Dancing With Devils

by Scott Webster

  I felt quite emotional but told her about my parents and the last few weeks. I felt like I’d told the story a thousand times and it did get easier with every re-telling.

  Mallory could only hug me; with the promise she would look after me now.

  She truly was an angel; a beautiful ray of light, in a place where darkness was contented to reign.

  We both smiled as we placed our belongings in the air vent. Mallory pushed a small table over the vent to try and hide it some more.

  “If you ever feel you need to see it, just tell me and we’ll come together, okay?”

  I nodded in agreement.

  Chapter Five

  I was only a few miles away from the crime scene and I had driven through what could be considered the rough part of town — Blackridge.

  I’d come to learn the streets and alleyways like the back of my hand around that neighbourhood. Drugs, assault, larceny, murder; you name it, it has probably happened there, including the bloodbath with the lamb-headed woman a few months before.

  What surprised me more was this crime scene I was heading to was in an upstanding part of the city, Doveport; the more affluent of folks lived there fairly peacefully with little to no issue. You had to have some serious cash to own a property in the haven of Doveport.

  As I drove, the sky seemed to clear somewhat as I entered the rich town. Even the rain daren’t shed on the pristine inhabitants. Bystanders stared at my vehicle, somewhat surprised as it didn’t really suit the fancy SUV-style that most residents opted for.

  I drove past large, decorated, gated homes, some of which were so grandiose it reminded me of Fort Rose Orphanage, which sent chills down my spine. As I approached some blue lights, the gate was left ajar and I pulled up an ornamented driveway with a beautiful garden. Multitudes of flowers sprawled over the pathway made for a rather eye-catching welcome. Reds, purples, blues; a flurry of colours lit up the driveway amidst the grey skies. The rain had begun to subside briefly.

  I pulled up outside the house and even some of the attending officers looked at my car with envy. My brogues tapped off the concrete as I hoisted myself out of the car, locking the door behind me. I don’t know why I even felt the need to lock the door, given the heavy security on scene.

  “Sebastian Blackwood, homicide,” I recited for the umpteenth time and flashed my badge to the officer that had cordoned off the scene.

  I asked him if the neighbours had been questioned, if there were any witnesses, and if anyone had disturbed my crime scene. All of which culminated into a resounding, “No.” At which point I chastised one of the officers smoking outside the property as he could be unwillingly and unknowingly corrupting the scene. He scurried off in the distance, full of apology and embarrassment. Amateur.

  I’m pretty sure I also heard a muffled, “Fuck you.” I chose not to engage. The accompanying officer I was with led the way and I eagerly followed.

  I entered the hallway of the property and was admittedly quite envious of the owner. To have something quite so grand was a dream come true. Arianna always fancied herself as a designer of sorts and would have loved to work on a home brimming with potential and space, although lacking the budget to do anything with it.

  I smiled thinking about how amazing she was. She managed to turn our seedy little flat into a home. Touching up on little bits here and there. I protested often, thinking we didn’t need a new table or a new shelf; but whenever I put them up, it filled out the room more and I reluctantly agreed.

  This home was incredible though, with a very Gregorian feel to it. Beams, large windows illuminating every cavity of the rooms they proudly served. Marble tiles in the hallway leading guests to various rooms boasted to the wealth of the owner. I was curious to find out more about him.

  The officer motioned to his right and said I was in for a surprise and that the victim must have pissed someone off to suffer his fate.

  Surprised, I was. The room I had been led in to was a marvellous study, with long, tall bookcases stacked around the sides, full of first edition copies of rare works. I looked around in awe of what the books could be worth alone; suspecting well into the millions. Some rarer books were actually presented in tall, glass stands; safely protected with impenetrable looking locks on them. One antiquated book in particular had a mechanical page lifter and mechanism designed to prevent fingers ruining the pages. It was a pristine copy of, The Gutenberg Bible. Unbelievable! Only forty copies exist in the world.

  Who was this person and who could have sought his death? That book alone was probably worth half of the buildings on the block. Such a shame it was ultimately without an owner. I felt tempted to keep my eyes open and ears to the ground as to whether or not it would reach auction.

  Those fleeting, selfish thoughts soon came to a close as I walked further into the room to a secluded desk area, surrounded by a grand wall of books. This had Arthur written all over it again, clearly. The sight before me was as twisted and demented as the lamb-head scene.

  Our victim was strung up and hanging about six feet in the air by barbed wire, flesh hanging from razor-sharp metal with his body torn and cut beyond normal means. The victim’s face was looking down towards the ground and difficult to identify based on the blood. As I inquisitively approached, I looked more closely to find he didn’t have a face at all. It had been skinned off his skull, revealing thin layers of muscle.

  Without his face, or eyelids present, bright blue eyes looked on. Whatever his final moments, as the life left his body; his last look of fear was etched into that look. I felt a sudden surge of pain as I imagined the scenario. It was tough to identify much from his face.

  It had to be Arthur as the room was rife with clues as to it being him. Books on codes and ciphers littered the floor. He’d obviously learnt to appreciate his hunter and knew what I loved. For a twisted son of a bitch, I admired his sudden confidence to try and inject some wit into the chase.

  I observed the room further, and a bloodied trail led to a smaller bookcase with some seemingly unimportant journals. Dated as far back as 1961.

  I opened the first journal and was presented with immaculate handwriting.

  They crowded around me and beat me. My tormentors enjoyed inflicting pain and I suppose I learnt to enjoy it, too. It made it easier. It happened enough, so I figured I had no choice but to become one with it. As they kicked me, one of the bullies spat on me and kicked me in the face, breaking my nose. As much as it was painful, I felt the blood running… only, I felt it somewhere else. I realised I had an erection. I recoiled from the kick to the nose after hearing the snap of the bone and my tormentors seemed frozen in place after hearing the crunch. A certain line was crossed as the kick delivered made everyone stop. I curled into a ball so that the sudden embarrassment between my legs wouldn’t be seen but my shorts tented all the same. I’ll never live down the fact that they spotted me, erect. Nothing compares to the crippling pain of shame. They removed my trousers and briefs and left me, coughing and spluttering blood, with my member standing to attention. At least the beatings stopped after that, as people mistakenly thought I was gay. They didn’t want to be associated with the gay man and beat me in case it turned me on. I was mocked. Every. Single. Day.

  The journal continued and I felt empathy for the writer. The book I read from was quite old and worn so I gently put it down for fear I would damage it. Whilst the presumed writer was the man hanging in front of me, my care was almost a mark of respect for their belongings.

  The journal didn’t seem to have anything to do with the case so there was little point in reading on at this moment in time. I highly doubted that bullies from the late sixties would have committed the crime before me. Given the age of the journal and the victim’s body shape, I could only harbour a guess at this point but figured our victim was late seventies to mid-eighties. His style, the way his home was decorated, and even his sense of dress; pretty much all pointed to a more established gentleman. Without a face, and it nowhere to
be seen, I was unable to pinpoint exactly how old.

  I had to recap. The victim was an elderly gentleman, and I had little to go on in terms of motive at the moment. It was, without a doubt, a rather passionate crime for an elderly gentleman. No signs of forced entry, no witnesses, nothing. However, he was bruised, battered, and bloody, from the addition of the barbed wire; clearly placed here on display like a cheap, trophy kill. He was deliberately hoisted up in a torturous manner to be above the ground; did it signal his wealth and desire to be looking down on those less fortunate?

  No real smell, so the body was fairly fresh. His hands were mangled and broken in many places, as though they had been crushed with a large hammer, blood under the nails with the skin unbroken. The assailant clearly wanted to torture and hurt the victim. Although mangled, his left hand was forced into a fist like shape, as best it could anyway, with the exception of one of his fingers snapped into position and pointing towards the general direction of a sideboard. Directly where the finger was pointing, a wallet could be seen.

  It dawned on me that the anonymous call wasn’t exactly what it seemed. A pristine yet chaotic crime scene, with very little out of place, except the victim’s face. Seemingly, and most logically, the culprit was the caller, as there was no realistic way to lure anyone else here. Someone was mocking from afar. We were led here because the killer wanted to show off; had everything about Arthur’s showcasing and boasting mentality written all over it and I knew it was him.

  Arthur was prone to hurting and being dominant over those weaker than him, or in a lesser position to defend themselves; so no one better than a frail old man to have his wicked way. I vaguely recalled that Arthur, when in prison for the rape, made sure he was well read and constantly reading; though to attack a book collector seemed a far-fetched connection. Maybe I was off? Maybe I was trying to make it Arthur because I wanted him to be the one responsible and needed to catch him?

  It was a rather glorious and extravagant method of killing, which fit Arthur’s style given how he maimed and disembowelled his own son. Hanging by barbed wire and torturing was a cakewalk in comparison. There I went again! Almost applauding atrocity. Snap out of it, Sebastian.

  I assessed the room. Oh, the wallet where the victim was pointing. Little cash, numerous expensive credit cards, and the kind only the ultra-wealthy have access to apply for, and a key card to a bus station locker. Now I knew he was playing with me. Locker 25A, Row X. Fitting.

  Any doubt in my mind about it not being Arthur was immediately washed away. Like the woman with the UV light in her stomach, this clue led me to a locker in row X – ‘X marks the spot’ after all.

  It was a deliberate plot, as no wealthy gentleman with such obvious wealth would be storing his possessions in a bus station. This was another addition to our game of cat and mouse. I was being lured and I was happy to take the bait. I should have logged the key card as evidence but slipped it in my pocket instead, electing to play in the twisted game.

  I reassessed the wallet and found there was no ID. The man really was a John Doe right now, just like our Jane Doe from before. Other officers and detectives had explored other areas and hadn’t so much as turned up a fingerprint. The place had been cleaned down thoroughly, with special care taken to make our job that much harder.

  “Does anyone have a name for me?” I shouted out impatiently.

  The beckoning through the house encouraged an officer to come forward. He had found an old letter addressed to a Mr Xander Hardiman. Another slight smirk hit my face. Another ‘X,’ which was far too much of a coincidence to not be relevant. Xander, who are you and why have you been brutalised?

  I had to better understand who he was. I went back to the journals in the study area and assessed some of the more recent ones. As if slightly out of place, a fresher journal sat on the end of the bookshelf, not damaged by the sands of time. It was dated for this year, and by far more pristine than the one I had read earlier, a white chrysanthemum flower had been used as a bookmark. Flowers on the scene just like the lamb-head Jane Doe.

  It was mildly frustrating in a sense because as much as the crime scene was cleaned up, it felt like every scene was a scene from a movie, where we transitioned from scene to scene, clue to clue.

  The paper was crisp, white, and still smelt quite new, slightly perfumed by the flower. I held the page open as I was obviously being drawn to it, and briefly assessed the rest of the journal; speed reading to take it in. A few entries caught my eye where Mr Hardiman was rather sorrowful. He wrote a lot about how he always went back to what he referred to as ‘the night’ but didn’t allude to whether that was a specific date or not. Shame really, as I suspect I could have reviewed the relevant journal coinciding with the date, like a children’s make-your-own-adventure.

  I stopped flicking and went to the desired entry that the flower brought me to. The first was dated a week before today. I scanned through trying to decipher any sort of motive or understanding as to the horrific sight before me.

  The writing was still as elegant and stunning as the journal from the sixties I scanned earlier.

  Something in me can sense that my time is coming. God knows I deserve it. As my saviour, I would also accept his judgment as my punisher.

  Would I say I am happy with my life? Probably not.

  Would I say that I am a good person? Definitely not, though… I tried to be.

  Darkness enshrouded me from a young age, and no matter how much I fought it, it always won.

  Hatred always built inside me, but it made me strong. I feel like that same darkness is coming to reap me, return me to dust and ash like that night.

  That glorious night!

  Nothing excited me more, to the point I felt alive!

  Everything has a price. At the height of that orgasmic height came an overwhelming shame. I was reminded of when I was the victim, when I was the one in pain.

  That world swallowed me up and that shame told me I had to veer away from my current path.

  With a sigh of relief, I knew I had taken the first step to absolution. My God, my father in Heaven saved me. He saved what was not worth saving. I buried the truth, my past, and my shame. I started anew, quite literally as a new man.

  My journals kept me true to my path for salvation, as, like now; I would always transfer my twisted thoughts into black and white. Pen and paper reminded me of what I was and refocussed me to being better. I could not tell a soul about who I really am, so my journals frankly are my only friends. If anyone ever reads them, do not pity me. Dig up the truth about who I am, hate me, and rid the world of cancerous souls like me.

  I often wonder if time seeks to claim me? Perhaps the devil seeks to present me with his own form of karmic intervention?

  Either is fine and either would have a right to end me.

  I cannot help but laugh though. I have been writing in journals since I was a boy and bleat on about how I was saved by God.

  As I write about my story coming to an end, I laugh because who am I kidding? If I can be truthful to myself for once: was it self-preservation or was it absolution that I pursued these forty years?

  I have felt the shadow of the past looming over me lately that I do not even leave the house now, so, I suppose it is the former.

  I have not actually been out in months. My cupboards are finally starting to empty. My garden starting to get out of hand, the flowers beginning to wane and wilt, the grass growing. There is a certain beauty in knowing life can continue as normal without me. It would be a jungle out there if not for a kind neighbour tending to my garden. He is the only thing keeping life in this place because I have been dead inside for so long.

  Certain sadness is in me as I write knowing that these words may become my last.

  I am ready.

  I had to question this gardener. Maybe he witnessed something? Someone?

  I felt empathy for the writer though. Whoever he was, pain followed him, and I almost sensed it. Amplified with my surroundin
gs, I felt it tug on my heartstrings. The writer wallowed in such self-pity and shame that it was almost enough to bring a tear to one’s eye. How could anyone feel so helpless? I suddenly felt quite good about what anxieties I had, as they clearly didn’t match Mr Hardiman.

  I went back to the journal. The writing on the next page was different. It was rushed, and not as well formed as previous, and almost as if written by a shaky hand. Was he made to write the final entry under watchful gaze?

  Wherever shadow forms, beasts lurk. I have been caught and hunted by a righteous one. I am almost happy. The torment can end. I don’t know if anyone will ever read this, I don’t know if anyone will ever know. I was a terrible father and I am sorry, so, so sorry. Jesus, son of the Lord, died for our sins and I have shamefully banked one too many and do not deserve his forgiveness. In the eyes of my own, allow me to repent. Let the father die for the sons, the youth of the world, and let my garden grow. Wherever I may go next, whether my later repentance and penance gains me entry at the gates of heaven, or the fires of hell light up the feelings like that night; I know I have earned my true reward. Peace.

  Peace at last.

  Thank you.

  The final words were smudged as though soaked by a tear; the paper mildly warped. The writer’s journals intrigued me. It felt like a final apology of sorts. That’s when I saw it. The victim’s body was hoisted up like a cross, albeit, a sharp, shard-like metal one. I was almost frustrated I hadn’t seen it before. Everything around me had been meticulously planned to the final faceless scene of our harrowed writer looking down in a scene hardly comparable to the story of Christ but envisioned as one.