Slaughter Series

by A. I. Nasser

  Walter sat back in his chair, pulling out the small pad he had taken his notes in and opening it to where he had scribbled the couple’s statements. His handwriting was terrible, shaky even, a stark contrast to the rest of the pages in there. His mouth twisted in a grimace, his body shuddering as he tried to shake off the feeling that had lingered inside him even after he had left the house. He hadn’t noticed just how nervous he had been.

  The husband seemed stable enough, although Walter had his doubts as to what passed for stable these days and what didn’t. His hair had been completely disheveled, as if he had just woken up and tried to comb it with his fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, the eyes of a man who hadn’t slept for days, like the world had decided to burden him with its infinite problems.

  Walter had seen the photograph on the back sleeve of John Krik’s book. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have sworn they were two completely different people. The smile was faded, the face had atrophied, and the man living in the old Dean house could have used a little more sunlight for that pale complexion.

  However, Walter wasn’t too bothered by that. He had asked his questions, which John had answered amiably enough, although his answers had come in fragments and mumbles, forcing Walter to strain in order to hear anything. His alibi was solid, not that he was really a suspect, and a quick telephone call to Hank Pollard had confirmed his story. All in all, Walter had felt sorry for the celebrity author.

  His wife was a completely different story, though.

  Walter had been welcomed into the house, but after a second’s thought, had opted to sit out on the porch instead. A part of him didn’t want to cross that threshold; a part of him still believed there was something evil lurking in there, something that had been waiting for nearly thirty years. Only when he had finished asking Krik his questions had the man called for his wife.

  Walter had felt a chill run down his spine when she had come out to meet them. It was a mix of many things, a combination of horrors wound up into one moving mess of terror. Although dressed in a simple shirt and jeans, she looked like she had just been pulled out from under the bed. She had attempted to tie her hair in a ponytail, but had botched up the job so much that it looked like a hornet’s nest held together awkwardly to keep it from flying all over the place. Her eyes had been dead, lifeless, like she had not been completely there, and her smile had scared the hell out of him.

  Walter could have sworn she looked just like Ana Dean. And even the idea of that had made him want to run for the hills. The thought alone had chilled him to the bone.

  He believed that was probably when his hands had started to shake; that and the familiar smell that seemed to diffuse out through the front door. He remembered that smell, more clearly than he would have liked to, and it had brought him back to when he had last been to the Victorian to arrest Ana Dean for attempted murder. Looking at Krik’s wife gave him a terrifying sense of déjà vu, and his gut was telling him, even now, that there was some connection between the woman and the so-called gas leak.

  Walter opened his desk drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes he had stashed away for times like this. He had given up on the habit years before, and had left the half-crumpled pack there for times when his will became too weak. If there were ever a moment of weakness that required a cigarette, this would be one of them. He frowned upon smoking inside the station, but at the moment, he really didn’t care how hypocritical he would look in front of his deputies. The way he saw it, he had every right to smoke, especially now.

  He lit his cigarette and stood up again, crossing to the small file cabinet he kept in the corner of his office where the cases he had personally worked on were kept. He had made copies for himself, unwilling to indulge in the new wave of technology that had taken his station by storm. Let the youngsters have their computers and smartphones; Walter Garland wanted the feel of paper at his fingertips when he looked through reports and scanned crime scene photos.

  With his cigarette hanging loosely from one corner of his mouth, he opened the bottom drawer and fingered through the files, slowly drawing out the Dean case reports and everything related to that fateful day thirty years ago. It was a case he had always hoped would remain in the bottom drawer, at the back, only visited in his mind during nightmares and conversations after one too many shots of whiskey.

  Walter dropped the files on his desk, opening them tentatively as he settled heavily back into his chair. He scanned the police reports he had personally filed back then, looking over photographs he had hoped never to see again, images flashing before his eyes that had been secretly lurking in the back of his mind and had waited for this moment to come out.

  It was the house. As ludicrous as it sounded, as crazy as it might have seemed, he had a sinking feeling that there was something seriously wrong with the Victorian. Something wrong with all three houses, for that matter.

  Damn the founding families.

  Walter flipped through the files one by one, reading, scanning, and ignoring the ash falling from his cigarette onto the yellowed sheets of paper. His mind was doing jumping jacks inside his head, and he could already feel a headache coming. He pondered handing the case over to one of his deputies, then quickly dismissed the idea. If anyone was going to relive the history of this town, if anyone was going to be burdened with the horrors that came with the founding families, it would be him.

  Walter vaguely remembered Krik telling him that he had gotten the house keys from his editor, and it had hardly surprised him when he heard Derrick Fern’s name. His mind replayed his conversation with Fern’s mother three decades ago, the story she had told him about what she had seen and heard in the house. He had downplayed its importance back then, writing it off as a widow’s post-traumatic paranoia and need to explain the obvious. Now, he was seriously revisiting how wrong he had been about that.

  Walter put out his cigarette and pushed the files away, rubbing his temples with his fingers as he tried to fight off what had started as a headache, and now threatened to turn into a full blown migraine. He knew that he would have to go to the house again, ask more questions, and spend a little more time interviewing the wife, this time alone. Maybe he could get something out of her he hadn’t been able to the first time.

  Maybe he could ask her to come in. If he were on home turf, he would definitely be more comfortable, and whatever effect the house had on him would be out of the equation. The question was whether or not the Kriks would agree to that. In his experience, that house had a way of keeping people locked inside.

  He briefly remembered looking up at the house as he was preparing to leave, an illusion of a shadow passing across the attic window having had caught his eye. The clouds, he had thought; the clouds reflecting across the glass.

  Walter shuddered. Definitely call them in. He didn’t want to be anywhere near that Victorian.

  Chapter 19

  “I don’t know, buddy.”

  John Krik ran a hand across his face as he clutched his cellphone to his ear, the stress of the past few days taking its toll on him. His hands were shaking, a slight tremor that would normally go unnoticed to anyone who didn’t know just how calm John usually was. He hadn’t slept in three days, hadn’t eaten anything proper in a week, and his only notion of sunlight came from the few rays that happened to find a way through the blinds he had drawn closed.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” he asked his editor.

  John could hear Derrick Fern sighing on the other end of the phone, the soft sound of turning paper making its way across the phone lines and piercing his ears. For some obscure reason, which John blamed on the lack of sunlight, the rest of his senses had spiked, and he was starting to hear things that didn’t exist.

  “It’s nothing like what we’re used to seeing from you,” came the quick reply, a reply John didn’t want to hear this close to the end of his story.

  He had been pushing through the past few days on overdrive, eager to be done, wanting to en
d the writing as fast as he could. The urgency had more to do with his need to leave, a sinking feeling inside him that if he were to stay here any longer, if he were to spend any more time in this damn house, he would go completely insane. The charm he had felt at first, the ludicrous notion of entertaining Karen’s wishes and living out his life in Cafeville, had disappeared.

  “You’ve known that since day one, Derrick,” John almost spat, realizing that he was getting more and more short-tempered the longer he spent locked up in his room. “You read the first few chapters a month ago, and you gave me the green light. Don’t give me this bullshit now!”

  Derrick paused on the other end, and for a second John thought about hanging up. He had never liked the way Derrick seemed to linger in thought before saying something completely stupid, and that habit was getting more and more annoying with each passing year.

  “It’s just so dark, John,” Derrick said, and John felt his body cringe at the tone of his voice. It was a tone that usually preceded a refusal or a request for absurd changes.

  Don’t change anything, John almost begged him. Please don’t change anything.

  “This is going to completely alienate your fans,” Derrick continued.

  “Then I’ll get new fans,” John replied, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought to stay awake.

  “Why?” Derrick asked, and John could almost feel the man frowning. “Why go through building up an entirely new brand for your name when we already have one established? And a successful one at that?”

  John shook his head and fought the urge to start shouting. “Hire a ghostwriter, Derrick, or write a frigging love story yourself,” he finally said, making sure he kept his tone in check. He wanted to sound convincing, not threatening, and Derrick was making that hard. “This is all I’ve got. I’m trying not to breach my contract here.”

  “You see, and that’s exactly what’s worrying me,” Derrick sighed. “I have the feeling you’re just writing anything to please me.”

  That is absolutely not what we’re doing, is it, Johnny-boy?

  John shook his head again, squeezing his eyes shut as he forced the voice in his head quiet. Not now. He couldn’t deal with any voices now.

  “Derrick, coming here was your idea,” John measured his response. “You said this place would spark my creative juices and push a masterpiece out of me, right? Well, this is what’s come out. Take it or leave it.”

  Derrick paused as he contemplated John Krik’s words before saying, “Take it or leave it?”

  John sighed, sitting back tiredly in his chair as he rubbed his closed lids. “You know what I mean.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” Derrick said. “I have no idea what you mean about anything, to be frank. I even tried calling Karen, and honest to God, the woman’s making less sense than you are, which is quite surprising.” There was a pause. “What the hell are the two of you smoking up there?”

  “Nothing,” John replied softly.

  “Are the two of you okay?”

  John thought about how to best answer that.

  Ever since the fire, ever since he had seen the look on Karen’s face as she watched the Greens’ house burn, he had known that absolutely nothing was ever going to be okay again. He couldn’t prove it, and nobody could, but he knew the truth. He knew that Karen had burned that house down; she had burned it down with Eva inside, and that notion haunted him every day. She didn’t have to tell him. She didn’t have to come straight out and admit to what she had done. But it was as clear as day, somewhere between the lines, screaming at him and mocking him.

  “We’re fine,” John said.

  “I know what fine means in your book, buddy,” Derrick said. “You only use that word when there’s something going on, and you don’t want to talk about it.”

  Don’t tell him anything.

  “Who are you, my mother?”

  “I’m the only friend you really have,” Derrick replied.

  John almost laughed. If he hadn’t been so tired, so drained, he would have fallen off his chair in a fit of laughter strong enough to bring tears to his eyes. The idea of Derrick actually being his friend was amusing, but the simple fact that the man believed it was hilarious. Joke of the day, ladies and gentlemen. Watch the clown dance!

  “Well, I assure you, friend,” John said through clenched teeth in a mix of stifled amusement and distaste. “I’m using the word quite appropriately right now. We’re fine.”

  Good boy, Johnny.

  He and Karen were far from fine.

  That look in her eyes had scared the hell out of him the day Hank Pollard had driven him home. It had chilled him to his very core, and since that night, he had not come any closer than a few feet from her. The look had lingered since that night, his wife carrying it with her everywhere, the coldness in her eyes unbearable even now. He had moved his workstation out of the bedroom, too afraid to spend the night in the same room – let alone the same bed – and had set up in his ‘office’. He locked the door every night before going to bed, and often left it locked throughout the day except when absolutely necessary.

  The woman living with him in the Victorian was not Karen. She was a shell of his wife, just the walking skin and bones of the woman he had married, but nothing else. Inside, she had changed. It wasn’t one of those obvious changes that came with knowing that your husband had cheated on you. No, he could handle a change like that. He could cope with the looks of hatred and disgust, the accusing glares of a woman. He would have been fine if that were what he had to deal with.

  But, that wasn’t what he was dealing with. There was something else there, something just below the surface, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on and was too scared to look for.

  And he wasn’t the only one who was noticing the change.

  First it was the Sherriff, who appeared to have not wanted to spend any more time near the house than John himself did. He had heard about the Sheriff from June, the praises and the lore of the man who kept Cafeville safe, and John had even incorporated a mirror of the Sheriff in his story. But, the man who had visited them after the burning was not the man John pictured. The Sheriff had appeared uneasy and restless, and seemed to shake like a leaf when Karen joined in the questioning.

  Hank Pollard had said something about it, too. John had almost forced him to come find a solution to the godforsaken stench that was not going away. He had had enough, and had voiced his concerns to Karen over numerous occasions, especially when she had gone down to the basement and returned without closing the door, like she enjoyed the smell. Hank had found nothing wrong, again, and John wasn’t very surprised. A part of him had only called the man to have someone else around the house for a change, another living and breathing soul unaffected by whatever the Victorian was doing to him and his wife.

  Karen’s usual joking demeanor, the soft, harmless flirting attitude she had always reserved just for Hank, had been missing completely. At one point, she had even ignored a direct question, and when Hank had looked at him, the frown of confusion on his face had made John feel more relieved than ever. It was good to know that he wasn’t imagining things.

  “So what do you say?” Derrick said, his voice breaking through John’s thoughts.

  “About what?” John asked.

  “You haven’t been listening to anything I just said, have you?”

  John felt like reminding Derrick that he never really listened to anything he said, but decided against it. “You lost me for a second.”

  “Well, just a few changes to the ending,” Derrick was saying. “In a way, you make it seem like the bad guys won.”

  John felt his fist clench. “There are no bad guys in this story, Derrick,” he said. “There’s just a man who’s been betrayed, and a woman who’s been scorned, and their revenge.”

  “Well, the man’s a cheat and the woman’s friggin’ insane.”

  John felt his mind stall, for a brief second wondering who his editor was talking about.


  “So, if they’re supposed to be the good guys, the ones who come out winning, then this is not a story that’s going to sell.”

  “I’m in the storytelling business,” John said. “I write to tell a tale.”

  “Then publish your work online,” Derrick said. “I need to sell in bulk. I’m in the bookselling business, and that well’s starting to run really dry. So, try to see things from my perspective, buddy.”

  “Don’t call me that,” John mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” John said, a lot more clearly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Derrick clapped his hands together, and John cringed at the mere thought of the man smiling in triumph. “Excellent!” Derrick bellowed. “How about you get the sheriff to shoot them both?”

  John felt that familiar locking inside his head, as if he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fiction anymore. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, the sheriff?” Derrick sounded a lot more excited now that John had agreed to make changes. “Why don’t you have him shoot these maniacs in the end? Poetic justice.”

  “I don’t see it,” John said, immediately disliking the idea.

  Probably the worst suggestions that bastard’s ever made, Johnny-boy. Why not tell him to just shove it and hang up in his face?

  “Make the sheriff a hero, or something,” Derrick continued, chuckling. “You know what? Never mind, you’re the writer. Think of something spectacular!”

  John didn’t answer, and after a few more minutes of polite conversation, hung up.

  He got up and walked painfully across the room. Being in a sitting position for almost eight hours had put both legs to sleep. He reached for his cigarettes, grabbed the edge of the blinds and contemplated letting a little sun in. The room was getting dark, and soon the sounds would start again; today, he didn’t have any new writing to shut them out with.