by Terri Reid
Mick was singing about Satisfaction again.
He got out of the car.
May 21st, Early Morning
That one had been easy. Too easy. No whirling kicks or flailing fingernails this time. She’d wilted almost as soon as he grabbed her. She hadn’t even screamed when he tossed her in the back of his car with the pieces of the blonde. Shock, maybe? Fear? Either way, she’d presented no challenge at all. She’d even sat, staring at him, when he pulled the pieces of the blonde woman out of the bag and tossed them out the window on the way home. Mick was back, singing about the girl again.
“Some chick told you to come back next week. Yeah, Mick, I know.”
He finished scrubbing his hands and picked up his hacksaw.
The pressure was gone, but he could feel it waiting. Building just behind his eyes.
Already.
Not a good sign.
May 25th
Steamy water. Scrubbing hands. The Stones playing in the background, and another body cooling on the table. He hadn’t even gotten rid of the last one yet. The pieces sat in his freezer, along with the last two parts of the blonde before her. The pain had come back that same day. Why was it coming back so fast, now? Why wasn’t this working?
His first kill had kept the pressure away for several weeks. Now he couldn’t even get a few hours of peace?
Maybe he needed a better kill.
You’re losing it, he told himself. This isn’t the plan. This is how you get caught.
“Shut the hell up!”
Something new, maybe? Something different?
Mick again. Still complaining.
He could relate. Satisfaction was hard to come by, it seemed. What would it take?
He got to work on the newest body, then stopped halfway through as a fresh spasm of pain split his skull.
The hacksaw fell to the floor as he put his hands on his head, trying to hold the two halves of his skull together.
This wasn’t enough anymore.
He needed something better.
But what?
May 28th
The body lay still on the table, and he scrubbed the blood away from his fingers. The reflection in the mirror stared back at him with bruised eyes and a busted lip. He smiled, he couldn’t help it.
That had certainly been different.
The man on his table had fought him, as he had known he would. He was strong. Very strong. In the end, however, he hadn’t been strong enough. Somehow, that made this kill better. The fact that he’d physically overpowered a strong specimen made him feel that much more alive. A true Alpha male. He’d masturbated over the body almost as soon as the heart stopped. He hadn’t been able to help himself.
Christ, he was getting excited again just thinking about it!
Mick was on the radio asking if the man smoked the same cigarettes as him.
“No idea, Mick,” he said.
A man this time. That ought to throw the police off.
News reports still hadn’t picked up on the murders much, though there were a number of reports regarding the missing women, no one had yet used the word “homicide.” He felt a little jilted by that, like they’d robbed him of his chance to be feared. Still, he supposed it was good news for him, as it meant they still hadn’t realized what they were dealing with.
He’d been looking for another woman that night, but there weren’t any out and about. At least, none that would suit his purposes. The pressure in his head increased to mind-bending levels. Then he’d seen the man walking alone, and knew what he had to do.
It had never occurred to him to kill men. But since he wasn’t having sex with any of his victims, then why the hell not? And after it was all said and done, he felt that the man was his best kill yet, so maybe there was something to this new line of reasoning.
He grabbed his hacksaw and got to work.
Sixteen pieces this time. One extra.
Not a bad way to go about it, eh Mick?
He smiled. His headache was gone.
May 30th
The last piece of the blonde was gone. Tossed out the window. Not quite thirty miles away, but he had a lot of catching up to do in the disposal department. His freezer was full. If he was going to get rid of all the pieces, he’d need to step up his efforts, which meant more trips. He’d have to maximize them by taking more pieces out at a time.
He needed to get rid of them all before he killed again. He just didn’t have the space in his freezer for any more bodies. But his head pounded, making it difficult to drive.
Mick wasn’t helping matters much, singing his stupid song again.
Find your own satisfaction, Mick, he thought, and leave me to mine!
When he drove past the store and saw the man in the jogging suit, his headache flared. The pain was so intense he had to pull over to the side of the road to keep from running into anything.
Mick reached the chorus.
He knew he couldn’t wait.
May 31st
He scrubbed his hands clean under the steaming water. He felt like punching himself in the face. What the hell was he going to do with this body? His freezer was stuffed. He couldn’t squeeze so much as a finger in there.
What was he going to do?
He’d have to dump the whole thing, he supposed. He’d have to be careful, though. He’d drive it out over a hundred miles to dispose of it. It meant he was in for a long night, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d been too careless, and a long night was a small price to pay to cover that up.
Being careless is how you get caught.
He dragged the body out to his car, swearing and cursing at his own lack of patience. When the pressure in his head started to build up, he slammed his head into the car door.
“Not now!” he said.
The jolt brought fresh pain to his forehead, but at least it cleared away the pressure. For now, anyway. It always seemed to come back. Faster and faster these days. Ever since he began hunting, it seemed to get worse instead of better. That was not what was supposed to happen. He got into his car and turned the key. Almost immediately, the Stones came on the radio.
You still can’t get any, Mick?
Something warm and wet trickled down the side of his face. He looked in the rearview mirror and was surprised to see a fat stream of blood rolling down his cheek. He’d cut open his skin. Badly. No wonder the pressure was gone.
He’d have to remember that trick.
June 1st
He punched himself in the face. Hard. The blood of his latest conquest smeared his nose and cheek, but he didn’t stop. He hit himself again, then a third time. Still nothing. Finally, he rammed his head into the sink. The bright flash of pain seemed to clear his head, and when he looked at his reflection and saw the fresh cut in his forehead, the pressure eased.
He wiped the blood with his hand, smearing it with the blood of the woman on the table.
Another woman. This one had been the least satisfying kill yet. The pain in his head hadn’t let up at all. Not even a little. As soon as she died, he’d come to the sink to wash his hands. But the pain made it difficult. At least he’d found a solution. Albeit a painful one.
He paused to listen to Mick’s voice in the background. No satisfaction, indeed. Mick was right. It wasn’t working. Nothing was working. He looked over at the body and felt nothing. No triumph, no elation. The blood on her chest didn’t excite him at all. What was wrong? Why wasn’t this working?
Maybe he needed another?
The pressure began to build again. It wasn’t painful, not yet, but he knew it would not take long. In a few hours he would be an incoherent mess again. But how to stop it?
He couldn’t find another victim so soon, could he?
No. Besides, even if he did, he wouldn’t have any place to put the body. As it was, he was going to have to dump the woman whole, like the man before her. That was extremely risky, and certainly not part of the plan.
Though, to be fair, his plan was toast b
y this point, anyway.
The news reports still hadn’t said much about the missing people. As yet, no body parts had been found, so at least he was doing that much right.
But if he was going to keep this up, he’d have to stop screwing up.
That’s how you’re gonna get caught, he thought.
He needed to be more careful.
June 2nd
The woman’s body from the night before lay in the corner on the floor, while the new body (a man this time) sat cooling on the table. He hadn’t had time to dispose of anything before the next wave of pressure and pain had hit.
His face was battered, and his head bled from numerous cuts. He’d smashed his face into a mirror in an attempt to ease the pressure, but it had only provided a temporary relief. In the end, he’d been forced to seek out new prey.
Mick’s voice rang through the room. Satisfaction again.
“Screw you, Mick!” he screamed. “Screw you!”
He looked at his face in the mirror and barely recognized himself. The blood smeared over his cheeks hid his features pretty well. His eyes were bloodshot, and his nose tilted at an odd angle. He must have broken it. That would explain all the blood.
Still, the pressure would not go away.
What would it take?
He had a fresh victim on the table, and he’d beaten the crap out of himself, but nothing seemed to work. His head still felt like it would split open from the inside. He couldn’t keep going on like this. Sooner or later he would get caught, or killed. That is, if his head didn’t crack open on its own. What was left? What could help?
He looked over at his latest kill, the knife still protruding from his chest, and after a moment he had his answer.
The ultimate kill.
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. What better way to cement your status as Alpha than by killing the Alpha?
He reached the table and grabbed the knife’s handle. It was slick with blood, but he yanked it out with no trouble. He then shoved the body onto the floor. It landed with a sickening thump, sending tiny sprays of blood from the numerous cuts.
He climbed on the table, his head surprisingly clear.
The pressure behind his eyes was gone, he noted. Hell, he was even getting excited again. He thumped his member through the fly of his jeans, wincing at the slight pain but marveling at the hardness in his pants. That’s when he realized he was on the right track. Finally. He almost reached into his pants, but he stopped himself.
“Not this time,” he said. “This time is special.”
This is right. This is what I was supposed to do all along, he thought.
He held the knife up over his chest, took a deep breath, and rammed it home. The pain was delicious!
“Yes!” he screamed. “You hear that, Mick?”
He pulled the knife out, then rammed it home again. Blood spurted from his chest, arcing across the room. He’d missed his heart, but that didn’t matter. He’d scored a hit on a major artery. It would not be long now. He pulled the knife out again, but this time it was more work than it should have been. He raised the knife up.
Had it gotten heavier?
He plunged it down again.
This time, when he tried to pull the knife from his chest, he found he couldn’t get it free. It was too heavy. He held on to the handle as the room grew darker.
From the CD player, Mick was singing, but the words sounded different. Had they changed?
Finally got some satisfaction…
Was that how the song went? Or had Mick altered it just for him?
“Know what, Mick?” he asked. “You’re all right.” He coughed. Blood bubbled on his lips. His fingers tightened on the knife handle, and then there was nothing.
Jun 15th
The smell hit him first. He covered his nose and motioned for his partner to do the same.
“Yep,” he said. “Something is dead in here, all right.”
They’d received a call about a strange smell coming from the attic apartment above the general store downtown. When they arrived, they found the door to the apartment locked, but the smell flowed from underneath it. Death. Decay. Something inside was rotting away in the early summer heat. He’d knocked for several minutes with no response from inside, so they’d gotten the store owner to bring up the spare key.
Now the door was open, and the stench of death was strong enough to gag them both.
They walked into the room, exchanging confused glances.
Everywhere they looked there were body parts. Hands, feet, legs, forearms, even a few heads. They looked plastic.
He picked one up and examined it. The ragged edges were colored red.
“Looks like red magic marker,” he said. His partner nodded.
The smell seemed to be coming from the bathroom. He set the plastic hand down and crossed the room, his hand on the butt of his pistol. When he got to the door, he peeked in. His breath caught in his throat, and he took a step back.
“Well?” his partner asked. “What is it, Mike?”
Mike shook his head, then motioned for his partner to take a look. “You’re going to have to see for yourself, Cole.”
Cole walked forward and looked in the room, then promptly stepped back, gagging and retching all over the floor. Mike could relate, he was having a hard time keeping his lunch down, as well.
A body lay on a table, which sat in the shower stall. All around the corpse were more red streaks. They looked to be from the same type of red marker. Underneath the table, the entire floor of the shower was colored red. The body’s hands were wrapped around a toy survival knife, which had also been colored with red. Around the knife, the flesh of the dead man’s chest was red, as well.
“Holy crap!” Cole said. “Is that Will?”
“I think so.”
“Looks like he decided not to let the cancer get him.”
“Looks that way,” Mike said. Will had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor back in March. The doctors had only given him a few months to live. He hadn’t been seen much around town since then. A few people swore they saw him driving all over creation, but no one had actually talked to him for weeks.
There was a broken CD player on the shelf next to the table. The door was broken off and the CD inside looked cracked. From this angle, he saw the Rolling Stones CD case on the floor. The thing wasn’t plugged in, though. Not that it would have mattered.
“What do you make of all this?” his partner asked. He held up a plastic hand and waved his hand in a wide arc. Mike looked around at the various plastic body parts strewn around the apartment, then he looked back to the body on the table. There were three long, red stripes on Will’s cheek, as well as a few on his forehead. Around his eye, it looked like he’d switched from red markers to a dull purple. Mike couldn’t begin to fathom why, unless Will had wanted to look like he had a black eye. A very cartoony one.
He shook his head.
“Well,” he said. “I guess now we know who’s been stealing the mannequins from downstairs.”
Swamp Witch
by
Donnie Light
Young Virgil and Vernon ignored the rumors and warnings. After two hours of trudging through black muck and picking their way through brambles and catbriers, the twins found themselves deep in the Black Bayou. It was a dark and forbidden place of legend and lore, where fable and truth blended into a single reality.
In the bayou, curious green reptiles slithered and clung. Snakes hung thick from the Cypress trees, like heavy ropes on a barn hook. Alligators suspended themselves in the murky water with only their eyes above the surface, keeping watch for easy prey. The nocturnal chorus produced by crickets, peepers and bullfrogs was endless here, because even the days were dark in the Black Bayou.
When one stepped into the bayou, a thousand eyes watched your every move. Smaller creatures slunk away from approaching footsteps. The bigger and more dangerous ones remained camouflaged, nearly invisible, b
ut ever so close.
Virgil and Vernon knew to stay away from the path to old Hattie’s shack, but one day curiosity overcame them.
Vernon and Vergil were as close as two bothers could be. No secrets could be kept one from the other. They shared everything, including their thoughts and dreams.
As younger boys, stories of the swamp witch Hattie often scared them into sleeplessness, prompting them to pull the sheets over their heads and perhaps light a candle to chase away the shadows. But since they turned twelve, those old stories didn’t scare them anymore. They wanted to find out for themselves if old Hattie the swamp witch was a real person or a being of myth and legend.
“It’s kinda creepy in here, Vern,” Virgil said as he pulled his bare foot from the sucking mud. Their shoes remained at home, reserved for school and Sunday morning church and not for mucking around in the bayou. Their daddy always talked about how the great depression left little money for buying things like new shoes, and how he hoped President Roosevelt could turn things around.
“Don’t be a scaredy-cat,” Vernon said. “Ain’t nothin’ back here but more creepy-crawlies.” Vernon was far more adventurous than his identical twin. His daddy said he took that after the paternal side of the family. Virgil was far more cautious by nature, and his daddy said he took that after his momma’s side.
Vernon pulled a wriggling black leech from his ankle and tossed it deeper into the swampwater. A trickle of blood seeped from the bite. “I don’t believe ol’ Hattie lives back here anyway. Pa told us those stories to scare us and make us mind.”
It was true that many grownups in the nearby town of Yellville used tales of old Hattie to persuade youngsters into a proper behavioral pattern. If you don’t mind me, old Hattie might come and carry you off, flustered parents told rambunctious children. One story claimed old Hattie turned a man into a large snake that now guarded the way to her shack. Another tale said that old Hattie took lost or wandering folk and chopped them up to feed her pet alligators. She never got caught because what went into the Black Bayou and crossed paths with old Hattie—never came out again. Legend told that Hattie cast spells and worked dark magic. Some said she could see in the dark and walk on water amongst other interesting feats. Any unidentified sound coming from the swamp was often attributed to Hattie—or one of Hattie’s victims. When some regretful thing happened in town, blame often fell on the swamp witch. The stories about Hattie seemed endless.