The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore

by Garrett, Wade H.

  “Obviously, you already know the answer to that question, so there is no need in asking.”

  “Do I need to be concerned?”

  “That’s another question you already know the answer to.”

  He was unsure what to say. “I… Uh… I’m not sure if I want to do this.”

  “You can simply say no.”

  Wyatt wiped the sweat from his forehead with a rag. “How does this go down if I decide to move forward?”

  “Take a cab down 9A to Hamilton Heights. Head southwest down 145th. Get out on the corner of 8th avenue. You will have further instructions once you arrive.”

  “What time do you want to meet?”

  “Now.” The phone went dead.

  Wyatt washed his face. As he looked in the mirror he knew he was embarking on a journey that could lead him straight to hell. The phone rang again, startling him. He quickly walked over and picked it up. “Yeah.”

  “Have you made contact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Time?”

  “Now.”

  The caller hung up.

  Wyatt quickly put on a pair of worn blue jeans, a hunter green button down shirt and brown western boots. He tucked in his shirt, then put on a black jacket. He threw a couple of items into a duffel bag, then walked over to the nightstand and picked up his revolver, putting it on top of the other items in his bag. Right before he walked out he clipped a small electronic device to the inside of his jacket. When he got outside, he noticed it was a little cold, but the rain had stopped.

  A few minutes later a taxi came driving down the road. He waved it down, then got in the back. “Take me to the corner of 8th and 145th in Hamilton Heights.”

  The driver looked in the mirror and gave Wyatt a stare. “This time of night, pal?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Not at all.”

  Wyatt laid his head back and closed his eyes.

  An hour later the driver pulled over. “Hey, buddy, we’re here.”

  As soon as he got out the cab sped away. Wyatt was nervous as he looked around, not knowing what to do next. He walked over to a dimly lit area and sat on a bench. A few minutes later two black men came walking towards him; they looked like gangbangers. Wyatt reached into his bag and grasped his firearm as they walked up. The taller of the two men nodded towards Wyatt. “You lookin’ fo’ sumpin’?”

  “Just waiting on someone.”

  The shorter man pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Wyatt. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Wyatt looked at it and noticed a symbol of a tribal looking skull with the letters S.C. inscribed on the forehead. He looked up at the man. “Yes.”

  “Follow us.” The two men started walking off. The taller one stopped after a few steps and turned around. “You comin’?”

  Wyatt was still sitting on the bench, hesitant to go. “To where?”

  “Miller Building. A couple of blocks down.”

  “Is it safe?”

  The man opened his jacket, brandishing his Mac 10. “As long as yo’ white ass is with us it will be.”

  Wyatt grabbed his bag and took off with them. He was nervous as he followed them through a housing complex lined with rundown multifamily buildings. A few minutes later they came to a tall building. Wyatt noticed there were several people lying on the ground by the front door; they appeared to be passed out. “What is this place?”

  The short man laughed. “Da projects.”

  He started to feel very uneasy as he was led through a hallway filled with lowlifes and thugs. He felt out of place as they stared at him and made rude comments. When they came to an elevator, the shorter man pushed the up button. “After you get in here, you’ll be on your own.”

  Wyatt was worried. “What do I do?”

  The elevator door opened. “Go to da eighteenth floor, room 1822.”

  He walked in the elevator. “Maybe y’all should come with me.”

  “Naw, dog, that wasn’t the deal.”

  “What if someone tries to mess with me?”

  The men laughed as they walked away. Wyatt noticed several thugs were heading his way so he quickly pressed the eighteenth-floor button. His heart was pounding as he watched the indicator as it slowly moved from floor to floor. Suddenly the elevator stopped at the ninth floor and the lights went out. A moment later an emergency light came on. Wyatt didn’t like confined spaces and started to panic as he pressed the emergency button, but nothing happened; the control panel was dead. He dropped his bag and leaned back against the rear wall. He looked at his watch; it was now 4:12 AM. A few minutes later he tried to pry the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. Suddenly, he heard two gunshots, then shouting and cursing broke out on the other side of the door. It sounded like some of the rowdy-types were getting disorderly. He didn’t feel comfortable with his situation, but being on this side of the door, even locked in the elevator, was better than on the ninth floor with all the commotion, he thought. The elevator was hot and he was starting to feel nauseous as sweat dripped from his face. He sat down and leaned his back against the wall.

  Wyatt awoke as the elevator started back up—he had fallen asleep. He was feeling very nauseated and lightheaded as he stood to his feet, and then without warning he vomited. He wiped his mouth with a rag and thought how he needed to stop drinking. Relief overcame him when he noticed the floor indicator was moving past the thirteenth floor. He looked at his watch; it was now 4:38 AM. When the door opened, he walked into a hallway, noticing it was vacant and dimly lit. The structure looked very outdated and had a musty smell. He wasn’t sure which way to go, but there was only one light burning at the end of the hallway, so he headed in that direction. Most of the room numbers were missing, or missing one or more digits. He began to have second thoughts as he cautiously walked towards the light, so he made a deal with himself; if room 1822 was missing any numbers he would leave. His heart seemed to stop when he reached the end of the hallway, noticing 1822 was hand written on the last door. It also appeared to be written in dried blood. He stood motionless for a moment, debating if he should walk away. Even though he was terrified of the horrors that could lie ahead, he managed to overcome his fear and knocked. His heart was racing as he waited for a response, but no one answered. He knocked again, but still no answer. The door didn’t have a knob, so he pushed it halfway open. The room was dark except for a small amount of light coming from a floor lamp that was next to a chair. He started to step back, but someone spoke. “Have a seat.”

  He looked back down the hallway, debating if he should run.

  “There’s nowhere to run my friend. And if I wanted you dead, there were numerous opportunities before this.”

  He cautiously crossed the threshold. “Where are you?”

  “Please close the door.”

  Wyatt quickly analyzed the situation, knowing that he had already crossed over into a horrifying world of no return. He shut the door, then walked over and stood next to the chair. “I can’t see you.”

  A cigarette lighter lit up the dark, revealing a man sitting in a recliner around eight feet away. As he lit a cigarette, the flame slightly lit up his face, allowing Wyatt to see that the man had a goatee, a thin face with a strong jawline and strange looking eyes.

  The man took a drag. “Go ahead and have a seat so we can get started.”

  Wyatt sat in the chair, then opened his duffel bag and pulled out a recorder.

  “Let’s do this the old fashion way.”

  Wyatt tossed the recorder in his bag and pulled out a pen and notebook. “How do you want to begin?”

  “The floor is yours. Ask anything you want.”

  Wyatt noticed a bottle of Evan Williams and a glass were sitting on the table next to him. “Is the bottle for me?”

  “Get relaxed if you wish. It’s gonna be a long day.”

  “How did you know that’s what I drink?”

  “I know everything about you, but we’re not here to discuss that.
”

  Wyatt looked troubled. “You’ve been watching me?”

  “You wanted a story; I needed to know if I could trust you.”

  He seemed a little nervous as he glanced at his watch.

  “It’s 4:43. You have somewhere to be?”

  “No, just writing down the time for my notes.” Wyatt quickly wrote the time down in his notebook.

  “Proceed when you’re ready.”

  He was sweating and his hands were slightly shaking. “What do you want me to call you?”

  “Seth.”

  “Only Seth?”

  “That should be sufficient. You’ve already learned more about me in the last two minutes than the police have in two decades.”

  Locked and Loaded

  A black van pulled into the parking lot of the Miller Building. The driver parked, then went to the back of the van where another man was sitting at a console with computer monitors and electronic equipment. The driver, Ron Serbanic, and the man at the console, Jim ‘JT’ Thompson, were undercover FBI agents assigned to a special task force investigating a serial killer known as The Angel of Death. They were both in their mid-fifties and had a lot of experience under their belt. A third man, Thomas ‘T-cat’ Arnold, was sitting quietly in the very back. He was a lot younger, a rookie, and this was his first stakeout.

  Ron sat down next to Jim at the console. “Do you still have Mr. Carter?”

  “He’s in room 1822 on the eighteenth floor, but I’m only receiving static and some garble from his wireless transmitter.”

  Ron picked up a corded microphone and keyed up. “The house rat is on the eighteenth floor, room 1822.”

  A person replied over a speaker. “ETA fifteen minutes.”

  “Ten-four.” Ron tossed the microphone back on the console. He looked at Jim. “We’re going to get him this time.”

  Jim looked nervous. “This is the closest we’ve come. We can’t take a chance of him escaping. I need every exit covered when we move in.”

  “How do we know Mr. Carter is still alive?”

  “The transmitter is still indicating body movement.”

  “Any confirmation that the target is in the room?”

  Jim started pressing buttons and adjusting knobs on the recording equipment as he listened through his headset. A few seconds later he pressed pause. “Here it is.” He rewound the recording a little, then pointed to another headset. “Put those on and listen to this.”

  Ron put it on. “Go ahead.”

  Jim started the playback.

  Ron gave a thumbs up. “That’s him. It’s not much, but that definitely sounds like our target.”

  Thomas chambered a round in his AR15. “Locked and loaded. He’s not getting away this time.”

  Jim shook his head. “Don’t underestimate this guy. And you’re only here for backup and to follow my lead.”

  Ron shined his flashlight at Thomas. “Son, make sure your safety is engaged.”

  Thomas smiled. “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  Ron turned off the light. “It is in this unit, so drop the cowboy bullshit. It’s only going to get you killed.”

  “I can handle myself just fine.”

  Jim turned and faced Thomas. “How much do you know about this man?”

  “I’ve been briefed.” He smiled. “And who hasn’t heard about this piece of shit.”

  “You only know what’s been released to the public and local police departments. There’s a lot that has been kept classified.”

  Thomas popped off without thinking. “Like how your partner came up missing?”

  Jim started to get up, but Ron grabbed his shoulder. “He’s just a punk! He’s not worth it.”

  Jim glared at Thomas. “You don’t know shit, boy! Keep your fucking mouth shut!”

  “Sorry, Sir. No disrespect intended.” Thomas looked down. “No one talks about what happened.”

  Ron was glaring at him. “And now’s not the time.”

  Jim looked at Ron. “Maybe I need to bring him up to speed on things.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “For his safety, he needs to know who we’re dealing with.” Jim looked at his watch. “We have ten minutes. Keep track of what’s going on and let me know if there’s any change.”

  Ron slid up to the console. “Will do.”

  Jim leaned forward in his chair, facing Thomas. “I’m sure you’re aware of the nightclub that burnt down a couple of nights ago.”

  “Sure, it was in the newspaper. It happened a few blocks from here.”

  “Our target did it. He tortured and killed nine people. That’s how we know he’s here in New York.”

  “Have you gotten this close before?”

  “No, and I’ve been on this guy’s trail for a long time, just short of twelve years. My partner John came up missing eight years and two months ago. John and I had been overseeing the crime scenes left by this individual and we never found anything that led us to his identity. Back then, the newspapers called him The Angel of Vengeance, now they refer to him as The Angel of Death. He is known to us as Skull due to his signature mark that he leaves behind.”

  Thomas sat forward in his chair. “A skull with the letters SC.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, what happened to John?”

  “During an investigation at one of the crime scenes, John had told me that he had found something in an old case file. He came up missing the following day. The information he had stumbled across was also missing.”

  “What do you mean the information was missing?”

  “The folder was on his desk, but the original contents were gone. All we had were the case number and date, but no information to go with it… Skull came and got it.”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “The folder contained several pages of Xeroxed images of John’s hand in the shape of a birdie, and each page had Skull’s signature mark hand drawn on them.”

  “What do you mean Xeroxed copy of John’s hand?”

  “Skull apparently held John’s hand on a Xerox machine and made several copies of him throwing the bird. He then hand wrote his mark on them so we would know it was him.”

  Thomas was angry. “I can’t believe that bastard had the nerve to come into one of our buildings!”

  “There’s more. He didn’t just swap out the contents of the folder, but we believe that’s where he abducted John. Forensics verified that the images of John’s hand had been photocopied on our copy machine, and it was John’s pen that was used to draw the marks.”

  “You got to be fucking kidding me!”

  “No. That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you. This guy shows no fear and will do the unexpected.”

  “His MO shows that he is an out of control vigilante. Why would he go after John?”

  “Apparently, he got too close. And I wouldn’t say he’s out of control. Skull is one of the most calculating and deceiving individuals that I have ever investigated. He’s always several steps ahead of us, and he plants false evidence that leads us on nothing but goose chases. John was the only one that had apparently stumbled across something that could have led us to him.”

  “I still can’t believe he had the balls to do that.”

  “That’s why we’re having this conversation. I want you to know who we’re dealing with. Skull will do the unexpected, and he’s very dangerous.”

  “I know. I’ve read about some of the barbaric shit that he’s done.”

  “Barbaric is an understatement. I have been on thirty-seven of his crime scenes, and the things that I have seen are indescribable. He also likes to make a sport out of his killings, turning them into a game.”

  Thomas was intrigued. “How does he make a game out of them?”

  “There’s one particular murder that I can’t get the images out of my head. All of Skull’s murders are gruesome and sadistic, but what stands out more with this one is the time he invested in building and setting up
this contraption just to torture this man. It took place a few years back in Weslaco, Texas; it’s a small town on the Texas/ Mexico border. When I got there, Skull’s victim was still chained to a concrete wall inside an abandoned warehouse. He was nude and hanging by his wrists, his body was covered in blood and he had been severely burned. In front of him was a large rotating contraption. It was powered by a pulley system that was connected to a twelve-volt DC motor. The rotating contraption had a long boom, and on the end of the boom was a propane torch head that was connected to a twenty-pound propane tank. The boom with the torch head rotated horizontally, like a merry-go-round. It rotated slowly, about one rotation every fifteen seconds or so, and every time the boom came around the torch would burn the man’s body. When he stood, the flame was positioned about the height of his thighs. Since his restraints held his arms right behind his head, he could stand or squat, or even turn his body around. It was apparent that he had moved around in a desperate attempt to avoid the flame, because his skin was charred from his upper legs to his chest all the way around his body, and his private parts had almost been disintegrated.”

  Thomas was sitting on the edge of his chair. “Who was this man?”

  “Dan Johnson. He had just gotten out of prison and was on parole.”

  “What did he go to prison for?”

  “Rape.”

  “Is that why Skull killed him?”

  “Probably, but we’re not sure. A lot of Skull’s victims have been sex offenders, so most likely, that was the reason.”

  “So, what happened to Mr. Johnson? Was he burned to death?”

  “Yes and no. He probably would have died from his third degree burns anyway, but he actually bled to death first.”

  “Why did he go through all that trouble to build the contraption when he could have done the same thing with a hand-held torch or gasoline?”

  “Like I said, Skull likes to make a sport out of his killings. He had set the contraption up to where Mr. Johnson had the choice to be burned to death very slowly, or could stop the machine.”

  “How could he stop it?”

  Jim shook his head. He had a look of disgust. “During the autopsy the examiner found a small plastic box that had been surgically implanted inside the man’s scrotum. It contained a transmitter that sent a signal to the rotating contraption. If the signal stopped, the contraption would stop.”