Handbook
for the
Criminally Insane
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living, dead or undead, is entirely coincidental.
Handbook for the Criminally Insane
By Brian Holtz
Smashwords Edition
© Copyright 2009, Brian Holtz
All rights reserved
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
1: KILLING, THE SERIAL WAY
The sunrise on October second found Thomas Able belly-down in the mud wearing a rented tuxedo. His face, submerged in opaque brown water, had not the benefit of air for more than five hours. He remained where he was, silent and alone, until twelve-year-old Rodney Pinkerton discovered him in the backyard while searching for a baseball. The boy did not try to help Mr. Able to his feet, nor were there any words exchanged. It was assumed the man was in no condition to be sociable due to the axe implanted in his back. Rodney took a moment to scream, then rushed inside to inform his mother.
Sheriff Deputies Leonard Simms and Stanley Ackerman arrived ten minutes later. They walked over the yard with weapons drawn, each taking a different side of the house as an ambulance rounded a corner three blocks away. They scanned the area with caution. Nothing out of the ordinary caught their attention until they reached the back porch. The deputies met once again at a wooden staircase and stood side by side.
They looked across a large square of overgrown land. The previous night’s rain had left behind glistening wild flowers, cold pools of dark water and mud. It had also left behind Thomas Able. He remained immobile under a battered swing set with a long axe tucked in his spine like a fallen elm. A briefcase sat ajar in a patch of wet grass. One shoe was missing. The men kept their distance as if an impaled back was an infectious disease.
Simms holstered his pistol, then unhooked a radio microphone from his belt and spoke into it. “Sheriff Shane, you got a copy?”
A static voice came back, “This is Shane, go ahead.”
“We’ve got a victim over here with an axe stuck in his back.”
Silence, the kind one might expect after such a statement, sat up, stretched, and then considered its options. Just as it got comfortable, acclimatizing itself to the idea of staying a while, it was interrupted by an absurd arrangement of words.
“Are they dead?”
The deputy looked over the corpse, the weapon, and the yard.
“Yes sir. He looks pretty dead.”
An ambulance duo rushed with cases of medical supplies. They pulled a submerged face out of dirty water, tilting the body away from the ground. One man felt for a pulse. He found nothing but raw, pallid skin.
Interference over the airwaves and then, “An axe you say?”
The deputy wiped at cool sweat over his brow with a wrinkled sleeve. “Yup.”
The Sheriff paused for a moment to admire a photo of he and his wife Barbara, which sat in front of him on a cluttered desk. It had been taken at the little league championship game in Ryerton. His grandson’s team had just been awarded first place. Barbara clapped, spilling popcorn on a woman in front of her. The Sheriff stood smiling with hands on his hips, as any proud grandpa would. The picture was a clipping from the front page of the Redmondsburg Daily News, July 24th edition.
He reached for a tin of chewing tobacco, loaded his cheek and then pulled the microphone close. “It sounds like a traffic accident to me.”
A paramedic yanked at the wooden handle, attempting to extricate the blade from Tom’s vertebrae. It wouldn’t budge.
“Okay,” Simms replied, shrugging his shoulders and exchanging confusion with the other deputy. “A traffic accident. That sounds reasonable…I suppose.”
With mud in his mouth and blinded, the man on the ground complained. Naturally they couldn’t hear him; he was dead.
Are you people insane? I wasn’t hit by a car! There’s an axe in my back!
The EMT tried again. Pulling on the axe only served to lift the corpse off the ground.
“Can I get some help here?”
Ackerman stepped on the back of the head while another paramedic held the shoulders down.
“Okay. Try it again.”
With a heave, the weapon cracked loose.
Ouch! newly dead Tom thought, Watch it! That hurts!
With the axe tossed aside, the EMT rolled the body over. Mud slid down pale cheeks, away from unfocused eyes. It gurgled down an open esophagus.
I’m not really dead, am I?
The men stood with arms crossed, looking death in the muddy eye. An icy squall abused nearby wind chimes. Loose papers tumbled across the yard.
I haven’t been here that long! Try mouth to mouth or something!
“He’s gone,” one EMT said to the other. “What a shame. He was my lawyer.”
No! Tom screamed. Hit me with one of those electrode things! My heart will start right up!
Deputy Simms turned to a woman and son at the back door. The boy sobbed with his face buried in his mother’s side.
“Is this your axe?”
“No,” the woman said in a wobbly voice, inches away from tears, “I’ve never seen it before.”
The deputy smiled, “Do you want it?”
She frowned. “Good Lord, no. Don’t you need it for the criminal investigation or something?”
“Mmm…not really, no.”
Please! Tom cried. Help! I can’t be dead!
***
“You’re listening to your local WKAZ radio. I’m your host with the most, your station sensation, Bruce Bradley. I’m accompanied as usual by the lovely, the beautiful, the smart as a tart, Katrina Webber. Good Morning Kat.”
“Thanks Bruce…I think. Good morning everyone. Here are your top stories. A car accident at the corner of Oak and Pennsylvania has left one man dead. The vehicle went out of control early this morning and hit a telephone pole. The Sheriff has not indicated if alcohol or drugs were involved.
Vandalism struck Pheasant Park last night. A statue of the founder of the town, Hank Redmond, was found covered in toilet paper. Also a pair of red women’s panties had been stretched over his stone head.”
“Kids will do anything these days.”
“Apparently, Bruce. There were no witnesses to the crime, although local officials say that a full investigation is underway.”
“That’s nice for old Hank. It’s got to be the first woman’s delicates he’s seen in more than a hundred years. Good for him.”
“I suppose so, Bruce. On a lighter note, the city council is gearing up for the third annual Halloween celebration. It will kick off Thursday the 22nd with the Spooks and Spectres Carnival and run through Halloween day. The parade will take place on Saturday the 24th and run from one till three p.m. starting at 2nd street and ending at 12th street, on main in downtown Redmondsburg.”
“It sounds like a lot of spooky fun.”
“Sounds like it, Bruce. And now on to your local weather. It will be breezy and cold today, with a high of forty-two degrees. Winds are currently out of the northwest at twenty miles per hour. Expect your low tonight to be fifteen degrees.”
“Ooh. Chilly. My nipples are getting hard just thinking about it…Check it out, Kat.”
“No thanks, Bruce.”
***
A small sign at the eastern city limit read Welcome to Redmondsburg. It was hidden behind a gathering of trees showing the sparse symptoms of a coming winter. Monica didn’t see it as she sped by. Her mind was fixed on her ex-husband, five years of failed marriage and an uneasy fear of change.
She’d known that she wanted to move for months now, ever since the divorce was final, but it hadn’t solidified in her mind until she’d seen the house. It was beautiful, reminding her of the home she’d grown up in. There was a winding staircase, a huge kitchen and dining room, and an attic for storage. Sure, it needed some serious work, mostly paint and carpet, but it would be perfect.
The most important thing was that she was getting out of the city. She’d only moved there for him, because of his job. She never liked Woodard. Everything was always too crowded and too rushed. She wouldn’t miss the malls or nightclubs.
Monica liked small towns and small town people. They brought back memories of her own hometown, a place she hadn’t been since her parents moved to Florida. She was looking for a slow pace, friendly neighbors and an atmosphere where she could relax. Redmondsburg seemed to be all of those things and it didn’t hurt a bit that it was three hundred miles from the city, and him. She hoped the painful memories would stay behind as she made an attempt at a new beginning. Her only regret was that she was moving away from Suzanne.
They’d known each other since kindergarten. She still remembered their first interaction with clarity. It had been on a Thursday afternoon during recess. Monica was on the floor playing with a large mound of snap-together blocks. She hummed to herself, building a structurally unsound, yet colorful wall.
Suzanne, sporting short red hair and a runny nose, arrived without warning. She grabbed for an armload of blocks and began her own project. Sharing was not one of Monica’s strong points, so she told the redhead to get lost. Suzanne paid little attention as she sat happy and grinning, helping herself to more supplies. Without further hesitation Monica leaned back on her elbows, cocked her leg and then proceeded to kick the happy off the offending girl’s snotty little face.
Good times, Monica thought, smiling.
With the bliss successfully pruned from Suzanne’s tread-printed expression, screaming filled the air. It was a great and pitiful wail that could bloody eardrums and inspire migraines. The teacher, Mrs. Bleachman, crossed the room like fire on dry grass. Monica would never forget how it felt to be lifted off the carpet by the back of the neck, with long manicured fingernails piercing tender skin.
Two combative six year olds were dragged to the principal’s office, blubbering with the enthusiasm of the mortally wounded.
The next afternoon they became friends, because that’s how childhood operates sometimes. Not to say their friendship was perfect. Even more than twenty years later, Suzanne hadn’t fully forgiven Monica for kicking her in the forehead.
She moved to the city a few months after Monica and Ben, almost five years ago. The women were nearly inseparable, especially after the marriage went sour. They spent most evenings at Suzanne’s apartment downtown. They reminisced about carefree grade school days and prom dates. They drank margaritas and watched old movies. Those nights kept Monica sane during the divorce. She felt lucky to have such a good friend.
Highway twenty-eight cut through a residential neighborhood before reaching downtown. She slowed the truck when the speed limit dropped to thirty. Once in the business district, the road became Rocky Creek Way. She liked the sound of that. Everything about Redmondsburg screamed small town, from the historic buildings and little shops to the tall statue of Hank Redmond, the founder of the town, in Pheasant Park.
Monica drove by, watching people stand on street corners as they talked with one another. She saw a group of children on skateboards zipping down the sidewalk. Another child on a bicycle pedaled, carrying a gas can in one hand.
It’s Monday, she thought, Why aren’t you in school?
Her trek led her past Johnson’s grocery, two antique shops and a store called Unusual Finds. The Sheriff’s Office was smaller than the gas station, which struck her as odd. There was a public library, a post office and a restaurant called the Redmondsburg Diner.
Monica soon found herself in another neighborhood. She passed through studying the houses. Most were Victorian homes with trimmed yards and picket fences. As the highway continued west of town, she saw a dry cornfield and then a thick forest. Miller Drive was labeled with a weathered, almost illegible sign. The dirt road led past her house and Lakeshore Cemetery.
Monica liked the idea of having a graveyard across the road. Everything was quiet. The only traffic she expected would be during funeral services. It would be a nice place to clear her head.
She pulled into the driveway and got out. The breeze was sharp, chilling her face and arms. She rubbed at exposed shoulders, evaluating her property. The porch would need new paint. The yard was full of weeds. There was a cracked window upstairs. Monica knew there was work to be done, but it didn’t hinder her love of the house. In fact, now that she was there with keys in hand, she was ready to get started. There was just the annoying business of unloading the pickup and trailer that needed to be done first.
She ascended creaky steps. A wooden bench hung from the porch ceiling with corroded chains. A row of three flowerpots, each containing parched soil and a crumbling plant, occupied a shadow below the window. The screen door protested with a raspy whine as she pulled it open. A pause in the doorway. A deep, calming breath. Monica’s new life waited for her inside.
She managed a smile, unlocking the deadbolt.
***
Monica carried in the last box at six p.m. The entire dining room was stacked full, with only a narrow path between. With beads of sweat rolling down her brow, she flopped into a chair. The two recliners and mattress had been quite a challenge by herself, but she’d handled them better than expected. She was glad she didn’t own a couch. With closed eyes, Monica tried to catch her breath.
A noise startled her. It sounded like a slammed door, upstairs.
What was that?
From somewhere above, a child called out. It sounded like they said meggo. Or perhaps leggo, as in ‘let go.’ The voice was forceful and distressed.
Monica leapt from the chair and dashed up the steps, taking two at a time. With a pause at the summit, she listened. A powerful wind creaked chains at the porch swing. A loose shutter slapped a window frame downstairs. Dust from the yard abused chipped paint on the west side of the house. A distant dog barked.
“Where are you?”
A scratching sounded, like a cat sharpening its claws. It came from the back bedroom. Monica raced. Other than a mattress and box springs leaning against the far wall, the room was empty.
Boards creaked right above her. She sped into the hallway and up the ladder. The sun was down and the attic was dark.
“Hello? Is somebody there?” The scratching was gone.
She wiped at sweat in her eyes with clammy fingers. A frantic heartbeat thumped, echoing in her throat.
“I heard you. Come on out. Don’t be afraid.”
She clicked a pull chain and a bulb lit up. A coating of dust shrouded every surface. There was an old trunk, some broken chairs and a couple of boxes. Insulation dangled like torn cobwebs. The floor was littered with bent nails. Monica opened the trunk nervously. She saw magazines, newspapers and a leather-bound notebook. The boxes were stained and torn. One was empty. The other held a pile of musty clothing.
“Hello?” she said once more.
Little droplets of rain tapped on the window in a random percussion. A flash of lightning blurred the glass.
It wasn’t my imagination. I heard it.
Monica went down the ladder to search the rest of the house.
***
Two days inside the body bag were excruciating for dead Tom. He couldn’t move, see or breathe. It was unbelievably boring.
Finally, on the evening of the second day, a mortician unzipped the bag. Fluids drained as the corpse gazed into a florescent light. He was lowered into the soft, silk padding of a shiny coffin. A new suit, sliced up the back, was fitted over him. The mortician stuffed the loose ends of clothing under Tom’s body, as if he were tucking him in for a good night’s sleep. Make-up was applied to pale skin and hair was combed.
After two hours of preparation, Thomas Able was ready for viewing. The lid closed down, once again enveloping him in darkness.
Many nice things were said about him at the funeral. His older brother Bob gave the eulogy, at one point describing him as a hell of a good guy. People sobbed. People prayed. After the service they approached one after another, talking as if he were listening. Little did they know, he was.
His wife was the first. “Oh Thomas, why did you leave me like this? I’m so sorry for cheating on you with Will.”
Will? Tom fumed, William Barker? The insurance salesman?
His brother was next.
“I’m gonna miss you man,” he said. “It was me who stole the twenty dollars from you that time when we were kids. Sorry.”
It was you? I was saving up for a new bike. You knew how bad I wanted it.
Tom went on to find out that a wallet he’d lost two years ago really was found, and not returned. He was told that his grocer had also slept with his wife. And his best friend. His poker buddies were cheaters and he’d been charged for a tune-up his car didn’t receive.
You people are a bunch of jerks! Screw you all!
***
By eight o’clock, Monica had given up the search. She decided the voice must have come from outside. It was likely some kids messing around in the cemetery. She went to the kitchen to unpack dishes.
Monica thought about the last time she’d seen Suzanne. Strangely enough, it was also the last time she’d seen her ex-husband, Ben. She and Suzanne were having dinner at her favorite restaurant.
Their Fettuccini Alfredo was the best in the city; everyone said so, but it wasn’t cheap. Two people could easily drop eighty to a hundred bucks on dinner and drinks. Fortunately, the tab was on Suzanne that night.
She’d said it was a going away dinner, but what it turned out to be was a try-to-talk-Monica-out-of-leaving-dinner. Which was exactly what Monica had expected. Her friend didn’t handle change well, nor would she give up without a fight. But in the end her agenda was unsuccessful, in spite of an emotional outburst preceded by three rum and cokes consumed in less than an hour.
Monica did not join in the drinking as she planned to get up early. She wanted to leave no later than eight. It was a five-hour drive to her new home and she was anxious to be done with it.
Thirty minutes after they’d finished eating and one of three rum and cokes down Suzanne’s throat, something unexpected happened. Some folks might’ve described it as ironic, although Monica wasn’t one of them. She was too angry to recognize irony.
Out the window and across the street she spotted Ben and his new girlfriend walking hand in hand. They were laughing when she first noticed them. He then pulled her close and kissed her.
“Asshole,” Monica spat, and then, “That little tramp.”
Suzanne turned to look. “Oh, shit.”
Out of all people in the Metropolitan area that could’ve been walking down that particular sidewalk at that particular time, it was him. The son of a bitch that had cheated on her. The jackass that had single-handedly destroyed five years of marriage and commitment. The one she now referred to as ‘that fucker.’
“That fucker,” she said. “And that little tramp.” Her face went beet red.
“I’m sorry,” Suzanne said. “If I’d known he was going to be sleazing around here, I’d have taken you to McDonald’s.”
Ben and his date disappeared into a bar. Monica watched them go, more determined than ever to get out of the city. And when she was gone, with all the pain and bad memories behind, she’d have her fresh start. Her new beginning. Her do over. Small town America was calling her name and she would not be looking back. Bad things happen when you look back.
The window above the sink provided a view of the graveyard across the road. Tall trees rustled against powerful winds as leaves spiraled above the grass. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the grounds and headstones. A stern bolt split the sky in half and for a moment the cemetery lit up bright as day. The strobe illuminated a man standing rigid across the road.
Monica gasped. A cup slipped from her fingers and hit the sink.
Eyes strained into darkness. Heavy rain blasted over the glass, blurring the view. She went to the living room. Around stacks of boxes, she made her way to the light switch. With the overhead light off she squinted out the front window. Another flash of lightning. The man was still there and had taken to waving his arms in the air. His mouth was agape, like he was yelling something. The storm’s howl nullified his voice, refusing its desire to cross the road.
“What is he doing?”
Maybe he needs help, she thought. But if he does, he can walk over here and tell me so.
She realized her hands were trembling and clamped them together. The dark silhouette punched at the air with clenched fists, stumbling backward.
“That guy is drunk.”
She considered calling the Sheriff, but then remembered the phone wouldn’t be hooked up until next week. She didn’t have a cell.
Maybe he’ll just get bored and go away.
“Get lost, loser. Go sleep it off.”
A light came alive from somewhere above. At first Monica thought it was lightning. After a few seconds she realized the glow hadn’t faded away. Close to the glass, she looked upward to try to find the source. The light blazed on from somewhere above, perhaps an upstairs bedroom. Monica looked back at the man and saw that he was limping into the shadows.
She set out to investigate. Up the steps she went, afraid of what she would find. There was a light shining from the attic.
“Who’s there?” she said.
Her body trembled with fear.
“I’ve phoned the police, “ she called out. “They’ll be here any minute.”
Slowly she climbed the ladder. The higher she went, the brighter it got. And then it went out. Monica’s pulse raced.
“Answer me,” she said into the shadows.
Nothing.
“I’ve got a gun!” she yelled.
That wasn’t a lie. It was a single pump BB rifle packed at the bottom of a box downstairs.
Gripped by full on panic, her stuttering hand reached for the pull chain. The attic lit up and she quickly scanned her surroundings. There was no one else. The room was silent.
She stepped onto the trunk and reached for the bulb at the ceiling. With an index finger she tapped the rounded glass. It went dark. Another tap coaxed it back to life.
“The wiring in this place sucks.”
***
After the funeral a burial took place in the northeast corner of Lakeshore Cemetery. Covered over with six feet of soil, Tom remained in the lonely pitch-blackness for more than seven hours.
At the stroke of midnight, he realized he could move. His body convulsed to life as he heaved for air. A horrible scream filled the coffin. His fists pounded against the dark confinement.
“Let me out!”
He heard banging from somewhere below. And voices.
A quake startled him.
Then another.
Tom’s body fell. He descended fifteen feet and in a collision of earth and wood, hit a hard stone floor. He scrambled away from the broken coffin and torn silk. In a panic, he stood in a dim passageway.
Walking, moaning corpses closed in on him. Again Thomas screamed. A tall one lurched forward on a good foot, with the other leg trailing behind like an exhausted fish. The dead man’s skin was worn leather, dry and wrinkled. His eyes were milky white and drooling. Only one tooth remained in his rotten mouth; it was chipped and yellow. His breath was potent. Phlegm gurgled in his throat as he spoke.
“You are one of us now. We are the king’s army.”
Audibly, the message came out as, “Mmmffyahll grrahhm phfft.”
Thomas understood every word. He was amazed that he knew what it meant.
“Moo garr umm he yahhll,” said another, which translated, “He is good and strong.”
They all joined in and Tom found himself surrounded by dead speak.
“You people are dead!” he wailed.
The gathering laughed, which sounded very much like moaning.
“I don’t belong here!”
“Glub in panu,” said a man with a torn scalp and an extreme under bite.
Tom looked over. “I am not a pussy.”
“Then feed,” the rotten man said in gurgling gibberish.
A large plate was passed along, from one to another. It was set down at Tom’s feet. An entire human brain sat on its dusty surface.
“My God,” he said. “I can’t eat that.”
The aroma wafted into his pale face. His stomach rumbled.
“I can’t--”
He was famished. The smell was enticing.
“I...uh…maybe just a bite.”
The undead crowd cheered as he dropped to his knees to feast. The taste was better than anything he’d experienced before. The sensation was explosive.
I can’t stop, he thought. I’ve got to have more. More. MORE.
“Welcome brother,” the tall one moaned. “Welcome to the crypt of the demon King.”
Newly dead Tom, on his knees and feasting on a surprisingly chewy brain, watched the tall leathery man approach. He put a cold hand on Tom’s head and held the other toward the sky. A strange flow of incomprehensible words began. As the magical speech continued, Tom felt his humanity and compassion, his very soul, slip. A pure animal instinct danced in his mind. A hatred for the living grew. Only two things defined him: rage and hunger. Thomas Able growled like a starving beast.
And then voices down a connecting corridor distracted the tall one’s dehumanizing ritual. He stopped in mid-phrase as another announced the arrival of their master. The final incantation was forgotten as the group rushed to the central chamber. With the unfinished ritual’s power fading, humanity took over Tom’s thoughts once again. He stood and followed the group.
“I don’t think it worked.”
The dead limped and lurched down the corridor, moaning. No one cared that his mind was still human. The only thing that mattered was getting to their master.
He said, “I wanted to kill the living for a second, but I uh…I don’t really want to anymore.”
They ignored him.
“The evil didn’t take, guys.”
He joined the gathering in the central chamber as a man spoke, explaining a dark agenda. The dead all around Thomas cheered at each terrible point made. He tried to join in, but enthusiasm was lacking. He had to admit that brains were delicious, but he just didn’t get the whole hatred of the living thing. No one around him seemed to notice, or care.
***
At seven a.m., Monica sat sleeping in a recliner with a BB gun resting across her lap. The sunlight shining through windows with no curtains was warm on her skin. A swift breeze scattered leaves outside. She shook awake and glanced around, making sure she was alone. It was impossible to know when she’d fallen asleep, although it had to have been sometime after three. She rubbed weary eyes and set the gun on the floor.
What a night.
She stood and went to the kitchen in search of caffeine. A package of filters sat at the bottom of a milk crate. The coffee can was next to the carafe, in the sink.
The cemetery, bright and quiet, sat in direct contrast to the previous night’s events. Monica looked out over the grounds thinking about the voice in the attic. Her stomach rumbled. There wasn’t any food in the house yet so it seemed that a trip to the market was in order.
After I take a shower, she thought, I’ll go into town.
She’d stop at the Sheriff’s office also, to inform them of the drunk in the graveyard. Maybe she could get a patrol to check in on her tonight, just in case.
***
Dead Tom wandered the dark corridors of the underground mausoleum, wishing he were still alive. His stomach rumbled as he limped along, exploring. A dark figure approached. It had been a woman in life, but having been dead more than ten years, its features were unrecognizable. It spoke a high-pitched, gritty tone, laughing. One drippy eyeball hung loose from a dark socket, while the other remained in place.
“Tommy?” she moaned, “Is that really you?”
“Mom?” he said in shock.
“Yes dear!”
She waddled up and hugged him.
“I wondered when you’d be joining us.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I missed you, mom.”
She took a step back.
“Did you have a heart attack? Was it all that fatty food that killed you? You know I told you not to eat so much bacon.”
“No, mom. Someone killed me with an axe.”
“Oh,” she said with a smile, “Glad to hear it. That’s wonderful dear.”
Tom looked toward the floor.
“I’m so glad I found you. I’ve been having second thoughts about this whole brain eating thing.”
“Sit down, son,” she said motioning him over to a pile of broken headstones.
The two of them sat in the dim passageway.
“Tommy, remember all that stuff I taught you about treating others with kindness and respect?”
He grinned, “Yes mom. I remember.”
“Well, it was all crap. Every last word.” She took his cold hand, “All that matters now is killing the living.”
“But, mom--”
Her voice got stern, “No buts. They hate us. We hate them. So, we kill and eat them. It’s what we do. We’re dead.”
“I just don’t know if I can do it…”
“You’ll do fine, dear. Just fine. Now tell me again about that wonderful axe. I want to hear everything.”
***
Gary Tuttlebaulm stood rigid at the spinning grinder with axe in hand. He sharpened the weapon, readying it and himself, for the next outing. His eyes followed along the curvature of its thick blade. With it pressed against the rotating wheel, an arc of brilliant sparks shot into darkness. He smiled at the thinning metal.
The shadowed basement had a cool bite to the air. Goose bumps covered his thick, muscled arms. The chill was soothing; it calmed his jittery nerves. The memory of the kill always amused him a while, but it never took long for the thought of it to yank at his mind like tangled fishing line. It was the fear that did it, the idea of getting caught. His hands trembled as a twitch at the corner of his eye seized his skin, over and over.
Once satisfied with his project, he lowered the axe and looked into a nearby dusty mirror. The twitch, apparently, had subsided. He headed for the stairs, sucking in a deep breath. Up he went, out of the cold darkness. Wood creaked under his boots as he ascended into daylight.
Given the choice Gary would’ve remained in the basement, but he needed to know whom the next victim would be. The only way to find out was to ask Elton.
Elton always knew; he was God.
God was Elton.
And Elton was a hamster.
***
“There’s just got to be more to death than this,” Tom said to Wayne McMillan, the dead man sitting next to him. “I mean-- eating brains? Plots to kill the living and take over the world? It all just seems so pointless.”
“Look,” Wayne said, “When I was alive, I was a motivational speaker and an author. I had three published books on success in the workplace, so I know a bit about setting goals and improving self-esteem.”
Three published books? Tom was impressed, in spite of the man’s missing nose and ear.
Wayne continued. “You gotta embrace your evil, man. Let it flow. I mean—you hate the living, right?”
Tom’s smile was half-hearted. “Yeah…I guess so.”
“You guess so? Come on, man. On the road of death, there are passengers and there are drivers. Which one are you?”
Tom wasn’t sure he understood the question. “Um…a driver?”
“That’s right, Bob.”
“The name’s Tom.”
“Whatever. All I’m saying is, you gotta take death by the horns, man. You like brains dontcha?”
That was one thing they could agree on. Tom liked brains. Oh, yes he did. “Yeah.”
“Of course you do. Who doesn’t, right? If you want brains on a daily basis, what has to happen?”
“Umm…we have to sacrifice an innocent on Halloween?”
“Precisely. So what are you gonna do?”
Tom mulled over the question. He knew the answer Wayne wanted to hear, so that’s what he gave him. “I’m going to do whatever I can to help capture the innocent.”
The motivational speaker’s eyes lit up. “Now you’ve got it. Live death like you mean it!”
“Okay,” Tom said, thinking this guy was like a slurring advertisement for sneakers.
“Carpe Corpus!” Wayne called out in a battle cry.
“Seize the corpse?” Tom asked.
Enthusiasm faded a bit. “Is that what that means?”
“I think so.”
“Oh…well, I meant to say seize the day.”
Tom repeated, “Seize the day.”
Wayne smiled big and put an arm around his new pal’s shoulder. “That’s right, Bob.”
“It’s Tom.”
“Whatever.”
***
With the trailer unhitched from the truck, Monica pulled out of the driveway and onto Miller Drive. The previous night’s rain had frozen randomly over the road and in the ditch. She drove carefully over the bright, slick surface. A right turn onto the highway and she would be in downtown Redmondsburg in just a few minutes.
Once through the residential neighborhood and in the business district, Monica saw a farm tractor pulling a flatbed trailer down the middle of the street. A large colorful banner hung on the side. It read VOTE EDDIE GORDON. A man stood on the trailer with rosy cheeks shining in the brisk air. He wore a brown corduroy suit jacket and sky-blue slacks. A fuzzy hunter’s cap protected his ears from the cold. A little dog, a Chihuahua, stood at the edge of the trailer, at Gordon’s feet.
As Monica drove past, she rolled down the window. His voice boomed from large speakers on each side of the vehicle. It prompted images of a car salesman announcing an insane markdown on pre-owned automotive beauties. They were deals you couldn’t get anywhere else because he was obviously ‘crazy,’ just released from the state hospital and given a car lot.
“Vote for me, Eddie Gordon, on Election Day and you can be sure that you’ve voted for someone you can trust!”
Gatherings of people stood on the sidewalks, waving and cheering. Many sported red buttons that said, Mayor Gordon Rules.
Monica pulled into a space in front of the Sheriff’s office.
***
Elton had brown and white fur. He ran on a yellow plastic wheel as Gary walked in. The hamster’s living environment was large, taking up the entire surface of a dresser. It was a homemade cage, with a plywood floor and chicken wire fencing for walls and ceiling. Little twists of bread ties held it together at corners and seams.
Elton seemed very happy in his confinement as he stopped running to eat some sunflower seeds. Grinning, Gary hovered above. He looked at the bottom of the cage, which was lined with squares of newspaper clippings. Each small piece had been glued down to the plywood and was a black and white photograph.
Elton scurried over Mayor Gordon’s photo, across Deputy Ackerman and Betty Jones, and then stopped to inspect some crumbles of dry food on Daniel Beemer’s forehead. He looked up to the one above, sniffing at the air.
Gary’s eyes scanned the photos, one by one. The Mayor’s face was clean, as was Henry Johnson’s. Sam Feldon was unsoiled. The local radio station DJ, Bruce Bradley, smiled in black and white, holding the excellence in broadcasting award he’d received. The city council had presented it to him last May. His photo was in pristine condition.
Then Gary saw what he’d been looking for. It was a picture that had been taken at the Independence Day festival the previous summer. It showed the Mayor’s wife, Georgette Gordon, receiving a blue ribbon for the pie-baking contest. The entire lower half of the newsprint was stained with hamster urine. Gary’s brow slid upward and he clamped his hands together. A grin stretched his mouth, inflating reddened cheeks.
“Georgette, hmm?” he said. “Good choice, my Lord. It will be done.”
Gary opened the wire lid, carefully sliding in a calendar page. Elton scurried out of the way as October was set down over the plywood. Gary re-latched the cage and the hamster sniffed at the edge of the paper. He walked slowly across the second week, then over the third. He seemed fond of Friday the thirtieth for a moment, but then abruptly backed up to Thursday, defecating in the center of the square.
“The twenty-ninth,” Gary said with glee, “Perfect.”
When Elton was finished he scurried across the cage in search of more seeds.
***
An elderly woman sat crocheting at the front desk. She turned to Monica and lowered the colorful doily into her lap.
“Hello.”
“Hi. Could I speak to someone about a disturbance last night please?”
“A disturbance? Oh my, yes.”
The yellow and orange project was set on the counter and the woman retreated into a small office. After a moment, the Sheriff appeared at the doorway. His uniform was stained and wrinkled. He was at least seventy years old. His gruff face hadn’t seen a razor for days.
“Hello,” he said with a thick chaw of tobacco in his cheek. “I’m Sheriff Shane. Come in and have a seat, young lady.”
“Thank you,” she said, following him in. The two of them sat.
“I’m Monica Green. I just moved into a house on Miller Drive, across from the cemetery.”
The man’s eyes brightened.
“Oh. The old Bishop place. That’s a fine house.”
He paused to spit a glob of brown juice into a five-gallon bucket. Monica wrinkled her nose.
“Yeah, it’s great.”
“So sweetie-pie, what’s the problem?”
“Well, there was somebody creeping around the graveyard last night. I’m pretty sure they were drunk.”
“It’s a popular spot with the kids,” he remarked, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.
Unsatisfied with his reaction she said, “It was a bit frightening.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed an unshaven chin. “The cemetery is open to visitors, you know.”
“At midnight?”
“There is no curfew at that location…none that I’m aware of. Were they on your property at any time?”
“Well no, but—”
“Then I’m afraid there’s not much I can do.”
Monica’s frustration flushed her face.
“I was hoping that you could send a patrol by tonight. It would make me feel better.”
He spit into the bucket again.
“Oh, sure, sure. No problem. It was just some kids out having fun. There’s not a lot to do around here, you know.”
“So thanks, I guess,” she said standing up.
“You betcha, honey-muffin. Anything for a lady so pretty as yourself.”
Honey-muffin? What a creep.
“I’ll be going, then. Goodbye.”
“Good day to ya, and welcome to town. I’m sure you’ll just love it here. We all do.”
Monica walked out.
Oh, I love it already, you worthless old loser. What a waste of time.
Monica climbed into the pickup cab and slammed the door, hard.
“Is this Mayberry or something? Do they actually enforce the law, or what?”
She backed the truck out of the space and then headed for the market.
***
Monica entered the corner grocery store and a little bell above the door announced her arrival. She rubbed her hands together to warm them and looked up at a solitary cash register and the man behind it. He was in his seventies with a head full of wavy gray hair. His eyebrows were unruly and dark. They seemed to move with their own motivations as his forehead flexed. His mouth pinched together tightly, creating rows of small wrinkles just above his upper lip. He had the look of a man who wanted to say something, but for whatever reason, couldn’t. He stood with aged hands flat on the glass countertop, watching Monica.
It was the most dimly lit market she’d ever seen, and no amount of canned corn or colorful lottery scratch tickets could brighten her first impression.
“Hello,” she said.
The man stayed quiet. He only nodded in her direction as his bushy brow lowered.
She walked toward the deli counter, having a look around. The store was small compared to the supermarkets she was accustomed to in the city, but it would meet her needs until she could get to the Albertson’s in Ryerton.
A gathering of five shopping carts sat in a row next to the candy machines. Monica set her purse in the nearest and pushed it toward aisle six. The basket’s wheels spun and crunched over a rough concrete floor. It pulled hard to the left as she struggled to keep a straight, forward momentum. She considered going back for another, but the bushy-eyed grocer’s vision watched her every move. She found herself wanting out of his line of sight as soon as possible. She retreated into the pop and potato chip aisle, yanking the back of the basket over every couple steps.
An elderly woman stood reading the ingredients on the back of a corn chip package. She looked up at Monica maneuvering the broken basket with some frustration.
“That cart doesn’t like you, I’d say,” she said in a raspy tone.
“Well, that would make us even.”
The old lady frowned, “I haven’t seen you before. Who are you?”
Who am I? Monica thought, considering the blunt question.
She jerked the basket once more, forcing it to conform to her will. She smiled and looked the woman in the face.
“I’m Monica Green. I just moved here from Woodard City.”
“Woodard City?” the woman said, stuffing the bag back onto the shelf, “That’s an awful place. The crime rate is terrible.”
“Yes, I know.”
“This town,” she said with a piercing gaze, “is even worse.”
The words caught Monica by surprise.
“Worse?”
The woman’s wrinkly face scowled, cinched by an invisible drawstring. She leaned close and whispered.
“Around every corner. Inside every shadow. Behind every door.”
Monica backed away from the crazy old lady.
“Oh?”
“Yes, dear. Move back to the city…if you want to live.”
Another cart rounded the corner, driven by a professional looking woman in a dark gray business suit. Her stare seemed to burn into the older woman’s nerves.
“Oh, hello,” she said in a very welcoming voice, “Wanda, who’s your friend?” The wrinkled face pinched in disgust and she gripped her cart tight.
“This is Monica. She’s from the city.”
“The city? How nice.”
She turned to offer a hand to the new woman. It was icy cold.
“Nice to meet you,” Monica said.
“Yes. I’m Georgette Gordon, the Mayor’s wife.”
“The Mayor? Great,” Monica said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“Are you the one who bought the Bishop property?”
“Yes, I moved in yesterday.”
“That’s just wonderful. It’s a great old house. Just beautiful.”
Monica watched the older woman walk away. Georgette looked over too.
“I hope Wanda wasn’t trying to scare you. She’s a bit daft.”
Wanda, still within hearing range, turned and said, “Yes, I’m daft alright.”
Georgette smiled bigger, “And completely deaf. She can’t hear a word anyone says.”
The old woman kept walking away.
“Oh, yes. I’m deaf too. I forgot.”
Monica said, “Um, well…I’ve got some shopping to do so—”
“Of course you do,” the Mayor’s wife said to the confused one, “Don’t let me stop you. And welcome. We’ll look for your support on election day.”
“I just moved here. I don’t think I’d be eligible to vote.”
“We’ll let you, as long as you vote for Eddie.” Georgette laughed, “He’s going for his third term. Everyone just loves him.”
“Okay then, I’ll see you later.”
Monica shoved her rebel cart around the corner, toward the next aisle. Georgette watched with intensity as she walked away.
“Bye, now.”
Monica looked down into a cooler full of ground meat.
What a bunch of weirdos.
She looked up from the hamburger. Through a window she saw a fat butcher, dressed all in white and stained with fresh blood. With a dripping cleaver, he chopped into a hanging side of beef with great force. Monica wrinkled her nose.
That’s appetizing.
She strolled, looking over the pork chops. She then saw something she’d never seen in a market before, on a thin slab of Styrofoam and wrapped in cellophane.
Squirrel brains.
“What the hell?”
A woman startled her from behind.
“Some folks say that eating squirrel brains will make you smarter.”
Monica looked into another elderly face.
A much younger voice sounded from the other direction, “Only if you’re dumber than a squirrel.”
“Hmf,” the old lady huffed, walking away.
A blonde in her mid-twenties got closer. She was very attractive with chiseled, slim features and looked out of place in the small market. Monica glanced back to be sure the other woman was gone.
“You’re the first person I’ve seen today who isn’t over eighty. Well, besides the Mayor’s wife.”
The blonde smiled, “Yeah, all the geriatrics shop here. Everybody else drives to Ryerton.”
“Oh.”
The woman walked closer.
“I’m Betty. Betty Jones.”
“I’m Monica Green. I just moved here.”
“A newbie, huh? Well, let me give you some advice. Don’t buy the meat here. Canned goods are okay, but not the meat.”
“Why not?”
Betty scrunched her face, “Just trust me. You don’t want it.”
“Thanks.”
Monica was relieved to have found someone her age. She’d been having second thoughts about her decision to move to Redmondsburg, but now she felt somewhat better about it. It would be great to make a friend on her first day in town.
Betty asked, “Do you wanna have lunch? I was gonna go to the diner down the street.”
“Sure. That sounds nice.”
“Cool. Let’s go.”
Betty took off happily to the front of the store, leaving behind a full basket of groceries.
“Did you want this stuff?” Monica asked.
“Naw, I changed my mind.”
Monica left her basket where it sat also, broken and empty.
***
Mayor Eddie Gordon appeared at the office doorway with a look of disdain on his chubby face. He rubbed a hand over neatly trimmed gray hair, clearing his throat. The Sheriff looked up from a pile of open manila folders containing a month’s worth of paperwork. A rush of indigestion churned his stomach.
“Hello Mayor. What can I do for you?”
Gordon glanced out at the receptionist. She was busy knitting, as always. He stepped inside and closed the door. “I understand you had a murder the other day.”
Shane smiled, “Well, naturally we wrote it up as a traffic accident.”
Gordon frowned, “Why on earth would you do that?”
The Sheriff whispered, “It was in accordance with our deal, Mayor.”
The Mayor’s face went bright red. “You think I killed Thomas Able with an axe?” A thick fist pounded the desk, knocking over a picture frame. “When have I ever been in possession of such a weapon?”
Shane recoiled away from the large man. His face went pale. “I only assumed that-- There was that time you killed Don Jenkins with a frog gig.”
“That was an entirely unique situation! And don’t remind me of Jenkins. He deserved a lot worse.”
Suddenly, the Mayor was around the desk with the Sheriff’s shirt in his fist, pressing hard into his sternum. Shane gasped.
“I’m sorry.”
Gordon’s hot breath saturated Shane’s face. “I’m trying to get re-elected, you pathetic old man. Your incompetence reflects directly upon me. Do your fucking job.”
“Forgive me, sir,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”
The thick fist released the crumpled shirt. “I’ll inform you if I feel the need to kill anyone. If you test me, it will be you in the next car accident.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and by the way, there is no deal between us. You either do what I say or I rip out your Goddamn spine. Is that clear, Sheriff Shane?”
“It’s crystal clear, Mayor.”
“Crystal,” Gordon repeated with a faint smile. He paused for a moment as if tasting the word, absorbing its bouquet. “I like that.” He turned and opened the door. “I’ll expect your vote on election day.”
Shane swallowed a mouthful of brown juice, which made his stomach feel even worse.
“You can count on it.”
“I’m sure I can,” he said walking out.
The elderly woman at the front desk smiled. “Is everything alright, Mayor?”
He kept walking.
“Everything is tremendous, young lady. Have a wonderful day.”
She giggled, “Thank you, Mayor.”
Out the door and down the sidewalk he went, humming a lively tune. He lived only two blocks away and that would be his destination. It was lunch time.
Georgette walked into the kitchen with two full paper bags in her arms. A carton of eggs and a loaf of white bread were set on the top shelf of the refrigerator. Her husband walked around the corner and greeted her.
“Back so soon, George?”
She sent him a smile that appeared more annoyed than pleasant, not that her annoyance affected him a bit. “We just needed a few things. I thought you’d be campaigning all day.”
He took a bite out of a crisp apple. “Just here for lunch.”
“Oh,” she said from behind the pantry door.
The Chihuahua jumped up in the windowsill and started chewing on lace curtains. With a tug, threads ripped a small hole. The dog growled and yanked again.
“Bad d--” Georgette said, halting in mid sentence, partial word and a full step in very dangerous territory.
The Mayor scowled. “What did you say?”
The canine bared its teeth with eyes blazing.
“I’m sorry,” she stated in a panic. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Eddie took the animal into his arms, stroking its back. “Yes,” he said to the dog. “I agree.”
Straining to breathe, Georgette asked, “What did he say?”
“King speaks to me only...therefore, what he says is for me only.”
“Oh, of course. I just...I’m sorry.” She went back to unloading the groceries.
Eddie cocked his head, listening to the animal again. “Hmm...” His eyes softened a bit. “King says you met her.”
“Oh my, yes. I nearly forgot. I saw her at the market.”
“And?”
“Well, she’s...perfect.”
A grin expanded puffy cheeks. “That’s what I like to hear.”
***
The women walked to the diner, three blocks away. They passed by two antique shops, a clothing store, a hardware store and coffee shop. On the sidewalk, out in front Gainer Hardware sat a green bench and a sign that read, Bus Stop. A nervous man wearing a dirty trench coat stood in front of the bench, fidgeting and talking to himself.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, “I missed it again.”
Monica kept her distance as she went by, with a careful eye on the man.
His breath was shallow, “I’m dead. I just know it.”
Betty said to her new friend, “Don’t worry about him. He’s harmless.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s Silo Pernice. He’s a bit off, if you know what I mean.”
He started pacing back and forth.
“I know who you are!” he yelled into the sky, “I know who all of you are! You’re not fooling me!”
A tall man stepped out the store’s front door.
“Settle down, Silo. You wanna spend the night in jail again?”
Silo sat down on the bench, his hands shaking in the chill.
“No.”
“Be a good boy and wait for your bus—quietly.”
“Okay, man. Okay.”
Betty leaned close to Monica and whispered, “He’s been trying to catch a bus for like two years.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope, He always misses it.”
“How can you miss a bus for two years?”
“I don’t know, but he always does.”
***
The two women sat down at a booth by a large front window in the Redmondsburg diner. Betty pulled off her fuzzy, cream-colored jacket, and then happily reached for a menu. Monica did the same, looking around at the locals drinking coffee and eating pie. Betty leaned across the table.
“It’s so weird here, isn’t it?”
“Kind of, yeah,” Monica said, thinking about the Mayor’s wife.
“It’s not like the places you see on television. They’re all different…normal compared to here.”
“I guess so. Are you from here?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve been here all my life. I’ve never even been out of the county.”
“What? You’re kidding, right?”
Betty smiled, “No. I can’t leave the perimeter.”
“The perimeter?”
Betty’s smile disappeared. She raised the menu up to hide her face.
“I mean…I don’t want to leave. You know what I mean. I like it here.”
“Oh,” Monica said.
The perimeter?
A waitress walked over, vigorously chewing her gum.
“Hey, ladies. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have water, please,” Betty said, “And a half-pound double burger. Plain. No lettuce, no tomato, no pickles, no cheese. Plain.”
Okay,” the waitress said, “Just cow and bun.” She looked at Monica, “And for you, hon?”
“Iced tea, please. And I guess, the club with fries.”
“No problem. We’ll have it right out.”
Betty frowned, “No ketchup either. Or mustard. I want it plain.”
“Yes,” the waitress said, “I get it. It’ll be plain.”
“Great.”
Monica set her menu next to the window.
“So what’s the deal with the Mayor’s wife? She seems kinda pushy.”
“Oh, her? She’s a bitch. There’s no denying that.”
Monica adjusted herself in her seat.
“Oh?”
“Yup. Grade A; certifiable. All I can tell you is, don’t piss her off.”
“You say that like you’ve pissed her off before.”
Betty laughed, “Me? Oh hell no. She sees me coming and she walks the other way. I’m a bad ass.”
She held up two skinny fists, trying to look tough.
Monica chuckled, “I didn’t realize.”
“Oh yeah. I don’t look like much, but I could bench press a Volkswagen.”
“Really?” Monica said, amused.
“Sure. I’ll show you sometime.”
“It sounds like you’re the one I don’t want to piss off.”
Betty lowered her thin arms.
“I don’t get mad, I’ve never been mad. I wouldn’t even know how. I’m just your basic, happy bad ass.”
Monica found herself liking Betty Jones. She was odd, to say the least, but fun.
Their conversation outlasted the meal, by more than an hour. They talked about the town, the cemetery and the upcoming local election. All the while, Mayor Gordon traveled up the street and back, over and over, on the flatbed. He paused for a few minutes to make a short speech at one point, and then he was off again, with supporters cheering at each intersection.
“What a blow hard,” Betty said as the women walked to their cars.
“Yeah, he seems pretty full of himself.”
“Oh, he doesn’t just seem that way.”
Monica’s keys fell from a pocket on her purse, coming to a rest under a parked sedan.
“Shit,” she said scanning the ground, “Where’d they go?”
Betty’s vision was somewhere down the street.
“They’re under that car, in a puddle of water.”
“Where?”
“I’ll get them.”
Betty leaned down grasping the underside of the bumper. Loud music blasted from the Mayor’s speakers, drawing Monica’s attention to the next block. With ease, Betty lifted at the car until the tire came off the ground. She grabbed the keys out of the mud and then let go of the bumper. The entire vehicle shook.
Monica looked back and saw Betty smiling with dripping keys in hand.
***
2: RECOGNIZING PSYCHOPATHIC URGES
Night had come for Redmondsburg. The sky was clear, with thousands of bright stars scattered across its expanse. Only a sliver of the moon was seen, a small bluish curve in the eastern October heavens. Monica sat on the porch, tightly wrapped in a thick brown blanket. Her eyes searched the cemetery grounds for any movement as she sipped a warm cup of tea. Everything was shadowed and quiet.
Her mind drifted from drunken teenagers and unexplained voices to her new friend, Betty. She smiled, remembering their conversation at the diner. It had been funny how Betty balled her fists, trying to look strong. Also, it was bizarre watching such a skinny woman eat a half-pound double burger.
If I ate like that, I’d explode.
Monica figured Betty’s metabolism must’ve been off the charts.
***
The next morning Betty showed up on Monica’s doorstep at 8:00 AM with a box of twelve glazed doughnuts. Monica ate one with her daily cup. The blonde, over the course of a conversation that lasted most of the morning, ate six.
Twenty-four hours later, Betty came offering breakfast burritos.
The day after that, tacos.
“Tacos? At eight in the morning?” Monica inquired.
Betty only smiled and stated, “Any time is a good time for tacos.”
The women spent a lot of hours together Monica’s first week in town, which at times allowed her to forget all about a cheating ex-husband and Woodard City.
It also made her slack off on her unpacking duties. She’d been in the house nearly two weeks before she’d put away all of her clothes. It was okay, though. She had no reason to be in a hurry. And talking with her new friend had a kind of therapeutic effect.
The phone was hooked up on a Wednesday. She celebrated communications to the outside world with an hour-long conversation with Suzanne.
The strange noises around the house and cemetery did continue, but occasionally at best.
Everything stayed pretty quiet around the place for Monica’s first couple of weeks, although that was about to change in many unexpected, and horrifying ways.