TBK: The Butterfly Killer

by A. P. Butler

  “Remember being taken there Lisa-Boo?”

  “The little coffin getting smaller in the distance,”

  “The fat one throwing you in the car,”

  That day grows stronger in my mind as I start to remember once more, the little girl I thought was my sister, her little coffin getting smaller as we drove away, my face pressed against the rear window, tears streaming down. Feelings of heartache and pain now fully remembered, how broken I was, how lonely I felt.

  “The smell of fear as you’re dragged down those timber stairs.”

  “The big room with the cages, Remember Lisa-Boo?”

  “Little Hannah at far end, her face battered, body abused.”

  “How you ran to her little Lisa-Boo,”

  “How she couldn’t move through pain of abuse.”

  “Remember Lisa-Boo, how you both cried through the night.”

  Hannah’s face grows a look of hope and relief as she sees mine, she looks so happy yet terrified. Pulling her up into a protective ball, I hold her tight, raining an ocean of kisses upon her. Her smell overpowering, just holding me, not saying a word. It’s then I realise I’d held her this way only yesterday after she died, the same intensity only a different emotion. The anguish welling through me rips into me once more as the fever of a thousand days drowns me with its enormity. A thousand days was the time we’d spend together in that underworld of abuse and torture before she was gone before she disappeared. The horror now returned to me, I remember it all, how she would sing her favourite nursery rhyme, about the blind mice. Her voice as innocent as new birth of day, but for her words to carry a darker, more sinister and haunting connotation.

  On the good abused free days, she’d sit, singing her song, playing with my bloodied little teddy bear, as sunlight streamed in through the small slit windows running atop the walls. She always fell silent on the bad days, but we all did. Many came and went, some would last hours, others weeks, not many of us years. Eventually, they all disappeared, some sold, most murdered, but all abused. The true number of innocents taken I cannot comprehend, a number I care not to know. All obscured by a society that doesn’t care, hiding behind the veil of religion, the devil’s prime doctrine of choice.

  Forgotten Eyes of Yesteryear

  The distinctive ping of Lance’s mobile echoes out announcing the arrival of a new text message. Sliding phone from pocket I access the message, it’s from Mike. “U k big man?” Replying almost immediately I type something close to what I think Lance would say, “btch iz fkn LuvN it m8.” The last 48 hours have been draining, I feel as if I’ve not slept in many a lifetime, but that’s the effect the harrowing little girl has upon me, she creates a void in my soul, each released memory pulling me closer to the precipice of my abyss. How I long for her to leave me alone, but confliction besets me, I need to know of my childhood but her deliveries too abrupt, too difficult to endure.

  Each syllable a blade, each word a stab, delivered with deadly accuracy, eviscerating my most intimate, most vulnerable secrets. She’s too formidable to fight, too overpowering to resist. Maybe she’ll never leave, taunting me with haunting memories until I learn to let go, to live free of guilt over things I could never control. Swallowing great volumes of air through open mouth, deep and cleansing, I wait - holding, then slowly letting go, allowing my chest to empty causing nostrils to flare, my breathing controlled, cognition now clear. Even the mere thought of her confines me to her icy domain of torment, pain and servitude.

  This house is vast, full of mysterious enigmas compelling me to explore, to discover what this sick little empire has concealed, suppressed from me, from the world. Twenty-four hours is all I surmise I’ve got before Mike gets concerned, gets suspicious, comes around uninvited. Last thing I need is an over protective associate coming round complicating matters still; a dead man walking he is, but I need to plan his execution after his assault of Laura. His torture I fully intend to enjoy, it will become my vocation as much my pleasure.

  The intent I have for him to experience true pain is growing ever stronger, the kind of pain one can only feel when forced to watch a loved one endure a traumatic event, ripping out the heart without touching the skin. Before I can perform such an act of justice I need to study my prey, discover its weakness, obtain the key to his personal abyss. Only then can I hurl him from the safety of sanities steps into the realms of deepest despair that suicidal intent offers.

  “Let his beliefs be his killer Elsbeth, push him to join the tormented, taking his own life willingly.”

  This house too vast to accommodate just a pair of mismatched paedophile lovers alone, buyers, abusers, judges, lords, nobility and other sick degenerates must be entertained here regularly. The entirety of the ground floor paints the false narrative of no more than a loving home, photos of family, friends, interesting contemporary works of art, beautifully decorated, large but remaining homely. All but one room upstairs are simply guest bedrooms with generous en-suites, as expected beautifully decorated, immaculately kept and continued the charade from below.

  Specialist aromatic flowers in every room, each invoking a different emotion, all serene, all calming. Each room feels museum like, not permitting occupancy, a contemporary depiction of respectability, a veil to the satanic narrative lurking beneath, the whole house seems as if it’s watching me. The master bedroom’s entirely different, in fact, it’s very different. No botanical beauty here, it's repugnant odour assaulting my senses before I enter, a squalid cesspit of pornography and narcotics-laced with an overriding, pungent smell of stale semen linger within the air.

  An epicentre of criminal depravity now encapsulates me, duvet thrown to side, neither made nor washed a feral refuge of sickening repulsion. Bedside cabinets containing nothing but plastic vipers, faeces laden dildos mixed with a vast array of lubrications along with other perverted paraphernalia. Some of which I can’t identify, some look medical others more homemade, none are clean and all conjuring images of nauseous debauchery.

  Full length of gilded baroque mirror frame sits upon the wall opposite foot of the bed; its reflection betrays its secret, I can see myself but not as I should. My refection’s off, not quite square as it should be. Venturing my way across the dirt ridden floor, tiptoeing like a forensic examiner would, desperately trying not to contaminate the evidence nor myself. The mirror’s not quite flat against the wall, one edge is proud, with reluctant finger I push the protruding edge back, a clicking sound fills the air. Without warning the mirror and frame swing majestically open unveiling a small dark corridor waltzing sinisterly off into the darkness. As mirrored door slowly passes me coming to a halt, a solitary spiralling energy bulb flashes into being, casting its unnatural glow, its intensity slowly growing by the second.

  Both walls are covered with dusty old photo frames, none level, as if knocked askew in a drunken stumble. The stench of stale air and what I can only presume is excrement hits me entirely, causing eyes to swell and water, a strong odour of ammonia stabbing at me, forcing the breath from me as if my chest were being crushed by chemical fist. Staggering back I’m forced to wait a moment, allowing the repugnant odour to dissipate a little. Fearing to enter this little mausoleum of oppressive moral corruption, I knew Lance was a deviant, but I’m not sure the truth depths of his perversions would serve any assistance in answering my questions. Feline inquisitiveness conquers anxiety, naive ignorance copulating with truths greed takes control. Knuckles of white grasp the rubberized grey handle of paring knife as I step intrepidly into the unknown.

  The passage opens out into a dirty rubbish strewn private cinema; dark walls support an even darker ceiling now entombing me within its oppressive womb. A pair of big black leather reclining armchairs dominate the space, sitting either side of a grubby laptop sitting upon an old bar stool adorned with straps and stains. The laptops connected to an enormous professional projector hanging from ceiling above. This repugnant den of iniquity begins to reveal its darkness to me, a demonic epicentre
to Lance and Ray’s carnality, God knows who or what has been devoured here.

  My heart dwindles as no danger looms, just a dirty little porn theatre infested with bodily fluids and sin, encompassing me with a feeling of demonic desire as if any moment a long solitary finger would run its hollowness upon me. The opposite wall is championed by a huge dirty white screen fixed at head and toe to wall, displaying the laptops revolting truth. Below a solitary padded box, with various restraints littering its bottom edge, icy spider crawls from hip to head as I imagine how many have been slain across it. The laptop sits quietly, but for its small fan, photos of young children scrolling periodically across the screen.

  The seat’s cold and damp, with what I care not think of. Easing my weight into its wet repulsion, welcomed by a moist vomit inducing aroma, its taste more obnoxious than its odour. The little handle to the side flips out with a click, folding chair back into an upright position. The laptop flickers back to life, as I tap the spacebar with reluctant finger, pulling back fast and far hoping no infection had time to infect. Folder after folder of material from decade after decade offer themselves upon the screen ahead. Each folder containing hundreds of photos and videos, some from the dungeon below, others from further afield, but all of them documenting the rape, torture and abuse of children, teenagers and adults. The sheer magnitude of crimes committed and immortalised to film is truly shocking, gigabyte after gigabyte fills the hard drive, at least ten or fifteen other hard drives littering the floor. An ocean of crimes against humanity surrounds me, the final taboo exposing itself like predator to child. My heart begins to thump aggressively, harder and harder as the magnitude of my discovery consumes me, Lilly’s calm, soothing voice reaches out a solitary lifeline into the darkness of this repulsive sea.

  “Are we among them Elizabeth? Maybe the truth can vanquish the haunting little voice within.”

  With praying hands I cover my mouth, drawing a deep lingering breath of stale, salty air, my eyes as wide and dark as the night, I can’t, but I must. My truth may be here in this dirty, dank room, the questions I’ve been searching for. Finger reluctantly touches little silver touchpad of laptop, the cursor darting from year to year, decade to decade. Each year compiled by month, some months having several folders. Scrolling back the years to my earliest memories, to 95, I’d be no more than about seven, little Hannah maybe five.

  The ninety-five folder glows under cursor, with a single click each month lays itself out, January, February, March and so on, until a highlighted folder appears, July 1995. With breath held tight, I click the folder. As if my childhood were laid bare, my eyes dart from image to image, each more disturbing than the last. The first image that forces my gaze to cease its wandering is of little Hannah, my Laura. A bloodied and bruised infantile face staring back upon giant screen. Her pain all too apparent trapped inside her big innocent eyes. Her body brutalised, exposed, I look away questioning whether I should continue, do I need to know this, can I cope with the truth of such barbarity, such horror?

  “Elizabeth, we need to know, we need to see.”

  “Only way to kill the haunting little voice Elspeth, my dear.”

  “To discover the truth we need to battle adversary, Elizabeth.”

  “The hardest battles offer the greater rewards Elsbeth; this may be your only way to exorcise the demons.”

  The knowledge they are right comforts me little, I know they’re right, they always are. Re-composing myself I look back at the screen, clicking then rolling back the years further still. A single click reveals happier times, my innocent gaze returned but through eyes of a forgotten yesterday. A photo of me as a tiny girl, no more than four years old, clinging to my little brown teddy bear I still embrace. My little pink slip beneath a tried and worn pink ballerina’s tutu. The photo fills me with happiness as tears of elation explode from eyes of stone. At last, I finally remember happier times.

  The memory of an early Christmas flood my reality, I remember when I first tore into the crisp whiteness of snowman wrapping paper revealing that Tutu, its pinkness blasting out from beneath a sea of carrot noses and scarfs. Mum and dad with me, laughter and joy my only friends, I was the happiest little girl in the world. But the longer I look the demonic wings of hate spread their darkness, the hidden evil in plain sight. The devil within slowly reveals himself, in the background, upon the sofa sits the Priest, the one who hurt me. A look of devilish intent besets him, tip of tongue touching upper lip as he sits with anticipation of a fresh young fruit to be picked. Hour after hour I flick through memories of happier times, before my sentence, before the abuse.

  One memory that obliterates the dam of forgotten happiness flooding my soul with tears of joy returns to me in a grainy old photo, mum, dad, newborn Hannah and a tiny happy little me. The memory of that day pardoned from its incarceration of darkness, returned to me, I remember that day in its entirety now, how happy we were. This photo now a queen to my world, my mental fortress her domain, the bolts and doors crash open absolving a multitude of other happy memories from a forgotten past.

  The heat of the summer sun high in an endless blue sky beating down upon us, the smell of freshly cut grass wrapping us up in its nostalgic embrace. Mum’s voice fading in and out as she directs the action from behind cameras eye. Dad proudly holding his family, my smile big enough to swallow the cosmos. How proud I was to be a big sister, how I wished away my years, longing I could play tea party with Hannah and Teddy. Reflecting for a few moments as this happy memory fills me with emotion and love. But the darkness never leaves for long. My bliss overshadowed by questions, like a dark tempestuous cloud drifting across a summer's sun, my mood changes back to black. What had happened for it to all end, why did they leave me? Did they not want me?

  My happy memories annihilated completely when I clicked a video labelled ‘Good times with the girls.’ Without thinking I assumed it was of my family and I, but no, a much darker scene appears on screen. A dark, dank world I know only too well. Laid bear out there upon screen ahead, sister Hannah and I, both tied, both exposed. Frozen with fear as revulsions induced, I can’t watch what I know, but I can’t break my gaze from the screen. Inquisition forces me to watch as the pain's re-lived, my longing to know greater than any disgust at the show. Behind I can see a young Lance in the corner, his distress as deep as Hannah or I’s.

  Into frame comes an abuser I know, the old priest, his actions slow and controlled. This time he’s interested in Hannah, not I. His hand wandering across hers, then mine, skin crawl with each wandering finger as it snakes its abusive way from shoulder to hip, shudders of repulsion burst into life, my hair standing tall with fear, but no fight. Fighting to continue watching as he begins his abuse, my Hannah so young no older than five. Absolving his sins by reciting a book, Psalms of peace conducting an orchestra of hate, god’s will prevailing, his blessing complete. Quickly I click along timelines length; I need to know what happened to me at the end of this display of religious love. The image presenting itself shows just the two of us now, Hannah silent, looking blankly at directors sight, her eye’s dull containing no life, dead to the world consumed by the guilt, assaulted by God in all his might.

  As the life within runs a river of ice, the man I revile steps past cameras eye. A massive beast of a priest enters for act number two, I know this man, I remember him now. My jaw slowly drops as he turns to face his delight. His face entirely clear, and recent of sight. The obese man from the train, smaller then but still him, his eyes full of greed, his hand upon chin. His identity released from my château of hell, his face never changed, eyes only for sin.

  He must have known who I was that day; he must have sat to torment, he must have enjoyed it so. Dropping my head into cupping hands, I stare at the floor in disbelief and numbness. Feeling almost drunk at the revelations of past, nausea introduces herself once more as I remember I’d let this man and Lance enjoy me, both knew he was my childhood rapist, but still they took advantage of me. Why did I trust him? I
thought I’d escaped, but now it appears they’ve controlled the strings for so many years. They gave me freedom, which they controlled all the time, my life no more than the prison of old. They played with me from girl to woman, I’ve experienced no freedom, no love only hate.

  The video still plays, as I hear an old voice. His words more deadly than a hunter's great knife “My tight little girl.” His voice rips at my heart, my attention now back to screen from afar, he’s coming for me, hands holding me tight. Screaming out with fear and hatred at heart as I remember the pain he’s about to unleash. My body remembering his touch, as cold hands trail across me again, the weight of his body upon innocent skin, he forces himself as I scream to his delight. Stopping the video with shaking hand I fight back the pain, enveloped in silence, staring blankly at life. Part of me wants to burn this place down, to kill everything, to hate and to fight. A smaller part just wants to curl into a ball, fading away and forgetting it all.

  “We need to serve a dish of bitter coldness to those who have hurt us, Elizabeth.”

  “Unleash the darkness Elspeth, embrace your demons.”

  “Ubel’s right Elizabeth, we should find them, show justice for all the innocents.”

  “Hunt him down, torture him. Elsbeth, let me cut him a hole, let me rape it.”

  Lilly’s right, both of them are right; I can’t just destroy all this, I need information to administer justice, to release myself from the psychological bonds it still has over me. Lilly instantly takes control of the situation, telling me exactly what to do. Password added to laptop, Wi-Fi disabled, shut down complete. At the side of the chair, between the bar stool an old laptop bag sits, I slide it in as I prepare to leave. As I stand a stack of paper collapses next to the chair, picking the first envelope, I recognise the handwriting. The same hand was on the letter delivered to Rachael. The writings not Lance’s, his too poor, too easy to sight, so this must be Ray’s. Inside a copy of the damning evidence sent to Rachael, Ray was the one who told her, the one who caused me to fight. He was the master puppeteer, playing my life, my emotions, controlling my access to happiness. Now I have even greater reason to hate him, to hurt him, for myself, for Hannah and now for Rachael.