Thou shalt not make wrongful use of the name of thy god.
There was a space between the next lines, a large lingering gap. It suggested that the writer had deliberated over his next words, feeling anger that he knew he had to write them even though he would have to cross them out immediately.
Matthew squinted through the heavily scribbled lines that had been crossed out in both black and red markers. When his eyes adjusted and he read the words, his heart sank.
Honour thy mother and father.
Thou shalt not murder.
Both had been madly crossed out in a fit of hatred or remorse.
Jester hissed, “Shit.” He jumped up from the sofa and made his way to the door, inspecting the words closer.
Instinctively he reached out to grab the sheet. It was a bed sheet, cotton, soft to the touch. He pulled it closer to his face, inspected the words again before he allowed the sheet to fall.
He twisted his face in confusion and tried to shake it off. He made his way around the cabin, finding a store cupboard a few paces from the bathroom.
When he opened it the smell inside hit him like a wall. He could practically feel the stench tearing away at his skin. He recoiled, stumbling backwards. He mumbled a few obscenities and then walked forward again.
He found a light switch and clicked it on. Immediately the cupboard exploded into life and exposed itself as more than just a cupboard. Five feet in front of him and to the left, was a set of stairs, declining and entwining.
Before descending the stairs he tried to find the source of the horrendous smell. The room was littered with cardboard boxes, black bin bags (filled), empty paint tins, various tools – both gardening and DIY – and a row of shelves that stretched around the right hand side, curving to a stop just before the stairs.
With his hand over his mouth and nose, Jester began searching through the boxes; some labelled with black markers, but most weren’t.
The first box he found was full of shoes and trainers. A brief look told him to put the box back down and continue searching, but his instinct told him otherwise. He dropped the box to the floor, kneeled over it and began inspecting the shoes. All of them were worn, some incredibly worn – ripped and dirty – others were in near perfect condition.
There were many Wellington boots and hiking boots that had been in storage long enough for the encrusted dirt to form a practically unbreakable shell. Matthew studied them with concern. A life in the forest, surrounded by dirt, moss and rain would wear out shoes easily. You’d go through a lot of pairs, he could understand that, but what he couldn’t understand was that all the shoes were in different sizes.
No matter how many pairs he picked up, no two were the same. They ranged from child sizes to clown sizes. Keeping the idea in his head that it was a holiday cabin, and therefore would need to cater for kids, adults and growing children, he put the box to one side.
The smell was so strong that he had to limit his breathing for fear of breathing in any of the toxic stench. He retrieved an ice cooler from the back of the room. The lid slid from the top of the box with ease and Jester, after moments of shock, slammed it shut again and turned away in disgust.
The owner of the cabin was clearly a hunting man, but his hunting trophies weren’t restricted to taxidermy. The limbs, organs, skin and brains of many animals had been stashed inside the box. The putrefying smell floated from the ice cooler, and now that Jester knew the source of the smell, it made him even queasier.
He quickly opened another cooler and found a mass of offal, spilling a scorching stench into the air. The rancid organs were still dripping with blood; most congealed, some still fresh.
In another box, a cardboard box, he found a stash of tee-shirts, all different sizes and styles. He inspected a few of them. Mud and grass stains adorned them all, but he also noted blood spots on a few of them. One of them was ripped in the middle and surrounded by a dark blood stain.
He sat in silence for a few minutes, controlling his gag reflex. Then he stood, ready to leave. He’d seen enough weirdos over the last two days to last him a lifetime and he didn’t want to run into whoever owned the cabin.
He reached for the door handle and then paused. He heard the metallic sound of a key entering a lock, heard the key turn. With his hand still hovering over the handle, he waited, his ears wide open.
A metallic rattle sounded from the front door. Someone was trying to get in and losing patience with the lock on the door.
Jester thought about making a run for it but his body froze in fear.
Moments later a loud rap of wind and rain washed through the cabin as the front door swung open.
He looked around the storage room, his ears still tuned into the main room, where the newcomer was taking off his wet coat and hat. There was nowhere to hide, and even if there was, he doubted he could stomach being around so much rotting animal flesh.
He made his way to the stairs that led into the basement. He didn’t know what was down there, but it had to be preferable to where he was.
22
The cabin owner removed his hat and sighed heavily. He shook excess water from the slick material and hung it on a stand near the door. In the kitchen he inspected his appearance through the reflection of a shining kettle. He tilted his head this way and that, making sure his face was fully examined.
Humming and haring, he ran his hand across his forehead. A smear of crimson crisscrossed between his eyes. He smudged it with his finger and then wiped it on his soggy blue jeans, leaving a faded red mark.
Whilst the kettle boiled, discharging steam and an annoying whistling sound, he continued to study his face. He noticed spots of red dabbed below his chin, smeared over his right cheek and spotted on the top of his earlobe. He removed them with a wipe from a nearby kitchen towel, which he then disposed of in a flip-top bin.
When the kettle – very old in design and nature but in perfect condition – finished boiling, he took it in his right hand. It was heavy. It had to be, anything made of out steel, filled full of outdated electrics and topped off with a litre of water would be, but in his strong grip and huge hands it looked like a small mug.
With the kettle in his hand, he walked back towards the front door. He paused momentarily. He thought he heard something, a shudder, vibration; something that disturbed his senses. He shrugged it off and continued. He opened the door, stepped outside and allowed the wind to slam it shut again.
***
Jester was in the basement. It was dark and dusty with a stench of decay and neglect hung in the air.
He made his way to the closest corner, feeling his way around like a blind man. In the corner he pinned himself to the wall and listened. He heard the owner walk into the kitchen directly above the basement, listening to every footfall with trepidation.
He heard the roar of the boiling kettle but didn’t move. The sound of his movements would be overshadowed by the ferocity of the boiling water, but fear caused him to stay put. He preferred to move in silence anyway. The kettle may mask his movement from the cabin owner but the cabin owner’s own movements would also be masked. The key to being a successful prey is knowing where the predator is and what he’s doing.
When the boiling stopped and the whirling noises ceased, Matthew heard more footsteps, heavier than before. He held his hands out in front of him and stepped forward, one step, two steps, three steps. On the fourth step his foot smacked against something low to the floor and he lost his balance. He stumbled briefly and then crashed to the ground, cursing as he did so.
He listened, his blood pounding through his body, a constant throbbing pulse in his ear. The walking had stopped. The man had heard Matthew’s fall.
Climbing to his feet he quickly glanced around him, searching for a weapon or a place to hide, but there was only darkness. His fears and anxieties ceased when the sound of footsteps continued. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
His relief didn’t last long. A horrendous sound blasted through
the entire cabin, a scream of pure agony, a blood curdling, heart-breaking screech. Matthew stood rooted to the spot, listening. The sound, although very close to Matthew’s position, seemed to be coming from outside the cabin.
He recognised the agonising noise as male, masculine, once strong and defiant, now weak and helpless. It continued for over ten-seconds, each second seeming like an hour to Matthew’s ears.
***
The cabin owner walked back inside his warm, welcoming home with a smile on his face and a whistle on his lips. He merrily danced over to the kitchen bench, stuck the kettle under the water facet and waited for it to fill, singing to himself all the while.
When the water level reached the top, he popped the kettle back down on its spot, plugged it back into the electrical socket and flicked on the switch. Outside he could hear yelps of agony but he paid them no heed. When the water finished boiling he exited the cabin again, striding out into the freezing cold, night air.
Turning, he looked down. There, slumped up against the wall of the cabin was the defeated, badly burnt figure of James Whittall. The skin on his face, arms and legs had been singed. A putrid stench of burning flesh hovered around him like a sickly aura.
“Wh–wh–wh–wh–wh,” James tried his best to speak but his lips refused to do what he told them to.
The cabin owner looked down at him and smiled. “Wh–wh–wh–wh–wh,?” he repeated, releasing a giant gasp of laughter. “Having problems speaking?” he asked sarcastically.
James Whittall didn’t answer, and instead he looked straight into the eyes of his attacker.
The cabin owner merely grinned back and then held up the brimming kettle – water splashed around, some spilt over the edge and scolded his hand, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “Look,” he said. “I’ve brought a fresh batch.” He smiled and tilted his head to the skies. The rain was coming down harder now.
“You should be thanking me,” he said. “I’m doing you a favour.” He walked towards James Whittall, the kettle held above his head. “I saw what you did to that man on the road.”
“Br–bro–” James spat, trying to explain.
“Your brother, yes, you told me that before. Like Cain and Abel before you, you have murdered your own brother, your own flesh and blood. Therefore, you need to be cleansed before you enter the kingdom of heaven, or burnt to prepare you for the flames of hell.”
James Whittall looked at the man in sheer confusion. People had told him he was a psychopath; in fact, everyone told him he was a psychopath, normally just before he killed them. But compared to the man in front of him, James Whittall was a six year old girl with flowers in her hair.
The cabin owner raised the kettle over the head of James Whittall and tilted it slightly. A few droplets fell from the container and splashed onto James’s face, instantly burning flesh. He didn’t react to the pain.
“I will cleanse you of your flesh, ridding you of your sins,” the psychopathic man said calmly. “The rain will wash away your misdeeds; the earth will soak them. Only then will you be forgiven.”
James Whittall opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. The man in front of him wasn’t a man of words; he was a man of evil. James had been tending to his dead brother when the madman had driven by. Seeing the gun in James’s hands, he had put two and two together and come up with six. James didn’t kill his brother and he was pretty sure the man knew that, but something inside him had refused to believe the truth, finding his own truth much more exhilarating.
The cabin owner tipped a cupful of water onto James’s head. It scolded his scalp and dripped down his blotching skin.
“Are you ready?” he asked slowly.
James Whittall looked at him with as much aggression and hatred as he could muster, but his face was too distorted and badly burnt. The aggression and hatred didn’t show through the red marks and the blemishes that dribbled a sickening yellow ooze down his face and neck.
***
Jester listened to more screams, less prominent than the previous ones but still as sickly. He cringed as the sounds vibrated through the wooden walls.
He dug his hand inside his pocket and pulled out the bottle of pills he had swiped from one of Barry’s thugs. He tapped the bottle onto his palm and seven tablets fell out.
He tried to pick a few up with his right hand, but it was trembling too much to grasp the small tablets. Using the end of the bottle, he placed it back on his palm and tilted it slightly; two tablets fell back into the plastic bottle. He swallowed the other five.
They stuck in his throat, other than the cotton-mouth effect that the tablets had given him. He also had to deal with the fact that he hadn’t had any fluids for a while, making the pills bitter to swallow.
He searched around the basement using his hands. He could find nothing but boxes and bags in various sizes, including a man-size one in the corner which had initially been used to store a wardrobe. He paused when he heard the front door to the cabin open, bringing with it a strong gust of wind and another stab of worry to Jester’s crippled nerves.
23
The cabin owner slowly made his way to the kitchen, refilling the kettle before replacing it on its spot. He flicked it on, pulled out a mug from one of the many – mostly empty – cupboards, dropped a teabag into it and then made his way back to the living room. He left James Whittall outside. The rain would cleanse his soul just like the current storm would cleanse the world. After the rain he would return to the body. He liked to collect things, mementos; something he could remember them by.
He took off his coat and hung it just underneath his hat. He yawned noisily, rolled up his sleeves, inspected the dirt on his arms and then made his way to the bathroom to clean up. When he pushed on the bathroom door, he was surprised to feel resistance. Charging into the room he immediately noticed the broken window, gussets of wind exploding through it, swinging the bathroom door open and closed as the cabin owner stood, in awe, staring.
He walked closer to the window and peeked outside, looking left and right. He couldn’t see anyone or anything. Humming to himself, his face lost in thought, he took a step back. The heel of his shoe crushed against a large shaving of glass, splintering it into thousands of needlepoint shards.
He looked down, almost in shock, at the mass of glass around his feet. His eyes then flickered from the broken window to the glass below. A spark twinkled in his eye when he saw the fresh drop of blood on the floor. He bent down to examine it, a smile on his face.
When he left the bathroom, he did so with haste and excitement. After a quick check of the cabin, the owner yanked open the cupboard door, flicked on the light and then slowly began to descend the stairs. In his right hand he held a large combat knife – a rubber grip handle and a seventeen inch serrated blade – poised in the attack position, ready to thrust at anyone who might cross his line of sight. A gun would be better, easier and safer. With a gun he could mow down fleeing targets or shoot them down from a distance, but he preferred the knife.
Someone had broken into his house, someone had committed an offence not only punishable by the law but punishable by god. They deserved to fill his vengeance up close and personal.
He had also broken the written laws, laws he strived to live his life by, but for each broken commandant he bore a deep, self-inflicted scar. He had served his punishment, whilst millions lived on without retribution.
Descending the stairs, his footfalls quiet on the concrete, he immediately snapped on the light to the basement and readied the knife, his eyes wide open.
There was no one there. The basement, like the rest of the cabin, was empty. He lowered the knife and searched around, looking for clues – evidence of disturbance, blood spots, wet foot prints -- but finding none.
Standing in front of the many boxes he slumped, “Damn,” he said. “I cou–”
He finished the sentence with a noise rather than a word. Matthew Jester burst out of the wardrobe box and jumped straight onto
the man’s back, wrapping his arms around the neck of the six foot-five figure.
The man squirmed, dropping the knife in the process. He reached up, trying to pry Matthew’s hands and arms away, but he couldn’t. He stumbled forward and nearly lost his balance before swinging around. Matthew, tied to the back of the man, his feet not touching the floor, was swung into the wall. He hit it with a thud and a moan, but he didn’t release his grip.
The man swung again, harder this time.
Matthew felt the full force of concrete on his right shoulder and his back, but still he retained his position.
The cabin owner gurgled something incoherent and then swung around again, slamming Jester’s body into the wall, throwing him around like a rag doll. But Matthew had seen his fair share of pain and his survival instinct wasn’t failing him yet, not after all he had been through. He tightened his grip on the giant’s neck and held it until his face began to turn purple.
Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) Page 14