Where Stars Won't Shine
Page 19
Mariah did cry then. The tears came quick and strong and they were impossible to hold back. She set her mug onto the kitchen counter. Ivy hugged her. “What’s this about? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry.”
“I just care about you so damned much. I want you to be okay again.”
“You and me both. And I will be. That’s what all of this is about.”
“I guess you’re right.” It wasn’t the truth, of course. The truth was Ivy needed more time with her therapist, perhaps more medication. She needed a safe environment, one Mariah thought she could provide. She felt more like a mother than a sister. Despite what Ivy had told her—that she’d just traveled to Marlowe to deal with Scott’s death, to finally face it—she didn’t believe one word.
She wondered if she’d ever know what really happened.
In between sobs, something caught Mariah’s eye.
Ivy still wore her engagement ring. It sparkled in the morning. “Did you wash it?”
“What?” Ivy said.
“The ring? Did you wash it?”
Ivy shook her head. “Not that I recall. The only things I washed were the dust bunnies under my bureau. And my sheets.” She froze for a moment, as if she were about to say something profound, but the moment passed when the moving van pulled up out front. It honked its horn.
Ivy smiled. “That’s me.” She gathered another box of belongings, set it outside.
Mariah stood in her way before she could come back in. “Tell me something.”
Ivy sighed and rolled her eyes. “What is it now?”
“Do you still see it?”
Ivy’s eyes widened for a moment, so quick you would’ve missed it if you weren’t looking. “See what?”
“Cut the shit. The blood, Sis. Do you still see the blood?”
Ivy looked around, studied her furniture, now dust free, and the last few boxes of clothes. “No,” she said. “Not since I got back.”
Mariah’s eyes filled with tears again. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too. Aside from your shitty coffee.”
They hugged once more. Around them birds chirped and the moving crew laughed at something. Mariah didn’t notice any of it.
She was too busy reminding herself Ivy had never been a good liar.
It was going on midnight by the time she finished unpacking. The apartment was small. The listing called it a two bedroom but that was using the term liberally. In truth, there was one bedroom the size of her car and another space that barely fit her two bookcases and a coffee table. It was cozy, though. Just enough space for one.
She looked around, tried to imagine herself living here. She wasn’t sure for how long. A year, maybe. Just long enough to get herself back up and running.
From the kitchen, the teapot whistled.
She put down the box of books, shut the stove off, and poured her tea. She opened the fridge, reached for the milk, and gasped.
In the span of a second, the milk and the other bare essentials turned into something different. Flesh and bones lined the tray instead of condiments.
And that wasn’t ketchup covering the door.
She closed her eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again just as her shrink had taught her. She’d thought it was bullshit at the time, but now, in her silent apartment with no one around to watch, she felt anything but foolish.
Everything was as it should be. The butter was butter. The mustard was mustard. For the moment, at least.
She poured her milk, took a sip, tried to slow her pulse.
The new job was three miles down the road. She’d taken another teaching position at a public school two and a half hours south of her sister’s home. Close enough for weekend visits but far enough that Mariah couldn’t check up on her daily. She needed space.
And time to think about her next move.
She knew she ought to ignore the urges but that was much easier said than accomplished.
The job was a miracle. After her not-so-subtle exit from her last position, she’d never expected to land another teaching gig. The new job’s administration had taken pity but she was not above such things. She needed something to replenish her savings, not to mention keep her mind occupied for the time being.
Because the urge—it called to her every waking moment of every day. It had been there all along. When she’d first left Marlowe it was but a seed but since then it had grown into something more, something with roots. Something that grew in the dark.
She unpacked for another few hours, until her back ached and her clothes were soaked with sweat. Another couple boxes in the morning and she’d be done. Then it was time for groceries, clothes shopping, and her new job. Normal things that normal people did.
She caught her reflection in the mirror above her bed and could’ve laughed if she wasn’t so scared and, to be honest, a bit excited.
The blood was back. It never stayed away for long. No matter how many breathing exercises, no matter how many times she told herself it wasn’t real, just a by-product of grief.
It always came back.
It covered her now. More of her was red than tan. It stuck to her like a second skin, a new skin, which seemed fitting.
There, in her tiny bedroom, she felt it for the thousandth time since that night in Tucker Ashton’s basement.
The Urge.
That’s what all of this had been about, she knew now. The blood wasn’t just calling her to Marlowe. It was preparing her. Tucker may have died that night—or maybe not. It made no difference. Ivy’s fate was sealed.
Every town needed a mayor.
Every kingdom needed a ruler.
She closed her eyes and thought of all the possibilities, all the ways she could make someone scream and beg for mercy. She did not cry and she did not turn on her nightlight.
The darkness no longer scared her.
The following is a rejected epilogue to Charles Williamson’s true crime book Birth of a Monster.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Charles, there’s no way we can keep this in the book. It’s entertaining, sure, insightful even—but just like the introduction, it reads as fiction. I suggest scrapping the epilogue altogether and ending the book where it really ends. Remember, this isn’t a horror novel. It’s reality.
There you have it. The life and times of the most notorious serial killer of the last decade. For many years, after what seemed like a gold rush of murder in the late eighties and early nineties, there was what many true crime enthusiasts refer to as a lull in activity. A crash, if you will.
Then came a boy who lived for the darkness. A boy who so desperately wanted attention he turned to torture, filming innocent victims during their most private moments. Their last moments. The lull officially ended.
Tucker’s videos will live on. Many have been taken down by authorities but they always seem to make their way back to the surface. There are some things that cannot be killed.
And what of Tucker’s fans? They are many. There are entire websites dedicated to the man’s work. Take a moment now to search his name and you’ll find countless forums and auctions. You could be the proud owner of his hat or glove or, if you’re willing to dole out enough money, you could even have something from one of his victims. It’s all out there, waiting for you, if you look hard enough.
A word of warning, though. Don’t look for it. Don’t even consider it. If you’ve read this far, it’s already too late. It’s still unclear where Tucker went, whether he’s alive or dead but that hardly matters. His influence lives on, which makes him as alive as you or I. He’s become immortal and his reach is far and wide.
Just like the potatoes in that moldy basement, his legacy grows by the day. His roots are strong and if you’re foolish enough to go looking, they might just wrap themselves around you. Then you’ll know where he went. Isn’t it obvious? There may be no proof of any kind, no evidence he didn’t die deep within the forest somewhere, but I’ve seen enough to know where he ended up.
Back to where it all started.
Back to Marlowe.
Back to the darkness.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the fine folks at Grindhouse Press for being so darn awesome. See also: Emily Diana, Ryan Beauchamp, Max Linsky, Adam Cesare, Matt Serafini, Scott Cole, Matt Hayward, Aaron Dries, Matthew Bartlett, Tony Tremblay, Mike Lombardo, and a billion other people who’ve been much too kind to me over the years.
Patrick Lacey spends his night and weekends writing about things that make the general public uncomfortable. He lives in Massachusetts with his fiancee, his Pomeranian, his oversized cat, and his muse, who is likely trying to kill him. Stalk him on Facebook or follow him on Twitter (@patlacey).
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