Charlie was facing the camera, chained to a steel chair in a non-descript cement room, exactly as Cindy had been in the videos of her. There was dry blood down the front of his t-shirt, presumably from the tooth that had been removed as he couldn't see any other injuries on him. Then the camera zoomed out revealing more of the room, which was really just more of the same. Bare cement floor and walls. Except now he could see in the corner what looked like a cat in a cage.
Mister stepped out from behind the camera. He calmly walked over the cage and kicked it. The cat bared its teeth and hissed. He kicked it again, this time the cat growled. He grabbed the cage and shook it and the cat tried to attack his hand. Charlie was sobbing quietly and watching.
Mister pulled out a fork and stabbed it. It shrieked, the sound was gut-wrenching and Charlie began to cry a little harder.
Mister went off screen for a second and when he came back he had a sack in his hand.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Jeremy said to himself, realizing where this was going.
Mister held the sack around the door of the cage, popped it open, dumped the cat inside and then swing the bag back forth working the animal up into more of a frenzy.
“I want you to do something for me Charlie,” he said coming closer to him. “I want you to tell your daddy to do what I say. Can you do that for me champ?”
“Do what he says Dad. He's going to kill me. I'm so scared.”
Jeremy had to bite his own hand to keep himself from screaming at the screen.
“I won't kill if you do what he says. You see, I asked him very nicely to do something and he refused. And now this is going to happen,” He said lifting up the sack.
Charlie’s face flashed with sudden recognition of what was about to happen to him. He opened his mouth to say something but before he had a chance the bag was over his head. The cat was growling and moving around wildly and Charlie began to scream. Mister took the fork and stabbed the cat with it through the cloth and the cat screamed and hissed and fought for its life. Soon the sack was stained with blood. Charlie tried pinning it between his head and shoulder which worked from a moment or two but then it was scrambling around again slashing and hissing and Charlie began to make an awful noise like he was screaming with his mouth closed and Jeremy assumed it was to keep the cat from attacked the soft inside of his mouth and lips. Mister stabbed the cat several more times and the whole show stretched excruciatingly on for nearly six whole minutes before he finally removed the sack and the cat went scurrying into the corner.
Both of Charlie’s eyes were swollen and bloody. So much so Jeremy feared he was going to loose one of them. Thin red slashes covered his face and neck. Puffy bloody punctures where the cat had bitten dotted him everywhere but most notably just below his cheek bone where it was bleeding profusely. His lips were both badly swollen.
Then Misters face was right in front of the camera, staring at him with cold blue demon eyes until finally he opened his mouth to speak. Jeremy gasped as the killer’s mouth opened and out spilled a mouthful of white paint. His teeth, his tongue all covered in thick white paint of some sort which choked him slightly as he spoke.
“I went easy on him this time because I like you. Next time I won’t.”
Then he raised a piece of paper that read: 379 Glen Erin lane. Kill them all. Tonight.
The video stopped.
CHAPTER 5
The first time Father McDermend touched Simon was on Easter Monday. The day before on Easter the boys had been given a special breakfast of ham and eggs and then filed into the tiny church to observe the holly communion.
“Take this, all of you, and eat of it,” Father Collins commanded from the pulpit. “For this is the chalice of my blood. The blood of the new and eternal Covenant which will be poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Do this in memory of me.”
And then they were lead one by one up to the alter where Father McDermend handed them each a little round cracker which he told them was the flesh of Christ and a tiny cup of wine which was his blood. And all this scared Simon but none of the other boys seemed to be bothered by it so he figured he was just being a baby, and ate the cracker and drank the wine.
The priest, he thought, said something like this would make them whole or take away their sins but he didn't feel any different. None of the weird things they were made to do ever made him feel any different. Simon had started to think that maybe he really was a sinner. A bad one. If these things which were supposed to make him feel better didn't there must be a reason. He had been told that God answers prayers but only the prayers of the righteous. Well he had prayed every night that his parents would come and take him away from this place, that his father would have a change of heart or that his mother would look for him and find him and take him home. Well, he had been at St. Josephs for a year and a half and God still hadn't answered him. Could it be that it wasn't God's will? He couldn't see why not. What harm would there be in reuniting a little boy with his parents? Wouldn't that make the priest jobs easier anyways? It would just mean one less boy to have to take care of. And then there was the other possibility. God couldn't hear him.
'God cannot hear the prayers of the wicked' Father Cavelli, one of the new younger but still pretty old priests had told him one day when Simon worked up the nerve to ask.
“Only the righteous can speak to God” he said. But Simon didn't even know what 'righteous meant so how could he be it?
Maybe he was Wicked. Maybe that's why his mother left and his father abandoned him. Maybe he was so wicked he didn't even know it.
Just like in school, the kids didn't like him there either. Maybe it was because something was very wrong with him and people could just sense it.
The day after Easter they were told they would be having another special meal. Pancakes for diner. Simon understood there must be something Catholicy about eating pancake on Good Monday and while it did make him giggle to picture Jesus eating a big stack of flapjacks he wasn't really curious enough to ask about it.
When diner time came around there was a certain excitement in the air. Something about having breakfast for diner that made the boys giddy and Simon was no exception. He had been thinking about it all day. Every day was the same and any change, even something as small as this, was like a game.
When the boys took their seats in the dining area, they already each had a plate of three pancakes waiting for them. Though Simon was starving he wanted to wait for the syrup to make it around the table to him before he took a bite. Just before it reached him though, Bret, one of the bigger boys crept up behind him and snatched two of Simon's pancakes and then Brian, who was sitting right next to him, snickered and took the third!
The tears were immediate. He just couldn't help it. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone? Why him? He wasn't the smallest.
“Stop crying,” Brian said. “They will hear you. You better not get me into trouble.”
But he couldn't calm himself down. He almost blurted out 'why don't any of you like me?' but knew better.
Simon wiped the tears from his eyes and looked around at the other boys at his table. None of them were going to help, in fact, most of them were laughing at him under their breaths.
“You better shut up,” Brian warned.
Before Simon could even think about what he was doing his hand gripped around his fork. He spun and brought it down as hard as he could towards Brian's stupid little face but he fell backwards off the chair the and fork stabbed into his shoulder instead.
Some of the boys jumped back startled, others laughed and cheered.
Brian was clutching his shoulder and scrambling to his feet but Simon threw himself on top of him and tried again to bring the fork into his face but hit the top of his head instead. The fork fell from his hand and slid somewhere under the feet of the boys who had now gathered around to watch the fight. He realized he would have to use his fists though he didn't know how to throw a punch so he just clenched his hands
and beat the bottoms of them again and again into Brian's face like he was playing a drum.
And then Father Cavelli was pulling him by the shirt collar until his was on his feet again.
“Shut up! Shut up all of you!” He yelled and everyone got very quiet.
Brian was bleeding from his nose and the top of his head and his shoulder but was more scared than hurt, Simon thought. He had thought about doing something like that many, many times but didn't want to be like them. He thought he would feel guilty. Thought hurting someone else would make him feel bad, but it didn't. Seeing Brian like that made him feel good. He wasn't sorry at all; only sorry he hadn't done it sooner.
Father Cavelli dragged him out into the hallway by his ear which made him feel helpless all over again but nobody was laughing at him now.
“What has gotten into you?” Father Cavelli asked pushing him down onto a bench.
Simon had the urge to say the 'the Devil! The devil has gotten into me Father Cavelli!' but knew that would only be funny for a moment and then it would make things much, much worse. And why would he even think to say that in the first place? Could it be true? He wanted to hurt Brian. Not just teach him a lesson. He wanted to hurt him as much as he could. It came so easily and he realized with a shudder that he may even have been aiming for his eyeballs.
“I'm sorry,” Simon muttered, the jittery buzz of the indecent quickly melting into an uncomfortable and heavy guilt.
“It's not me you have to apologize to. Or even that boy. Now wait right here until one of the priests come to get you. Do you understand me?!”
“Yes Father.” Simon said. Then the priest turned to go back to the dining hall but before he got too far Simon opened his mouth and said “He deserved it you know?” before he really had a chance to think it through.
Father Cavelli stopped dead and was quiet for a moment before he spoke to him from over his shoulder.
“We all deserve it Simon.” And then he left and Simon stunned by the response watched him until he turned the corner.
Well, what the heck does that mean? Whatever it meant Simon did not, did not, did not, like it and now wished more than anything he just kept his own mouth shut and then Father Cavelli would never had said that.
We all deserve it? We all deserve it!? Why did he say that? What did that mean?
That question sat heavily in his little brain for some hours until he finally agreed. Yeah maybe we all do deserve it.
Father McDermend finally appeared from around the corner.
“Come with me my son,” he commanded and led Simon down the hall at such a slow pace that he thought he would loose his mind before they got to wherever they were going.
Father McDermend's room smelled like incense over top of body odour, over top of vinegar.
“I heard what happened today my son,” He said taking a seat on a wooden bench against the wall. “Violence is not tolerated here. And on such a holy day you bring this great evil here?!” McDermend’s ever angry eyes, glared at him with such calm, still intensity that if he looked at them too long he felt he might pee himself right there.
“You could have killed that boy. Murder is a mortal sin. Do you know what that means?”
“No father.”
“It's the worst kind of sin. It means if you commit it God will not forgive you. It means you will go to hell. Do you know what Hell is?”
“It's they place where sinners go,” Simon whispered for reasons he didn't quiet understand.
“That's correct. But do you know what happens there?”
He tried to recall what he knew about the place. He didn't want to seem like he wasn't paying attention. But he couldn't. All he knew was that:
“Really bad things happen there.”
“Oh yes,” Father Mcdermend agreed, his face stretched down long and serious, the flap of skin under his neck quivered as if it was alive and scared by the mention of hell. “Very bad things my son. The worst. Hell is a lake of fire. Imagine the agony of burning and drowning at the same time. And the worst of it is just before you are cast into the flames you meet God. You see how beautiful he is. You realize how much you love Him and how happy you would be with Him, in paradise with all of your loved ones, and then he casts you down forever and you never see him or them again.”
This was not good. Why was Father Mcdermend telling him all this? Surely what he did today wasn’t enough to make God send him to such an awful place?
“I don't want to go there Father.”
“No. No of course you don't child,” the priest agreed and lifted his bony hand to caress the side of Simon's face. His skin felt scratchy and paper thin and it made Simon very uncomfortable.
“If you commit a sin in your heart it's as bad as actually doing it. You intended to kill that boy today.”
“No! No, I didn't. I swear Father. I just didn't want to be picked on anymore. I wanted to scare him.”
“Lying to a priest is like lying to God Himself. Would you add that to your list of sins?”
Simon really wasn’t trying to kill Brian but Father Mcdermend's angry eyes were glaring down at him again draining him of the nerve to protest any further.
“I don't know if your soul can be saved my child.”
“Please don't say that Father. I will be good. I promise.”
The priest looked away for some time as if in deep thought before finally conceding that “maybe there is something that can be done. The secret communion. You do know what secret means?”
“Yes Father... What is the secret communion?”
“It is the only way to save a boy as sinful as yourself. But fear not child. I will help you. First you must drink from the fountain of life.”
Simon did as he was told, even though it was not at all what he expected.
CHAPTER 6
The wheel had turned. Jeremy saw that now. The madness he had struggled to avoid his whole life, he now longed for but it was cruelly absent. When he was a child, after one his brother's outbursts he would crawl into his closest and squeeze his little body into a ball. Hugging his knees and flexing every fiber of his being he would tell himself over and over again that it wasn't in him too. That he wouldn't let it in, no matter how hard it tried. It got their Father and now even his brother but it would not get him too. But now things were different. As different as they could be. He wanted the madness in him. He wanted it to take control and posses him, so he could do this thing. And then it hit him. Crazy people don't think they're crazy. That's what crazy is. And he felt relieved. It was in him too. It was finally in him. He was glad to not have to resist it anymore.
The make up was on. The clothes were on. The hand gun tucked into the waistband of the white slacks, hidden underneath the white jacket. Mister glared at him from the mirror and he realized it was finally in him. He had the sickness now.
He watched himself glide towards the target's house like a spectre of death and into the backyard. The lights were off, he stood still and listened. Once satisfied he couldn’t hear anyone inside he reached for the back door and the handle turned easily in his hand. Had Mister broken the lock for him?
He stepped into the house and noticed a small boy’s shoes by kitchen table. He couldn't let himself think about that though. Mister wouldn't care, death doesn't think.
The adrenaline made him want to vomit. He could taste the acid in his throat and his mouth begin to water. He thought about puking into the kitchen sink as he passed it but imagined a CSI Miami like montage of sexy crime scene investigators analyzing samples of chunks of the tuna sandwich he had for lunch and extracting his DNA from vials of his stomach acid to a catchy rock tune and so found the fortitude to swallow down a mouthful of vomit and proceeded to the living room.
The house was decorated all in dark leathers and brownish hues. Crate and barrel-esque These people had taste. At the base of the stairs he could hear a television on the second floor. It sounded, he thought, like Conan O'brian. Were they laughing up, there? Chucklin
g to themselves unaware death was trespassing in their home?
The stairs creaked as he slowly ascended them and he hoped the sound of the TV would mask it.
The doors on the second floor were all closed. Three rooms. He briefly allowed himself to hope only one of them was a child's room but quickly caught himself. Death doesn't care. Mister wouldn't care.
He'd leave the room with the TV on for last but he'd have to be quiet.
He picked one of the other two rooms at random. Slowly he reached out with his white gloved hand and turned the handle all the way to the left, before pushing it open. An inch first, then two. He peered inside. It was a home office. A desk and couch but no one to kill.
He opened the second door in the same fashion. Careful to turn the handle first so it wouldn’t make a sound. A small boy lay nested peacefully in his Harry porter sheets and comforter. A Billy or Timmy or something maybe more millennium like Apple or Zander. It didn't matter. He plucked the boy from his bed with his white monster hands and turned him so he wouldn't have to see his terrible white image. The boy didn't struggle and Jeremy for a brief moment appreciated the boy's warm, solid weight in his arms. Enjoyed the physical contact. Not sexually of course but enjoyed it on some level. He hadn't held a child since Charlie was this age and it made him suddenly long for those days before he knew it he was crying. He tried to stop. Death didn't care about such things. Mister wouldn't care and so he couldn't either. By time the boy realized something was wrong it was nearly over. A white gloved hand clasped tight over his mouth and pinching his little nostrils together, muffling the screams forcing them back into his suffocating lungs until he didn't have the strength to scream and then it was over. It was easier than it should have been. He tucked little Zander back in and moved back down the hall towards the sound of the studio audience laughing on cue.
Horror Becomes Me Page 3