SKA: Serial Killers Anonymous

by William Schlichter

  “It’s haunted,” she protested.

  “You’re just a freshman. You want to hang out with us seniors, you have to prove yourself.”

  “We’ve all done it.” Gillian poked her in the stomach with the camera. “Flip up the top and press the button. It will flash. Just take a picture of the stairs so we know you are in the basement.”

  It was about time they got to the dare part of the party. Someone in the group always dared someone and they would eventually find themselves in the house. My sister’s twist with the camera would force someone to go into the basement.

  My sis had no idea how accommodating this was. Second, most helpful item was the town’s lack of interest in the location beyond the must be haunted aspect. The crypt was an exit for the hidden tunnel to the root cellar. The plantation house was a stop along the underground railroad. It should have been a museum or at least a tourist trap with a gift shop. But instead it’s a teen hazing hangout.

  Poor Melony wasn’t the focus of my anger, but she would do.

  Closing the front door, her bold steps inside shifted to baby steps. She shivered, and I smelt her fear. I thought it was a movie cliché, but she was sweating and releasing a smell. It excited me. I had no idea I could become so hard. I thought I might stretch out my jeans. I wouldn’t get any laughs if I was depantsed now.

  The taunts from the group outside got louder and forced her to move faster to locate the cellar door.

  It was impossible to move down them without a few creaking boards. I did so ahead of her as quietly as possible, praying it would only frighten her more—not scare her away.

  “Old houses settle on the foundation at night,” she whispered attempting to talk courage into herself.

  She maintained her baby step stride. Each step creaked, and the ageing boards moaned when she lifted her foot. “Old houses make noise.”

  The Polaroid quivered in her fingers.

  Speaking aloud seemed to calm her. “The girls are likely in a shadow to jump out and scare me. I should have peed before I came inside.”

  Without the same care I displayed with my footfalls, her tiny feet released a wail of moaning from each ancient board on the stairs.

  Her whole body just trembled. It crossed my thoughts to spare her. She had not laughed or tormented me—but she would. What I was about to do would spare her from becoming like the rest of them.

  I heard the plastic camera split as it landed. She was too scared to struggle—froze when I wrapped my arms around her. Clamping a hand over her mouth, her breath warmed my palm. It even caused a tingle between my legs. There was nothing sexual about it, just my hand pressing down over her lips, mushing into her teeth, preventing a scream. She was tiny. I wasn’t much stronger than her. I struggled to drag her. Had she scuffled she might have gotten away. I placed her on a rickety crate. Under her weight I thought it might shatter before I finished. She’d get away. So would I. She would think it was a trick by the girls and hate them for denying it.

  Before she realized it was no joke, I had the noose over her neck. I jerked the knot tight. Pain from my pants broke my concentration. My engorgement would’ve made my classmates proud. I kicked the apple box from under her before she could squawk.

  The rope rubbed against her neck, strangling away her life. She kicked, at first, in attempts to find footing. Her fingers, now contorted like talons, clawed at the rope. She wasn’t able to slip any finger under the nylon. Panic. Her own nails marred her neck. I kept my eyes locked with hers. They rolled into her skull and only the white beamed. She gurgled and sputtered, her kick turning to spasmodic twitches. The seat of her pants darkened. The smell of urine filled the air.

  My own heart beat faster. I felt it thump against my chest wall. The pounding drowned out all other sounds. I wanted to embrace her. I didn’t have to fondle myself, I wanted to hold her as her life escaped. Life fled my erection. It was warm and soaked my jeans. Nothing like the wet dripping from her legs as they spasmed.

  Even with only subtle moonlight through greasy windows her eyes glowed. With no air reaching her lungs her fear increased. I smelt it on her. The odor was stronger than the piss smell.

  No one would laugh at me again.

  I thought about using the Polaroid, capturing her death face. But no, I knew there could be no evidence. I seared the image of her face into my brain. I would forever remember it and her scent.

  After her legs ceased twitching her bladder fully unlocked. I disappeared behind a shelf to a hidden room were runaway slaves were kept until it was safe for them to use the tunnel to the crypt and continue North. It was so well hidden had I not found the exit the day Allen chased me, I would never have discovered it from the inside of the basement. The door was meant to fool expert slave hunters.

  Tomorrow would tell if anyone else discovered the passage with modern forensic techniques.

  IV

  “IF YOU’RE AMONG us then they never found the passage,” speculates a voice in the dark.

  Everyone meeting in the low light encourages anonymity.

  “They never searched for one. My sister and her friends were the focus of the investigation. As we know, ghosts don’t exist. The girls had to have something to do with it.”

  “I read once the perfect crime was one in which all evidence points toward someone more likely to have committed the crime.

  “Pin it on someone else. Someone close to the victim. They love ex-spouses and spouses for most murders.”

  “Did the cheerleaders do any time for what you did?” The kid asks.

  Al interrupts, “The perfect crime is when no one even knows a crime has been committed because of the cleverness and skill of the criminal, not because it has been unsolved.”

  “No, this death was ruled a suicide. Accident by drunken party game. Death by misadventure according to the medical report. No further investigation. It did cause my sister and her followers—even Allen, to an extent—to be shunned by the school and much of the town. It would follow them the rest of their lives. It wasn’t my desired goal, but it moved much of the abuse off me. A few—a selected few—felt Melony had been murdered, maybe accidentally, as part of a hazing joke gone bad, but no one wanted to taunt the brother of a possible killer. People do believe in ghosts.”

  The woman’s voice asks, “Have you selected a name?”

  “The newspapers have never called me anything like Al, but I chose Kenneth. The Hillside Strangler.”

  “There were two men,” the kid protests.

  “I didn’t care for the name Angelo,” Kenneth says.

  “Kenneth is acceptable,” the woman’s voice maintains kindness.

  Al wonders if it’s part of her arsenal to lure her victims into trusting her. He would trust her. He does trust her, or he wouldn’t be here in a room of confessed killers.

  “I’m impressed you were willing to allow your sister to take the fall for you. Perfect crimes occur when someone is imprisoned for what you did.”

  Despite the rules, and having gone first, even Al finds the lack of names frustrating. The woman and the kid are identifiable, but the other three men are still nothing…but faceless…dark monsters.

  “I must remind—we are not here to judge. We’re no better than anyone else here since we have all voluntarily taken a life, and now we freely wish to remove ourselves from this path. I want us to trust each other enough to return for a second meeting,” the woman adds.

  “As much trouble as it was to locate this little group and jump through the hoops to be invited, I’m in for making this work. But I won’t apologize either. I’m a sociopath. No empathy. I’m guessing so are the rest of us, or we wouldn’t be able to kill so easily,” maintains the strong voice in the dark.

  “We’re still on Kenneth’s time, but you may go next.”

  “I’m not quite ready to share, but I will. I’m more interested in you, lady.” The strong voice continues, “It’s all grand Kenneth killed a girl in the basement of a haunted house.
One killing doesn’t bring a person to the level of this group.”

  “We were asked to speak about our first, or at least an early killing to determine why we became who we are,” Kenneth says. “Melony was my first. Her death prevented Karen from becoming the prom queen. Hell, she didn’t even attend prom or her graduation. It broke apart the cheerleader click. None of them escaped the town. No one wanted to marry them, either. My own sister couldn’t get into any college, and so the funds my family had so prominently saved for her rolled over to me.”

  “I respect the educated killer.”

  “You might respect me more when I share my second kill,” Kenneth adds.

  “How did your sister end up?”

  “Today, old cat lady, without cats, would be the best description. She stocks shelves at the local grocery store, at night, when the store is closed.”

  The woman interrupts. Her voice raises an octave to display she is the group facilitator. “You’ll be able to share more next time. Everyone must have a turn if we are to gain the trust we need to heal ourselves.” She glances at three unidentified men in the shadows, “Who is next?”

  “I thought this was going to be helpful. I seem to have more ideas about seeking my next victim than how to stop myself.”

  “You agreed. No killing while we are in this group.” This time the warmth slips from her voice.

  “Then I’ll explain my fascination with Death. I was seven the first time I killed.”

  His statement hangs in the air, not as impactful among natural killers.

  He mutters to himself, “Grandfather’s voice was so soft I had to strain my ear.”

  Then like a voice actor shifts to an old man’s voice, “You don’t shoot where the deer is, but where he will be when the bullet meets with his heart.”

  “The rifle was so heavy. My little arms couldn’t hold it up to keep in balance long enough for me to line my sights on the beast.” He raises his arms as if holding a rifle. He pulls the imaginary trigger, jerking back.

  “I missed. The bullet struck into the ground a few feet in front of me.”

  The kid breaks in, “You missed a deer. Not the same as a person.”

  “You need to hold your tongue,” the woman scolds.

  “This will help you understand, like Kenneth’s depantsing.” He shifts his voice back into grandpa’s, “You missed. When you miss—we don’t eat.”

  “I couldn’t hold up the rifle, my only defense.”

  “March back to the cabin. Move the wood pile from the west side of the house and stack it next to the entrance,” Grandpa’s voice ordered.

  “He never beat me. I’m sure some saw child abuse in the manual labor I performed, but it strengthened my thin arms. Once I had the stamina to hold up the rifle—we never had a night without meat. Hunting was my life, but after a while hunting for dinner never fulfilled me. I lacked the ability to travel and hunt in darkest Africa. I found a better animal than a majestic elephant.”

  V

  CHERRIES FLASHED, PROVIDING the only illumination on the black-tar road.

  Any time after midnight people fill their shorts when those cherries pop in their rear view. They panic, most having no idea what they’ve done. They don’t notice the silhouette of the vehicle, just the pulsating red light.

  I shone my light through the window, catching the blonde woman struggling to get her panties back under her dress. I rapped on the glass. She jumped, unable to restore her underwear to its proper position. She reached for the switch, rolling down the fogged window.

  “Hi…Officer.”

  “You okay, miss?” I shifted the flashlight beam to the eyes of the male next to her.

  “Everything’s fine, Officer,” her face brightened, full ruby in the Maglite beam.

  “You’re a little bit older than the teens I normally find out here. You sure you’re okay?” I shifted the light back into the face of the man.

  “We’re sorry, Officer. We’ll move on,” He raised his hand as if to swat at the light.

  I jerked the flashlight back into her eyes, “How about your license and proof of insurance?”

  “We’re parked, Officer,” the man protests. He had yet to do more than untuck his shirt.

  “For some indecent fun. Not many come out here for legal acts.”

  She found her purse on the floorboard and fished out a plastic-coated index card.

  I took her insurance card, glancing at the name while waiting for her to dig through her purse for a pocketbook.

  “Gabriella?”

  She jerked her head up, shocked he used her given name. “Gabby,” she corrected.

  I shone the light in the back seat, searching for any paraphernalia like a real cop would.

  Gabby tugged at her license to get it from the plastic cover in the wallet. Once free, she poked it toward me.

  I snatched it. Before marching back to my patrol car, I warned, “You two stay right here.”

  I pretended to run her information. Instead, I listened to their panicked words. Even the most innocent of people try and figure out just how they are guilty when a cop has pulled them over.

  “We didn’t do nothing,” he said.

  “He caught us with your hand in my cookie jar.”

  “We’re not sixteen anymore. We’re both consenting adults.”

  “Consenting adults use bedrooms,” she snapped.

  “Your husband doesn’t like to share.” He smiled.

  Alarmed, he lost hold of his own bladder when I tapped on his window before opening the door.

  “I need you to step out, son.”

  “What did I do, Officer?”

  “Please step out, sir.” I put my hand on the Glock to enforce I meant business. People are so trusting of cops when they are innocent of any wrongdoing.

  “May I put on my jacket?” he asked.

  “No. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The man followed me toward the patrol car, a mistake a real cop wouldn’t make. They would stay behind the perp, but this dude was so scared he must concentrate on not losing the rest of his bladder.

  It just proved he wasn’t much of a man—he would have to do.

  I turned.

  Gabby adjusted the rearview mirror in time to spot her date slammed onto the trunk of her car and cuffed.

  I dragged him toward the cop car. She lost sight of us in the halogen headlamps. I had installed extra lights and increased the wattage.

  I returned to her door, “Please step out, Gabby.”

  “What did we do, Officer?” Before she got her second foot on the pavement, I grabbed her by the arm and drug her to the back of her car. I shoved her face down down on the trunk, my hands clamping around her neck—soft permeable skin.

  “Spread your arms out.” I kicked her ankles apart, off-balancing her physically.

  The snap of a rubber glove on my fingers caused a hard swallow, cutting off her breath. Beads of sweat dripped down her forehead.

  She’d never been patted down before, but from what she watched on television she knew my touching of her breasts was intrusive, with no reason to search her at all. Maybe no reason other than her maracas were heavy as pumpkins and could smuggle a lot in the cleavage. I pulled her left arm back, snapping the cuffs until they pinched her wrist. I dug my pelvis into her rump as I cuffed her right arm. My rough fingers tickled up the inner calf to her thigh. I pinched her. I cupped the bottom of her ass cheeks—squeezing ripe melons.

  “Please. Don’t,” she implored, expecting an assault.

  Mentally off-balance. “Shush.” For a woman in her mid-thirties she had firm, muscular, dancer legs, just what I desire.

  When she learned of what I planned to use her for she would wish I had raped her. Before it’s over she might even beg to be penetrated if I spare her life.

  The man thrashed around in the back of the patrol car in protest of me fondling his date what he was just enjoying.

  I took her purse.

 
; Gabby rises. She found courage when she comprehended this was no routine traffic stop, “What are you doing?”

  I drug her back to my patrol car. The flashing cherries were police issued, but the car remains unmarked.

  She struggled against my grip. “You’re no cop.”

  I shoved her into the back seat, her moist skin sticking to the plastic seat covers. Tossing her purse onto the floorboard, I drew a gun from a plastic case I left open on the roof behind the lights. I slid what most people would mistake for a shuttlecock into the chamber. At this range the near fifty caliber projectile would bruise the subject. Now, what most people believe, thanks to Hollywood, is that sleep from a tranquil dart is instantaneous.

  Not true.

  Fact is, a dart should be calibrated to a person’s weight. The wrong amount will kill. I set the dosage low for about a buck ten female. She was a little more. It would take her man bun-wearing date longer to pass out. Her too. No way with those tits was she anywhere near a hundred and ten.

  The first shot punctured the man’s stomach, screams permeating the night from both.

  Gut shots hurt. He’s lucky I didn’t put one in his groin. I didn’t want to impair him for what I wanted.

  Gabby cried, “Please let us go!”

  I must reload the gun. I swiped it from a vet truck. Again, tranquilizer guns are one shot.

  I put the dart into the meatiest part of her hip as it had more adipose tissue than her stomach. She screamed a single, never-ending scream.

  • • • • •

  I whittle away at a birch branch, making arrows just as my grandfather taught me. No forensics lab will trace a manufacturer. They might determine a general forest area where this type of birch tree grows, but I’ve learned to take care not to soil my nest. Not to mention this was not my hunting cabin, I just assumed ownership.

  Thanks to my use of homemade arrows, the newspapers labeled me The Bowhunter. I’m guessing Miss Gabby determined who I was when she woke to find a table covered in homemade arrows. I had national fame.