by Rod Glenn
As he drew nearer, the lights from the house offered improved illumination, so he turned off the flashlight and popped it in his pocket. He left the barrel of the shotgun broken over his arm. Grumpily, he pondered on how he would need to strip it down and thoroughly clean and oil the barrel, hinge and action after the beating it had taken from the elements. In actual fact, he didn’t mind cleaning his guns at all, finding the process quite therapeutic, especially accompanied by Bob Dylan straining across threadbare lyrics. But his mood was such, that even the thought of a normally uplifting chore darkened his mood still further. The first thing he was going to do was pour himself a very large whisky to help ward off the icy chill.
The front door was unlocked, as it generally was when someone was home. Stomping his snow and mud-caked boots on the welcome mat, he swung the door open and called, “Sal, I’m back. Didn’t get the bugger though.”
As he stepped into the hall his blood ran as cold as his extremities. Glancing to his left towards the kitchen, he saw the floor and walls awash with swathes of congealing blood. Lying sprawled, amidst the expanse of crimson, was one of the dogs; it may have been Cody, but he couldn’t tell for sure because of its head hanging off and facing away from him, partially submerged in the sticky mass. Its coat, too, was drenched across the back and hind quarters. It seemed an impossible amount of blood from a single dog. His hall had been turned into an abattoir while he had been running around in the snow chasing ghosts.
As the horrific scene began to sink in to his numbed mind, a wild panic swept over him. Then, registering just above the pounding of his heart, he heard soft crying coming from … the cellar.
“Sally! Anthony!” he cried with an anguished tone, one notch from hysteria. Reacting, rather than thinking, he dashed to his right and around a short corner to the wide open door of the cellar. Cracking shut the shotgun, he stood at the top of the stairs, staring into the darkness down below. The fear of what he might find down there caused a moment of hesitation. They could have been … they could be … The crying continued; it was Anthony.
“Son! I’m coming!” Bryce started forward, but his boot clipped a low wire strung across the crest of the opening. He stumbled forward into the darkness, his shocked cry paving the way.
There was a rapid series of thumps, in harmony with the cracking and creaking complaints of the staircase, followed quickly by a thunderous crash, and the distinctive blast of both barrels of the shotgun discharging.
The force of Bryce’s boot on the wire pulled the cellar door shut with a slam and half a dozen six foot logs piled behind it crashed down in front of the closed door.
Da dead Ron Ron Ron.
The howling wind buffeted the sash windows, causing several draughts between the cracked and rotting frames to flutter the curtains like restless spirits. Ron Foster sat slouched on the sofa, a can of lukewarm lager atop his rounded stomach and his chin resting on his collarbone. The sound of a distant chainsaw emanated from his nostrils. The white t-shirt stretched over his portly frame was stained with several blotches of beer.
The television showed the muted picture of Ben Cartwright and Little Joe arguing in the Ponderosa. A standard lamp lent a dimmed orange glow to the cosy room.
Erika Foster shuffled into the room in a floral dressing gown. Her eyes were bloodshot and sunken into purple hollows. Patches of cracked, angry skin had erupted on the backs of her hands and around her neck. She stood just inside the doorway for a moment and absently scratched her concealed thigh. She looked down at her husband with what, at first, seemed like impatience, but then her features softened.
She moved quietly over to him and gently removed the can from its perch. Popping it down on the coffee table, she then placed a tender kiss on his forehead. She managed a weak smile and stood up to leave.
“Touching,” Han said from the doorway. Encumbered with thick clothing and equipment, he appeared to fill the entire doorway. The smile on his lips was friendly enough, but his stance was coiled.
Startled, Erika knocked the coffee table, sending the half full can of lager careening onto the carpet, spilling its frothing contents across the floor. Her husband grunted and stirred.
Han tutted and shook his head. “That’ll stain if you’re not careful.”
“You!” With recognition came venom. “You did have something to do with our Mandy’s disappearance!”
Ron groggily raised his head and blinked. “Wha? Eri?”
Han sighed and nodded grudgingly. “Yeah, yeah I did.”
The admission stunned Erika into horror-struck silence and caused Ron to sit up, rapidly shaking off any drowsiness.
“Sorry, but yes, I followed Mandy into the woods and murdered her. I chopped her body into a dozen pieces and buried her out there.” There was no passion in his words, just a faint impression of relief. It actually felt good to finally put Mandy’s long-suffering parents in the picture and out of their misery. Hopefully it would ease their passing.
The words were not matching his body language or his tone. Ron stood up clumsily, saying, “Fuck you talking about?”
As the truth of his words sunk in, Erika burst into tears. Vehemently, she shook her head, uttering in a low, rasping voice, “No, no, God no, it’s not true.” She covered her streaming eyes with shaking hands as her mouth continued to work soundlessly.
Ron stood staring at Han, his mouth wide and slumber forgotten. Struggling to force the words from his disbelieving mouth, he stammered, “You … killed … my daughter?”
Han shrugged. “Someone had to be the first. Consider Mandy the lucky one.”
Ron raised white-knuckle, clenched fists and, with the tone of a wounded bear, snarled, “I’m gunna rip you apart!” With that, he launched himself, cursing at his child’s killer.
Erika wrenched her hands from her half-blinded eyes and, despair suddenly forgotten, growled, “Kill him, Ron!”
Han blinked and quickly brought his knife up and thrust it deep into Ron’s sizeable stomach as he barrelled into him. A loud oof rushed from his snarling lips, but with a hatred-fuelled determination, he managed to grip Han’s shoulders with vice-like pressure.
Drawing close to Han’s face, Ron screamed, “You murdered my Mandy!” He shoved Han back into the doorframe, jarring his back. Encircled by a dark patch rapidly spreading across his t-shirt, the knife slide out of his stomach and caused him to double over in an agonising spasm.
In spite of the temporary sting in his back, Han reacted immediately. He raised the dripping knife into the air, his face set with resolve.
With balled up fists, Erika yelled a warning at her husband. Ron had a moment to glance up from his bent over position in time to see the knife descending towards him.
The blade barely faltered as it entered through Ron’s upturned eye, smashing through the fragile bones in the back of the socket and penetrating the brain. His body dropped to the floor with the suddenness of a massive brain haemorrhage. The weight of the body yanked the knife out of Han’s tight grip.
As Han bent to retrieve the knife, he glanced at Erika. She was standing motionless, dead eyes staring at him – through him – her hands flexing between outstretched talons and fists, a low rumble emanating from the pit of her stomach.
Unnerved, he quickly shoved a wet boot against the dead man’s neck and wrenched the knife out with a wet sucking sound. Blood and fluid spurted forth from the gaping wound as the blade tore free, darkening the pastel-green shade of the carpet and spraying the wall and sofa. A fleeting vision of the Bryce hallway, complete with family portrait, doused with dripping gore, sparked across his mind’s eye.
“Ronnie,” she whispered whilst not taking her eyes off Han.
He stepped over Ron’s dead, bleeding body. A twitch snagged the side of Erika’s mouth. To Han, it resembled the hint of a smile.
He closed the distance and held the knife in front of him. To his surprise Erika grabbed his wrist and plunged the knife into her own stomach. The shock caused
him to release his grip and shrink away from Erika’s cold touch.
Not taking her eyes off him, she proceeded to draw the sunken blade across her own stomach. Her only reaction was her twitching mouth as her intestines spilled onto the carpet.
She uttered a single word, “Haydon” and then fell to the ground, dead.
Han couldn’t help but bring a gloved hand up to his mouth to stifle a cry. Shaking his head, he said, “Who … what are you fucking people?” Still shaking his head, he retrieved his knife and quickly backed out of the room.
He stumbled back out in the storm, saying, “Just get on with it … Get this fucking freakshow over with.”
Reverend end.
The church of St. Bart’s was shrouded in darkness as Reverend Dunhealy walked down the central aisle towards the altar. He rolled an unlit cigar between his thumb and forefinger in thoughtful contemplation. The low moan of the wind whistled through the eaves, sounding like a lonely wolf calling from a distant hilltop.
Four six foot stained glass windows, depicting St. Bartholomew, St. Oswald, St. Matthew and St. Mark, gazed down upon him. St. Bartholomew, looking forlorn with long flowing beard, Oswald, with proud, angular features, Mark’s rounded, cheerful face and Matthew, wise and craggy.
A noise behind him caused him to stop abruptly and turn around. He stood, motionless, his breath caught on the cold air in front of him, and his temporarily forgotten cigar dangling down by his side. Meditation dissolved to unveil realisation. “So … you have come for me now.”
Shadow and movement to his side. The Reverend turned slowly. Standing below St. Oswald, complete with halo encircled crown and sword pointing to the ground ahead of him, he noticed a figure bathed in shadow.
“Mister Whitman,” he said without surprise.
“Yes, Father.” Han stepped out of the shadows, his face grinning and ghostly white against his glistening black clothing. In a strained effort to add levity, he said, “I have the devil in me, Father.”
The Reverend examined his cigar and shook his head sadly. “No, Mister Whitman, you’re not the devil.” He glanced up at Han and added, “But you have unleashed him.”
Dunhealy’s calm demeanour further unnerved Han. His voice straining, he sung, “You look like an angel … walk like an angel … talk like an angel” and moved purposefully towards the Reverend.
The Reverend stood his ground and continued to roll the cigar.
The singing helped regain his confidence and he steadily got louder. “But I got wise … you’re the devil in disguise … oh yes you are!” He reached the Reverend and they stood in front of each other. Han stopped singing and took a deep breath.
“This is Haydon, Mister Whitman,” Dunhealy simply said.
“I am the devil,” Han replied, grinning.
The Reverend smiled back at him with what looked like pity in his eyes.
Anger rose inside Han. He didn’t understand what was going on. Nothing was going to plan. “Fuck you!” he said and buried the hunting knife into the Reverend’s chest.
Dunhealy let out a soft rasp and dropped his cigar. Sagging, he managed, “I will … pray for you.”
Han pulled him close and said, “I don’t want your fucking prayers, old man.”
The Reverend coughed and managed that pitiful smile once more. “You will.”
Han yanked the knife out and proceeded to stab the Reverend in the face until he was utterly unrecognisable. Somewhere in the frenzy both men toppled to the stone ground.
The Reverend’s pulped face was angled towards the stained glass window depicting St. Bartholomew with three flaying knives on his cerulean robes. Breathing hard, Han glanced up at it and muttered, “Well, at least I didn’t skin you alive.” Attempting a hollow laugh, he added, “Or cut your heart out with a spoon.”
He continued to stare at the lifeless body, his mind replaying the day’s events … Sally … Erika … Dunhealy … the others. What was happening here? This wasn’t right.
He gradually regulated his breathing and, with considerable effort, pushed himself to his feet. Straightening himself up, shakily, he said, “I’m gonna execute every mother-fucking last one of ya.”
Icy snow crystals stung at Jimmy’s red, dripping face as he shuffled through the ankle-deep snow towards the door to his bed-sit. He was soaked and shivering, with thick green snot running from his nose to congeal in the week old stubble on his upper lip. He was too drained to bother wiping it away anymore. The cold had sapped every bit of strength from his aching, malnourished muscles.
The village appeared to be completely bereft of life, with just a solitary orange glow from a bedroom window from across the street to act as a beacon on such a stormy night. He hadn’t seen Main Street, so he assumed there would be a few people still revelling in the Duck and the Miller’s at least, but here, there was nothing but the howling wind to keep him company. He thought for a moment of the warm and laughing people in the pubs, toasting each other and wishing each other a happy Christmas. The thought made him feel intolerably lonely, and chilled him to the core.
The sack was unmoving as he dragged it unenthusiastically along behind him, having stopped briefly to wring the necks of the four birds. It was a chore that he never had quite gotten the stomach for, despite having done it many times before.
As he reached the front door, he fumbled with his numb hands to retrieve the key from his cold and wet jeans. Cursing as his alien hands refused to cooperate, he then noticed that the door was already ajar.
Too weary to care, he shoved the door aside and struggled into the dark musty hallway. There was no sound coming from his landlord’s flat on the ground floor, so after shaking some of the excess snow free from his coat, he trudged as quietly as he could be bothered upstairs.
The door to his bed-sit was still broken so he nudged it aside and staggered in.
Without even troubling to push the door closed behind him, he slung the sack towards the kitchenette, shrugged out of his coat and boots and collapsed onto the bed. His eyes closed and sleep embraced him almost immediately.
Life was good to me ’til now.
A quiet snoring drifted up from the king-size bed positioned against the fire breast wall of the spacious, decadently furnished bedroom. Three layers of complimentary voiles draped across the window, silk scatter cushions were splayed, top and bottom over the burgundy bed covers, and plush, crushed velvet wallpaper hung on every wall, broken only by paintings and photographs of cats (mainly Persian), and wall-hanging brass candle holders. The darkened room was hushed except for the rhythmic sounds emanating from the sleeping figure. Above him, on the fire breast wall, a sizeable oil painting adorned centre stage, depicting Moe Baxter on an opulent gold and jewel encrusted throne, stroking a fat Persian cat on his lap.
In sleep, Moe had managed to find an inner calm that eluded him in waking hours of late. It had been aided with several vodka martinis and a couple of sleeping pills, but the result was the same.
There was a faint creak from behind the door. After a moment of silence, the brass doorknob turned slowly and the door eased open a fraction. Jill Fairbank eased her head round the door to check on her boss and friend. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks. She paused in the doorway for a while, watching him. He had been through so much. It had not been well known, and most of those who had known had scoffed, but Moe and Tess had been involved in a meaningful relationship for several years.
He acted the camp clown at times, but he was a warm, sensitive man who had grown a deep love and respect for Tess over the years of their friendship. The village gossip had always suggested that it was just a thinly veiled attempt to hide his homosexuality, but, contrary to popular belief, Moe had never had those tendencies. He had, however, remained a virgin until much later in life, and over the years had developed deep anxieties towards intercourse and the opposite sex.
It had been Tess who had finally stripped away those years of apprehension. She had done
it out of friendship at first, insisting that, as friends, she would help him with what had become a deep-rooted issue in his life. But out of that joining, they had connected on a much deeper level and a full relationship developed.
Moe had told his only other close friend, Jill, all about their relationship as it had developed, so Jill understood more than anyone the pain Moe had been going through since his partner’s death.
Content that Moe was sleeping soundly, Jill quietly closed the door with a soft click and returned to the sofa bed in the lounge where the big Cream Point Persian, Mister Flibble, was already asleep in the centre of the thick rumpled blanket.
The generous living room, decorated royal blue and cream, with vibrant green velvet curtains and potted yucca and spider plants, was lit by an Egyptian-style ceramic table lamp. Since the heating had turned itself off an hour ago, a chill was creeping in to the old house.
She tied her hair back into a ponytail then quickly undressed out of her wool leggings and sweatshirt. Shivering, she grabbed a bed shirt from the arm of the sofa, but before putting it on she stopped still, standing in her underwear, bathed in shadow.
It was Mister Flibble who had caused her pause for thought. The cat didn’t appear to be breathing, but in the poor light, it also appeared that there was a dark stain spreading out around him on the cream blanket.
“Flibbles?” she asked hesitantly, the shirt held close to her breasts. Slowly, she stepped forward and reached down to touch the still cat.
As the tips of her fingers touched the fine, luxurious fur, something beneath the blanket twitched.