by Gord Rollo
The familiar stench of alcohol immediately assaulted his nostrils as soon as he closed the door. It was barely detectable, probably most people wouldn’t notice, but he did. To him, the carpets and walls smelled of vodka, as did the furniture and drapes. In fact, the odor seemed to drift toward him, almost stalking him within his own home. It was as if the entire house exuded vodka, sweating out of every tiny crack, like syrup running from a maple.
Welcome home, the ghosts of his past failures whispered. We missed you…
He ignored his conscience easily enough, but it was harder to disregard his nose. The sickly sweet odor repulsed him, causing his stomach to turn over, yet at the same time, exciting his thirsty taste buds and drawing beads of perspiration on his wrinkled brow. He followed his nose down the front hall to the cluttered kitchen, where the half-filled bottle patiently waited, still sitting on the counter where he’d left it yesterday morning.
Wilson vowed he would leave the familiar clear poison untouched, especially after the wonderful progress he and Susan had made, but once again he’d forgotten how powerful a disease alcoholism can be. Wilson soon found himself reaching for the bottle. As the liquid fire touched his eager lips, he was already loathing himself for being so weak, so stupid. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the front door swing open.
It was Susan.
“It’s just me, Wilson. I was wondering if you needed me to iron your suit for church—”
She cut herself off midsentence, utterly shocked to see him with a bottle of booze. Her initial surprise quickly turned to anger. After all, he’d only been alone in the house for a few minutes. Didn’t he have any control at all?
“Susan? What are you doing—?” Wilson started, childishly trying to hide the evidence behind his back.
“You bastard!” she cried. “Here I thought we were getting somewhere. Stupid me, I should have known better. All those sweet things you just said to Amanda about love and hope, were they all lies?”
“Of course not, Susan, please don’t think that. Look! I’ll pour it out…here, you can watch.”
Wilson quickly moved to the sink and upended the bottle. Susan silently watched until the last drop disappeared down the drain. This small gesture was obviously hard for him to do, and it satisfied her to see it, but still, it fell short of calming her mounting rage. He’d reversed every gain they’d made, dragging them back down to where they always seemed to wallow. Before she could lose her temper, she turned and stalked to the door.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’d better not show up drunk for church. And you can iron your own damn suit!” Fuming, she stormed out, slamming the door shut behind her.
Kemp walked to the kitchen window in time to see his wife back out the drive and slam the Honda into gear before speeding off. Amanda had spotted him from the front seat and managed a quick wave before they disappeared from view. In his loneliness, he found himself waving back to an empty road.
Without giving it much thought, he reached up and removed an unopened bottle from the cupboard. Unknown to his wife, every good drunk had a spare stashed in case of emergency.
Against his better judgment and obvious lack of willpower, his hands began unscrewing the cap. Why couldn’t he stop? The first swallow assaulted his palate with a familiar flavor: the bitter taste of failure. He was not only failing himself, but more importantly his wife and daughter. He thought about all the things he had just said to Amanda, and how she’d looked up at him with such hope, trust, and love.
“Yeah. Love can overcome anything, sweetie…except for maybe your old man’s stupidity.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DISAPPEARING MAN
He moved like a hungry black panther, silent, dangerous, and virtually invisible against the dark curtain of night. He was, as always, in total control. The night was his. He lived in a world devoid of fear, secure in the belief no one or anything could harm him. His catlike movements were lightning swift but never hurried, powerful yet lithe with elegant grace. He felt invincible, the supreme hunter, free to roam and explore at will. It was 10:35 P.M. and like the nocturnal predator he imagined, Peeping Tom was on the prowl.
The urges in his head didn’t need to beat their drums too ferociously; Tom’s other persona was weakening and had succumbed relatively quickly. Tom, dressed in his customary all-black apparel, had been on the prowl for thirty minutes, slinking under the blanket of night, enjoying the tremendous feeling of power and freedom that always swept over him whenever he dared venture out.
He enjoyed seeing how close he could get to his victims without being spotted. Sometimes they’d be sitting on a park bench or leaning against a tree or lamppost, and Tom would use all his considerable expertise to glide closer without ever making a sound or eye-catching movement. Usually, he could get close enough to touch, if he so chose, but rarely did he carry the game that far. Often they’d sense his presence and look round in panic. By then, he’d be gone. Slinking into the darkness to stalk his next victim.
Eventually, he found himself downtown, peeping into the main-floor bedroom of a redbrick house on Maple Drive. Inside the house, separated only by a thin pane of glass, an older woman was undressing. To Tom, she appeared to be about sixty-five but had managed to maintain her girlish figure on her aged frame. She was starting to get a little heavy, especially in the area of her hips and stomach, but when fully clothed, it probably wouldn’t show too much. Her breasts, large and full, still held their shape, gamely defying gravity in a way she was obviously proud of. She stood admiring herself before a full-length mirror, teasing and stroking her erect nipples, turning this way and that, perhaps convincing herself she was still sexy, denying how much damage her increasing years had wrought.
Tom’s penis began to thicken and harden inside the cramped confines of his tight black jeans. It wasn’t the sight of a naked woman that excited him, she was much too old and worn out for his tastes, it was the act of watching her without her knowing it, stealing her most private moments when she thought she was alone. The intrusion into those personal minutes of unsuspecting people and watching their pathetic little lives unfold before his eyes gave him the most incredible feeling of power. Wave after wave of pure adrenaline would wash over him, caressing and tickling his nerves with mind-numbing intoxication. It delighted him, exhilarating him far more than anything he’d ever experienced from his other boring personality. This was center stage, the big thrill, a voyeur’s equivalent to a junkie’s heroine rush.
Once he’d been lucky enough to sneak up on Ed Bannerman, Billington’s illustrious mayor, as he happily ran around his bedroom stark naked, slapping the shit out of his wife for some reason known only to the mayor himself. His blows were carefully placed so she could conceal the damage from the public’s eye. Man, he gave her a real beating, but what had really interested Tom was the mayor had seemed like another person entirely while doing it. He’d changed from the businessman-of-the-year public persona he always wore, into a wild savage behind closed doors. He had been beating his chest and drooling like a madman the entire time he’d punished his wife. The session had ended with him masturbating above her trembling body, which was collapsed on the floor, then ejaculating a boatload onto her bruised and battered back. Ten seconds later, he’d returned to normal and was apologizing to his dazed wife as he helped her to her feet and into bed. The majority of this small town’s population were under the impression the sun shone straight out of good old Ed’s ass, that he was a God-fearing family man who had a terrific marriage. Obviously they were wrong. Only Tom and, of course, Ed’s wife, knew differently.
The night after that incident, Tom had slipped an unsigned note under the mayor’s door asking him if it would hurt his reelection chances if he were to expose him in the press as the cowardly, wife-beating, cock-pulling bastard he really was. He hadn’t actually planned on telling anyone about the things he saw, but he greatly enjoyed watching Bannerman squirm. For a long time afterward, the mayor sported
a guilty, worried appearance around town, and Tom suspected his sex life was a tad more on the tame side than it had been. To hell with him. The guy was a douche.
A flicker of movement startled Tom. The naked woman had whirled round, turning away from the dressing mirror to stare out the window. Behind the mask, Tom’s lips curled into a tight grin. He was fairly sure the old lady couldn’t see him, not with the bedroom lit up and the inky blackness outside. His dark clothing was also excellent camouflage.
She tried to peer out the window but could only see her own reflection. It was impossible to pierce the darkness beyond the glass with the light that shone from within. More than likely, her sudden movement had been another example of how one’s sixth sense kicks in when they think they’re being watched. Tom had seen examples of it time and time again. Whatever the reason, she began to edge toward the window for a closer look.
Tom’s heart began to thump a little faster, his mouth went dry, and oodles of sweat began to saturate his body, dampening the inside of his tight leather gloves. His grip on the oversize flashlight tightened steadily until his knuckles turned white. It wasn’t the fear of being caught; it was the excitement of the moment. Sneaking around and peeping gave him a rush, sure. It was never dull and always enjoyable, but what really got his juices flowing was the fear he instilled in his victims once they realized their homes weren’t as safe as they once thought they were. Tom wanted them to see him, see him and fear him. The power created by that fear was what he so desperately craved, and also what the urges residing inside his head demanded. If his victims didn’t eventually spot him, Tom would usually tap on the window or make some other revealing noise to get their attention.
This particular lady didn’t need any encouragement on Tom’s part. She had no idea what had caught her attention outside, but she seemed determined to find out. She dropped to a crouch, trying in vain to conceal her pendulous breasts with her pudgy hands. Slowly, she inched toward the window.
“Easy now, Tom…” he whispered, his breathing becoming rapid. “Control, Tom…don’t blow it, hold your ground.”
The naked woman dropped all show of modesty, cupping her hands around her eyes and pressing her forehead against the glass. She tried looking left and right but her eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness.
“Control…control…control…” he hissed between tightly clenched teeth, his every muscle straining with delicious nervous tension. This was the moment he lived for, the moment when he felt most alive.
The woman’s eyes finally began to adjust to the poor lighting condition. She looked left and right again, starting to make out images and shadows of nearby trees and bushes. She backed away for a moment as if to dismiss an uneasy feeling, but then pressed her face against the glass again and stared straight at him. Her heart was probably thumping as hard as Tom’s was, pounding uncontrollably when she finally spotted him. A vague silhouette in black, a sinister shape hovering in the darkness, but certainly more than enough to convince her something was out there.
Tom waited, prolonging and relishing this sweet moment before clicking on the flashlight. Its powerful beam was aimed at his menacing black ski mask, reflecting a nightmarish appearance through the window to the woman standing so vulnerably close. Tom let the beam slide down from his face, illuminating his muscular chest and stomach, then halting at his groin. His penis was sticking out of his pants, exposed in the bright light, standing proud and hard as a fence post.
Tom waited until he saw the unmistakable look of raw fear in her widening eyes before he tucked his cock back in his pants and started running. A gut-wrenching scream cut through the still night air behind him, followed almost immediately by shouts and more lights. He didn’t stick around to see if anyone was in pursuit. Most likely, they would check out the old lady before searching the area. By then it would be too late. They might call the cops but by the time they arrived and the shit hit the fan, he’d be long gone.
Since acquiring his hideout and after the murder of the previous owner, the Stranger had lain prostrate on the plastic-covered floral couch in what was now his living room. He had fallen into a deep dreamlike trance, oblivious to everything around him, except his precious antique trunk.
The magic trunk was talking to him again, soothing his feverish mind with vivid images and nasty details of Kemp’s imminent slaughter. It had come up with a plan to ensure Kemp’s pain and suffering would be a work of art. It lovingly stroked and caressed his psychopathic mind throughout the day until the time was right to release him from his stupor.
The magician bolted out of his semisleep, greatly surprised to realize it was dark out and he’d snoozed most of the day away. No matter, the daylight hours weren’t important; he needed the rest for later. He was going on a little journey, a journey that would start phase one of the magic trunk’s plan of revenge. Though he’d been dozing, he remembered every detail, especially the graphic images of Kemp’s ravaged, tortured body. Gory pictures that brought a huge grin to his pallid face. He hurried into his long woolen overcoat and boots, eager to get things in motion. The sooner he implemented the plan, the sooner he would get his hands on Kemp, something he looked forward to immensely. Within minutes the Stranger was out the door, a dark farmer about to plant the first evil seeds of another man’s nightmare.
It took a burst of hard running with a few evasive turns before Peeping Tom was sure he’d made a clean getaway. His erection had quickly wilted away, but the intoxicating feeling of power still coursed through his veins and would for quite some time. There was nothing quite like that king-of-the-world feeling. Nothing at all.
Tom relaxed, enjoying the moment, and leisurely turned in the general direction of home. Suddenly, the thunderous beat of the urges began to pound incessantly inside his head. For a moment, the drumming was mercilessly loud; he could only clasp his ears in a futile effort to muffle the clamor within. The pain was excruciating, actually bringing him to his knees.
“All right…All right!” he screamed. “Bloody hell, I hear you, damn it, now go away!”
But the urges didn’t fade away, not until he found the strength to rise and start moving in the opposite direction, away from his house. Within a few steps, the drums ceased, allowing an inner peace that quickly soothed his frazzled nerves. He wasn’t mad at the urges; after all, it had been his own fault. He shouldn’t have tried going home so early. Very rarely were the urges sated after only one tiny escapade. Sometimes he would prowl for hours, hitting numerous unsuspecting victims before venturing home thoroughly exhausted but satisfied. Tonight would probably be one of those nights.
Immediately, an image of Jackie Sullivan rose in his perverted mind. He felt like testing himself tonight and she was exactly the kind of woman who made the risk of being caught worthwhile. Her fiery red hair nestled on the shoulders of an exquisite body. Her ample breasts and long, athletic legs made her very desirable, but it was her alabaster skin so smooth and delicious—like a sweet, creamy piece of white chocolate—that really turned Tom on. Yes, he thought. She’ll do nicely tonight. Yummy.
Jackie was young and beautiful, an Irish-born schoolteacher who had recently moved to town. Her flawless beauty was only part of the reason he wanted to see her. Tonight, the strange urges within him craved danger; the more danger the better, and Tom knew he could find it at Jackie’s. Not that the young woman posed much of a threat to Tom, but her dog sure did. It was a vicious black Lab by the name of Maxwell, who guarded her backyard as if the crown jewels and all the gold in Fort Knox were buried there. This late at night, the dog would probably be sleeping.
Tom’s feet were already subconsciously moving, making up their mind before he did, running toward the west end of town, in the direction of Chestnut Avenue and Jackie’s house. She went to bed late and he knew that if he hurried, and if he was lucky, she might still be up. The thrill of sneaking past that hellhound Maxwell to catch a glimpse of her was exactly the kind of challenge he loved, and exactly the kind of dan
ger the urges within him demanded tonight.
It was nearly 11:30 P.M. by the time he slowed to a halt outside her house, which was partly hidden from the streetlight’s glow by a large blue spruce. He paused to catch his breath. While he rested, he took the opportunity to scan the street and surrounding houses for signs of activity. He was pleased to find the area deserted. Good old small-town life; he could always count on the sleepyheads to be sacked out long before now, even on the weekend. What a bunch of bores.
Jackie Sullivan’s house, like the majority of houses on this block, was a two-story older home constructed around the end of World War II, just in time for the returning fighting men and women and their soon-to-be baby-boomer generation. The dull brown-colored brick and shutters matched the equally dull brown shingled roof. The only visible splash of color came from a white trellis, which supported an ever-growing ivy plant that clung to the west side of the house and continued around the back, spreading uncontrollably like a malignant disease. Tom had always despised the sight of ivy-covered houses; they reminded him of those ridiculous Chia Pet things that used to be popular, where you added water to grow grass on an ugly ceramic sheep or whatever—but on this particular house it was a blessing. Ms. Sullivan’s bedroom was on the second floor, and since there were no trees to assist his climb, the ivy-covered trellis was his only means of reaching her window. The trellis was nothing more than metal lattice work, crisscrossing to make a rather effective ladder. It was safely bolted to the side of the house and ran right up the wall to the base of Jackie’s bedroom window. Simple, really. Just a leisurely climb to paradise. Almost too easy for someone like Tom.
Until he remembered about Maxwell.
About three weeks earlier, only a few days after his weaker alter ego had been introduced to the sexy new schoolteacher for the first time, Tom had paid a visit to this same house. The backyard he’d found completely enclosed by a six-foot-high picket fence made of wood and painted off-white. He’d entered the backyard through an unlocked gate cut into the fence. The seldom-used gate had creaked slightly when opened, but not loud enough to draw attention, at least that was what he’d thought.