Ellen stepped into her living room, turning on a lamp. She dropped her purse on the sofa. She placed the mail on her computer table. She walked across the room, drawing the shades. That was one negative about being at street level: you were in a fishbowl for everybody to see. Maybe she could get the building owner to plant some bushes in front of her windows? That would help.
Ellen checked her answering machine. Typically, it showed no life, but today there was a message waiting, blinking in red.
Peg?
Ellen hit play.
It was Charles.
He didn’t sound good. Had he been drinking? His voice shook, nervous and uncertain. His tone sounded heavy, as if he’d been dragged underwater.
“Ellen, it’s Charles. I know you’re at work, but I wanted to leave you this message. I know things have been difficult. I—I want to apologize for walking out on you the other night. Everything was just…getting to me. I don’t know, maybe you’ve moved on, and you have somebody else, but I’d really like to…talk. Just get together and talk. Everything feels unresolved right now. So…please. I need to see you. Even if it’s for the last time. Anyway… I look forward to hearing from you. Thank you, Ellen. Goodbye.”
Ellen stared at the answering machine, paralyzed by a rush of conflicting emotions.
Should she call him back?
His voice penetrated her skin and sent her blood racing. She couldn’t stop the effect he had on her.
Damn it, I don’t know what to do.
Ellen wished she had someplace to turn to, someone to talk to. Her emotions were badly confused. It was easier when she had no dates, no social life, just this apartment with its big bookcase of books.
Be careful what you ask for, because you might get it. It was an old cliché, but certainly apt.
Ellen followed through with her intentions to phone Peg. The answering machine picked up after five rings. Ellen told Peg to call her as soon as possible—if she didn’t hear back soon, she would call the police.
Ellen headed into the kitchen. She searched the cabinets, but couldn’t find anything appealing for dinner. She also didn’t feel much like cooking tonight. More than anything, she needed a lazy meal. She pulled a menu for Argenti Pizza off the refrigerator, from beneath a butterfly magnet. She took it with her to the phone and ordered a sausage and onion, providing directions.
Then she crashed on the couch with a good book—a romantic epic of medieval Spain, loaded with history and melodrama.
After fifteen minutes, the door buzzer sounded.
Ellen jumped, startled from her reading. It couldn’t be the pizza guy. They were never this fast. Then who?
Charles?
Ellen hurried to the intercom.
She pressed the small black button and asked, “Who is it?”
“Hi, this is Peg,” came the familiar voice through the static.
Peg!
Ellen buzzed to let her in. Thank God, she thought. All that stupid worrying for nothing. Ellen’s worrying was replaced by anger. She was going to have to warn Peg that she was flirting with getting fired by Terri. Maybe Peg didn’t care.
In fact, what did Peg care about?
When the knock sounded at her front door, Ellen quickly unhooked the chain and flipped the bolt. She threw open the door, exclaiming, “Peg, we’ve been—”
But it wasn’t Peg.
A tall figure in a green ski mask stood before Ellen.
Ellen gasped and started to slam the door on him. He burst forward. The force knocked Ellen backward. She stumbled and landed on her back.
The intruder pushed inside the apartment and shut the door behind him. He stood over her.
Ellen screamed.
He pounced on her before she could get back on her feet. Her head hit the floor and she saw stars.
“Please—” she begged. She struggled, but the attacker was heavy, pinning her down. Then she saw the knife blade. He brought the tip to her throat, touched the skin, and she stopped talking. She remained silent, except for her panting. Please don’t cut me.
With his free hand, he reached into a coat pocket for something. Ellen stared into his eyes, isolated by the ski mask. They were dark brown.
Was it Charles? Or Darren?
Keeping the knife tip at her throat, the attacker produced a thin, rectangular device. It was a handheld recorder, the type used by busy executives to dictate letters or capture ideas.
He pressed a button with his thumb.
He held the device to Ellen’s ear for her to listen.
She heard, “Hi, this is Peg. I’m not home or maybe I’m not in the mood to answer the phone…”
It was Peg’s answering machine. He had recorded the greeting off her machine and played the beginning over the intercom.
The intruder clicked another button to play a second recording. He shoved the device against Ellen’s ear.
Ellen was forced to listen to Peg’s long, agonized scream. It ended with sputtering and choking.
Ellen saw the mouth in the ski mask smile.
She said, “Please don’t—” and the attacker’s eyes grew wide and the blade pressed harder against her throat—not quite puncturing the skin—and she clamped her mouth shut.
The intruder brought the recording device in front of his face and worked the buttons with one hand, while keeping the blade at her throat.
Ellen realized in an instant: Oh my God he’s going to record me as he cuts my throat.
She squirmed but had no place to go.
Ellen’s left arm brushed something on the floor.
It felt like rubber.
It was her boot.
Please, God, let it be the one…
She grasped at it, fingers scratching, straining to reach inside…
The intruder brought the recorder toward Ellen’s mouth. He removed the knife from her neck and raised the blade to one side, positioned to slash her throat.
“Scream,” he said. He pressed the record button.
Ellen swung the hammer against the intruder’s skull with every ounce of strength in her. It made a sickening, piercing crack. The intruder’s head jerked to one side. He dropped the knife and recorder.
Ellen struck him again, smashing the hammer into his cheekbone, and the intruder roared, stumbling away on his knees. This allowed her to sit up and strike again with even more force, this time hammering into his forehead, producing another ugly crack!
She saw splotches of red appearing under the ski mask. He tried to get to his feet while holding out his hands, a desperate shield, and she swung the hammer at him again, going right between the hands and into his face, into his upper jaw, shattering teeth. She felt the impact vibrate up her arm and into her shoulder…
The intruder dropped to the ground.
He became very still.
Blood flowed from the center of the ski mask, out of both nostrils.
Ellen felt tears filling her eyes—blurring her vision—and she forced them back. Stop! Don’t lose it now.
She gripped the hammer tight. If he moved a muscle, she would strike again…
He didn’t move.
Was he dead?
His eyes were shut. One had swollen badly, an egg lifting out of the ski mask. The skin around it was turning dark colors.
Was it Charles?
She had to know. The possibility was driving her mad. The answer was finally in front of her. Her heart pounded and anxiety seized her ribs until they ached. She reached down and took hold of the bottom of the ski mask…
She started to peel upward. She lifted the mask off his chin. The fabric was wet and spongy from the blood. She brought it up over his mouth, a red hole of broken, jagged teeth. She continued lifting the face mask.
One eye opened.
His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She screamed and dropped the hammer. He pushed her away.
Ellen scrambled backward on her hands and feet.
The intruder sat up, looking from side to side with
his one eye, searching frantically…
The knife.
Ellen saw it on the carpet, about four feet away.
She lunged for it.
The intruder jumped on her, pounding her with punches to slow her down. She continued to strain for the knife, her arm outstretched…
But he got to it first. He thrust the blade at her as she leapt away from him…
The blade struck her thigh and sunk into the flesh.
Ellen collapsed, screaming. The pain exploded in her leg and up her spine. She had never felt anything like it before. It was as if somebody had injected fire into her body.
The attacker grabbed the knife handle and pulled the blade out of her leg. Ellen surged forward, hobbling across the living room, lopsided. She heard him grunting, crashing past furniture, in close pursuit.
Ellen staggered out of the living room and into the corridor that led to the rest of her apartment.
She jumped inside the only room that had a lock. The bathroom. She slammed the door shut just in time, as the attacker’s body crashed against the wood.
He pounded with a fist. She saw the door vibrate against the frame.
It would only be a matter of time before he burst through.
She was trapped. The bathroom had no window. She had no weapons. Or did she…?
Ellen searched the bathroom frantically. There had to be something to defend herself with…
The pounding on the door stopped.
Ellen froze and listened. She leaned against the sink, taking weight off her injured leg. It dripped coin-sized spots of blood on the tile floor.
She heard footsteps walking away from the bathroom door.
Surely he hadn’t given up? Ellen gripped the cut on her thigh. Blood seeped through her fingers. She felt dizzy, but commanded herself, Don’t faint.
Then she heard the footsteps return.
She held her breath.
An enormous POW struck the other side of the door, near the handle.
She realized, He’s using the hammer.
After a moment, there was a second POW.
Maybe it would take two minutes, or maybe ten minutes, but he was going to get inside the bathroom and kill her.
POW.
Ellen searched the cabinets for something to defend herself with. What could she use? The tiny razor she used to shave her legs? Her hair dryer?
POW. The wood began splintering on Ellen’s side of the door.
Just before the next POW, Ellen heard a buzzing. It took her concentration away from searching the cabinets.
Someone was pressing her front door buzzer. The pizza guy? Or maybe someone had heard the noise and they were checking on her?
It didn’t matter—whoever it was, she had to get to them.
Ellen pictured the intercom by her front door. The little round speaker. The black buttons.
Could she get past her attacker to reach the button—just for a couple of seconds—to scream for help over the intercom and lean on the buzzer to get them inside? It was her only chance at survival.
POW. The hammer stuck the door again, followed by the bzzzz of the front entryway intercom. It had to be the pizza guy. Thank God for his persistence.
But he wouldn’t buzz forever.
If she waited too long, he might leave. She had to act fast. She had to strike first against her attacker and get past him…
In the medicine cabinet, she found a small book of matches, which she used to light candles in the bathroom, sometimes during a late night bubble bath with a romance novel.
The matches excited her for a moment, until she realized they weren’t a very good defense, just a tiny flame. Unless…
The attacker struck the bathroom door again with a forceful POW that splintered more wood.
Ellen figured that each slam of the hammer put the intruder off balance for at least a few seconds before he wound up for the next strike. If she timed it just right…
POW.
Immediately after the hammer struck, Ellen threw open the door.
The attacker had started to pull the hammer back, and his stumble indicated he was truly startled to see his victim open the door for him.
Ellen held a flaming book of matches in one hand. She sprayed an aerosol can of hairspray with the other.
She aimed for his one open eye.
The flammable spray created a blowtorch. A whoosh of flames shot forward into his face, igniting the wool ski mask.
The intruder screamed as his face burned. Ellen dropped the matches and aerosol can and ran past him. He spun in a circular dance, slamming his hands against the scorched portion of his mask.
Ellen ran for the intercom, limping badly, her left leg throbbing.
“HELP ME!” she screamed.
The attacker charged after her.
Ellen threw herself against the intercom, pressing the buttons. “HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME!”
She continued screaming and buzzing until the intruder grabbed her. He had lost some of his strength and coordination, but remained ferocious and relentless.
She pulled away from his grasp with nowhere to go but back into the living room. She ran several steps and then her bad leg gave way. She tumbled hard to the floor.
The intruder advanced toward her. His wool mask, bloody and scorched, seemed to fuse into his features, creating a horrific, creature-like face. He approached Ellen as she lay on the ground, flat on her back. He held the knife in a white-knuckled grasp. He stood over her, planting a foot on either side of her.
He swayed, dizzy and sluggish from the hammer blows and burns to his face. He reached into his coat pocket. He brought out a small, clear plastic bag containing two round objects. It took Ellen a moment to realize they were two eyes that had been torn from someone’s face. It took Ellen another moment to realize they were blue, and then she knew that they were Peg’s.
“I don’t have any gray,” he said, looking into Ellen’s eyes. He chuckled, twirling the knife blade in front of her face.
Ellen said, “Go fuck yourself.”
She shot her fist forward into his groin, a solid hit to the testicles, the first and only punch she had ever thrown in her entire life.
The intruder roared, staggered backward, doubled up and dropped to his knees. He kept the grip on his knife.
Ellen tried to get up and run, but her left leg had gone numb and useless.
The intruder lunged at her, grabbing the ankle of her bad leg. He slashed with the blade, missing by inches.
He pulled on her leg. She fell with a gasp, landing next to him. As they rolled together on the ground, she kicked and punched to keep him away. He grabbed at her face, catching a fistful of hair, which he tore from her scalp. He sliced the blade at her, cutting her side, delivering new shockwaves of pain.
Ellen scrambled away from him, escaping another thrust of the knife. She fell against her enormous bookcase.
The killer crawled toward her. Ellen gripped the side of the bookcase with both hands. She pulled on it with all her strength. She shouted out loud, a primal roar, every muscle in her body straining to move the towering shelves.
The seven-foot tall, eight-foot wide bookcase creaked off balance and then gave way to gravity, pitching forward. She leaped out of its path. It landed on the intruder with an enormous crash that shook the apartment and rattled the windows like a thunderstorm.
The bookcase and its avalanche of books pinned him to the floor on his back. Only his head and one arm emerged. The arm still gripped the knife.
He wheezed and sputtered and made ugly noises from deep inside his shattered ribcage.
“Drop the knife,” said Ellen.
The intruder exploded into a howl of psychotic rage, shouting everything in one long, extended rant of hate and vulgarity.
Ellen seized the hammer and brought it over.
“Let go of the knife,” she demanded. When the psychotic man did not obey and bombarded her with more verbal abuse, she smashed his knuckles.
/> He howled but held on tight.
She continued to hammer his fist until the knuckles became raw lumps covered in blood, the bones shattering into more pieces with every blow.
He would not let go, and he continued to scream every horrid, insulting word he could utter, spouting profanity in rapid fire from deep in his gut, like a machine gun spraying venom, and it filled her with the pain and fury of a thousand rancid memories. Wearing the mask, lacking identity, he represented every man who had ever abused her.
Ellen raised the hammer and aimed for his skull. She prepared for one final blow with all of her strength to put out his lights forever.
She lifted the head of the hammer high into the air…
A hand grabbed her wrist.
She turned with a shout.
It was Charles. His chest was heaving, his face was red. She realized he had just broken through her door. Charles had been the person buzzing in the entryway.
“Charles…” she said, and her fingers loosened around the handle.
Charles took the hammer from Ellen. He lowered it to the ground.
“Don’t do it,” he said. “You’ll kill him.”
She looked at Charles. Then she turned back to her attacker.
She bent over him. She reached toward his face.
“Ellen—” said Charles.
Ellen began peeling off the ski mask. It stuck to the skin of his face, fused there by the flames. She tugged harder, ripping it free, exposing raw flesh. She lifted the fabric over the top of his head. She had to see…
Ellen gasped.
She stared into a familiar face.
“Ellen, do you know him?” said Charles, watching her reaction.
She took several steps back. She nodded and burst into tears. It was Seymour. Her fellow war veteran. George Ravenwood may have damaged Ellen…but he had destroyed his son.
Seymour turned his bloody, disfigured face away from her.
“Put it back on…” he mumbled, the psychotic rage evaporated, replaced by a thin, scared little boy’s voice. “Please…put it back on.”
“Who is he?” said Charles.
Ellen couldn’t speak Seymour’s name out loud. He wasn’t that person anymore. He had been replaced by something poisoned and deranged.
She said, “Call the police. Tell them we have the killer.”
Killer's Diary Page 19