“Last stop.”
He jogged back to the car and told Amy to step on it.
The following excerpts were taken from Charles Williamson’s Birth of a Monster, published on the day of his death.
In a strange sort of way, Tucker Ashton’s birth was a miracle.
His parents had been plagued with two miscarriages and one stillborn. They were convinced a child was out of the picture. In fact, they’d all but stopped trying by the time Diana Ashton—formerly Diana Stewart—conceived for the fourth and final time. She surprised her husband during his thirty-sixth birthday party. Surrounded by friends, mostly hers, and family members, also mostly hers, Brad Ashton closed his eyes while the cake was presented on the table before him. It did not say “Happy Birthday” as he’d been led to believe. Instead three other words were printed in blue frosting, the lettering quite amateurish according to accounts.
It’s a boy.
Brad Ashton had never wanted a child to begin with and later, after his only son was born, he would often remind the boy of this. On those sleepless nights of early parenthood, of which there were plenty due to Tucker’s colic, Brad would whisper how he would’ve been much better off without his boy. Diana would hear Brad repeating the words over and over, like a personal mantra, and choose to ignore them. She blamed his behavior on the stress of being a new father. Though at a certain point, she was forced to see the truth: her husband had issues that he’d kept from her. And for good reason.
It comes as no surprise that Tucker developed social issues by the time he reached high school. A quiet child, he secretly craved the attention he did not receive at home. His mother worked nights at the local grocery store, which left Tucker alone with his father after a long day’s shift at one of Marlowe’s many mills. There was rarely any interaction between the two when Diana was absent. Brad would offer his son a plate of fish sticks or pizza rolls and retire to his chair in the living room to watch his television programs: usually police procedurals but he settled for the occasional court room drama.
Though not one for technology (Brad Ashton often insisted he was born in the wrong time), Diana convinced him to buy Tucker his own computer.
“Why the hell would we do that?” Brad posed. “The kid’s just going to get himself into trouble. That or he’ll download enough porn to fry the thing with a virus.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Diana said. “He can use it for homework and keep in touch with his friends.”
Brad laughed, took a sip of beer (always PBR—not because of the cheap price tag but because he genuinely enjoyed the taste), and reminded her Tucker did not have any friends.
Brad was right about two things.
Firstly, Tucker did not have any companions to speak of. He spent time with boys from school, played the occasional round of ultimate Frisbee, but he hadn’t grown close to anyone. His interpersonal skills were nearly nonexistent.
Secondly, that first family computer, placed in the finished basement in which Tucker spent so much time (and which would later become a prison of sorts) proved lucrative in his descent into madness.
Tucker did indeed get himself into trouble.
From the start, Tucker took to the computer like most boys his age (thirteen, going on fourteen) took to skateboarding or sneaking into R-rated movies. He quickly grew bored with the Internet. Sure, there was porn and access to as many horror films as one could imagine but neither held his interest. He begged his parents to buy him a webcam. For his friends, he suggested. He’d been growing close with a couple boys in his class. And a girl too. Just like they’d asked. Most of his classmates later denied any relationship, though at the time, Diana was inclined to believe her son was finally shedding his shyness.
He eventually convinced his parents and for his fourteenth birthday was presented with a camera that cost more than the family’s annual vacation to Bar Harbor, so said Brad. In truth, the model was much less than the computer itself.
Tucker used his new camera for two things.
The first, taking random videos and posting them to YouTube, Daily Motion, and any other video sharing sites he could find, spoke volumes toward his need for affection but more so his need to be noticed. This would later inform the way in which he killed.
The second, filming strangers as they walked by the house and watching the videos repeatedly, is what psychologists refer to as “distancing.” Tucker filmed these individuals so they weren’t real. Once they graced the computer screen, they were simply objects. There grew a disconnect between the way in which Tucker viewed the world through a screen and the actual world he lived in.
This combination would later birth, so to speak, Tucker’s calling card. It wasn’t worth the killing if no one noticed, which is why he chose to film his victims and post the videos online.
Then he would be noticed.
Diana Ashton was killed roughly one year after her son began uploading videos. He had started with small animals. Several videos of cats, dogs, and squirrels were recovered, though many more are thought to be lost. Diana traveled to the city for a coworker’s wedding which she couldn’t convince Brad to attend. She was running late, was forced to park in a garage several blocks from the venue. A man who was later gunned down by police stepped from behind a neighboring SUV and cracked Diana’s skull with a hammer. Officials assured Brad and Tucker she died quickly and without pain.
The assailant’s name was Devon Sanfilippo. His toxicology report showed excessive alcohol and methamphetamines the night he mugged Diana. He screamed at police, charged the two cruisers that cornered him near Boston Common. The scene was played several times on the nightly news in the weeks after the incident.
Tucker watched it as often as he could. He saved it onto his computer’s desktop.
With Diana gone, Brad did not bother to hide his alcoholic tendencies, something which family members had speculated and now confirmed. The PBR became less about taste and more about sheer numbers. Not satisfied drinking at home, especially with the son he’d never wanted, he took to the Marlowe Pub on most nights and became one of their most frequent customers.
Brad became increasingly suspicious that Tucker was “sick in the head.” He took to locking his son in the basement, first while he was at the pub but then the routine spread to nights he spent home as well. Brad often forgot to let him out.
When the sole light bulb eventually burned out, Brad did not replace it. On nights he stole a glance through the keyhole, he saw only his son’s face, faintly illuminated by the computer screen, his eyes unblinking, his face expressionless.
It was in the darkness of this finished basement, left alone for so very long, that Tucker Ashton the killer was born. Unlike his first birth, it would not prove to be a miracle.
SIX
AS ETHAN ROBERTS passed through the town line, the cop cars vanished. There was no transition. One moment there were cascading lights blinding him in the rearview and the next there was only darkness. He told himself this was a trick of his eyes. He was exhausted, not just from tonight’s burglary but from the past six months, from Lisa’s diagnosis, from the toll it took on his marriage.
One mile into Marlowe, Ethan turned right on River Road, a stretch of privately owned land that ran parallel to the town river. As a kid, before his family moved away, he’d fished here, rounded first base with girls, even told a ghost story or two.
Now, as he slowed the car to a stop and turned the front end toward the river, he wished he’d never recited such tales. In the darkness, he imagined things creeping among the shadows. It was the same sensation he’d experienced during the chase, like something was always one step away from revealing itself. His mind conjured skeletons and slimy appendages but they didn’t do his fear justice.
He put the car into neutral. It was stolen from several towns over and dropped off at a department store parking lot, where Ethan picked it up. Andrew couldn’t take part in the heist, he’d insisted. He was on parole, after all, and he did
n’t plan on ever going back to prison. Ethan was on his own. He grabbed the bag of pills and let his foot off the brake.
On the way out of the car, his wallet fell from his pocket and he forced back a yelp. He was not worried about money. There wasn’t any cash within the cheap leather and most of his credit cards were maxed out. But behind those cards was a folded-up picture Lisa had drawn days before she’d been diagnosed.
Ethan dropped the pills, used his phone for light. The darkness out here, void of any street lamps, was complete. Even the moon seemed not to exist. He hyperventilated as he searched the ground, thinking the wallet was still in the car.
A moment after the vehicle crashed into the river, he felt the smooth rectangle. He used his phone for light, searched the contents until he found the piece of paper. It looked much older than six months. The corners were badly folded and there was a small tear that seemed to grow each time he viewed the picture.
Ought to get it laminated if I make it out of here.
He froze and frowned.
If? Why had his mind chosen such a word? Surely he meant when. Surely his nerves were getting the best of him.
He unfolded the picture and held the phone close. Lisa had drawn herself as a princess, hence her nickname. The stick figure version of his daughter stood on the peak of a castle, overseeing a kingdom that stretched for miles. She held a sword, bedazzled with jewels, but a sword nonetheless. In the distance a dragon approached. Before, it had looked like a googly-eyed frog but now there was something sinister about the beast. Were its eyes larger? Redder?
“You look like a superhero,” Ethan had said when Lisa handed him the picture.
She’d nodded, proud. “Dragons don’t scare me. I’m brave.”
“You certainly are,” he’d said. Now he said it again to himself.
He held the picture away for fear of spilling a tear onto the page. It was already deteriorating too quickly. He couldn’t afford any more damage. He folded it back up and walked along the road. Without a car, the trip would take roughly forty-five minutes, thirty if he pushed it. But the pills were heavy and his exhaustion was cutting through the adrenaline.
That and he still wasn’t keen on heading deeper into town.
He walked for a few yards before stopping again. He looked into the sky and noticed the stars were gone. He could’ve blamed it on the weather, perhaps a passing storm, but he’d checked the weather forecast and there wasn’t a projected cloud in sight. Out here, on this private road, he should’ve been able to see every constellation, make out the big dipper with ease. But there was nothing up there, only total blackness.
Even the stars are afraid of Tucker Ashton.
He waved the thought off. Tucker was dead. His escape was perhaps the mystery of the decade but he wasn’t coming back to Marlowe. Even if he was alive, why come home?
To finish what he started. To kill the rest of them.
He didn’t like the way his thoughts were headed. He hung the bag over his shoulder and started walking again, albeit much faster this time. The drop-off was in the heart of town, at Hotel Marlowe, and he wanted to get this over with.
He did his best not to look at the sky, lest he be reminded of the anomaly.
Not to mention the things in his periphery.
A drink was in order.
Ivy parked in front of the pub across from Hotel Marlowe. Downtown was a line of shops that seemed very much out of place and time. There was a drug store that advertised cough syrup and malt shakes. There was a theater with sun-faded posters in the window, the films decades old. The shoe cobbler, sitting between a consignment shop and bookstore, looked ready to topple over. Surely it saw no business, yet it was there, in front of her, with the hours proudly displayed on the entrance.
Even the hotel looked ancient. There was a marquee out front, with lights that had dimmed with time. She imagined the place swimming with activity during the roaring twenties, girls with bobbed hair holding the arms of men with pressed suits, stepping out of cars that looked like her rental.
Ivy got the sense she’d passed through more than just a town line back there, whatever that meant.
Her sister’s voice echoed through her mind for the thousandth time. This was a terrible idea, Mariah would say. You should’ve stayed away. You should’ve faced your demons years ago, right after Scott …
She let the ellipsis hang in the air and stepped inside the only bar on Main Street: Jacob’s Pub. She wasn’t sure who Jacob was but he’d let his business go to hell. The windows were beyond washing, ought to be replaced altogether. There were several booths and tables. An L-shaped bar bordered the drinks and taps. Across the way were two doors: the kitchen and bathroom next to each other.
Faint music played over the speakers. It sounded old and distorted, as if recorded before stereo existed. There were no customers and no one at the bar. Perhaps the business was closed for the night—or for good. Perhaps she ought to leave. Perhaps—
“Can I get you anything, ma’am?”
She jumped at the voice. The man, presumably Jacob, stood in front of her, across the bar. He held an empty glass and she was certain he hadn’t been there moments before.
He was probably just stocking something below the bar. People don’t just appear out of thin air.
But they do disappear, don’t they?
“Ma’am? Everything okay?”
She shook her head. “Yes, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. I’ll have whatever’s on tap.”
“He nodded. All we’ve got is PBR. Hope that’s okay. It may be cheap but it goes down just fine.”
She smiled. “PBR sounds good to me.”
He smiled back, teeth yellowed with nicotine, beard gray and wiry. “Coming right up.” He poured what resembled piss into the glass and slid it over.
Ivy looked through her wallet. “I’ve only got debit. Do you take plastic?”
He pointed to the sign above the door: cash only.
“I’m sorry. Do you have an ATM anywhere?”
“Out back but it’s broken. No one ever used it. Never got around to getting it fixed.”
She made to leave but he held a hand up. “It’s fine. This one’s on the house. Besides, you look like you could use a drink. If you don’t mind me saying so.”
“If you only knew. I appreciate it. I’m staying over at the hotel across the street. I’ll use their ATM and be back for more, I’m sure.”
His eyebrows lifted. “The hotel, you said? What brings you here?”
She shrugged. “Just passing through.”
He laughed. It wasn’t a quick chuckle. He held his stomach and howled. A tear or two leaked from his eyes. “That’s a good one, Miss.”
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s just that no one passes through Marlowe, if you know what I mean.” He covered his mouth to block more laughter.
“I’m not sure I do.”
His face transitioned quickly to something like concern, maybe even anger. “Lady, I’m sure you know where you are, geographically speaking, but you must also have an inkling as to what happened here.”
She sipped before answering and almost spat. The beer was lukewarm and flat, as if it had been sitting out for eons. Particles floated inside the glass, perhaps dust. “Of course I know what happened.”
He nodded. “Good. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, care to share why you’re here, in this place, when you could be any other place in the world?”
Because the love of my life is dead and it haunts me every minute of every hour of every day. Because I’ve seen more imaginary blood than a surgeon sees in his lifetime. Because he told me to come here.
Jacob touched her arm with a skeletal hand. It felt like ice. Her skin grew rigid. “I didn’t mean to pry. I know this place inside and out. Whatever your reason for being here is, it can’t be for fun. A place like this, where all the good memories have been tarnished by the bad ones … it has a way of calling to you and not the other
way around. You catch my meaning?”
She nodded, her mouth frozen open. She caught it loud and clear.
He started to say something else, something that seemed important, but he stopped mid-sentence and scratched his razor wire beard. “Now what were we talking about? That’s right! PBR. I got a lot of flack for making it the house beer. Me, I’m not into anything that tastes like apricots or peanut butter or any of that. I want beer that tastes like beer, the kind of thing you can drink and not have to think about it. Know what I mean?”
“I suppose I do.” She took another sip, tried to hide the impending gag.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, lifting a rack of dingy glasses, “I’ve got a lot to do. You make yourself at home and holler if you need anything else. Enjoy your stay.”
She hadn’t quite finished swallowing when he turned around and revealed the axe in his back. It hung at a crooked angle, the top half of the blade buried into his spine, the bottom half sticking out and stained with dark blood. The wound—and come to think of it, his flesh too—was unnatural, as if gangrene had set in long ago but the process had stopped just before full-blown infection. A few flies followed him like begging dogs. He did not notice the axe.
Of course he doesn’t. That’s because it isn’t there to begin with. You’re seeing things. Nothing new in that department.
The explanation was fitting but it didn’t sit well with her. This seemed different than her normal visions, more … realistic somehow. She wasn’t sure how to interpret this development but she didn’t intend to stick around.
When the man entered the kitchen, she stood without finishing her beer and left in a hurry.
SEVEN
JUST LIKE THE bar, Hotel Marlowe looked as though it hadn’t seen a visitor for decades. The front sidewalk was littered with potholes. The marquee lights were even worse up close. Most were broken and those that remained looked ready to blow at any moment.
Where Stars Won't Shine Page 4