Slaughter Series

by A. I. Nasser

  “Are you alone?” she asked, her attention on a point over John’s shoulder.

  “I’m all yours,” he joked, his smile quickly fading when he realized she didn’t appreciate the humor. The look she gave him was one of annoyance and utter impatience.

  Gina pushed past him into the house, the bag in her hand pulling her weight down to one side. He reached for it, hoping to alleviate the burden, but she quickly slapped his hand away and wiggled a finger at him. He was instantly reminded of a Roald Dahl book that had scared the hell out of him as a child; Witches. He stepped away from the woman and followed at a safe distance as she walked into the living room and dropped her bag onto the floor.

  He waited, allowing Gina to take her time. She clicked her tongue and shook her head, scanning the entire room, one hand even pulling off a sheet and tossing it aside in a fog of dust. She sniffed the air, her face cringing, barely waving the dust away as she moved out of the living room and into the hall.

  It took her twenty minutes to inspect the first floor. Unimpressed, she glanced at John every now and then as if blaming him for the mess she was being asked to clean up. He was amused at her judgmental look, wanting to remind her that the house wasn’t his, but decided against it. Barely a word had been spoken since she had arrived, and he felt that saying anything might interrupt whatever trance she was in.

  He felt small, as if being tested, as Gina turned things over, pushed things around, and got a feel of the house. When she reached the stairs, she sniffed the air again and looked up.

  “You staying up there?” she asked.

  John nodded. “No rooms down here.”

  “Never seemed to stop anyone,” she muttered to herself as she walked back into the living room.

  John was about to ask her what she meant when she suddenly stopped and sniffed the air again. She looked about, frowning, smacking her lips as she stood in the middle of the living room with her hands on her hips.

  “Your basement is rotten,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t smell that?”

  John sniffed the air, the dust clogging his sinuses and threatening to make him sneeze. Whatever it was she was smelling, he couldn’t sense it. He shook his head at her and watched her blue eyes roll.

  “Figures,” she muttered.

  She scoffed and walked to her bag, opening it slowly as she pulled out a change of clothes. She walked past him, her bony shoulder bumping into his, and made her way to the first-floor landing.

  “I’ll be done in four hours,” she called out.

  This is going to be fun, John thought and made his way back to the kitchen where his coffee waited.

  ***

  He had given writing another shot, this time sitting more comfortably knowing that he wasn’t alone in the house, despite the strange vibe that seemed to radiate from Gina.

  Nothing happened.

  Fresh air. You need fresh air.

  Gina barely gave him the time of day when he told her he would be outside for a bit, her back to him as she worked. In an hour she had quickly made the living room look more like a place where people could sit and laugh, rather than a place where rats came to die. He didn’t know if she had heard him, but he guessed repeating himself wouldn’t make much of a difference.

  The air outside was cool, a light breeze blowing after the previous day’s torrent of rain. John breathed in the smell of fresh grass, a stark contrast to the stuffiness of the house. It was like it didn’t want to let up, even though Gina had opened every window possible to let some air in and give the dust a safe escape.

  John walked to a side of the porch where an old bench stood, the wood rotten from the mix of rain and sun, and inspected it closely to see if it would take his weight. Testing it with his foot, he decided to give it a shot and settled down slowly, feeling the wood creak beneath him, rusted nails screaming bloody murder.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Unless you want a tetanus shot.”

  He turned to where the voice had come from, its owner a petite blonde clad in shorts and an oversized sweatshirt that hung lazily off one shoulder, no bra strap in sight. She was smiling at him, a smile he was sure had broken many hearts before it had found its way to him, and the green eyes above it were just as mesmerizing. She was walking towards him, barefoot, comfortable with the grass beneath her feet as she maneuvered her way around loose rocks and twigs.

  “That thing’s been sitting there for years,” she said, closer now, looking up at where he sat. “Doctor Black doesn’t have a very steady hand, if you know what I mean.”

  John stood up and looked at where he had been sitting, one rusty nail dangerously propped up close to where he could have hurt himself. He looked back to the blonde and smiled.

  “Thanks,” he said. “That could have been ugly.”

  She giggled and stuck out her hand, which he took. “I’m Eva, from next door,” she said, gesturing to the house behind her with her head.

  “John.”

  He looked over at the Green residence and nodded. Part of him was surprised that anyone her age still lived in this town. He remembered what June had said about the family, and Eva didn’t seem to fit the description. Then again, he was used to rich city folk. He had no idea what rich looked like out here.

  “John,” Eva smiled. “Welcome to the neighborhood. Sorry I didn’t bring a roast or anything.”

  John chuckled. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll survive.”

  He turned sharply when he heard a crash from inside, and for a moment thought about whether he should look in on Gina or pretend he hadn’t heard that. Opting for the latter, he turned his attention back to the blonde and pulled out his pack of smokes.

  “So, John, what brings you to Cafeville?” Eva asked, leaning on the porch railing, also ignoring the sounds from inside the house.

  “Vacation,” John lied. “Needed to get away from the city, clear my mind. That sort of thing.”

  “You chose the right place,” Eva winked. “Cafeville’s a good place to hide.”

  John smiled. “I never said I was hiding.”

  “I never said I was talking about you.”

  John smiled. He liked her. Witty, pretty, a dangerous twinkle in her eye that seemed a little too daring. What the hell was she doing here?

  That’s it, Johnny-boy. Loosen up. It’ll be good for you.

  “Are you here with family?” Eva asked, briefly glancing over his shoulder at the open front door.

  “Nope, on my own,” John said. “Just getting some help cleaning the place up. Apparently, nobody’s been here since God knows when.”

  “Well, I’ve lived here for twenty years, and I haven’t seen a soul walk in or out of this place,” Eva said. “Since the Deans, my father says the place’s been empty.”

  So she’s the daughter. Isn’t that something, Johnny-boy?

  John quickly pushed the thought away, frowning at the mere hint of anything more than a casual conversation. He took a long drag from his cigarette, making sure to use the hand with his wedding ring on it, and nodded as if in deep thought about her previous comment. She noticed the ring, and her smile only grew wider.

  “Why hasn’t it been sold yet?” John asked, catching himself looking at her bare shoulder, squinting slightly as he tried to keep his eyes on hers.

  Eva shrugged. “No idea,” she said. “We’ve tried buying it, but no one knows who it belongs to. The records are so old, it’s basically been forgotten.”

  “I’m surprised the town’s letting it stand here since no one’s claimed it for twenty years.”

  “Things move a lot slower in Cafeville, John,” Eva smiled. “We’re a lot more laid back than the usual folk.”

  He smiled awkwardly and looked back over the girl’s shoulder. A man had stepped out of the house, Father Green he assumed, and waved at him. John waved back, a gesture that made Eva look behind her and wave as well.

  “Well, I better get going,
” she said, winking at him. “Enjoy your stay, John. Don’t be a stranger.”

  John didn’t answer and watched the blonde skip her way back home, smiling only when she glanced back and gave him a quick wave.

  She’s friendly.

  John put his cigarette out and walked back into the Victorian.

  ***

  Gina finished as promised, four hours on the dot, and was already changed into the same outfit she had arrived in. Bag in hand, she stood stoically at the door as John paid her.

  The house was spotless. He had no idea how she had done it, but the old bird had made it look like a million dollars. He was surprised at how well the inside of the house fared as compared to the outside; even the furniture seemed to smile with color. It was like all it needed was a good clean sweep to truly feel like home.

  Gina folded the bills in her hand and made them disappear inside her purse, briefly looking at John as she seemed to size him up.

  “Your basement is rotten,” she repeated.

  “I still don’t smell it,” John said. Actually, the house smelled great.

  “You will,” Gina said with assurance. “And one other thing, sonny. We have a saying around these parts: Never trust a Green.”

  John frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you talking with that perky little snake,” Gina said, smacking her lips. “Not all that’s pretty is good, sonny, and you’d do well to remember that. There’s history in these parts, and the poison always starts with a Green.”

  John had an idea about what she meant and smiled uncomfortably. “I’m married, Mrs. Andrews,” he explained. “Happily married. Don’t worry about that.”

  Gina stared at him for a moment, her blue eyes searching his face, then looked over his shoulder at the rest of the house. “Sometimes that don’t matter, sonny.”

  John was about to say something when she turned around and walked away.

  Chapter 5

  That night, he decided to write in the living room.

  He had spent the remainder of the afternoon changing the lights and making sure all the windows had been closed properly. The winds outside had picked up a bit, and he didn’t want another unexpected accident. Besides, the house was cool enough, the dust and stuffiness that had suffocated him the day before, gone. For the first time since he had arrived, he actually felt really good.

  Except for the fact that he still couldn’t write anything worth a dime.

  You’re thinking about the blonde.

  “No, I’m not,” he whispered to no one in particular, taking a drag from his cigarette as he squinted his eyes in concentration. He felt his mind rolling inside his head, the ideas mixing and matching, finding no connection, no presence. He was still drawing blanks, and it was starting to get to him.

  He got up, frustrated, and made his way back to the kitchen.

  He couldn’t deny that the girl had made an impression on him, but that was all it was, an impression. Gina’s words played over and over again in his head, her warning a little too ominous to be taken seriously, probably nothing more than an old woman’s attempt at throwing some excitement into an otherwise mundane day of cleaning.

  Eva Green was nothing more than the neighbor’s daughter. That was it. Whether or not he could trust the Greens was up to him. He’d let his instincts decide that, not some old woman’s ramblings.

  Turning on the boiler, he leaned against the kitchen counter and waited. He had called Karen earlier, listening to her with a smile on his face and honestly showing interest in her first day as department manager. She had been excited, dreamily recounting her new position and responsibilities, and he was proud of her. She had worked hard for her promotion, and he was happy that when it had come, it was all she ever imagined it would be.

  He had given her a quick summary of his encounter with Gina and had voiced concern over the fact that he still hadn’t written anything. Karen had been supportive, as always, and it had made him feel a lot better.

  She wouldn’t have been as supportive if you had told her about Eva.

  John winced. He had conveniently left that detail out.

  The boiler clicked off, the bubbles of water inside hungrily rising and falling, waiting to be of use. He scolded himself as he poured the water into a mug and mixed the instant coffee with his regular three spoons of sugar. His head wasn’t on right, and he needed to get back in the game.

  Walking back to the living room, he frowned when he caught a whiff of something odd. He sniffed again and felt his stomach turn as the scent of something rotten raced into his nostrils. He looked around him, wondering if a window had opened again and let the smell in, but as he moved around the house, he realized that the source was from behind a door in the kitchen.

  Your basement is rotten.

  Gina’s words echoed in his head, and he cringed in disgust as he moved closer to the door. He had no idea how he had missed it earlier, but if Gina had smelt it, it must have been faint enough to be missed. He put his mug down on the countertop and opened the basement door, coughing violently as the rotten air escaped and slapped him in the face.

  “Damn it,” he cursed.

  He quickly closed the door and ran to the sink, grabbing a towel and flooding it with water. He coughed again, the smell lingering in the air like a blanket. He squeezed the water out of the towel and quickly pushed it under the door, blocking out the space beneath and hoping the water would trap the smell. He quickly opened the kitchen window, leaving his mug behind and closing the kitchen door, in an effort to keep the smell out of the rest of the house.

  He was going to have to call Gina again.

  ***

  There was little Samuel could do on the night he found out his son had died.

  Pulling on his overcoat and lighting a cigarette, he stepped out of the funeral home into the falling rain, the darkness around him hugging him like a warm blanket. He felt its fingers caressing his skin, like an old friend that was trying to comfort him, maybe even take away the emptiness he felt inside.

  Samuel fought back his tears. He needed to be strong, for him and his wife. Let her do the crying. Mothers should cry over their children. Fathers needed to make sure that the world moved on.

  He pulled up the collar of his coat around his neck and began to walk. His keys jingled in his pockets, reminding him that there was always the safety and warmth of his car if he needed it.

  He didn’t.

  Tonight he wanted to feel the rain.

  He continued down the dark street, barely registering the faces of the pedestrians he passed, each one looking a bit like his dead son, each one seeming to smile at his misery. You deserve this, their looks said. You deserve everything that happens to you from here on out.

  Samuel shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the delusions he was starting to feel. He had all the time in the world to blame himself for his son’s death, but tonight was about retribution. Tonight was about fixing his mistakes, and making sure that what had happened would never go unpunished.

  He walked slowly, letting the rain soak him, seep into the spaces between the coat and his skin, the winds blowing against him forcing his body to shiver. Memories of his son raced through his mind, images of their short time together flashing before his eyes. His lips quivered, the pain he felt barely contained, the anger stronger.

  When he reached the arcade, he pushed inside without breaking his stride. In a corner, surrounded by his two associates, sat the owner of the establishment, laughing and drinking. He fell silent as he saw Samuel walk in, but his smile didn’t leave his face. He watched as Samuel walked up to the table and stared right at him.

  “Samuel Dean,” he said. “I heard about your son. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Samuel said nothing, only stared.

  “If there’s anything I can do, please, don’t hesitate,” the man said, smiling at the others.

  “You made your point, Alexander,” Samuel said, his voice hoarse as the tears now
fell freely down his cheeks. “Now let me make mine.”

  No one could have anticipated what happened next, and they watched in horror as Samuel Dean pulled a knife from his coat pocket and began to stab the man repeatedly.

  ***

  John woke up with a start, his breathing harsh, his heart racing. His head was screaming, the pain of inexplicable pressure within forcing him to squeeze at his temples as he tried to stop the world around him from spinning.

  He tried to get out of bed, his legs buckling slightly, and he quickly grabbed onto the bedpost to stop himself from falling. Feeling his way across the room, his eyes shut tightly as he tried to wish the pain away, made his way into the bathroom, fell in front of the toilet and heaved.

  He hadn’t eaten anything all day, but torrents came out of his mouth, and soon he was coughing uncontrollably and curling into a fetal position on the bathroom floor. His entire body seemed to spasm, and he felt incredibly cold despite the warmth of the house. Waiting for the attack to subside, he pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the sink for support, and quickly turned the water on. He washed his face, the cold water shocking him out of his spasms, and quickly started to feel the effects of his attack wear off.

  He staggered back into the bedroom, slowly making his way to the comfort of his bed. His eyes caught sight of his laptop, open on his desk, the usual blank page he had grown accustomed to seeing now full of words. He frowned. Barely able to hold himself up, he leaned against the chair and took a closer look at the screen, blinking repeatedly and waiting for his imagination to regress and the blank screen to reappear.

  He hadn’t imagined it, though.

  John stared dumbfounded at the beginning of a story he couldn’t remember writing.

  Chapter 6

  June Summers saw a completely different John Krik walk into her market that morning.

  She was amused at his whistling as he skipped in, waving to her and immediately rummaging through the rows of goods. She could hear him singing softly to himself, something by The Doors, or The Who, terribly out of tune, but at least the lyrics seemed right. She waited for him to finish and practically dance his way to the register, the groceries this time a lot more appetizing than his previous purchase.