaded, she realized as she slipped it out of its felt sleeve. The shells were under her bed in a sealed box. She could hear her father’s mocking her lack of foresight. They’re about as useful under there as tits on a chicken.
Shut up! she wanted to scream. You can’t keep a loaded gun in the house. It’s not safe!
The footsteps seemed to be pacing outside her room now.
Holding the gun under her right arm, she crawled back to her bed and began feeling around for the heavy cardboard box. Handfuls of dust bunnies. An odd sock. A photo album Troy’s mother had made her.
The footsteps headed back toward her front door.
Kris shoved her entire arm under the bed and swung it wildly until she smashed her finger into the hard corner of a box. It weighed a good ten pounds. She clawed at it and dragged it out from under the bed.
It was sealed shut with thick reinforced packing tape. Her fingers ripped at the edges and pried the corners, but it was useless in the dark. She debated turning on her bedside lamp but didn’t dare draw the attention.
Just as she was about to use her teeth, the footsteps crunched away from her front door. They faded back down the street they’d come from. Kris’s arms went slack. She collapsed against the side of her bed. It was probably just some guy waiting for a ride. It happened all the time down in Tremont after the bars let out.
“What if I’m having some sort of breakdown?” she asked the dark room. The cold metal of the shotgun lay across her legs and the box of shells sat heavy in her lap.
She flipped on the lamp. Her fingernails had ripped through the outer paper of the cardboard like the teeth of a wild dog. She grabbed the nail file from her nightstand and cut through the tape. Twenty shells of buckshot sat in two red-and-copper rows.
She popped the barrel of the gun, loaded two shells, and snapped it closed. Her heart settled down to an almost normal pace, but her chest cavity ached from the pounding. She shoved the loaded gun under her bed along with the rest of the shells and climbed back into bed.
After snapping off the light, she lay there staring at the shadows on her ceiling. More voices walked past on Thurman as 2:00 a.m. came and went. It was a Thursday night, and the weekend was already in full swing in Tremont.
Lying there, she catalogued all the things she still needed to get done the next day. She had a paper due. Finals would begin in two weeks, a prospect that would normally cause her stomach to cramp with worry. Would she get good enough grades to keep her father happy? Would she flunk out? Would he stop paying tuition and insist she move back home?
None of it mattered anymore.
Kris sat up and turned on her light. “To hell with this,” she muttered to herself and got out of bed. She padded over to her desk and turned her computer on.
The torsokillers.com chat room was back up. She clicked over to the “Victims” page and scrolled through to see if Lowjack had ever written back. Their earlier conversation finally rolled up on her screen, frozen in time. She skimmed the lines again.
LOWJACK: Did somebody die?
. . .
KRITTER: They found a body in the woods out there. In pieces.
. . .
KRITTER: David? You there?
New lines of text followed. Kris’s eyes widened as she read what appeared to be excerpts of the police report.
LOWJACK: Alfred Ray Wiley, White Male, Age 55. Last seen March 28, 1999, at Fort Amanda Canoe Livery by proprietor Stuart Wallings . . . Remains recovered April 6, 1999. Disarticulated limbs severed at the primary joints . . . Head, hands, and left leg not found. Strong indications of homicide . . . Positive ID of remains still pending confirmation by next of kin, Kristin Anne Wiley, Age 19 . . . DNA samples still under analysis by the Ohio BCI. On rush. (Typical wait times exceed 30 days.)
The words ran together on the screen as she scrolled down. Kris sat stricken. Seeing it laid out in black and white stripped her of any illusions. Seeing her name right there for the whole discussion board to leer at stripped her naked.
Lowjack posted a file link at the end of his brutal summary. A copy of the full police report painted across her screen. Her father’s name sat at the top of page after page of clinical details surrounding the investigation. The license plate of his car. A schematic map of the county with floating markers to show where evidence had been collected. A diagram of a human body marked up with red ink to indicate the extent of the injuries and the parts of him still missing.
Kris lurched up from her chair and into the bathroom, certain she was going to be sick. She sank to the floor next to the toilet and heaved, but nothing came up. There was nothing left inside her, no food, no stomach, no blood. She gaped at the veins standing up on her hands as they gripped the toilet and debated opening them up to see if they’d actually run dry. Needing to feel something, even if it hurt.
Instead, she punched the sink vanity hard enough to crack the wood. A brilliant starburst of pain flashed up her arm. As she sat there clutching her hand, a thought emerged. How the hell did Lowjack get the report?
Holding her bruised hand, she stormed back to her computer and wiped the horrific diagrams from her screen. A trail of follow-up questions followed Lowjack’s callous data.
MERYLO3: Type of blade indicated?
LOWJACK: Unknown. No mention of hesitation marks.
REN: Signs of preservatives or sedatives?
LOWJACK: Toxicology report not in. No mention of skin discoloration.
MERYLO3: Blood?
LOWJACK: None found on the scene.
REN: Possible candidate but DB does not fit profile. Employed. Rural. WASP.
LOWJACK: I have a feeling about this one. Keep an eye out for more.
Kris read the thread
of discussion with growing rage. They were rating her father’s case as though it were a game show. “What the hell is wrong with these people?” she seethed and pounded the keyboard.
KRITTER: How did you get the file?
Her cursor sat there blinking for a minute until the filthy voyeur wrote back.
LOWJACK: County records aren’t hard to get. Not secured.
KRITTER: So you stole them?
LOWJACK: Borrowed.
KRITTER: Why?
LOWJACK: The county sheriff’s office is in over their heads. They will never find the killer.
KRITTER: But you will?
He didn’t respond. She sucked in a breath, realizing that she might be chatting with the killer at that very moment.
KRITTER: David, why did you go to Cridersville? What does this have to do with the Torso Kill—
Her screen froze. She tapped her mouse and pounded on the keyboard. A second later a dialog box appeared on the screen, informing her of a processing error. She picked up her keyboard and slammed it back down again, then navigated out of the crashed screen. When she attempted to log back in, the chat room was down. The cartoon construction worker grinned at her from behind the glass.
After trying two more times, Kris finally relented and turned the machine off. Curling up into a ball on her bed, she felt more than defeated. She felt scared. They knew everything about her and her father, and she was alone in the dark.
They’re watching you.
Sometime before dawn, Kris finally closed her eyes and fell into a fitful dream. She was lost inside the Harmony Mission, running down the narrow corridors and up and down crumbling staircases. Every window she rushed past held the face of someone who had died there.
The last face she passed was her own.
Kris jerked herself awake and sucked in a lungful of air. The morning sun painted her walls yellow. Her bedside clock read 9:29 a.m. Thirty seconds later her alarm went off. She had class in an hour. Falling back to the pillows, she considered not going. The blank screen of her computer watching from the corner convinced her otherwise. She threw her nightshirt over it. If she stayed there another second, she’d go insane.
The shower couldn’t get hot enough. She stood under the scalding stream until her skin was bright red. She combed her hair back and forced down her oatmeal. Car keys, backpack, purse—she loaded up and opened her front door.
A shock of dark red startled the thoughts out of her. She lurched back from the mark dripping down her front door, slamming her shoulder into the jamb. Blood. Oh my God, it’s blood. Her door was bleeding. Streaks of red paint trailed down the dented white steel to the ground, pooling on the concrete sidewalk at her feet. Her eyes darted up and down Thurman Avenue, expecting to see a killer holding a knife. Nothing but trash cans and old cars.
Paint, she told herself, looking back at the door. It’s only paint. Graffiti. She forced herself to breathe and stared at the mark someone had left on her house. It felt like an accusation—a scarlet letter, but it wasn’t a letter at all.
It was an eight-pointed star.
WOMAN, 35, IS 9TH VICTIM OF TORSO SLAYER
Examination of Skeleton Found Under Bridge Reveals Age and Sex
Ninth victim of the mad butcher of Kingsbury Run was a woman about 35. This was the assertion today of Dr. T. Wingate Todd, professor of anatomy at Western Reserve University.
—Cleveland Press, June 7, 1937, p. 1
CHAPTER 22
April 7, 1938
A burst of white light shined right into her face. Ethel shielded her eyes with both hands, recoiling from the beam and whoever held it. Her heavy steel grate was lost somewhere on the ground. She forced her blinded eyes open against the glare to find her bludgeon sitting by the open doorway at the feet of a hulking shadow.
“Are you alright, Sister?” It was Brother Wenger. “I heard crying.”
“You killed her,” Ethel croaked in a frayed voice. Her strained pupils slowly adjusted to the light. All she could see was his silhouette. She searched the dirt floor for drops of blood, the girl’s screams keening up from the drain still fresh in her ears. Mary Alice.
“Good Lord. What did you say?”
“You killed her.” Ethel staggered to her feet, her rage eclipsing her fear. “You’re a monster! How could you do it? How? She was just a stupid girl. I hope you rot in hell, you sick son of a bitch!” She lunged at him, knocking him slightly off balance. She raised her fist and swung at his face. He just stood there with his hands by his sides. Her punch landed feebly on his cheek, barely even turning his head.
Growling, she struck him again only this time in the neck just shy of his windpipe. Then a wide slap into the side of his head. She lunged again, ready to tear that head off with her teeth.
“That’s enough, Sister,” he said in a deathly calm voice and grabbed both her hands in his. He lowered himself to his knees and dragged her down to the dirt with him. “I will not strike one of God’s creatures. But you are a woman possessed.”
She strained her arms, wrenching her back. “Let me go. You murderer! Help! Somebody, help me!”
He pulled her into his chest and wrapped her thrashing frame in a suffocating bear hug. “Dear Lord,” he began in his minister’s cadence. “Cast out this demon. Cast out Satan’s legions invading this poor soul. Deliver Sister Hattie back into Your arms as You delivered Mary Magdalene.”
“Stop it!” Ethel shrieked and strained to wrestle herself free. “Let me go, you lunatic! Goddammit!”
“She is but a girl, O Lord! Free her from Satan’s grasp!” He forced her onto her back with his bulk and pinned both her arms down to the ground.
“You’re Satan! Let me go! Murderer!” Her shrieks became incoherent as he continued his sadistic prayer.
He pinned both her shoulders down with his knees and drew a cross on her forehead with his thumb. “In the name and by the virtue of our Lord Jesus Christ, I drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirit.”
Ethel thrashed her head back and forth as her screams dried into hoarse whispers. Wenger reached inside his suit coat, and she kicked her legs against the ground, certain he was reaching for a pistol or knife. This is it. This is the end. Her body seized, and she stopped breathing.
A small leather Bible appeared in his hand.
He pressed it to her forehead. “May you be snatched away and driven from the souls redeemed by the precious blood of the divine lamb. Be gone, demon!”
Her eyes bulged up at him. He was clearly insane. His eyes were clenched shut and his face lifted to the ceiling. He seemed convinced he was performing some sort of magic spell on her. He thinks he’s Jesus Christ in the flesh, she realized as his words finally sank into her frantic head. Be gone, demon? And judging from the look of him hovering over her naked breasts, he was enjoying his role as her exorcist immensely.
She drew in a careful breath and let her arms go limp under his knees. She let the tears already leaking out of her eyes flow in a torrent. “Help me,” she whimpered as helplessly as she could manage. “Brother Wenger? God, please. Help.”
This seemed to please him, and he lifted the bulk of his weight off her shoulders. He lifted the leather book from her forehead. “Sister Hattie? Have you come back to us?”
Ethel struggled to sit herself up, mostly because he was still on top of her, but her helpless dance worked. He pulled her up and into his arms.
“What happened?” she sobbed and let her eyes go on a wild search around the room.
“Shh. Be still. You’re going to be alright.” He pressed her head into his chest and rocked her back and forth. His hands were warm on her bare back, reminding Ethel of her nudity and everything he had tried to strip from her. Had he stripped Mary Alice too?
“I heard . . . terrible things,” she whispered and pulled away, checking his shirt and hands for blood in the light. There wasn’t any. Had he been wearing gloves? Had he just strangled the girl until she stopped kicking?
“S
ometimes we see and hear things in the dark. Sometimes the darkness swallows us whole. By the grace of God, you’ve come back, Hattie. Let us pray.” He grabbed both of her hands and clenched them hard between his and his Bible and bowed his head. “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”
She bowed her head and scanned the floor. Her steel plate was lying in the dirt not two feet away.
“Thou art the Creator of all things.”
The screams of the dying girl had echoed up as though from the bottom of a well. As Ethel strained to hear them again, doubt crept into her mind. What if it was just a night terror? What if I imagined all of it?
“‘Deliver us from all the tyranny of the infernal spirits, from their snares, their lies, and their furious wickedness.’”
He squeezed her hands against the Bible until they hurt. Wenger meant to have her soul whether she liked it or not.
“‘Deign, O Lord, to protect us by Thy power and to preserve us safe and sound.’”
He was going to lock her up in the dark again until he was ready to snuff out her furious wickedness once and for all.
“‘We beseech thee through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’”
“Amen,” she murmured in agreement. She didn’t have much time.
He released her hands and stood up. “The fight is not over, Sister. Until you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and take Him into your body, they will find you.”
“Who will find me?” She pushed herself up onto the balls of her feet. Her eyes stayed focused on the steel plate twenty inches away.
“Satan’s legions. The devil comes in many forms. Temptation. Sin.”
“Murder?” she whispered, glancing back at the drain. If she wasn’t crazy now, she would be soon if Wenger had his way.
“Don’t be afraid, dear sister.” Brother Wenger tried to keep the authority in his voice, but Ethel could hear it soften at the edges. “We will not leave you to face the demons alone.”