by Aiden James
We’re definitely screwed! Unless…
“They’re sleeping.”
“Where?”
Me again, though she looked at me like she forgot I sat directly in front of her. For the life of me, I can’t recall any hints of the psychosis on display here tonight.
“Down in the cellar,” she said, her tone absent of any emotion. Ditto for her face. “They’ll sleep forever there.”
More tears and anguished sobs erupted from my wife, while a terribly hollow feeling washed over me. I’m about to lose those closest to me, and maybe more to come. Maybe two young boys orphaned.
“But, again, why are you doing this?”
Now I sounded a little like her, voicing a thought stripped of emotion.
“Because you know her!”
No, she didn’t point to Fiona. I believe my wife understood the same thing I did. Candi Starr. Angie’s talking about her now.
“So we’re all guilty by association?” I asked, knowing Fiona was in no condition to try and out-psyche her. It was all up to me. “And did you know her husband, Vito Travini, back east someplace?”
She regarded me as if these last words caught her totally off guard. She snickered, nervous.
“Okay. Not bad, Cracker Jack,” she said. “Not bad at all.”
“Why don’t you tell us about it?” I suggested, my tone calm, compassionate, trying to remember the recent training I received at the office, new techniques to de-escalate irate customers. “It’s the least you can do for us, since you’re planning to kill us anyway.”
I couldn’t tell if Fiona had given up yet or not, but she looked over at me after I said this last part. Maybe she’s starting to sense where I’m headed with this....
“I’ll give you the five minute Cliff Notes version, and then I’ll need to dispatch you both,” said Angie, moving over to the closest kitchen countertop to us. “I don’t want your boyfriend, Eddie, showing up before I’m ready for him.”
Angie winked at me before glancing at Fiona again, as if somehow this tidbit would cut through me. Maybe if I didn’t trust Fiona as much as I do—despite my obvious discomfort having Ed around—her words might’ve had some effect. They didn’t.
Angie frowned. But instead of menacing me again, she leaned back against the counter, setting the gun and meat cleaver next to her
“All right,” she said. “Vito was my man.”
“Your lover?” I sought to confirm
“Yes.” She glanced over at Fiona, as did I. She still wept, but her eyes peered up at me through her curls, listening intently. “He planned to leave her, you know.”
Actually, I didn’t.
“But, Candice sent him up,” she continued, her voice shaking a little. “So I waited for him to get out…waited and kept an eye on her, since he planned to slit her throat from ear to ear once he got out. He used to talk about it all of the time, and how we’d be together forever once he did that. Her getting to taste the good life while we suffered, it isn’t fair. She ruined his life. She ruined mine!”
“It’s understandable why you wouldn’t want her in the picture…but how did she ruin your life?”
Man this was dicey. Playing it like her friend, since her bloodlust really wasn’t understandable. Sounds more like diva jealousy to me.
“She took the money he saved, and then she hid it.”
“Candi?” asked Fiona, her voice hoarse from tears.
“Yes!” Angie replied, snickering coldly. “So, I came out here to watch her…to keep an eye on her, like I said. That’s when I met Jackie, who happened to know some card-reading freak who knew Candice personally. It was the perfect chance to get close to her, since she’d never met me before.”
“As a blonde or a red-head?” I asked, not immediately seeing what a smartass response this was.
“The wig was supposed to be temporary, since I thought I’d hang out with you losers for just a few months and move on,” she advised, glaring at me. “Too bad for you guys, since no need to kill anybody, though it can be a real rush!”
There she goes again, stepping back into her psycho-bitch persona.
“And since I’m looking forward to finishing you two off in a moment, I’ll wrap this up. Think of it as a going away present from someone who has loathed your very existence for the past year!”
Here I thought all this time that our little verbal jousts were just in good fun, and that we got along famously. Tisk-tisk.
“Why did you bother to hang out with us, then?” asked my wife.
The hurt in Fiona’s voice from such vicious betrayal tore at my heart. I tried my bonds again, but couldn’t budge a damned thing. All we could do now was humor Angie and hope to God that Ed got here early.
“You want the truth, Fi?” she asked, her tone mocking. “You sure you can handle it?”
Angie sounded angrier…it won’t be long before this escalates. That’d surely mean the end of all this foreplay.
“Yes…I do,” Fiona told her, her voice much softer, resigned to further humiliation and the terrible death that awaited us both.
“Well, let’s just say I thought it my civic duty to expose you as the fraud you are,” she said, picking up her weapons once more. “Somebody should’ve blasted your pretty head open a long time ago, and, while they’re at it, send the rest of your pathetic group to hell with you. The only one who ever impressed me was Tom, and if I had enough time, I’m sure I would figure out how he does his camera tricks and got the cabinet in his kitchen to rattle like it did two weeks ago.”
“So, you don’t believe in the paranormal, I take it?”
Really, I should’ve known, given all the smirks and the biting sarcasm that always accompanied her presence during our investigations. I always assumed skeptics who keep going on ghost hunts are not truly skeptical.
“Not at all, Jimmy Boy,” she confirmed, her tone filled with glee. Again, to get my goat, I’m sure. “When we die, that’s it. There are no such things as ghosts, angels, devils—not even Jesus himself. We’re all just products of chance, which gives all the more reason to grab whatever you can any way you can get it, and then live like there’s no tomorrow.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you killed innocent people like Johnny, Brenda, and Dickey,” said Fiona. Her sinuses no longer sounded plugged up by tears.
“So, you wanna know why I off’d those shitheads, huh?”
We both nodded, and I hoped Fiona’s subtle attempt to milk more time out of this worked.
Please, God…send Ed and the entire Williamson County Sheriff’s department if you can! Like… RIGHT NOW!!
“Oh, I guess I could say it was because Johnny and Brenda pissed me off,” she snickered. “All friends of your country girl, Candi Starr, are hated enemies of mine as far as I’m concerned. Or, maybe it was finding out that my good-for-nothing shit of a fiancé’, Vito, planned to leave me for Candi’s cousin—that sleazy slut, Maureen!!...”
Angie’s voice steadily got louder as more and more anger flowed through her.
“…And, just maybe… maybe after I found them both together and butchered them like the frigging pigs they were, I decided I REALLY LIKE THIS SORT OF THING!!!!”
Okay, now I’m really freaked out. She’s out of control, swinging the gun and cleaver around to make her point. And the look in her eyes….crazed green-eyed freakazoid!
Fiona was whimpering again...this was way too much for her to deal with.
But just as sudden as Angie went nuts, she became quiet again...as if listening to something. Fiona heard it too. Me? It took me a little longer, perhaps hindered by my wounded hand that had begun to throb like a fierce mother.
“You hear them, don’t you, Angie?” asked Fiona, her tone compassionate and her eyes aglow with sudden hope.
“Hear what?!” Angie snapped.
Voices.... It took me a minute, but I soon heard them too. Jackie and Justin were shouting for someone to release them from the cellar.
&nbs
p; They’re alive! Angie meant it when she said ‘they’re sleeping’.
“You don’t have to do this, Angie,” I sought to reason with her, determined to buy as much time as possible. Maybe our ghost hunting pals could come to our rescue after all. “You can let us go. We’re your friends—all of us!”
Angie had just resumed her goose step boogie, but paused to sneer at me, juggling the cleaver and pistol in an effort to further intimidate. Or, show off her dexterity? Gotta love that body-builder mentality. Maybe after she’s finished with us, she can reincarnate herself as a female WWF wrestler or ring girl.
“No!” she shouted, her tone sharply acidic. “I’m going to end this bullshit right now!!”
I guess our playtime’s over. She moved over to me and placed the pistol in her sash. After rolling up her left sleeve, still holding the cleaver with her right hand, she added a slice to her wrist. Deep enough to draw a thin stream of blood, but still removed from her lifeline. From the scars just below her elbow, it looked like she’d done this before. Many times. Of course, the angry red lines beneath two long sets of stitches spoke to what she must’ve self-inflicted upon herself a few days ago.
So, she’s a cutter… Must’ve been a wonderful childhood you had growing up, huh, Angie?
“Now, your turn,” she advised, grinning meanly. “Only in your case, Cracker Jack, I’ll start with that pretty face of yours. Maybe I’ll take it easy on you and slash your throat after only removing your nose and an ear. Of course, watching those pretty blue eyes go pop and ooze down your face might be good for shits and giggles too. It all depends on how badly your little wifey-pooh begs for mercy.”
She chuckled, her tone sardonic. It was a little overdone, ala Snidely Whiplash, but effective just the same.
“PLEASE spare him, Angie!!” Fiona shrieked. “If not for me, think of our babies!!”
“Oh-h-h…that’s so sweet!”
Angie twirled the cleaver like it was a Smith & Wesson from a bygone era, replacing the Glock with it in her sash. Then she sauntered over to Fiona, mocking her sobs with pretend cries of her own. This royally pissed me off even more.
“Okay, maybe we can approach things from a different perspective,” our antagonist taunted, smiling wryly. “Why don’t I play target practice with your head instead? Maybe Jimmy will enjoy watching it explode as I empty my gun into your face at point-blank range. What do you say, Jimmy Boy?”
Jackie and Justin’s shouts are getting louder, but they’re still below us.... Hurry the hell up, guys!!!
“Take me you cowardly bitch!” I shouted, trying to scoot my chair toward Angie. Like that’d help matters, but it did move a little. “Kids need a mom more than a dad!”
Okay, that might not always be true, but it made sense to my panic-stricken mind. We were nearly out of time, and I now wept as much as my wife. It was nearly certain that both of us would die in the next minute or so. One forced to watch the other suffer a horrible demise.
“Oh, the drama…the humanity!” Angie teased, her eyes alight with intense energy. Emerald slits of fire. “I tell you what…let’s flip a coin? Or, maybe we can do the ‘eeny meeny miney mo’ deal. Huh?”
Her rant interrupted, something heavy slammed against the floor from beneath us. More voices, as it sounded like Tom and Tony were down in the cellar too. Angie paused, while the enraged look on her face intensified. Her complexion flushed like a primrose fire. Then the floor above suddenly creaked.
Somebody’s up there, too? Footsteps clear as day, and you damn well know she heard em’ too!
My hope revived, finally. I didn’t think it’d be Ed upstairs, but who could say for sure? At least this meant someone who could actually reach us in time. All three of us looked up toward the ceiling, tracing creaks and groans along the wooden beams moving toward the front of the house and then back toward us.
Angie motioned for us to keep quiet, drawing her cleaver across her throat in mock execution if we didn’t cooperate. Like that’d mean anything to two people about to die anyway. Fiona and I screamed for help as loud and shrilly as we could.
Incensed, Angie aimed the gun at my wife, who closed her eyes in preparation to receive her death sentence. Everything seemed to slow down—incredibly slow—including my shrill pleas for Angie to stop. I’ve heard how someone’s last moments on earth can be like that. I’m not sure exactly what happened next, other than watching a cloud of dust fall from the ceiling directly above where Angie stood. She backed up, wearing a look of utter shock as the dust thickened and drifted toward her.
“No…no! This can’t be possible!” she cried out, swinging at the dust cloud with her gun wildly, as if it were a swarm of angry hornets. “Get the hell away from me!!”
She grabbed the meat cleaver from her sash and swung it with her other hand, flailing both arms around her as she backed away, knocking down one of the plastic drop sheets and sending a small carpenter’s table to the floor. I doubt she even noticed Fiona’s flashlight fall off the table, and despite Angie’s inherent athleticism, she tripped when it rolled under her feet.
The gun flew out of her hand and skidded across the poplar floorboards to within a couple of feet of where I sat. I started rocking my chair from side to side in a desperate attempt to try and reach it. Angie didn’t notice until the chair toppled over, bringing me within a few inches of the gun. I stretched my fingers, ignoring the sound of her boot heels getting closer.
I can feel the handle’s ridged edge....
“Don’t’ even think about it, asshole!” she shrieked at me, still swatting at the ever-expanding dust cloud. “STOP-P-P NOW-W-W-W!!!”
Not enough time to get a firm grip, I pulled on the handle to flip the gun upward, precariously balancing it in my fingers.
Too late. Angie was upon me. I could smell the Clinique perfume she prefers as her lunging shadowed form descended.
Ah, shit-t-t-t!!!
When she landed on me, she inadvertently pressed the Glock into my palm, though I couldn’t turn the weapon fully toward her body. But no time left to think about it, I just prayed the safety was released.
As a sharp pain erupted near my left temple, I began to black out again. The last thing I remember was Fiona’s shrill screams and a loud blast.
The gun went off.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The night we visited Montebello Manor will always be referred to by our group as ‘The night Angie died’. Or, as Justin prefers, ‘When that crazy bitch got herself promoted to ghost!’
Two and a half months have passed since then, and instead of seeking relief from the blistering heat and stifling humidity, we’re now wearing sweaters and jackets. Autumn’s cool crispness is a welcome relief, and October is a great month for kids. Our boys can hardly wait until Halloween. Ryan and Alex are X-men this year, which will be their second year to ‘Trick or Treat’ together. Fiona and I are just as excited about it as they are.
October also presents a bonanza of opportunities for those of us in the paranormal research biz. Ghost hunters. Indeed, how appropriate in a month that celebrates goblins, witches, spirits, and the like.
But, before I completely move on there’s a definite need for closure in regard to what happened to Angie. After all, in my last update she was closing in for the kill. Namely me.
So how did the tables turn in my favor?
A lucky shot.
Really, that’s it. The only reason I still exist on this side of the veil. Hell, it’s why Fiona and the rest of the gang are alive and well, too. I wish I could tell you how I somehow subdued our highly trained, psycho ghost hunter-turned-assassin. But if not for the bullet ricocheting off Angie’s rib cage and piercing her heart, the rest of this story might be her version of events instead of mine. Probably with one more plug for how NVP is nothing more than a bunch of charlatan bullshitters.
That’s assuming she could ignore the hazy image of an angry human face inside that dust cloud descending upon her, captured forever, cour
tesy of the lone camera in the kitchen.
I first heard about it and everything else that took place that night from my ER bed at the Williamson County Medical Center in Franklin. It was just after midnight, when I awoke from my second concussion that evening. Good thing I quit playing football as a sophomore in high school, or I might be driveling on my shirts and shuffling to and from our gigs before I’m forty.
The last blow to my head required seventeen stitches to close, just outside my sideburn along my left temple. For the most part my hair covers the scar, and the doctors at WCMC assured me it’ll eventually fade to where no one can see it. But I’m damned lucky that’s all I got, since Angie hit me with the cleaver’s handle. Had she used the other edge…well I suppose we could discuss what might’ve been from here til’ next Tuesday.
Suffice it to say that Fiona and everybody else have recovered from their injuries. Most of the gang suffered superficial bumps and bruises from when Angie snuck up behind them with chloroform drenched swatches. I bet she saw that in some recent movie, since she didn’t use chloroform in her previous attacks.
But like I said earlier, I imagine we’d all be dead if the weird chain of events hadn’t happened that night. Hell, just a slight hiccup and it might’ve turned out much differently. For one thing, Dick Tracy didn’t get there until almost nine-thirty—just moments after the first ambulance took me away. He probably watched it drive by and muttered ‘oh shit!’ Dumbass. We could’ve all been chop suey if it’d been up to him.
Okay, maybe that’s a bit harsh. He’s got his good points…just give me a moment to think on that.
Actually, Detective Ed Silver did clear up some things for us in regard to this whole affair. And since no one told me I couldn’t share them, here goes:
‘Angela Meyers’ isn’t Angie’s real name. That would be Delores Cabrini. It sounds like some gangster’s daughter, and on some counts it’s pretty close to the truth. In and out of juvi as a kid, ‘Delores’ killed her old man as a teenager. Killed him with an ice pick shoved through his ear. Ed told us that his east coast contacts said she began turning tricks at sixteen, after being paroled early due to repairs that needed to be done at the detention center she was housed in.