by Jon Athan
Yet again, the room was destroyed. The dresser drawers were tossed on the floor, overturned and broken. Clothing flooded the floor, too. The clothing appeared wet and heavy, though. From the pungent scent lingering in the room, it was safe to assume the clothing was drenched in urine. Gaping holes were punched into the walls. An angry, malevolent aura lingered in the room.
From the neighboring room, an officer said, “Jackson, check this out.”
Jackson took one final glance at the bedroom, then he joined his partner at the neighboring room—the bathroom. Jackson stood in the doorway while his partner stood in front of the toilet. The man appeared confused—a furrowed brow and an open mouth.
Jackson asked, “What is it?”
The officer responded, “The toilet... It's clogged.”
“So?”
“Look. It's clogged with... with shredded money.”
Jackson stepped into the room, curious. He stood beside his partner and stared into the toilet. Indeed, the bowl was filled to the brim with shredded cash and water. There wasn't a single bill under one-hundred dollars, either. Thousands of dollars were flushed down the drain. It means something, the sheriff thought, what were they trying to say?
Stony-faced, the sheriff walked out of the bathroom. He stood in the hallway, lost in his thoughts. He thought about the destruction and the messages in the living room, but he couldn't link the pieces. He staggered towards the last door to the left while the rest of his partners huddled around the last door to the right.
As he reached the bedroom, Jackson leaned on the doorway and sighed—disoriented by the revelation. The dark room was not destroyed. In fact, there wasn't a single speck of dust in the bedroom. It looked as if it had not been modified in over a year—trapped in time. The cleanliness of the room did not catch the sheriff off guard, though.
The walls were decorated with dozens of homemade paper-mâché masks. All of the masks, regardless of design, were painted with smeared makeup. All of the masks also shared the same bloody tears. The pieces were easy to link: the room belonged to Casey Marshall and his masks were used during the murders.
Jackson whispered, “She was right... Christ, she was right...”
He walked back into the hall. He stopped as he bumped into one of the officers crowding the parallel room—the last room on the right. The cops turned towards each other and locked eyes. They both appeared horrified and confused. The sheriff had a reason for being frightened, but he didn't know the officer's excuse.
Jackson pushed his way past the cops and stared into the last bedroom. He froze with fear as he examined the room. Three people lay on a queen-sized bed, as if they were cuddling for warmth. He recognized them, too.
Nicholas Marshall, Casey's father, lay on the center of the mattress. Abigail Marshall, Casey's mother, lay to the man's left, her head resting on his shoulder. Bethany Marshall, Casey's teenage sister, lay to the man's right, her head resting on her father's sturdy chest. The family wore matching raincoats, pants, and boots, but they no longer wore their masks. The family lay motionless, eyes closed as if they had fallen asleep. They weren't sleeping, though.
They were dead.
Sleeves pushed up to their elbows, their forearms and wrists were drenched in blood. They cut their wrists vertically across their veins. It was a family suicide. On the wall above the bed, written in blood, a message read: For Casey.
Holding his hand over his mouth, Jackson approached the bed. The poignant portrait of suicide was depressing. Protocol dictated his actions, but he was unable to move forward. A family that kills together dies together—he had never seen anything like it before.
He glanced over his shoulder. A laptop sat on top of the dresser across from the foot of the bed. The laptop was open and powered on. The family live-streamed their suicide on Facebook—and the stream was active with an audience of thousands. Some of the viewers were concerned, others were apathetic, and a few posted some stale internet jokes. None of the viewers seemed concerned with reporting the tragedy. People were attracted to the macabre.
Jackson sighed in disappointment, then he closed the laptop.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Closure
Charlene sat in Sheriff Jackson's office, hunched forward with her shoulders pulled in tight towards her chest. She vacantly stared down at her shoes, brooding over the tragedy. Jackson sat across from her, scribbling on a sheet of paper. He was only trying to buy himself some time to think, though.
The sheriff placed the pen down, then he clasped his hands under his chin. He said, “Thank you for your patience, Ms. Sanchez. I know it's been a long night. Don't worry, I won't be asking you any other questions. Not now, at least. This is... This is time that I set aside for you. You deserve closure from me—not Channel 5 News, MSNBC, CNN. You deserve to hear it from me. I was responsible for this case and... and I feel partly responsible for what you experienced. So, if you have any questions, I'm all ears.”
Charlene slowly lifted her head and stared up at the sheriff. She could see the guilt in his eyes. She could also see he was sincere about his offer. He was breaking procedure, but he felt compelled to comfort the young woman.
Charlene asked, “So, you found out what happened? It was 'cause of Casey, right?”
“Yes, we believe so. Nico and his accomplices set out to kill the people they believed were responsible for Casey's death.”
“Accomplices... You're talking about Adam, right? You found his phone? His messages? You have proof, right?”
Jackson nodded and said, “You were correct. He was sending messages to Nico and Nico was informing his family.”
Charlene furrowed her brow and repeated, “His family?”
“Yes. That's the reason we didn't stop them sooner. Nico and Adam weren't working alone. Nico's parents and even his sister helped him. It's completely possible that they each killed at least one person. So, at one point, we were looking for a man like Nico or Nicholas, his dad. Then, we found long hair in Melanie's home and that didn't belong to Melanie or her mother. This conflicting evidence sent us in circles. One moment, we were hunting a man; the next, we were looking for a woman. We were foolish, Ms. Sanchez. We should have been looking for a family...”
Charlene breathed heavily as she leaned back in her seat. She was flabbergasted by the information. A family of killers, she thought, who would have suspected all of them?
She said, “Well, um... I'm... I'm glad it's over. I hope you send Nico away for a long time.”
“We will. You have my word.”
“I have to ask: are... are all of my friends dead? Did Britney make it? How about Dominique? I didn't see them die. Did they... Did they die?”
Jackson sighed, then he said, “Unfortunately, your friends passed away. Dominique, Britney, Adam, and the teacher, Mr. Collin Wilson, were found dead at the scene. We couldn't revive them. I'm sorry.”
Tears streamed across Charlene's cheeks as she blinked. At heart, she already knew her friends were dead. She figured she would have seen them at the station if they survived. She was prepared to hear the truth, though.
She sniffled and said, “Stephen... What about Stephen? He was with me when we were in the hallway.”
“He's at the hospital now. I believe he was in stable condition the last time we checked. I don't want to promise anything, but I think he's going to be fine. He'll recover. He's a strong kid.”
Despite the night of murder, Charlene cracked a smile. She couldn't help but laugh, too—laughter of relief. She lost some of her closest friends, but she was pleased to hear her rescuer, the young man who risked everything for her, survived.
Jackson said, “I would just like to apologize, Ms. Sanchez. If we only worked faster, if we only saw the signs, then maybe things would have turned out differently. You went through hell—and you're still not out. We'll be here for you, though.”
Charlene coughed and grunted, trying to choke back her tears. She stuttered, “Th–Thank you. I... I don
't want you to feel guilty for doing your job, though. You did what you had to do. I think it's... it's our fault anyway. I didn't bully Casey. I didn't even know the kid. I knew who he was, but we never said a word to each other. I saw the bullying, though, and I heard all about it. I didn't help by staying quiet. If I told someone—a counselor or the principal—this probably would have never happened.”
“You shouldn't feel guilty, either, miss. I believe you're a good person. This experience might have torn you apart and brought you to your knees, but, when you get up, you'll be a better person. So will I. I believe we can do more to curb bullying in school and social media. We've seen what bullying can do first-hand, so hopefully we can start preventing it.”
Charlene nodded in agreement. At that moment, she vowed to fight against bullying. She would avenge Casey using a humane method.
Jackson smiled and said, “You can go home now, Ms. Sanchez. I believe your parents are still waiting right outside. Have a good night. You have my number. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
Charlene exited the room and closed the door behind her. She glanced down the hall to her right. Her parents stood at the end of the hall, arm-in-arm. Her mother sobbed into a napkin while her father tried to crack a smile. They were relieved. The teenager couldn't keep her facade afloat. She was a strong person, a fighter and a survivor, but she couldn't contain herself. She grimaced and cried, overwhelmed by her emotions. She lurched into her parents' arms, happy to feel their embrace.
Charlene was simultaneously coddled and scolded by her parents. She couldn't hear a single word, though. She could feel their love and concern, but she couldn't hear them. The world around her was muted. She could only think about Nico, Casey, and her friends. After the massacre at the school, she was just happy to be alive.
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Dear Reader,
Hello! Thanks for reading The Social Media Murders. This was a whodunit/slasher hybrid—at least, that's what I wanted to create. Since it was also an extreme horror book, there were some very violent deaths. The book also featured themes of bullying and suicide. I know these are very sensitive subjects. If you were offended by the contents of this book, please accept my sincerest apologies. As usual, I never intended on offending anyone.
Like I already stated, The Social Media Murders is a whodunit-slasher novel. It was mainly inspired by Wes Craven's Scream and Dario Argento's classic horror movies. I even mention Argento in the first chapter. Actually, I mentioned Scream a few times, too. I'm a big fan of Wes Craven and Dario Argento, so I wanted to create something similar. Of course, I'm not restricted by the MPAA or some big publisher, so I was free to create some very brutal death scenes, including a few jaw-ripping scenes.
Aside from my love for slashers, the film was also inspired by social media. If you've seen me on Twitter or Facebook, you know I'm not an outspoken person. That's because I'm naturally a bashful guy. I don't mind talking to people, though, and I don't mind sharing my opinions on things. In fact, I like social media. I think it's a great way to connect and share; it opens doors to places we might have never seen otherwise.
However, there is a dark side to social media—and that's what inspired this book. These days, people use social media to complain, argue, bully, and even murder. It seems to be snowballing out of control, too. It feels like someone uses social media for something worse every month. And, a lot of people do it just for 'likes.' I wanted to target that obsession to social media—and the flaws that accompany these types of websites—with this book. Now, I only hope someone doesn't use social media to become a serial killer or to post his murders online. I've had some bad timing with some of my previous books reflecting some horrendous real-life crimes.
The first draft of this book was completed in January 2017. I know some things have happened since then regarding social media and live-streamed murders, but I just want to note: this was not meant to glorify these criminals. I know it's called The Social Media Murders, but that title was inspired by the title for the 1978 film The Toolbox Murders. This novel wasn't based on any real events. Okay?
Anyway, if you enjoyed this book, I'd really appreciate it if you left a review on Amazon.com. Your review will help me improve on my writing and it will help me gain visibility on Amazon. If more people read my books, then I can write more for everyone. So, if you're a fan of my writing, reviews will help me release books more frequently. And, it will only take you five or so minutes to write a review. Do you like my slasher novels? Would you like to read more? If so, what type of slasher would you like me to write? Or, would you like me to stick to the darker books I've written in the past? Would you read another book like this in the future? Answering questions like these will allow me to better understand you, the reader. Your words have the power to influence my writing—please use them wisely.
Feel free to share this book with your friends and family. This book is about social media, so share it on social media. Tweet it on Twitter, share it with your friends and family on Facebook, or... What else do all of you use? I don't know, just spread the word. You can even buy a copy for a friend. Word-of-mouth is a superb method in supporting independent authors—and it's mostly free.
This may come as a surprise to you, but: I'm still not a bestselling author. Shocking, isn't it? Still, I really appreciate your support. As long as you keep reading, I can keep writing. Thank you for giving me this opportunity.
Finally, if you enjoy scary stories, feel free to visit my Amazon's Author page. I've published over a dozen horror novels as well as some science-fiction/fantasy books. If you want to read a psychological horror novel, check out Madness at Madison Mall. If you're looking for a brutal revenge thriller/horror book, check out my upcoming book, The Law of Retaliation—it should be out in August 2017. Keep your eyes peeled for my upcoming books since I release a new book every month. Feel free to check out my older novels in the meantime. I really appreciate it! Once again, thank you for reading. Your readership keeps me going through the darkest times!
Until our next venture into the dark and disturbing,
Jon Athan
P.S. If you have questions (or insults), you can contact me via Twitter @Jonny_Athan, or my Facebook page, or through my business email: [email protected]. If you're an aspiring author, I'm always happy to offer a helping hand. Even if you have a simple question, don't hesitate to contact me. Thanks again!