Pinstripe alley
Home for fans of the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees
2010.04.21 20:33 Monotonousblob Home for fans of the 27-time World Champion New York Yankees
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2023.05.27 17:02 Flippeddakout1 Is Buck Showalter’s reputation for turning teams around legit? - Pinstripe Alley
submitted by Flippeddakout1 to mets [link] [comments]
2023.05.27 17:02 Flippeddakout1 Is Buck Showalter’s reputation for turning teams around legit? - Pinstripe Alley
 | submitted by Flippeddakout1 to NewYorkMets [link] [comments] |
2023.05.24 05:36 HealBeforeZod Mr. Kriggs
Zod's notes. Written as a response to a writing prompt, the main character keeps different people on the subway allude to Mr. Kriggs, so they decide to investigate. This is the first appearance of Mr. Kriggs who would appear in other stories. Original prompt
“I’m on my way Mr. Kriggs.” The man, a sharply dressed black man in his 40s said. He was dressed in a bespoke three-piece black suit with classic white pinstripes. He didn’t appear to be holding a phone, nor did he have any sort of earbuds or other device in his ears. All week it had been happening and the curiosity was getting the better of me. I would have summed it up to yet another eccentric person on the subway, but multiple people had used that phrase. There was no consistent trait in the speakers. One had been as young as maybe 10-12 and another as old as perhaps 80 or even 90. Most were casually dressed, not the sort of attire one would wear when getting summoned into the office by a boss, and at least one woman was dressed in tattered rags. Besides, it was Sunday.
Sure, my plans for the day had included going to a used book shop and looking for a gift for my girlfriend, but I could postpone the paperback pursuit for perhaps an hour or two. The train slowed to a stop and the bespoke agent of Mr. Kriggs stepped out. I stepped out as well even though it wasn’t my stop. Today I would put this mystery to an end.
I kept pace, but several yards back and keeping a crowd of people between myself and the well-dressed mystery man. At first, he seemed to follow the herd of people moving across the subway platform, up the stairs and out into the street. I almost lost him in the barrage of pedestrians swarming the sidewalk, but from the corner of my eye I noticed him turn down an alley. I cautiously snuck a glance into the alleyway, hoping he would not glance back and notice. He walked to the end of the alley where there was a pile of garbage bags and a chain link fence. I hesitated, perhaps I should leave. The well-dressed man reached into his suit jacket, pulling out a small paper bag. I gulped and decided to turn away, thinking a drug deal was about to go down. But before I could turn away, something in my peripheral vision caught my attention.
A small white kitty cat squeezed through the fence and rubbed himself against the well-dressed stranger’s leg. The stranger reached down to scratch the kitty’s head right between the ears. He opened the small paper bag, which I just realized was probably just catnip. The kitty purred so loudly that I could hear it from just outside the alley, even with the noise of the street behind me. The cat continued to brush up against the man, covering the nice suit in white fur.
“I guess it’s nothing” I thought to myself as the man made his way back out of the alley and went about his day. I was about to turn and go about my business when I heard it.
I see you there. Come out of hiding.
That was…weird.
I heard a mew.
I said come here.
My legs began to move, taking me into the alley and in the opposite direction from where I wanted to go. The cat watched me intently, slowly blinking its eyes.
Good. Now give me scritches, human.
My feet were just sort of moving, involuntarily taking me closer to the little white cat. My hand reached out of its own volition, and suddenly I was petting the cat and scratching it behind the ear.
Good, good. Now, go get me some tuna from the bodega around the corner. The voice purred. It --couldn’t be, could it?
“Yes, I'm on my way Mr. Kriggs.” The words spilled out of my mouth, then all I could hear was the ringing of tinnitus and my vision became a haze of white.
---
“REALLY, John, you couldn’t just admit you forgot my birthday?” my girlfriend sat across from me, arms crossed in front of her chest.
“I swear it’s the truth!”
“Yes, because clearly you were brainwashed by a cat and didn’t just simply forget my birthday. I would have been far less upset if you had just been honest instead of insulting my intelligence.” She got up in a huff and slammed the door behind her. I sunk down into my chair, defeated, and looked at the bodega receipt for 3 cans of tuna.
submitted by HealBeforeZod to HealingwithZod [link] [comments]
“I’m on my way Mr. Kriggs.” The man, a sharply dressed black man in his 40s said. He was dressed in a bespoke three-piece black suit with classic white pinstripes. He didn’t appear to be holding a phone, nor did he have any sort of earbuds or other device in his ears. All week it had been happening and the curiosity was getting the better of me. I would have summed it up to yet another eccentric person on the subway, but multiple people had used that phrase. There was no consistent trait in the speakers. One had been as young as maybe 10-12 and another as old as perhaps 80 or even 90. Most were casually dressed, not the sort of attire one would wear when getting summoned into the office by a boss, and at least one woman was dressed in tattered rags. Besides, it was Sunday.
Sure, my plans for the day had included going to a used book shop and looking for a gift for my girlfriend, but I could postpone the paperback pursuit for perhaps an hour or two. The train slowed to a stop and the bespoke agent of Mr. Kriggs stepped out. I stepped out as well even though it wasn’t my stop. Today I would put this mystery to an end.
I kept pace, but several yards back and keeping a crowd of people between myself and the well-dressed mystery man. At first, he seemed to follow the herd of people moving across the subway platform, up the stairs and out into the street. I almost lost him in the barrage of pedestrians swarming the sidewalk, but from the corner of my eye I noticed him turn down an alley. I cautiously snuck a glance into the alleyway, hoping he would not glance back and notice. He walked to the end of the alley where there was a pile of garbage bags and a chain link fence. I hesitated, perhaps I should leave. The well-dressed man reached into his suit jacket, pulling out a small paper bag. I gulped and decided to turn away, thinking a drug deal was about to go down. But before I could turn away, something in my peripheral vision caught my attention.
A small white kitty cat squeezed through the fence and rubbed himself against the well-dressed stranger’s leg. The stranger reached down to scratch the kitty’s head right between the ears. He opened the small paper bag, which I just realized was probably just catnip. The kitty purred so loudly that I could hear it from just outside the alley, even with the noise of the street behind me. The cat continued to brush up against the man, covering the nice suit in white fur.
“I guess it’s nothing” I thought to myself as the man made his way back out of the alley and went about his day. I was about to turn and go about my business when I heard it.
I see you there. Come out of hiding.
That was…weird.
I heard a mew.
I said come here.
My legs began to move, taking me into the alley and in the opposite direction from where I wanted to go. The cat watched me intently, slowly blinking its eyes.
Good. Now give me scritches, human.
My feet were just sort of moving, involuntarily taking me closer to the little white cat. My hand reached out of its own volition, and suddenly I was petting the cat and scratching it behind the ear.
Good, good. Now, go get me some tuna from the bodega around the corner. The voice purred. It --couldn’t be, could it?
“Yes, I'm on my way Mr. Kriggs.” The words spilled out of my mouth, then all I could hear was the ringing of tinnitus and my vision became a haze of white.
---
“REALLY, John, you couldn’t just admit you forgot my birthday?” my girlfriend sat across from me, arms crossed in front of her chest.
“I swear it’s the truth!”
“Yes, because clearly you were brainwashed by a cat and didn’t just simply forget my birthday. I would have been far less upset if you had just been honest instead of insulting my intelligence.” She got up in a huff and slammed the door behind her. I sunk down into my chair, defeated, and looked at the bodega receipt for 3 cans of tuna.
2023.05.17 22:34 Narrow_Muscle9572 [The Lawn Killer] - Part One
Gray Hill - 1993
The first summer I came to Gray Hill to stay with my dad, it was after my parents divorce. Once the games and comic books got old, the only thing left was to explore. There was no rich side of town because everyone was poor. I hated that first summer, however my dad grew up there and had his rose tinted glasses on.
Even though there was a lake and people had docks as well as boats, no one used them. Now that I think about it I never saw anyone swim in Dead Horse Lake.
That winter my mother died and I had to stay with my dad.
I wasn't popular in school and people ignored me for the most part. In my class there were seven, and I don't think four of them knew my real name. I never tried out for sports and I sang like a chainsaw, so I never felt there was room for me in that small town.
The second summer I stayed in Gray Hill, there was a brand new gaming console being released, The Master Sphere and I had to have it. Much to my dissatisfaction my dad told me that I would have to pay for it myself. Being nearly eleven I complained and asked why. He said it was to build character and I still know what people mean when they say this.
Thankfully my dad's future wife, Linda, set me up with a job mowing lawns by putting up an ad in the local newspaper, Whisper Alley Echos. The pay was horrible and summers in Gray Hill were a wet blanket of humidity, and the mosquitos and ticks were the worst I ever experienced. However I really needed this gaming console.
Looking back on it I find it funny that by the end of that summer I preferred mowing for Miss Luther than sitting in front of the television with a controller in hand.
It was the end of July when Miss Luther called the house to offer me a job. My dad was the one who answered the phone and agreed that I would start the next morning at six. I wasn't too thrilled with waking up at that time, however when he told me that Miss Luther was filthy rich, wanted me on retainer and explained what “on retainer” meant, I couldn't wait to go to bed.
The next morning my dad made me some hot chocolate in a thermos and a few snacks for my shift. He was so excited for me that he reminded me of a kid on Christmas day. He told me that the construction of Miss Luthers house was big news when he was my age and that morning was going to be the first day he would get a chance to see it.
On the way to Miss Luther's house I asked dad what people did for jobs in Gray Hill but I don’t think he knew for sure because as he tried to explain it became the origins of the town. Apparently Gray Hill used to be a mining town but then the business went under. After that it was a logging town but that business went up in flames. Since then the town just sort of sat there, stagnant. I didn't know what stagnant meant and I didnt ask.
When I asked what Miss Luther did, dad smiled and told me that was one of the biggest and best secrets in Gray Hill.
After a mile or so after Fortune Summer Camp, dad pulled into a driveway I didnt even notice was there. A short while later though the road became wider and more noticeable. This place was once beautiful but over the years of no one taking care of the property, nature was fighting like hell to take it back. Gnarled trees lined both sides of the road, there was a swamp to my left and a field of grass as tall as corn on my right.
To my surprise my dad told me that when he was a kid the swamp was a lake and there was something called a vivarium in the field of grass.
When I asked what a vivarium was, dad told me it was a place where plants and animals that don't live in this climate can live.
“What kind of animals?” I asked.
My dad didn't know and shrugged. “If you work hard and don't slack off, you are going to find out,” he said with a smile. I could see that he was excited for me and wished that he was in my shoes.
A short while later we approached a large and very intimidating iron gate. My father whistled when he saw it, then parked next to a large stone and pushed a call button. When it was answered, no one spoke.
“Hello?” my dad asked, but before he could say anything else the gate started to creak open. “Welcome to the lifestyle of the rich and famous” my dad said in a terrible Robin Leach impression before pulling away.
Even though my father told me that Miss Luther had a mansion I didn't think he was serious. That was the last thing I expected to see in Gray Hill.
The building was huge. In some places it was three stories tall and in others it was five. It reminded me of something Bruce Wayne would live in, with all the gargoyles that were perched on the roof. The building was dark, almost as if it had survived a fire. There was a dried up fountain next to the driveway with two sets of steps that half encircled it. In the middle of the fountain was something that looked like a crane, though it's hard to say for certain because the years had not been kind to it.
“Holy poop,” my father said as he slowed down in order to take in the sight. He hadn't been able to stop talking about Miss Luther since he answered the phone the night before, even though he had never met the rich recluse. She was the talk of the town when he was younger than me.
Before I could do or say anything, a man walked out of the garage and waved us over. The man, as I later discovered, was far younger than he appeared. He wore a dirty white shirt that was stained yellow from sweat and grease covered overalls. He was tall and lean, but one look at him and you could tell he was strong. His arms were like tightly woven steel cables wrapped around itself. He kept his hair short but it was clear he was balding and his skin was leathery and beat red from the sun. In between his lip and gums was a large pinch of chew.
When my dad pulled up next to him, he rolled down the window. “Hey, here to drop off my boy,” he said with a smile.
The man nodded but it was clear that he either didn't care or already knew that. Perhaps both?
“Say hi, son.”
“Hi,” I said with a wave.
The man leaned down to look at me. I don't think he was impressed. There was an awkward silence that lasted only a moment but it felt much longer. “Alright” the man said. “Come on, now. Don't dawdle.”
I looked at dad for encouragement because I was nervous but he didn't notice and got out of the car to follow the man.
“My name is Peter” my dad said to the man's back.
“Otis.”
“Any chance I can get a tour of the place, Otis?” my dad asked. “I’ve been hearing about this place since I was a kid.”
The man groaned. “Not my place to say yes. But, I can tell you that this is the garage.”
Disappointed that he wouldn't get a tour, my dad made a pouting face and said “It's just that this is the first time I ever came here.”
“Loses its luster real quick” Otis said.
My dad waited for Otis to say more but Otis wasn't planning on elaborating.
As soon as I entered the garage I saw a large yellow behemoth with black and white lettering that read “Lawn Killer 9000”. It looked like a woodchipper on six wheels with an enclosed cab on top of it. Whoever made it must have really hated their yard.
“I didn't know he was going to be using a riding lawnmower,” my dad chuckled.
The man spit a large brown gob on the dirt floor. “Yeah, well. I didn't know his dad was going to hold his hand the whole time.”
My dad was at a loss of words but I couldn't help but to smile at that comment.
“Isn't it a bit dangerous for someone his age?” my dad asked.
Otis scoffed. “How? He will be sitting on it. The dangerous part is this” he answered as he pointed at the front of the Lawn Killer 9000.
My dad nodded, slowly seeing the sense of it. “Well, I guess I should be going,” he said as he placed his hand on my shoulder. “Son, I want you to work hard and be respectful.”
I nodded.
“Good” dad said before speaking again to Otis. “Do you know how long he is going—”
“We’ll call you, how about that?” Otis said, impatiently.
Dad nodded. “Alright. Well, I guess I’m off. Be good” he said as he rustled my hair and went to the car before driving off.
“Ever drive one of these before?” Otis asked, using his thumb to point at the Lawn Killer 9000. I shook my head so Otis explained everything to me after telling me to climb in and to get the feel of it. “I want you to go slow. Like, a quarter of walking speed, okay?” Otis asked.
“Sure” I answered, excited that I got to drive, even if it's just a lawnmower.
“Good. Now come” Otis said, waving me to follow him to the workbench. I did as I was asked and when I got to Otis’ side he pointed at a hand drawn map of Miss Luther's estate. “See this? I want you to mow G-7 and G-8. Can you do that?”
I looked closer at the map to determine where that was and found that both squares were surrounding the garage. “Sure” I answered.
“Good. Now get in and give me a minute to get ready.”
I hopped in the lawnmower and watched as Otis got ready. First he put on what looked to be hockey pads then he soaked a cloth in a yellowish green liquid and wiped himself off with it.
“What's that?”
“Jalapeno juice” he answered as he wiped himself with the cloth.
“Why?”
“Cover.”
Disappointed that he didn't answer my question I covered my mouth like he said and watched as Otis tied the cloth around his neck and put on a helmet with a glass visor that reminded me of something a member of SWAT would wear. He then walked over to a closet and pulled out a bandelier full of shotgun shells and a pump action shotgun.
“Forgot to mention this,” Otis said, racking a shell. “Don't get out of the lawnmower unless I say so, okay?”
I nodded.
“Good” Otis said before running out of the garage and into the grass that had to have been three feet taller than he was.
I started the lawnmower and was startled by how loud it was. When I put the lawnmower in drive I did what Otis instructed and drove slowly. I was impressed with how much damage the Lawn Killer 9000 was capable of. Everything I ran over turned into mulch.
The next time I saw Otis it was maybe half an hour later. He was running and ducking in the long grass, to me he looked like a soldier stalking the enemy in Vietnam.
At first I was worried, but then I remembered the wise words one of my teachers said to me: “Life will be a whole lot easier if you did the opposite of what you think you should do.”
As soon as I remembered that nugget of wisdom I felt better.
It wasn't long after that I really had to pee. I was tempted to ask but then I remembered that my father told me to work hard, so I held it until it started to hurt. Thankfully Otis leaped out of the grass, narrowly missing the front of the lawnmower, to tell me to stop.
“Why?” I asked, scared that I did something wrong.
“How we doing on gas?”
I looked at the gauge. “Half.”
Otis grunted and nodded. “You're out of salt.”
“Salt?” I asked.
Instead of answering me Otis told me to drive back into the garage. I did as he told me and parked where I first saw the Lawn Killer 9000 so Otis could fill up the bucket that sat behind me with a large white bag filled with salt that resembled a tube. It was then I saw that on the back of the Lawn Killer 9000 was a sifter that spread the salt, similar to plows during the winter.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I asked, looking around for a restroom but finding none.
“Sure” Otis answered, leading me to a small shed. “Don't explore any. Come right back.”
“Okay.”
Otis nodded and walked away. When I opened the door to the shed I was thankful that I only had to pee.
When I finished peeing I returned to Otis and quietly watched as he cut open a white tube and dumped the salt into the bucket. On the third tube I decided to ask Otis what the salt was used for.
“It's for the grass,” Otis answered without looking at me.
“Does it help it grow?”
Otis looked at me this time and it took a few moments before he spoke. “No.”
“Ah” I said, pretending to understand. “So how long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Four years? Three?” Otis answered.
“Cool” I answered.
After another two tubes of salt were dumped into the bucket Otis walked to the back of the garage, opened a small fridge and pulled out a glass bottle of off brand Ginger Ale.
“Want one?” Otis asked.
“Sure” I answered and took the one Otis offered me.
We sipped on our beverages and didn't speak for a long time.
“You don't talk much, do you?” I asked.
“Nope,” Otis answered before burping and tossing the bottle into a basket. “Ready?”
I finished the last few drops of the ginger ale and smiled. “Yup” I answered enthusiastically.
Otis gave an odd looking smile and shook his head. “Alright then” he said before putting back on his helmet and ran out of the garage to disappear into the grass, shotgun in hand.
I made a mental note to ask him about that on the next break.
Maybe an hour later of going around and around in circles I saw an old man in a pinstripe suit, walking down the steps near the fountain and heading straight for me. His skin was gray and wrinkly, with dark bags under his eyes. In his hands was a silver serving tray.
As soon as I noticed the man, Otis ran out of the grass and headed straight towards the man. Again he narrowly avoided being turned into mulch by the Lawn Killer 9000.
Before I could yell or do anything, Otis shouted over the sound of the engine to drive over to him and the old man.
The sight of this man made me nervous. He reminded me of the mortician guy from that one movie. The one with the flying balls with knives.
Under the serving tray was a pile of finger sandwiches and Otis was inhaling them.
When I put the Lawn Killer in park and turned off the engine I could hear the man say “Leave some for the boy, Otis.”
I hopped out of the cab and felt twenty degrees cooler. I didn't know how hot I was until that moment.
Each of the sandwiches were made with marble rye bread, pickles, a weird onion cheese and what might have been jerky, but I didn't ask.
“Hi” I said to the man as I grabbed the closest sandwich.
The man just looked at me.
I took a bite, didn't like it, but faked it because I didn't want to be rude.
“Thank you” I said.
Otis took a few more sandwiches before making his way back to the garage. “Yeah, thanks Grover.”
I never thought I would meet a butler, the fact his name was Grover was even more amazing.
“Don't mind Otis,” Grover sighed. “What he lacks in manners he makes up for in efficiency.”
I nodded dumbly.
“Would you like something to drink?” Grover asked.
“Pepsi?”
“We don't have any.”
“Coke?”
“We don't partake in those unsavory habits.”
“Lemonade?”
“Ugh” Grover groaned before walking away.
“Oi?” Otis shouted from the garage. “Park by the gas” Otis said, pointing at an old fashioned gas pump next to the garage.
I did what I was told, hopped in the Lawn Killer and drove it over to where Otis was waiting.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked after killing the engine.
“Sure” Otis said as he was struggling with the ancient nozzle.
“Did you say ‘Oi’?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Cuts through the noise. You don't hear that often in the states.”
I nodded. “Were you,” I started, not knowing how to finish this question. “Were you following me with the shotgun?”
“Yeah” Otis answered, not looking at me but I could tell he didn't seem all that interested or saw the issue with it.
“Why?”
“You do your job, let me do mine” Otis said as he got the nozzle to work.
“What do you do?” I asked.
“Hunt. Trap.”
“Cool” I said. “What do you hunt?”
“All sorts of things.”
“Is that why you brought a gun with you into the grass?”
“Yup” Otis nodded as he inspected the birds in the sky.
“Can I shoot the gun?” I asked after a while.
“No.”
There was a long moment before Otis turned off the nozzle and hung it back up. In that pregnant silence I felt like he was judging me.
“Alright. Now do this side of the garage” Otis said, pointing behind him.
“Yes sir” I said with a salute that didn't go over well from the look on his face. He hawked a large glob of brown chewing tobacco on the ground before putting on his helmet and walking into the grass, shotgun in hand.
I started the Lawn Killer 9000 and started doing the section Otis told me to do.
Even though I was hot and thirsty I was having fun. After all this was the first time I had ever driven something other than my bike.
Perhaps ten minutes later I remembered the drink Grover was supposed to bring out and that was the moment something large slammed into the glass to my left.
Whatever it was, it was as large as a catcher's mitt and looked like an angry cockroach. Before I could get a good look at it however, there was a loud bang and the bug exploded. Through the green blood and the birdshot embedded in the glass, I saw Otis racking another shell into the chamber, a big grin on his face.
I was close to stopping the lawn mower, but when I remembered what my dad said about working hard and my teacher's sage advice about not listening to my instincts, I kept driving.
At this point I was so dehydrated that I couldn't tell you how much time passed before I was done with the section that Otis wanted me to do. Judging by the suns position I guessed it had to have been about one in the afternoon. By this point I had completely forgotten about Otis firing his shotgun in my direction.
The first thing I said after getting out of the Lawn Killers cab was “I thought Grover was going to bring something to drink.”
“Are you okay?” Otis asked, ignoring my comment.
I squeezed my eyebrows together, wondering what he meant. In hindsight I know I wasn't thinking right because I was in need of water. “Yeah. Why?”
“What do you think about your first day?”
“I like it” I answered, not knowing what else to say.
Otis laughed. “You're like a baby panda, you know that?”
I had no idea what he meant by this, but I assumed it was an insult. Then I remembered that a different teacher of mine told me that if I thought one thing, the truth is the opposite. So I smiled and asked him what that meant.
“Baby pandas don't have a survival instinct, and you are fearless,” Otis laughed while patting me on the shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“Okay kid” Otis said, kneeling to get down to my level. “Some ground rules if you want to work here. First, never go in the grass. Second, never go near the grass. Third, do exactly what I say. If I say jump, you say how high. Got it?”
“Yeah” I nodded.
“Good. Your first day is done. Go to the house. I’m sure Miss Luther will have your money for you.”
“The house?” I asked, nervous about going into the mansion. I had never been in one before and didn't know if there were rules or not. Did I leave my shoes at the door? Did I bow to Miss Luther?
“Yeah, go” Otis answered.
I thought the dried up fountain was strange when I first saw it but it was nothing compared to the black iron knocker on the door. It was a bird of some kind but one that came out of someones most vivid nightmare.
I didn't want to touch it so instead I pulled open the thick heavy door and walked inside.
The foyer was as large as my house and on the far side there was a grand staircase, directly above the landing was a green and yellow stained glass window so warped by the sun that whatever image once shined through was now unrecognizable. Underfoot was a dusty checkered tiled floor with large black and white squares with footprints in the dust. On each side of the room were statues of naked people every ten feet apart, most were broken but some were in perfect condition. Between the statues were paintings which depicted brutal battles between cowboys and Indians in perfect clarity, including a native woman in a small cage, her belly torn open and forced to eat her own intestines as cowboys were sitting around the campfire cooking something over a fire. In another painting there was a man getting his eyes pecked out by crows as he tried to fight them off the best he could even though his hands were tied behind him, around a tree. I didn’t look long enough to know what else there was because I get scared easily.
I will tell you right now that everytime I went into that room I would do all I could not to look at the paintings.
“Do you like the job?” asked a woman. By her voice I knew she was old and didn't care one way or the other. She was only asking to be nice. The echoes in the house caused me to be a little slow to locate her but when I did she stood under the large stained glass window. She had to have been over one hundred years old but something about her puckered face, light brown hair which was pulled too tightly back told me that she would outlive everyone I know. She was all skin and bones and was wearing a delicate tight green dress that seemed nearly see through. In her hand was a martini glass and with each step or gesture the jewelry she wore around her neck would sparkle and jingle.
“Yes, maam” I answered with a smile.
“Good. It's hard finding good workers” she said. “Are you thirsty?”
I nodded.
“Go to your left and keep going straight. Through the door is the kitchen. Find yourself a glass in one of the cupboards, get yourself something to drink and join me upstairs in my library” she said as she was walking away.
I did as I was told, first passing a large empty room where parties must have been held. On the wall was a mural of a fox hunt but the wall seemed to focus mostly on a man that had a large comedic mustache riding a horse.
I didn’t take too much time to analyze it because I was a guest in this house so I picked up the pace and made my way to the kitchen by pushing open a door which swung back shut behind me. The room was so large that if the cups were not already on the counter drying off from the last time they were cleaned it would have taken forever to find them.
I drank two glasses before filling up the cup a third time, this time bringing it with me as I went upstairs to join Miss Luthor.
As I reached the top of the steps I went in the direction I saw Miss Luthor was heading. On my right through the grimy windows that reached the ceiling I saw the backyard, it was just as wild as the front but with more flowers.
There was some movement in the yard that caught my eye as I was looking at the strange three petaled flowers so I turned to look. I was surprised to see that it was a beautiful woman with a large worn straw hat, a green shirt, blue jean shorts and gardening gloves. She stood up, took off her hat, revealing her brown hair and wiped her forehead.
I was a kid at the time and hormones were making me even dumber than I was before, but whoever this woman was I was head over heels over her.
Quickly remembering what I was doing upstairs I kept walking in what I hoped was the direction of the library. The long hallway curved gently and after thirty or forty yards it straightened out. I really wanted to explore, even for a minute.
I walked briskly down the hall and was shocked when I saw her library. It was far bigger than the one at school that was for sure. It even had a ladder on wheels and a second story. A third in some places. In the middle of the room was a large mechanical something I didn’t recognize so I looked at it trying to work it out in my mind.
“Its an orrery” Miss Luthor said as she looked down on me from the second library floor over the railing.
“A what?” I asked, finding her quickly through the decorative grate floor above me.
“A model of the solar system, showing what the alignment will be on October 19th 2017 at exactly four forty two in the morning” she answered. “Nevermind that though, come up here”.
Again I did as I was told, though it was hard to climb the ladder with the glass in my hand and I wondered how the old woman managed to do it with her martini.
Miss Luthor was sitting on a torn red leather chair when I managed to pull myself up and as I approached her I felt a sudden sense of fear. It looked as though she was sizing me up for something.
“Have a seat” she said, not motioning in any direction.
I looked around but I did not see a chair, so I sat on the ground.
“How do you like the job?”
“I love it” I answered with a smile.
“And the lawnmower? Is it doing the job?”
“And how” I exclaimed, thinking of how much dirt and grass went flying into the air when I drove it.
“Good” Miss Luthor said before she pulled on a rope that was hanging from the ceiling. It made a loud sound far away and a few seconds later through the decorated metal grate floor I saw Grover come into the library.
“You called, madam?” he asked from below us.
“Fetch this boy his payment for a job well done” Miss Luther said without taking her eyes off of me the entire time which weirded me out more than anything I had seen so far.
“Yes, madam,” Grover said and left us.
Miss Luther's glare was ice but I resisted shivering and somehow I succeeded. How can a woman this old be so scary?
“Can you come back tomorrow, boy?” Miss Luther asked and took another sip of her drink.
“Yes ma'am” I said, remembering my manners.
“Good” she answered. A few long moments passed before Grover came back into the room and climbed the ladder as graceful as a cat before handing Miss Luther her checkbook.
“Thank you Grover” she said coldly as she took the items from Grovers hands. “Does twelve hundred sound fair?” Miss Luther asked.
If I had been drinking the water at the time I would have spit it out when she asked. Instead I said “Hell yes!” With that much money I could get a gaming console for every room of the house if I wanted to.
Miss Luther did not smile at this. She just made out the check and handed it to me. I stared at it for the longest time not believing that I just got paid this much for one days work.
“Call the boys father, Grover. Inform him that his son is done. After you do that make him another sandwich” Miss Luther ordered.
Remembering the last sandwich Grover gave me I said “No thank you, I am not hungry”.
Miss Luther looked at me oddly. “Do you want some more pickle juice?” she asked, motioning with her head towards my empty glass.
“It was water, actually”.
“We have pickle juice if you prefer,” Miss Luther said.
“No, thank you but no” I answered.
Miss Luther handed me the check and gave Grover an eighth of an inch nod.
“This way, young man” Grover said and made his way to the ladder. I stood up to follow and thanked Miss Luther but she didn’t seem to notice me and took another sip from her glass.
I looked down at the check and grinned like an idiot.
submitted by Narrow_Muscle9572 to redditserials [link] [comments]
The first summer I came to Gray Hill to stay with my dad, it was after my parents divorce. Once the games and comic books got old, the only thing left was to explore. There was no rich side of town because everyone was poor. I hated that first summer, however my dad grew up there and had his rose tinted glasses on.
Even though there was a lake and people had docks as well as boats, no one used them. Now that I think about it I never saw anyone swim in Dead Horse Lake.
That winter my mother died and I had to stay with my dad.
I wasn't popular in school and people ignored me for the most part. In my class there were seven, and I don't think four of them knew my real name. I never tried out for sports and I sang like a chainsaw, so I never felt there was room for me in that small town.
The second summer I stayed in Gray Hill, there was a brand new gaming console being released, The Master Sphere and I had to have it. Much to my dissatisfaction my dad told me that I would have to pay for it myself. Being nearly eleven I complained and asked why. He said it was to build character and I still know what people mean when they say this.
Thankfully my dad's future wife, Linda, set me up with a job mowing lawns by putting up an ad in the local newspaper, Whisper Alley Echos. The pay was horrible and summers in Gray Hill were a wet blanket of humidity, and the mosquitos and ticks were the worst I ever experienced. However I really needed this gaming console.
Looking back on it I find it funny that by the end of that summer I preferred mowing for Miss Luther than sitting in front of the television with a controller in hand.
It was the end of July when Miss Luther called the house to offer me a job. My dad was the one who answered the phone and agreed that I would start the next morning at six. I wasn't too thrilled with waking up at that time, however when he told me that Miss Luther was filthy rich, wanted me on retainer and explained what “on retainer” meant, I couldn't wait to go to bed.
The next morning my dad made me some hot chocolate in a thermos and a few snacks for my shift. He was so excited for me that he reminded me of a kid on Christmas day. He told me that the construction of Miss Luthers house was big news when he was my age and that morning was going to be the first day he would get a chance to see it.
On the way to Miss Luther's house I asked dad what people did for jobs in Gray Hill but I don’t think he knew for sure because as he tried to explain it became the origins of the town. Apparently Gray Hill used to be a mining town but then the business went under. After that it was a logging town but that business went up in flames. Since then the town just sort of sat there, stagnant. I didn't know what stagnant meant and I didnt ask.
When I asked what Miss Luther did, dad smiled and told me that was one of the biggest and best secrets in Gray Hill.
After a mile or so after Fortune Summer Camp, dad pulled into a driveway I didnt even notice was there. A short while later though the road became wider and more noticeable. This place was once beautiful but over the years of no one taking care of the property, nature was fighting like hell to take it back. Gnarled trees lined both sides of the road, there was a swamp to my left and a field of grass as tall as corn on my right.
To my surprise my dad told me that when he was a kid the swamp was a lake and there was something called a vivarium in the field of grass.
When I asked what a vivarium was, dad told me it was a place where plants and animals that don't live in this climate can live.
“What kind of animals?” I asked.
My dad didn't know and shrugged. “If you work hard and don't slack off, you are going to find out,” he said with a smile. I could see that he was excited for me and wished that he was in my shoes.
A short while later we approached a large and very intimidating iron gate. My father whistled when he saw it, then parked next to a large stone and pushed a call button. When it was answered, no one spoke.
“Hello?” my dad asked, but before he could say anything else the gate started to creak open. “Welcome to the lifestyle of the rich and famous” my dad said in a terrible Robin Leach impression before pulling away.
Even though my father told me that Miss Luther had a mansion I didn't think he was serious. That was the last thing I expected to see in Gray Hill.
The building was huge. In some places it was three stories tall and in others it was five. It reminded me of something Bruce Wayne would live in, with all the gargoyles that were perched on the roof. The building was dark, almost as if it had survived a fire. There was a dried up fountain next to the driveway with two sets of steps that half encircled it. In the middle of the fountain was something that looked like a crane, though it's hard to say for certain because the years had not been kind to it.
“Holy poop,” my father said as he slowed down in order to take in the sight. He hadn't been able to stop talking about Miss Luther since he answered the phone the night before, even though he had never met the rich recluse. She was the talk of the town when he was younger than me.
Before I could do or say anything, a man walked out of the garage and waved us over. The man, as I later discovered, was far younger than he appeared. He wore a dirty white shirt that was stained yellow from sweat and grease covered overalls. He was tall and lean, but one look at him and you could tell he was strong. His arms were like tightly woven steel cables wrapped around itself. He kept his hair short but it was clear he was balding and his skin was leathery and beat red from the sun. In between his lip and gums was a large pinch of chew.
When my dad pulled up next to him, he rolled down the window. “Hey, here to drop off my boy,” he said with a smile.
The man nodded but it was clear that he either didn't care or already knew that. Perhaps both?
“Say hi, son.”
“Hi,” I said with a wave.
The man leaned down to look at me. I don't think he was impressed. There was an awkward silence that lasted only a moment but it felt much longer. “Alright” the man said. “Come on, now. Don't dawdle.”
I looked at dad for encouragement because I was nervous but he didn't notice and got out of the car to follow the man.
“My name is Peter” my dad said to the man's back.
“Otis.”
“Any chance I can get a tour of the place, Otis?” my dad asked. “I’ve been hearing about this place since I was a kid.”
The man groaned. “Not my place to say yes. But, I can tell you that this is the garage.”
Disappointed that he wouldn't get a tour, my dad made a pouting face and said “It's just that this is the first time I ever came here.”
“Loses its luster real quick” Otis said.
My dad waited for Otis to say more but Otis wasn't planning on elaborating.
As soon as I entered the garage I saw a large yellow behemoth with black and white lettering that read “Lawn Killer 9000”. It looked like a woodchipper on six wheels with an enclosed cab on top of it. Whoever made it must have really hated their yard.
“I didn't know he was going to be using a riding lawnmower,” my dad chuckled.
The man spit a large brown gob on the dirt floor. “Yeah, well. I didn't know his dad was going to hold his hand the whole time.”
My dad was at a loss of words but I couldn't help but to smile at that comment.
“Isn't it a bit dangerous for someone his age?” my dad asked.
Otis scoffed. “How? He will be sitting on it. The dangerous part is this” he answered as he pointed at the front of the Lawn Killer 9000.
My dad nodded, slowly seeing the sense of it. “Well, I guess I should be going,” he said as he placed his hand on my shoulder. “Son, I want you to work hard and be respectful.”
I nodded.
“Good” dad said before speaking again to Otis. “Do you know how long he is going—”
“We’ll call you, how about that?” Otis said, impatiently.
Dad nodded. “Alright. Well, I guess I’m off. Be good” he said as he rustled my hair and went to the car before driving off.
“Ever drive one of these before?” Otis asked, using his thumb to point at the Lawn Killer 9000. I shook my head so Otis explained everything to me after telling me to climb in and to get the feel of it. “I want you to go slow. Like, a quarter of walking speed, okay?” Otis asked.
“Sure” I answered, excited that I got to drive, even if it's just a lawnmower.
“Good. Now come” Otis said, waving me to follow him to the workbench. I did as I was asked and when I got to Otis’ side he pointed at a hand drawn map of Miss Luther's estate. “See this? I want you to mow G-7 and G-8. Can you do that?”
I looked closer at the map to determine where that was and found that both squares were surrounding the garage. “Sure” I answered.
“Good. Now get in and give me a minute to get ready.”
I hopped in the lawnmower and watched as Otis got ready. First he put on what looked to be hockey pads then he soaked a cloth in a yellowish green liquid and wiped himself off with it.
“What's that?”
“Jalapeno juice” he answered as he wiped himself with the cloth.
“Why?”
“Cover.”
Disappointed that he didn't answer my question I covered my mouth like he said and watched as Otis tied the cloth around his neck and put on a helmet with a glass visor that reminded me of something a member of SWAT would wear. He then walked over to a closet and pulled out a bandelier full of shotgun shells and a pump action shotgun.
“Forgot to mention this,” Otis said, racking a shell. “Don't get out of the lawnmower unless I say so, okay?”
I nodded.
“Good” Otis said before running out of the garage and into the grass that had to have been three feet taller than he was.
I started the lawnmower and was startled by how loud it was. When I put the lawnmower in drive I did what Otis instructed and drove slowly. I was impressed with how much damage the Lawn Killer 9000 was capable of. Everything I ran over turned into mulch.
The next time I saw Otis it was maybe half an hour later. He was running and ducking in the long grass, to me he looked like a soldier stalking the enemy in Vietnam.
At first I was worried, but then I remembered the wise words one of my teachers said to me: “Life will be a whole lot easier if you did the opposite of what you think you should do.”
As soon as I remembered that nugget of wisdom I felt better.
It wasn't long after that I really had to pee. I was tempted to ask but then I remembered that my father told me to work hard, so I held it until it started to hurt. Thankfully Otis leaped out of the grass, narrowly missing the front of the lawnmower, to tell me to stop.
“Why?” I asked, scared that I did something wrong.
“How we doing on gas?”
I looked at the gauge. “Half.”
Otis grunted and nodded. “You're out of salt.”
“Salt?” I asked.
Instead of answering me Otis told me to drive back into the garage. I did as he told me and parked where I first saw the Lawn Killer 9000 so Otis could fill up the bucket that sat behind me with a large white bag filled with salt that resembled a tube. It was then I saw that on the back of the Lawn Killer 9000 was a sifter that spread the salt, similar to plows during the winter.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I asked, looking around for a restroom but finding none.
“Sure” Otis answered, leading me to a small shed. “Don't explore any. Come right back.”
“Okay.”
Otis nodded and walked away. When I opened the door to the shed I was thankful that I only had to pee.
When I finished peeing I returned to Otis and quietly watched as he cut open a white tube and dumped the salt into the bucket. On the third tube I decided to ask Otis what the salt was used for.
“It's for the grass,” Otis answered without looking at me.
“Does it help it grow?”
Otis looked at me this time and it took a few moments before he spoke. “No.”
“Ah” I said, pretending to understand. “So how long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Four years? Three?” Otis answered.
“Cool” I answered.
After another two tubes of salt were dumped into the bucket Otis walked to the back of the garage, opened a small fridge and pulled out a glass bottle of off brand Ginger Ale.
“Want one?” Otis asked.
“Sure” I answered and took the one Otis offered me.
We sipped on our beverages and didn't speak for a long time.
“You don't talk much, do you?” I asked.
“Nope,” Otis answered before burping and tossing the bottle into a basket. “Ready?”
I finished the last few drops of the ginger ale and smiled. “Yup” I answered enthusiastically.
Otis gave an odd looking smile and shook his head. “Alright then” he said before putting back on his helmet and ran out of the garage to disappear into the grass, shotgun in hand.
I made a mental note to ask him about that on the next break.
Maybe an hour later of going around and around in circles I saw an old man in a pinstripe suit, walking down the steps near the fountain and heading straight for me. His skin was gray and wrinkly, with dark bags under his eyes. In his hands was a silver serving tray.
As soon as I noticed the man, Otis ran out of the grass and headed straight towards the man. Again he narrowly avoided being turned into mulch by the Lawn Killer 9000.
Before I could yell or do anything, Otis shouted over the sound of the engine to drive over to him and the old man.
The sight of this man made me nervous. He reminded me of the mortician guy from that one movie. The one with the flying balls with knives.
Under the serving tray was a pile of finger sandwiches and Otis was inhaling them.
When I put the Lawn Killer in park and turned off the engine I could hear the man say “Leave some for the boy, Otis.”
I hopped out of the cab and felt twenty degrees cooler. I didn't know how hot I was until that moment.
Each of the sandwiches were made with marble rye bread, pickles, a weird onion cheese and what might have been jerky, but I didn't ask.
“Hi” I said to the man as I grabbed the closest sandwich.
The man just looked at me.
I took a bite, didn't like it, but faked it because I didn't want to be rude.
“Thank you” I said.
Otis took a few more sandwiches before making his way back to the garage. “Yeah, thanks Grover.”
I never thought I would meet a butler, the fact his name was Grover was even more amazing.
“Don't mind Otis,” Grover sighed. “What he lacks in manners he makes up for in efficiency.”
I nodded dumbly.
“Would you like something to drink?” Grover asked.
“Pepsi?”
“We don't have any.”
“Coke?”
“We don't partake in those unsavory habits.”
“Lemonade?”
“Ugh” Grover groaned before walking away.
“Oi?” Otis shouted from the garage. “Park by the gas” Otis said, pointing at an old fashioned gas pump next to the garage.
I did what I was told, hopped in the Lawn Killer and drove it over to where Otis was waiting.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked after killing the engine.
“Sure” Otis said as he was struggling with the ancient nozzle.
“Did you say ‘Oi’?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Cuts through the noise. You don't hear that often in the states.”
I nodded. “Were you,” I started, not knowing how to finish this question. “Were you following me with the shotgun?”
“Yeah” Otis answered, not looking at me but I could tell he didn't seem all that interested or saw the issue with it.
“Why?”
“You do your job, let me do mine” Otis said as he got the nozzle to work.
“What do you do?” I asked.
“Hunt. Trap.”
“Cool” I said. “What do you hunt?”
“All sorts of things.”
“Is that why you brought a gun with you into the grass?”
“Yup” Otis nodded as he inspected the birds in the sky.
“Can I shoot the gun?” I asked after a while.
“No.”
There was a long moment before Otis turned off the nozzle and hung it back up. In that pregnant silence I felt like he was judging me.
“Alright. Now do this side of the garage” Otis said, pointing behind him.
“Yes sir” I said with a salute that didn't go over well from the look on his face. He hawked a large glob of brown chewing tobacco on the ground before putting on his helmet and walking into the grass, shotgun in hand.
I started the Lawn Killer 9000 and started doing the section Otis told me to do.
Even though I was hot and thirsty I was having fun. After all this was the first time I had ever driven something other than my bike.
Perhaps ten minutes later I remembered the drink Grover was supposed to bring out and that was the moment something large slammed into the glass to my left.
Whatever it was, it was as large as a catcher's mitt and looked like an angry cockroach. Before I could get a good look at it however, there was a loud bang and the bug exploded. Through the green blood and the birdshot embedded in the glass, I saw Otis racking another shell into the chamber, a big grin on his face.
I was close to stopping the lawn mower, but when I remembered what my dad said about working hard and my teacher's sage advice about not listening to my instincts, I kept driving.
At this point I was so dehydrated that I couldn't tell you how much time passed before I was done with the section that Otis wanted me to do. Judging by the suns position I guessed it had to have been about one in the afternoon. By this point I had completely forgotten about Otis firing his shotgun in my direction.
The first thing I said after getting out of the Lawn Killers cab was “I thought Grover was going to bring something to drink.”
“Are you okay?” Otis asked, ignoring my comment.
I squeezed my eyebrows together, wondering what he meant. In hindsight I know I wasn't thinking right because I was in need of water. “Yeah. Why?”
“What do you think about your first day?”
“I like it” I answered, not knowing what else to say.
Otis laughed. “You're like a baby panda, you know that?”
I had no idea what he meant by this, but I assumed it was an insult. Then I remembered that a different teacher of mine told me that if I thought one thing, the truth is the opposite. So I smiled and asked him what that meant.
“Baby pandas don't have a survival instinct, and you are fearless,” Otis laughed while patting me on the shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“Okay kid” Otis said, kneeling to get down to my level. “Some ground rules if you want to work here. First, never go in the grass. Second, never go near the grass. Third, do exactly what I say. If I say jump, you say how high. Got it?”
“Yeah” I nodded.
“Good. Your first day is done. Go to the house. I’m sure Miss Luther will have your money for you.”
“The house?” I asked, nervous about going into the mansion. I had never been in one before and didn't know if there were rules or not. Did I leave my shoes at the door? Did I bow to Miss Luther?
“Yeah, go” Otis answered.
I thought the dried up fountain was strange when I first saw it but it was nothing compared to the black iron knocker on the door. It was a bird of some kind but one that came out of someones most vivid nightmare.
I didn't want to touch it so instead I pulled open the thick heavy door and walked inside.
The foyer was as large as my house and on the far side there was a grand staircase, directly above the landing was a green and yellow stained glass window so warped by the sun that whatever image once shined through was now unrecognizable. Underfoot was a dusty checkered tiled floor with large black and white squares with footprints in the dust. On each side of the room were statues of naked people every ten feet apart, most were broken but some were in perfect condition. Between the statues were paintings which depicted brutal battles between cowboys and Indians in perfect clarity, including a native woman in a small cage, her belly torn open and forced to eat her own intestines as cowboys were sitting around the campfire cooking something over a fire. In another painting there was a man getting his eyes pecked out by crows as he tried to fight them off the best he could even though his hands were tied behind him, around a tree. I didn’t look long enough to know what else there was because I get scared easily.
I will tell you right now that everytime I went into that room I would do all I could not to look at the paintings.
“Do you like the job?” asked a woman. By her voice I knew she was old and didn't care one way or the other. She was only asking to be nice. The echoes in the house caused me to be a little slow to locate her but when I did she stood under the large stained glass window. She had to have been over one hundred years old but something about her puckered face, light brown hair which was pulled too tightly back told me that she would outlive everyone I know. She was all skin and bones and was wearing a delicate tight green dress that seemed nearly see through. In her hand was a martini glass and with each step or gesture the jewelry she wore around her neck would sparkle and jingle.
“Yes, maam” I answered with a smile.
“Good. It's hard finding good workers” she said. “Are you thirsty?”
I nodded.
“Go to your left and keep going straight. Through the door is the kitchen. Find yourself a glass in one of the cupboards, get yourself something to drink and join me upstairs in my library” she said as she was walking away.
I did as I was told, first passing a large empty room where parties must have been held. On the wall was a mural of a fox hunt but the wall seemed to focus mostly on a man that had a large comedic mustache riding a horse.
I didn’t take too much time to analyze it because I was a guest in this house so I picked up the pace and made my way to the kitchen by pushing open a door which swung back shut behind me. The room was so large that if the cups were not already on the counter drying off from the last time they were cleaned it would have taken forever to find them.
I drank two glasses before filling up the cup a third time, this time bringing it with me as I went upstairs to join Miss Luthor.
As I reached the top of the steps I went in the direction I saw Miss Luthor was heading. On my right through the grimy windows that reached the ceiling I saw the backyard, it was just as wild as the front but with more flowers.
There was some movement in the yard that caught my eye as I was looking at the strange three petaled flowers so I turned to look. I was surprised to see that it was a beautiful woman with a large worn straw hat, a green shirt, blue jean shorts and gardening gloves. She stood up, took off her hat, revealing her brown hair and wiped her forehead.
I was a kid at the time and hormones were making me even dumber than I was before, but whoever this woman was I was head over heels over her.
Quickly remembering what I was doing upstairs I kept walking in what I hoped was the direction of the library. The long hallway curved gently and after thirty or forty yards it straightened out. I really wanted to explore, even for a minute.
I walked briskly down the hall and was shocked when I saw her library. It was far bigger than the one at school that was for sure. It even had a ladder on wheels and a second story. A third in some places. In the middle of the room was a large mechanical something I didn’t recognize so I looked at it trying to work it out in my mind.
“Its an orrery” Miss Luthor said as she looked down on me from the second library floor over the railing.
“A what?” I asked, finding her quickly through the decorative grate floor above me.
“A model of the solar system, showing what the alignment will be on October 19th 2017 at exactly four forty two in the morning” she answered. “Nevermind that though, come up here”.
Again I did as I was told, though it was hard to climb the ladder with the glass in my hand and I wondered how the old woman managed to do it with her martini.
Miss Luthor was sitting on a torn red leather chair when I managed to pull myself up and as I approached her I felt a sudden sense of fear. It looked as though she was sizing me up for something.
“Have a seat” she said, not motioning in any direction.
I looked around but I did not see a chair, so I sat on the ground.
“How do you like the job?”
“I love it” I answered with a smile.
“And the lawnmower? Is it doing the job?”
“And how” I exclaimed, thinking of how much dirt and grass went flying into the air when I drove it.
“Good” Miss Luthor said before she pulled on a rope that was hanging from the ceiling. It made a loud sound far away and a few seconds later through the decorated metal grate floor I saw Grover come into the library.
“You called, madam?” he asked from below us.
“Fetch this boy his payment for a job well done” Miss Luther said without taking her eyes off of me the entire time which weirded me out more than anything I had seen so far.
“Yes, madam,” Grover said and left us.
Miss Luther's glare was ice but I resisted shivering and somehow I succeeded. How can a woman this old be so scary?
“Can you come back tomorrow, boy?” Miss Luther asked and took another sip of her drink.
“Yes ma'am” I said, remembering my manners.
“Good” she answered. A few long moments passed before Grover came back into the room and climbed the ladder as graceful as a cat before handing Miss Luther her checkbook.
“Thank you Grover” she said coldly as she took the items from Grovers hands. “Does twelve hundred sound fair?” Miss Luther asked.
If I had been drinking the water at the time I would have spit it out when she asked. Instead I said “Hell yes!” With that much money I could get a gaming console for every room of the house if I wanted to.
Miss Luther did not smile at this. She just made out the check and handed it to me. I stared at it for the longest time not believing that I just got paid this much for one days work.
“Call the boys father, Grover. Inform him that his son is done. After you do that make him another sandwich” Miss Luther ordered.
Remembering the last sandwich Grover gave me I said “No thank you, I am not hungry”.
Miss Luther looked at me oddly. “Do you want some more pickle juice?” she asked, motioning with her head towards my empty glass.
“It was water, actually”.
“We have pickle juice if you prefer,” Miss Luther said.
“No, thank you but no” I answered.
Miss Luther handed me the check and gave Grover an eighth of an inch nod.
“This way, young man” Grover said and made his way to the ladder. I stood up to follow and thanked Miss Luther but she didn’t seem to notice me and took another sip from her glass.
I looked down at the check and grinned like an idiot.
2023.04.29 22:10 M_Tootles Littlefinger & House Hoare's Real-Life Ship of Gold (Spoilers Extended)
As part of a writing floating the notion that Littlefinger has Hoare blood — see [HERE] — I discussed how each aspect of House Hoare's sigil might hint that Littlefinger is a Hoare, noting that Littlefinger himself does something similar vis-a-vis Orton Merryweather and his sigil:
The so-called Ship of Gold was a gold-laden ship that was sunk in 1857 in a storm 200 miles off the Carolina coast and lost 8000 feet down in the inky-black depths of the Atlantic Ocean until it was located in 1987 by an upstart team of young treasure hunters from Columbus, Ohio (of all places) led by a guy named Tommy Thompson. I suspect that Littlefinger's character and in some ways his story may have been inspired in some significant part — although not entirely or even primarily — by the story of Thompson and the recovery of the sunken treasure from that ship as it was known c. 1995, when GRRM began writing AGOT. At bare minimum, I think GRRM recognized the resonances between the story of Thompson and the Ship of Gold and Littlefinger's story by the time he designed the sigil of House Hoare (which was done c. May 1999, per my direct correspondance with Linda Antonsson).
If I'm right that Littlefinger has Hoare blood and Targaryen blood, his story is in some sense that of a man attempting to reclaim and recover what he may see as lost wealth and power (including that of the Hoares) that is rightfully his, right? There is a "rhyme" between this idea and that of recovering a long-lost treasure from the ocean floor. Especially because the story of the "Ship of Gold" as it stood c. 1995 involved a high-profile court battle for possession of the treasure between the clever young media-savvy treasure hunters who found, recovered and claimed the lost gold by right of abandonment and discovery — and who did everything they could to win the public's support as adventuring heroes on a quest for a storybook treasure — and the legal "heirs" of the parties who held the rights to the gold after the ship was sunk in 1857 and sought to, from their perspective, re-claim via argument what they said was rightly theirs.
The finding of the Ship of Gold was big news when it was first announced in 1987, and bigger news when substantial gold was recovered in 1989. Database searches show headlines in hundreds of papers, and I have vague memories of television news coverage which I at present have no way to confirm. (I did find a Tonight Show appearance by one of the members of Thomspon's crew [on youtube].)
The "Ship of Gold" continued to make news in the early 90s as bunch of insurance companies — the legal "heirs" of the original insurers of the 1857 ship and its cargo of gold — sued the treasure finders, claiming the recovered treasure was actually theirs by rights. See e.g. https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1987/07/18/treasure-hunters-claim-450-million-shpwreck/5b2d53be-f770-4561-b514-5247b2e50777/, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1989/09/14/storybook-treasure-found-off-south-carolina/e59459ac-31d6-4546-a482-18aaad62dafe/, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1989/10/06/treasure-hunters-golden-moment/98812bc7-abc9-4b9f-abec-e51f5a97b811/, https://www.columbusmonthly.com/story/lifestyle/2014/10/21/treasure-hunt-on-high-seas/9315335007/, https://www.nytimes.com/1990/04/04/us/a-treasure-from-the-seas-but-whose.html, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1990/08/15/the-law-of-finders-keepers/716ca9f2-6c80-4410-bb06-4a66000a4582/, https://www.nytimes.com/1992/08/28/us/insurers-to-share-shipwreck-s-gold.html, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1993/03/23/sunken-treasure-bounty-to-be-shared-with-heirs/a1ae96c9-d9c9-4e46-843e-bafda4071c88/, and especially this 1993 story, which alludes to and quotes some of the massive contemporaneous press coverage: https://www.dailypress.com/news/dp-xpm-19930627-1993-06-27-9306270057-story.html. A big story on the find in the March 1992 issue of then-ubiquitous Life magazine isn't available online, but I got it from the library.
This writing will attempt to tease out various indications that Littlefinger's story has something to do with this famous story of shipwreck and lost treasure. I figure I'll start with two bits of low-hanging fruit.
The headline-making lawsuits about the Ship of Gold were all about a bunch of insurance companies — the heirs of the companies that sold ship's insurance related to the S.S. Central America — suing the plucky storybook-come-true treasure finders. The insurance companies were pretty thoroughly villainized in the media.
In ADWD The Ugly Little Girl, Arya kills a man who insures ship's cargos but doesn't pay off when a shipwreck happens, and in ADWD Tyrion VII it's mentioned that "Vogarro's whore" (sounds like Hoare!) — a fabulously wealthy woman of low-birth whose business operations seem as variegated as those of the poor-boy-made-good Littlefinger — "insured shipowners". What a strange thing to repeatedly bring up in a fantasy novel… unless you're riffing on a real-life story that involved ship's insurance.
Also in ADWD — in Davos I — Davos visits the "robber lord and wrecker" Lord Borrell in Sisteron on Sweetsister. The entire story of the Ship of Gold was triggered, of course, by a wrecker (in the more benign sense of "a person or vessel employed in recovering salvage from wrecked or disabled vessels"), Thompson, finding the wreck of all wrecks. To the insurance companies, of course, he was a "robber", but to most of the public, the insurance companies challenging Thompson's claim in court were, in effect, "robber lords".
It's worth nothing that GRRM paints both the wreckers—
(Interestingly, one of the insurance companies' public-facing lawyers arguing in 1991 that her clients had never abandoned the treasure nor their claims to it — Thompson's side was arguing they had de facto abandoned it, making it up for grabs — was named… Marylyn Little. [See: Lyn Corbray & Littlefinger.] Is it possible GRRM read or saw her quoted on some TV news report about the affair, and thus that her name had some inspirational role? Doubtful, but tantalizing.)
I think GRRM wrote Littlefinger (in part) with both parties to the conflict over the Ship of Gold in mind. The insurance companies were fighting for the rights of "heirs" using lawyerly "piracy" (piracy being synonomous with the ironborn), and Hoare-y Littlefinger sees himself as heir to multiple legacies and fights to regain them using similar pen-and-ink-and-bullshit. At the same time, Thompson was selling himself as the romantic figure Littlefinger longed to be as a child (when he played at being the Prince of Dragonflies) and more than a bit of a pirate himself (and that's before more recent developments), and Littlefinger was written with him in mind, too.
While Hoare-y Littlefinger adopts something like the legalistic tactics of the "pirates in pinstripes" denounced by the media, his story "rhymes" in a slew of way with that of the treasure-finder, Tommy Thompson, as it was told in the media at the time.
Thompson's 1992 and 1993 legal "losses" to the insurance companies claiming the gold he found was theirs was analogous: While the Court of Appeals technically overruled a lower court and sided with the insurance companies, it also stipulated that Thompson's group should still "receive by far the largest share of the treasure" and sent the case back for a lower court to determine the amount. In November 1993 an Admiralty court ruled that Thompson would get at least 90%. The ruling was upheld by the US Court of Appeals in June 1995 (long before GRRM finished writing AGOT in mid-1996) — one headline read "Finders, (Mostly) Keepers" — and the Supreme Court turned down a further appeal that October, definitively rendering the insurance companies' initial court victory pyrrhic and seemingly making Thompson, like Littlefinger, the ultimate winner.
(After first writing the foregoing paragraph a couple months ago, I realized that the "Journeys" map in the GRRM-approved Lands of Ice & Fire" set confirms that the "middle finger" I suspected was Littlefinger's *is indeed where his tower is located.)
(See also Littlefinger defying Brandon telling him to yield, defying the Vale lords, etc.)
All that seems quite Littlefingerian:
But the most obvious "rhyme" between Thompson and Littlefinger is that Thompson achieved fame because he found a bunch of gold. And Littlefinger? Same.
This compares to Littlefinger playing at the Prince of Dragonflies:
Keeping a bunch of engines driving whirling blades all running at once? I can't help but think of this:
There's only one use of anything like that term in the ASOIAF canon, and it's smack in the middle of a passage—
The "nobles and fat merchants" who seemed drunk and who were "dancing in the streets" seem like a riff on the "cheering crowd of [Thompson's] financial backers" who were there waiting for him when his crew returned to port in 1989 — "some of Central Ohio's wealthiest citizens gathered to clap their hands".
Where Victarion thinks "the whole city… seemed drunk", it seems like "the whole city" of Norfolk turned out to greet Thompson and company: we read about a "cheering crowd", a "brass-band welcome" from a local high school band, police, federal marshals, and a media circus. The WaPo article includes an anecdote which seems like grist for GRRM's description of Volantis:
Immediately before Victarion describes Volantis, drunk on talk of the gold that would soon "flood into" town (an approriate term if this is indeed a wink at the Ship of Gold coverage!), he declares in response to Wulfe's proposal that "another day [delay] might mean more another ship" to add to the fleet:
All that, right in the one and only spot where GRRM uses "tinker" — a key motif in Thompson's carefully crafted, PR-deployed myth-making.
And then there's the "low-profile" bit. In a lot of ways this recalls Tyrion's description of Littlefinger skating by, under everybody's radar:
It's worth nothing that Littlefinger has a curious association with mud:
We get a fantastic image of "a mechanical Victorian dowager at underwater tea", and a Wizard of Oz reference—
Thus the finding and recovery of the "storybook treasure" looked, in the years AGOT was being written, to be a boondoggle.
I think GRRM almost "confirms" that the Ship of Gold affair (as it stood c. 1995) inspired him via Jon's story in AGOT. Jon gets to the Wall and is told that life there isn't like "the stories your wet nurse told you" (i.e. stories "in a kid's book", in Thompson's words):
This gem comes near the beginning:
Maybe Thompson's line about other kinds of treasure didn't inspire GRRM to have (ironborn, possible Hoare) Mance say this—
(Notice what Littlefinger is doing in that passage. He is almost certainly bullshitting the hell out of Sansa. He wants to use Sansa, and he wants to fuck her. He's like Thompson, talking about how great the scientific advancements are and acting like the story isn't that he maybe just made a billion dollars.)
The article closes with more saccharine schmaltz from one of Thompson's junior partners… and Thompson doing something very, very familiar to ASOIAF readers:
submitted by M_Tootles to asoiaf [link] [comments]
Petyr had once remarked that the horn of plenty that adorned House Merryweather's arms suited Lord Orton admirably, since he had carrot-colored hair, a nose as bulbous as a beetroot, and pease porridge for wits. (AFFC Cersei IV)Here, I want to delve further into my suspicion that the "gold longship on black" portion of the Hoare sigil is (at least in some significant part) a reference to the [S.S. Central America a.k.a. "The Ship of Gold"].
The so-called Ship of Gold was a gold-laden ship that was sunk in 1857 in a storm 200 miles off the Carolina coast and lost 8000 feet down in the inky-black depths of the Atlantic Ocean until it was located in 1987 by an upstart team of young treasure hunters from Columbus, Ohio (of all places) led by a guy named Tommy Thompson. I suspect that Littlefinger's character and in some ways his story may have been inspired in some significant part — although not entirely or even primarily — by the story of Thompson and the recovery of the sunken treasure from that ship as it was known c. 1995, when GRRM began writing AGOT. At bare minimum, I think GRRM recognized the resonances between the story of Thompson and the Ship of Gold and Littlefinger's story by the time he designed the sigil of House Hoare (which was done c. May 1999, per my direct correspondance with Linda Antonsson).
If I'm right that Littlefinger has Hoare blood and Targaryen blood, his story is in some sense that of a man attempting to reclaim and recover what he may see as lost wealth and power (including that of the Hoares) that is rightfully his, right? There is a "rhyme" between this idea and that of recovering a long-lost treasure from the ocean floor. Especially because the story of the "Ship of Gold" as it stood c. 1995 involved a high-profile court battle for possession of the treasure between the clever young media-savvy treasure hunters who found, recovered and claimed the lost gold by right of abandonment and discovery — and who did everything they could to win the public's support as adventuring heroes on a quest for a storybook treasure — and the legal "heirs" of the parties who held the rights to the gold after the ship was sunk in 1857 and sought to, from their perspective, re-claim via argument what they said was rightly theirs.
The finding of the Ship of Gold was big news when it was first announced in 1987, and bigger news when substantial gold was recovered in 1989. Database searches show headlines in hundreds of papers, and I have vague memories of television news coverage which I at present have no way to confirm. (I did find a Tonight Show appearance by one of the members of Thomspon's crew [on youtube].)
The "Ship of Gold" continued to make news in the early 90s as bunch of insurance companies — the legal "heirs" of the original insurers of the 1857 ship and its cargo of gold — sued the treasure finders, claiming the recovered treasure was actually theirs by rights. See e.g. https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1987/07/18/treasure-hunters-claim-450-million-shpwreck/5b2d53be-f770-4561-b514-5247b2e50777/, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1989/09/14/storybook-treasure-found-off-south-carolina/e59459ac-31d6-4546-a482-18aaad62dafe/, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1989/10/06/treasure-hunters-golden-moment/98812bc7-abc9-4b9f-abec-e51f5a97b811/, https://www.columbusmonthly.com/story/lifestyle/2014/10/21/treasure-hunt-on-high-seas/9315335007/, https://www.nytimes.com/1990/04/04/us/a-treasure-from-the-seas-but-whose.html, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1990/08/15/the-law-of-finders-keepers/716ca9f2-6c80-4410-bb06-4a66000a4582/, https://www.nytimes.com/1992/08/28/us/insurers-to-share-shipwreck-s-gold.html, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1993/03/23/sunken-treasure-bounty-to-be-shared-with-heirs/a1ae96c9-d9c9-4e46-843e-bafda4071c88/, and especially this 1993 story, which alludes to and quotes some of the massive contemporaneous press coverage: https://www.dailypress.com/news/dp-xpm-19930627-1993-06-27-9306270057-story.html. A big story on the find in the March 1992 issue of then-ubiquitous Life magazine isn't available online, but I got it from the library.
This writing will attempt to tease out various indications that Littlefinger's story has something to do with this famous story of shipwreck and lost treasure. I figure I'll start with two bits of low-hanging fruit.
Ships Sinking In Storms
Here's the first line of a big March 1992 Life magazine feature on The Ship of Gold titled "The Greatest Treasure Ever Found". It opens with the tale of the Ship of Gold sinking in a storm in the fall of 1857:A week out of Panama, on her 44th trip to New York, the Central America rounded the Flordia Keys and ran smack in to a horrendous hurricane.Isn't curious, then, that there's a "throwaway" line in ASOS Tyrion VI in which Tyrion wishes that Littlefinger's ship would "r[u]n into a storm at sea and s[i]nk"?
He wondered if Petyr Baelish had reached the Vale yet. If the gods are good, he ran into a storm at sea and sank. But when had the gods ever been especially good?Especially when Littlefinger's Merling King is (as I argued in my main post discussing the Hoare sigil) a kind of "Ship of Gold", in that it transports "Arbor Gold" to the Vale.
Ship Insurance & Wreckers
If any one thing makes me truly believe that GRRM has written ASOIAF with the Ship of Gold saga in mind, it's that ADWD "just so happens" to foreground two seemingly obscure notions, both of which are absolutely central elements of the "Ship of Gold" saga: (1) ship's insurance and (2) "wreckers" who recover the wealth of shipwrecks.The headline-making lawsuits about the Ship of Gold were all about a bunch of insurance companies — the heirs of the companies that sold ship's insurance related to the S.S. Central America — suing the plucky storybook-come-true treasure finders. The insurance companies were pretty thoroughly villainized in the media.
In ADWD The Ugly Little Girl, Arya kills a man who insures ship's cargos but doesn't pay off when a shipwreck happens, and in ADWD Tyrion VII it's mentioned that "Vogarro's whore" (sounds like Hoare!) — a fabulously wealthy woman of low-birth whose business operations seem as variegated as those of the poor-boy-made-good Littlefinger — "insured shipowners". What a strange thing to repeatedly bring up in a fantasy novel… unless you're riffing on a real-life story that involved ship's insurance.
Also in ADWD — in Davos I — Davos visits the "robber lord and wrecker" Lord Borrell in Sisteron on Sweetsister. The entire story of the Ship of Gold was triggered, of course, by a wrecker (in the more benign sense of "a person or vessel employed in recovering salvage from wrecked or disabled vessels"), Thompson, finding the wreck of all wrecks. To the insurance companies, of course, he was a "robber", but to most of the public, the insurance companies challenging Thompson's claim in court were, in effect, "robber lords".
It's worth nothing that GRRM paints both the wreckers—
The beacons that burned along the shores of the Three Sisters were supposed to warn of shoals and reefs and rocks and lead the way to safety, but on stormy nights and foggy ones, some Sistermen would use false lights to draw unwary captains to their doom. (ADWD Davos I)—and insurers—
"He is writing each a binder. If their ships are lost in a storm or taken by pirates, he promises to pay them for the value of the vessel and all its contents." … "No doubt many a captain sinking in a storm has taken some small solace in his binder back in Braavos, knowing that his widow and children will not want." A sad smile touched his lips. "It is one thing to write such a binder, though, and another to make good on it." (ADWD The Ugly Little Girl)—as shady operators. Like Littlefinger, then.
Pirates! Littlefingerian Pirates!
Two hundred miles off the Carolina coast, on the eastern edge of the Gulf Stream (they will tell you this much, but no more, for even in the 1990s they worry about pirates)… (Life Magazine "The Greatest Treasure Ever Found")The colorful media coverage often mentioned potential piracy — recall that "the ironborn are a race of pirates and thieves" (ASOS Samwell V) — both literal (in terms of competing salvage teams trying to loot the wreck after it was located) and more figurative, i.e. of a type that "rhymes" with the type of pen-and-ink-and-bullshit "war" Littlefinger likes to conduct:
Now that they'd rescued the treasure, the explorers were taking no chances — potential pirates lurked at every turn.When courts found in favor of the insurance companies, it was not a popular decision, and these legal "heirs" were denounced as "pirates":
By now, however, they felt that "pirates" of another sort — not with swords and eye patches, but with ties and legal briefs — posed the real threat. (Newport News Daily Press June 26, 1993 "Tarnished Treasure", linked above)
Editorial writers across the country denounced the decision.Of course, from the perspective of the insurance companies and ultimately the courts (at least to a degree — see below), the real and far more literal pirate was Tommy Thompson. His group found the treasure, and he fought tooth and nail in court to keep it with no claim to title other than "finders keepers". From the perspective of the wealthy, powerful insurance establishment (and ultimately the legal establishment — at least technically), Thompsons's refusal to return any of the treasure to its legal "heirs" was itself something of an act of ironborn-ish piracy itself. (Think here about Littlefinger wrangling with the old money Vale establishment.)
"Ah, the ancient call of the open sea, in the days when men were men and Blackbeard sailed the bounding main!" the Oakland Tribune wrote. "Alas, there are landlubbing pirates afoot these days who would make Captain Hook look limp-hooked. They are called lawyers and insurers."
Another editorial writer saw the insurance lawyers as "pirates in pinstripes." (ibid.)
(Interestingly, one of the insurance companies' public-facing lawyers arguing in 1991 that her clients had never abandoned the treasure nor their claims to it — Thompson's side was arguing they had de facto abandoned it, making it up for grabs — was named… Marylyn Little. [See: Lyn Corbray & Littlefinger.] Is it possible GRRM read or saw her quoted on some TV news report about the affair, and thus that her name had some inspirational role? Doubtful, but tantalizing.)
I think GRRM wrote Littlefinger (in part) with both parties to the conflict over the Ship of Gold in mind. The insurance companies were fighting for the rights of "heirs" using lawyerly "piracy" (piracy being synonomous with the ironborn), and Hoare-y Littlefinger sees himself as heir to multiple legacies and fights to regain them using similar pen-and-ink-and-bullshit. At the same time, Thompson was selling himself as the romantic figure Littlefinger longed to be as a child (when he played at being the Prince of Dragonflies) and more than a bit of a pirate himself (and that's before more recent developments), and Littlefinger was written with him in mind, too.
While Hoare-y Littlefinger adopts something like the legalistic tactics of the "pirates in pinstripes" denounced by the media, his story "rhymes" in a slew of way with that of the treasure-finder, Tommy Thompson, as it was told in the media at the time.
Abandoned Treasure, Abandoned Castle
Thompson based his entire claim to the treasure on the fact that the insurance companies had demonstrably "abandoned" their claims to it. How does Littlefinger come to be Lord of Harrenhal, ancestral seat of House Hoare? Lady Whent abandoned it. (In multiple senses, actually.)Lady Whent had held the castle as bannerman to House Tully, but she'd used only the lower thirds of two of the five towers, and let the rest go to ruin. Now she was fled… (ACOK Arya VII)
Finders Keepers & Squatter's Rights
Reporting on the court battle over Thompson's find universally made reference to the principle of "finders keepers" following the initial lower court ruling in Thompson's favor. "Finders keepers" seems in a way analogous to Littlefinger's strategy vis-a-vis the Eyrie. He's essentially trying to take it using something that's not far removed from squatter's rights: having gotten his toe in the door at the previous owner's invitation, he subsequently refuses to leave. It's very close to "I found it, it's mine."Not Without A Fight
Where Thompson refused to give up the treasure he'd found to the insurance companies without a fight—Thompson… wasn't about to fling his hard-earned gold to the whims of the sea. He was going to fight. ("Tarnished Treasure")—Littlefinger found his "treasure", Cat—
There was a time when Cat was all I wanted in this world. I dared to dream of the life we might make and the children she would give me . . . but she was a daughter of Riverrun, and Hoster Tully. Family, Duty, Honor, Sansa. Family, Duty, Honor meant I could never have her hand. But she gave me something finer, a gift a woman can give but once. (ASOS Sansa V)—and refused to give her up to the scion of a much more powerful House without a fight. Nor, like Thompson in court, did he give up when hard-pressed by a seemingly superior, wealthy and powerful foe:
"Yield!" [Brandon] called, more than once, but Petyr would only shake his head and fight on, grimly. (AGOT Catelyn VII)
Battle Scars
Littlefinger was scarred in his fight with Brandon:"I had to beg Brandon to spare Petyr's life. He let him off with a scar." -Catelyn (AGOT Catelyn IV)The lengthy, pirate-heavy, 1993 newspaper account of the story I've been quoting said this of Thompson:
As yet another court date approaches, Thompson admits to battle scars.(Given the way Thompson's PR machine worked, it's likely this was a narrative actively sold by Thompson, and thus something that may have been repeated in TV news and magazine show accounts and in other news and print magazine stories not easily accessible.)
Losing the Battle, Winning the War
Littlefinger lost his duel to Brandon, but (I believe) ultimately "won the war" by baiting Brandon into riding to his death in King's Landing and by subsequently leveraging Lysa's love into his current situation.Thompson's 1992 and 1993 legal "losses" to the insurance companies claiming the gold he found was theirs was analogous: While the Court of Appeals technically overruled a lower court and sided with the insurance companies, it also stipulated that Thompson's group should still "receive by far the largest share of the treasure" and sent the case back for a lower court to determine the amount. In November 1993 an Admiralty court ruled that Thompson would get at least 90%. The ruling was upheld by the US Court of Appeals in June 1995 (long before GRRM finished writing AGOT in mid-1996) — one headline read "Finders, (Mostly) Keepers" — and the Supreme Court turned down a further appeal that October, definitively rendering the insurance companies' initial court victory pyrrhic and seemingly making Thompson, like Littlefinger, the ultimate winner.
Nerds vs. Cowboys, A Letter Writer vs. Knights
From early on the narrative sold to the world by Thompson using Ken Ringle of The Washington Post and the Post's wire service—Onto the scene… sailed… a low-profile shipload of computer-happy technocrats from Columbus, Ohio. In the ocean cowboy world of treasure hunters, their success story reads like the script for "Revenge of the Nerds." (Washington Post - 9.14.1989 - 'STORYBOOK TREASURE' FOUND OFF SOUTH CAROLINA)—is notably reminiscent of the story of Littlefinger transcending his provinical origins, his defeat by macho thug Brandon, and his exile to the Fingers at the hands of the knight and village-razer Hoster Tully to rise high using his wits in a world dominated by might and the sword.
Defiance, Ohio & The Middle Finger
Littlefinger was of "undistinguished birth, one step up from a hedge knight", "a boy born heir to stones and sheep pellets" from a provincial backwater call "The Fingers". (ACOK Tyrion IV; ASOS Sansa VI) He's from "the the smallest of the Fingers", which a look at the map suggests is in the same position as the middle finger (noting the "thumb" nub to the north) and which I suspect we'll learn is called "the Middle Finger". Why? Because as we read in press accout after press account, Thompson, who couldn't read until third grade, who flunked math and science tests in high school in high school, and who graduated from an unheralded midwestern state school where he was the only engineering student studying ocean engineering — i.e. who at least superficially had what we might call an "undistinguished" background before finding what was heralded as the greatest lost treasure ever — grew up in the tiny, rural backwater of Defiance, Ohio. Get it? Middle Finger. Defiance.(After first writing the foregoing paragraph a couple months ago, I realized that the "Journeys" map in the GRRM-approved Lands of Ice & Fire" set confirms that the "middle finger" I suspected was Littlefinger's *is indeed where his tower is located.)
(See also Littlefinger defying Brandon telling him to yield, defying the Vale lords, etc.)
Clever, Young, Creative Gold-Finders
Early press accounts described Thompson in terms that are in many ways positively Littlefingerian: As a child, Thompson had been "a precocious boy". He built a working telephone when he was 8. Life began its profile of Thompson like this:Tommy Thompson wasn't like other boys growing up in Defiance, Ohio, in the 1960s. While his classmates were off slugging baseballs and imagining themselves to be Ted Williams [see: Brandon the "jock"], "Tommy was always dragging home neighbors' junk from the alley — old TVs, radios, motors — and coming up with new inventions," remembers his sister Sandee Butterworth [shades of Butterwell, whose tourney in The Mystery Knight "rhymes" deeply with Littlefinger's upcoming tourney at the Gates of the Moon]. But this wasn't just another post-Sputnik nerd in the making.Now lauded by his investors as "a great intellect" and "one of the smartest guys I ever met", he was part of a group of "young entrepreneurs", and he and the team he put together showed "creativity and entrepreneurship aplenty" to "far outrun" older, competing salvage firms and find the lost Ship of God.
All that seems quite Littlefingerian:
"I knew he would rise high," Catelyn said. "He was always clever, even as a boy…" (AGOT Catelyn IV)(Both Tullys speak of him "rising high". Obviously this foreshadows him taking over the Eyrie, per its height and the Arryns' words "As High As Honor", but "rising high" could also be seen as the inverse of diving deep, which Thompson had to do to find the wreck of the Ship of Gold on the deep sea floor, 8000 feet down.)
[Lysa:] "My father said he was too lowborn, but I knew how high he'd rise. Jon gave him the customs for Gulltown to please me, but when he increased the incomes tenfold my lord husband saw how clever he was and gave him other appointments, even brought him to King's Landing to be master of coin." (ASOS Sansa VI)
[Littlefinger] moved his own men into place. … They were men of middling birth, by and large… but judging from their results, far more able than their highborn predecessors. (ACOK Tyrion IV)
But the most obvious "rhyme" between Thompson and Littlefinger is that Thompson achieved fame because he found a bunch of gold. And Littlefinger? Same.
Littlefinger was… [a] clever… man, …always able to find[!] whatever gold the king or his Hand required… (ACOK IV)
"The master of coin finds[!] the money." -Littlefinger (AGOT Eddard IV)
Littlefinger had been more use at court. He had a gift for finding[!] gold… (AFFC Cersei IV)
Romantic Dreamers
There was another angle to much of the coverage of Thompson, though. In addition to being a clever child, he was portrayed as a dreamer. The next sentence of above-quoted Life magazine profile pivoted from his childhood capacity for invention to his childhood imagination:Though land-locked, Tommy and his buddy Barry Schatz often dreamed together about sea adventures, about the mysteries of what might be found on the floor of the ocean.A 1993 piece painted Thompson's desire to get fucking rich as product of a boyhood "love of the sea" that included visions of "scouring sunken ships" for "aging artifacts . . . perhaps even treasure".
This compares to Littlefinger playing at the Prince of Dragonflies:
"We're all just songs in the end. If we are lucky." She had played at being Jenny that day, had even wound flowers in her hair. And Petyr had pretended to be her Prince of Dragonflies. Catelyn could not have been more than twelve, Petyr just a boy. (ASOS Catelyn V)
Littlefinger & Thompson Do P.R.
In fact, Thompson waged a massively successful, "carefully crafted high-profile media campaign" to plant stories like this and garner coverage that painted him as a romantic hero fighting for the little guy. As Forbes put it much later:Thompson always controlled the information flow. (Forbes "Ship of Fools")Consider in this regard Thompson's quote in the wake of the US Court of Appeals decision finding for the insurance companies:
"Only through our efforts has the lost legend of the S.S. Central America been rediscovered, the treasure-hunting group's founder, Thomas G. Thompson, said in a statement. "It saddens me to think it could be possible that a group of the largest insurance companies in the world could be awarded the treasure we worked so hard to find and recover." (https://www.nytimes.com/1992/08/28/us/insurers-to-share-shipwreck-s-gold.html)Littlefinger is a little guy who plays at the romantic idea of being the Prince of Dragonflies and who jokes about cultivating a dastardly image while being a romantic using language reminiscent of Thompson's, above:
Petyr Baelish smiled. "I am desperately sentimental, sweet lady. Best not tell anyone. I have spent years convincing the court that I am wicked and cruel, and I should hate to see all that hard work go for naught." (AGOT Eddard IV)But Littlefinger is acutely aware of the importance of public perception as Thompson was when he waged his successful PR campaign to paint his salvage mission as the fulfillment of romantic childhood dreams and fantasies about "scouring sunken ships" for "aging artifacts . . . perhaps even treasure". To wit, recall that he advises Cersei to launch what is in effect a P.R./media campaign regarding the rumors of her incest:
Petyr Baelish steepled his fingers. "If we attempt to silence this talk, we only lend it credence. Better to treat it with contempt, like the pathetic lie it is. And meantime, fight fire with fire. … A tale of somewhat the same nature, perhaps. … [If] we put it about that her daughter is baseborn and Stannis a cuckold, well . . . the smallfolk are always eager to believe the worst of their lords, particularly those as stern, sour, and prickly proud as Stannis Baratheon." (ACOK Tyrion III)
Littlefinger & Thompson: Master Jugglers. (Also: Swan? Again?)
In one anecdote, Thompson talks about how as a kid he built a lawn mower with four engines that pulled "three rotary mowers": "The problem was keeping all four engines running at once." [said Thompson] (https://www.columbusmonthly.com/story/lifestyle/2014/10/21/treasure-hunt-on-high-seas/9315335007/)Keeping a bunch of engines driving whirling blades all running at once? I can't help but think of this:
A master juggler was Petyr Baelish. (ACOK Tyrion IV)—coupled with this:
A juggler kept a half-dozen swords and axes whirling through the air as skewers of blood sausage were brought sizzling to the tables, a juxtaposition that Tyrion thought passing clever, though not perhaps in the best of taste. (ASOS Tyrion VIII)Especially because of the lines immediately preceding that last Tyrion quote:
"Then came some strolling pipers and clever dogs and sword swallowers, with buttered pease, chopped nuts, and slivers of swan poached in a sauce of saffron and peaches. ("Not swan again," Tyrion muttered, remembering his supper with his sister on the eve of battle.) (ASOS Tyrion VIII)Why is Tyrion expressing that he's sick of eating swan interesting to me? Because one of the Thompson's other favorite PR-tested anecdotes was to talk about one of the hardships he'd endured while looking for the Ship of Gold: at one point having to eat fried chicken for every single meal for weeks on end. "Not chicken again" could've been his motto.
Tinkerer & Tinkers
Another big PR talking point (we can infer) was that Thompson had always been a "tinkerer". A single 1989 profile quoted him as saying "I was always a tinkerer", talked about the remaining gold waiting for him "to come back and start tinkering again", and finally referred to him as "the inveterate tinkerer".There's only one use of anything like that term in the ASOIAF canon, and it's smack in the middle of a passage—
In Volantis he had seen the galleys taking on provisions. The whole city had seemed drunk. Sailors and soldiers and tinkers[!] had been observed dancing in the streets with nobles and fat merchants, and in every inn and winesink cups were being raised to the new triarchs. All the talk had been of the gold and gems and slaves that would flood into Volantis once the dragon queen was dead. One day of such reports was all that Victarion Greyjoy could stomach; he paid the gold price for food and water, though it shamed him, and took his ships back out to sea. (ADWD The Iron Suitor)—that describes a scene suspiciously akin to the celebration when Thompson's salvage ship returned to port with the first load of gold from the Ship of Gold, as reported in that same magazine profile on Thompson that called him a tinkerer three times and also by The Washington Post.
The "nobles and fat merchants" who seemed drunk and who were "dancing in the streets" seem like a riff on the "cheering crowd of [Thompson's] financial backers" who were there waiting for him when his crew returned to port in 1989 — "some of Central Ohio's wealthiest citizens gathered to clap their hands".
Where Victarion thinks "the whole city… seemed drunk", it seems like "the whole city" of Norfolk turned out to greet Thompson and company: we read about a "cheering crowd", a "brass-band welcome" from a local high school band, police, federal marshals, and a media circus. The WaPo article includes an anecdote which seems like grist for GRRM's description of Volantis:
Genevieve Gross of North Olmsted, Ohio, the great-great-niece of Alvin Ellis, one of the 423 passengers lost on the Central America, thanked the city of Norfolk for its kindness to Ellis's widow when she was put ashore here with other survivors without a penny to her name. The city showered her with food and clothing, Gross said, the hotel where she landed waived her bill, and the innkeeper presented her with more than $700 in gold to help her when she left.It's almost as if "the whole city had [been] drunk".
Immediately before Victarion describes Volantis, drunk on talk of the gold that would soon "flood into" town (an approriate term if this is indeed a wink at the Ship of Gold coverage!), he declares in response to Wulfe's proposal that "another day [delay] might mean more another ship" to add to the fleet:
"Aye. And ten days might mean ten ships, or none at all. We have squandered too many days waiting on the sight of sails. Our victory will be that much the sweeter if we win it with a smaller fleet."It just so happens that the WaPo piece about the cheering welcome party for Thompson talks of a similar number of days "squandered":
The group lost more than a week of operational work to Hurricane Hugo…And Victarion's logic (a "sweeter" victory "with a smaller fleet") mirrors that of Thompson, who did what he did as a small, upstart firm, outracing other, far larger, established salvage firms to find the Central America with his single ship.
All that, right in the one and only spot where GRRM uses "tinker" — a key motif in Thompson's carefully crafted, PR-deployed myth-making.
Low-Profile Whiz Kids!
The lede of The Washington Post's PR-engineered July 18, 1987 story breaking the news of the find ("TREASURE HUNTERS CLAIM $450 MILLION SHPWRECK") spoke in breathless terms about the nous of Thompson's team:A partnership of low-profile treasure hunters, operating on the outer edge of ocean engineering technology, has laid claim to what it believes to be one of America's most historic shipwrecks, a paddle-wheel steamer sunk in 1857 with some $450 million in gold coins from the California Gold Rush.Again there's an echo of Littlefinger's supposed brilliance here. "The outer edge of ocean engineering technology!" Golly, it's practically magic!
And then there's the "low-profile" bit. In a lot of ways this recalls Tyrion's description of Littlefinger skating by, under everybody's radar:
No one had ever thought to question the appointments, and why should they? Littlefinger was no threat to anyone. A clever, smiling, genial man, everyone's friend, always able to find whatever gold the king or his Hand required, and yet of such undistinguished birth, one step up from a hedge knight, he was not a man to fear. He had no banners to call, no army of retainers, no great stronghold, no holdings to speak of, no prospects of a great marriage. (ACOK Tyrion IV)
Mud
The same article described the location in which the Ship of Gold was found as "a vast, virtually featureless undersea mud flat".It's worth nothing that Littlefinger has a curious association with mud:
[Catelyn] remembered making mud pies with Lysa, the weight of them, the mud slick and brown between her fingers. They had served them to Littlefinger, giggling, and he'd eaten so much mud he was sick for a week. How young they all had been. (AGOT Catelyn V)Could that be a wink? It certainly seems like a metaphor for Littlefinger's greed, which would fit.
Star Trek! The Wizard of Oz!
When the same WaPo shill/reporter wrote another feature on September 14, 1989 after being granted exclusive access to Thompson's salvage ship when it began recovery operations, the language was exactly the kind of stuff that would attract a nerd like GRRM's attention. I already quoted the "Revenge of the Nerds" language. There's also a Star Trek reference:It is driven from a control room in the bowels of this vessel, which, with its blinking monitors, glowing dials and multiple computer keyboards, could double for the cockpit of the starship Enterprise.(The 1992 Life story doubles up on the Star Trek bit, making me think this was another heavily manufactured angle. Thompson's ship is said to have "workmanlike gray decks" but "Stark Trek guts" containing "a wondrous world of technology".)
We get a fantastic image of "a mechanical Victorian dowager at underwater tea", and a Wizard of Oz reference—
Working in a lightly silted area of the wreck they hadn't touched before, they used Nemo's water thrusters to blow away the underwater dust and suddenly saw what some aboard are already calling "the yellow brick road."—which prefigures ASOIAF referencing the Wicked Witch of the West/East when "Lady Olenna's nasty little smile" reminds Cersei of wicked witchy Maggi (from the Westerlands via Essos) while reminding us of a guy with an Olenna-esque "nasty grin" saying, improbably, "my pretties":
The third was armed only with a nasty grin. "And where are you lot bound, my pretties?" he asked. (TWOW Arianne II)All that language could have sucked GRRM in.
"Storybook Treasure In A Kid's Book"
The most obvious GRRM-bait and ASOIAF tie-in, though, is the story's headline — 'STORYBOOK TREASURE' FOUND OFF SOUTH CAROLINA — and Thompson being quoted saying:It's just like a storybook treasure in a kid's book.This was a practiced line. The 1992 Life feature seemingly quotes Thompson's apparently contemporanous description/log as the treasure was first being revealed by undersea camera like this:
The Central America looks truly like a storybook treasure.If "storybook treasure in a kid's book" doesn't raise hackles I don't know what would. Storybook stories a.k.a. "songs" are a constant touchstone in ASOIAF. ASOAIF's constant theme that real life is not a story—
The fat leather-bound volume was full of songs and stories from the Seven Kingdoms. Children's stories, if truth be told; too simple and fanciful to be true history. (ASOS Daenerys VI)—is famously exemplified by none other than Littlefinger:
"Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow." (AGOT Sansa III)Indeed, Littlefinger's lesson seems drawn straight out of the reporting on the Ship of Gold as it stood when GRRM went to write AGOT: The vaunted "storybook treasure" Thompson had found via much ballyhooed technological brilliance and claimed in the 1989 Post article could be worth "$1 billion" was reported in universal coverage of a key court ruling c. November 1993 to be worth only $21 million — almost $10 million less than the $30 million the same court ruling said had been spent to recover it.
Thus the finding and recovery of the "storybook treasure" looked, in the years AGOT was being written, to be a boondoggle.
I think GRRM almost "confirms" that the Ship of Gold affair (as it stood c. 1995) inspired him via Jon's story in AGOT. Jon gets to the Wall and is told that life there isn't like "the stories your wet nurse told you" (i.e. stories "in a kid's book", in Thompson's words):
"Cold and hard and mean, that's the Wall, and the men who walk it. Not like the stories your wet nurse told you. Well, piss on the stories and piss on your wet nurse." -Donal Noye (AGOT Jon III)And then, before AGOT is through, he learns, of all things, that "digging for buried treasure" (a la Thompson's search for sunken treasure) refers not to a child's romantic notion of an adventure but rather to the sordid fact of fucking "whores" in a hole in the ground:
On the Wall, he'd heard men call the whores "buried treasures." He wondered whether any of his brothers in black were down there tonight, mining. (AGOT Jon IX)Of course, the fact that "whores" and thus Hoares have just been conflated with buried treasure rather tends to support the idea that the Hoare sigil's gold ship is indeed a reference to the sunken treasure of the Ship of Gold.
"You know where I'd be if it was me? I'd be in Mole's Town, digging for buried treasure." Toad's shrill laughter boomed through the trees. Jon's mare snorted. (AGOT Jon IX)
The Smell of Bullshit Begins
Backing up, on October 6 1989, the WaPo ran a follow-up piece on the return of Thompson's salvage ship to port in Norfolk called "TREASURE HUNTERS' GOLDEN MOMENT", covering the massive press events Thompson's PR people organized. It's easy to read it and see how GRRM may have begun to view the supposed heroes of a children's story come to life as possibly at least slightly full of shit. (A la Littlefinger.)This gem comes near the beginning:
Citing scientific and technological byproducts of the group's successful search for the U.S. Mail Ship Central America and its cargo from the California gold rush, Thompson told a cheering crowd of his financial backers that "we learned there are many kinds of treasure, and that's the best discovery of all."It's possible that Thompson's unbelievebly cheesy, afterschool special-assed quote — was he really talking about "scientific… byproducts" or was he talking about "the real treasure being the friends we made along the way"? — didn't inspire GRRM to write the following exchange in which Littlefinger basically mocks such schlocky notions of "treaure":
Ned believed not a word of that, but he kept his voice polite as he said, "You have my thanks as well, Lord Baelish."But I wouldn't bet on it. If GRRM read this shit or watched TV coverage, he would've seen right through Thompson's claims to altruism. Obviously the "best discovery of all" was the literal fucking treasure, not whatever high-minded crap they were trying to peddle to seem like they weren't motivated by greed. (And oh my god was a skeptical outlook vindicted in the coming decades. But that's another story.)
"Oh, now there's a treasure," Littlefinger said, exiting. (AGOT Eddard IV)
Maybe Thompson's line about other kinds of treasure didn't inspire GRRM to have (ironborn, possible Hoare) Mance say this—
"And she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me." (ASOS Jon I)—and, having thus equated a "gift" from a woman with "treasure", to have our boy Littlefinger talk about the another "kind of treasure" that he clearly does relish:
"There was a time when Cat was all I wanted in this world. I dared to dream of the life we might make and the children she would give me . . . but she was a daughter of Riverrun, and Hoster Tully. Family, Duty, Honor, Sansa. Family, Duty, Honor meant I could never have her hand. But she gave me something finer, a gift a woman can give but once. How could I turn my back upon her daughter? (ASOS Sansa V)But it could have. Especially in conjunction with e.g. the 1992 Life "story"/P.R.-release, which was literally called "The Greatest Treasure Ever Found".
(Notice what Littlefinger is doing in that passage. He is almost certainly bullshitting the hell out of Sansa. He wants to use Sansa, and he wants to fuck her. He's like Thompson, talking about how great the scientific advancements are and acting like the story isn't that he maybe just made a billion dollars.)
The article closes with more saccharine schmaltz from one of Thompson's junior partners… and Thompson doing something very, very familiar to ASOIAF readers:
Thompson stroked his curly beard, grinned and mused in his laconic fashion: "We hope to be rich." Evans, however, said it wasn't that simple. "There are so many things of value produced by an expedition like this," the historian said. "To me it's become a kind of celebration of American ideals -- free enterprise, hard work and the exploration of a frontier. "And in that way," he said with a smile, "we're already rich."
CONTINUED IN OLDEST REPLY, HERE
2023.04.23 15:43 mediamusing I would never have survived the worst day of my life if not for my best friend...
I have been in hiding all through Summer Recess. I am afraid for my life.
All because two months ago I had a very, very bad day.
That morning I awoke to find every girlfriend I’ve ever had lined up dead on my living room floor.
Grace Keele, first in the row. I hadn’t seen Grace since primary school.
Rabia Sahni, second in the row. Rabia was the first girl I ever kissed. Sarah Finnegan, third in the row. I’d never watch Sarah smash a forehand winner again.
Patricia Kotzen, fourth. She was supposed to be living it up in Barcelona. And finally, India Evans. Four days ago India was alive.
Who could have done this? Was it me?
No. I could never do something so horrifying, so despicable.
Did I call the police?
Let’s face it, they’d never have believed I didn't do this.
Run. It was my only choice, my only chance.
Or so I thought.
*
Half an hour later and I'd made it to Alex's house. Somehow I’d managed to stay calm on the way over but, as soon as I reached Alex’s front door, I lost it.
Me: “Alex! Let me in!”
I could hear Alex through the door, even whilst I was hammering my fist against it.
Alex: “Hold on, I’m coming!”
I barged into her hallway the instant the door was open.
Alex was like me, a postgrad. One of the few people still around during the summer. She struck quite the note with her psychedelic-red hair and pinstripe pyjamas.
Alex: “What the hell is going—”
Me: “They’re dead, Alex. All of them. Jesus, Grace Keele must have been eleven the last time—”
Alex slammed her hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid sentence.
Alex: “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I did so.
Alex: “Now, slowly. Why are you ranting and raving in my hallway at nine o’clock in the morning?”
Me: “Because I came downstairs this morning and every girlfriend I’ve ever had was lined up dead in my living room."
Alex let out a tired sigh.
Alex: “Come with me.”
Calmly, Alex led me into the kitchen. She sat me down at the table and poured me a glass of water.
Alex: “Drink this.”
I took a sip as Alex sat opposite me and looked me in the eye.
Alex: “Where were you last night? What did you take?”
I stared back at her, dumbfounded.
I was about to protest when there was a sharp knock at the front door. Alex got up to answer it.
Me: “No, don’t answer, it could be the police.”
Alex: “Relax, it’ll be a delivery. They always come at this time. Drink the rest of your water.”
I took another sip as Alex went to answer the door.
Eventually, Alex came back with an A4 envelope and a confused expression.
Alex: “It’s addressed to you ...”
She handed it to me.
Alex: “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Tentatively, I did so.
Me: “No …”
I was holding a large photo of Grace Keele. Not as I remembered her from primary school, but dressed in smart office wear. I dropped the envelope and photo to the table.
Alex reached over and picked the photo up.
Alex: “Who is it?”
Me: “Grace Keele. Before this morning I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen her in years. She's dead, Alex. In my house. This photo must be from her killer.”
Alex gave me a hard stare.
Alex: “Is this some sort of sick joke?”
Me: “No, all of my exes, they're dead in my living room. Just like I told you.”
Alex lowered the photo to the table. She picked up the envelope.
Alex: “There’s something else in here.”
Alex pulled a vandalised graduation photo depicting me without a face from the envelope, and then a letter. Alex cringed at the picture and then read the letter aloud. I'll type it out for you below:
Alex: “So it's true. My God … those poor women. We need to call the police.”
Alex was right of course, not that I listened.
Me: “No, we can’t call the police.”
Alex: “There are five dead bodies in your living room and some lunatic is mailing you psychobabble. We have to call the police.”
Me: “Wait. Just let me think … The delivery man. What did he look like?”
Alex: “I don’t know, some middle-aged guy. It’s the same guy we always have.”
Me: “The killer knew I’d be here …”
Alex: “What?”
Me: “The killer knew I’d leave the bodies and come here, knew I wouldn’t call the police.”
Alex: “So what? We need to call them now.”
Me: “No, I think we need to do as the letter says.”
Alex: “Are you crazy?”
Me: “Alex, I didn’t report the murders straight away, I split up with India after a blazing row four days ago. You know how it’s going to look if we call the police.”
Alex: “But we have this letter. The letter proves you didn’t do anything.”
Me: “A typed letter. I could have typed the letter, I could have printed the photos. I could have posted them all to make it look like I was innocent. They prove nothing.”
Alex: “So what? You’re just going to do as this psychopath says?”
Me: “For now, yes.”
Alex: “And how will publicly humiliating yourself help the situation?”
Me: “If I play along I might be able to work out who did this, catch them out.”
Alex: “I really, really think we should call the police.”
Me: “Let’s just buy ourselves some time. Time to think.”
Alex was giving me a dark look.
Me: “It’s just one little photo …”
*
A few minutes later I was standing in the middle of Alex's room, naked. I had to do it. If the killer was threatening to do what I thought they were threatening to do, then I couldn’t risk going against their will.
That was my thinking anyway. I grabbed my phone and raised my arm to take a photo.
It's a very particular kind of horror being forced to expose yourself online against your will. I shudder when I think of that image as the last thing so many people I know, and that I don't know, saw of me. And before anyone asks in the comments, no, I'm not going to post the photo here.
I heard Alex yell at me through the bedroom door.
Alex: “Have you done it yet?”
I lowered the phone.
Me: “No! And I’m not going to be able to with you shouting at me!”
Alex: “Sorry …”
It wasn't any fun, but I did it.
Then I got dressed and went out into the hallway.
Me: “Done.”
Alex: “And you posted it to all of your accounts?”
Me: “Everything except my Facebook. I lost the login for that months ago.”
Alex: “Okay. I still think we should have called the police though.”
Me: “We will eventually, but now we have some time to think.”
Alex: “I’ve already been thinking. How is this situation even possible? Five dead women, how did the killer get them into your house without you knowing?”
Me: “I don’t know, there was no sign of a break in.”
Alex: “Did you hear anything during the night?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Alex: “Your ex-housemates then? They might still have keys.”
Me: “Three undergrads I hardly know. Why would any one of them do this?”
Alex: “Well, who else could be responsible? Do you have any enemies?”
Me: “Not that I can think of.”
Alex: “Do your parents have any enemies?”
Me: “They own a bakery, Alex. Why would they have any enemies?”
Alex: “Don’t speak to me like that, I’m only trying to help.”
Me: “Sorry, Alex. It’s just, I have no idea who could be doing this.”
Alex's phone pinged. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.
Alex: “Bloody hell. Your little photo has lit up my social media.”
I felt my cheeks flushing.
Me: “Some moderator will take it down soon enough.”
Then my phone pinged. I pulled it from my pocket and worked the screen.
Me: “I have an email. I think it’s from …”
Alex pocketed her phone as I opened the email and read the message aloud:
I opened it. Rabia was wearing a bridesmaids dress, a wedding reception in full swing behind her.
Alex: “Let me see.”
I passed Alex my phone.
Alex: “This is Rabia Sahni?”
Me: “Yes. I went out with her for a bit in secondary school.”
Alex: “She's beautiful. And she had her whole life ahead of her …”
Rabia’s loss weighed heavily in the air.
Alex lowered my phone.
Alex: “Posting the photo has helped though. Now we have this email, the police will be able to get an IP address, it’s time to—”
Me: “Alex, no.”
Alex gave me a dark look.
Alex: “You can’t be serious?”
Me: “Look, we’re learning more about this sicko with every message they send. It’s someone who knows me and my past intimately, it’s someone who feels I need to learn certain lessons.”
Alex: “So who is it then?”
Me: “I don’t know. I need more time to work it out.”
Alex: “And you’re going to buy that time by mutilating yourself?”
Me: “If I have to, yes.”
Alex: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re an idiot. A total bloody idiot.”
Alex shoved my phone into my chest and then barged past me into her bedroom.
I stayed in the hallway, thinking. I had to get Alex on board. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the danger she might be in.
I decided to follow Alex into her bedroom and try and talk her round some other way.
Inside her room Alex was sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. She didn't acknowledge me as I entered.
Me: “The ear thing worked out okay for Van Gogh.”
Alex: “Van Gogh killed himself after years spent penniless, ill and alone. He wasn’t appreciated until after his death. Your supervisor would be appalled that you didn't know that.”
Me: “We're studying a rare Patrice Trezeguet. Cubism was after van Gogh.”
Alex said nothing.
Me: “I’ll only cut a tiny bit off. Just enough to make my face bloody. I’ll patch myself up and then I’ll go to the churchyard.”
Alex stayed quiet.
Me: “The killer must be watching the grave. They must be someone I know, I’ll recognise them. We can call the police once we have a name.”
Still she said nothing.
Me: “Trust me, Alex.”
Me: “Please.”
Finally, Alex let out a long sigh.
Alex: “I’ll go and get the first aid kit. You’ll only botch it and end up bleeding to death if I let you do it on your own.”
*
I decided that the bathroom would be the best place to perform amateur surgery. Now, as anyone who has ever been to college or university will know, student bathrooms are rarely shining examples of cleanliness and hygiene. Luckily, Alex kept a tidy ship.
I was standing topless in front of the mirror when she came in with the first-aid kit.
Me: “I think the earlobe would be best, it’s the softest part.”
Then I noticed what else Alex was carrying.
Me: “What are those things?”
Alex: “Poultry scissors. You’d recognise them if you ever cooked instead of living off takeaway.”
Me: “Are they sharp?”
Alex: “Extremely. I’ve disinfected them too.”
Alex passed me the scissors.
Me: “And you have everything we need to stop the bleeding?”
Alex: “I think so.”
I raised the scissors to my earlobe.
Me: “Here goes nothing.”
I told myself I wouldn't scream for Alex's sake. Turns out I am a liar.
God it hurt.
But you don't need to know all the gory details. Just understand that I did it, then I swore an obscene amount, then Alex patched me up and bandaged the side of my head.
*
Alex: “I have a question.”
We were back in Alex's kitchen, sitting at the table. I was still shirtless, holding a piece of gauze soaked in antiseptic to the side of my head.
Me: “What?”
Alex: “In the messages, the killer threatens to destroy what you love the most. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
Me: “No, but it doesn’t sound good.”
Told you I was a liar.
Alex: “And what about the other stuff, all your … character flaws. Is that stuff true?”
Me: “Even if it is, it doesn’t mean I deserve this. It certainly doesn’t mean that five women deserved to die. Whatever’s going on here is some sort of twisted overreaction. We just need a name. A name and then the police can take over.”
Alex nodded. She looked up at the kitchen clock.
Alex: “It's gone 11 o'clock. We should probably get you dressed and ready to go.”
Alex helped me pull on my shirt and, before long, I was standing in the hallway by her front door holding you-know-what in a big roll of tissue.
It seemed like I stood there for an age.
Alex: “If you’re having second thoughts it’s not too late to change your mind.”
Me: “We need a name or the police won’t believe a word I tell them.”
Alex: “Well, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Me: “The email said to come alone. Besides, you’re safer here. Remember, lock—”
Alex: “Yes, I know, lock the door and don’t let anyone in but you.”
Me: “Right. I better get going.”
Alex: “Wait.”
Alex stepped forward and hugged me, I hugged her back. It helped.
Alex: “Be safe. As soon as you know who it is, come straight back. Don’t try anything stupid.”
And with that I stepped out of Alex's house.
I heard the door close and the lock turn behind me.
I walked out of Alex's front garden and onto Oat Street, one of the main thoroughfares through the outskirts of the city. As I moved past rows of tightly packed student housing, takeaways and small businesses I was scrutinising every person I passed. And they were scrutinising me.
A woman with shopping bags, two kids on the other side of the road, a man in a suit; all of them stared at the bloody bandage wrapped around my head. Was that woman responsible? Did I recognise the guy in the suit?
I decided to rule out the tabby cat lazing in the sun atop a wall on the other side of the road.
As the church came into view a teenage boy and girl turned onto Oat Street and started walking in my direction. As they drew nearer they noticed my appearance.
Teenage Boy: “Mate, you might wanna check in with a mirror.”
The girl laughed. And then …
I tripped on a loose curb stone and dropped my roll of tissue.
My severed earlobe tumbled out across the path. It was a truly horrifying moment, and it all seemed to happen in slow motion.
Teenage Girl: “What the …”
I fumbled to retrieve the earlobe and re-wrap it in my role of tissue.
Teenage Boy: “You skanky bugger! What you gonna do with that? Eat it?”
With the teenagers creasing up, I hurried on.
Mortifying, but I doubted those kids had anything to do with the murders.
Eventually, I reached the churchyard and stepped through the painted gate.
I surveyed the area. The churchyard was well-tended but the grave stones were all stained black with pollution from the road. It seemed I was the only person present. Then I noticed the weathered green memorial bench tucked away in the corner.
I approached wondering whether the killer was watching me from somewhere else? There were buildings visible beyond the churchyard’s walls, but no person I could see watching from a window or rooftop. Then I noticed the small grave near the green bench.
I decided I might as well leave my little present. Try and buy some more time.
Next, I saw that there was a blank envelope lying on the grave. I swapped my roll of tissue for the envelope, opened it and read the letter inside.
My greatest fear was realised. The killer had worked out what I loved the most and, possibly even worse, had badly misread the situation.
Terrified, I dropped the letter to the ground and sprinted out of the churchyard.
I ran back down Oat Street as fast as I could.
As soon as I reached Alex's house I was hammering on the front door.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! Let me in!”
She wasn't answering.
Just as I was considering breaking in through a window, Alex finally unlocked the door and appeared. She was newly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I rushed inside.
Me: “Is everything okay? Why did you take so long to answer?”
Alex: “I was getting dressed. What happened out there? Why are you so freaked out?”
Me: “Nothing. I panicked is all.”
Alex: “Nothing? You didn’t see the killer?”
Me: “I don’t think so. Just a bunch of people going about their day.”
Alex: “Well, did any of them look suspicious?”
Me: “Not that I could tell.”
Alex: “And what about the church? The grave?”
Me: “I left my tissue roll there but the churchyard was empty. I didn’t see anybody.”
Alex: “Okay. It’s time to call the police.”
Me: “No, there’s still time to catch the killer out.”
Alex: “Five women are dead, they’ll be missed. Somebody has probably called the police already. There’s no point delaying any more.”
Me: “Alex, trust me. If we call the police it won’t end well for us.”
Alex: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just do.”
Alex gave me a questioning look.
Alex: “What happened out there?”
There was a heavy pause, and then my phone pinged.
Saved by the bell.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw that I had another email.
Me: “It’s the killer.”
Alex: “Read it to me.”
I started to read aloud:
Me: “They’re calling in the murders, I have to go.”
Alex: “Don't be an idiot. If the police catch you with the bodies and the murder weapon you’ll be screwed.”
Me: “I’ll be in and out before they get there.”
I turned towards the front door, but Alex grabbed my arm.
Alex: “You’re walking straight into a trap.”
Me: “Don't you think I know that? I have to go, you don’t understand.”
Alex: “Why don’t I understand? What aren’t you telling me?”
I broke free of Alex's grip.
Me: “There’s no time to explain right now. Just stay here. Don't let anyone in except me.”
And with that I rushed outside.
Alex slammed the door behind me.
*
I had no idea how much time I had to get to my house before anyone else arrived. But I knew it couldn’t be long.
Depending on exactly who the killer called, and on what they said, someone could be there in minutes. I've always known I can run but I can’t fight. I needed to be in and out before anything could go wrong. I sprinted hard.
Once I reached the scruffy little avenue that I lived on I stopped and, breathing heavily, surveyed the scene.
The avenue was silent, empty. I took a step forwards but my phone started to ring.
I pulled it from my pocket and examined the screen. The caller ID said “Home”. My parents. They’d probably heard about my photo, but there wasn’t any time to talk. I switched off and pocketed my phone.
Then, very cautiously, I approached my front door. I looked around the avenue one last time, turned the handle and pushed the door open. I hadn’t even bothered to lock it when I left.
The house was quiet. I crept along the hallway until I reached the living room door. It was closed. I never close the living room door, something was wrong. I opened the living room door and stepped inside. There were no dead bodies, the floor was bare.
Where were they? Had they got up and left? Had I imagined it all? Then, through the living room window, I saw a police car pull into my avenue.
It parked and two police officers, a man and a woman, stepped out.
It was the kind of horror where the floor feels like it's suddenly dropped away from you and your blood turns ice cold in your veins.
I rushed out of the living room and made straight for the kitchen before they could see me through the window. As soon as I knelt in front of the kitchen sink there was a loud knock at the front door and a raised voice.
Policeman: “This is the police. We received a distress call concerning this address.”
I rifled through the cupboard below the sink looking for the murder weapon.
I found it in the back corner behind a bottle of bleach: a vicious looking hunting knife. I heard the policeman speak again.
Policeman: “Your front door is unlocked, I’m coming in.”
I sprung upright and turned to look at the long hallway between the kitchen and the front door, the policeman was stepping inside. Then his radio went off.
Policewoman: “Bodies in the garden. Repeat, we have bodies in the garden.”
The second officer must have gone through the side gate into my garden. There was only one thing to do.
I charged at the policeman standing in my open doorway. He was a big guy, but I had the whole length of the hallway to pick up speed. I held the hunting knife out of the way and shoulder barged the policeman down onto the doorstep.
I just about managed to stay upright and used my momentum to leap over him.
Still holding the murder weapon I sprinted for an alleyway between two houses on the opposite side of my avenue. It had a chain link fence at the end of it, but I was up and over in a flash.
*
The next half an hour was spent taking back streets and side roads to Alex's house.
I even found a mankey old shirt to wrap the hunting knife in. There were still spots of blood on the blade and I really didn't want to be reminded of what the knife had taken from the world.
At last, I ended up in the alleyway behind Alex's back garden. I climbed a brick wall and dropped into her flowerbed. I brushed the soil from my knees and made my way to Alex’s back door.
I knocked harshly.
Me: “Alex! Open up!”
There was no answer so I tried the door. It opened.
I stepped inside.
I walked through the kitchen, everything was quiet.
Me: “Alex? Where are you?”
Still no answer so I stepped into the hallway.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! I’m back!”
Silence. Dread. Something was badly wrong.
Then a phone started to ring. That weird Brahms’ Hungarian Dance ringtone Alex showed me in the pub a couple of weeks ago. It was her phone. It was coming from the floor above so I raced up the stairs.
I followed the sound into Alex's bedroom. Alex's phone was on her bed, still ringing.
The caller ID was “UNKNOWN CALLER”. I answered.
Me: “What have you done with Alex?”
The eerie voice on the other end was distorted somehow. I couldn't tell who I was speaking to.
Caller: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about telling tales.”
Me: “Where is Alex? Your graveyard letter said you wouldn’t hurt her if I did what you said.”
Caller: “What you love the most is perfectly well, but I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear if you don’t calm down.”
Me: “Okay, just don’t – don’t hurt her. Please.”
Caller: “Good boy. Now, you’re going to come to the university campus, to the Humanities building. Your next task is waiting for you on the roof.”
Me: “But all that way, what if the police—”
Caller: “No dawdling. Be there by 5pm. You know what will happen to Alex if you defy me. And dump your phone, bring Alex’s instead. Bring the knife too. Do you understand?”
Me: “Yes, 5pm Humanities building roof. Alex’s phone and the knife. Are you going to tell me why you're doing this to me? Who you are?”
Caller: “Why I'm doing this? No, I'm not going to tell you that yet. Who I am? That's an interesting question. Over the years I have used many names, but I think my favourite is … Rose.”
The line went dead.
*
Once again, I made use of back streets to navigate the city and get to my university. When I reached the campus I was glad to see that there were at least a few people milling about the place. It helped me to blend in.
I was wearing one of Alex's hoodies with the hood up, the hunting knife tucked up my left sleeve. I was doing my best not to meet anyone's eye but I knew I couldn't hide in plain sight forever. The police would be looking for me now.
Once I arrived at the Humanities building I casually leaned against a nearby tree and tried to scope out the roof. Nothing. I couldn't see anyone or anything up there.
There was only one thing for it. I had to go in.
Inside, the building was quiet. I passed through long hallways skirted by empty lecture halls without seeing anyone.
Before long, I reached the stairwell. Slowly, I made my way up towards the top of the building. About halfway up I heard footsteps. I froze.
A few moments later a young Professor carrying a small stack of books came down the stairs.
Thankfully, he seemed to be in a rush and paid me little notice as he passed. I carried on upwards.
I soon reached the top of the stairwell and a large door that led out onto the roof. It seemed like the kind of door that ought to be locked, but Rose had apparently seen to that.
Outside, the roof was empty. I could see the campus and then the city stretching out in all directions, but the people down there looked like ants. I couldn't tell if any of them seemed suspicious. Then I noticed something on the floor at the other end of the roof.
I walked over. It was a photo of Patricia Kotzen taped to the ground. She was posing in front of the Barcelona Cathedral with a couple of friends.
In my pocket, Alex's phone began to ring. I answered.
Me: “I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Rose was still speaking through some kind of eerie distortion.
Rose: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Consider Patricia Kotzen. An otherwise exemplary student, you convinced her to let you cheat by copying her work under exam conditions. Because you were her boyfriend she felt obligated to let you.”
Me: “Fine, yes. I was an asshole when I was an undergrad. What do I need to do to get Alex back?”
Rose: “I trust you bought the knife?”
Me: “Yes …”
Rose: “Professor Dance is in his office on the second floor, room C17. Stab him in the stomach with the knife and then vacate the Humanities building.”
Me: “I can’t do that, he’ll—”
Rose: “If you ever want to see Alex alive again you’ll do it. Stab Professor Dance and I promise Alex goes free, fail and I promise she dies immediately. You have three minutes.”
Rose hung up.
No time to think, no way to stall. I shoved Alex's phone into my pocket and started to run.
I yanked the roof door open and began to descend the stairwell.
Fourth floor …
Third floor …
Second floor …
I ran through a set of double doors that led to the main corridor on the second floor.
Pulling the knife from my sleeve, I moved onwards, checking the plaques nailed to each door as I went.
C17.
I burst into Professor Dance’s office holding the knife behind my back. Professor Dance was standing by his bookshelf, thumbing through a textbook. I realised he was the young Professor I'd passed on the stairwell earlier.
Me: “Do you have your phone?”
Professor Dance: “Er – yes. Do you need to make a—”
I drew the knife from behind my back, silencing him.
I did it for Alex.
I lunged forwards and did the deed. Yelling out in pain, Professor Dance fell back against his bookshelf and slid to the floor.
Me: “You need to call an ambulance. Is your phone in your pocket?”
Shock and confusion written across his face, Professor Dance managed to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
And then I was gone.
I raced back to the stairwell, then retraced my steps all the way back to the main entrance.
Alex's phone started to ring the moment I exited the Humanities building.
Me: “I’ve done it, I stabbed him.”
Rose still spoke through a distortion.
Rose: “Oh, I know.”
Me: “Where is Alex? When are you going to let her go?”
Rose: “I’m not. I had my fingers crossed when I promised I would – cheated if you will.”
Me: “You lying—”
Rose cut me off with a cruel laugh. I clenched my free fist.
Me: “If you hurt Alex I’ll rip your head off.”
Rose: “Be at the disused warehouse off the Fitzgerald intersection in ninety minutes. It's the one you students use for your vile little raves. A second too late and I’ll rip Alex’s head off.”
Rose hung up.
In the distance I heard the tell-tale siren of an ambulance. I started running.
*
The industrial estate by the Fitzgerald intersection was an abandoned mess. As I approached the dilapidated warehouse at its centre, the sun was just starting to sink behind the tallest buildings in the distance.
Like Rose had alluded to, I knew the place from a couple of raves I’d been to, but the main warehouse entrance I'd always used was closed.
There was an open side door though; a clear invitation. Inside, I followed a short corridor past an office and into the main space.
The warehouse was dimly lit and strewn with plastic cups and spent glow sticks. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were two people in the middle of the vast space. One of them was gagged and tied to a chair. Alex.
She tried to say something through her gag as I approached but the second figure pulled a gun and pointed it at me, silencing her.
Through the gloom it took me a moment to realise who it was. My PhD supervisor.
Me: “Arabella? What are—”
Rose: “We've been through this, I prefer Rose. I stole the name fair and square.”
Me: “I don't understand …”
Rose: “Consider India Evans. Your devoted girlfriend until four days ago when I told her that you were cheating on her.”
Me: “That was you? All this has been about teaching me a lesson because of that?”
Rose let out her cruel laugh.
Rose: “I never cared about teaching you anything. I'm not really a career academic, despite what the University thinks. My tasks served one purpose, and one purpose only. To incriminate you.”
Me: “Incriminate me?”
Rose: “You posted a naked picture online and then mutilated yourself. You’re clearly disturbed. You and India broke up in an argument plenty of people witnessed. The police found five dead women in your garden. And then, most importantly, you stabbed Professor Dance.”
I stared back in confusion.
Rose: “You stabbed him in a jealous fit of rage. After she finished with you, India fled into the arms of her handsome young Professor. You couldn't handle it, so you stabbed him with the same knife you killed your exes with.”
Me: “No, that's not true.”
Rose: “But it looks true. Your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon stuck in Professor Dance’s belly, after all.”
Me: “Why – why would you do this to me?”
Rose: “Because I need a scapegoat. You went mad, killed all of your exes and then tried to get away with the Patrice Trezeguet we were studying together. It's worth a fortune. More than enough to set up a new life.”
Me: “But—”
Rose: “But really I'll be escaping with the painting whilst you're spinning some ridiculous story to the police in a holding cell. A lot of work to acquire one little painting I admit, but Thane does so love his rare works of art.”
Me: “You murdered five women just to steal a painting? How did you even find my exes?”
Rose: “Through your Facebook account. I borrowed your phone and locked you out of Facebook whilst you were sleeping off one of our little extra-curricular sessions. I've been posing as you, talking to your wretched exes for months, listening to their pathetic little sob stories, luring them to come and meet me with talk of wanting to reconcile. It really wasn't difficult.”
Rose kept her eyes and gun trained on me as she spoke.
Rose: “Oh, and Alex, by extra-curricular sessions I mean sex. I was the one he was cheating on India with. Don't worry though, after himself you're what he loves the most. I'm sure he would've gotten around to you eventually.”
Me: “You've got it all wrong, Rose. I don't love Alex because I want to sleep with her, I love her because she's my best friend in the whole world. Not that you'd understand anything about love, nor what you were going up against when you took both of us on.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Whilst I’d been keeping Rose talking, Alex had been loosening the restraints around one of her legs.
As Rose gave me a wary look, Alex kicked against the floor and slammed her chair into Rose’s side. It was the opening I needed. As Rose crashed to the floor I sped across the warehouse and dived on top of her.
I wrestled for the gun, but Rose was strong.
It was only because of Alex twisting free of her gag and sinking her teeth into Rose’s thigh that I managed to get the gun away from her.
I sprang upright and pointed the gun at Rose.
Alex was freeing herself from the last of the restraints holding her to the chair.
Me: “Are you okay, Alex?”
Alex: “Much better now. She got to me when you went back to your house, I've been tied up ever since.”
Me: “I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in all this, Alex.”
The sound of distant sirens filled the air.
Alex: “Sounds like the police have finally found us. I'll go and get them, just keep that gun on the psycho until I'm back.”
Alex scampered off towards the warehouse office.
When she was gone, Rose wiped a trickle of blood away from her mouth.
Rose: “Alone at last. Whatever will you do with me now?”
Rose had murdered five amazing women, stole them from the world. In life those women made the world a better place and it's not everybody that gets to do that. I certainly haven't.
But faced with true evil, I saw a way to at least improve the world in one small way.
I pulled the trigger.
And then I ran.
*
That night I ran and I ran. Not because I was being chased, but because some animal instinct deep inside told me it was the only thing to do. My brain didn't reengage until I’d crossed the entire city.
I was standing in a back alley behind a large townhouse. It was the kind of house landlords rent out to several students at a time. Even in the gloom I could see the open window on the second floor. I climbed a sturdy drainpipe and managed to slip inside.
I found myself in an empty bedroom. I crawled under the blanket strewn across the bed and cried myself into an exhausted sleep.
*
In the cold light of morning, I realised that there was no To Let sign outside the house and the bedrooms were all full of stuff. Clearly the students that lived here had gone away for Summer Recess and would no doubt be back in time for Autumn Term.
I found this old laptop in the bottom of one of the students’ cupboards and set about looking for updates on Rose and the killings. There was nothing on any of the local news sites or on social media, I couldn't find word of the murders anywhere.
I didn't get any updates until three days later when Alex started posting short stories on her personal blog. They contained cryptic messages to me that were lawfully vague (and pretentious) enough for her to maintain plausible deniability. Alex was obviously being watched by the police, just as I thought she would be.
Whatever the answer, ever since reading Alex's first short story I have been afraid for my life, certain that Rose would be hunting me. But, after writing everything down and clearing my head, I'm not so sure. Rose made such an effort to frame me, surely killing me after all that would be pointless? Then again who knows how that psycho thinks.
I was also able to determine from Alex’s blog that Professor Dance survived his injuries (thank God) and that the police still consider me the prime suspect in the murders. Exactly as Rose planned.
All that remains is to ask you to stay vigilant whilst I’m in hiding.
Rose is still out there, and there's no telling what she'll do or where she'll strike next.
submitted by mediamusing to Wholesomenosleep [link] [comments]
All because two months ago I had a very, very bad day.
That morning I awoke to find every girlfriend I’ve ever had lined up dead on my living room floor.
Grace Keele, first in the row. I hadn’t seen Grace since primary school.
Rabia Sahni, second in the row. Rabia was the first girl I ever kissed. Sarah Finnegan, third in the row. I’d never watch Sarah smash a forehand winner again.
Patricia Kotzen, fourth. She was supposed to be living it up in Barcelona. And finally, India Evans. Four days ago India was alive.
Who could have done this? Was it me?
No. I could never do something so horrifying, so despicable.
Did I call the police?
Let’s face it, they’d never have believed I didn't do this.
Run. It was my only choice, my only chance.
Or so I thought.
*
Half an hour later and I'd made it to Alex's house. Somehow I’d managed to stay calm on the way over but, as soon as I reached Alex’s front door, I lost it.
Me: “Alex! Let me in!”
I could hear Alex through the door, even whilst I was hammering my fist against it.
Alex: “Hold on, I’m coming!”
I barged into her hallway the instant the door was open.
Alex was like me, a postgrad. One of the few people still around during the summer. She struck quite the note with her psychedelic-red hair and pinstripe pyjamas.
Alex: “What the hell is going—”
Me: “They’re dead, Alex. All of them. Jesus, Grace Keele must have been eleven the last time—”
Alex slammed her hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid sentence.
Alex: “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I did so.
Alex: “Now, slowly. Why are you ranting and raving in my hallway at nine o’clock in the morning?”
Me: “Because I came downstairs this morning and every girlfriend I’ve ever had was lined up dead in my living room."
Alex let out a tired sigh.
Alex: “Come with me.”
Calmly, Alex led me into the kitchen. She sat me down at the table and poured me a glass of water.
Alex: “Drink this.”
I took a sip as Alex sat opposite me and looked me in the eye.
Alex: “Where were you last night? What did you take?”
I stared back at her, dumbfounded.
I was about to protest when there was a sharp knock at the front door. Alex got up to answer it.
Me: “No, don’t answer, it could be the police.”
Alex: “Relax, it’ll be a delivery. They always come at this time. Drink the rest of your water.”
I took another sip as Alex went to answer the door.
Eventually, Alex came back with an A4 envelope and a confused expression.
Alex: “It’s addressed to you ...”
She handed it to me.
Alex: “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Tentatively, I did so.
Me: “No …”
I was holding a large photo of Grace Keele. Not as I remembered her from primary school, but dressed in smart office wear. I dropped the envelope and photo to the table.
Alex reached over and picked the photo up.
Alex: “Who is it?”
Me: “Grace Keele. Before this morning I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen her in years. She's dead, Alex. In my house. This photo must be from her killer.”
Alex gave me a hard stare.
Alex: “Is this some sort of sick joke?”
Me: “No, all of my exes, they're dead in my living room. Just like I told you.”
Alex lowered the photo to the table. She picked up the envelope.
Alex: “There’s something else in here.”
Alex pulled a vandalised graduation photo depicting me without a face from the envelope, and then a letter. Alex cringed at the picture and then read the letter aloud. I'll type it out for you below:
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Five lovers slain, five dark lessons to learn. Fail any task and I’ll destroy what you love the most. Call the police and I’ll destroy what you love the most.Alex lowered the letter to the table.
Consider Grace Keele, your first romance. Aptly named, Grace showed poise and work ethic throughout school, eventually securing a coveted job in the finance sector.
You shamelessly relied on family and friends to bail you out of endless trouble and get you to where you are now. It's high time you learned some humility. Take a naked photo of yourself and post it across your social media accounts before 10am today. I'm watching. I'm closer than you think.
Alex: “So it's true. My God … those poor women. We need to call the police.”
Alex was right of course, not that I listened.
Me: “No, we can’t call the police.”
Alex: “There are five dead bodies in your living room and some lunatic is mailing you psychobabble. We have to call the police.”
Me: “Wait. Just let me think … The delivery man. What did he look like?”
Alex: “I don’t know, some middle-aged guy. It’s the same guy we always have.”
Me: “The killer knew I’d be here …”
Alex: “What?”
Me: “The killer knew I’d leave the bodies and come here, knew I wouldn’t call the police.”
Alex: “So what? We need to call them now.”
Me: “No, I think we need to do as the letter says.”
Alex: “Are you crazy?”
Me: “Alex, I didn’t report the murders straight away, I split up with India after a blazing row four days ago. You know how it’s going to look if we call the police.”
Alex: “But we have this letter. The letter proves you didn’t do anything.”
Me: “A typed letter. I could have typed the letter, I could have printed the photos. I could have posted them all to make it look like I was innocent. They prove nothing.”
Alex: “So what? You’re just going to do as this psychopath says?”
Me: “For now, yes.”
Alex: “And how will publicly humiliating yourself help the situation?”
Me: “If I play along I might be able to work out who did this, catch them out.”
Alex: “I really, really think we should call the police.”
Me: “Let’s just buy ourselves some time. Time to think.”
Alex was giving me a dark look.
Me: “It’s just one little photo …”
*
A few minutes later I was standing in the middle of Alex's room, naked. I had to do it. If the killer was threatening to do what I thought they were threatening to do, then I couldn’t risk going against their will.
That was my thinking anyway. I grabbed my phone and raised my arm to take a photo.
It's a very particular kind of horror being forced to expose yourself online against your will. I shudder when I think of that image as the last thing so many people I know, and that I don't know, saw of me. And before anyone asks in the comments, no, I'm not going to post the photo here.
I heard Alex yell at me through the bedroom door.
Alex: “Have you done it yet?”
I lowered the phone.
Me: “No! And I’m not going to be able to with you shouting at me!”
Alex: “Sorry …”
It wasn't any fun, but I did it.
Then I got dressed and went out into the hallway.
Me: “Done.”
Alex: “And you posted it to all of your accounts?”
Me: “Everything except my Facebook. I lost the login for that months ago.”
Alex: “Okay. I still think we should have called the police though.”
Me: “We will eventually, but now we have some time to think.”
Alex: “I’ve already been thinking. How is this situation even possible? Five dead women, how did the killer get them into your house without you knowing?”
Me: “I don’t know, there was no sign of a break in.”
Alex: “Did you hear anything during the night?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Alex: “Your ex-housemates then? They might still have keys.”
Me: “Three undergrads I hardly know. Why would any one of them do this?”
Alex: “Well, who else could be responsible? Do you have any enemies?”
Me: “Not that I can think of.”
Alex: “Do your parents have any enemies?”
Me: “They own a bakery, Alex. Why would they have any enemies?”
Alex: “Don’t speak to me like that, I’m only trying to help.”
Me: “Sorry, Alex. It’s just, I have no idea who could be doing this.”
Alex's phone pinged. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.
Alex: “Bloody hell. Your little photo has lit up my social media.”
I felt my cheeks flushing.
Me: “Some moderator will take it down soon enough.”
Then my phone pinged. I pulled it from my pocket and worked the screen.
Me: “I have an email. I think it’s from …”
Alex pocketed her phone as I opened the email and read the message aloud:
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about humility.Me: “There’s a photo attached to the email.”
Now, consider Rabia Sahni. A natural beauty, Rabia knew there were more important things in life; family, goals, kindness. You have always been obsessed with your appearance. Endlessly preening and correcting yourself, spending money you didn’t have on expensive clothes.
Cut off one of your ears and come alone to the churchyard at the end of Oat Street. Leave your ear on the grave closest to the green memorial bench by 11.30am. Fail and I’ll destroy what you love the most. Call the police and I’ll destroy what you love the most. I’m watching. I’m closer than you think.
I opened it. Rabia was wearing a bridesmaids dress, a wedding reception in full swing behind her.
Alex: “Let me see.”
I passed Alex my phone.
Alex: “This is Rabia Sahni?”
Me: “Yes. I went out with her for a bit in secondary school.”
Alex: “She's beautiful. And she had her whole life ahead of her …”
Rabia’s loss weighed heavily in the air.
Alex lowered my phone.
Alex: “Posting the photo has helped though. Now we have this email, the police will be able to get an IP address, it’s time to—”
Me: “Alex, no.”
Alex gave me a dark look.
Alex: “You can’t be serious?”
Me: “Look, we’re learning more about this sicko with every message they send. It’s someone who knows me and my past intimately, it’s someone who feels I need to learn certain lessons.”
Alex: “So who is it then?”
Me: “I don’t know. I need more time to work it out.”
Alex: “And you’re going to buy that time by mutilating yourself?”
Me: “If I have to, yes.”
Alex: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re an idiot. A total bloody idiot.”
Alex shoved my phone into my chest and then barged past me into her bedroom.
I stayed in the hallway, thinking. I had to get Alex on board. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the danger she might be in.
I decided to follow Alex into her bedroom and try and talk her round some other way.
Inside her room Alex was sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. She didn't acknowledge me as I entered.
Me: “The ear thing worked out okay for Van Gogh.”
Alex: “Van Gogh killed himself after years spent penniless, ill and alone. He wasn’t appreciated until after his death. Your supervisor would be appalled that you didn't know that.”
Me: “We're studying a rare Patrice Trezeguet. Cubism was after van Gogh.”
Alex said nothing.
Me: “I’ll only cut a tiny bit off. Just enough to make my face bloody. I’ll patch myself up and then I’ll go to the churchyard.”
Alex stayed quiet.
Me: “The killer must be watching the grave. They must be someone I know, I’ll recognise them. We can call the police once we have a name.”
Still she said nothing.
Me: “Trust me, Alex.”
Me: “Please.”
Finally, Alex let out a long sigh.
Alex: “I’ll go and get the first aid kit. You’ll only botch it and end up bleeding to death if I let you do it on your own.”
*
I decided that the bathroom would be the best place to perform amateur surgery. Now, as anyone who has ever been to college or university will know, student bathrooms are rarely shining examples of cleanliness and hygiene. Luckily, Alex kept a tidy ship.
I was standing topless in front of the mirror when she came in with the first-aid kit.
Me: “I think the earlobe would be best, it’s the softest part.”
Then I noticed what else Alex was carrying.
Me: “What are those things?”
Alex: “Poultry scissors. You’d recognise them if you ever cooked instead of living off takeaway.”
Me: “Are they sharp?”
Alex: “Extremely. I’ve disinfected them too.”
Alex passed me the scissors.
Me: “And you have everything we need to stop the bleeding?”
Alex: “I think so.”
I raised the scissors to my earlobe.
Me: “Here goes nothing.”
I told myself I wouldn't scream for Alex's sake. Turns out I am a liar.
God it hurt.
But you don't need to know all the gory details. Just understand that I did it, then I swore an obscene amount, then Alex patched me up and bandaged the side of my head.
*
Alex: “I have a question.”
We were back in Alex's kitchen, sitting at the table. I was still shirtless, holding a piece of gauze soaked in antiseptic to the side of my head.
Me: “What?”
Alex: “In the messages, the killer threatens to destroy what you love the most. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
Me: “No, but it doesn’t sound good.”
Told you I was a liar.
Alex: “And what about the other stuff, all your … character flaws. Is that stuff true?”
Me: “Even if it is, it doesn’t mean I deserve this. It certainly doesn’t mean that five women deserved to die. Whatever’s going on here is some sort of twisted overreaction. We just need a name. A name and then the police can take over.”
Alex nodded. She looked up at the kitchen clock.
Alex: “It's gone 11 o'clock. We should probably get you dressed and ready to go.”
Alex helped me pull on my shirt and, before long, I was standing in the hallway by her front door holding you-know-what in a big roll of tissue.
It seemed like I stood there for an age.
Alex: “If you’re having second thoughts it’s not too late to change your mind.”
Me: “We need a name or the police won’t believe a word I tell them.”
Alex: “Well, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Me: “The email said to come alone. Besides, you’re safer here. Remember, lock—”
Alex: “Yes, I know, lock the door and don’t let anyone in but you.”
Me: “Right. I better get going.”
Alex: “Wait.”
Alex stepped forward and hugged me, I hugged her back. It helped.
Alex: “Be safe. As soon as you know who it is, come straight back. Don’t try anything stupid.”
And with that I stepped out of Alex's house.
I heard the door close and the lock turn behind me.
I walked out of Alex's front garden and onto Oat Street, one of the main thoroughfares through the outskirts of the city. As I moved past rows of tightly packed student housing, takeaways and small businesses I was scrutinising every person I passed. And they were scrutinising me.
A woman with shopping bags, two kids on the other side of the road, a man in a suit; all of them stared at the bloody bandage wrapped around my head. Was that woman responsible? Did I recognise the guy in the suit?
I decided to rule out the tabby cat lazing in the sun atop a wall on the other side of the road.
As the church came into view a teenage boy and girl turned onto Oat Street and started walking in my direction. As they drew nearer they noticed my appearance.
Teenage Boy: “Mate, you might wanna check in with a mirror.”
The girl laughed. And then …
I tripped on a loose curb stone and dropped my roll of tissue.
My severed earlobe tumbled out across the path. It was a truly horrifying moment, and it all seemed to happen in slow motion.
Teenage Girl: “What the …”
I fumbled to retrieve the earlobe and re-wrap it in my role of tissue.
Teenage Boy: “You skanky bugger! What you gonna do with that? Eat it?”
With the teenagers creasing up, I hurried on.
Mortifying, but I doubted those kids had anything to do with the murders.
Eventually, I reached the churchyard and stepped through the painted gate.
I surveyed the area. The churchyard was well-tended but the grave stones were all stained black with pollution from the road. It seemed I was the only person present. Then I noticed the weathered green memorial bench tucked away in the corner.
I approached wondering whether the killer was watching me from somewhere else? There were buildings visible beyond the churchyard’s walls, but no person I could see watching from a window or rooftop. Then I noticed the small grave near the green bench.
I decided I might as well leave my little present. Try and buy some more time.
Next, I saw that there was a blank envelope lying on the grave. I swapped my roll of tissue for the envelope, opened it and read the letter inside.
My greatest fear was realised. The killer had worked out what I loved the most and, possibly even worse, had badly misread the situation.
Terrified, I dropped the letter to the ground and sprinted out of the churchyard.
I ran back down Oat Street as fast as I could.
As soon as I reached Alex's house I was hammering on the front door.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! Let me in!”
She wasn't answering.
Just as I was considering breaking in through a window, Alex finally unlocked the door and appeared. She was newly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I rushed inside.
Me: “Is everything okay? Why did you take so long to answer?”
Alex: “I was getting dressed. What happened out there? Why are you so freaked out?”
Me: “Nothing. I panicked is all.”
Alex: “Nothing? You didn’t see the killer?”
Me: “I don’t think so. Just a bunch of people going about their day.”
Alex: “Well, did any of them look suspicious?”
Me: “Not that I could tell.”
Alex: “And what about the church? The grave?”
Me: “I left my tissue roll there but the churchyard was empty. I didn’t see anybody.”
Alex: “Okay. It’s time to call the police.”
Me: “No, there’s still time to catch the killer out.”
Alex: “Five women are dead, they’ll be missed. Somebody has probably called the police already. There’s no point delaying any more.”
Me: “Alex, trust me. If we call the police it won’t end well for us.”
Alex: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just do.”
Alex gave me a questioning look.
Alex: “What happened out there?”
There was a heavy pause, and then my phone pinged.
Saved by the bell.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw that I had another email.
Me: “It’s the killer.”
Alex: “Read it to me.”
I started to read aloud:
An earlobe is not an ear. Luckily for you I laughed so hard when you dropped it that I’m willing to forgive your blunder. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about vanity.I lowered my phone, not even opening the picture attached to the email.
Consider Sarah Finnegan, modest and humble despite being the star player at your old tennis club. You on the other hand have always been a teller of tales, never afraid to talk yourself up or to talk others down. The murder weapon is underneath the kitchen sink in your house. Retrieve it and bring it back to Alex’s house by 2pm.
Be advised, I’m calling the police and local news. I’m telling tales.
Me: “They’re calling in the murders, I have to go.”
Alex: “Don't be an idiot. If the police catch you with the bodies and the murder weapon you’ll be screwed.”
Me: “I’ll be in and out before they get there.”
I turned towards the front door, but Alex grabbed my arm.
Alex: “You’re walking straight into a trap.”
Me: “Don't you think I know that? I have to go, you don’t understand.”
Alex: “Why don’t I understand? What aren’t you telling me?”
I broke free of Alex's grip.
Me: “There’s no time to explain right now. Just stay here. Don't let anyone in except me.”
And with that I rushed outside.
Alex slammed the door behind me.
*
I had no idea how much time I had to get to my house before anyone else arrived. But I knew it couldn’t be long.
Depending on exactly who the killer called, and on what they said, someone could be there in minutes. I've always known I can run but I can’t fight. I needed to be in and out before anything could go wrong. I sprinted hard.
Once I reached the scruffy little avenue that I lived on I stopped and, breathing heavily, surveyed the scene.
The avenue was silent, empty. I took a step forwards but my phone started to ring.
I pulled it from my pocket and examined the screen. The caller ID said “Home”. My parents. They’d probably heard about my photo, but there wasn’t any time to talk. I switched off and pocketed my phone.
Then, very cautiously, I approached my front door. I looked around the avenue one last time, turned the handle and pushed the door open. I hadn’t even bothered to lock it when I left.
The house was quiet. I crept along the hallway until I reached the living room door. It was closed. I never close the living room door, something was wrong. I opened the living room door and stepped inside. There were no dead bodies, the floor was bare.
Where were they? Had they got up and left? Had I imagined it all? Then, through the living room window, I saw a police car pull into my avenue.
It parked and two police officers, a man and a woman, stepped out.
It was the kind of horror where the floor feels like it's suddenly dropped away from you and your blood turns ice cold in your veins.
I rushed out of the living room and made straight for the kitchen before they could see me through the window. As soon as I knelt in front of the kitchen sink there was a loud knock at the front door and a raised voice.
Policeman: “This is the police. We received a distress call concerning this address.”
I rifled through the cupboard below the sink looking for the murder weapon.
I found it in the back corner behind a bottle of bleach: a vicious looking hunting knife. I heard the policeman speak again.
Policeman: “Your front door is unlocked, I’m coming in.”
I sprung upright and turned to look at the long hallway between the kitchen and the front door, the policeman was stepping inside. Then his radio went off.
Policewoman: “Bodies in the garden. Repeat, we have bodies in the garden.”
The second officer must have gone through the side gate into my garden. There was only one thing to do.
I charged at the policeman standing in my open doorway. He was a big guy, but I had the whole length of the hallway to pick up speed. I held the hunting knife out of the way and shoulder barged the policeman down onto the doorstep.
I just about managed to stay upright and used my momentum to leap over him.
Still holding the murder weapon I sprinted for an alleyway between two houses on the opposite side of my avenue. It had a chain link fence at the end of it, but I was up and over in a flash.
*
The next half an hour was spent taking back streets and side roads to Alex's house.
I even found a mankey old shirt to wrap the hunting knife in. There were still spots of blood on the blade and I really didn't want to be reminded of what the knife had taken from the world.
At last, I ended up in the alleyway behind Alex's back garden. I climbed a brick wall and dropped into her flowerbed. I brushed the soil from my knees and made my way to Alex’s back door.
I knocked harshly.
Me: “Alex! Open up!”
There was no answer so I tried the door. It opened.
I stepped inside.
I walked through the kitchen, everything was quiet.
Me: “Alex? Where are you?”
Still no answer so I stepped into the hallway.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! I’m back!”
Silence. Dread. Something was badly wrong.
Then a phone started to ring. That weird Brahms’ Hungarian Dance ringtone Alex showed me in the pub a couple of weeks ago. It was her phone. It was coming from the floor above so I raced up the stairs.
I followed the sound into Alex's bedroom. Alex's phone was on her bed, still ringing.
The caller ID was “UNKNOWN CALLER”. I answered.
Me: “What have you done with Alex?”
The eerie voice on the other end was distorted somehow. I couldn't tell who I was speaking to.
Caller: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about telling tales.”
Me: “Where is Alex? Your graveyard letter said you wouldn’t hurt her if I did what you said.”
Caller: “What you love the most is perfectly well, but I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear if you don’t calm down.”
Me: “Okay, just don’t – don’t hurt her. Please.”
Caller: “Good boy. Now, you’re going to come to the university campus, to the Humanities building. Your next task is waiting for you on the roof.”
Me: “But all that way, what if the police—”
Caller: “No dawdling. Be there by 5pm. You know what will happen to Alex if you defy me. And dump your phone, bring Alex’s instead. Bring the knife too. Do you understand?”
Me: “Yes, 5pm Humanities building roof. Alex’s phone and the knife. Are you going to tell me why you're doing this to me? Who you are?”
Caller: “Why I'm doing this? No, I'm not going to tell you that yet. Who I am? That's an interesting question. Over the years I have used many names, but I think my favourite is … Rose.”
The line went dead.
*
Once again, I made use of back streets to navigate the city and get to my university. When I reached the campus I was glad to see that there were at least a few people milling about the place. It helped me to blend in.
I was wearing one of Alex's hoodies with the hood up, the hunting knife tucked up my left sleeve. I was doing my best not to meet anyone's eye but I knew I couldn't hide in plain sight forever. The police would be looking for me now.
Once I arrived at the Humanities building I casually leaned against a nearby tree and tried to scope out the roof. Nothing. I couldn't see anyone or anything up there.
There was only one thing for it. I had to go in.
Inside, the building was quiet. I passed through long hallways skirted by empty lecture halls without seeing anyone.
Before long, I reached the stairwell. Slowly, I made my way up towards the top of the building. About halfway up I heard footsteps. I froze.
A few moments later a young Professor carrying a small stack of books came down the stairs.
Thankfully, he seemed to be in a rush and paid me little notice as he passed. I carried on upwards.
I soon reached the top of the stairwell and a large door that led out onto the roof. It seemed like the kind of door that ought to be locked, but Rose had apparently seen to that.
Outside, the roof was empty. I could see the campus and then the city stretching out in all directions, but the people down there looked like ants. I couldn't tell if any of them seemed suspicious. Then I noticed something on the floor at the other end of the roof.
I walked over. It was a photo of Patricia Kotzen taped to the ground. She was posing in front of the Barcelona Cathedral with a couple of friends.
In my pocket, Alex's phone began to ring. I answered.
Me: “I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Rose was still speaking through some kind of eerie distortion.
Rose: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Consider Patricia Kotzen. An otherwise exemplary student, you convinced her to let you cheat by copying her work under exam conditions. Because you were her boyfriend she felt obligated to let you.”
Me: “Fine, yes. I was an asshole when I was an undergrad. What do I need to do to get Alex back?”
Rose: “I trust you bought the knife?”
Me: “Yes …”
Rose: “Professor Dance is in his office on the second floor, room C17. Stab him in the stomach with the knife and then vacate the Humanities building.”
Me: “I can’t do that, he’ll—”
Rose: “If you ever want to see Alex alive again you’ll do it. Stab Professor Dance and I promise Alex goes free, fail and I promise she dies immediately. You have three minutes.”
Rose hung up.
No time to think, no way to stall. I shoved Alex's phone into my pocket and started to run.
I yanked the roof door open and began to descend the stairwell.
Fourth floor …
Third floor …
Second floor …
I ran through a set of double doors that led to the main corridor on the second floor.
Pulling the knife from my sleeve, I moved onwards, checking the plaques nailed to each door as I went.
C17.
I burst into Professor Dance’s office holding the knife behind my back. Professor Dance was standing by his bookshelf, thumbing through a textbook. I realised he was the young Professor I'd passed on the stairwell earlier.
Me: “Do you have your phone?”
Professor Dance: “Er – yes. Do you need to make a—”
I drew the knife from behind my back, silencing him.
I did it for Alex.
I lunged forwards and did the deed. Yelling out in pain, Professor Dance fell back against his bookshelf and slid to the floor.
Me: “You need to call an ambulance. Is your phone in your pocket?”
Shock and confusion written across his face, Professor Dance managed to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
And then I was gone.
I raced back to the stairwell, then retraced my steps all the way back to the main entrance.
Alex's phone started to ring the moment I exited the Humanities building.
Me: “I’ve done it, I stabbed him.”
Rose still spoke through a distortion.
Rose: “Oh, I know.”
Me: “Where is Alex? When are you going to let her go?”
Rose: “I’m not. I had my fingers crossed when I promised I would – cheated if you will.”
Me: “You lying—”
Rose cut me off with a cruel laugh. I clenched my free fist.
Me: “If you hurt Alex I’ll rip your head off.”
Rose: “Be at the disused warehouse off the Fitzgerald intersection in ninety minutes. It's the one you students use for your vile little raves. A second too late and I’ll rip Alex’s head off.”
Rose hung up.
In the distance I heard the tell-tale siren of an ambulance. I started running.
*
The industrial estate by the Fitzgerald intersection was an abandoned mess. As I approached the dilapidated warehouse at its centre, the sun was just starting to sink behind the tallest buildings in the distance.
Like Rose had alluded to, I knew the place from a couple of raves I’d been to, but the main warehouse entrance I'd always used was closed.
There was an open side door though; a clear invitation. Inside, I followed a short corridor past an office and into the main space.
The warehouse was dimly lit and strewn with plastic cups and spent glow sticks. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were two people in the middle of the vast space. One of them was gagged and tied to a chair. Alex.
She tried to say something through her gag as I approached but the second figure pulled a gun and pointed it at me, silencing her.
Through the gloom it took me a moment to realise who it was. My PhD supervisor.
Me: “Arabella? What are—”
Rose: “We've been through this, I prefer Rose. I stole the name fair and square.”
Me: “I don't understand …”
Rose: “Consider India Evans. Your devoted girlfriend until four days ago when I told her that you were cheating on her.”
Me: “That was you? All this has been about teaching me a lesson because of that?”
Rose let out her cruel laugh.
Rose: “I never cared about teaching you anything. I'm not really a career academic, despite what the University thinks. My tasks served one purpose, and one purpose only. To incriminate you.”
Me: “Incriminate me?”
Rose: “You posted a naked picture online and then mutilated yourself. You’re clearly disturbed. You and India broke up in an argument plenty of people witnessed. The police found five dead women in your garden. And then, most importantly, you stabbed Professor Dance.”
I stared back in confusion.
Rose: “You stabbed him in a jealous fit of rage. After she finished with you, India fled into the arms of her handsome young Professor. You couldn't handle it, so you stabbed him with the same knife you killed your exes with.”
Me: “No, that's not true.”
Rose: “But it looks true. Your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon stuck in Professor Dance’s belly, after all.”
Me: “Why – why would you do this to me?”
Rose: “Because I need a scapegoat. You went mad, killed all of your exes and then tried to get away with the Patrice Trezeguet we were studying together. It's worth a fortune. More than enough to set up a new life.”
Me: “But—”
Rose: “But really I'll be escaping with the painting whilst you're spinning some ridiculous story to the police in a holding cell. A lot of work to acquire one little painting I admit, but Thane does so love his rare works of art.”
Me: “You murdered five women just to steal a painting? How did you even find my exes?”
Rose: “Through your Facebook account. I borrowed your phone and locked you out of Facebook whilst you were sleeping off one of our little extra-curricular sessions. I've been posing as you, talking to your wretched exes for months, listening to their pathetic little sob stories, luring them to come and meet me with talk of wanting to reconcile. It really wasn't difficult.”
Rose kept her eyes and gun trained on me as she spoke.
Rose: “Oh, and Alex, by extra-curricular sessions I mean sex. I was the one he was cheating on India with. Don't worry though, after himself you're what he loves the most. I'm sure he would've gotten around to you eventually.”
Me: “You've got it all wrong, Rose. I don't love Alex because I want to sleep with her, I love her because she's my best friend in the whole world. Not that you'd understand anything about love, nor what you were going up against when you took both of us on.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Whilst I’d been keeping Rose talking, Alex had been loosening the restraints around one of her legs.
As Rose gave me a wary look, Alex kicked against the floor and slammed her chair into Rose’s side. It was the opening I needed. As Rose crashed to the floor I sped across the warehouse and dived on top of her.
I wrestled for the gun, but Rose was strong.
It was only because of Alex twisting free of her gag and sinking her teeth into Rose’s thigh that I managed to get the gun away from her.
I sprang upright and pointed the gun at Rose.
Alex was freeing herself from the last of the restraints holding her to the chair.
Me: “Are you okay, Alex?”
Alex: “Much better now. She got to me when you went back to your house, I've been tied up ever since.”
Me: “I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in all this, Alex.”
The sound of distant sirens filled the air.
Alex: “Sounds like the police have finally found us. I'll go and get them, just keep that gun on the psycho until I'm back.”
Alex scampered off towards the warehouse office.
When she was gone, Rose wiped a trickle of blood away from her mouth.
Rose: “Alone at last. Whatever will you do with me now?”
Rose had murdered five amazing women, stole them from the world. In life those women made the world a better place and it's not everybody that gets to do that. I certainly haven't.
But faced with true evil, I saw a way to at least improve the world in one small way.
I pulled the trigger.
And then I ran.
*
That night I ran and I ran. Not because I was being chased, but because some animal instinct deep inside told me it was the only thing to do. My brain didn't reengage until I’d crossed the entire city.
I was standing in a back alley behind a large townhouse. It was the kind of house landlords rent out to several students at a time. Even in the gloom I could see the open window on the second floor. I climbed a sturdy drainpipe and managed to slip inside.
I found myself in an empty bedroom. I crawled under the blanket strewn across the bed and cried myself into an exhausted sleep.
*
In the cold light of morning, I realised that there was no To Let sign outside the house and the bedrooms were all full of stuff. Clearly the students that lived here had gone away for Summer Recess and would no doubt be back in time for Autumn Term.
I found this old laptop in the bottom of one of the students’ cupboards and set about looking for updates on Rose and the killings. There was nothing on any of the local news sites or on social media, I couldn't find word of the murders anywhere.
I didn't get any updates until three days later when Alex started posting short stories on her personal blog. They contained cryptic messages to me that were lawfully vague (and pretentious) enough for her to maintain plausible deniability. Alex was obviously being watched by the police, just as I thought she would be.
…and so the thorny rose wilted, wilted but did not expire. It cast its wicked seed to the wind so that it might spawn again in pastures new…I shot that monster in the heart. I don't understand how she even survived, let alone escaped. And did she escape from the warehouse before the police got there like I did? Or did she escape from custody, or perhaps from the hospital?
Whatever the answer, ever since reading Alex's first short story I have been afraid for my life, certain that Rose would be hunting me. But, after writing everything down and clearing my head, I'm not so sure. Rose made such an effort to frame me, surely killing me after all that would be pointless? Then again who knows how that psycho thinks.
I was also able to determine from Alex’s blog that Professor Dance survived his injuries (thank God) and that the police still consider me the prime suspect in the murders. Exactly as Rose planned.
…led by the magistrate the townsfolk chided the Student Ripper, for in their ignorance they did not see the roseroot woven all through the dark business that sickened them so…Alex hasn't mentioned Grace, Rabia, Sarah, Patricia, or India in her writing, but I know she will be thinking of them. And she'll know that my heart is broken because of what happened and the part I played in it.
All that remains is to ask you to stay vigilant whilst I’m in hiding.
Rose is still out there, and there's no telling what she'll do or where she'll strike next.
2023.04.22 13:08 mediamusing I found every girlfriend I've ever had lined up dead on my living room floor...
I have been in hiding all through Summer Recess. I am afraid for my life.
All because two months ago I had a very, very bad day.
That morning I awoke to find every girlfriend I’ve ever had lined up dead on my living room floor.
Grace Keele, first in the row. I hadn’t seen Grace since primary school.
Rabia Sahni, second in the row. Rabia was the first girl I ever kissed. Sarah Finnegan, third in the row. I’d never watch Sarah smash a forehand winner again.
Patricia Kotzen, fourth. She was supposed to be living it up in Barcelona. And finally, India Evans. Four days ago India was alive.
Who could have done this? Was it me?
No. I could never do something so horrifying, so despicable.
Did I call the police?
Let’s face it, they’d never have believed I didn't do this.
Run. It was my only choice, my only chance.
Or so I thought.
*
Half an hour later and I'd made it to Alex's house. Somehow I’d managed to stay calm on the way over but, as soon as I reached Alex’s front door, I lost it.
Me: “Alex! Let me in!”
I could hear Alex through the door, even whilst I was hammering my fist against it.
Alex: “Hold on, I’m coming!”
I barged into her hallway the instant the door was open.
Alex was like me, a postgrad. One of the few people still around during the summer. She struck quite the note with her psychedelic-red hair and pinstripe pyjamas.
Alex: “What the hell is going—”
Me: “They’re dead, Alex. All of them. Jesus, Grace Keele must have been eleven the last time—”
Alex slammed her hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid sentence.
Alex: “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I did so.
Alex: “Now, slowly. Why are you ranting and raving in my hallway at nine o’clock in the morning?”
Me: “Because I came downstairs this morning and every girlfriend I’ve ever had was lined up dead in my living room."
Alex let out a tired sigh.
Alex: “Come with me.”
Calmly, Alex led me into the kitchen. She sat me down at the table and poured me a glass of water.
Alex: “Drink this.”
I took a sip as Alex sat opposite me and looked me in the eye.
Alex: “Where were you last night? What did you take?”
I stared back at her, dumbfounded.
I was about to protest when there was a sharp knock at the front door. Alex got up to answer it.
Me: “No, don’t answer, it could be the police.”
Alex: “Relax, it’ll be a delivery. They always come at this time. Drink the rest of your water.”
I took another sip as Alex went to answer the door.
Eventually, Alex came back with an A4 envelope and a confused expression.
Alex: “It’s addressed to you ...”
She handed it to me.
Alex: “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Tentatively, I did so.
Me: “No …”
I was holding a large photo of Grace Keele. Not as I remembered her from primary school, but dressed in smart office wear. I dropped the envelope and photo to the table.
Alex reached over and picked the photo up.
Alex: “Who is it?”
Me: “Grace Keele. Before this morning I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen her in years. She's dead, Alex. In my house. This photo must be from her killer.”
Alex gave me a hard stare.
Alex: “Is this some sort of sick joke?”
Me: “No, all of my exes, they're dead in my living room. Just like I told you.”
Alex lowered the photo to the table. She picked up the envelope.
Alex: “There’s something else in here.”
Alex pulled a vandalised graduation photo depicting me without a face from the envelope, and then a letter.
Alex cringed at the picture and then read the letter aloud. I'll type it out for you below:
Alex: “So it's true. My God … those poor women. We need to call the police.”
Alex was right of course, not that I listened.
Me: “No, we can’t call the police.”
Alex: “There are five dead bodies in your living room and some lunatic is mailing you psychobabble. We have to call the police.”
Me: “Wait. Just let me think … The delivery man. What did he look like?”
Alex: “I don’t know, some middle-aged guy. It’s the same guy we always have.”
Me: “The killer knew I’d be here …”
Alex: “What?”
Me: “The killer knew I’d leave the bodies and come here, knew I wouldn’t call the police.”
Alex: “So what? We need to call them now.”
Me: “No, I think we need to do as the letter says.”
Alex: “Are you crazy?”
Me: “Alex, I didn’t report the murders straight away, I split up with India after a blazing row four days ago. You know how it’s going to look if we call the police.”
Alex: “But we have this letter. The letter proves you didn’t do anything.”
Me: “A typed letter. I could have typed the letter, I could have printed the photos. I could have posted them all to make it look like I was innocent. They prove nothing.”
Alex: “So what? You’re just going to do as this psychopath says?”
Me: “For now, yes.”
Alex: “And how will publicly humiliating yourself help the situation?”
Me: “If I play along I might be able to work out who did this, catch them out.”
Alex: “I really, really think we should call the police.”
Me: “Let’s just buy ourselves some time. Time to think.”
Alex was giving me a dark look.
Me: “It’s just one little photo …”
*
A few minutes later I was standing in the middle of Alex's room, naked. I had to do it. If the killer was threatening to do what I thought they were threatening to do, then I couldn’t risk going against their will.
That was my thinking anyway. I grabbed my phone and raised my arm to take a photo.
It's a very particular kind of horror being forced to expose yourself online against your will. I shudder when I think of that image as the last thing so many people I know, and that I don't know, saw of me. And before anyone asks in the comments, no, I'm not going to post the photo here.
I heard Alex yell at me through the bedroom door.
Alex: “Have you done it yet?”
I lowered the phone.
Me: “No! And I’m not going to be able to with you shouting at me!”
Alex: “Sorry …”
It wasn't any fun, but I did it.
Then I got dressed and went out into the hallway.
Me: “Done.”
Alex: “And you posted it to all of your accounts?”
Me: “Everything except my Facebook. I lost the login for that months ago.”
Alex: “Okay. I still think we should have called the police though.”
Me: “We will eventually, but now we have some time to think.”
Alex: “I’ve already been thinking. How is this situation even possible? Five dead women, how did the killer get them into your house without you knowing?”
Me: “I don’t know, there was no sign of a break in.”
Alex: “Did you hear anything during the night?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Alex: “Your ex-housemates then? They might still have keys.”
Me: “Three undergrads I hardly know. Why would any one of them do this?”
Alex: “Well, who else could be responsible? Do you have any enemies?”
Me: “Not that I can think of.”
Alex: “Do your parents have any enemies?”
Me: “They own a bakery, Alex. Why would they have any enemies?”
Alex: “Don’t speak to me like that, I’m only trying to help.”
Me: “Sorry, Alex. It’s just, I have no idea who could be doing this.”
Alex's phone pinged. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.
Alex: “Bloody hell. Your little photo has lit up my social media.”
I felt my cheeks flushing.
Me: “Some moderator will take it down soon enough.”
Then my phone pinged. I pulled it from my pocket and worked the screen.
Me: “I have an email. I think it’s from …”
Alex pocketed her phone as I opened the email and read the message aloud:
I opened it. Rabia was wearing a bridesmaids dress, a wedding reception in full swing behind her.
Alex: “Let me see.”
I passed Alex my phone.
Alex: “This is Rabia Sahni?”
Me: “Yes. I went out with her for a bit in secondary school.”
Alex: “She's beautiful. And she had her whole life ahead of her …”
Rabia’s loss weighed heavily in the air.
Alex lowered my phone.
Alex: “Posting the photo has helped though. Now we have this email, the police will be able to get an IP address, it’s time to—”
Me: “Alex, no.”
Alex gave me a dark look.
Alex: “You can’t be serious?”
Me: “Look, we’re learning more about this sicko with every message they send. It’s someone who knows me and my past intimately, it’s someone who feels I need to learn certain lessons.”
Alex: “So who is it then?”
Me: “I don’t know. I need more time to work it out.”
Alex: “And you’re going to buy that time by mutilating yourself?”
Me: “If I have to, yes.”
Alex: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re an idiot. A total bloody idiot.”
Alex shoved my phone into my chest and then barged past me into her bedroom.
I stayed in the hallway, thinking. I had to get Alex on board. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the danger she might be in.
I decided to follow Alex into her bedroom and try and talk her round some other way.
Inside her room Alex was sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. She didn't acknowledge me as I entered.
Me: “The ear thing worked out okay for Van Gogh.”
Alex: “Van Gogh killed himself after years spent penniless, ill and alone. He wasn’t appreciated until after his death. Your supervisor would be appalled that you didn't know that.”
Me: “We're studying a rare Patrice Trezeguet. Cubism was after van Gogh.”
Alex said nothing.
Me: “I’ll only cut a tiny bit off. Just enough to make my face bloody. I’ll patch myself up and then I’ll go to the churchyard.”
Alex stayed quiet.
Me: “The killer must be watching the grave. They must be someone I know, I’ll recognise them. We can call the police once we have a name.”
Still she said nothing.
Me: “Trust me, Alex.”
Me: “Please.”
Finally, Alex let out a long sigh.
Alex: “I’ll go and get the first aid kit. You’ll only botch it and end up bleeding to death if I let you do it on your own.”
*
I decided that the bathroom would be the best place to perform amateur surgery. Now, as anyone who has ever been to college or university will know, student bathrooms are rarely shining examples of cleanliness and hygiene. Luckily, Alex kept a tidy ship.
I was standing topless in front of the mirror when she came in with the first-aid kit.
Me: “I think the earlobe would be best, it’s the softest part.”
Then I noticed what else Alex was carrying.
Me: “What are those things?”
Alex: “Poultry scissors. You’d recognise them if you ever cooked instead of living off takeaway.”
Me: “Are they sharp?”
Alex: “Extremely. I’ve disinfected them too.”
Alex passed me the scissors.
Me: “And you have everything we need to stop the bleeding?”
Alex: “I think so.”
I raised the scissors to my earlobe.
Me: “Here goes nothing.”
I told myself I wouldn't scream for Alex's sake. Turns out I am a liar.
God it hurt.
But you don't need to know all the gory details. Just understand that I did it, then I swore an obscene amount, then Alex patched me up and bandaged the side of my head.
*
Alex: “I have a question.”
We were back in Alex's kitchen, sitting at the table. I was still shirtless, holding a piece of gauze soaked in antiseptic to the side of my head.
Me: “What?”
Alex: “In the messages, the killer threatens to destroy what you love the most. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
Me: “No, but it doesn’t sound good.”
Told you I was a liar.
Alex: “And what about the other stuff, all your … character flaws. Is that stuff true?”
Me: “Even if it is, it doesn’t mean I deserve this. It certainly doesn’t mean that five women deserved to die. Whatever’s going on here is some sort of twisted overreaction. We just need a name. A name and then the police can take over.”
Alex nodded. She looked up at the kitchen clock.
Alex: “It's gone 11 o'clock. We should probably get you dressed and ready to go.”
Alex helped me pull on my shirt and, before long, I was standing in the hallway by her front door holding you-know-what in a big roll of tissue.
It seemed like I stood there for an age.
Alex: “If you’re having second thoughts it’s not too late to change your mind.”
Me: “We need a name or the police won’t believe a word I tell them.”
Alex: “Well, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Me: “The email said to come alone. Besides, you’re safer here. Remember, lock—”
Alex: “Yes, I know, lock the door and don’t let anyone in but you.”
Me: “Right. I better get going.”
Alex: “Wait.”
Alex stepped forward and hugged me, I hugged her back. It helped.
Alex: “Be safe. As soon as you know who it is, come straight back. Don’t try anything stupid.”
And with that I stepped out of Alex's house.
I heard the door close and the lock turn behind me.
I walked out of Alex's front garden and onto Oat Street, one of the main thoroughfares through the outskirts of the city. As I moved past rows of tightly packed student housing, takeaways and small businesses I was scrutinising every person I passed. And they were scrutinising me.
A woman with shopping bags, two kids on the other side of the road, a man in a suit; all of them stared at the bloody bandage wrapped around my head. Was that woman responsible? Did I recognise the guy in the suit?
I decided to rule out the tabby cat lazing in the sun atop a wall on the other side of the road.
As the church came into view a teenage boy and girl turned onto Oat Street and started walking in my direction. As they drew nearer they noticed my appearance.
Teenage Boy: “Mate, you might wanna check in with a mirror.”
The girl laughed. And then …
I tripped on a loose curb stone and dropped my roll of tissue.
My severed earlobe tumbled out across the path. It was a truly horrifying moment, and it all seemed to happen in slow motion.
Teenage Girl: “What the …”
I fumbled to retrieve the earlobe and re-wrap it in my role of tissue.
Teenage Boy: “You skanky bugger! What you gonna do with that? Eat it?”
With the teenagers creasing up, I hurried on.
Mortifying, but I doubted those kids had anything to do with the murders.
Eventually, I reached the churchyard and stepped through the painted gate.
I surveyed the area. The churchyard was well-tended but the grave stones were all stained black with pollution from the road. It seemed I was the only person present. Then I noticed the weathered green memorial bench tucked away in the corner.
I approached wondering whether the killer was watching me from somewhere else? There were buildings visible beyond the churchyard’s walls, but no person I could see watching from a window or rooftop. Then I noticed the small grave near the green bench.
I decided I might as well leave my little present. Try and buy some more time.
Next, I saw that there was a blank envelope lying on the grave. I swapped my roll of tissue for the envelope, opened it and read the letter inside.
My greatest fear was realised. The killer had worked out what I loved the most and, possibly even worse, had badly misread the situation.
Terrified, I dropped the letter to the ground and sprinted out of the churchyard.
I ran back down Oat Street as fast as I could.
As soon as I reached Alex's house I was hammering on the front door.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! Let me in!”
She wasn't answering.
Just as I was considering breaking in through a window, Alex finally unlocked the door and appeared. She was newly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I rushed inside.
Me: “Is everything okay? Why did you take so long to answer?”
Alex: “I was getting dressed. What happened out there? Why are you so freaked out?”
Me: “Nothing. I panicked is all.”
Alex: “Nothing? You didn’t see the killer?”
Me: “I don’t think so. Just a bunch of people going about their day.”
Alex: “Well, did any of them look suspicious?”
Me: “Not that I could tell.”
Alex: “And what about the church? The grave?”
Me: “I left my tissue roll there but the churchyard was empty. I didn’t see anybody.”
Alex: “Okay. It’s time to call the police.”
Me: “No, there’s still time to catch the killer out.”
Alex: “Five women are dead, they’ll be missed. Somebody has probably called the police already. There’s no point delaying any more.”
Me: “Alex, trust me. If we call the police it won’t end well for us.”
Alex: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just do.”
Alex gave me a questioning look.
Alex: “What happened out there?”
There was a heavy pause, and then my phone pinged.
Saved by the bell.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw that I had another email.
Me: “It’s the killer.”
Alex: “Read it to me.”
I started to read aloud:
Me: “They’re calling in the murders, I have to go.”
Alex: “Don't be an idiot. If the police catch you with the bodies and the murder weapon you’ll be screwed.”
Me: “I’ll be in and out before they get there.”
I turned towards the front door, but Alex grabbed my arm.
Alex: “You’re walking straight into a trap.”
Me: “Don't you think I know that? I have to go, you don’t understand.”
Alex: “Why don’t I understand? What aren’t you telling me?”
I broke free of Alex's grip.
Me: “There’s no time to explain right now. Just stay here. Don't let anyone in except me.”
And with that I rushed outside.
Alex slammed the door behind me.
*
I had no idea how much time I had to get to my house before anyone else arrived. But I knew it couldn’t be long.
Depending on exactly who the killer called, and on what they said, someone could be there in minutes. I've always known I can run but I can’t fight. I needed to be in and out before anything could go wrong. I sprinted hard.
Once I reached the scruffy little avenue that I lived on I stopped and, breathing heavily, surveyed the scene.
The avenue was silent, empty. I took a step forwards but my phone started to ring.
I pulled it from my pocket and examined the screen. The caller ID said “Home”. My parents. They’d probably heard about my photo, but there wasn’t any time to talk. I switched off and pocketed my phone.
Then, very cautiously, I approached my front door. I looked around the avenue one last time, turned the handle and pushed the door open. I hadn’t even bothered to lock it when I left.
The house was quiet. I crept along the hallway until I reached the living room door. It was closed. I never close the living room door, something was wrong. I opened the living room door and stepped inside. There were no dead bodies, the floor was bare.
Where were they? Had they got up and left? Had I imagined it all? Then, through the living room window, I saw a police car pull into my avenue.
It parked and two police officers, a man and a woman, stepped out.
It was the kind of horror where the floor feels like it's suddenly dropped away from you and your blood turns ice cold in your veins.
I rushed out of the living room and made straight for the kitchen before they could see me through the window. As soon as I knelt in front of the kitchen sink there was a loud knock at the front door and a raised voice.
Policeman: “This is the police. We received a distress call concerning this address.”
I rifled through the cupboard below the sink looking for the murder weapon.
I found it in the back corner behind a bottle of bleach: a vicious looking hunting knife. I heard the policeman speak again.
Policeman: “Your front door is unlocked, I’m coming in.”
I sprung upright and turned to look at the long hallway between the kitchen and the front door, the policeman was stepping inside. Then his radio went off.
Policewoman: “Bodies in the garden. Repeat, we have bodies in the garden.”
The second officer must have gone through the side gate into my garden. There was only one thing to do.
I charged at the policeman standing in my open doorway. He was a big guy, but I had the whole length of the hallway to pick up speed. I held the hunting knife out of the way and shoulder barged the policeman down onto the doorstep.
I just about managed to stay upright and used my momentum to leap over him.
Still holding the murder weapon I sprinted for an alleyway between two houses on the opposite side of my avenue. It had a chain link fence at the end of it, but I was up and over in a flash.
*
The next half an hour was spent taking back streets and side roads to Alex's house.
I even found a mankey old shirt to wrap the hunting knife in. There were still spots of blood on the blade and I really didn't want to be reminded of what the knife had taken from the world.
At last, I ended up in the alleyway behind Alex's back garden. I climbed a brick wall and dropped into her flowerbed. I brushed the soil from my knees and made my way to Alex’s back door.
I knocked harshly.
Me: “Alex! Open up!”
There was no answer so I tried the door. It opened.
I stepped inside.
I walked through the kitchen, everything was quiet.
Me: “Alex? Where are you?”
Still no answer so I stepped into the hallway.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! I’m back!”
Silence. Dread. Something was badly wrong.
Then a phone started to ring. That weird Brahms’ Hungarian Dance ringtone Alex showed me in the pub a couple of weeks ago. It was her phone. It was coming from the floor above so I raced up the stairs.
I followed the sound into Alex's bedroom. Alex's phone was on her bed, still ringing.
The caller ID was “UNKNOWN CALLER”. I answered.
Me: “What have you done with Alex?”
The eerie voice on the other end was distorted somehow. I couldn't tell who I was speaking to.
Caller: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about telling tales.”
Me: “Where is Alex? Your graveyard letter said you wouldn’t hurt her if I did what you said.”
Caller: “What you love the most is perfectly well, but I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear if you don’t calm down.”
Me: “Okay, just don’t – don’t hurt her. Please.”
Caller: “Good boy. Now, you’re going to come to the university campus, to the Humanities building. Your next task is waiting for you on the roof.”
Me: “But all that way, what if the police—”
Caller: “No dawdling. Be there by 5pm. You know what will happen to Alex if you defy me. And dump your phone, bring Alex’s instead. Bring the knife too. Do you understand?”
Me: “Yes, 5pm Humanities building roof. Alex’s phone and the knife. Are you going to tell me why you're doing this to me? Who you are?”
Caller: “Why I'm doing this? No, I'm not going to tell you that yet. Who I am? That's an interesting question. Over the years I have used many names, but I think my favourite is … Rose.”
The line went dead.
*
Once again, I made use of back streets to navigate the city and get to my university. When I reached the campus I was glad to see that there were at least a few people milling about the place. It helped me to blend in.
I was wearing one of Alex's hoodies with the hood up, the hunting knife tucked up my left sleeve. I was doing my best not to meet anyone's eye but I knew I couldn't hide in plain sight forever. The police would be looking for me now.
Once I arrived at the Humanities building I casually leaned against a nearby tree and tried to scope out the roof. Nothing. I couldn't see anyone or anything up there.
There was only one thing for it. I had to go in.
Inside, the building was quiet. I passed through long hallways skirted by empty lecture halls without seeing anyone.
Before long, I reached the stairwell. Slowly, I made my way up towards the top of the building. About halfway up I heard footsteps. I froze.
A few moments later a young Professor carrying a small stack of books came down the stairs.
Thankfully, he seemed to be in a rush and paid me little notice as he passed. I carried on upwards.
I soon reached the top of the stairwell and a large door that led out onto the roof. It seemed like the kind of door that ought to be locked, but Rose had apparently seen to that.
Outside, the roof was empty. I could see the campus and then the city stretching out in all directions, but the people down there looked like ants. I couldn't tell if any of them seemed suspicious. Then I noticed something on the floor at the other end of the roof.
I walked over. It was a photo of Patricia Kotzen taped to the ground. She was posing in front of the Barcelona Cathedral with a couple of friends.
In my pocket, Alex's phone began to ring. I answered.
Me: “I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Rose was still speaking through some kind of eerie distortion.
Rose: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Consider Patricia Kotzen. An otherwise exemplary student, you convinced her to let you cheat by copying her work under exam conditions. Because you were her boyfriend she felt obligated to let you.”
Me: “Fine, yes. I was an asshole when I was an undergrad. What do I need to do to get Alex back?”
Rose: “I trust you bought the knife?”
Me: “Yes …”
Rose: “Professor Dance is in his office on the second floor, room C17. Stab him in the stomach with the knife and then vacate the Humanities building.”
Me: “I can’t do that, he’ll—”
Rose: “If you ever want to see Alex alive again you’ll do it. Stab Professor Dance and I promise Alex goes free, fail and I promise she dies immediately. You have three minutes.”
Rose hung up.
No time to think, no way to stall. I shoved Alex's phone into my pocket and started to run.
I yanked the roof door open and began to descend the stairwell.
Fourth floor …
Third floor …
Second floor …
I ran through a set of double doors that led to the main corridor on the second floor.
Pulling the knife from my sleeve, I moved onwards, checking the plaques nailed to each door as I went.
C17.
I burst into Professor Dance’s office holding the knife behind my back. Professor Dance was standing by his bookshelf, thumbing through a textbook. I realised he was the young Professor I'd passed on the stairwell earlier.
Me: “Do you have your phone?”
Professor Dance: “Er – yes. Do you need to make a—”
I drew the knife from behind my back, silencing him.
I did it for Alex.
I lunged forwards and did the deed. Yelling out in pain, Professor Dance fell back against his bookshelf and slid to the floor.
Me: “You need to call an ambulance. Is your phone in your pocket?”
Shock and confusion written across his face, Professor Dance managed to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
And then I was gone.
I raced back to the stairwell, then retraced my steps all the way back to the main entrance.
Alex's phone started to ring the moment I exited the Humanities building.
Me: “I’ve done it, I stabbed him.”
Rose still spoke through a distortion.
Rose: “Oh, I know.”
Me: “Where is Alex? When are you going to let her go?”
Rose: “I’m not. I had my fingers crossed when I promised I would – cheated if you will.”
Me: “You lying—”
Rose cut me off with a cruel laugh. I clenched my free fist.
Me: “If you hurt Alex I’ll rip your head off.”
Rose: “Be at the disused warehouse off the Fitzgerald intersection in ninety minutes. It's the one you students use for your vile little raves. A second too late and I’ll rip Alex’s head off.”
Rose hung up.
In the distance I heard the tell-tale siren of an ambulance. I started running.
*
The industrial estate by the Fitzgerald intersection was an abandoned mess. As I approached the dilapidated warehouse at its centre, the sun was just starting to sink behind the tallest buildings in the distance.
Like Rose had alluded to, I knew the place from a couple of raves I’d been to, but the main warehouse entrance I'd always used was closed.
There was an open side door though; a clear invitation. Inside, I followed a short corridor past an office and into the main space.
The warehouse was dimly lit and strewn with plastic cups and spent glow sticks. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were two people in the middle of the vast space. One of them was gagged and tied to a chair. Alex.
She tried to say something through her gag as I approached but the second figure pulled a gun and pointed it at me, silencing her.
Through the gloom it took me a moment to realise who it was. My PhD supervisor.
Me: “Arabella? What are—”
Rose: “We've been through this, I prefer Rose. I stole the name fair and square.”
Me: “I don't understand …”
Rose: “Consider India Evans. Your devoted girlfriend until four days ago when I told her that you were cheating on her.”
Me: “That was you? All this has been about teaching me a lesson because of that?”
Rose let out her cruel laugh.
Rose: “I never cared about teaching you anything. I'm not really a career academic, despite what the University thinks. My tasks served one purpose, and one purpose only. To incriminate you.”
Me: “Incriminate me?”
Rose: “You posted a naked picture online and then mutilated yourself. You’re clearly disturbed. You and India broke up in an argument plenty of people witnessed. The police found five dead women in your garden. And then, most importantly, you stabbed Professor Dance.”
I stared back in confusion.
Rose: “You stabbed him in a jealous fit of rage. After she finished with you, India fled into the arms of her handsome young Professor. You couldn't handle it, so you stabbed him with the same knife you killed your exes with.”
Me: “No, that's not true.”
Rose: “But it looks true. Your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon stuck in Professor Dance’s belly, after all.”
Me: “Why – why would you do this to me?”
Rose: “Because I need a scapegoat. You went mad, killed all of your exes and then tried to get away with the Patrice Trezeguet we were studying together. It's worth a fortune. More than enough to set up a new life.”
Me: “But—”
Rose: “But really I'll be escaping with the painting whilst you're spinning some ridiculous story to the police in a holding cell. A lot of work to acquire one little painting I admit, but Thane does so love his rare works of art.”
Me: “You murdered five women just to steal a painting? How did you even find my exes?”
Rose: “Through your Facebook account. I borrowed your phone and locked you out of Facebook whilst you were sleeping off one of our little extra-curricular sessions. I've been posing as you, talking to your wretched exes for months, listening to their pathetic little sob stories, luring them to come and meet me with talk of wanting to reconcile. It really wasn't difficult.”
Rose kept her eyes and gun trained on me as she spoke.
Rose: “Oh, and Alex, by extra-curricular sessions I mean sex. I was the one he was cheating on India with. Don't worry though, after himself you're what he loves the most. I'm sure he would've gotten around to you eventually.”
Me: “You've got it all wrong, Rose. I don't love Alex because I want to sleep with her, I love her because she's my best friend in the whole world. Not that you'd understand anything about love, nor what you were going up against when you took both of us on.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Whilst I’d been keeping Rose talking, Alex had been loosening the restraints around one of her legs.
As Rose gave me a wary look, Alex kicked against the floor and slammed her chair into Rose’s side. It was the opening I needed. As Rose crashed to the floor I sped across the warehouse and dived on top of her.
I wrestled for the gun, but Rose was strong.
It was only because of Alex twisting free of her gag and sinking her teeth into Rose’s thigh that I managed to get the gun away from her.
I sprang upright and pointed the gun at Rose.
Alex was freeing herself from the last of the restraints holding her to the chair.
Me: “Are you okay, Alex?”
Alex: “Much better now. She got to me when you went back to your house, I've been tied up ever since.”
Me: “I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in all this, Alex.”
The sound of distant sirens filled the air.
Alex: “Sounds like the police have finally found us. I'll go and get them, just keep that gun on the psycho until I'm back.”
Alex scampered off towards the warehouse office.
When she was gone, Rose wiped a trickle of blood away from her mouth.
Rose: “Alone at last. Whatever will you do with me now?”
Rose had murdered five amazing women, stole them from the world. In life those women made the world a better place and it's not everybody that gets to do that. I certainly haven't.
But faced with true evil, I saw a way to at least improve the world in one small way.
I pulled the trigger.
And then I ran.
*
That night I ran and I ran. Not because I was being chased, but because some animal instinct deep inside told me it was the only thing to do. My brain didn't reengage until I’d crossed the entire city.
I was standing in a back alley behind a large townhouse. It was the kind of house landlords rent out to several students at a time. Even in the gloom I could see the open window on the second floor. I climbed a sturdy drainpipe and managed to slip inside.
I found myself in an empty bedroom. I crawled under the blanket strewn across the bed and cried myself into an exhausted sleep.
*
In the cold light of morning, I realised that there was no To Let sign outside the house and the bedrooms were all full of stuff. Clearly the students that lived here had gone away for Summer Recess and would no doubt be back in time for Autumn Term.
I found this old laptop in the bottom of one of the students’ cupboards and set about looking for updates on Rose and the killings. There was nothing on any of the local news sites or on social media, I couldn't find word of the murders anywhere.
I didn't get any updates until three days later when Alex started posting short stories on her personal blog. They contained cryptic messages to me that were lawfully vague (and pretentious) enough for her to maintain plausible deniability. Alex was obviously being watched by the police, just as I thought she would be.
Whatever the answer, ever since reading Alex's first short story I have been afraid for my life, certain that Rose would be hunting me. But, after writing everything down and clearing my head, I'm not so sure. Rose made such an effort to frame me, surely killing me after all that would be pointless? Then again who knows how that psycho thinks.
I was also able to determine from Alex’s blog that Professor Dance survived his injuries (thank God) and that the police still consider me the prime suspect in the murders. Exactly as Rose planned.
All that remains is to ask you to stay vigilant whilst I’m in hiding.
Rose is still out there, and there's no telling what she'll do or where she'll strike next.
submitted by mediamusing to DarkTales [link] [comments]
All because two months ago I had a very, very bad day.
That morning I awoke to find every girlfriend I’ve ever had lined up dead on my living room floor.
Grace Keele, first in the row. I hadn’t seen Grace since primary school.
Rabia Sahni, second in the row. Rabia was the first girl I ever kissed. Sarah Finnegan, third in the row. I’d never watch Sarah smash a forehand winner again.
Patricia Kotzen, fourth. She was supposed to be living it up in Barcelona. And finally, India Evans. Four days ago India was alive.
Who could have done this? Was it me?
No. I could never do something so horrifying, so despicable.
Did I call the police?
Let’s face it, they’d never have believed I didn't do this.
Run. It was my only choice, my only chance.
Or so I thought.
*
Half an hour later and I'd made it to Alex's house. Somehow I’d managed to stay calm on the way over but, as soon as I reached Alex’s front door, I lost it.
Me: “Alex! Let me in!”
I could hear Alex through the door, even whilst I was hammering my fist against it.
Alex: “Hold on, I’m coming!”
I barged into her hallway the instant the door was open.
Alex was like me, a postgrad. One of the few people still around during the summer. She struck quite the note with her psychedelic-red hair and pinstripe pyjamas.
Alex: “What the hell is going—”
Me: “They’re dead, Alex. All of them. Jesus, Grace Keele must have been eleven the last time—”
Alex slammed her hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid sentence.
Alex: “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I did so.
Alex: “Now, slowly. Why are you ranting and raving in my hallway at nine o’clock in the morning?”
Me: “Because I came downstairs this morning and every girlfriend I’ve ever had was lined up dead in my living room."
Alex let out a tired sigh.
Alex: “Come with me.”
Calmly, Alex led me into the kitchen. She sat me down at the table and poured me a glass of water.
Alex: “Drink this.”
I took a sip as Alex sat opposite me and looked me in the eye.
Alex: “Where were you last night? What did you take?”
I stared back at her, dumbfounded.
I was about to protest when there was a sharp knock at the front door. Alex got up to answer it.
Me: “No, don’t answer, it could be the police.”
Alex: “Relax, it’ll be a delivery. They always come at this time. Drink the rest of your water.”
I took another sip as Alex went to answer the door.
Eventually, Alex came back with an A4 envelope and a confused expression.
Alex: “It’s addressed to you ...”
She handed it to me.
Alex: “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Tentatively, I did so.
Me: “No …”
I was holding a large photo of Grace Keele. Not as I remembered her from primary school, but dressed in smart office wear. I dropped the envelope and photo to the table.
Alex reached over and picked the photo up.
Alex: “Who is it?”
Me: “Grace Keele. Before this morning I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen her in years. She's dead, Alex. In my house. This photo must be from her killer.”
Alex gave me a hard stare.
Alex: “Is this some sort of sick joke?”
Me: “No, all of my exes, they're dead in my living room. Just like I told you.”
Alex lowered the photo to the table. She picked up the envelope.
Alex: “There’s something else in here.”
Alex pulled a vandalised graduation photo depicting me without a face from the envelope, and then a letter.
Alex cringed at the picture and then read the letter aloud. I'll type it out for you below:
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Five lovers slain, five dark lessons to learn. Fail any task and I’ll destroy what you love the most. Call the police and I’ll destroy what you love the most.Alex lowered the letter to the table.
Consider Grace Keele, your first romance. Aptly named, Grace showed poise and work ethic throughout school, eventually securing a coveted job in the finance sector.
You shamelessly relied on family and friends to bail you out of endless trouble and get you to where you are now. It's high time you learned some humility. Take a naked photo of yourself and post it across your social media accounts before 10am today. I'm watching. I'm closer than you think.
Alex: “So it's true. My God … those poor women. We need to call the police.”
Alex was right of course, not that I listened.
Me: “No, we can’t call the police.”
Alex: “There are five dead bodies in your living room and some lunatic is mailing you psychobabble. We have to call the police.”
Me: “Wait. Just let me think … The delivery man. What did he look like?”
Alex: “I don’t know, some middle-aged guy. It’s the same guy we always have.”
Me: “The killer knew I’d be here …”
Alex: “What?”
Me: “The killer knew I’d leave the bodies and come here, knew I wouldn’t call the police.”
Alex: “So what? We need to call them now.”
Me: “No, I think we need to do as the letter says.”
Alex: “Are you crazy?”
Me: “Alex, I didn’t report the murders straight away, I split up with India after a blazing row four days ago. You know how it’s going to look if we call the police.”
Alex: “But we have this letter. The letter proves you didn’t do anything.”
Me: “A typed letter. I could have typed the letter, I could have printed the photos. I could have posted them all to make it look like I was innocent. They prove nothing.”
Alex: “So what? You’re just going to do as this psychopath says?”
Me: “For now, yes.”
Alex: “And how will publicly humiliating yourself help the situation?”
Me: “If I play along I might be able to work out who did this, catch them out.”
Alex: “I really, really think we should call the police.”
Me: “Let’s just buy ourselves some time. Time to think.”
Alex was giving me a dark look.
Me: “It’s just one little photo …”
*
A few minutes later I was standing in the middle of Alex's room, naked. I had to do it. If the killer was threatening to do what I thought they were threatening to do, then I couldn’t risk going against their will.
That was my thinking anyway. I grabbed my phone and raised my arm to take a photo.
It's a very particular kind of horror being forced to expose yourself online against your will. I shudder when I think of that image as the last thing so many people I know, and that I don't know, saw of me. And before anyone asks in the comments, no, I'm not going to post the photo here.
I heard Alex yell at me through the bedroom door.
Alex: “Have you done it yet?”
I lowered the phone.
Me: “No! And I’m not going to be able to with you shouting at me!”
Alex: “Sorry …”
It wasn't any fun, but I did it.
Then I got dressed and went out into the hallway.
Me: “Done.”
Alex: “And you posted it to all of your accounts?”
Me: “Everything except my Facebook. I lost the login for that months ago.”
Alex: “Okay. I still think we should have called the police though.”
Me: “We will eventually, but now we have some time to think.”
Alex: “I’ve already been thinking. How is this situation even possible? Five dead women, how did the killer get them into your house without you knowing?”
Me: “I don’t know, there was no sign of a break in.”
Alex: “Did you hear anything during the night?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Alex: “Your ex-housemates then? They might still have keys.”
Me: “Three undergrads I hardly know. Why would any one of them do this?”
Alex: “Well, who else could be responsible? Do you have any enemies?”
Me: “Not that I can think of.”
Alex: “Do your parents have any enemies?”
Me: “They own a bakery, Alex. Why would they have any enemies?”
Alex: “Don’t speak to me like that, I’m only trying to help.”
Me: “Sorry, Alex. It’s just, I have no idea who could be doing this.”
Alex's phone pinged. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.
Alex: “Bloody hell. Your little photo has lit up my social media.”
I felt my cheeks flushing.
Me: “Some moderator will take it down soon enough.”
Then my phone pinged. I pulled it from my pocket and worked the screen.
Me: “I have an email. I think it’s from …”
Alex pocketed her phone as I opened the email and read the message aloud:
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about humility.Me: “There’s a photo attached to the email.”
Now, consider Rabia Sahni. A natural beauty, Rabia knew there were more important things in life; family, goals, kindness. You have always been obsessed with your appearance. Endlessly preening and correcting yourself, spending money you didn’t have on expensive clothes.
Cut off one of your ears and come alone to the churchyard at the end of Oat Street. Leave your ear on the grave closest to the green memorial bench by 11.30am. Fail and I’ll destroy what you love the most. Call the police and I’ll destroy what you love the most. I’m watching. I’m closer than you think.
I opened it. Rabia was wearing a bridesmaids dress, a wedding reception in full swing behind her.
Alex: “Let me see.”
I passed Alex my phone.
Alex: “This is Rabia Sahni?”
Me: “Yes. I went out with her for a bit in secondary school.”
Alex: “She's beautiful. And she had her whole life ahead of her …”
Rabia’s loss weighed heavily in the air.
Alex lowered my phone.
Alex: “Posting the photo has helped though. Now we have this email, the police will be able to get an IP address, it’s time to—”
Me: “Alex, no.”
Alex gave me a dark look.
Alex: “You can’t be serious?”
Me: “Look, we’re learning more about this sicko with every message they send. It’s someone who knows me and my past intimately, it’s someone who feels I need to learn certain lessons.”
Alex: “So who is it then?”
Me: “I don’t know. I need more time to work it out.”
Alex: “And you’re going to buy that time by mutilating yourself?”
Me: “If I have to, yes.”
Alex: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re an idiot. A total bloody idiot.”
Alex shoved my phone into my chest and then barged past me into her bedroom.
I stayed in the hallway, thinking. I had to get Alex on board. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the danger she might be in.
I decided to follow Alex into her bedroom and try and talk her round some other way.
Inside her room Alex was sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. She didn't acknowledge me as I entered.
Me: “The ear thing worked out okay for Van Gogh.”
Alex: “Van Gogh killed himself after years spent penniless, ill and alone. He wasn’t appreciated until after his death. Your supervisor would be appalled that you didn't know that.”
Me: “We're studying a rare Patrice Trezeguet. Cubism was after van Gogh.”
Alex said nothing.
Me: “I’ll only cut a tiny bit off. Just enough to make my face bloody. I’ll patch myself up and then I’ll go to the churchyard.”
Alex stayed quiet.
Me: “The killer must be watching the grave. They must be someone I know, I’ll recognise them. We can call the police once we have a name.”
Still she said nothing.
Me: “Trust me, Alex.”
Me: “Please.”
Finally, Alex let out a long sigh.
Alex: “I’ll go and get the first aid kit. You’ll only botch it and end up bleeding to death if I let you do it on your own.”
*
I decided that the bathroom would be the best place to perform amateur surgery. Now, as anyone who has ever been to college or university will know, student bathrooms are rarely shining examples of cleanliness and hygiene. Luckily, Alex kept a tidy ship.
I was standing topless in front of the mirror when she came in with the first-aid kit.
Me: “I think the earlobe would be best, it’s the softest part.”
Then I noticed what else Alex was carrying.
Me: “What are those things?”
Alex: “Poultry scissors. You’d recognise them if you ever cooked instead of living off takeaway.”
Me: “Are they sharp?”
Alex: “Extremely. I’ve disinfected them too.”
Alex passed me the scissors.
Me: “And you have everything we need to stop the bleeding?”
Alex: “I think so.”
I raised the scissors to my earlobe.
Me: “Here goes nothing.”
I told myself I wouldn't scream for Alex's sake. Turns out I am a liar.
God it hurt.
But you don't need to know all the gory details. Just understand that I did it, then I swore an obscene amount, then Alex patched me up and bandaged the side of my head.
*
Alex: “I have a question.”
We were back in Alex's kitchen, sitting at the table. I was still shirtless, holding a piece of gauze soaked in antiseptic to the side of my head.
Me: “What?”
Alex: “In the messages, the killer threatens to destroy what you love the most. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
Me: “No, but it doesn’t sound good.”
Told you I was a liar.
Alex: “And what about the other stuff, all your … character flaws. Is that stuff true?”
Me: “Even if it is, it doesn’t mean I deserve this. It certainly doesn’t mean that five women deserved to die. Whatever’s going on here is some sort of twisted overreaction. We just need a name. A name and then the police can take over.”
Alex nodded. She looked up at the kitchen clock.
Alex: “It's gone 11 o'clock. We should probably get you dressed and ready to go.”
Alex helped me pull on my shirt and, before long, I was standing in the hallway by her front door holding you-know-what in a big roll of tissue.
It seemed like I stood there for an age.
Alex: “If you’re having second thoughts it’s not too late to change your mind.”
Me: “We need a name or the police won’t believe a word I tell them.”
Alex: “Well, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Me: “The email said to come alone. Besides, you’re safer here. Remember, lock—”
Alex: “Yes, I know, lock the door and don’t let anyone in but you.”
Me: “Right. I better get going.”
Alex: “Wait.”
Alex stepped forward and hugged me, I hugged her back. It helped.
Alex: “Be safe. As soon as you know who it is, come straight back. Don’t try anything stupid.”
And with that I stepped out of Alex's house.
I heard the door close and the lock turn behind me.
I walked out of Alex's front garden and onto Oat Street, one of the main thoroughfares through the outskirts of the city. As I moved past rows of tightly packed student housing, takeaways and small businesses I was scrutinising every person I passed. And they were scrutinising me.
A woman with shopping bags, two kids on the other side of the road, a man in a suit; all of them stared at the bloody bandage wrapped around my head. Was that woman responsible? Did I recognise the guy in the suit?
I decided to rule out the tabby cat lazing in the sun atop a wall on the other side of the road.
As the church came into view a teenage boy and girl turned onto Oat Street and started walking in my direction. As they drew nearer they noticed my appearance.
Teenage Boy: “Mate, you might wanna check in with a mirror.”
The girl laughed. And then …
I tripped on a loose curb stone and dropped my roll of tissue.
My severed earlobe tumbled out across the path. It was a truly horrifying moment, and it all seemed to happen in slow motion.
Teenage Girl: “What the …”
I fumbled to retrieve the earlobe and re-wrap it in my role of tissue.
Teenage Boy: “You skanky bugger! What you gonna do with that? Eat it?”
With the teenagers creasing up, I hurried on.
Mortifying, but I doubted those kids had anything to do with the murders.
Eventually, I reached the churchyard and stepped through the painted gate.
I surveyed the area. The churchyard was well-tended but the grave stones were all stained black with pollution from the road. It seemed I was the only person present. Then I noticed the weathered green memorial bench tucked away in the corner.
I approached wondering whether the killer was watching me from somewhere else? There were buildings visible beyond the churchyard’s walls, but no person I could see watching from a window or rooftop. Then I noticed the small grave near the green bench.
I decided I might as well leave my little present. Try and buy some more time.
Next, I saw that there was a blank envelope lying on the grave. I swapped my roll of tissue for the envelope, opened it and read the letter inside.
My greatest fear was realised. The killer had worked out what I loved the most and, possibly even worse, had badly misread the situation.
Terrified, I dropped the letter to the ground and sprinted out of the churchyard.
I ran back down Oat Street as fast as I could.
As soon as I reached Alex's house I was hammering on the front door.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! Let me in!”
She wasn't answering.
Just as I was considering breaking in through a window, Alex finally unlocked the door and appeared. She was newly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I rushed inside.
Me: “Is everything okay? Why did you take so long to answer?”
Alex: “I was getting dressed. What happened out there? Why are you so freaked out?”
Me: “Nothing. I panicked is all.”
Alex: “Nothing? You didn’t see the killer?”
Me: “I don’t think so. Just a bunch of people going about their day.”
Alex: “Well, did any of them look suspicious?”
Me: “Not that I could tell.”
Alex: “And what about the church? The grave?”
Me: “I left my tissue roll there but the churchyard was empty. I didn’t see anybody.”
Alex: “Okay. It’s time to call the police.”
Me: “No, there’s still time to catch the killer out.”
Alex: “Five women are dead, they’ll be missed. Somebody has probably called the police already. There’s no point delaying any more.”
Me: “Alex, trust me. If we call the police it won’t end well for us.”
Alex: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just do.”
Alex gave me a questioning look.
Alex: “What happened out there?”
There was a heavy pause, and then my phone pinged.
Saved by the bell.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw that I had another email.
Me: “It’s the killer.”
Alex: “Read it to me.”
I started to read aloud:
An earlobe is not an ear. Luckily for you I laughed so hard when you dropped it that I’m willing to forgive your blunder. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about vanity.I lowered my phone, not even opening the picture attached to the email.
Consider Sarah Finnegan, modest and humble despite being the star player at your old tennis club. You on the other hand have always been a teller of tales, never afraid to talk yourself up or to talk others down. The murder weapon is underneath the kitchen sink in your house. Retrieve it and bring it back to Alex’s house by 2pm.
Be advised, I’m calling the police and local news. I’m telling tales.
Me: “They’re calling in the murders, I have to go.”
Alex: “Don't be an idiot. If the police catch you with the bodies and the murder weapon you’ll be screwed.”
Me: “I’ll be in and out before they get there.”
I turned towards the front door, but Alex grabbed my arm.
Alex: “You’re walking straight into a trap.”
Me: “Don't you think I know that? I have to go, you don’t understand.”
Alex: “Why don’t I understand? What aren’t you telling me?”
I broke free of Alex's grip.
Me: “There’s no time to explain right now. Just stay here. Don't let anyone in except me.”
And with that I rushed outside.
Alex slammed the door behind me.
*
I had no idea how much time I had to get to my house before anyone else arrived. But I knew it couldn’t be long.
Depending on exactly who the killer called, and on what they said, someone could be there in minutes. I've always known I can run but I can’t fight. I needed to be in and out before anything could go wrong. I sprinted hard.
Once I reached the scruffy little avenue that I lived on I stopped and, breathing heavily, surveyed the scene.
The avenue was silent, empty. I took a step forwards but my phone started to ring.
I pulled it from my pocket and examined the screen. The caller ID said “Home”. My parents. They’d probably heard about my photo, but there wasn’t any time to talk. I switched off and pocketed my phone.
Then, very cautiously, I approached my front door. I looked around the avenue one last time, turned the handle and pushed the door open. I hadn’t even bothered to lock it when I left.
The house was quiet. I crept along the hallway until I reached the living room door. It was closed. I never close the living room door, something was wrong. I opened the living room door and stepped inside. There were no dead bodies, the floor was bare.
Where were they? Had they got up and left? Had I imagined it all? Then, through the living room window, I saw a police car pull into my avenue.
It parked and two police officers, a man and a woman, stepped out.
It was the kind of horror where the floor feels like it's suddenly dropped away from you and your blood turns ice cold in your veins.
I rushed out of the living room and made straight for the kitchen before they could see me through the window. As soon as I knelt in front of the kitchen sink there was a loud knock at the front door and a raised voice.
Policeman: “This is the police. We received a distress call concerning this address.”
I rifled through the cupboard below the sink looking for the murder weapon.
I found it in the back corner behind a bottle of bleach: a vicious looking hunting knife. I heard the policeman speak again.
Policeman: “Your front door is unlocked, I’m coming in.”
I sprung upright and turned to look at the long hallway between the kitchen and the front door, the policeman was stepping inside. Then his radio went off.
Policewoman: “Bodies in the garden. Repeat, we have bodies in the garden.”
The second officer must have gone through the side gate into my garden. There was only one thing to do.
I charged at the policeman standing in my open doorway. He was a big guy, but I had the whole length of the hallway to pick up speed. I held the hunting knife out of the way and shoulder barged the policeman down onto the doorstep.
I just about managed to stay upright and used my momentum to leap over him.
Still holding the murder weapon I sprinted for an alleyway between two houses on the opposite side of my avenue. It had a chain link fence at the end of it, but I was up and over in a flash.
*
The next half an hour was spent taking back streets and side roads to Alex's house.
I even found a mankey old shirt to wrap the hunting knife in. There were still spots of blood on the blade and I really didn't want to be reminded of what the knife had taken from the world.
At last, I ended up in the alleyway behind Alex's back garden. I climbed a brick wall and dropped into her flowerbed. I brushed the soil from my knees and made my way to Alex’s back door.
I knocked harshly.
Me: “Alex! Open up!”
There was no answer so I tried the door. It opened.
I stepped inside.
I walked through the kitchen, everything was quiet.
Me: “Alex? Where are you?”
Still no answer so I stepped into the hallway.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! I’m back!”
Silence. Dread. Something was badly wrong.
Then a phone started to ring. That weird Brahms’ Hungarian Dance ringtone Alex showed me in the pub a couple of weeks ago. It was her phone. It was coming from the floor above so I raced up the stairs.
I followed the sound into Alex's bedroom. Alex's phone was on her bed, still ringing.
The caller ID was “UNKNOWN CALLER”. I answered.
Me: “What have you done with Alex?”
The eerie voice on the other end was distorted somehow. I couldn't tell who I was speaking to.
Caller: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about telling tales.”
Me: “Where is Alex? Your graveyard letter said you wouldn’t hurt her if I did what you said.”
Caller: “What you love the most is perfectly well, but I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear if you don’t calm down.”
Me: “Okay, just don’t – don’t hurt her. Please.”
Caller: “Good boy. Now, you’re going to come to the university campus, to the Humanities building. Your next task is waiting for you on the roof.”
Me: “But all that way, what if the police—”
Caller: “No dawdling. Be there by 5pm. You know what will happen to Alex if you defy me. And dump your phone, bring Alex’s instead. Bring the knife too. Do you understand?”
Me: “Yes, 5pm Humanities building roof. Alex’s phone and the knife. Are you going to tell me why you're doing this to me? Who you are?”
Caller: “Why I'm doing this? No, I'm not going to tell you that yet. Who I am? That's an interesting question. Over the years I have used many names, but I think my favourite is … Rose.”
The line went dead.
*
Once again, I made use of back streets to navigate the city and get to my university. When I reached the campus I was glad to see that there were at least a few people milling about the place. It helped me to blend in.
I was wearing one of Alex's hoodies with the hood up, the hunting knife tucked up my left sleeve. I was doing my best not to meet anyone's eye but I knew I couldn't hide in plain sight forever. The police would be looking for me now.
Once I arrived at the Humanities building I casually leaned against a nearby tree and tried to scope out the roof. Nothing. I couldn't see anyone or anything up there.
There was only one thing for it. I had to go in.
Inside, the building was quiet. I passed through long hallways skirted by empty lecture halls without seeing anyone.
Before long, I reached the stairwell. Slowly, I made my way up towards the top of the building. About halfway up I heard footsteps. I froze.
A few moments later a young Professor carrying a small stack of books came down the stairs.
Thankfully, he seemed to be in a rush and paid me little notice as he passed. I carried on upwards.
I soon reached the top of the stairwell and a large door that led out onto the roof. It seemed like the kind of door that ought to be locked, but Rose had apparently seen to that.
Outside, the roof was empty. I could see the campus and then the city stretching out in all directions, but the people down there looked like ants. I couldn't tell if any of them seemed suspicious. Then I noticed something on the floor at the other end of the roof.
I walked over. It was a photo of Patricia Kotzen taped to the ground. She was posing in front of the Barcelona Cathedral with a couple of friends.
In my pocket, Alex's phone began to ring. I answered.
Me: “I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Rose was still speaking through some kind of eerie distortion.
Rose: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Consider Patricia Kotzen. An otherwise exemplary student, you convinced her to let you cheat by copying her work under exam conditions. Because you were her boyfriend she felt obligated to let you.”
Me: “Fine, yes. I was an asshole when I was an undergrad. What do I need to do to get Alex back?”
Rose: “I trust you bought the knife?”
Me: “Yes …”
Rose: “Professor Dance is in his office on the second floor, room C17. Stab him in the stomach with the knife and then vacate the Humanities building.”
Me: “I can’t do that, he’ll—”
Rose: “If you ever want to see Alex alive again you’ll do it. Stab Professor Dance and I promise Alex goes free, fail and I promise she dies immediately. You have three minutes.”
Rose hung up.
No time to think, no way to stall. I shoved Alex's phone into my pocket and started to run.
I yanked the roof door open and began to descend the stairwell.
Fourth floor …
Third floor …
Second floor …
I ran through a set of double doors that led to the main corridor on the second floor.
Pulling the knife from my sleeve, I moved onwards, checking the plaques nailed to each door as I went.
C17.
I burst into Professor Dance’s office holding the knife behind my back. Professor Dance was standing by his bookshelf, thumbing through a textbook. I realised he was the young Professor I'd passed on the stairwell earlier.
Me: “Do you have your phone?”
Professor Dance: “Er – yes. Do you need to make a—”
I drew the knife from behind my back, silencing him.
I did it for Alex.
I lunged forwards and did the deed. Yelling out in pain, Professor Dance fell back against his bookshelf and slid to the floor.
Me: “You need to call an ambulance. Is your phone in your pocket?”
Shock and confusion written across his face, Professor Dance managed to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
And then I was gone.
I raced back to the stairwell, then retraced my steps all the way back to the main entrance.
Alex's phone started to ring the moment I exited the Humanities building.
Me: “I’ve done it, I stabbed him.”
Rose still spoke through a distortion.
Rose: “Oh, I know.”
Me: “Where is Alex? When are you going to let her go?”
Rose: “I’m not. I had my fingers crossed when I promised I would – cheated if you will.”
Me: “You lying—”
Rose cut me off with a cruel laugh. I clenched my free fist.
Me: “If you hurt Alex I’ll rip your head off.”
Rose: “Be at the disused warehouse off the Fitzgerald intersection in ninety minutes. It's the one you students use for your vile little raves. A second too late and I’ll rip Alex’s head off.”
Rose hung up.
In the distance I heard the tell-tale siren of an ambulance. I started running.
*
The industrial estate by the Fitzgerald intersection was an abandoned mess. As I approached the dilapidated warehouse at its centre, the sun was just starting to sink behind the tallest buildings in the distance.
Like Rose had alluded to, I knew the place from a couple of raves I’d been to, but the main warehouse entrance I'd always used was closed.
There was an open side door though; a clear invitation. Inside, I followed a short corridor past an office and into the main space.
The warehouse was dimly lit and strewn with plastic cups and spent glow sticks. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were two people in the middle of the vast space. One of them was gagged and tied to a chair. Alex.
She tried to say something through her gag as I approached but the second figure pulled a gun and pointed it at me, silencing her.
Through the gloom it took me a moment to realise who it was. My PhD supervisor.
Me: “Arabella? What are—”
Rose: “We've been through this, I prefer Rose. I stole the name fair and square.”
Me: “I don't understand …”
Rose: “Consider India Evans. Your devoted girlfriend until four days ago when I told her that you were cheating on her.”
Me: “That was you? All this has been about teaching me a lesson because of that?”
Rose let out her cruel laugh.
Rose: “I never cared about teaching you anything. I'm not really a career academic, despite what the University thinks. My tasks served one purpose, and one purpose only. To incriminate you.”
Me: “Incriminate me?”
Rose: “You posted a naked picture online and then mutilated yourself. You’re clearly disturbed. You and India broke up in an argument plenty of people witnessed. The police found five dead women in your garden. And then, most importantly, you stabbed Professor Dance.”
I stared back in confusion.
Rose: “You stabbed him in a jealous fit of rage. After she finished with you, India fled into the arms of her handsome young Professor. You couldn't handle it, so you stabbed him with the same knife you killed your exes with.”
Me: “No, that's not true.”
Rose: “But it looks true. Your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon stuck in Professor Dance’s belly, after all.”
Me: “Why – why would you do this to me?”
Rose: “Because I need a scapegoat. You went mad, killed all of your exes and then tried to get away with the Patrice Trezeguet we were studying together. It's worth a fortune. More than enough to set up a new life.”
Me: “But—”
Rose: “But really I'll be escaping with the painting whilst you're spinning some ridiculous story to the police in a holding cell. A lot of work to acquire one little painting I admit, but Thane does so love his rare works of art.”
Me: “You murdered five women just to steal a painting? How did you even find my exes?”
Rose: “Through your Facebook account. I borrowed your phone and locked you out of Facebook whilst you were sleeping off one of our little extra-curricular sessions. I've been posing as you, talking to your wretched exes for months, listening to their pathetic little sob stories, luring them to come and meet me with talk of wanting to reconcile. It really wasn't difficult.”
Rose kept her eyes and gun trained on me as she spoke.
Rose: “Oh, and Alex, by extra-curricular sessions I mean sex. I was the one he was cheating on India with. Don't worry though, after himself you're what he loves the most. I'm sure he would've gotten around to you eventually.”
Me: “You've got it all wrong, Rose. I don't love Alex because I want to sleep with her, I love her because she's my best friend in the whole world. Not that you'd understand anything about love, nor what you were going up against when you took both of us on.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Whilst I’d been keeping Rose talking, Alex had been loosening the restraints around one of her legs.
As Rose gave me a wary look, Alex kicked against the floor and slammed her chair into Rose’s side. It was the opening I needed. As Rose crashed to the floor I sped across the warehouse and dived on top of her.
I wrestled for the gun, but Rose was strong.
It was only because of Alex twisting free of her gag and sinking her teeth into Rose’s thigh that I managed to get the gun away from her.
I sprang upright and pointed the gun at Rose.
Alex was freeing herself from the last of the restraints holding her to the chair.
Me: “Are you okay, Alex?”
Alex: “Much better now. She got to me when you went back to your house, I've been tied up ever since.”
Me: “I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in all this, Alex.”
The sound of distant sirens filled the air.
Alex: “Sounds like the police have finally found us. I'll go and get them, just keep that gun on the psycho until I'm back.”
Alex scampered off towards the warehouse office.
When she was gone, Rose wiped a trickle of blood away from her mouth.
Rose: “Alone at last. Whatever will you do with me now?”
Rose had murdered five amazing women, stole them from the world. In life those women made the world a better place and it's not everybody that gets to do that. I certainly haven't.
But faced with true evil, I saw a way to at least improve the world in one small way.
I pulled the trigger.
And then I ran.
*
That night I ran and I ran. Not because I was being chased, but because some animal instinct deep inside told me it was the only thing to do. My brain didn't reengage until I’d crossed the entire city.
I was standing in a back alley behind a large townhouse. It was the kind of house landlords rent out to several students at a time. Even in the gloom I could see the open window on the second floor. I climbed a sturdy drainpipe and managed to slip inside.
I found myself in an empty bedroom. I crawled under the blanket strewn across the bed and cried myself into an exhausted sleep.
*
In the cold light of morning, I realised that there was no To Let sign outside the house and the bedrooms were all full of stuff. Clearly the students that lived here had gone away for Summer Recess and would no doubt be back in time for Autumn Term.
I found this old laptop in the bottom of one of the students’ cupboards and set about looking for updates on Rose and the killings. There was nothing on any of the local news sites or on social media, I couldn't find word of the murders anywhere.
I didn't get any updates until three days later when Alex started posting short stories on her personal blog. They contained cryptic messages to me that were lawfully vague (and pretentious) enough for her to maintain plausible deniability. Alex was obviously being watched by the police, just as I thought she would be.
…and so the thorny rose wilted, wilted but did not expire. It cast its wicked seed to the wind so that it might spawn again in pastures new…I shot that monster in the heart. I don't understand how she even survived, let alone escaped. And did she escape from the warehouse before the police got there like I did? Or did she escape from custody, or perhaps from the hospital?
Whatever the answer, ever since reading Alex's first short story I have been afraid for my life, certain that Rose would be hunting me. But, after writing everything down and clearing my head, I'm not so sure. Rose made such an effort to frame me, surely killing me after all that would be pointless? Then again who knows how that psycho thinks.
I was also able to determine from Alex’s blog that Professor Dance survived his injuries (thank God) and that the police still consider me the prime suspect in the murders. Exactly as Rose planned.
…led by the magistrate the townsfolk chided the Student Ripper, for in their ignorance they did not see the roseroot woven all through the dark business that sickened them so…Alex hasn't mentioned Grace, Rabia, Sarah, Patricia, or India in her writing, but I know she will be thinking of them. And she'll know that my heart is broken because of what happened and the part I played in it.
All that remains is to ask you to stay vigilant whilst I’m in hiding.
Rose is still out there, and there's no telling what she'll do or where she'll strike next.
2023.04.22 02:29 bradkeller Bowling alleys NOT owned Bowlero?
I have a crying nine year old right now, because I told her that it would cost us over $100 to go bowling this weekend. So it's clearly not something that we're going to do every so often like we used to.
From what I can tell, Bowlero bought all the bowling alleys in the DC area and jacked up the prices. I haven't looked at Pinstripes but I've seen it in Rockville and I doubt it's reasonably priced either.
Are there any bowling alleys around here that are still affordable? I'd like to take my kids for a game but don't want to commit to two hours and over $100.
Any ideas? Thank you all.
submitted by bradkeller to nova [link] [comments]
From what I can tell, Bowlero bought all the bowling alleys in the DC area and jacked up the prices. I haven't looked at Pinstripes but I've seen it in Rockville and I doubt it's reasonably priced either.
Are there any bowling alleys around here that are still affordable? I'd like to take my kids for a game but don't want to commit to two hours and over $100.
Any ideas? Thank you all.
2023.04.19 22:36 pigplumpie [Pinstripe Alley] The Yankees have an exciting project in pitching prospect Justin Lange
![[Pinstripe Alley] The Yankees have an exciting project in pitching prospect Justin Lange](https://external-preview.redd.it/_KjmFDe0KE6lYhSnrz-sgVRJ8rU5Paadb4_OwT8qsfI.jpg?width=640&crop=smart&auto=webp&s=700dac0e3229e48b629d943f109c3086dc4a83df "[Pinstripe Alley] The Yankees have an exciting project in pitching prospect Justin Lange") | submitted by pigplumpie to NYYankees [link] [comments] |
2023.04.18 14:37 interwebzdotnet Farm System Resources
Can anyone share their favorite sources for Yankees related farm team news? Looking around reddit I didn't see much. Pinstripe Alley has some pretty good and fresh content, but there must be somewhere else I'm missing? A
submitted by interwebzdotnet to NYYankees [link] [comments]
2023.04.09 18:37 mediamusing The Student Ripper Killings
I have been in hiding all through Summer Recess. I am afraid for my life.
All because two months ago I had a very, very bad day.
That morning I awoke to find every girlfriend I’ve ever had lined up dead on my living room floor.
Grace Keele, first in the row. I hadn’t seen Grace since primary school.
Rabia Sahni, second in the row. Rabia was the first girl I ever kissed. Sarah Finnegan, third in the row. I’d never watch Sarah smash a forehand winner again.
Patricia Kotzen, fourth. She was supposed to be living it up in Barcelona. And finally, India Evans. Four days ago India was alive.
Who could have done this? Was it me?
No. I could never do something so horrifying, so despicable.
Did I call the police?
Let’s face it, they’d never have believed I didn't do this.
Run. It was my only choice, my only chance.
Or so I thought.
*
Half an hour later and I'd made it to Alex's house. Somehow I’d managed to stay calm on the way over but, as soon as I reached Alex’s front door, I lost it.
Me: “Alex! Let me in!”
I could hear Alex through the door, even whilst I was hammering my fist against it.
Alex: “Hold on, I’m coming!”
I barged into her hallway the instant the door was open.
Alex was like me, a postgrad. One of the few people still around during the summer. She struck quite the note with her psychedelic-red hair and pinstripe pyjamas.
Alex: “What the hell is going—”
Me: “They’re dead, Alex. All of them. Jesus, Grace Keele must have been eleven the last time—”
Alex slammed her hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid sentence.
Alex: “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I did so.
Alex: “Now, slowly. Why are you ranting and raving in my hallway at nine o’clock in the morning?”
Me: “Because I came downstairs this morning and every girlfriend I’ve ever had was lined up dead in my living room."
Alex let out a tired sigh.
Alex: “Come with me.”
Calmly, Alex led me into the kitchen. She sat me down at the table and poured me a glass of water.
Alex: “Drink this.”
I took a sip as Alex sat opposite me and looked me in the eye.
Alex: “Where were you last night? What did you take?”
I stared back at her, dumbfounded.
I was about to protest when there was a sharp knock at the front door. Alex got up to answer it.
Me: “No, don’t answer, it could be the police.”
Alex: “Relax, it’ll be a delivery. They always come at this time. Drink the rest of your water.”
I took another sip as Alex went to answer the door.
Eventually, Alex came back with an A4 envelope and a confused expression.
Alex: “It’s addressed to you ...”
She handed it to me.
Alex: “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Tentatively, I did so.
Me: “No …”
I was holding a large photo of Grace Keele. Not as I remembered her from primary school, but dressed in smart office wear. I dropped the envelope and photo to the table.
Alex reached over and picked the photo up.
Alex: “Who is it?”
Me: “Grace Keele. Before this morning I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen her in years. She's dead, Alex. In my house. This photo must be from her killer.”
Alex gave me a hard stare.
Alex: “Is this some sort of sick joke?”
Me: “No, all of my exes, they're dead in my living room. Just like I told you.”
Alex lowered the photo to the table. She picked up the envelope.
Alex: “There’s something else in here.”
Alex pulled a vandalised graduation photo depicting me without a face from the envelope, and then a letter.
Alex cringed at the picture and then read the letter aloud. I'll type it out for you below:
Alex: “So it's true. My God … those poor women. We need to call the police.”
Alex was right of course, not that I listened.
Me: “No, we can’t call the police.”
Alex: “There are five dead bodies in your living room and some lunatic is mailing you psychobabble. We have to call the police.”
Me: “Wait. Just let me think … The delivery man. What did he look like?”
Alex: “I don’t know, some middle-aged guy. It’s the same guy we always have.”
Me: “The killer knew I’d be here …”
Alex: “What?”
Me: “The killer knew I’d leave the bodies and come here, knew I wouldn’t call the police.”
Alex: “So what? We need to call them now.”
Me: “No, I think we need to do as the letter says.”
Alex: “Are you crazy?”
Me: “Alex, I didn’t report the murders straight away, I split up with India after a blazing row four days ago. You know how it’s going to look if we call the police.”
Alex: “But we have this letter. The letter proves you didn’t do anything.”
Me: “A typed letter. I could have typed the letter, I could have printed the photos. I could have posted them all to make it look like I was innocent. They prove nothing.”
Alex: “So what? You’re just going to do as this psychopath says?”
Me: “For now, yes.”
Alex: “And how will publicly humiliating yourself help the situation?”
Me: “If I play along I might be able to work out who did this, catch them out.”
Alex: “I really, really think we should call the police.”
Me: “Let’s just buy ourselves some time. Time to think.”
Alex was giving me a dark look.
Me: “It’s just one little photo …”
*
A few minutes later I was standing in the middle of Alex's room, naked. I had to do it. If the killer was threatening to do what I thought they were threatening to do, then I couldn’t risk going against their will.
That was my thinking anyway. I grabbed my phone and raised my arm to take a photo.
It's a very particular kind of horror being forced to expose yourself online against your will. I shudder when I think of that image as the last thing so many people I know, and that I don't know, saw of me. And before anyone asks in the comments, no, I'm not going to post the photo here.
I heard Alex yell at me through the bedroom door.
Alex: “Have you done it yet?”
I lowered the phone.
Me: “No! And I’m not going to be able to with you shouting at me!”
Alex: “Sorry …”
It wasn't any fun, but I did it.
Then I got dressed and went out into the hallway.
Me: “Done.”
Alex: “And you posted it to all of your accounts?”
Me: “Everything except my Facebook. I lost the login for that months ago.”
Alex: “Okay. I still think we should have called the police though.”
Me: “We will eventually, but now we have some time to think.”
Alex: “I’ve already been thinking. How is this situation even possible? Five dead women, how did the killer get them into your house without you knowing?”
Me: “I don’t know, there was no sign of a break in.”
Alex: “Did you hear anything during the night?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Alex: “Your ex-housemates then? They might still have keys.”
Me: “Three undergrads I hardly know. Why would any one of them do this?”
Alex: “Well, who else could be responsible? Do you have any enemies?”
Me: “Not that I can think of.”
Alex: “Do your parents have any enemies?”
Me: “They own a bakery, Alex. Why would they have any enemies?”
Alex: “Don’t speak to me like that, I’m only trying to help.”
Me: “Sorry, Alex. It’s just, I have no idea who could be doing this.”
Alex's phone pinged. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.
Alex: “Bloody hell. Your little photo has lit up my social media.”
I felt my cheeks flushing.
Me: “Some moderator will take it down soon enough.”
Then my phone pinged. I pulled it from my pocket and worked the screen.
Me: “I have an email. I think it’s from …”
Alex pocketed her phone as I opened the email and read the message aloud:
I opened it. Rabia was wearing a bridesmaids dress, a wedding reception in full swing behind her.
Alex: “Let me see.”
I passed Alex my phone.
Alex: “This is Rabia Sahni?”
Me: “Yes. I went out with her for a bit in secondary school.”
Alex: “She's beautiful. And she had her whole life ahead of her …”
Rabia’s loss weighed heavily in the air.
Alex lowered my phone.
Alex: “Posting the photo has helped though. Now we have this email, the police will be able to get an IP address, it’s time to—”
Me: “Alex, no.”
Alex gave me a dark look.
Alex: “You can’t be serious?”
Me: “Look, we’re learning more about this sicko with every message they send. It’s someone who knows me and my past intimately, it’s someone who feels I need to learn certain lessons.”
Alex: “So who is it then?”
Me: “I don’t know. I need more time to work it out.”
Alex: “And you’re going to buy that time by mutilating yourself?”
Me: “If I have to, yes.”
Alex: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re an idiot. A total bloody idiot.”
Alex shoved my phone into my chest and then barged past me into her bedroom.
I stayed in the hallway, thinking. I had to get Alex on board. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the danger she might be in.
I decided to follow Alex into her bedroom and try and talk her round some other way.
Inside her room Alex was sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. She didn't acknowledge me as I entered.
Me: “The ear thing worked out okay for Van Gogh.”
Alex: “Van Gogh killed himself after years spent penniless, ill and alone. He wasn’t appreciated until after his death. Your supervisor would be appalled that you didn't know that.”
Me: “We're studying a rare Patrice Trezeguet. Cubism was after van Gogh.”
Alex said nothing.
Me: “I’ll only cut a tiny bit off. Just enough to make my face bloody. I’ll patch myself up and then I’ll go to the churchyard.”
Alex stayed quiet.
Me: “The killer must be watching the grave. They must be someone I know, I’ll recognise them. We can call the police once we have a name.”
Still she said nothing.
Me: “Trust me, Alex.”
Me: “Please.”
Finally, Alex let out a long sigh.
Alex: “I’ll go and get the first aid kit. You’ll only botch it and end up bleeding to death if I let you do it on your own.”
*
I decided that the bathroom would be the best place to perform amateur surgery. Now, as anyone who has ever been to college or university will know, student bathrooms are rarely shining examples of cleanliness and hygiene. Luckily, Alex kept a tidy ship.
I was standing topless in front of the mirror when she came in with the first-aid kit.
Me: “I think the earlobe would be best, it’s the softest part.”
Then I noticed what else Alex was carrying.
Me: “What are those things?”
Alex: “Poultry scissors. You’d recognise them if you ever cooked instead of living off takeaway.”
Me: “Are they sharp?”
Alex: “Extremely. I’ve disinfected them too.”
Alex passed me the scissors.
Me: “And you have everything we need to stop the bleeding?”
Alex: “I think so.”
I raised the scissors to my earlobe.
Me: “Here goes nothing.”
I told myself I wouldn't scream for Alex's sake. Turns out I am a liar.
God it hurt.
But you don't need to know all the gory details. Just understand that I did it, then I swore an obscene amount, then Alex patched me up and bandaged the side of my head.
*
Alex: “I have a question.”
We were back in Alex's kitchen, sitting at the table. I was still shirtless, holding a piece of gauze soaked in antiseptic to the side of my head.
Me: “What?”
Alex: “In the messages, the killer threatens to destroy what you love the most. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
Me: “No, but it doesn’t sound good.”
Told you I was a liar.
Alex: “And what about the other stuff, all your … character flaws. Is that stuff true?”
Me: “Even if it is, it doesn’t mean I deserve this. It certainly doesn’t mean that five women deserved to die. Whatever’s going on here is some sort of twisted overreaction. We just need a name. A name and then the police can take over.”
Alex nodded. She looked up at the kitchen clock.
Alex: “It's gone 11 o'clock. We should probably get you dressed and ready to go.”
Alex helped me pull on my shirt and, before long, I was standing in the hallway by her front door holding you-know-what in a big roll of tissue.
It seemed like I stood there for an age.
Alex: “If you’re having second thoughts it’s not too late to change your mind.”
Me: “We need a name or the police won’t believe a word I tell them.”
Alex: “Well, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Me: “The email said to come alone. Besides, you’re safer here. Remember, lock—”
Alex: “Yes, I know, lock the door and don’t let anyone in but you.”
Me: “Right. I better get going.”
Alex: “Wait.”
Alex stepped forward and hugged me, I hugged her back. It helped.
Alex: “Be safe. As soon as you know who it is, come straight back. Don’t try anything stupid.”
And with that I stepped out of Alex's house.
I heard the door close and the lock turn behind me.
I walked out of Alex's front garden and onto Oat Street, one of the main thoroughfares through the outskirts of the city. As I moved past rows of tightly packed student housing, takeaways and small businesses I was scrutinising every person I passed. And they were scrutinising me.
A woman with shopping bags, two kids on the other side of the road, a man in a suit; all of them stared at the bloody bandage wrapped around my head. Was that woman responsible? Did I recognise the guy in the suit?
I decided to rule out the tabby cat lazing in the sun atop a wall on the other side of the road.
As the church came into view a teenage boy and girl turned onto Oat Street and started walking in my direction. As they drew nearer they noticed my appearance.
Teenage Boy: “Mate, you might wanna check in with a mirror.”
The girl laughed. And then …
I tripped on a loose curb stone and dropped my roll of tissue.
My severed earlobe tumbled out across the path. It was a truly horrifying moment, and it all seemed to happen in slow motion.
Teenage Girl: “What the …”
I fumbled to retrieve the earlobe and re-wrap it in my role of tissue.
Teenage Boy: “You skanky bugger! What you gonna do with that? Eat it?”
With the teenagers creasing up, I hurried on.
Mortifying, but I doubted those kids had anything to do with the murders.
Eventually, I reached the churchyard and stepped through the painted gate.
I surveyed the area. The churchyard was well-tended but the grave stones were all stained black with pollution from the road. It seemed I was the only person present. Then I noticed the weathered green memorial bench tucked away in the corner.
I approached wondering whether the killer was watching me from somewhere else? There were buildings visible beyond the churchyard’s walls, but no person I could see watching from a window or rooftop. Then I noticed the small grave near the green bench.
I decided I might as well leave my little present. Try and buy some more time.
Next, I saw that there was a blank envelope lying on the grave. I swapped my roll of tissue for the envelope, opened it and read the letter inside.
My greatest fear was realised. The killer had worked out what I loved the most and, possibly even worse, had badly misread the situation.
Terrified, I dropped the letter to the ground and sprinted out of the churchyard.
I ran back down Oat Street as fast as I could.
As soon as I reached Alex's house I was hammering on the front door.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! Let me in!”
She wasn't answering.
Just as I was considering breaking in through a window, Alex finally unlocked the door and appeared. She was newly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I rushed inside.
Me: “Is everything okay? Why did you take so long to answer?”
Alex: “I was getting dressed. What happened out there? Why are you so freaked out?”
Me: “Nothing. I panicked is all.”
Alex: “Nothing? You didn’t see the killer?”
Me: “I don’t think so. Just a bunch of people going about their day.”
Alex: “Well, did any of them look suspicious?”
Me: “Not that I could tell.”
Alex: “And what about the church? The grave?”
Me: “I left my tissue roll there but the churchyard was empty. I didn’t see anybody.”
Alex: “Okay. It’s time to call the police.”
Me: “No, there’s still time to catch the killer out.”
Alex: “Five women are dead, they’ll be missed. Somebody has probably called the police already. There’s no point delaying any more.”
Me: “Alex, trust me. If we call the police it won’t end well for us.”
Alex: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just do.”
Alex gave me a questioning look.
Alex: “What happened out there?”
There was a heavy pause, and then my phone pinged.
Saved by the bell.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw that I had another email.
Me: “It’s the killer.”
Alex: “Read it to me.”
I started to read aloud:
Me: “They’re calling in the murders, I have to go.”
Alex: “Don't be an idiot. If the police catch you with the bodies and the murder weapon you’ll be screwed.”
Me: “I’ll be in and out before they get there.”
I turned towards the front door, but Alex grabbed my arm.
Alex: “You’re walking straight into a trap.”
Me: “Don't you think I know that? I have to go, you don’t understand.”
Alex: “Why don’t I understand? What aren’t you telling me?”
I broke free of Alex's grip.
Me: “There’s no time to explain right now. Just stay here. Don't let anyone in except me.”
And with that I rushed outside.
Alex slammed the door behind me.
*
I had no idea how much time I had to get to my house before anyone else arrived. But I knew it couldn’t be long.
Depending on exactly who the killer called, and on what they said, someone could be there in minutes. I've always known I can run but I can’t fight. I needed to be in and out before anything could go wrong. I sprinted hard.
Once I reached the scruffy little avenue that I lived on I stopped and, breathing heavily, surveyed the scene.
The avenue was silent, empty. I took a step forwards but my phone started to ring.
I pulled it from my pocket and examined the screen. The caller ID said “Home”. My parents. They’d probably heard about my photo, but there wasn’t any time to talk. I switched off and pocketed my phone.
Then, very cautiously, I approached my front door. I looked around the avenue one last time, turned the handle and pushed the door open. I hadn’t even bothered to lock it when I left.
The house was quiet. I crept along the hallway until I reached the living room door. It was closed. I never close the living room door, something was wrong. I opened the living room door and stepped inside. There were no dead bodies, the floor was bare.
Where were they? Had they got up and left? Had I imagined it all? Then, through the living room window, I saw a police car pull into my avenue.
It parked and two police officers, a man and a woman, stepped out.
It was the kind of horror where the floor feels like it's suddenly dropped away from you and your blood turns ice cold in your veins.
I rushed out of the living room and made straight for the kitchen before they could see me through the window. As soon as I knelt in front of the kitchen sink there was a loud knock at the front door and a raised voice.
Policeman: “This is the police. We received a distress call concerning this address.”
I rifled through the cupboard below the sink looking for the murder weapon.
I found it in the back corner behind a bottle of bleach: a vicious looking hunting knife. I heard the policeman speak again.
Policeman: “Your front door is unlocked, I’m coming in.”
I sprung upright and turned to look at the long hallway between the kitchen and the front door, the policeman was stepping inside. Then his radio went off.
Policewoman: “Bodies in the garden. Repeat, we have bodies in the garden.”
The second officer must have gone through the side gate into my garden. There was only one thing to do.
I charged at the policeman standing in my open doorway. He was a big guy, but I had the whole length of the hallway to pick up speed. I held the hunting knife out of the way and shoulder barged the policeman down onto the doorstep.
I just about managed to stay upright and used my momentum to leap over him.
Still holding the murder weapon I sprinted for an alleyway between two houses on the opposite side of my avenue. It had a chain link fence at the end of it, but I was up and over in a flash.
*
The next half an hour was spent taking back streets and side roads to Alex's house.
I even found a mankey old shirt to wrap the hunting knife in. There were still spots of blood on the blade and I really didn't want to be reminded of what the knife had taken from the world.
At last, I ended up in the alleyway behind Alex's back garden. I climbed a brick wall and dropped into her flowerbed. I brushed the soil from my knees and made my way to Alex’s back door.
I knocked harshly.
Me: “Alex! Open up!”
There was no answer so I tried the door. It opened.
I stepped inside.
I walked through the kitchen, everything was quiet.
Me: “Alex? Where are you?”
Still no answer so I stepped into the hallway.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! I’m back!”
Silence. Dread. Something was badly wrong.
Then a phone started to ring. That weird Brahms’ Hungarian Dance ringtone Alex showed me in the pub a couple of weeks ago. It was her phone. It was coming from the floor above so I raced up the stairs.
I followed the sound into Alex's bedroom. Alex's phone was on her bed, still ringing.
The caller ID was “UNKNOWN CALLER”. I answered.
Me: “What have you done with Alex?”
The eerie voice on the other end was distorted somehow. I couldn't tell who I was speaking to.
Caller: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about telling tales.”
Me: “Where is Alex? Your graveyard letter said you wouldn’t hurt her if I did what you said.”
Caller: “What you love the most is perfectly well, but I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear if you don’t calm down.”
Me: “Okay, just don’t – don’t hurt her. Please.”
Caller: “Good boy. Now, you’re going to come to the university campus, to the Humanities building. Your next task is waiting for you on the roof.”
Me: “But all that way, what if the police—”
Caller: “No dawdling. Be there by 5pm. You know what will happen to Alex if you defy me. And dump your phone, bring Alex’s instead. Bring the knife too. Do you understand?”
Me: “Yes, 5pm Humanities building roof. Alex’s phone and the knife. Are you going to tell me why you're doing this to me? Who you are?”
Caller: “Why I'm doing this? No, I'm not going to tell you that yet. Who I am? That's an interesting question. Over the years I have used many names, but I think my favourite is … Rose.”
The line went dead.
*
Once again, I made use of back streets to navigate the city and get to my university. When I reached the campus I was glad to see that there were at least a few people milling about the place. It helped me to blend in.
I was wearing one of Alex's hoodies with the hood up, the hunting knife tucked up my left sleeve. I was doing my best not to meet anyone's eye but I knew I couldn't hide in plain sight forever. The police would be looking for me now.
Once I arrived at the Humanities building I casually leaned against a nearby tree and tried to scope out the roof. Nothing. I couldn't see anyone or anything up there.
There was only one thing for it. I had to go in.
Inside, the building was quiet. I passed through long hallways skirted by empty lecture halls without seeing anyone.
Before long, I reached the stairwell. Slowly, I made my way up towards the top of the building. About halfway up I heard footsteps. I froze.
A few moments later a young Professor carrying a small stack of books came down the stairs.
Thankfully, he seemed to be in a rush and paid me little notice as he passed. I carried on upwards.
I soon reached the top of the stairwell and a large door that led out onto the roof. It seemed like the kind of door that ought to be locked, but Rose had apparently seen to that.
Outside, the roof was empty. I could see the campus and then the city stretching out in all directions, but the people down there looked like ants. I couldn't tell if any of them seemed suspicious. Then I noticed something on the floor at the other end of the roof.
I walked over. It was a photo of Patricia Kotzen taped to the ground. She was posing in front of the Barcelona Cathedral with a couple of friends.
In my pocket, Alex's phone began to ring. I answered.
Me: “I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Rose was still speaking through some kind of eerie distortion.
Rose: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Consider Patricia Kotzen. An otherwise exemplary student, you convinced her to let you cheat by copying her work under exam conditions. Because you were her boyfriend she felt obligated to let you.”
Me: “Fine, yes. I was an asshole when I was an undergrad. What do I need to do to get Alex back?”
Rose: “I trust you bought the knife?”
Me: “Yes …”
Rose: “Professor Dance is in his office on the second floor, room C17. Stab him in the stomach with the knife and then vacate the Humanities building.”
Me: “I can’t do that, he’ll—”
Rose: “If you ever want to see Alex alive again you’ll do it. Stab Professor Dance and I promise Alex goes free, fail and I promise she dies immediately. You have three minutes.”
Rose hung up.
No time to think, no way to stall. I shoved Alex's phone into my pocket and started to run.
I yanked the roof door open and began to descend the stairwell.
Fourth floor …
Third floor …
Second floor …
I ran through a set of double doors that led to the main corridor on the second floor.
Pulling the knife from my sleeve, I moved onwards, checking the plaques nailed to each door as I went.
C17.
I burst into Professor Dance’s office holding the knife behind my back. Professor Dance was standing by his bookshelf, thumbing through a textbook. I realised he was the young Professor I'd passed on the stairwell earlier.
Me: “Do you have your phone?”
Professor Dance: “Er – yes. Do you need to make a—”
I drew the knife from behind my back, silencing him.
I did it for Alex.
I lunged forwards and did the deed. Yelling out in pain, Professor Dance fell back against his bookshelf and slid to the floor.
Me: “You need to call an ambulance. Is your phone in your pocket?”
Shock and confusion written across his face, Professor Dance managed to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
And then I was gone.
I raced back to the stairwell, then retraced my steps all the way back to the main entrance.
Alex's phone started to ring the moment I exited the Humanities building.
Me: “I’ve done it, I stabbed him.”
Rose still spoke through a distortion.
Rose: “Oh, I know.”
Me: “Where is Alex? When are you going to let her go?”
Rose: “I’m not. I had my fingers crossed when I promised I would – cheated if you will.”
Me: “You lying—”
Rose cut me off with a cruel laugh. I clenched my free fist.
Me: “If you hurt Alex I’ll rip your head off.”
Rose: “Be at the disused warehouse off the Fitzgerald intersection in ninety minutes. It's the one you students use for your vile little raves. A second too late and I’ll rip Alex’s head off.”
Rose hung up.
In the distance I heard the tell-tale siren of an ambulance. I started running.
*
The industrial estate by the Fitzgerald intersection was an abandoned mess. As I approached the dilapidated warehouse at its centre, the sun was just starting to sink behind the tallest buildings in the distance.
Like Rose had alluded to, I knew the place from a couple of raves I’d been to, but the main warehouse entrance I'd always used was closed.
There was an open side door though; a clear invitation. Inside, I followed a short corridor past an office and into the main space.
The warehouse was dimly lit and strewn with plastic cups and spent glow sticks. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were two people in the middle of the vast space. One of them was gagged and tied to a chair. Alex.
She tried to say something through her gag as I approached but the second figure pulled a gun and pointed it at me, silencing her.
Through the gloom it took me a moment to realise who it was. My PhD supervisor.
Me: “Arabella? What are—”
Rose: “We've been through this, I prefer Rose. I stole the name fair and square.”
Me: “I don't understand …”
Rose: “Consider India Evans. Your devoted girlfriend until four days ago when I told her that you were cheating on her.”
Me: “That was you? All this has been about teaching me a lesson because of that?”
Rose let out her cruel laugh.
Rose: “I never cared about teaching you anything. I'm not really a career academic, despite what the University thinks. My tasks served one purpose, and one purpose only. To incriminate you.”
Me: “Incriminate me?”
Rose: “You posted a naked picture online and then mutilated yourself. You’re clearly disturbed. You and India broke up in an argument plenty of people witnessed. The police found five dead women in your garden. And then, most importantly, you stabbed Professor Dance.”
I stared back in confusion.
Rose: “You stabbed him in a jealous fit of rage. After she finished with you, India fled into the arms of her handsome young Professor. You couldn't handle it, so you stabbed him with the same knife you killed your exes with.”
Me: “No, that's not true.”
Rose: “But it looks true. Your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon stuck in Professor Dance’s belly, after all.”
Me: “Why – why would you do this to me?”
Rose: “Because I need a scapegoat. You went mad, killed all of your exes and then tried to get away with the Patrice Trezeguet we were studying together. It's worth a fortune. More than enough to set up a new life.”
Me: “But—”
Rose: “But really I'll be escaping with the painting whilst you're spinning some ridiculous story to the police in a holding cell. A lot of work to acquire one little painting I admit, but Thane does so love his rare works of art.”
Me: “You murdered five women just to steal a painting? How did you even find my exes?”
Rose: “Through your Facebook account. I borrowed your phone and locked you out of Facebook whilst you were sleeping off one of our little extra-curricular sessions. I've been posing as you, talking to your wretched exes for months, listening to their pathetic little sob stories, luring them to come and meet me with talk of wanting to reconcile. It really wasn't difficult.”
Rose kept her eyes and gun trained on me as she spoke.
Rose: “Oh, and Alex, by extra-curricular sessions I mean sex. I was the one he was cheating on India with. Don't worry though, after himself you're what he loves the most. I'm sure he would've gotten around to you eventually.”
Me: “You've got it all wrong, Rose. I don't love Alex because I want to sleep with her, I love her because she's my best friend in the whole world. Not that you'd understand anything about love, nor what you were going up against when you took both of us on.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Whilst I’d been keeping Rose talking, Alex had been loosening the restraints around one of her legs.
As Rose gave me a wary look, Alex kicked against the floor and slammed her chair into Rose’s side. It was the opening I needed. As Rose crashed to the floor I sped across the warehouse and dived on top of her.
I wrestled for the gun, but Rose was strong.
It was only because of Alex twisting free of her gag and sinking her teeth into Rose’s thigh that I managed to get the gun away from her.
I sprang upright and pointed the gun at Rose.
Alex was freeing herself from the last of the restraints holding her to the chair.
Me: “Are you okay, Alex?”
Alex: “Much better now. She got to me when you went back to your house, I've been tied up ever since.”
Me: “I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in all this, Alex.”
The sound of distant sirens filled the air.
Alex: “Sounds like the police have finally found us. I'll go and get them, just keep that gun on the psycho until I'm back.”
Alex scampered off towards the warehouse office.
When she was gone, Rose wiped a trickle of blood away from her mouth.
Rose: “Alone at last. Whatever will you do with me now?”
Rose had murdered five amazing women, stole them from the world. In life those women made the world a better place and it's not everybody that gets to do that. I certainly haven't.
But faced with true evil, I saw a way to at least improve the world in one small way.
I pulled the trigger.
And then I ran.
*
That night I ran and I ran. Not because I was being chased, but because some animal instinct deep inside told me it was the only thing to do. My brain didn't reengage until I’d crossed the entire city.
I was standing in a back alley behind a large townhouse. It was the kind of house landlords rent out to several students at a time. Even in the gloom I could see the open window on the second floor. I climbed a sturdy drainpipe and managed to slip inside.
I found myself in an empty bedroom. I crawled under the blanket strewn across the bed and cried myself into an exhausted sleep.
*
In the cold light of morning, I realised that there was no To Let sign outside the house and the bedrooms were all full of stuff. Clearly the students that lived here had gone away for Summer Recess and would no doubt be back in time for Autumn Term.
I found this old laptop in the bottom of one of the students’ cupboards and set about looking for updates on Rose and the killings. There was nothing on any of the local news sites or on social media, I couldn't find word of the murders anywhere.
I didn't get any updates until three days later when Alex started posting short stories on her personal blog. They contained cryptic messages to me that were lawfully vague (and pretentious) enough for her to maintain plausible deniability. Alex was obviously being watched by the police, just as I thought she would be.
Whatever the answer, ever since reading Alex's first short story I have been afraid for my life, certain that Rose would be hunting me. But, after writing everything down and clearing my head, I'm not so sure. Rose made such an effort to frame me, surely killing me after all that would be pointless? Then again who knows how that psycho thinks.
I was also able to determine from Alex’s blog that Professor Dance survived his injuries (thank God) and that the police still consider me the prime suspect in the murders. Exactly as Rose planned.
All that remains is to ask you to stay vigilant whilst I’m in hiding.
Rose is still out there, and there's no telling what she'll do or where she'll strike next.
submitted by mediamusing to libraryofshadows [link] [comments]
All because two months ago I had a very, very bad day.
That morning I awoke to find every girlfriend I’ve ever had lined up dead on my living room floor.
Grace Keele, first in the row. I hadn’t seen Grace since primary school.
Rabia Sahni, second in the row. Rabia was the first girl I ever kissed. Sarah Finnegan, third in the row. I’d never watch Sarah smash a forehand winner again.
Patricia Kotzen, fourth. She was supposed to be living it up in Barcelona. And finally, India Evans. Four days ago India was alive.
Who could have done this? Was it me?
No. I could never do something so horrifying, so despicable.
Did I call the police?
Let’s face it, they’d never have believed I didn't do this.
Run. It was my only choice, my only chance.
Or so I thought.
*
Half an hour later and I'd made it to Alex's house. Somehow I’d managed to stay calm on the way over but, as soon as I reached Alex’s front door, I lost it.
Me: “Alex! Let me in!”
I could hear Alex through the door, even whilst I was hammering my fist against it.
Alex: “Hold on, I’m coming!”
I barged into her hallway the instant the door was open.
Alex was like me, a postgrad. One of the few people still around during the summer. She struck quite the note with her psychedelic-red hair and pinstripe pyjamas.
Alex: “What the hell is going—”
Me: “They’re dead, Alex. All of them. Jesus, Grace Keele must have been eleven the last time—”
Alex slammed her hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid sentence.
Alex: “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I did so.
Alex: “Now, slowly. Why are you ranting and raving in my hallway at nine o’clock in the morning?”
Me: “Because I came downstairs this morning and every girlfriend I’ve ever had was lined up dead in my living room."
Alex let out a tired sigh.
Alex: “Come with me.”
Calmly, Alex led me into the kitchen. She sat me down at the table and poured me a glass of water.
Alex: “Drink this.”
I took a sip as Alex sat opposite me and looked me in the eye.
Alex: “Where were you last night? What did you take?”
I stared back at her, dumbfounded.
I was about to protest when there was a sharp knock at the front door. Alex got up to answer it.
Me: “No, don’t answer, it could be the police.”
Alex: “Relax, it’ll be a delivery. They always come at this time. Drink the rest of your water.”
I took another sip as Alex went to answer the door.
Eventually, Alex came back with an A4 envelope and a confused expression.
Alex: “It’s addressed to you ...”
She handed it to me.
Alex: “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Tentatively, I did so.
Me: “No …”
I was holding a large photo of Grace Keele. Not as I remembered her from primary school, but dressed in smart office wear. I dropped the envelope and photo to the table.
Alex reached over and picked the photo up.
Alex: “Who is it?”
Me: “Grace Keele. Before this morning I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen her in years. She's dead, Alex. In my house. This photo must be from her killer.”
Alex gave me a hard stare.
Alex: “Is this some sort of sick joke?”
Me: “No, all of my exes, they're dead in my living room. Just like I told you.”
Alex lowered the photo to the table. She picked up the envelope.
Alex: “There’s something else in here.”
Alex pulled a vandalised graduation photo depicting me without a face from the envelope, and then a letter.
Alex cringed at the picture and then read the letter aloud. I'll type it out for you below:
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Five lovers slain, five dark lessons to learn. Fail any task and I’ll destroy what you love the most. Call the police and I’ll destroy what you love the most.Alex lowered the letter to the table.
Consider Grace Keele, your first romance. Aptly named, Grace showed poise and work ethic throughout school, eventually securing a coveted job in the finance sector.
You shamelessly relied on family and friends to bail you out of endless trouble and get you to where you are now. It's high time you learned some humility. Take a naked photo of yourself and post it across your social media accounts before 10am today. I'm watching. I'm closer than you think.
Alex: “So it's true. My God … those poor women. We need to call the police.”
Alex was right of course, not that I listened.
Me: “No, we can’t call the police.”
Alex: “There are five dead bodies in your living room and some lunatic is mailing you psychobabble. We have to call the police.”
Me: “Wait. Just let me think … The delivery man. What did he look like?”
Alex: “I don’t know, some middle-aged guy. It’s the same guy we always have.”
Me: “The killer knew I’d be here …”
Alex: “What?”
Me: “The killer knew I’d leave the bodies and come here, knew I wouldn’t call the police.”
Alex: “So what? We need to call them now.”
Me: “No, I think we need to do as the letter says.”
Alex: “Are you crazy?”
Me: “Alex, I didn’t report the murders straight away, I split up with India after a blazing row four days ago. You know how it’s going to look if we call the police.”
Alex: “But we have this letter. The letter proves you didn’t do anything.”
Me: “A typed letter. I could have typed the letter, I could have printed the photos. I could have posted them all to make it look like I was innocent. They prove nothing.”
Alex: “So what? You’re just going to do as this psychopath says?”
Me: “For now, yes.”
Alex: “And how will publicly humiliating yourself help the situation?”
Me: “If I play along I might be able to work out who did this, catch them out.”
Alex: “I really, really think we should call the police.”
Me: “Let’s just buy ourselves some time. Time to think.”
Alex was giving me a dark look.
Me: “It’s just one little photo …”
*
A few minutes later I was standing in the middle of Alex's room, naked. I had to do it. If the killer was threatening to do what I thought they were threatening to do, then I couldn’t risk going against their will.
That was my thinking anyway. I grabbed my phone and raised my arm to take a photo.
It's a very particular kind of horror being forced to expose yourself online against your will. I shudder when I think of that image as the last thing so many people I know, and that I don't know, saw of me. And before anyone asks in the comments, no, I'm not going to post the photo here.
I heard Alex yell at me through the bedroom door.
Alex: “Have you done it yet?”
I lowered the phone.
Me: “No! And I’m not going to be able to with you shouting at me!”
Alex: “Sorry …”
It wasn't any fun, but I did it.
Then I got dressed and went out into the hallway.
Me: “Done.”
Alex: “And you posted it to all of your accounts?”
Me: “Everything except my Facebook. I lost the login for that months ago.”
Alex: “Okay. I still think we should have called the police though.”
Me: “We will eventually, but now we have some time to think.”
Alex: “I’ve already been thinking. How is this situation even possible? Five dead women, how did the killer get them into your house without you knowing?”
Me: “I don’t know, there was no sign of a break in.”
Alex: “Did you hear anything during the night?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Alex: “Your ex-housemates then? They might still have keys.”
Me: “Three undergrads I hardly know. Why would any one of them do this?”
Alex: “Well, who else could be responsible? Do you have any enemies?”
Me: “Not that I can think of.”
Alex: “Do your parents have any enemies?”
Me: “They own a bakery, Alex. Why would they have any enemies?”
Alex: “Don’t speak to me like that, I’m only trying to help.”
Me: “Sorry, Alex. It’s just, I have no idea who could be doing this.”
Alex's phone pinged. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.
Alex: “Bloody hell. Your little photo has lit up my social media.”
I felt my cheeks flushing.
Me: “Some moderator will take it down soon enough.”
Then my phone pinged. I pulled it from my pocket and worked the screen.
Me: “I have an email. I think it’s from …”
Alex pocketed her phone as I opened the email and read the message aloud:
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about humility.Me: “There’s a photo attached to the email.”
Now, consider Rabia Sahni. A natural beauty, Rabia knew there were more important things in life; family, goals, kindness. You have always been obsessed with your appearance. Endlessly preening and correcting yourself, spending money you didn’t have on expensive clothes.
Cut off one of your ears and come alone to the churchyard at the end of Oat Street. Leave your ear on the grave closest to the green memorial bench by 11.30am. Fail and I’ll destroy what you love the most. Call the police and I’ll destroy what you love the most. I’m watching. I’m closer than you think.
I opened it. Rabia was wearing a bridesmaids dress, a wedding reception in full swing behind her.
Alex: “Let me see.”
I passed Alex my phone.
Alex: “This is Rabia Sahni?”
Me: “Yes. I went out with her for a bit in secondary school.”
Alex: “She's beautiful. And she had her whole life ahead of her …”
Rabia’s loss weighed heavily in the air.
Alex lowered my phone.
Alex: “Posting the photo has helped though. Now we have this email, the police will be able to get an IP address, it’s time to—”
Me: “Alex, no.”
Alex gave me a dark look.
Alex: “You can’t be serious?”
Me: “Look, we’re learning more about this sicko with every message they send. It’s someone who knows me and my past intimately, it’s someone who feels I need to learn certain lessons.”
Alex: “So who is it then?”
Me: “I don’t know. I need more time to work it out.”
Alex: “And you’re going to buy that time by mutilating yourself?”
Me: “If I have to, yes.”
Alex: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re an idiot. A total bloody idiot.”
Alex shoved my phone into my chest and then barged past me into her bedroom.
I stayed in the hallway, thinking. I had to get Alex on board. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the danger she might be in.
I decided to follow Alex into her bedroom and try and talk her round some other way.
Inside her room Alex was sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. She didn't acknowledge me as I entered.
Me: “The ear thing worked out okay for Van Gogh.”
Alex: “Van Gogh killed himself after years spent penniless, ill and alone. He wasn’t appreciated until after his death. Your supervisor would be appalled that you didn't know that.”
Me: “We're studying a rare Patrice Trezeguet. Cubism was after van Gogh.”
Alex said nothing.
Me: “I’ll only cut a tiny bit off. Just enough to make my face bloody. I’ll patch myself up and then I’ll go to the churchyard.”
Alex stayed quiet.
Me: “The killer must be watching the grave. They must be someone I know, I’ll recognise them. We can call the police once we have a name.”
Still she said nothing.
Me: “Trust me, Alex.”
Me: “Please.”
Finally, Alex let out a long sigh.
Alex: “I’ll go and get the first aid kit. You’ll only botch it and end up bleeding to death if I let you do it on your own.”
*
I decided that the bathroom would be the best place to perform amateur surgery. Now, as anyone who has ever been to college or university will know, student bathrooms are rarely shining examples of cleanliness and hygiene. Luckily, Alex kept a tidy ship.
I was standing topless in front of the mirror when she came in with the first-aid kit.
Me: “I think the earlobe would be best, it’s the softest part.”
Then I noticed what else Alex was carrying.
Me: “What are those things?”
Alex: “Poultry scissors. You’d recognise them if you ever cooked instead of living off takeaway.”
Me: “Are they sharp?”
Alex: “Extremely. I’ve disinfected them too.”
Alex passed me the scissors.
Me: “And you have everything we need to stop the bleeding?”
Alex: “I think so.”
I raised the scissors to my earlobe.
Me: “Here goes nothing.”
I told myself I wouldn't scream for Alex's sake. Turns out I am a liar.
God it hurt.
But you don't need to know all the gory details. Just understand that I did it, then I swore an obscene amount, then Alex patched me up and bandaged the side of my head.
*
Alex: “I have a question.”
We were back in Alex's kitchen, sitting at the table. I was still shirtless, holding a piece of gauze soaked in antiseptic to the side of my head.
Me: “What?”
Alex: “In the messages, the killer threatens to destroy what you love the most. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
Me: “No, but it doesn’t sound good.”
Told you I was a liar.
Alex: “And what about the other stuff, all your … character flaws. Is that stuff true?”
Me: “Even if it is, it doesn’t mean I deserve this. It certainly doesn’t mean that five women deserved to die. Whatever’s going on here is some sort of twisted overreaction. We just need a name. A name and then the police can take over.”
Alex nodded. She looked up at the kitchen clock.
Alex: “It's gone 11 o'clock. We should probably get you dressed and ready to go.”
Alex helped me pull on my shirt and, before long, I was standing in the hallway by her front door holding you-know-what in a big roll of tissue.
It seemed like I stood there for an age.
Alex: “If you’re having second thoughts it’s not too late to change your mind.”
Me: “We need a name or the police won’t believe a word I tell them.”
Alex: “Well, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Me: “The email said to come alone. Besides, you’re safer here. Remember, lock—”
Alex: “Yes, I know, lock the door and don’t let anyone in but you.”
Me: “Right. I better get going.”
Alex: “Wait.”
Alex stepped forward and hugged me, I hugged her back. It helped.
Alex: “Be safe. As soon as you know who it is, come straight back. Don’t try anything stupid.”
And with that I stepped out of Alex's house.
I heard the door close and the lock turn behind me.
I walked out of Alex's front garden and onto Oat Street, one of the main thoroughfares through the outskirts of the city. As I moved past rows of tightly packed student housing, takeaways and small businesses I was scrutinising every person I passed. And they were scrutinising me.
A woman with shopping bags, two kids on the other side of the road, a man in a suit; all of them stared at the bloody bandage wrapped around my head. Was that woman responsible? Did I recognise the guy in the suit?
I decided to rule out the tabby cat lazing in the sun atop a wall on the other side of the road.
As the church came into view a teenage boy and girl turned onto Oat Street and started walking in my direction. As they drew nearer they noticed my appearance.
Teenage Boy: “Mate, you might wanna check in with a mirror.”
The girl laughed. And then …
I tripped on a loose curb stone and dropped my roll of tissue.
My severed earlobe tumbled out across the path. It was a truly horrifying moment, and it all seemed to happen in slow motion.
Teenage Girl: “What the …”
I fumbled to retrieve the earlobe and re-wrap it in my role of tissue.
Teenage Boy: “You skanky bugger! What you gonna do with that? Eat it?”
With the teenagers creasing up, I hurried on.
Mortifying, but I doubted those kids had anything to do with the murders.
Eventually, I reached the churchyard and stepped through the painted gate.
I surveyed the area. The churchyard was well-tended but the grave stones were all stained black with pollution from the road. It seemed I was the only person present. Then I noticed the weathered green memorial bench tucked away in the corner.
I approached wondering whether the killer was watching me from somewhere else? There were buildings visible beyond the churchyard’s walls, but no person I could see watching from a window or rooftop. Then I noticed the small grave near the green bench.
I decided I might as well leave my little present. Try and buy some more time.
Next, I saw that there was a blank envelope lying on the grave. I swapped my roll of tissue for the envelope, opened it and read the letter inside.
My greatest fear was realised. The killer had worked out what I loved the most and, possibly even worse, had badly misread the situation.
Terrified, I dropped the letter to the ground and sprinted out of the churchyard.
I ran back down Oat Street as fast as I could.
As soon as I reached Alex's house I was hammering on the front door.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! Let me in!”
She wasn't answering.
Just as I was considering breaking in through a window, Alex finally unlocked the door and appeared. She was newly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I rushed inside.
Me: “Is everything okay? Why did you take so long to answer?”
Alex: “I was getting dressed. What happened out there? Why are you so freaked out?”
Me: “Nothing. I panicked is all.”
Alex: “Nothing? You didn’t see the killer?”
Me: “I don’t think so. Just a bunch of people going about their day.”
Alex: “Well, did any of them look suspicious?”
Me: “Not that I could tell.”
Alex: “And what about the church? The grave?”
Me: “I left my tissue roll there but the churchyard was empty. I didn’t see anybody.”
Alex: “Okay. It’s time to call the police.”
Me: “No, there’s still time to catch the killer out.”
Alex: “Five women are dead, they’ll be missed. Somebody has probably called the police already. There’s no point delaying any more.”
Me: “Alex, trust me. If we call the police it won’t end well for us.”
Alex: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just do.”
Alex gave me a questioning look.
Alex: “What happened out there?”
There was a heavy pause, and then my phone pinged.
Saved by the bell.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw that I had another email.
Me: “It’s the killer.”
Alex: “Read it to me.”
I started to read aloud:
An earlobe is not an ear. Luckily for you I laughed so hard when you dropped it that I’m willing to forgive your blunder. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about vanity.I lowered my phone, not even opening the picture attached to the email.
Consider Sarah Finnegan, modest and humble despite being the star player at your old tennis club. You on the other hand have always been a teller of tales, never afraid to talk yourself up or to talk others down. The murder weapon is underneath the kitchen sink in your house. Retrieve it and bring it back to Alex’s house by 2pm.
Be advised, I’m calling the police and local news. I’m telling tales.
Me: “They’re calling in the murders, I have to go.”
Alex: “Don't be an idiot. If the police catch you with the bodies and the murder weapon you’ll be screwed.”
Me: “I’ll be in and out before they get there.”
I turned towards the front door, but Alex grabbed my arm.
Alex: “You’re walking straight into a trap.”
Me: “Don't you think I know that? I have to go, you don’t understand.”
Alex: “Why don’t I understand? What aren’t you telling me?”
I broke free of Alex's grip.
Me: “There’s no time to explain right now. Just stay here. Don't let anyone in except me.”
And with that I rushed outside.
Alex slammed the door behind me.
*
I had no idea how much time I had to get to my house before anyone else arrived. But I knew it couldn’t be long.
Depending on exactly who the killer called, and on what they said, someone could be there in minutes. I've always known I can run but I can’t fight. I needed to be in and out before anything could go wrong. I sprinted hard.
Once I reached the scruffy little avenue that I lived on I stopped and, breathing heavily, surveyed the scene.
The avenue was silent, empty. I took a step forwards but my phone started to ring.
I pulled it from my pocket and examined the screen. The caller ID said “Home”. My parents. They’d probably heard about my photo, but there wasn’t any time to talk. I switched off and pocketed my phone.
Then, very cautiously, I approached my front door. I looked around the avenue one last time, turned the handle and pushed the door open. I hadn’t even bothered to lock it when I left.
The house was quiet. I crept along the hallway until I reached the living room door. It was closed. I never close the living room door, something was wrong. I opened the living room door and stepped inside. There were no dead bodies, the floor was bare.
Where were they? Had they got up and left? Had I imagined it all? Then, through the living room window, I saw a police car pull into my avenue.
It parked and two police officers, a man and a woman, stepped out.
It was the kind of horror where the floor feels like it's suddenly dropped away from you and your blood turns ice cold in your veins.
I rushed out of the living room and made straight for the kitchen before they could see me through the window. As soon as I knelt in front of the kitchen sink there was a loud knock at the front door and a raised voice.
Policeman: “This is the police. We received a distress call concerning this address.”
I rifled through the cupboard below the sink looking for the murder weapon.
I found it in the back corner behind a bottle of bleach: a vicious looking hunting knife. I heard the policeman speak again.
Policeman: “Your front door is unlocked, I’m coming in.”
I sprung upright and turned to look at the long hallway between the kitchen and the front door, the policeman was stepping inside. Then his radio went off.
Policewoman: “Bodies in the garden. Repeat, we have bodies in the garden.”
The second officer must have gone through the side gate into my garden. There was only one thing to do.
I charged at the policeman standing in my open doorway. He was a big guy, but I had the whole length of the hallway to pick up speed. I held the hunting knife out of the way and shoulder barged the policeman down onto the doorstep.
I just about managed to stay upright and used my momentum to leap over him.
Still holding the murder weapon I sprinted for an alleyway between two houses on the opposite side of my avenue. It had a chain link fence at the end of it, but I was up and over in a flash.
*
The next half an hour was spent taking back streets and side roads to Alex's house.
I even found a mankey old shirt to wrap the hunting knife in. There were still spots of blood on the blade and I really didn't want to be reminded of what the knife had taken from the world.
At last, I ended up in the alleyway behind Alex's back garden. I climbed a brick wall and dropped into her flowerbed. I brushed the soil from my knees and made my way to Alex’s back door.
I knocked harshly.
Me: “Alex! Open up!”
There was no answer so I tried the door. It opened.
I stepped inside.
I walked through the kitchen, everything was quiet.
Me: “Alex? Where are you?”
Still no answer so I stepped into the hallway.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! I’m back!”
Silence. Dread. Something was badly wrong.
Then a phone started to ring. That weird Brahms’ Hungarian Dance ringtone Alex showed me in the pub a couple of weeks ago. It was her phone. It was coming from the floor above so I raced up the stairs.
I followed the sound into Alex's bedroom. Alex's phone was on her bed, still ringing.
The caller ID was “UNKNOWN CALLER”. I answered.
Me: “What have you done with Alex?”
The eerie voice on the other end was distorted somehow. I couldn't tell who I was speaking to.
Caller: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about telling tales.”
Me: “Where is Alex? Your graveyard letter said you wouldn’t hurt her if I did what you said.”
Caller: “What you love the most is perfectly well, but I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear if you don’t calm down.”
Me: “Okay, just don’t – don’t hurt her. Please.”
Caller: “Good boy. Now, you’re going to come to the university campus, to the Humanities building. Your next task is waiting for you on the roof.”
Me: “But all that way, what if the police—”
Caller: “No dawdling. Be there by 5pm. You know what will happen to Alex if you defy me. And dump your phone, bring Alex’s instead. Bring the knife too. Do you understand?”
Me: “Yes, 5pm Humanities building roof. Alex’s phone and the knife. Are you going to tell me why you're doing this to me? Who you are?”
Caller: “Why I'm doing this? No, I'm not going to tell you that yet. Who I am? That's an interesting question. Over the years I have used many names, but I think my favourite is … Rose.”
The line went dead.
*
Once again, I made use of back streets to navigate the city and get to my university. When I reached the campus I was glad to see that there were at least a few people milling about the place. It helped me to blend in.
I was wearing one of Alex's hoodies with the hood up, the hunting knife tucked up my left sleeve. I was doing my best not to meet anyone's eye but I knew I couldn't hide in plain sight forever. The police would be looking for me now.
Once I arrived at the Humanities building I casually leaned against a nearby tree and tried to scope out the roof. Nothing. I couldn't see anyone or anything up there.
There was only one thing for it. I had to go in.
Inside, the building was quiet. I passed through long hallways skirted by empty lecture halls without seeing anyone.
Before long, I reached the stairwell. Slowly, I made my way up towards the top of the building. About halfway up I heard footsteps. I froze.
A few moments later a young Professor carrying a small stack of books came down the stairs.
Thankfully, he seemed to be in a rush and paid me little notice as he passed. I carried on upwards.
I soon reached the top of the stairwell and a large door that led out onto the roof. It seemed like the kind of door that ought to be locked, but Rose had apparently seen to that.
Outside, the roof was empty. I could see the campus and then the city stretching out in all directions, but the people down there looked like ants. I couldn't tell if any of them seemed suspicious. Then I noticed something on the floor at the other end of the roof.
I walked over. It was a photo of Patricia Kotzen taped to the ground. She was posing in front of the Barcelona Cathedral with a couple of friends.
In my pocket, Alex's phone began to ring. I answered.
Me: “I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Rose was still speaking through some kind of eerie distortion.
Rose: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Consider Patricia Kotzen. An otherwise exemplary student, you convinced her to let you cheat by copying her work under exam conditions. Because you were her boyfriend she felt obligated to let you.”
Me: “Fine, yes. I was an asshole when I was an undergrad. What do I need to do to get Alex back?”
Rose: “I trust you bought the knife?”
Me: “Yes …”
Rose: “Professor Dance is in his office on the second floor, room C17. Stab him in the stomach with the knife and then vacate the Humanities building.”
Me: “I can’t do that, he’ll—”
Rose: “If you ever want to see Alex alive again you’ll do it. Stab Professor Dance and I promise Alex goes free, fail and I promise she dies immediately. You have three minutes.”
Rose hung up.
No time to think, no way to stall. I shoved Alex's phone into my pocket and started to run.
I yanked the roof door open and began to descend the stairwell.
Fourth floor …
Third floor …
Second floor …
I ran through a set of double doors that led to the main corridor on the second floor.
Pulling the knife from my sleeve, I moved onwards, checking the plaques nailed to each door as I went.
C17.
I burst into Professor Dance’s office holding the knife behind my back. Professor Dance was standing by his bookshelf, thumbing through a textbook. I realised he was the young Professor I'd passed on the stairwell earlier.
Me: “Do you have your phone?”
Professor Dance: “Er – yes. Do you need to make a—”
I drew the knife from behind my back, silencing him.
I did it for Alex.
I lunged forwards and did the deed. Yelling out in pain, Professor Dance fell back against his bookshelf and slid to the floor.
Me: “You need to call an ambulance. Is your phone in your pocket?”
Shock and confusion written across his face, Professor Dance managed to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
And then I was gone.
I raced back to the stairwell, then retraced my steps all the way back to the main entrance.
Alex's phone started to ring the moment I exited the Humanities building.
Me: “I’ve done it, I stabbed him.”
Rose still spoke through a distortion.
Rose: “Oh, I know.”
Me: “Where is Alex? When are you going to let her go?”
Rose: “I’m not. I had my fingers crossed when I promised I would – cheated if you will.”
Me: “You lying—”
Rose cut me off with a cruel laugh. I clenched my free fist.
Me: “If you hurt Alex I’ll rip your head off.”
Rose: “Be at the disused warehouse off the Fitzgerald intersection in ninety minutes. It's the one you students use for your vile little raves. A second too late and I’ll rip Alex’s head off.”
Rose hung up.
In the distance I heard the tell-tale siren of an ambulance. I started running.
*
The industrial estate by the Fitzgerald intersection was an abandoned mess. As I approached the dilapidated warehouse at its centre, the sun was just starting to sink behind the tallest buildings in the distance.
Like Rose had alluded to, I knew the place from a couple of raves I’d been to, but the main warehouse entrance I'd always used was closed.
There was an open side door though; a clear invitation. Inside, I followed a short corridor past an office and into the main space.
The warehouse was dimly lit and strewn with plastic cups and spent glow sticks. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were two people in the middle of the vast space. One of them was gagged and tied to a chair. Alex.
She tried to say something through her gag as I approached but the second figure pulled a gun and pointed it at me, silencing her.
Through the gloom it took me a moment to realise who it was. My PhD supervisor.
Me: “Arabella? What are—”
Rose: “We've been through this, I prefer Rose. I stole the name fair and square.”
Me: “I don't understand …”
Rose: “Consider India Evans. Your devoted girlfriend until four days ago when I told her that you were cheating on her.”
Me: “That was you? All this has been about teaching me a lesson because of that?”
Rose let out her cruel laugh.
Rose: “I never cared about teaching you anything. I'm not really a career academic, despite what the University thinks. My tasks served one purpose, and one purpose only. To incriminate you.”
Me: “Incriminate me?”
Rose: “You posted a naked picture online and then mutilated yourself. You’re clearly disturbed. You and India broke up in an argument plenty of people witnessed. The police found five dead women in your garden. And then, most importantly, you stabbed Professor Dance.”
I stared back in confusion.
Rose: “You stabbed him in a jealous fit of rage. After she finished with you, India fled into the arms of her handsome young Professor. You couldn't handle it, so you stabbed him with the same knife you killed your exes with.”
Me: “No, that's not true.”
Rose: “But it looks true. Your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon stuck in Professor Dance’s belly, after all.”
Me: “Why – why would you do this to me?”
Rose: “Because I need a scapegoat. You went mad, killed all of your exes and then tried to get away with the Patrice Trezeguet we were studying together. It's worth a fortune. More than enough to set up a new life.”
Me: “But—”
Rose: “But really I'll be escaping with the painting whilst you're spinning some ridiculous story to the police in a holding cell. A lot of work to acquire one little painting I admit, but Thane does so love his rare works of art.”
Me: “You murdered five women just to steal a painting? How did you even find my exes?”
Rose: “Through your Facebook account. I borrowed your phone and locked you out of Facebook whilst you were sleeping off one of our little extra-curricular sessions. I've been posing as you, talking to your wretched exes for months, listening to their pathetic little sob stories, luring them to come and meet me with talk of wanting to reconcile. It really wasn't difficult.”
Rose kept her eyes and gun trained on me as she spoke.
Rose: “Oh, and Alex, by extra-curricular sessions I mean sex. I was the one he was cheating on India with. Don't worry though, after himself you're what he loves the most. I'm sure he would've gotten around to you eventually.”
Me: “You've got it all wrong, Rose. I don't love Alex because I want to sleep with her, I love her because she's my best friend in the whole world. Not that you'd understand anything about love, nor what you were going up against when you took both of us on.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Whilst I’d been keeping Rose talking, Alex had been loosening the restraints around one of her legs.
As Rose gave me a wary look, Alex kicked against the floor and slammed her chair into Rose’s side. It was the opening I needed. As Rose crashed to the floor I sped across the warehouse and dived on top of her.
I wrestled for the gun, but Rose was strong.
It was only because of Alex twisting free of her gag and sinking her teeth into Rose’s thigh that I managed to get the gun away from her.
I sprang upright and pointed the gun at Rose.
Alex was freeing herself from the last of the restraints holding her to the chair.
Me: “Are you okay, Alex?”
Alex: “Much better now. She got to me when you went back to your house, I've been tied up ever since.”
Me: “I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in all this, Alex.”
The sound of distant sirens filled the air.
Alex: “Sounds like the police have finally found us. I'll go and get them, just keep that gun on the psycho until I'm back.”
Alex scampered off towards the warehouse office.
When she was gone, Rose wiped a trickle of blood away from her mouth.
Rose: “Alone at last. Whatever will you do with me now?”
Rose had murdered five amazing women, stole them from the world. In life those women made the world a better place and it's not everybody that gets to do that. I certainly haven't.
But faced with true evil, I saw a way to at least improve the world in one small way.
I pulled the trigger.
And then I ran.
*
That night I ran and I ran. Not because I was being chased, but because some animal instinct deep inside told me it was the only thing to do. My brain didn't reengage until I’d crossed the entire city.
I was standing in a back alley behind a large townhouse. It was the kind of house landlords rent out to several students at a time. Even in the gloom I could see the open window on the second floor. I climbed a sturdy drainpipe and managed to slip inside.
I found myself in an empty bedroom. I crawled under the blanket strewn across the bed and cried myself into an exhausted sleep.
*
In the cold light of morning, I realised that there was no To Let sign outside the house and the bedrooms were all full of stuff. Clearly the students that lived here had gone away for Summer Recess and would no doubt be back in time for Autumn Term.
I found this old laptop in the bottom of one of the students’ cupboards and set about looking for updates on Rose and the killings. There was nothing on any of the local news sites or on social media, I couldn't find word of the murders anywhere.
I didn't get any updates until three days later when Alex started posting short stories on her personal blog. They contained cryptic messages to me that were lawfully vague (and pretentious) enough for her to maintain plausible deniability. Alex was obviously being watched by the police, just as I thought she would be.
…and so the thorny rose wilted, wilted but did not expire. It cast its wicked seed to the wind so that it might spawn again in pastures new…I shot that monster in the heart. I don't understand how she even survived, let alone escaped. And did she escape from the warehouse before the police got there like I did? Or did she escape from custody, or perhaps from the hospital?
Whatever the answer, ever since reading Alex's first short story I have been afraid for my life, certain that Rose would be hunting me. But, after writing everything down and clearing my head, I'm not so sure. Rose made such an effort to frame me, surely killing me after all that would be pointless? Then again who knows how that psycho thinks.
I was also able to determine from Alex’s blog that Professor Dance survived his injuries (thank God) and that the police still consider me the prime suspect in the murders. Exactly as Rose planned.
…led by the magistrate the townsfolk chided the Student Ripper, for in their ignorance they did not see the roseroot woven all through the dark business that sickened them so…Alex hasn't mentioned Grace, Rabia, Sarah, Patricia, or India in her writing, but I know she will be thinking of them. And she'll know that my heart is broken because of what happened and the part I played in it.
All that remains is to ask you to stay vigilant whilst I’m in hiding.
Rose is still out there, and there's no telling what she'll do or where she'll strike next.
2023.04.02 16:23 mediamusing The Student Ripper Killings
I have been in hiding all through Summer Recess. I am afraid for my life.
All because two months ago I had a very, very bad day.
That morning I awoke to find every girlfriend I’ve ever had lined up dead on my living room floor.
Grace Keele, first in the row. I hadn’t seen Grace since primary school.
Rabia Sahni, second in the row. Rabia was the first girl I ever kissed. Sarah Finnegan, third in the row. I’d never watch Sarah smash a forehand winner again.
Patricia Kotzen, fourth. She was supposed to be living it up in Barcelona. And finally, India Evans. Four days ago India was alive.
Who could have done this? Was it me?
No. I could never do something so horrifying, so despicable.
Did I call the police?
Let’s face it, they’d never have believed I didn't do this.
Run. It was my only choice, my only chance.
Or so I thought.
*
Half an hour later and I'd made it to Alex's house. Somehow I’d managed to stay calm on the way over but, as soon as I reached Alex’s front door, I lost it.
Me: “Alex! Let me in!”
I could hear Alex through the door, even whilst I was hammering my fist against it.
Alex: “Hold on, I’m coming!”
I barged into her hallway the instant the door was open.
Alex was like me, a postgrad. One of the few people still around during the summer. She struck quite the note with her psychedelic-red hair and pinstripe pyjamas.
Alex: “What the hell is going—”
Me: “They’re dead, Alex. All of them. Jesus, Grace Keele must have been eleven the last time—”
Alex slammed her hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid sentence.
Alex: “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I did so.
Alex: “Now, slowly. Why are you ranting and raving in my hallway at nine o’clock in the morning?”
Me: “Because I came downstairs this morning and every girlfriend I’ve ever had was lined up dead in my living room."
Alex let out a tired sigh.
Alex: “Come with me.”
Calmly, Alex led me into the kitchen. She sat me down at the table and poured me a glass of water.
Alex: “Drink this.”
I took a sip as Alex sat opposite me and looked me in the eye.
Alex: “Where were you last night? What did you take?”
I stared back at her, dumbfounded.
I was about to protest when there was a sharp knock at the front door. Alex got up to answer it.
Me: “No, don’t answer, it could be the police.”
Alex: “Relax, it’ll be a delivery. They always come at this time. Drink the rest of your water.”
I took another sip as Alex went to answer the door.
Eventually, Alex came back with an A4 envelope and a confused expression.
Alex: “It’s addressed to you ...”
She handed it to me.
Alex: “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Tentatively, I did so.
Me: “No …”
I was holding a large photo of Grace Keele. Not as I remembered her from primary school, but dressed in smart office wear. I dropped the envelope and photo to the table.
Alex reached over and picked the photo up.
Alex: “Who is it?”
Me: “Grace Keele. Before this morning I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen her in years. She's dead, Alex. In my house. This photo must be from her killer.”
Alex gave me a hard stare.
Alex: “Is this some sort of sick joke?”
Me: “No, all of my exes, they're dead in my living room. Just like I told you.”
Alex lowered the photo to the table. She picked up the envelope.
Alex: “There’s something else in here.”
Alex pulled a vandalised graduation photo depicting me without a face from the envelope, and then a letter.
Alex cringed at the picture and then read the letter aloud. I'll type it out for you below:
Alex: “So it's true. My God … those poor women. We need to call the police.”
Alex was right of course, not that I listened.
Me: “No, we can’t call the police.”
Alex: “There are five dead bodies in your living room and some lunatic is mailing you psychobabble. We have to call the police.”
Me: “Wait. Just let me think … The delivery man. What did he look like?”
Alex: “I don’t know, some middle-aged guy. It’s the same guy we always have.”
Me: “The killer knew I’d be here …”
Alex: “What?”
Me: “The killer knew I’d leave the bodies and come here, knew I wouldn’t call the police.”
Alex: “So what? We need to call them now.”
Me: “No, I think we need to do as the letter says.”
Alex: “Are you crazy?”
Me: “Alex, I didn’t report the murders straight away, I split up with India after a blazing row four days ago. You know how it’s going to look if we call the police.”
Alex: “But we have this letter. The letter proves you didn’t do anything.”
Me: “A typed letter. I could have typed the letter, I could have printed the photos. I could have posted them all to make it look like I was innocent. They prove nothing.”
Alex: “So what? You’re just going to do as this psychopath says?”
Me: “For now, yes.”
Alex: “And how will publicly humiliating yourself help the situation?”
Me: “If I play along I might be able to work out who did this, catch them out.”
Alex: “I really, really think we should call the police.”
Me: “Let’s just buy ourselves some time. Time to think.”
Alex was giving me a dark look.
Me: “It’s just one little photo …”
*
A few minutes later I was standing in the middle of Alex's room, naked. I had to do it. If the killer was threatening to do what I thought they were threatening to do, then I couldn’t risk going against their will.
That was my thinking anyway. I grabbed my phone and raised my arm to take a photo.
It's a very particular kind of horror being forced to expose yourself online against your will. I shudder when I think of that image as the last thing so many people I know, and that I don't know, saw of me. And before anyone asks in the comments, no, I'm not going to post the photo here.
I heard Alex yell at me through the bedroom door.
Alex: “Have you done it yet?”
I lowered the phone.
Me: “No! And I’m not going to be able to with you shouting at me!”
Alex: “Sorry …”
It wasn't any fun, but I did it.
Then I got dressed and went out into the hallway.
Me: “Done.”
Alex: “And you posted it to all of your accounts?”
Me: “Everything except my Facebook. I lost the login for that months ago.”
Alex: “Okay. I still think we should have called the police though.”
Me: “We will eventually, but now we have some time to think.”
Alex: “I’ve already been thinking. How is this situation even possible? Five dead women, how did the killer get them into your house without you knowing?”
Me: “I don’t know, there was no sign of a break in.”
Alex: “Did you hear anything during the night?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Alex: “Your ex-housemates then? They might still have keys.”
Me: “Three undergrads I hardly know. Why would any one of them do this?”
Alex: “Well, who else could be responsible? Do you have any enemies?”
Me: “Not that I can think of.”
Alex: “Do your parents have any enemies?”
Me: “They own a bakery, Alex. Why would they have any enemies?”
Alex: “Don’t speak to me like that, I’m only trying to help.”
Me: “Sorry, Alex. It’s just, I have no idea who could be doing this.”
Alex's phone pinged. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.
Alex: “Bloody hell. Your little photo has lit up my social media.”
I felt my cheeks flushing.
Me: “Some moderator will take it down soon enough.”
Then my phone pinged. I pulled it from my pocket and worked the screen.
Me: “I have an email. I think it’s from …”
Alex pocketed her phone as I opened the email and read the message aloud:
I opened it. Rabia was wearing a bridesmaids dress, a wedding reception in full swing behind her.
Alex: “Let me see.”
I passed Alex my phone.
Alex: “This is Rabia Sahni?”
Me: “Yes. I went out with her for a bit in secondary school.”
Alex: “She's beautiful. And she had her whole life ahead of her …”
Rabia’s loss weighed heavily in the air.
Alex lowered my phone.
Alex: “Posting the photo has helped though. Now we have this email, the police will be able to get an IP address, it’s time to—”
Me: “Alex, no.”
Alex gave me a dark look.
Alex: “You can’t be serious?”
Me: “Look, we’re learning more about this sicko with every message they send. It’s someone who knows me and my past intimately, it’s someone who feels I need to learn certain lessons.”
Alex: “So who is it then?”
Me: “I don’t know. I need more time to work it out.”
Alex: “And you’re going to buy that time by mutilating yourself?”
Me: “If I have to, yes.”
Alex: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re an idiot. A total bloody idiot.”
Alex shoved my phone into my chest and then barged past me into her bedroom.
I stayed in the hallway, thinking. I had to get Alex on board. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the danger she might be in.
I decided to follow Alex into her bedroom and try and talk her round some other way.
Inside her room Alex was sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. She didn't acknowledge me as I entered.
Me: “The ear thing worked out okay for Van Gogh.”
Alex: “Van Gogh killed himself after years spent penniless, ill and alone. He wasn’t appreciated until after his death. Your supervisor would be appalled that you didn't know that.”
Me: “We're studying a rare Patrice Trezeguet. Cubism was after van Gogh.”
Alex said nothing.
Me: “I’ll only cut a tiny bit off. Just enough to make my face bloody. I’ll patch myself up and then I’ll go to the churchyard.”
Alex stayed quiet.
Me: “The killer must be watching the grave. They must be someone I know, I’ll recognise them. We can call the police once we have a name.”
Still she said nothing.
Me: “Trust me, Alex.”
Me: “Please.”
Finally, Alex let out a long sigh.
Alex: “I’ll go and get the first aid kit. You’ll only botch it and end up bleeding to death if I let you do it on your own.”
*
I decided that the bathroom would be the best place to perform amateur surgery. Now, as anyone who has ever been to college or university will know, student bathrooms are rarely shining examples of cleanliness and hygiene. Luckily, Alex kept a tidy ship.
I was standing topless in front of the mirror when she came in with the first-aid kit.
Me: “I think the earlobe would be best, it’s the softest part.”
Then I noticed what else Alex was carrying.
Me: “What are those things?”
Alex: “Poultry scissors. You’d recognise them if you ever cooked instead of living off takeaway.”
Me: “Are they sharp?”
Alex: “Extremely. I’ve disinfected them too.”
Alex passed me the scissors.
Me: “And you have everything we need to stop the bleeding?”
Alex: “I think so.”
I raised the scissors to my earlobe.
Me: “Here goes nothing.”
I told myself I wouldn't scream for Alex's sake. Turns out I am a liar.
God it hurt.
But you don't need to know all the gory details. Just understand that I did it, then I swore an obscene amount, then Alex patched me up and bandaged the side of my head.
*
Alex: “I have a question.”
We were back in Alex's kitchen, sitting at the table. I was still shirtless, holding a piece of gauze soaked in antiseptic to the side of my head.
Me: “What?”
Alex: “In the messages, the killer threatens to destroy what you love the most. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
Me: “No, but it doesn’t sound good.”
Told you I was a liar.
Alex: “And what about the other stuff, all your … character flaws. Is that stuff true?”
Me: “Even if it is, it doesn’t mean I deserve this. It certainly doesn’t mean that five women deserved to die. Whatever’s going on here is some sort of twisted overreaction. We just need a name. A name and then the police can take over.”
Alex nodded. She looked up at the kitchen clock.
Alex: “It's gone 11 o'clock. We should probably get you dressed and ready to go.”
Alex helped me pull on my shirt and, before long, I was standing in the hallway by her front door holding you-know-what in a big roll of tissue.
It seemed like I stood there for an age.
Alex: “If you’re having second thoughts it’s not too late to change your mind.”
Me: “We need a name or the police won’t believe a word I tell them.”
Alex: “Well, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Me: “The email said to come alone. Besides, you’re safer here. Remember, lock—”
Alex: “Yes, I know, lock the door and don’t let anyone in but you.”
Me: “Right. I better get going.”
Alex: “Wait.”
Alex stepped forward and hugged me, I hugged her back. It helped.
Alex: “Be safe. As soon as you know who it is, come straight back. Don’t try anything stupid.”
And with that I stepped out of Alex's house.
I heard the door close and the lock turn behind me.
I walked out of Alex's front garden and onto Oat Street, one of the main thoroughfares through the outskirts of the city. As I moved past rows of tightly packed student housing, takeaways and small businesses I was scrutinising every person I passed. And they were scrutinising me.
A woman with shopping bags, two kids on the other side of the road, a man in a suit; all of them stared at the bloody bandage wrapped around my head. Was that woman responsible? Did I recognise the guy in the suit?
I decided to rule out the tabby cat lazing in the sun atop a wall on the other side of the road.
As the church came into view a teenage boy and girl turned onto Oat Street and started walking in my direction. As they drew nearer they noticed my appearance.
Teenage Boy: “Mate, you might wanna check in with a mirror.”
The girl laughed. And then …
I tripped on a loose curb stone and dropped my roll of tissue.
My severed earlobe tumbled out across the path. It was a truly horrifying moment, and it all seemed to happen in slow motion.
Teenage Girl: “What the …”
I fumbled to retrieve the earlobe and re-wrap it in my role of tissue.
Teenage Boy: “You skanky bugger! What you gonna do with that? Eat it?”
With the teenagers creasing up, I hurried on.
Mortifying, but I doubted those kids had anything to do with the murders.
Eventually, I reached the churchyard and stepped through the painted gate.
I surveyed the area. The churchyard was well-tended but the grave stones were all stained black with pollution from the road. It seemed I was the only person present. Then I noticed the weathered green memorial bench tucked away in the corner.
I approached wondering whether the killer was watching me from somewhere else? There were buildings visible beyond the churchyard’s walls, but no person I could see watching from a window or rooftop. Then I noticed the small grave near the green bench.
I decided I might as well leave my little present. Try and buy some more time.
Next, I saw that there was a blank envelope lying on the grave. I swapped my roll of tissue for the envelope, opened it and read the letter inside.
My greatest fear was realised. The killer had worked out what I loved the most and, possibly even worse, had badly misread the situation.
Terrified, I dropped the letter to the ground and sprinted out of the churchyard.
I ran back down Oat Street as fast as I could.
As soon as I reached Alex's house I was hammering on the front door.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! Let me in!”
She wasn't answering.
Just as I was considering breaking in through a window, Alex finally unlocked the door and appeared. She was newly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I rushed inside.
Me: “Is everything okay? Why did you take so long to answer?”
Alex: “I was getting dressed. What happened out there? Why are you so freaked out?”
Me: “Nothing. I panicked is all.”
Alex: “Nothing? You didn’t see the killer?”
Me: “I don’t think so. Just a bunch of people going about their day.”
Alex: “Well, did any of them look suspicious?”
Me: “Not that I could tell.”
Alex: “And what about the church? The grave?”
Me: “I left my tissue roll there but the churchyard was empty. I didn’t see anybody.”
Alex: “Okay. It’s time to call the police.”
Me: “No, there’s still time to catch the killer out.”
Alex: “Five women are dead, they’ll be missed. Somebody has probably called the police already. There’s no point delaying any more.”
Me: “Alex, trust me. If we call the police it won’t end well for us.”
Alex: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just do.”
Alex gave me a questioning look.
Alex: “What happened out there?”
There was a heavy pause, and then my phone pinged.
Saved by the bell.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw that I had another email.
Me: “It’s the killer.”
Alex: “Read it to me.”
I started to read aloud:
Me: “They’re calling in the murders, I have to go.”
Alex: “Don't be an idiot. If the police catch you with the bodies and the murder weapon you’ll be screwed.”
Me: “I’ll be in and out before they get there.”
I turned towards the front door, but Alex grabbed my arm.
Alex: “You’re walking straight into a trap.”
Me: “Don't you think I know that? I have to go, you don’t understand.”
Alex: “Why don’t I understand? What aren’t you telling me?”
I broke free of Alex's grip.
Me: “There’s no time to explain right now. Just stay here. Don't let anyone in except me.”
And with that I rushed outside.
Alex slammed the door behind me.
*
I had no idea how much time I had to get to my house before anyone else arrived. But I knew it couldn’t be long.
Depending on exactly who the killer called, and on what they said, someone could be there in minutes. I've always known I can run but I can’t fight. I needed to be in and out before anything could go wrong. I sprinted hard.
Once I reached the scruffy little avenue that I lived on I stopped and, breathing heavily, surveyed the scene.
The avenue was silent, empty. I took a step forwards but my phone started to ring.
I pulled it from my pocket and examined the screen. The caller ID said “Home”. My parents. They’d probably heard about my photo, but there wasn’t any time to talk. I switched off and pocketed my phone.
Then, very cautiously, I approached my front door. I looked around the avenue one last time, turned the handle and pushed the door open. I hadn’t even bothered to lock it when I left.
The house was quiet. I crept along the hallway until I reached the living room door. It was closed. I never close the living room door, something was wrong. I opened the living room door and stepped inside. There were no dead bodies, the floor was bare.
Where were they? Had they got up and left? Had I imagined it all? Then, through the living room window, I saw a police car pull into my avenue.
It parked and two police officers, a man and a woman, stepped out.
It was the kind of horror where the floor feels like it's suddenly dropped away from you and your blood turns ice cold in your veins.
I rushed out of the living room and made straight for the kitchen before they could see me through the window. As soon as I knelt in front of the kitchen sink there was a loud knock at the front door and a raised voice.
Policeman: “This is the police. We received a distress call concerning this address.”
I rifled through the cupboard below the sink looking for the murder weapon.
I found it in the back corner behind a bottle of bleach: a vicious looking hunting knife. I heard the policeman speak again.
Policeman: “Your front door is unlocked, I’m coming in.”
I sprung upright and turned to look at the long hallway between the kitchen and the front door, the policeman was stepping inside. Then his radio went off.
Policewoman: “Bodies in the garden. Repeat, we have bodies in the garden.”
The second officer must have gone through the side gate into my garden. There was only one thing to do.
I charged at the policeman standing in my open doorway. He was a big guy, but I had the whole length of the hallway to pick up speed. I held the hunting knife out of the way and shoulder barged the policeman down onto the doorstep.
I just about managed to stay upright and used my momentum to leap over him.
Still holding the murder weapon I sprinted for an alleyway between two houses on the opposite side of my avenue. It had a chain link fence at the end of it, but I was up and over in a flash.
*
The next half an hour was spent taking back streets and side roads to Alex's house.
I even found a mankey old shirt to wrap the hunting knife in. There were still spots of blood on the blade and I really didn't want to be reminded of what the knife had taken from the world.
At last, I ended up in the alleyway behind Alex's back garden. I climbed a brick wall and dropped into her flowerbed. I brushed the soil from my knees and made my way to Alex’s back door.
I knocked harshly.
Me: “Alex! Open up!”
There was no answer so I tried the door. It opened.
I stepped inside.
I walked through the kitchen, everything was quiet.
Me: “Alex? Where are you?”
Still no answer so I stepped into the hallway.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! I’m back!”
Silence. Dread. Something was badly wrong.
Then a phone started to ring. That weird Brahms’ Hungarian Dance ringtone Alex showed me in the pub a couple of weeks ago. It was her phone. It was coming from the floor above so I raced up the stairs.
I followed the sound into Alex's bedroom. Alex's phone was on her bed, still ringing.
The caller ID was “UNKNOWN CALLER”. I answered.
Me: “What have you done with Alex?”
The eerie voice on the other end was distorted somehow. I couldn't tell who I was speaking to.
Caller: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about telling tales.”
Me: “Where is Alex? Your graveyard letter said you wouldn’t hurt her if I did what you said.”
Caller: “What you love the most is perfectly well, but I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear if you don’t calm down.”
Me: “Okay, just don’t – don’t hurt her. Please.”
Caller: “Good boy. Now, you’re going to come to the university campus, to the Humanities building. Your next task is waiting for you on the roof.”
Me: “But all that way, what if the police—”
Caller: “No dawdling. Be there by 5pm. You know what will happen to Alex if you defy me. And dump your phone, bring Alex’s instead. Bring the knife too. Do you understand?”
Me: “Yes, 5pm Humanities building roof. Alex’s phone and the knife. Are you going to tell me why you're doing this to me? Who you are?”
Caller: “Why I'm doing this? No, I'm not going to tell you that yet. Who I am? That's an interesting question. Over the years I have used many names, but I think my favourite is … Rose.”
The line went dead.
*
Once again, I made use of back streets to navigate the city and get to my university. When I reached the campus I was glad to see that there were at least a few people milling about the place. It helped me to blend in.
I was wearing one of Alex's hoodies with the hood up, the hunting knife tucked up my left sleeve. I was doing my best not to meet anyone's eye but I knew I couldn't hide in plain sight forever. The police would be looking for me now.
Once I arrived at the Humanities building I casually leaned against a nearby tree and tried to scope out the roof. Nothing. I couldn't see anyone or anything up there.
There was only one thing for it. I had to go in.
Inside, the building was quiet. I passed through long hallways skirted by empty lecture halls without seeing anyone.
Before long, I reached the stairwell. Slowly, I made my way up towards the top of the building. About halfway up I heard footsteps. I froze.
A few moments later a young Professor carrying a small stack of books came down the stairs.
Thankfully, he seemed to be in a rush and paid me little notice as he passed. I carried on upwards.
I soon reached the top of the stairwell and a large door that led out onto the roof. It seemed like the kind of door that ought to be locked, but Rose had apparently seen to that.
Outside, the roof was empty. I could see the campus and then the city stretching out in all directions, but the people down there looked like ants. I couldn't tell if any of them seemed suspicious. Then I noticed something on the floor at the other end of the roof.
I walked over. It was a photo of Patricia Kotzen taped to the ground. She was posing in front of the Barcelona Cathedral with a couple of friends.
In my pocket, Alex's phone began to ring. I answered.
Me: “I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Rose was still speaking through some kind of eerie distortion.
Rose: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Consider Patricia Kotzen. An otherwise exemplary student, you convinced her to let you cheat by copying her work under exam conditions. Because you were her boyfriend she felt obligated to let you.”
Me: “Fine, yes. I was an asshole when I was an undergrad. What do I need to do to get Alex back?”
Rose: “I trust you bought the knife?”
Me: “Yes …”
Rose: “Professor Dance is in his office on the second floor, room C17. Stab him in the stomach with the knife and then vacate the Humanities building.”
Me: “I can’t do that, he’ll—”
Rose: “If you ever want to see Alex alive again you’ll do it. Stab Professor Dance and I promise Alex goes free, fail and I promise she dies immediately. You have three minutes.”
Rose hung up.
No time to think, no way to stall. I shoved Alex's phone into my pocket and started to run.
I yanked the roof door open and began to descend the stairwell.
Fourth floor …
Third floor …
Second floor …
I ran through a set of double doors that led to the main corridor on the second floor.
Pulling the knife from my sleeve, I moved onwards, checking the plaques nailed to each door as I went.
C17.
I burst into Professor Dance’s office holding the knife behind my back. Professor Dance was standing by his bookshelf, thumbing through a textbook. I realised he was the young Professor I'd passed on the stairwell earlier.
Me: “Do you have your phone?”
Professor Dance: “Er – yes. Do you need to make a—”
I drew the knife from behind my back, silencing him.
I did it for Alex.
I lunged forwards and did the deed. Yelling out in pain, Professor Dance fell back against his bookshelf and slid to the floor.
Me: “You need to call an ambulance. Is your phone in your pocket?”
Shock and confusion written across his face, Professor Dance managed to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
And then I was gone.
I raced back to the stairwell, then retraced my steps all the way back to the main entrance.
Alex's phone started to ring the moment I exited the Humanities building.
Me: “I’ve done it, I stabbed him.”
Rose still spoke through a distortion.
Rose: “Oh, I know.”
Me: “Where is Alex? When are you going to let her go?”
Rose: “I’m not. I had my fingers crossed when I promised I would – cheated if you will.”
Me: “You lying—”
Rose cut me off with a cruel laugh. I clenched my free fist.
Me: “If you hurt Alex I’ll rip your head off.”
Rose: “Be at the disused warehouse off the Fitzgerald intersection in ninety minutes. It's the one you students use for your vile little raves. A second too late and I’ll rip Alex’s head off.”
Rose hung up.
In the distance I heard the tell-tale siren of an ambulance. I started running.
*
The industrial estate by the Fitzgerald intersection was an abandoned mess. As I approached the dilapidated warehouse at its centre, the sun was just starting to sink behind the tallest buildings in the distance.
Like Rose had alluded to, I knew the place from a couple of raves I’d been to, but the main warehouse entrance I'd always used was closed.
There was an open side door though; a clear invitation. Inside, I followed a short corridor past an office and into the main space.
The warehouse was dimly lit and strewn with plastic cups and spent glow sticks. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were two people in the middle of the vast space. One of them was gagged and tied to a chair. Alex.
She tried to say something through her gag as I approached but the second figure pulled a gun and pointed it at me, silencing her.
Through the gloom it took me a moment to realise who it was. My PhD supervisor.
Me: “Arabella? What are—”
Rose: “We've been through this, I prefer Rose. I stole the name fair and square.”
Me: “I don't understand …”
Rose: “Consider India Evans. Your devoted girlfriend until four days ago when I told her that you were cheating on her.”
Me: “That was you? All this has been about teaching me a lesson because of that?”
Rose let out her cruel laugh.
Rose: “I never cared about teaching you anything. I'm not really a career academic, despite what the University thinks. My tasks served one purpose, and one purpose only. To incriminate you.”
Me: “Incriminate me?”
Rose: “You posted a naked picture online and then mutilated yourself. You’re clearly disturbed. You and India broke up in an argument plenty of people witnessed. The police found five dead women in your garden. And then, most importantly, you stabbed Professor Dance.”
I stared back in confusion.
Rose: “You stabbed him in a jealous fit of rage. After she finished with you, India fled into the arms of her handsome young Professor. You couldn't handle it, so you stabbed him with the same knife you killed your exes with.”
Me: “No, that's not true.”
Rose: “But it looks true. Your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon stuck in Professor Dance’s belly, after all.”
Me: “Why – why would you do this to me?”
Rose: “Because I need a scapegoat. You went mad, killed all of your exes and then tried to get away with the Patrice Trezeguet we were studying together. It's worth a fortune. More than enough to set up a new life.”
Me: “But—”
Rose: “But really I'll be escaping with the painting whilst you're spinning some ridiculous story to the police in a holding cell. A lot of work to acquire one little painting I admit, but Thane does so love his rare works of art.”
Me: “You murdered five women just to steal a painting? How did you even find my exes?”
Rose: “Through your Facebook account. I borrowed your phone and locked you out of Facebook whilst you were sleeping off one of our little extra-curricular sessions. I've been posing as you, talking to your wretched exes for months, listening to their pathetic little sob stories, luring them to come and meet me with talk of wanting to reconcile. It really wasn't difficult.”
Rose kept her eyes and gun trained on me as she spoke.
Rose: “Oh, and Alex, by extra-curricular sessions I mean sex. I was the one he was cheating on India with. Don't worry though, after himself you're what he loves the most. I'm sure he would've gotten around to you eventually.”
Me: “You've got it all wrong, Rose. I don't love Alex because I want to sleep with her, I love her because she's my best friend in the whole world. Not that you'd understand anything about love, nor what you were going up against when you took both of us on.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Whilst I’d been keeping Rose talking, Alex had been loosening the restraints around one of her legs.
As Rose gave me a wary look, Alex kicked against the floor and slammed her chair into Rose’s side. It was the opening I needed. As Rose crashed to the floor I sped across the warehouse and dived on top of her.
I wrestled for the gun, but Rose was strong.
It was only because of Alex twisting free of her gag and sinking her teeth into Rose’s thigh that I managed to get the gun away from her.
I sprang upright and pointed the gun at Rose.
Alex was freeing herself from the last of the restraints holding her to the chair.
Me: “Are you okay, Alex?”
Alex: “Much better now. She got to me when you went back to your house, I've been tied up ever since.”
Me: “I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in all this, Alex.”
The sound of distant sirens filled the air.
Alex: “Sounds like the police have finally found us. I'll go and get them, just keep that gun on the psycho until I'm back.”
Alex scampered off towards the warehouse office.
When she was gone, Rose wiped a trickle of blood away from her mouth.
Rose: “Alone at last. Whatever will you do with me now?”
Rose had murdered five amazing women, stole them from the world. In life those women made the world a better place and it's not everybody that gets to do that. I certainly haven't.
But faced with true evil, I saw a way to at least improve the world in one small way.
I pulled the trigger.
And then I ran.
*
That night I ran and I ran. Not because I was being chased, but because some animal instinct deep inside told me it was the only thing to do. My brain didn't reengage until I’d crossed the entire city.
I was standing in a back alley behind a large townhouse. It was the kind of house landlords rent out to several students at a time. Even in the gloom I could see the open window on the second floor. I climbed a sturdy drainpipe and managed to slip inside.
I found myself in an empty bedroom. I crawled under the blanket strewn across the bed and cried myself into an exhausted sleep.
*
In the cold light of morning, I realised that there was no To Let sign outside the house and the bedrooms were all full of stuff. Clearly the students that lived here had gone away for Summer Recess and would no doubt be back in time for Autumn Term.
I found this old laptop in the bottom of one of the students’ cupboards and set about looking for updates on Rose and the killings. There was nothing on any of the local news sites or on social media, I couldn't find word of the murders anywhere.
I didn't get any updates until three days later when Alex started posting short stories on her personal blog. They contained cryptic messages to me that were lawfully vague (and pretentious) enough for her to maintain plausible deniability. Alex was obviously being watched by the police, just as I thought she would be.
Whatever the answer, ever since reading Alex's first short story I have been afraid for my life, certain that Rose would be hunting me. But, after writing everything down and clearing my head, I'm not so sure. Rose made such an effort to frame me, surely killing me after all that would be pointless? Then again who knows how that psycho thinks.
I was also able to determine from Alex’s blog that Professor Dance survived his injuries (thank God) and that the police still consider me the prime suspect in the murders. Exactly as Rose planned.
All that remains is to ask you to stay vigilant whilst I’m in hiding.
Rose is still out there, and there's no telling what she'll do or where she'll strike next.
*
Thanks for reading! If you'd like more horror from me check out The X and Wye Anthology Series
-- Jack
*
submitted by mediamusing to TheCrypticCompendium [link] [comments]
All because two months ago I had a very, very bad day.
That morning I awoke to find every girlfriend I’ve ever had lined up dead on my living room floor.
Grace Keele, first in the row. I hadn’t seen Grace since primary school.
Rabia Sahni, second in the row. Rabia was the first girl I ever kissed. Sarah Finnegan, third in the row. I’d never watch Sarah smash a forehand winner again.
Patricia Kotzen, fourth. She was supposed to be living it up in Barcelona. And finally, India Evans. Four days ago India was alive.
Who could have done this? Was it me?
No. I could never do something so horrifying, so despicable.
Did I call the police?
Let’s face it, they’d never have believed I didn't do this.
Run. It was my only choice, my only chance.
Or so I thought.
*
Half an hour later and I'd made it to Alex's house. Somehow I’d managed to stay calm on the way over but, as soon as I reached Alex’s front door, I lost it.
Me: “Alex! Let me in!”
I could hear Alex through the door, even whilst I was hammering my fist against it.
Alex: “Hold on, I’m coming!”
I barged into her hallway the instant the door was open.
Alex was like me, a postgrad. One of the few people still around during the summer. She struck quite the note with her psychedelic-red hair and pinstripe pyjamas.
Alex: “What the hell is going—”
Me: “They’re dead, Alex. All of them. Jesus, Grace Keele must have been eleven the last time—”
Alex slammed her hands on my shoulders, stopping me mid sentence.
Alex: “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I did so.
Alex: “Now, slowly. Why are you ranting and raving in my hallway at nine o’clock in the morning?”
Me: “Because I came downstairs this morning and every girlfriend I’ve ever had was lined up dead in my living room."
Alex let out a tired sigh.
Alex: “Come with me.”
Calmly, Alex led me into the kitchen. She sat me down at the table and poured me a glass of water.
Alex: “Drink this.”
I took a sip as Alex sat opposite me and looked me in the eye.
Alex: “Where were you last night? What did you take?”
I stared back at her, dumbfounded.
I was about to protest when there was a sharp knock at the front door. Alex got up to answer it.
Me: “No, don’t answer, it could be the police.”
Alex: “Relax, it’ll be a delivery. They always come at this time. Drink the rest of your water.”
I took another sip as Alex went to answer the door.
Eventually, Alex came back with an A4 envelope and a confused expression.
Alex: “It’s addressed to you ...”
She handed it to me.
Alex: “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Tentatively, I did so.
Me: “No …”
I was holding a large photo of Grace Keele. Not as I remembered her from primary school, but dressed in smart office wear. I dropped the envelope and photo to the table.
Alex reached over and picked the photo up.
Alex: “Who is it?”
Me: “Grace Keele. Before this morning I hadn’t – I hadn’t seen her in years. She's dead, Alex. In my house. This photo must be from her killer.”
Alex gave me a hard stare.
Alex: “Is this some sort of sick joke?”
Me: “No, all of my exes, they're dead in my living room. Just like I told you.”
Alex lowered the photo to the table. She picked up the envelope.
Alex: “There’s something else in here.”
Alex pulled a vandalised graduation photo depicting me without a face from the envelope, and then a letter.
Alex cringed at the picture and then read the letter aloud. I'll type it out for you below:
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Five lovers slain, five dark lessons to learn. Fail any task and I’ll destroy what you love the most. Call the police and I’ll destroy what you love the most.Alex lowered the letter to the table.
Consider Grace Keele, your first romance. Aptly named, Grace showed poise and work ethic throughout school, eventually securing a coveted job in the finance sector.
You shamelessly relied on family and friends to bail you out of endless trouble and get you to where you are now. It's high time you learned some humility. Take a naked photo of yourself and post it across your social media accounts before 10am today. I'm watching. I'm closer than you think.
Alex: “So it's true. My God … those poor women. We need to call the police.”
Alex was right of course, not that I listened.
Me: “No, we can’t call the police.”
Alex: “There are five dead bodies in your living room and some lunatic is mailing you psychobabble. We have to call the police.”
Me: “Wait. Just let me think … The delivery man. What did he look like?”
Alex: “I don’t know, some middle-aged guy. It’s the same guy we always have.”
Me: “The killer knew I’d be here …”
Alex: “What?”
Me: “The killer knew I’d leave the bodies and come here, knew I wouldn’t call the police.”
Alex: “So what? We need to call them now.”
Me: “No, I think we need to do as the letter says.”
Alex: “Are you crazy?”
Me: “Alex, I didn’t report the murders straight away, I split up with India after a blazing row four days ago. You know how it’s going to look if we call the police.”
Alex: “But we have this letter. The letter proves you didn’t do anything.”
Me: “A typed letter. I could have typed the letter, I could have printed the photos. I could have posted them all to make it look like I was innocent. They prove nothing.”
Alex: “So what? You’re just going to do as this psychopath says?”
Me: “For now, yes.”
Alex: “And how will publicly humiliating yourself help the situation?”
Me: “If I play along I might be able to work out who did this, catch them out.”
Alex: “I really, really think we should call the police.”
Me: “Let’s just buy ourselves some time. Time to think.”
Alex was giving me a dark look.
Me: “It’s just one little photo …”
*
A few minutes later I was standing in the middle of Alex's room, naked. I had to do it. If the killer was threatening to do what I thought they were threatening to do, then I couldn’t risk going against their will.
That was my thinking anyway. I grabbed my phone and raised my arm to take a photo.
It's a very particular kind of horror being forced to expose yourself online against your will. I shudder when I think of that image as the last thing so many people I know, and that I don't know, saw of me. And before anyone asks in the comments, no, I'm not going to post the photo here.
I heard Alex yell at me through the bedroom door.
Alex: “Have you done it yet?”
I lowered the phone.
Me: “No! And I’m not going to be able to with you shouting at me!”
Alex: “Sorry …”
It wasn't any fun, but I did it.
Then I got dressed and went out into the hallway.
Me: “Done.”
Alex: “And you posted it to all of your accounts?”
Me: “Everything except my Facebook. I lost the login for that months ago.”
Alex: “Okay. I still think we should have called the police though.”
Me: “We will eventually, but now we have some time to think.”
Alex: “I’ve already been thinking. How is this situation even possible? Five dead women, how did the killer get them into your house without you knowing?”
Me: “I don’t know, there was no sign of a break in.”
Alex: “Did you hear anything during the night?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Alex: “Your ex-housemates then? They might still have keys.”
Me: “Three undergrads I hardly know. Why would any one of them do this?”
Alex: “Well, who else could be responsible? Do you have any enemies?”
Me: “Not that I can think of.”
Alex: “Do your parents have any enemies?”
Me: “They own a bakery, Alex. Why would they have any enemies?”
Alex: “Don’t speak to me like that, I’m only trying to help.”
Me: “Sorry, Alex. It’s just, I have no idea who could be doing this.”
Alex's phone pinged. She reached into her pocket and pulled it out.
Alex: “Bloody hell. Your little photo has lit up my social media.”
I felt my cheeks flushing.
Me: “Some moderator will take it down soon enough.”
Then my phone pinged. I pulled it from my pocket and worked the screen.
Me: “I have an email. I think it’s from …”
Alex pocketed her phone as I opened the email and read the message aloud:
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about humility.Me: “There’s a photo attached to the email.”
Now, consider Rabia Sahni. A natural beauty, Rabia knew there were more important things in life; family, goals, kindness. You have always been obsessed with your appearance. Endlessly preening and correcting yourself, spending money you didn’t have on expensive clothes.
Cut off one of your ears and come alone to the churchyard at the end of Oat Street. Leave your ear on the grave closest to the green memorial bench by 11.30am. Fail and I’ll destroy what you love the most. Call the police and I’ll destroy what you love the most. I’m watching. I’m closer than you think.
I opened it. Rabia was wearing a bridesmaids dress, a wedding reception in full swing behind her.
Alex: “Let me see.”
I passed Alex my phone.
Alex: “This is Rabia Sahni?”
Me: “Yes. I went out with her for a bit in secondary school.”
Alex: “She's beautiful. And she had her whole life ahead of her …”
Rabia’s loss weighed heavily in the air.
Alex lowered my phone.
Alex: “Posting the photo has helped though. Now we have this email, the police will be able to get an IP address, it’s time to—”
Me: “Alex, no.”
Alex gave me a dark look.
Alex: “You can’t be serious?”
Me: “Look, we’re learning more about this sicko with every message they send. It’s someone who knows me and my past intimately, it’s someone who feels I need to learn certain lessons.”
Alex: “So who is it then?”
Me: “I don’t know. I need more time to work it out.”
Alex: “And you’re going to buy that time by mutilating yourself?”
Me: “If I have to, yes.”
Alex: “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re an idiot. A total bloody idiot.”
Alex shoved my phone into my chest and then barged past me into her bedroom.
I stayed in the hallway, thinking. I had to get Alex on board. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the danger she might be in.
I decided to follow Alex into her bedroom and try and talk her round some other way.
Inside her room Alex was sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. She didn't acknowledge me as I entered.
Me: “The ear thing worked out okay for Van Gogh.”
Alex: “Van Gogh killed himself after years spent penniless, ill and alone. He wasn’t appreciated until after his death. Your supervisor would be appalled that you didn't know that.”
Me: “We're studying a rare Patrice Trezeguet. Cubism was after van Gogh.”
Alex said nothing.
Me: “I’ll only cut a tiny bit off. Just enough to make my face bloody. I’ll patch myself up and then I’ll go to the churchyard.”
Alex stayed quiet.
Me: “The killer must be watching the grave. They must be someone I know, I’ll recognise them. We can call the police once we have a name.”
Still she said nothing.
Me: “Trust me, Alex.”
Me: “Please.”
Finally, Alex let out a long sigh.
Alex: “I’ll go and get the first aid kit. You’ll only botch it and end up bleeding to death if I let you do it on your own.”
*
I decided that the bathroom would be the best place to perform amateur surgery. Now, as anyone who has ever been to college or university will know, student bathrooms are rarely shining examples of cleanliness and hygiene. Luckily, Alex kept a tidy ship.
I was standing topless in front of the mirror when she came in with the first-aid kit.
Me: “I think the earlobe would be best, it’s the softest part.”
Then I noticed what else Alex was carrying.
Me: “What are those things?”
Alex: “Poultry scissors. You’d recognise them if you ever cooked instead of living off takeaway.”
Me: “Are they sharp?”
Alex: “Extremely. I’ve disinfected them too.”
Alex passed me the scissors.
Me: “And you have everything we need to stop the bleeding?”
Alex: “I think so.”
I raised the scissors to my earlobe.
Me: “Here goes nothing.”
I told myself I wouldn't scream for Alex's sake. Turns out I am a liar.
God it hurt.
But you don't need to know all the gory details. Just understand that I did it, then I swore an obscene amount, then Alex patched me up and bandaged the side of my head.
*
Alex: “I have a question.”
We were back in Alex's kitchen, sitting at the table. I was still shirtless, holding a piece of gauze soaked in antiseptic to the side of my head.
Me: “What?”
Alex: “In the messages, the killer threatens to destroy what you love the most. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
Me: “No, but it doesn’t sound good.”
Told you I was a liar.
Alex: “And what about the other stuff, all your … character flaws. Is that stuff true?”
Me: “Even if it is, it doesn’t mean I deserve this. It certainly doesn’t mean that five women deserved to die. Whatever’s going on here is some sort of twisted overreaction. We just need a name. A name and then the police can take over.”
Alex nodded. She looked up at the kitchen clock.
Alex: “It's gone 11 o'clock. We should probably get you dressed and ready to go.”
Alex helped me pull on my shirt and, before long, I was standing in the hallway by her front door holding you-know-what in a big roll of tissue.
It seemed like I stood there for an age.
Alex: “If you’re having second thoughts it’s not too late to change your mind.”
Me: “We need a name or the police won’t believe a word I tell them.”
Alex: “Well, are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Me: “The email said to come alone. Besides, you’re safer here. Remember, lock—”
Alex: “Yes, I know, lock the door and don’t let anyone in but you.”
Me: “Right. I better get going.”
Alex: “Wait.”
Alex stepped forward and hugged me, I hugged her back. It helped.
Alex: “Be safe. As soon as you know who it is, come straight back. Don’t try anything stupid.”
And with that I stepped out of Alex's house.
I heard the door close and the lock turn behind me.
I walked out of Alex's front garden and onto Oat Street, one of the main thoroughfares through the outskirts of the city. As I moved past rows of tightly packed student housing, takeaways and small businesses I was scrutinising every person I passed. And they were scrutinising me.
A woman with shopping bags, two kids on the other side of the road, a man in a suit; all of them stared at the bloody bandage wrapped around my head. Was that woman responsible? Did I recognise the guy in the suit?
I decided to rule out the tabby cat lazing in the sun atop a wall on the other side of the road.
As the church came into view a teenage boy and girl turned onto Oat Street and started walking in my direction. As they drew nearer they noticed my appearance.
Teenage Boy: “Mate, you might wanna check in with a mirror.”
The girl laughed. And then …
I tripped on a loose curb stone and dropped my roll of tissue.
My severed earlobe tumbled out across the path. It was a truly horrifying moment, and it all seemed to happen in slow motion.
Teenage Girl: “What the …”
I fumbled to retrieve the earlobe and re-wrap it in my role of tissue.
Teenage Boy: “You skanky bugger! What you gonna do with that? Eat it?”
With the teenagers creasing up, I hurried on.
Mortifying, but I doubted those kids had anything to do with the murders.
Eventually, I reached the churchyard and stepped through the painted gate.
I surveyed the area. The churchyard was well-tended but the grave stones were all stained black with pollution from the road. It seemed I was the only person present. Then I noticed the weathered green memorial bench tucked away in the corner.
I approached wondering whether the killer was watching me from somewhere else? There were buildings visible beyond the churchyard’s walls, but no person I could see watching from a window or rooftop. Then I noticed the small grave near the green bench.
I decided I might as well leave my little present. Try and buy some more time.
Next, I saw that there was a blank envelope lying on the grave. I swapped my roll of tissue for the envelope, opened it and read the letter inside.
My greatest fear was realised. The killer had worked out what I loved the most and, possibly even worse, had badly misread the situation.
Terrified, I dropped the letter to the ground and sprinted out of the churchyard.
I ran back down Oat Street as fast as I could.
As soon as I reached Alex's house I was hammering on the front door.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! Let me in!”
She wasn't answering.
Just as I was considering breaking in through a window, Alex finally unlocked the door and appeared. She was newly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I rushed inside.
Me: “Is everything okay? Why did you take so long to answer?”
Alex: “I was getting dressed. What happened out there? Why are you so freaked out?”
Me: “Nothing. I panicked is all.”
Alex: “Nothing? You didn’t see the killer?”
Me: “I don’t think so. Just a bunch of people going about their day.”
Alex: “Well, did any of them look suspicious?”
Me: “Not that I could tell.”
Alex: “And what about the church? The grave?”
Me: “I left my tissue roll there but the churchyard was empty. I didn’t see anybody.”
Alex: “Okay. It’s time to call the police.”
Me: “No, there’s still time to catch the killer out.”
Alex: “Five women are dead, they’ll be missed. Somebody has probably called the police already. There’s no point delaying any more.”
Me: “Alex, trust me. If we call the police it won’t end well for us.”
Alex: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just do.”
Alex gave me a questioning look.
Alex: “What happened out there?”
There was a heavy pause, and then my phone pinged.
Saved by the bell.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw that I had another email.
Me: “It’s the killer.”
Alex: “Read it to me.”
I started to read aloud:
An earlobe is not an ear. Luckily for you I laughed so hard when you dropped it that I’m willing to forgive your blunder. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about vanity.I lowered my phone, not even opening the picture attached to the email.
Consider Sarah Finnegan, modest and humble despite being the star player at your old tennis club. You on the other hand have always been a teller of tales, never afraid to talk yourself up or to talk others down. The murder weapon is underneath the kitchen sink in your house. Retrieve it and bring it back to Alex’s house by 2pm.
Be advised, I’m calling the police and local news. I’m telling tales.
Me: “They’re calling in the murders, I have to go.”
Alex: “Don't be an idiot. If the police catch you with the bodies and the murder weapon you’ll be screwed.”
Me: “I’ll be in and out before they get there.”
I turned towards the front door, but Alex grabbed my arm.
Alex: “You’re walking straight into a trap.”
Me: “Don't you think I know that? I have to go, you don’t understand.”
Alex: “Why don’t I understand? What aren’t you telling me?”
I broke free of Alex's grip.
Me: “There’s no time to explain right now. Just stay here. Don't let anyone in except me.”
And with that I rushed outside.
Alex slammed the door behind me.
*
I had no idea how much time I had to get to my house before anyone else arrived. But I knew it couldn’t be long.
Depending on exactly who the killer called, and on what they said, someone could be there in minutes. I've always known I can run but I can’t fight. I needed to be in and out before anything could go wrong. I sprinted hard.
Once I reached the scruffy little avenue that I lived on I stopped and, breathing heavily, surveyed the scene.
The avenue was silent, empty. I took a step forwards but my phone started to ring.
I pulled it from my pocket and examined the screen. The caller ID said “Home”. My parents. They’d probably heard about my photo, but there wasn’t any time to talk. I switched off and pocketed my phone.
Then, very cautiously, I approached my front door. I looked around the avenue one last time, turned the handle and pushed the door open. I hadn’t even bothered to lock it when I left.
The house was quiet. I crept along the hallway until I reached the living room door. It was closed. I never close the living room door, something was wrong. I opened the living room door and stepped inside. There were no dead bodies, the floor was bare.
Where were they? Had they got up and left? Had I imagined it all? Then, through the living room window, I saw a police car pull into my avenue.
It parked and two police officers, a man and a woman, stepped out.
It was the kind of horror where the floor feels like it's suddenly dropped away from you and your blood turns ice cold in your veins.
I rushed out of the living room and made straight for the kitchen before they could see me through the window. As soon as I knelt in front of the kitchen sink there was a loud knock at the front door and a raised voice.
Policeman: “This is the police. We received a distress call concerning this address.”
I rifled through the cupboard below the sink looking for the murder weapon.
I found it in the back corner behind a bottle of bleach: a vicious looking hunting knife. I heard the policeman speak again.
Policeman: “Your front door is unlocked, I’m coming in.”
I sprung upright and turned to look at the long hallway between the kitchen and the front door, the policeman was stepping inside. Then his radio went off.
Policewoman: “Bodies in the garden. Repeat, we have bodies in the garden.”
The second officer must have gone through the side gate into my garden. There was only one thing to do.
I charged at the policeman standing in my open doorway. He was a big guy, but I had the whole length of the hallway to pick up speed. I held the hunting knife out of the way and shoulder barged the policeman down onto the doorstep.
I just about managed to stay upright and used my momentum to leap over him.
Still holding the murder weapon I sprinted for an alleyway between two houses on the opposite side of my avenue. It had a chain link fence at the end of it, but I was up and over in a flash.
*
The next half an hour was spent taking back streets and side roads to Alex's house.
I even found a mankey old shirt to wrap the hunting knife in. There were still spots of blood on the blade and I really didn't want to be reminded of what the knife had taken from the world.
At last, I ended up in the alleyway behind Alex's back garden. I climbed a brick wall and dropped into her flowerbed. I brushed the soil from my knees and made my way to Alex’s back door.
I knocked harshly.
Me: “Alex! Open up!”
There was no answer so I tried the door. It opened.
I stepped inside.
I walked through the kitchen, everything was quiet.
Me: “Alex? Where are you?”
Still no answer so I stepped into the hallway.
Me: “Alex! It’s me! I’m back!”
Silence. Dread. Something was badly wrong.
Then a phone started to ring. That weird Brahms’ Hungarian Dance ringtone Alex showed me in the pub a couple of weeks ago. It was her phone. It was coming from the floor above so I raced up the stairs.
I followed the sound into Alex's bedroom. Alex's phone was on her bed, still ringing.
The caller ID was “UNKNOWN CALLER”. I answered.
Me: “What have you done with Alex?”
The eerie voice on the other end was distorted somehow. I couldn't tell who I was speaking to.
Caller: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about telling tales.”
Me: “Where is Alex? Your graveyard letter said you wouldn’t hurt her if I did what you said.”
Caller: “What you love the most is perfectly well, but I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear if you don’t calm down.”
Me: “Okay, just don’t – don’t hurt her. Please.”
Caller: “Good boy. Now, you’re going to come to the university campus, to the Humanities building. Your next task is waiting for you on the roof.”
Me: “But all that way, what if the police—”
Caller: “No dawdling. Be there by 5pm. You know what will happen to Alex if you defy me. And dump your phone, bring Alex’s instead. Bring the knife too. Do you understand?”
Me: “Yes, 5pm Humanities building roof. Alex’s phone and the knife. Are you going to tell me why you're doing this to me? Who you are?”
Caller: “Why I'm doing this? No, I'm not going to tell you that yet. Who I am? That's an interesting question. Over the years I have used many names, but I think my favourite is … Rose.”
The line went dead.
*
Once again, I made use of back streets to navigate the city and get to my university. When I reached the campus I was glad to see that there were at least a few people milling about the place. It helped me to blend in.
I was wearing one of Alex's hoodies with the hood up, the hunting knife tucked up my left sleeve. I was doing my best not to meet anyone's eye but I knew I couldn't hide in plain sight forever. The police would be looking for me now.
Once I arrived at the Humanities building I casually leaned against a nearby tree and tried to scope out the roof. Nothing. I couldn't see anyone or anything up there.
There was only one thing for it. I had to go in.
Inside, the building was quiet. I passed through long hallways skirted by empty lecture halls without seeing anyone.
Before long, I reached the stairwell. Slowly, I made my way up towards the top of the building. About halfway up I heard footsteps. I froze.
A few moments later a young Professor carrying a small stack of books came down the stairs.
Thankfully, he seemed to be in a rush and paid me little notice as he passed. I carried on upwards.
I soon reached the top of the stairwell and a large door that led out onto the roof. It seemed like the kind of door that ought to be locked, but Rose had apparently seen to that.
Outside, the roof was empty. I could see the campus and then the city stretching out in all directions, but the people down there looked like ants. I couldn't tell if any of them seemed suspicious. Then I noticed something on the floor at the other end of the roof.
I walked over. It was a photo of Patricia Kotzen taped to the ground. She was posing in front of the Barcelona Cathedral with a couple of friends.
In my pocket, Alex's phone began to ring. I answered.
Me: “I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Rose was still speaking through some kind of eerie distortion.
Rose: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Consider Patricia Kotzen. An otherwise exemplary student, you convinced her to let you cheat by copying her work under exam conditions. Because you were her boyfriend she felt obligated to let you.”
Me: “Fine, yes. I was an asshole when I was an undergrad. What do I need to do to get Alex back?”
Rose: “I trust you bought the knife?”
Me: “Yes …”
Rose: “Professor Dance is in his office on the second floor, room C17. Stab him in the stomach with the knife and then vacate the Humanities building.”
Me: “I can’t do that, he’ll—”
Rose: “If you ever want to see Alex alive again you’ll do it. Stab Professor Dance and I promise Alex goes free, fail and I promise she dies immediately. You have three minutes.”
Rose hung up.
No time to think, no way to stall. I shoved Alex's phone into my pocket and started to run.
I yanked the roof door open and began to descend the stairwell.
Fourth floor …
Third floor …
Second floor …
I ran through a set of double doors that led to the main corridor on the second floor.
Pulling the knife from my sleeve, I moved onwards, checking the plaques nailed to each door as I went.
C17.
I burst into Professor Dance’s office holding the knife behind my back. Professor Dance was standing by his bookshelf, thumbing through a textbook. I realised he was the young Professor I'd passed on the stairwell earlier.
Me: “Do you have your phone?”
Professor Dance: “Er – yes. Do you need to make a—”
I drew the knife from behind my back, silencing him.
I did it for Alex.
I lunged forwards and did the deed. Yelling out in pain, Professor Dance fell back against his bookshelf and slid to the floor.
Me: “You need to call an ambulance. Is your phone in your pocket?”
Shock and confusion written across his face, Professor Dance managed to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
And then I was gone.
I raced back to the stairwell, then retraced my steps all the way back to the main entrance.
Alex's phone started to ring the moment I exited the Humanities building.
Me: “I’ve done it, I stabbed him.”
Rose still spoke through a distortion.
Rose: “Oh, I know.”
Me: “Where is Alex? When are you going to let her go?”
Rose: “I’m not. I had my fingers crossed when I promised I would – cheated if you will.”
Me: “You lying—”
Rose cut me off with a cruel laugh. I clenched my free fist.
Me: “If you hurt Alex I’ll rip your head off.”
Rose: “Be at the disused warehouse off the Fitzgerald intersection in ninety minutes. It's the one you students use for your vile little raves. A second too late and I’ll rip Alex’s head off.”
Rose hung up.
In the distance I heard the tell-tale siren of an ambulance. I started running.
*
The industrial estate by the Fitzgerald intersection was an abandoned mess. As I approached the dilapidated warehouse at its centre, the sun was just starting to sink behind the tallest buildings in the distance.
Like Rose had alluded to, I knew the place from a couple of raves I’d been to, but the main warehouse entrance I'd always used was closed.
There was an open side door though; a clear invitation. Inside, I followed a short corridor past an office and into the main space.
The warehouse was dimly lit and strewn with plastic cups and spent glow sticks. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were two people in the middle of the vast space. One of them was gagged and tied to a chair. Alex.
She tried to say something through her gag as I approached but the second figure pulled a gun and pointed it at me, silencing her.
Through the gloom it took me a moment to realise who it was. My PhD supervisor.
Me: “Arabella? What are—”
Rose: “We've been through this, I prefer Rose. I stole the name fair and square.”
Me: “I don't understand …”
Rose: “Consider India Evans. Your devoted girlfriend until four days ago when I told her that you were cheating on her.”
Me: “That was you? All this has been about teaching me a lesson because of that?”
Rose let out her cruel laugh.
Rose: “I never cared about teaching you anything. I'm not really a career academic, despite what the University thinks. My tasks served one purpose, and one purpose only. To incriminate you.”
Me: “Incriminate me?”
Rose: “You posted a naked picture online and then mutilated yourself. You’re clearly disturbed. You and India broke up in an argument plenty of people witnessed. The police found five dead women in your garden. And then, most importantly, you stabbed Professor Dance.”
I stared back in confusion.
Rose: “You stabbed him in a jealous fit of rage. After she finished with you, India fled into the arms of her handsome young Professor. You couldn't handle it, so you stabbed him with the same knife you killed your exes with.”
Me: “No, that's not true.”
Rose: “But it looks true. Your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon stuck in Professor Dance’s belly, after all.”
Me: “Why – why would you do this to me?”
Rose: “Because I need a scapegoat. You went mad, killed all of your exes and then tried to get away with the Patrice Trezeguet we were studying together. It's worth a fortune. More than enough to set up a new life.”
Me: “But—”
Rose: “But really I'll be escaping with the painting whilst you're spinning some ridiculous story to the police in a holding cell. A lot of work to acquire one little painting I admit, but Thane does so love his rare works of art.”
Me: “You murdered five women just to steal a painting? How did you even find my exes?”
Rose: “Through your Facebook account. I borrowed your phone and locked you out of Facebook whilst you were sleeping off one of our little extra-curricular sessions. I've been posing as you, talking to your wretched exes for months, listening to their pathetic little sob stories, luring them to come and meet me with talk of wanting to reconcile. It really wasn't difficult.”
Rose kept her eyes and gun trained on me as she spoke.
Rose: “Oh, and Alex, by extra-curricular sessions I mean sex. I was the one he was cheating on India with. Don't worry though, after himself you're what he loves the most. I'm sure he would've gotten around to you eventually.”
Me: “You've got it all wrong, Rose. I don't love Alex because I want to sleep with her, I love her because she's my best friend in the whole world. Not that you'd understand anything about love, nor what you were going up against when you took both of us on.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Whilst I’d been keeping Rose talking, Alex had been loosening the restraints around one of her legs.
As Rose gave me a wary look, Alex kicked against the floor and slammed her chair into Rose’s side. It was the opening I needed. As Rose crashed to the floor I sped across the warehouse and dived on top of her.
I wrestled for the gun, but Rose was strong.
It was only because of Alex twisting free of her gag and sinking her teeth into Rose’s thigh that I managed to get the gun away from her.
I sprang upright and pointed the gun at Rose.
Alex was freeing herself from the last of the restraints holding her to the chair.
Me: “Are you okay, Alex?”
Alex: “Much better now. She got to me when you went back to your house, I've been tied up ever since.”
Me: “I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in all this, Alex.”
The sound of distant sirens filled the air.
Alex: “Sounds like the police have finally found us. I'll go and get them, just keep that gun on the psycho until I'm back.”
Alex scampered off towards the warehouse office.
When she was gone, Rose wiped a trickle of blood away from her mouth.
Rose: “Alone at last. Whatever will you do with me now?”
Rose had murdered five amazing women, stole them from the world. In life those women made the world a better place and it's not everybody that gets to do that. I certainly haven't.
But faced with true evil, I saw a way to at least improve the world in one small way.
I pulled the trigger.
And then I ran.
*
That night I ran and I ran. Not because I was being chased, but because some animal instinct deep inside told me it was the only thing to do. My brain didn't reengage until I’d crossed the entire city.
I was standing in a back alley behind a large townhouse. It was the kind of house landlords rent out to several students at a time. Even in the gloom I could see the open window on the second floor. I climbed a sturdy drainpipe and managed to slip inside.
I found myself in an empty bedroom. I crawled under the blanket strewn across the bed and cried myself into an exhausted sleep.
*
In the cold light of morning, I realised that there was no To Let sign outside the house and the bedrooms were all full of stuff. Clearly the students that lived here had gone away for Summer Recess and would no doubt be back in time for Autumn Term.
I found this old laptop in the bottom of one of the students’ cupboards and set about looking for updates on Rose and the killings. There was nothing on any of the local news sites or on social media, I couldn't find word of the murders anywhere.
I didn't get any updates until three days later when Alex started posting short stories on her personal blog. They contained cryptic messages to me that were lawfully vague (and pretentious) enough for her to maintain plausible deniability. Alex was obviously being watched by the police, just as I thought she would be.
…and so the thorny rose wilted, wilted but did not expire. It cast its wicked seed to the wind so that it might spawn again in pastures new…I shot that monster in the heart. I don't understand how she even survived, let alone escaped. And did she escape from the warehouse before the police got there like I did? Or did she escape from custody, or perhaps from the hospital?
Whatever the answer, ever since reading Alex's first short story I have been afraid for my life, certain that Rose would be hunting me. But, after writing everything down and clearing my head, I'm not so sure. Rose made such an effort to frame me, surely killing me after all that would be pointless? Then again who knows how that psycho thinks.
I was also able to determine from Alex’s blog that Professor Dance survived his injuries (thank God) and that the police still consider me the prime suspect in the murders. Exactly as Rose planned.
…led by the magistrate the townsfolk chided the Student Ripper, for in their ignorance they did not see the roseroot woven all through the dark business that sickened them so…Alex hasn't mentioned Grace, Rabia, Sarah, Patricia, or India in her writing, but I know she will be thinking of them. And she'll know that my heart is broken because of what happened and the part I played in it.
All that remains is to ask you to stay vigilant whilst I’m in hiding.
Rose is still out there, and there's no telling what she'll do or where she'll strike next.
*
Thanks for reading! If you'd like more horror from me check out The X and Wye Anthology Series
-- Jack
*
2023.04.01 02:00 Jack_Sandwich Come and Gone... Hope nobody shows this tweet to Michael.
 | submitted by Jack_Sandwich to TheMichaelKayShow [link] [comments] |
2023.03.24 01:38 Afro_Knight9577 [SP] Magnum and Rabbit: Not Again
Not Again
Magnum stood right in the front of New Day Bank in downtown, Underworld. He dragged out the last of the criminals, who tried robbing the bank, clearly one of Escobar’s men. He wanted to send the criminal overlord a message, but he thought perhaps he might be doing a bit much. “Alright dude, you know this is my turf, and I’m gonna stop you assholes wherever you go, now I have a choice, spare your life or end it right here.”
“Wait, p, p, please!” The crook looked past Magnum to the evening sky of pinks, purples, and oranges, but oddly enough he saw a shape floating above the vigilante. The would-be thief pointed behind, Magnum leaving him dumbfounded, “Really?”
“No seriously man.” Magnum sighed and summoned a vine from his hand to wrap the man up. Just before he turned around, he got slammed with kinetic force that sent him flying and breaking the front window of the bank. Magnum stood, exited the bank, and saw the man levitating above the brick homes with gray pinstriped coat and slacks. He was a handsome man with slicked back, black hair, a pencil thin moustache and goatee. Around the man were floating monitors and cameras. He wore the most annoying smirk Magnum had ever seen.
“So, I take it you’re the asshole who cast the spell?” Magnum said as he walked forward. The man smiled pretty for the cameras, “And you are the self-proclaimed vigilante who stole the heart of the beautiful Rabbit.”
“Wait hold up, is that what this is about? Look bro you can have her, I’m not tryna fight another of her simps.”
“You would dare refuse a duel for her heat?”
“Yeah. In case you didn’t notice I’m in the middle of something and you rudely interrupted. Now uh,” Magnum gestured at the crook, “What’s your name?”
“Steve.”
“Now Steve has to wriggle about on the concrete while I deal with you. Who the fuck are you anyway?”
“I am Raphael the Gorgeous, playboy, model, wizard, and all-around Chad.” Magnum sighed and facepalmed, “Can I just pay you to fuck off?”
“Absolutely not, I’ve come to prove myself to Miss Rabbit and,” Before he could say more Magnum threw a fireball his way. Raphael narrowly dodged, only to be hit with a gust of wind that scattered his cameras and sent him falling towards a nearby brick apartments. Raphael smashed into the apartment then recovered and flew towards him. Magnum pulled his pistols and began to fire, but each round bounced off of a Raphael’s magic shield while the sorcerer summoned purple flames to his right hand. Raphael reached forward and a tentacle extended from the purple flames. The tentacle whipped around Magnum, and began to squeeze the air out of him.
As Magnum began to fade in and out of consciousness, he cursed himself, not wanting to fall at the hands of a self-absorbed prick. Magnum summoned flames around himself and the tentacle let go with a squeal then jumped up to kick the approaching wizard in the gut. Raphael let out a breath as the wind got knocked out of him, while Magnum grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the ground. He then summoned a bolt of lightning, but Raphael slammed a hand on the ground, causing the earth to tremble which knocked Magnum off balance.
Before he could recover, the concrete broke beneath him and rose into the sky at rapid speed. Magnum looked down as he found himself flying high above the city, thinking that if he was any other person, he would have been afraid. Instead, he summoned Doris, his electric dove to come and catch him from mid-air. Magnum soared above the city and his opponent waited for the next magic assault. Raphael laughed, “Well, I can’t say that you aren’t a worthy opponent, but I have something to prove, and I can’t let you win.” He began to levitate yet again and when he floated just in front of Magnum, he placed his hands together. Magnum readied a magic shield just before his opponent launched a ball of purple light.
Purple chains burst out of the light and bounced off of Magnum’s shield but Raphael gripped his outstretched hand and the chains wrapped around the shield. As they constricted, Magnum’s shield began to crack. “Well shit, eldritch chains, this guy might know a little more than I thought.” The chains constricted and crushed both Magnum and Doris both, causing a spray of blood all over the citizens below who cried out at the loss of their hero.
Raphael, looked almost shocked, “Wait, I thought he would,”
Little did he know, that behind him Magnum and Doris came through a portal. He looked up at Raphael surrounded by cameras, then extended his hand and unleashed a series of vines that wrapped the man up from behind. He applied his will to the vines which petrified and trapped Raphael. The shell kept him protected as it crashed into the ground, “What the, but you d,”
“An illusion spell, seems you’re still a rookie. Anyway, as I was saying, I don’t really have time to deal with guys like you.” Magnum looked back towards the spot where he left Steve, but he was gone. “What the,” He began then cursed, “Damnit, now that asshole is out there causing trouble. In the meantime, buddy,” He turned to face the shell of petrified vines that encased Raphael, “If you’re gonna take on a master wizard then practice a little first.”
“I won’t be fooled next time.” Raphael said as Magnum and Doris flew off. While he did, the cameras captured him flying off, flipping Raphael the bird as he did while the citizens cheered.
Several hours later, Magnum sat atop a barrel in an alley with Steve, the same crook who robbed the bank. He was a corpse now with a gash across his throat and the Rabbit sitting atop his back, “Why do I always have to clean up your messes?”
“Because your little boyfriends are everywhere. I would have dealt with him myself if Raphael the Gorgeous didn’t hit me with a spell in the back.”
“You met Raphael, he’s such a dear.”
“Yeah, well maybe next time you could give me a warning.”
“And ruin the surprise?” She said, leaving Magnum to sigh, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“You know you love me.”
“Yeah, like an aneurism. Look keep your little flunkies away from me, or I’ll have to put them down.”
“I don’t know why you’d suspect little old me?”
“Because they’re all proclaiming that they must prove themselves for the love of their lady.” He said in a dramatic way accompanied by an obnoxious pose that caused her to laugh. As she laughed, he turned to head to the edge of the alley where Doris waited for him. Before he flew away the Rabbit came towards him, “Let’s meet up sometime.” He looked back at her confused and she continued, “No masks, I’ll make sure the boys don’t follow, okay.” He waited for a moment before answering, “I’ll think about it.” He said before flying off. As he flew away the thought of finally figuring out her identity was appealing, though he knew it would be intimately dangerous. The Rabbit was a killer and, if nothing else he knew she could seduce just about any man, considering the assholes that attacked him. He pondered these things as he flew off into the night sky.
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Magnum stood right in the front of New Day Bank in downtown, Underworld. He dragged out the last of the criminals, who tried robbing the bank, clearly one of Escobar’s men. He wanted to send the criminal overlord a message, but he thought perhaps he might be doing a bit much. “Alright dude, you know this is my turf, and I’m gonna stop you assholes wherever you go, now I have a choice, spare your life or end it right here.”
“Wait, p, p, please!” The crook looked past Magnum to the evening sky of pinks, purples, and oranges, but oddly enough he saw a shape floating above the vigilante. The would-be thief pointed behind, Magnum leaving him dumbfounded, “Really?”
“No seriously man.” Magnum sighed and summoned a vine from his hand to wrap the man up. Just before he turned around, he got slammed with kinetic force that sent him flying and breaking the front window of the bank. Magnum stood, exited the bank, and saw the man levitating above the brick homes with gray pinstriped coat and slacks. He was a handsome man with slicked back, black hair, a pencil thin moustache and goatee. Around the man were floating monitors and cameras. He wore the most annoying smirk Magnum had ever seen.
“So, I take it you’re the asshole who cast the spell?” Magnum said as he walked forward. The man smiled pretty for the cameras, “And you are the self-proclaimed vigilante who stole the heart of the beautiful Rabbit.”
“Wait hold up, is that what this is about? Look bro you can have her, I’m not tryna fight another of her simps.”
“You would dare refuse a duel for her heat?”
“Yeah. In case you didn’t notice I’m in the middle of something and you rudely interrupted. Now uh,” Magnum gestured at the crook, “What’s your name?”
“Steve.”
“Now Steve has to wriggle about on the concrete while I deal with you. Who the fuck are you anyway?”
“I am Raphael the Gorgeous, playboy, model, wizard, and all-around Chad.” Magnum sighed and facepalmed, “Can I just pay you to fuck off?”
“Absolutely not, I’ve come to prove myself to Miss Rabbit and,” Before he could say more Magnum threw a fireball his way. Raphael narrowly dodged, only to be hit with a gust of wind that scattered his cameras and sent him falling towards a nearby brick apartments. Raphael smashed into the apartment then recovered and flew towards him. Magnum pulled his pistols and began to fire, but each round bounced off of a Raphael’s magic shield while the sorcerer summoned purple flames to his right hand. Raphael reached forward and a tentacle extended from the purple flames. The tentacle whipped around Magnum, and began to squeeze the air out of him.
As Magnum began to fade in and out of consciousness, he cursed himself, not wanting to fall at the hands of a self-absorbed prick. Magnum summoned flames around himself and the tentacle let go with a squeal then jumped up to kick the approaching wizard in the gut. Raphael let out a breath as the wind got knocked out of him, while Magnum grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the ground. He then summoned a bolt of lightning, but Raphael slammed a hand on the ground, causing the earth to tremble which knocked Magnum off balance.
Before he could recover, the concrete broke beneath him and rose into the sky at rapid speed. Magnum looked down as he found himself flying high above the city, thinking that if he was any other person, he would have been afraid. Instead, he summoned Doris, his electric dove to come and catch him from mid-air. Magnum soared above the city and his opponent waited for the next magic assault. Raphael laughed, “Well, I can’t say that you aren’t a worthy opponent, but I have something to prove, and I can’t let you win.” He began to levitate yet again and when he floated just in front of Magnum, he placed his hands together. Magnum readied a magic shield just before his opponent launched a ball of purple light.
Purple chains burst out of the light and bounced off of Magnum’s shield but Raphael gripped his outstretched hand and the chains wrapped around the shield. As they constricted, Magnum’s shield began to crack. “Well shit, eldritch chains, this guy might know a little more than I thought.” The chains constricted and crushed both Magnum and Doris both, causing a spray of blood all over the citizens below who cried out at the loss of their hero.
Raphael, looked almost shocked, “Wait, I thought he would,”
Little did he know, that behind him Magnum and Doris came through a portal. He looked up at Raphael surrounded by cameras, then extended his hand and unleashed a series of vines that wrapped the man up from behind. He applied his will to the vines which petrified and trapped Raphael. The shell kept him protected as it crashed into the ground, “What the, but you d,”
“An illusion spell, seems you’re still a rookie. Anyway, as I was saying, I don’t really have time to deal with guys like you.” Magnum looked back towards the spot where he left Steve, but he was gone. “What the,” He began then cursed, “Damnit, now that asshole is out there causing trouble. In the meantime, buddy,” He turned to face the shell of petrified vines that encased Raphael, “If you’re gonna take on a master wizard then practice a little first.”
“I won’t be fooled next time.” Raphael said as Magnum and Doris flew off. While he did, the cameras captured him flying off, flipping Raphael the bird as he did while the citizens cheered.
Several hours later, Magnum sat atop a barrel in an alley with Steve, the same crook who robbed the bank. He was a corpse now with a gash across his throat and the Rabbit sitting atop his back, “Why do I always have to clean up your messes?”
“Because your little boyfriends are everywhere. I would have dealt with him myself if Raphael the Gorgeous didn’t hit me with a spell in the back.”
“You met Raphael, he’s such a dear.”
“Yeah, well maybe next time you could give me a warning.”
“And ruin the surprise?” She said, leaving Magnum to sigh, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“You know you love me.”
“Yeah, like an aneurism. Look keep your little flunkies away from me, or I’ll have to put them down.”
“I don’t know why you’d suspect little old me?”
“Because they’re all proclaiming that they must prove themselves for the love of their lady.” He said in a dramatic way accompanied by an obnoxious pose that caused her to laugh. As she laughed, he turned to head to the edge of the alley where Doris waited for him. Before he flew away the Rabbit came towards him, “Let’s meet up sometime.” He looked back at her confused and she continued, “No masks, I’ll make sure the boys don’t follow, okay.” He waited for a moment before answering, “I’ll think about it.” He said before flying off. As he flew away the thought of finally figuring out her identity was appealing, though he knew it would be intimately dangerous. The Rabbit was a killer and, if nothing else he knew she could seduce just about any man, considering the assholes that attacked him. He pondered these things as he flew off into the night sky.
2023.03.18 12:57 Alternative_Can_252 Today on Pinstripe Alley - 3/18/23
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2023.03.09 21:35 shawn19 New Yankees news: Frankie Montas was never fully healthy - Pinstripe Alley
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2023.03.09 00:25 Narrow_Muscle9572 [The Lawn Killer] Part One
Gray Hill - 1993
The first summer I came to Gray Hill to stay with my dad, it was after my parents divorce. Once the games and comic books got old, the only thing left was to explore. There was no rich side of town because everyone was poor. I hated that first summer, however my dad grew up there and had his rose tinted glasses on.
Even though there was a lake and people had docks as well as boats, no one used them. Now that I think about it I never saw anyone swim in Dead Horse Lake.
That winter my mother died and I had to stay with my dad.
I wasn't popular in school and people ignored me for the most part. In my class there were seven, and I don't think four of them knew my real name. I never tried out for sports and I sang like a chainsaw, so I never felt there was room for me in that small town.
The second summer I stayed in Gray Hill, there was a brand new gaming console being released, The Master Sphere and I had to have it. Much to my dissatisfaction my dad told me that I would have to pay for it myself. Being nearly eleven I complained and asked why. He said it was to build character and I still know what people mean when they say this.
Thankfully my dad's future wife, Linda, set me up with a job mowing lawns by putting up an ad in the local newspaper, Whisper Alley Echos. The pay was horrible and summers in Gray Hill were a wet blanket of humidity, and the mosquitos and ticks were the worst I ever experienced. However I really needed this gaming console.
Looking back on it I find it funny that by the end of that summer I preferred mowing for Miss Luther than sitting in front of the television with a controller in hand.
It was the end of July when Miss Luther called the house to offer me a job. My dad was the one who answered the phone and agreed that I would start the next morning at six. I wasn't too thrilled with waking up at that time, however when he told me that Miss Luther was filthy rich, wanted me on retainer and explained what “on retainer” meant, I couldn't wait to go to bed.
The next morning my dad made me some hot chocolate in a thermos and a few snacks for my shift. He was so excited for me that he reminded me of a kid on Christmas day. He told me that the construction of Miss Luthers house was big news when he was my age and that morning was going to be the first day he would get a chance to see it.
On the way to Miss Luther's house I asked dad what people did for jobs in Gray Hill but I don’t think he knew for sure because as he tried to explain it became the origins of the town. Apparently Gray Hill used to be a mining town but then the business went under. After that it was a logging town but that business went up in flames. Since then the town just sort of sat there, stagnant. I didn't know what stagnant meant and I didnt ask.
When I asked what Miss Luther did, dad smiled and told me that was one of the biggest and best secrets in Gray Hill.
After a mile or so after Fortune Summer Camp, dad pulled into a driveway I didnt even notice was there. A short while later though the road became wider and more noticeable. This place was once beautiful but over the years of no one taking care of the property, nature was fighting like hell to take it back. Gnarled trees lined both sides of the road, there was a swamp to my left and a field of grass as tall as corn on my right.
To my surprise my dad told me that when he was a kid the swamp was a lake and there was something called a vivarium in the field of grass.
When I asked what a vivarium was, dad told me it was a place where plants and animals that don't live in this climate can live.
“What kind of animals?” I asked.
My dad didn't know and shrugged. “If you work hard and don't slack off, you are going to find out,” he said with a smile. I could see that he was excited for me and wished that he was in my shoes.
A short while later we approached a large and very intimidating iron gate. My father whistled when he saw it, then parked next to a large stone and pushed a call button. When it was answered, no one spoke.
“Hello?” my dad asked, but before he could say anything else the gate started to creak open. “Welcome to the lifestyle of the rich and famous” my dad said in a terrible Robin Leach impression before pulling away.
Even though my father told me that Miss Luther had a mansion I didn't think he was serious. That was the last thing I expected to see in Gray Hill.
The building was huge. In some places it was three stories tall and in others it was five. It reminded me of something Bruce Wayne would live in, with all the gargoyles that were perched on the roof. The building was dark, almost as if it had survived a fire. There was a dried up fountain next to the driveway with two sets of steps that half encircled it. In the middle of the fountain was something that looked like a crane, though it's hard to say for certain because the years had not been kind to it.
“Holy poop,” my father said as he slowed down in order to take in the sight. He hadn't been able to stop talking about Miss Luther since he answered the phone the night before, even though he had never met the rich recluse. She was the talk of the town when he was younger than me.
Before I could do or say anything, a man walked out of the garage and waved us over. The man, as I later discovered, was far younger than he appeared. He wore a dirty white shirt that was stained yellow from sweat and grease covered overalls. He was tall and lean, but one look at him and you could tell he was strong. His arms were like tightly woven steel cables wrapped around itself. He kept his hair short but it was clear he was balding and his skin was leathery and beat red from the sun. In between his lip and gums was a large pinch of chew.
When my dad pulled up next to him, he rolled down the window. “Hey, here to drop off my boy,” he said with a smile.
The man nodded but it was clear that he either didn't care or already knew that. Perhaps both?
“Say hi, son.”
“Hi,” I said with a wave.
The man leaned down to look at me. I don't think he was impressed. There was an awkward silence that lasted only a moment but it felt much longer. “Alright” the man said. “Come on, now. Don't dawdle.”
I looked at dad for encouragement because I was nervous but he didn't notice and got out of the car to follow the man.
“My name is Peter” my dad said to the man's back.
“Otis.”
“Any chance I can get a tour of the place, Otis?” my dad asked. “I’ve been hearing about this place since I was a kid.”
The man groaned. “Not my place to say yes. But, I can tell you that this is the garage.”
Disappointed that he wouldn't get a tour, my dad made a pouting face and said “It's just that this is the first time I ever came here.”
“Loses its luster real quick” Otis said.
My dad waited for Otis to say more but Otis wasn't planning on elaborating.
As soon as I entered the garage I saw a large yellow behemoth with black and white lettering that read “Lawn Killer 9000”. It looked like a woodchipper on six wheels with an enclosed cab on top of it. Whoever made it must have really hated their yard.
“I didn't know he was going to be using a riding lawnmower,” my dad chuckled.
The man spit a large brown gob on the dirt floor. “Yeah, well. I didn't know his dad was going to hold his hand the whole time.”
My dad was at a loss of words but I couldn't help but to smile at that comment.
“Isn't it a bit dangerous for someone his age?” my dad asked.
Otis scoffed. “How? He will be sitting on it. The dangerous part is this” he answered as he pointed at the front of the Lawn Killer 9000.
My dad nodded, slowly seeing the sense of it. “Well, I guess I should be going,” he said as he placed his hand on my shoulder. “Son, I want you to work hard and be respectful.”
I nodded.
“Good” dad said before speaking again to Otis. “Do you know how long he is going—”
“We’ll call you, how about that?” Otis said, impatiently.
Dad nodded. “Alright. Well, I guess I’m off. Be good” he said as he rustled my hair and went to the car before driving off.
“Ever drive one of these before?” Otis asked, using his thumb to point at the Lawn Killer 9000. I shook my head so Otis explained everything to me after telling me to climb in and to get the feel of it. “I want you to go slow. Like, a quarter of walking speed, okay?” Otis asked.
“Sure” I answered, excited that I got to drive, even if it's just a lawnmower.
“Good. Now come” Otis said, waving me to follow him to the workbench. I did as I was asked and when I got to Otis’ side he pointed at a hand drawn map of Miss Luther's estate. “See this? I want you to mow G-7 and G-8. Can you do that?”
I looked closer at the map to determine where that was and found that both squares were surrounding the garage. “Sure” I answered.
“Good. Now get in and give me a minute to get ready.”
I hopped in the lawnmower and watched as Otis got ready. First he put on what looked to be hockey pads then he soaked a cloth in a yellowish green liquid and wiped himself off with it.
“What's that?”
“Jalapeno juice” he answered as he wiped himself with the cloth.
“Why?”
“Cover.”
Disappointed that he didn't answer my question I covered my mouth like he said and watched as Otis tied the cloth around his neck and put on a helmet with a glass visor that reminded me of something a member of SWAT would wear. He then walked over to a closet and pulled out a bandelier full of shotgun shells and a pump action shotgun.
“Forgot to mention this,” Otis said, racking a shell. “Don't get out of the lawnmower unless I say so, okay?”
I nodded.
“Good” Otis said before running out of the garage and into the grass that had to have been three feet taller than he was.
I started the lawnmower and was startled by how loud it was. When I put the lawnmower in drive I did what Otis instructed and drove slowly. I was impressed with how much damage the Lawn Killer 9000 was capable of. Everything I ran over turned into mulch.
The next time I saw Otis it was maybe half an hour later. He was running and ducking in the long grass, to me he looked like a soldier stalking the enemy in Vietnam.
At first I was worried, but then I remembered the wise words one of my teachers said to me: “Life will be a whole lot easier if you did the opposite of what you think you should do.”
As soon as I remembered that nugget of wisdom I felt better.
It wasn't long after that I really had to pee. I was tempted to ask but then I remembered that my father told me to work hard, so I held it until it started to hurt. Thankfully Otis leaped out of the grass, narrowly missing the front of the lawnmower, to tell me to stop.
“Why?” I asked, scared that I did something wrong.
“How we doing on gas?”
I looked at the gauge. “Half.”
Otis grunted and nodded. “You're out of salt.”
“Salt?” I asked.
Instead of answering me Otis told me to drive back into the garage. I did as he told me and parked where I first saw the Lawn Killer 9000 so Otis could fill up the bucket that sat behind me with a large white bag filled with salt that resembled a tube. It was then I saw that on the back of the Lawn Killer 9000 was a sifter that spread the salt, similar to plows during the winter.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I asked, looking around for a restroom but finding none.
“Sure” Otis answered, leading me to a small shed. “Don't explore any. Come right back.”
“Okay.”
Otis nodded and walked away. When I opened the door to the shed I was thankful that I only had to pee.
When I finished peeing I returned to Otis and quietly watched as he cut open a white tube and dumped the salt into the bucket. On the third tube I decided to ask Otis what the salt was used for.
“It's for the grass,” Otis answered without looking at me.
“Does it help it grow?”
Otis looked at me this time and it took a few moments before he spoke. “No.”
“Ah” I said, pretending to understand. “So how long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Four years? Three?” Otis answered.
“Cool” I answered.
After another two tubes of salt were dumped into the bucket Otis walked to the back of the garage, opened a small fridge and pulled out a glass bottle of off brand Ginger Ale.
“Want one?” Otis asked.
“Sure” I answered and took the one Otis offered me.
We sipped on our beverages and didn't speak for a long time.
“You don't talk much, do you?” I asked.
“Nope,” Otis answered before burping and tossing the bottle into a basket. “Ready?”
I finished the last few drops of the ginger ale and smiled. “Yup” I answered enthusiastically.
Otis gave an odd looking smile and shook his head. “Alright then” he said before putting back on his helmet and ran out of the garage to disappear into the grass, shotgun in hand.
I made a mental note to ask him about that on the next break.
Maybe an hour later of going around and around in circles I saw an old man in a pinstripe suit, walking down the steps near the fountain and heading straight for me. His skin was gray and wrinkly, with dark bags under his eyes. In his hands was a silver serving tray.
As soon as I noticed the man, Otis ran out of the grass and headed straight towards the man. Again he narrowly avoided being turned into mulch by the Lawn Killer 9000.
Before I could yell or do anything, Otis shouted over the sound of the engine to drive over to him and the old man.
The sight of this man made me nervous. He reminded me of the mortician guy from that one movie. The one with the flying balls with knives.
Under the serving tray was a pile of finger sandwiches and Otis was inhaling them.
When I put the Lawn Killer in park and turned off the engine I could hear the man say “Leave some for the boy, Otis.”
I hopped out of the cab and felt twenty degrees cooler. I didn't know how hot I was until that moment.
Each of the sandwiches were made with marble rye bread, pickles, a weird onion cheese and what might have been jerky, but I didn't ask.
“Hi” I said to the man as I grabbed the closest sandwich.
The man just looked at me.
I took a bite, didn't like it, but faked it because I didn't want to be rude.
“Thank you” I said.
Otis took a few more sandwiches before making his way back to the garage. “Yeah, thanks Grover.”
I never thought I would meet a butler, the fact his name was Grover was even more amazing.
“Don't mind Otis,” Grover sighed. “What he lacks in manners he makes up for in efficiency.”
I nodded dumbly.
“Would you like something to drink?” Grover asked.
“Pepsi?”
“We don't have any.”
“Coke?”
“We don't partake in those unsavory habits.”
“Lemonade?”
“Ugh” Grover groaned before walking away.
“Oi?” Otis shouted from the garage. “Park by the gas” Otis said, pointing at an old fashioned gas pump next to the garage.
I did what I was told, hopped in the Lawn Killer and drove it over to where Otis was waiting.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked after killing the engine.
“Sure” Otis said as he was struggling with the ancient nozzle.
“Did you say ‘Oi’?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Cuts through the noise. You don't hear that often in the states.”
I nodded. “Were you,” I started, not knowing how to finish this question. “Were you following me with the shotgun?”
“Yeah” Otis answered, not looking at me but I could tell he didn't seem all that interested or saw the issue with it.
“Why?”
“You do your job, let me do mine” Otis said as he got the nozzle to work.
“What do you do?” I asked.
“Hunt. Trap.”
“Cool” I said. “What do you hunt?”
“All sorts of things.”
“Is that why you brought a gun with you into the grass?”
“Yup” Otis nodded as he inspected the birds in the sky.
“Can I shoot the gun?” I asked after a while.
“No.”
There was a long moment before Otis turned off the nozzle and hung it back up. In that pregnant silence I felt like he was judging me.
“Alright. Now do this side of the garage” Otis said, pointing behind him.
“Yes sir” I said with a salute that didn't go over well from the look on his face. He hawked a large glob of brown chewing tobacco on the ground before putting on his helmet and walking into the grass, shotgun in hand.
I started the Lawn Killer 9000 and started doing the section Otis told me to do.
Even though I was hot and thirsty I was having fun. After all this was the first time I had ever driven something other than my bike.
Perhaps ten minutes later I remembered the drink Grover was supposed to bring out and that was the moment something large slammed into the glass to my left.
Whatever it was, it was as large as a catcher's mitt and looked like an angry cockroach. Before I could get a good look at it however, there was a loud bang and the bug exploded. Through the green blood and the birdshot embedded in the glass, I saw Otis racking another shell into the chamber, a big grin on his face.
I was close to stopping the lawn mower, but when I remembered what my dad said about working hard and my teacher's sage advice about not listening to my instincts, I kept driving.
At this point I was so dehydrated that I couldn't tell you how much time passed before I was done with the section that Otis wanted me to do. Judging by the suns position I guessed it had to have been about one in the afternoon. By this point I had completely forgotten about Otis firing his shotgun in my direction.
The first thing I said after getting out of the Lawn Killers cab was “I thought Grover was going to bring something to drink.”
“Are you okay?” Otis asked, ignoring my comment.
I squeezed my eyebrows together, wondering what he meant. In hindsight I know I wasn't thinking right because I was in need of water. “Yeah. Why?”
“What do you think about your first day?”
“I like it” I answered, not knowing what else to say.
Otis laughed. “You're like a baby panda, you know that?”
I had no idea what he meant by this, but I assumed it was an insult. Then I remembered that a different teacher of mine told me that if I thought one thing, the truth is the opposite. So I smiled and asked him what that meant.
“Baby pandas don't have a survival instinct, and you are fearless,” Otis laughed while patting me on the shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“Okay kid” Otis said, kneeling to get down to my level. “Some ground rules if you want to work here. First, never go in the grass. Second, never go near the grass. Third, do exactly what I say. If I say jump, you say how high. Got it?”
“Yeah” I nodded.
“Good. Your first day is done. Go to the house. I’m sure Miss Luther will have your money for you.”
“The house?” I asked, nervous about going into the mansion. I had never been in one before and didn't know if there were rules or not. Did I leave my shoes at the door? Did I bow to Miss Luther?
“Yeah, go” Otis answered.
I thought the dried up fountain was strange when I first saw it but it was nothing compared to the black iron knocker on the door. It was a bird of some kind but one that came out of someones most vivid nightmare.
I didn't want to touch it so instead I pulled open the thick heavy door and walked inside.
The foyer was as large as my house and on the far side there was a grand staircase, directly above the landing was a green and yellow stained glass window so warped by the sun that whatever image once shined through was now unrecognizable. Underfoot was a dusty checkered tiled floor with large black and white squares with footprints in the dust. On each side of the room were statues of naked people every ten feet apart, most were broken but some were in perfect condition. Between the statues were paintings which depicted brutal battles between cowboys and Indians in perfect clarity, including a native woman in a small cage, her belly torn open and forced to eat her own intestines as cowboys were sitting around the campfire cooking something over a fire. In another painting there was a man getting his eyes pecked out by crows as he tried to fight them off the best he could even though his hands were tied behind him, around a tree. I didn’t look long enough to know what else there was because I get scared easily.
I will tell you right now that everytime I went into that room I would do all I could not to look at the paintings.
“Do you like the job?” asked a woman. By her voice I knew she was old and didn't care one way or the other. She was only asking to be nice. The echoes in the house caused me to be a little slow to locate her but when I did she stood under the large stained glass window. She had to have been over one hundred years old but something about her puckered face, light brown hair which was pulled too tightly back told me that she would outlive everyone I know. She was all skin and bones and was wearing a delicate tight green dress that seemed nearly see through. In her hand was a martini glass and with each step or gesture the jewelry she wore around her neck would sparkle and jingle.
“Yes, maam” I answered with a smile.
“Good. It's hard finding good workers” she said. “Are you thirsty?”
I nodded.
“Go to your left and keep going straight. Through the door is the kitchen. Find yourself a glass in one of the cupboards, get yourself something to drink and join me upstairs in my library” she said as she was walking away.
I did as I was told, first passing a large empty room where parties must have been held. On the wall was a mural of a fox hunt but the wall seemed to focus mostly on a man that had a large comedic mustache riding a horse.
I didn’t take too much time to analyze it because I was a guest in this house so I picked up the pace and made my way to the kitchen by pushing open a door which swung back shut behind me. The room was so large that if the cups were not already on the counter drying off from the last time they were cleaned it would have taken forever to find them.
I drank two glasses before filling up the cup a third time, this time bringing it with me as I went upstairs to join Miss Luthor.
As I reached the top of the steps I went in the direction I saw Miss Luthor was heading. On my right through the grimy windows that reached the ceiling I saw the backyard, it was just as wild as the front but with more flowers.
There was some movement in the yard that caught my eye as I was looking at the strange three petaled flowers so I turned to look. I was surprised to see that it was a beautiful woman with a large worn straw hat, a green shirt, blue jean shorts and gardening gloves. She stood up, took off her hat, revealing her brown hair and wiped her forehead.
I was a kid at the time and hormones were making me even dumber than I was before, but whoever this woman was I was head over heels over her.
Quickly remembering what I was doing upstairs I kept walking in what I hoped was the direction of the library. The long hallway curved gently and after thirty or forty yards it straightened out. I really wanted to explore, even for a minute.
I walked briskly down the hall and was shocked when I saw her library. It was far bigger than the one at school that was for sure. It even had a ladder on wheels and a second story. A third in some places. In the middle of the room was a large mechanical something I didn’t recognize so I looked at it trying to work it out in my mind.
“Its an orrery” Miss Luthor said as she looked down on me from the second library floor over the railing.
“A what?” I asked, finding her quickly through the decorative grate floor above me.
“A model of the solar system, showing what the alignment will be on October 19th 2017 at exactly four forty two in the morning” she answered. “Nevermind that though, come up here”.
Again I did as I was told, though it was hard to climb the ladder with the glass in my hand and I wondered how the old woman managed to do it with her martini.
Miss Luthor was sitting on a torn red leather chair when I managed to pull myself up and as I approached her I felt a sudden sense of fear. It looked as though she was sizing me up for something.
“Have a seat” she said, not motioning in any direction.
I looked around but I did not see a chair, so I sat on the ground.
“How do you like the job?”
“I love it” I answered with a smile.
“And the lawnmower? Is it doing the job?”
“And how” I exclaimed, thinking of how much dirt and grass went flying into the air when I drove it.
“Good” Miss Luthor said before she pulled on a rope that was hanging from the ceiling. It made a loud sound far away and a few seconds later through the decorated metal grate floor I saw Grover come into the library.
“You called, madam?” he asked from below us.
“Fetch this boy his payment for a job well done” Miss Luther said without taking her eyes off of me the entire time which weirded me out more than anything I had seen so far.
“Yes, madam,” Grover said and left us.
Miss Luther's glare was ice but I resisted shivering and somehow I succeeded. How can a woman this old be so scary?
“Can you come back tomorrow, boy?” Miss Luther asked and took another sip of her drink.
“Yes ma'am” I said, remembering my manners.
“Good” she answered. A few long moments passed before Grover came back into the room and climbed the ladder as graceful as a cat before handing Miss Luther her checkbook.
“Thank you Grover” she said coldly as she took the items from Grovers hands. “Does twelve hundred sound fair?” Miss Luther asked.
If I had been drinking the water at the time I would have spit it out when she asked. Instead I said “Hell yes!” With that much money I could get a gaming console for every room of the house if I wanted to.
Miss Luther did not smile at this. She just made out the check and handed it to me. I stared at it for the longest time not believing that I just got paid this much for one days work.
“Call the boys father, Grover. Inform him that his son is done. After you do that make him another sandwich” Miss Luther ordered.
Remembering the last sandwich Grover gave me I said “No thank you, I am not hungry”.
Miss Luther looked at me oddly. “Do you want some more pickle juice?” she asked, motioning with her head towards my empty glass.
“It was water, actually”.
“We have pickle juice if you prefer,” Miss Luther said.
“No, thank you but no” I answered.
Miss Luther handed me the check and gave Grover an eighth of an inch nod.
“This way, young man” Grover said and made his way to the ladder. I stood up to follow and thanked Miss Luther but she didn’t seem to notice me and took another sip from her glass.
I looked down at the check and grinned like an idiot.
submitted by Narrow_Muscle9572 to redditserials [link] [comments]
The first summer I came to Gray Hill to stay with my dad, it was after my parents divorce. Once the games and comic books got old, the only thing left was to explore. There was no rich side of town because everyone was poor. I hated that first summer, however my dad grew up there and had his rose tinted glasses on.
Even though there was a lake and people had docks as well as boats, no one used them. Now that I think about it I never saw anyone swim in Dead Horse Lake.
That winter my mother died and I had to stay with my dad.
I wasn't popular in school and people ignored me for the most part. In my class there were seven, and I don't think four of them knew my real name. I never tried out for sports and I sang like a chainsaw, so I never felt there was room for me in that small town.
The second summer I stayed in Gray Hill, there was a brand new gaming console being released, The Master Sphere and I had to have it. Much to my dissatisfaction my dad told me that I would have to pay for it myself. Being nearly eleven I complained and asked why. He said it was to build character and I still know what people mean when they say this.
Thankfully my dad's future wife, Linda, set me up with a job mowing lawns by putting up an ad in the local newspaper, Whisper Alley Echos. The pay was horrible and summers in Gray Hill were a wet blanket of humidity, and the mosquitos and ticks were the worst I ever experienced. However I really needed this gaming console.
Looking back on it I find it funny that by the end of that summer I preferred mowing for Miss Luther than sitting in front of the television with a controller in hand.
It was the end of July when Miss Luther called the house to offer me a job. My dad was the one who answered the phone and agreed that I would start the next morning at six. I wasn't too thrilled with waking up at that time, however when he told me that Miss Luther was filthy rich, wanted me on retainer and explained what “on retainer” meant, I couldn't wait to go to bed.
The next morning my dad made me some hot chocolate in a thermos and a few snacks for my shift. He was so excited for me that he reminded me of a kid on Christmas day. He told me that the construction of Miss Luthers house was big news when he was my age and that morning was going to be the first day he would get a chance to see it.
On the way to Miss Luther's house I asked dad what people did for jobs in Gray Hill but I don’t think he knew for sure because as he tried to explain it became the origins of the town. Apparently Gray Hill used to be a mining town but then the business went under. After that it was a logging town but that business went up in flames. Since then the town just sort of sat there, stagnant. I didn't know what stagnant meant and I didnt ask.
When I asked what Miss Luther did, dad smiled and told me that was one of the biggest and best secrets in Gray Hill.
After a mile or so after Fortune Summer Camp, dad pulled into a driveway I didnt even notice was there. A short while later though the road became wider and more noticeable. This place was once beautiful but over the years of no one taking care of the property, nature was fighting like hell to take it back. Gnarled trees lined both sides of the road, there was a swamp to my left and a field of grass as tall as corn on my right.
To my surprise my dad told me that when he was a kid the swamp was a lake and there was something called a vivarium in the field of grass.
When I asked what a vivarium was, dad told me it was a place where plants and animals that don't live in this climate can live.
“What kind of animals?” I asked.
My dad didn't know and shrugged. “If you work hard and don't slack off, you are going to find out,” he said with a smile. I could see that he was excited for me and wished that he was in my shoes.
A short while later we approached a large and very intimidating iron gate. My father whistled when he saw it, then parked next to a large stone and pushed a call button. When it was answered, no one spoke.
“Hello?” my dad asked, but before he could say anything else the gate started to creak open. “Welcome to the lifestyle of the rich and famous” my dad said in a terrible Robin Leach impression before pulling away.
Even though my father told me that Miss Luther had a mansion I didn't think he was serious. That was the last thing I expected to see in Gray Hill.
The building was huge. In some places it was three stories tall and in others it was five. It reminded me of something Bruce Wayne would live in, with all the gargoyles that were perched on the roof. The building was dark, almost as if it had survived a fire. There was a dried up fountain next to the driveway with two sets of steps that half encircled it. In the middle of the fountain was something that looked like a crane, though it's hard to say for certain because the years had not been kind to it.
“Holy poop,” my father said as he slowed down in order to take in the sight. He hadn't been able to stop talking about Miss Luther since he answered the phone the night before, even though he had never met the rich recluse. She was the talk of the town when he was younger than me.
Before I could do or say anything, a man walked out of the garage and waved us over. The man, as I later discovered, was far younger than he appeared. He wore a dirty white shirt that was stained yellow from sweat and grease covered overalls. He was tall and lean, but one look at him and you could tell he was strong. His arms were like tightly woven steel cables wrapped around itself. He kept his hair short but it was clear he was balding and his skin was leathery and beat red from the sun. In between his lip and gums was a large pinch of chew.
When my dad pulled up next to him, he rolled down the window. “Hey, here to drop off my boy,” he said with a smile.
The man nodded but it was clear that he either didn't care or already knew that. Perhaps both?
“Say hi, son.”
“Hi,” I said with a wave.
The man leaned down to look at me. I don't think he was impressed. There was an awkward silence that lasted only a moment but it felt much longer. “Alright” the man said. “Come on, now. Don't dawdle.”
I looked at dad for encouragement because I was nervous but he didn't notice and got out of the car to follow the man.
“My name is Peter” my dad said to the man's back.
“Otis.”
“Any chance I can get a tour of the place, Otis?” my dad asked. “I’ve been hearing about this place since I was a kid.”
The man groaned. “Not my place to say yes. But, I can tell you that this is the garage.”
Disappointed that he wouldn't get a tour, my dad made a pouting face and said “It's just that this is the first time I ever came here.”
“Loses its luster real quick” Otis said.
My dad waited for Otis to say more but Otis wasn't planning on elaborating.
As soon as I entered the garage I saw a large yellow behemoth with black and white lettering that read “Lawn Killer 9000”. It looked like a woodchipper on six wheels with an enclosed cab on top of it. Whoever made it must have really hated their yard.
“I didn't know he was going to be using a riding lawnmower,” my dad chuckled.
The man spit a large brown gob on the dirt floor. “Yeah, well. I didn't know his dad was going to hold his hand the whole time.”
My dad was at a loss of words but I couldn't help but to smile at that comment.
“Isn't it a bit dangerous for someone his age?” my dad asked.
Otis scoffed. “How? He will be sitting on it. The dangerous part is this” he answered as he pointed at the front of the Lawn Killer 9000.
My dad nodded, slowly seeing the sense of it. “Well, I guess I should be going,” he said as he placed his hand on my shoulder. “Son, I want you to work hard and be respectful.”
I nodded.
“Good” dad said before speaking again to Otis. “Do you know how long he is going—”
“We’ll call you, how about that?” Otis said, impatiently.
Dad nodded. “Alright. Well, I guess I’m off. Be good” he said as he rustled my hair and went to the car before driving off.
“Ever drive one of these before?” Otis asked, using his thumb to point at the Lawn Killer 9000. I shook my head so Otis explained everything to me after telling me to climb in and to get the feel of it. “I want you to go slow. Like, a quarter of walking speed, okay?” Otis asked.
“Sure” I answered, excited that I got to drive, even if it's just a lawnmower.
“Good. Now come” Otis said, waving me to follow him to the workbench. I did as I was asked and when I got to Otis’ side he pointed at a hand drawn map of Miss Luther's estate. “See this? I want you to mow G-7 and G-8. Can you do that?”
I looked closer at the map to determine where that was and found that both squares were surrounding the garage. “Sure” I answered.
“Good. Now get in and give me a minute to get ready.”
I hopped in the lawnmower and watched as Otis got ready. First he put on what looked to be hockey pads then he soaked a cloth in a yellowish green liquid and wiped himself off with it.
“What's that?”
“Jalapeno juice” he answered as he wiped himself with the cloth.
“Why?”
“Cover.”
Disappointed that he didn't answer my question I covered my mouth like he said and watched as Otis tied the cloth around his neck and put on a helmet with a glass visor that reminded me of something a member of SWAT would wear. He then walked over to a closet and pulled out a bandelier full of shotgun shells and a pump action shotgun.
“Forgot to mention this,” Otis said, racking a shell. “Don't get out of the lawnmower unless I say so, okay?”
I nodded.
“Good” Otis said before running out of the garage and into the grass that had to have been three feet taller than he was.
I started the lawnmower and was startled by how loud it was. When I put the lawnmower in drive I did what Otis instructed and drove slowly. I was impressed with how much damage the Lawn Killer 9000 was capable of. Everything I ran over turned into mulch.
The next time I saw Otis it was maybe half an hour later. He was running and ducking in the long grass, to me he looked like a soldier stalking the enemy in Vietnam.
At first I was worried, but then I remembered the wise words one of my teachers said to me: “Life will be a whole lot easier if you did the opposite of what you think you should do.”
As soon as I remembered that nugget of wisdom I felt better.
It wasn't long after that I really had to pee. I was tempted to ask but then I remembered that my father told me to work hard, so I held it until it started to hurt. Thankfully Otis leaped out of the grass, narrowly missing the front of the lawnmower, to tell me to stop.
“Why?” I asked, scared that I did something wrong.
“How we doing on gas?”
I looked at the gauge. “Half.”
Otis grunted and nodded. “You're out of salt.”
“Salt?” I asked.
Instead of answering me Otis told me to drive back into the garage. I did as he told me and parked where I first saw the Lawn Killer 9000 so Otis could fill up the bucket that sat behind me with a large white bag filled with salt that resembled a tube. It was then I saw that on the back of the Lawn Killer 9000 was a sifter that spread the salt, similar to plows during the winter.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” I asked, looking around for a restroom but finding none.
“Sure” Otis answered, leading me to a small shed. “Don't explore any. Come right back.”
“Okay.”
Otis nodded and walked away. When I opened the door to the shed I was thankful that I only had to pee.
When I finished peeing I returned to Otis and quietly watched as he cut open a white tube and dumped the salt into the bucket. On the third tube I decided to ask Otis what the salt was used for.
“It's for the grass,” Otis answered without looking at me.
“Does it help it grow?”
Otis looked at me this time and it took a few moments before he spoke. “No.”
“Ah” I said, pretending to understand. “So how long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Four years? Three?” Otis answered.
“Cool” I answered.
After another two tubes of salt were dumped into the bucket Otis walked to the back of the garage, opened a small fridge and pulled out a glass bottle of off brand Ginger Ale.
“Want one?” Otis asked.
“Sure” I answered and took the one Otis offered me.
We sipped on our beverages and didn't speak for a long time.
“You don't talk much, do you?” I asked.
“Nope,” Otis answered before burping and tossing the bottle into a basket. “Ready?”
I finished the last few drops of the ginger ale and smiled. “Yup” I answered enthusiastically.
Otis gave an odd looking smile and shook his head. “Alright then” he said before putting back on his helmet and ran out of the garage to disappear into the grass, shotgun in hand.
I made a mental note to ask him about that on the next break.
Maybe an hour later of going around and around in circles I saw an old man in a pinstripe suit, walking down the steps near the fountain and heading straight for me. His skin was gray and wrinkly, with dark bags under his eyes. In his hands was a silver serving tray.
As soon as I noticed the man, Otis ran out of the grass and headed straight towards the man. Again he narrowly avoided being turned into mulch by the Lawn Killer 9000.
Before I could yell or do anything, Otis shouted over the sound of the engine to drive over to him and the old man.
The sight of this man made me nervous. He reminded me of the mortician guy from that one movie. The one with the flying balls with knives.
Under the serving tray was a pile of finger sandwiches and Otis was inhaling them.
When I put the Lawn Killer in park and turned off the engine I could hear the man say “Leave some for the boy, Otis.”
I hopped out of the cab and felt twenty degrees cooler. I didn't know how hot I was until that moment.
Each of the sandwiches were made with marble rye bread, pickles, a weird onion cheese and what might have been jerky, but I didn't ask.
“Hi” I said to the man as I grabbed the closest sandwich.
The man just looked at me.
I took a bite, didn't like it, but faked it because I didn't want to be rude.
“Thank you” I said.
Otis took a few more sandwiches before making his way back to the garage. “Yeah, thanks Grover.”
I never thought I would meet a butler, the fact his name was Grover was even more amazing.
“Don't mind Otis,” Grover sighed. “What he lacks in manners he makes up for in efficiency.”
I nodded dumbly.
“Would you like something to drink?” Grover asked.
“Pepsi?”
“We don't have any.”
“Coke?”
“We don't partake in those unsavory habits.”
“Lemonade?”
“Ugh” Grover groaned before walking away.
“Oi?” Otis shouted from the garage. “Park by the gas” Otis said, pointing at an old fashioned gas pump next to the garage.
I did what I was told, hopped in the Lawn Killer and drove it over to where Otis was waiting.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked after killing the engine.
“Sure” Otis said as he was struggling with the ancient nozzle.
“Did you say ‘Oi’?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Cuts through the noise. You don't hear that often in the states.”
I nodded. “Were you,” I started, not knowing how to finish this question. “Were you following me with the shotgun?”
“Yeah” Otis answered, not looking at me but I could tell he didn't seem all that interested or saw the issue with it.
“Why?”
“You do your job, let me do mine” Otis said as he got the nozzle to work.
“What do you do?” I asked.
“Hunt. Trap.”
“Cool” I said. “What do you hunt?”
“All sorts of things.”
“Is that why you brought a gun with you into the grass?”
“Yup” Otis nodded as he inspected the birds in the sky.
“Can I shoot the gun?” I asked after a while.
“No.”
There was a long moment before Otis turned off the nozzle and hung it back up. In that pregnant silence I felt like he was judging me.
“Alright. Now do this side of the garage” Otis said, pointing behind him.
“Yes sir” I said with a salute that didn't go over well from the look on his face. He hawked a large glob of brown chewing tobacco on the ground before putting on his helmet and walking into the grass, shotgun in hand.
I started the Lawn Killer 9000 and started doing the section Otis told me to do.
Even though I was hot and thirsty I was having fun. After all this was the first time I had ever driven something other than my bike.
Perhaps ten minutes later I remembered the drink Grover was supposed to bring out and that was the moment something large slammed into the glass to my left.
Whatever it was, it was as large as a catcher's mitt and looked like an angry cockroach. Before I could get a good look at it however, there was a loud bang and the bug exploded. Through the green blood and the birdshot embedded in the glass, I saw Otis racking another shell into the chamber, a big grin on his face.
I was close to stopping the lawn mower, but when I remembered what my dad said about working hard and my teacher's sage advice about not listening to my instincts, I kept driving.
At this point I was so dehydrated that I couldn't tell you how much time passed before I was done with the section that Otis wanted me to do. Judging by the suns position I guessed it had to have been about one in the afternoon. By this point I had completely forgotten about Otis firing his shotgun in my direction.
The first thing I said after getting out of the Lawn Killers cab was “I thought Grover was going to bring something to drink.”
“Are you okay?” Otis asked, ignoring my comment.
I squeezed my eyebrows together, wondering what he meant. In hindsight I know I wasn't thinking right because I was in need of water. “Yeah. Why?”
“What do you think about your first day?”
“I like it” I answered, not knowing what else to say.
Otis laughed. “You're like a baby panda, you know that?”
I had no idea what he meant by this, but I assumed it was an insult. Then I remembered that a different teacher of mine told me that if I thought one thing, the truth is the opposite. So I smiled and asked him what that meant.
“Baby pandas don't have a survival instinct, and you are fearless,” Otis laughed while patting me on the shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“Okay kid” Otis said, kneeling to get down to my level. “Some ground rules if you want to work here. First, never go in the grass. Second, never go near the grass. Third, do exactly what I say. If I say jump, you say how high. Got it?”
“Yeah” I nodded.
“Good. Your first day is done. Go to the house. I’m sure Miss Luther will have your money for you.”
“The house?” I asked, nervous about going into the mansion. I had never been in one before and didn't know if there were rules or not. Did I leave my shoes at the door? Did I bow to Miss Luther?
“Yeah, go” Otis answered.
I thought the dried up fountain was strange when I first saw it but it was nothing compared to the black iron knocker on the door. It was a bird of some kind but one that came out of someones most vivid nightmare.
I didn't want to touch it so instead I pulled open the thick heavy door and walked inside.
The foyer was as large as my house and on the far side there was a grand staircase, directly above the landing was a green and yellow stained glass window so warped by the sun that whatever image once shined through was now unrecognizable. Underfoot was a dusty checkered tiled floor with large black and white squares with footprints in the dust. On each side of the room were statues of naked people every ten feet apart, most were broken but some were in perfect condition. Between the statues were paintings which depicted brutal battles between cowboys and Indians in perfect clarity, including a native woman in a small cage, her belly torn open and forced to eat her own intestines as cowboys were sitting around the campfire cooking something over a fire. In another painting there was a man getting his eyes pecked out by crows as he tried to fight them off the best he could even though his hands were tied behind him, around a tree. I didn’t look long enough to know what else there was because I get scared easily.
I will tell you right now that everytime I went into that room I would do all I could not to look at the paintings.
“Do you like the job?” asked a woman. By her voice I knew she was old and didn't care one way or the other. She was only asking to be nice. The echoes in the house caused me to be a little slow to locate her but when I did she stood under the large stained glass window. She had to have been over one hundred years old but something about her puckered face, light brown hair which was pulled too tightly back told me that she would outlive everyone I know. She was all skin and bones and was wearing a delicate tight green dress that seemed nearly see through. In her hand was a martini glass and with each step or gesture the jewelry she wore around her neck would sparkle and jingle.
“Yes, maam” I answered with a smile.
“Good. It's hard finding good workers” she said. “Are you thirsty?”
I nodded.
“Go to your left and keep going straight. Through the door is the kitchen. Find yourself a glass in one of the cupboards, get yourself something to drink and join me upstairs in my library” she said as she was walking away.
I did as I was told, first passing a large empty room where parties must have been held. On the wall was a mural of a fox hunt but the wall seemed to focus mostly on a man that had a large comedic mustache riding a horse.
I didn’t take too much time to analyze it because I was a guest in this house so I picked up the pace and made my way to the kitchen by pushing open a door which swung back shut behind me. The room was so large that if the cups were not already on the counter drying off from the last time they were cleaned it would have taken forever to find them.
I drank two glasses before filling up the cup a third time, this time bringing it with me as I went upstairs to join Miss Luthor.
As I reached the top of the steps I went in the direction I saw Miss Luthor was heading. On my right through the grimy windows that reached the ceiling I saw the backyard, it was just as wild as the front but with more flowers.
There was some movement in the yard that caught my eye as I was looking at the strange three petaled flowers so I turned to look. I was surprised to see that it was a beautiful woman with a large worn straw hat, a green shirt, blue jean shorts and gardening gloves. She stood up, took off her hat, revealing her brown hair and wiped her forehead.
I was a kid at the time and hormones were making me even dumber than I was before, but whoever this woman was I was head over heels over her.
Quickly remembering what I was doing upstairs I kept walking in what I hoped was the direction of the library. The long hallway curved gently and after thirty or forty yards it straightened out. I really wanted to explore, even for a minute.
I walked briskly down the hall and was shocked when I saw her library. It was far bigger than the one at school that was for sure. It even had a ladder on wheels and a second story. A third in some places. In the middle of the room was a large mechanical something I didn’t recognize so I looked at it trying to work it out in my mind.
“Its an orrery” Miss Luthor said as she looked down on me from the second library floor over the railing.
“A what?” I asked, finding her quickly through the decorative grate floor above me.
“A model of the solar system, showing what the alignment will be on October 19th 2017 at exactly four forty two in the morning” she answered. “Nevermind that though, come up here”.
Again I did as I was told, though it was hard to climb the ladder with the glass in my hand and I wondered how the old woman managed to do it with her martini.
Miss Luthor was sitting on a torn red leather chair when I managed to pull myself up and as I approached her I felt a sudden sense of fear. It looked as though she was sizing me up for something.
“Have a seat” she said, not motioning in any direction.
I looked around but I did not see a chair, so I sat on the ground.
“How do you like the job?”
“I love it” I answered with a smile.
“And the lawnmower? Is it doing the job?”
“And how” I exclaimed, thinking of how much dirt and grass went flying into the air when I drove it.
“Good” Miss Luthor said before she pulled on a rope that was hanging from the ceiling. It made a loud sound far away and a few seconds later through the decorated metal grate floor I saw Grover come into the library.
“You called, madam?” he asked from below us.
“Fetch this boy his payment for a job well done” Miss Luther said without taking her eyes off of me the entire time which weirded me out more than anything I had seen so far.
“Yes, madam,” Grover said and left us.
Miss Luther's glare was ice but I resisted shivering and somehow I succeeded. How can a woman this old be so scary?
“Can you come back tomorrow, boy?” Miss Luther asked and took another sip of her drink.
“Yes ma'am” I said, remembering my manners.
“Good” she answered. A few long moments passed before Grover came back into the room and climbed the ladder as graceful as a cat before handing Miss Luther her checkbook.
“Thank you Grover” she said coldly as she took the items from Grovers hands. “Does twelve hundred sound fair?” Miss Luther asked.
If I had been drinking the water at the time I would have spit it out when she asked. Instead I said “Hell yes!” With that much money I could get a gaming console for every room of the house if I wanted to.
Miss Luther did not smile at this. She just made out the check and handed it to me. I stared at it for the longest time not believing that I just got paid this much for one days work.
“Call the boys father, Grover. Inform him that his son is done. After you do that make him another sandwich” Miss Luther ordered.
Remembering the last sandwich Grover gave me I said “No thank you, I am not hungry”.
Miss Luther looked at me oddly. “Do you want some more pickle juice?” she asked, motioning with her head towards my empty glass.
“It was water, actually”.
“We have pickle juice if you prefer,” Miss Luther said.
“No, thank you but no” I answered.
Miss Luther handed me the check and gave Grover an eighth of an inch nod.
“This way, young man” Grover said and made his way to the ladder. I stood up to follow and thanked Miss Luther but she didn’t seem to notice me and took another sip from her glass.
I looked down at the check and grinned like an idiot.
2023.02.04 14:15 TheBat3488 Idea for a comedy Batman themed TV show: Gotham Goons
So I had this idea for a comedy tv show about regular Falcone soldier Mafia goons ( said soldier as this is a the lowest rank in the mafia, so they can also be the dumbest) and them being stupid and always getting beat up by Batman. Here’s an outline for the first episode:
SCENE 1: SOLDIER MEET UP AT AN INDIAN CURRY HOUSE
Four Falcone goons sit at a table. They are dressed in pinstripe suits with hats. The first one is Derek, the second is Mark, third is Steve and the fourth is a new guy who has just moved into Gotham and has only just joined the Falcones named William
MARK: Cheers to the new guy! Salude!
EVERYONE ELSE: Salude!
STEVE: Hey, Mark, why’d we meet at a curry house? We’re Mafia shouldn’t we eat in an expensive Italian restaraunt? Or at least Dominoes?
MARK: Ya know what Steve? I am sick of your profiling! So what if we’re part of the Mafia? Doesn’t mean we should sit down at an Italian restaurant all the time! I like curry, so I’m gonna eat curry, regardless of my job!
STEVE: Whoa, I was only saying it because spaghetti and pasata are less fibrous. I eat one gram of this stuff and I’m gonna need the toilet during a shootout! Any of you guys needed the toilet during an important errand?
DEREK: Yep, Interrogation. Had a burrito a little before. Big mistake. Actually it wasn’t that big, I told the guy that my farts were poison gas being pumped into the room. He gave it up in no time.
WILLIAM: Hey. Why don’t we go out? Ya know? To celebrate me getting Into the family?
STEVE: We‘re at a curry house, what more do you want?
WILLIAM: I was thinking more…crime.
DEREK: Ohhh no. We don’t commit crimes at night unless Falcone tells us to
WILLIAM: Why
STEVE (scared): The Batman
WILLIAM (laughs): Are you serious? You hardened Mafia men are scared of a guy dressed like a bat?!
DEREK: Everyone’s cocky like that before they get beaten up by him
WILLIAM: C’mon guys, he dresses like a Bat! Why even bats?!
MARK: I heard that his parents were shot in front of him by a Falcone guy, so he went to learn karate from Arabic ninjas in the middle east and they said to use fear on his enemies. So he thought “hey! I’m scared of bats! let’s make the bad guys scared of bats!”
DEREK: That’s ridiculous. he obviously was thinking of a name and a bat flew through his window
STEVE: That’s way dumber than Mark’s story!
DEREK: Yeah? Well Mark, where’d you even get that info?
MARK: Penguin guy
EVERYONE GROANS
DEREK: Mark what have we told you about the Penguin guys? They’re wackos! They work for a guy who thinks he’s a bird!
WILLIAM: C’mon guys, if you’re really that scared of him, let’s go to the Narrows get some good stuff, drive back to Steve’s and sniff it all up!
DEREK: No way, man. Ya see that? (Points out the window to the night sky, where the bat signal lights up.) that’s lit up at about 5:30 pm every night for the past five years. And it only turns off in the morning. We’ll get some snow then.
WILLIAM: But all the hookers will have gone by then!
MARK: Oooh, they actually do this new online thing where they do house calls. They have an app!
WILLIAM: Let’s have some adventure! Tell ya what. If one ah you gets beat down by him, you guys can beat me up. Deal?
MARK, STEVE and DEREK exchange looks, then look back at WILL
STEVE: Deal.
SCENE 2; THE NARROWS
WILLIAM: this is so great, look at all the heroin and coke around here!
STEVEN is looking around and checking buildings and trees
WILLIAM: Steve! Lighten up! He’s not gonna run inta you!
STEVE: Whadeva ya say, kid. It‘s your ass not mine. Well it could be mine too. It’s usually Derek
DEREK: Guys, he literally has a tracker inside me, that’s how he finds me all the time!
MARK: Hey, guys, don‘t do too much, we don‘t wanna be all jittery at work tomorrow.
DEREK: Or all slow! Depending on what we get.
THE GOONS buy some Cocaine and go into a dark alley, as they step in a puddle, the silhouette of THE BATMAN appears on one of the buildings in the reflection of the puddle. THE GOONS exit the alley but DEREK stays behind as he sees a coin on the ground. He picks it up
DEREK: Come to papa. No need to gamble today!
BATMAN drops down in front of DEREK
DEREK sees him and his back is against the wall. He looks pale and scared. The other GOONS are watching from behind a trash can.
BATMAN: Derek Ritchies. I thought I said I didn’t wanna see you here again.
DEREK: Relax man, I didn’t do nuthin!
BATMAN picks DEREK up by the edges of his jacket and slams DEREK against the wall
DEREK: (nervously) oof. Very aggressive, dude, hehe
BATMAN: Show me the coke
DEREK: Why man?! Wanna hit? (Chuckles nervously)
STEVEN (To William): Derek always gives out zingers when he‘s nervous.
BATMAN: Show it to me
DEREK takes out his bag of Cochin nervously but fumbles it and it drops into Batman’s face. Batman is covered in cocaine
DEREK: Oh. Crap. That. Was an accident, my man.
BATMAN growls and Judo flips DEREK to the ground where he’s beaten down to a pulp.
punches are heard and STEVE, MARK and WILL wince in sympathy for DEREK
BATMAN: Think before you buy next time, Derek.
He grapples up to the building and goes away.
The GOONS come out and see DEREK
STEVE: Oooh. We gotta get him to a hospital!
MARK: But first (turns to WILL), 10 seconds of baseball bat or 1 minute of fists
WILLIAM: (sighs) Baseball bat.
STEVE and MARK beat WILL with a baseball bat
CREDITS
submitted by TheBat3488 to batman [link] [comments]
SCENE 1: SOLDIER MEET UP AT AN INDIAN CURRY HOUSE
Four Falcone goons sit at a table. They are dressed in pinstripe suits with hats. The first one is Derek, the second is Mark, third is Steve and the fourth is a new guy who has just moved into Gotham and has only just joined the Falcones named William
MARK: Cheers to the new guy! Salude!
EVERYONE ELSE: Salude!
STEVE: Hey, Mark, why’d we meet at a curry house? We’re Mafia shouldn’t we eat in an expensive Italian restaraunt? Or at least Dominoes?
MARK: Ya know what Steve? I am sick of your profiling! So what if we’re part of the Mafia? Doesn’t mean we should sit down at an Italian restaurant all the time! I like curry, so I’m gonna eat curry, regardless of my job!
STEVE: Whoa, I was only saying it because spaghetti and pasata are less fibrous. I eat one gram of this stuff and I’m gonna need the toilet during a shootout! Any of you guys needed the toilet during an important errand?
DEREK: Yep, Interrogation. Had a burrito a little before. Big mistake. Actually it wasn’t that big, I told the guy that my farts were poison gas being pumped into the room. He gave it up in no time.
WILLIAM: Hey. Why don’t we go out? Ya know? To celebrate me getting Into the family?
STEVE: We‘re at a curry house, what more do you want?
WILLIAM: I was thinking more…crime.
DEREK: Ohhh no. We don’t commit crimes at night unless Falcone tells us to
WILLIAM: Why
STEVE (scared): The Batman
WILLIAM (laughs): Are you serious? You hardened Mafia men are scared of a guy dressed like a bat?!
DEREK: Everyone’s cocky like that before they get beaten up by him
WILLIAM: C’mon guys, he dresses like a Bat! Why even bats?!
MARK: I heard that his parents were shot in front of him by a Falcone guy, so he went to learn karate from Arabic ninjas in the middle east and they said to use fear on his enemies. So he thought “hey! I’m scared of bats! let’s make the bad guys scared of bats!”
DEREK: That’s ridiculous. he obviously was thinking of a name and a bat flew through his window
STEVE: That’s way dumber than Mark’s story!
DEREK: Yeah? Well Mark, where’d you even get that info?
MARK: Penguin guy
EVERYONE GROANS
DEREK: Mark what have we told you about the Penguin guys? They’re wackos! They work for a guy who thinks he’s a bird!
WILLIAM: C’mon guys, if you’re really that scared of him, let’s go to the Narrows get some good stuff, drive back to Steve’s and sniff it all up!
DEREK: No way, man. Ya see that? (Points out the window to the night sky, where the bat signal lights up.) that’s lit up at about 5:30 pm every night for the past five years. And it only turns off in the morning. We’ll get some snow then.
WILLIAM: But all the hookers will have gone by then!
MARK: Oooh, they actually do this new online thing where they do house calls. They have an app!
WILLIAM: Let’s have some adventure! Tell ya what. If one ah you gets beat down by him, you guys can beat me up. Deal?
MARK, STEVE and DEREK exchange looks, then look back at WILL
STEVE: Deal.
SCENE 2; THE NARROWS
WILLIAM: this is so great, look at all the heroin and coke around here!
STEVEN is looking around and checking buildings and trees
WILLIAM: Steve! Lighten up! He’s not gonna run inta you!
STEVE: Whadeva ya say, kid. It‘s your ass not mine. Well it could be mine too. It’s usually Derek
DEREK: Guys, he literally has a tracker inside me, that’s how he finds me all the time!
MARK: Hey, guys, don‘t do too much, we don‘t wanna be all jittery at work tomorrow.
DEREK: Or all slow! Depending on what we get.
THE GOONS buy some Cocaine and go into a dark alley, as they step in a puddle, the silhouette of THE BATMAN appears on one of the buildings in the reflection of the puddle. THE GOONS exit the alley but DEREK stays behind as he sees a coin on the ground. He picks it up
DEREK: Come to papa. No need to gamble today!
BATMAN drops down in front of DEREK
DEREK sees him and his back is against the wall. He looks pale and scared. The other GOONS are watching from behind a trash can.
BATMAN: Derek Ritchies. I thought I said I didn’t wanna see you here again.
DEREK: Relax man, I didn’t do nuthin!
BATMAN picks DEREK up by the edges of his jacket and slams DEREK against the wall
DEREK: (nervously) oof. Very aggressive, dude, hehe
BATMAN: Show me the coke
DEREK: Why man?! Wanna hit? (Chuckles nervously)
STEVEN (To William): Derek always gives out zingers when he‘s nervous.
BATMAN: Show it to me
DEREK takes out his bag of Cochin nervously but fumbles it and it drops into Batman’s face. Batman is covered in cocaine
DEREK: Oh. Crap. That. Was an accident, my man.
BATMAN growls and Judo flips DEREK to the ground where he’s beaten down to a pulp.
punches are heard and STEVE, MARK and WILL wince in sympathy for DEREK
BATMAN: Think before you buy next time, Derek.
He grapples up to the building and goes away.
The GOONS come out and see DEREK
STEVE: Oooh. We gotta get him to a hospital!
MARK: But first (turns to WILL), 10 seconds of baseball bat or 1 minute of fists
WILLIAM: (sighs) Baseball bat.
STEVE and MARK beat WILL with a baseball bat
CREDITS
2023.01.23 11:42 WhalingCityMan Who's your dream left-fielder for the last bona-fide Yankee dynasty?
Since I'm at home sick in bed, and also sick and tired of reading about the Bryan Reynolds trade that will never happen, I thought I'd share a little thought experiment that recently popped into my head.
All this recent talk about the need for a high-profile left-fielder reminded me of Chad "Clubhouse Cancer" Curtis. In addition to being by far the weakest bat (dare I say, the only weak bat) of the stacked 1998 Yankees lineup, he was (and still is) a rotten human being. This got me to wondering, how good could the best team in baseball history have been with upgrade to its one and only Achilles Heel? Who would you have rather seen patrolling left-field in pinstripes during our last great run of dominance from 1996 through 2001?
Here's a small list of what-ifs, along with the pros and cons of each:
1. Gerald Williams
Gerald Willians actually did earn a World Series Ring for his time with the 1996 Yankees. However, he was traded mid-season (along with Bob Wickman) for Graemme Lloyd, Ricky Bones, and Pat Listach. This really stung for a multitude of reasons. The Brewers concealed the fact that Lloyd had an injured elbow, Bones had an injured shoulder, and Pat Listach had a broken foot. Fortunately, Lloyd recovered in time to pitch effectively in the postseason as well as the next two years. Bones pitched all of four games before shutting down for the season, and Pat Listach never played a single game for the Yankees.of major league baseball ever again. *edit: apparently, Listach hit .182 as a part-time player for the 1997 Houston Astros before ending his career in the majors. Thanks, baseball reference!
Gerald Williams was plagued by injuries throughout the remainder of his career. His best season came in 1998, in which his slash line was .305/352/504. Ironically, he would play against the Yankees in the 1999 World Series. His defense was always spectacular, fans of a certain age will always remember him for saving Dwight Gooden's no-hitter against the Seattle Mariners. However, injuries caught up with him and he was relegated to part-time playing throughout his career. Strangely enough, he missed out on a chance to win a World Series with the Yankees again in 2001 along other former '94/95 Yanks Sterling Hitchcock and Randy Velarde.
Pros: Great Clubhouse chemistry, good baserunning speed, great defense.
Cons: low walk ratio, and a pull-swing that sent a lot of fly balls into dead man's alley. Inability to stay healthy.
2. Greg Vaughn
This one almost happened. After the Yankees' early exit from the 1997 postseason, the Boss wanted some major changes, one of which was to aquire Greg Vaughn to replace Cecil Fielder as the dominant right-handed long-ball threat. Bob Watson orchestrated a trade with the San Diego Padres for Greg Vaughn. However, Vaughn failed his physical and trade fell through. Watson instead traded Kenny Rogers for Scott Brosious, and the rest is history.
As fate would have it, Vaughn hit 51 home runs for the Padres in 1998, but he was no match for Yankee pitching. Vaughn hit an anemic .133 with 2 home runs and four rbi, while Brosious hit .417 with two home runs, 6 rbi, and earned the World Series MVP award.
Pros: a right handed power bat bat that would cause opposing managers to think twice before starting a lefty pitcher against a lineup dominated by lefty hitters.
Cons: subpar defense, too many strikeouts, completely ineffective in the postseason. And Brosious was better.
3. Rickey Henderson
The Bronx Burner. The all-time stolen base king. All-time leader in runs scored. When the tempestuous George Steinbrenner wanted Rickey off the team in 1989, Rickey said the only other team he wanted to play for was the Athletics. Luis Polonia replaced Rickey in left field, and overnight the Yankees descended into mediocrity.
Fast forward to the end of the 1995 season, and Rickey Henderson is a free agent. Why didn't the Yankees sign him? Instead, they signed Tim Raines, who, although good in the '90s, was never the player he was in '80s. Rickey, on the other hand, continued to excel as an everyday player. He stole an astonishing 66 bases in 1998, and returned to New York in 1999, albeit for the Mets. Back in the Big Apple, Rickey put up one of the best seasons of his career, batting .315/.423/.466. Even when he didn't hit for average, he was still a master of getting on base, and in 2001, he broke the Major League record for all-time walks as well as runs scored. Oh how magnificent it might have been to see him break those records in pinstripes!
Pros: the best of leadoff hitter of the modern era. The best base-stealer of all time. A two-time World Champion who could have earned at least four more rings had he returned to the Bronx.
Cons: People said he was difficult to get along with, but compared to Curtis . . . Either way, that's not an issue with the next guy on our list:
4. Hideki Matsui
In 1997, George signed the wrong Hideki. Irabu was awful, but Matsui had already won a Championship in Japan with the Yomiuri Giants. Irabu was a .500 pitcher in Japan who could not adapt to Major League hitting, and hus life ended in tragedy. Matsui on the other hand . . . Well, put it this way: why did we have to wait so long to get this guy? Fire in his belly, ice in his veins. A true Yankee to his core. He was ripped off by the writers who failed to give him the 2003 Rookie of the Award, but got the last laugh with his eye-popping 2009 World Series perfmance, in which he hit an astonishing .615 with 3 home runs and 8 rbi, for an absurdly high ops of 2.027.
Pros: Sign this guy in '95, fresh of his first Championship in Japan and so that Matringly can coach him on how to adjust to major league pitching. Godzilla posts Cooperstown-worthy numbers from the get-go, doesn't wreck his knees on astroturf, and spends his entire major league career in pinstripes.
Cons: none (obviously)
Rounding out this list of outright fantasy:
5. Michael Jordan
Obviously, Michael's skills were better suited to the basketball court than the baseball field, but Jordan's performance in the 1994 Arizona fall league showed how quickly he could adapt, and left many wondering what might have been if he had continued to hone in his skills as a baseball player. Some say he would have hit around .250 with 10-15 home runs, making him at best only slightly above-average when compared to other players of his era. Others say his exceptional hand-eye coordination, rigid training ethic and desire to be the absolute best would have made him a boma-fide MLB all-star.
Pros: It would have been very entertaining to watch. With is blazing speed, he would have been a virtual vacuum cleaner in the cavernous left-field, sucking away hits from the opposition and stealing bases at an insane rate.
Cons: He didn't want to play baseball anyway, so, moot point.
Anyway, that's that. What do you think? Anyone on your list who you think could have made the best team in baseball history even better? Could the Bronx-born B.J. Surhoff been a positive asset? Might we have eked out an extra championship or two with any of the aforementioned players?
What are your thoughts? ;-)
submitted by WhalingCityMan to NYYankees [link] [comments]
All this recent talk about the need for a high-profile left-fielder reminded me of Chad "Clubhouse Cancer" Curtis. In addition to being by far the weakest bat (dare I say, the only weak bat) of the stacked 1998 Yankees lineup, he was (and still is) a rotten human being. This got me to wondering, how good could the best team in baseball history have been with upgrade to its one and only Achilles Heel? Who would you have rather seen patrolling left-field in pinstripes during our last great run of dominance from 1996 through 2001?
Here's a small list of what-ifs, along with the pros and cons of each:
1. Gerald Williams
Gerald Willians actually did earn a World Series Ring for his time with the 1996 Yankees. However, he was traded mid-season (along with Bob Wickman) for Graemme Lloyd, Ricky Bones, and Pat Listach. This really stung for a multitude of reasons. The Brewers concealed the fact that Lloyd had an injured elbow, Bones had an injured shoulder, and Pat Listach had a broken foot. Fortunately, Lloyd recovered in time to pitch effectively in the postseason as well as the next two years. Bones pitched all of four games before shutting down for the season, and Pat Listach never played a single game for the Yankees.
Gerald Williams was plagued by injuries throughout the remainder of his career. His best season came in 1998, in which his slash line was .305/352/504. Ironically, he would play against the Yankees in the 1999 World Series. His defense was always spectacular, fans of a certain age will always remember him for saving Dwight Gooden's no-hitter against the Seattle Mariners. However, injuries caught up with him and he was relegated to part-time playing throughout his career. Strangely enough, he missed out on a chance to win a World Series with the Yankees again in 2001 along other former '94/95 Yanks Sterling Hitchcock and Randy Velarde.
Pros: Great Clubhouse chemistry, good baserunning speed, great defense.
Cons: low walk ratio, and a pull-swing that sent a lot of fly balls into dead man's alley. Inability to stay healthy.
2. Greg Vaughn
This one almost happened. After the Yankees' early exit from the 1997 postseason, the Boss wanted some major changes, one of which was to aquire Greg Vaughn to replace Cecil Fielder as the dominant right-handed long-ball threat. Bob Watson orchestrated a trade with the San Diego Padres for Greg Vaughn. However, Vaughn failed his physical and trade fell through. Watson instead traded Kenny Rogers for Scott Brosious, and the rest is history.
As fate would have it, Vaughn hit 51 home runs for the Padres in 1998, but he was no match for Yankee pitching. Vaughn hit an anemic .133 with 2 home runs and four rbi, while Brosious hit .417 with two home runs, 6 rbi, and earned the World Series MVP award.
Pros: a right handed power bat bat that would cause opposing managers to think twice before starting a lefty pitcher against a lineup dominated by lefty hitters.
Cons: subpar defense, too many strikeouts, completely ineffective in the postseason. And Brosious was better.
3. Rickey Henderson
The Bronx Burner. The all-time stolen base king. All-time leader in runs scored. When the tempestuous George Steinbrenner wanted Rickey off the team in 1989, Rickey said the only other team he wanted to play for was the Athletics. Luis Polonia replaced Rickey in left field, and overnight the Yankees descended into mediocrity.
Fast forward to the end of the 1995 season, and Rickey Henderson is a free agent. Why didn't the Yankees sign him? Instead, they signed Tim Raines, who, although good in the '90s, was never the player he was in '80s. Rickey, on the other hand, continued to excel as an everyday player. He stole an astonishing 66 bases in 1998, and returned to New York in 1999, albeit for the Mets. Back in the Big Apple, Rickey put up one of the best seasons of his career, batting .315/.423/.466. Even when he didn't hit for average, he was still a master of getting on base, and in 2001, he broke the Major League record for all-time walks as well as runs scored. Oh how magnificent it might have been to see him break those records in pinstripes!
Pros: the best of leadoff hitter of the modern era. The best base-stealer of all time. A two-time World Champion who could have earned at least four more rings had he returned to the Bronx.
Cons: People said he was difficult to get along with, but compared to Curtis . . . Either way, that's not an issue with the next guy on our list:
4. Hideki Matsui
In 1997, George signed the wrong Hideki. Irabu was awful, but Matsui had already won a Championship in Japan with the Yomiuri Giants. Irabu was a .500 pitcher in Japan who could not adapt to Major League hitting, and hus life ended in tragedy. Matsui on the other hand . . . Well, put it this way: why did we have to wait so long to get this guy? Fire in his belly, ice in his veins. A true Yankee to his core. He was ripped off by the writers who failed to give him the 2003 Rookie of the Award, but got the last laugh with his eye-popping 2009 World Series perfmance, in which he hit an astonishing .615 with 3 home runs and 8 rbi, for an absurdly high ops of 2.027.
Pros: Sign this guy in '95, fresh of his first Championship in Japan and so that Matringly can coach him on how to adjust to major league pitching. Godzilla posts Cooperstown-worthy numbers from the get-go, doesn't wreck his knees on astroturf, and spends his entire major league career in pinstripes.
Cons: none (obviously)
Rounding out this list of outright fantasy:
5. Michael Jordan
Obviously, Michael's skills were better suited to the basketball court than the baseball field, but Jordan's performance in the 1994 Arizona fall league showed how quickly he could adapt, and left many wondering what might have been if he had continued to hone in his skills as a baseball player. Some say he would have hit around .250 with 10-15 home runs, making him at best only slightly above-average when compared to other players of his era. Others say his exceptional hand-eye coordination, rigid training ethic and desire to be the absolute best would have made him a boma-fide MLB all-star.
Pros: It would have been very entertaining to watch. With is blazing speed, he would have been a virtual vacuum cleaner in the cavernous left-field, sucking away hits from the opposition and stealing bases at an insane rate.
Cons: He didn't want to play baseball anyway, so, moot point.
Anyway, that's that. What do you think? Anyone on your list who you think could have made the best team in baseball history even better? Could the Bronx-born B.J. Surhoff been a positive asset? Might we have eked out an extra championship or two with any of the aforementioned players?
What are your thoughts? ;-)
2023.01.20 18:59 endersgame69 Adopted By Humans V C19
[Content Redacted]
I was freshly showered and clean and my fur all combed down in the same direction, I didn’t know what costume I was supposed to be wearing, but it seemed like Lisa had something definitively in mind.
Now I have to explain something about ‘shopping’ now. Human shopping is very dimorphic. On the one hand, everything is about convenience. On the other hand, everything is about being ‘social’. They promote social behavior as much as possible, to the point where people who are determined to be hostile at all costs, can be punished not with fines or jail time, but simply by removal of social access to the online community.
For example, if a person were to simply go on to a website of women’s photos and simply post random strings of insults in an attempt to hurt their feelings, throw out large numbers of racial slurs, or otherwise engage in harassing or abusive behavior… they would find themselves unable to gain access to the wider network. Eventually they would be able to browse and shop, but be unable to communicate. Some communities of hostile people survive by self isolating among one another, as [Wolfbeard] and his ilk did, so that they could say terrible things to each other, but nobody would report it, therefore it could fester.
Some of those who were eventually caught as a result of the harassment of Fauve, were permanently barred from any form of electronic communication. The end result of policies like these being that…
The social network was a fairly decent place for most people now.
Which brings me to how ‘this’ kind of shopping took place. I was standing on a small circle of the sort used for video games, and Lisa was scrolling through various costume options, each time she selected one, a holographic display of her choice appeared around my body.
“What do you think?” She asked and tappend her finger against the dimple on her cheek. She wasn’t asking me, but rather the ‘fashion community’.
Recall what I said about things being social? Well there are people who exist on the wider network who revel in sharing beliefs and opinions on everything from meat dishes to fashion.
On popular sites like this one, there were always people willing to offer opinions on dress with an eye toward ensuring a person had the finest selection. Lisa, for her part in this, was actively rating suggestions according to helpfulness… and she had a gallery of literally thousands of people looking at me.
I was surprised until she said, “How often does one get to critique a costume for an alien? One quick post and you went viral. Especially since I told them this is for your birthday party.”
I could see the holographic light display of the chat section scrolling in front of me as people around the world began to wish me a happy birthday, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t touched. “Thank you.” I said, then glanced at Lisa, “They can hear me, right? As long as I’m standing on this thing?”
“Yeah, they can.” She reassured me and began cycling through more costumes. A pointy hat, gray robe, staff, and a pipe. A suit of armor with an ax. A bow and quiver of arrows. A black hood that came down halfway across my snout.
The costume designs went on. And I had little idea of just what I was going to be dressed as. Truthfully, I didn’t see the point. We’d ‘cosplayed’ for the late Mr. Barnum, but I assumed that was his prankish sense of humor.
But why now? Was this more of the human sense of play at work? Was there a ritual significance?
“By the way, can they see you right now?” I asked. We were still in her home, so naturally she was going ‘natural’ still, and her face turned a deep shade of red.
“Oh my goodness! Oh my! I completely forgot!” She started to say, then laughed, “Of course not, silly. Now hold still, every time you move, the system has to recalibrate your position.”
“What am I being dressed as, anyway?” I asked as I watched my image reflected back at me in costume after costume.
“That’s what I’m trying to work out.” She insisted, “I know there’s a right choice in here somewhere, something that will fit the theme…”
“What even is the theme?” I asked. “Can I at least know that much?”
“No.” She said, humans loved to weaponise their smiles, the way they tease is almost too charming to argue with. Almost. “That would ruin the surprise, besides, if you don’t recognize it, explaining would be useless. You’ll just have to watch the series.”
“This is making me suspicious… you promise me it’s nothing teetotaler at least, right?” I asked, and Lisa’s face turned very serious. Too serious. I think I was being mocked again.
“Absolutely. Don’t even suggest something so abhorrent. If we did anything like that, then we’d do it in the style of a roaring twenties speakeasy and I’d dress as a flapper girl, William and Rebecca would dress as Al Capone and his wife, Fauve would probably dress as their bodyguard complete with a tommy gun and a fake cigar… and the ‘raid’ would be opening up all the barrels of booze to ‘drink the evidence’. Hmm… you know…” I could see her imagination getting away from her as she thought it over. “That might actually be a lot of fun. Those jazz age hijinks were wild. Maybe it’s time they made a comeback.”
The audience of viewers critiquing her costume choices was already abuzz, echoing her thoughts.
I could see in the chat there were some people already talking about it. “This is just going to be a real quick change but… what do you all think?” She asked.
Then I was standing in a black pinstripe suit with a white collared shirt, red tie with a long coat, a cap, some black gloves, and there was a big gun in my left hand. “Wow. I look good.” I said, and I really, really did. A moment later the image of a cigar formed in my jaw as if I were biting down on it.
“Damn. Dlamisans look good as twentieth century mobsters…” Lisa said, and it was clear from the crowd responses…
“Amazing.”
“Beautiful.”
“Marvelous.”
“Fashiontastic!”
And more, that it was a hit.
“Hold still, let me just get a few shots…” Lisa said, and I could hear the electronic shutter click several times as she walked around me to get a full view.
“You’ve got to send this off to the other host families of dlamisan athletes, I’m sure they’ve got birthdays coming up too, maybe some roaring twenties theme parties would be up their alley, yeah?” Lisa suggested.
“Oh I will. This looks fantastic. How could I not send it out?” I asked rhetorically.
“Right, enough of that, we’ll try one more…” She then flipped to another, and there was no response for a moment. “We need some accessories…” She said, and fur boots were added, then a thick beard of dark hair, and some dirt dye in my fur…
“Yes! This is it!” She clapped her hands and bounced on her heels. “You’re going as the skin changer, you’re going as Beorn.”
“What’s a skin changer and who is Beorn?” I asked, stringing the two questions together as things simply made no sense to me at this point. I may have sounded a little sharp, but forgive me, I was missing the mobster costume already.
“I’ll explain, or rather, no, I’ll let the next twelve hours explain as we watch the expanded director’s cut heritage edition they put out for the last Tolkien’s day.” Lisa promised and after voting helpful on a number of supporting comments, she killed the link and placed the overnight order for the costume.
There was no need to take measurements as the hologram itself provided them to the seller, but I was more concerned with the thing she’d just said.
“How exactly is this… twelve hours?” I asked and looked with wary eyes at the viewing monitor on the wall.
“Because this edition has almost no cut content, like… everything is there if it could be included. It was a fan funded project supported by the author’s estate, so it’s not just a for profit film, it’s an experience to lose yourself in. Are you ready?” She asked as she flopped down on the couch.
“Would it matter if I’m not?” I asked while my tail wagged behind me.
“Only in that I’d make sure you got ready. Now come, sit, and trust me, you’re going to love this.” She promised.
“I’ve heard that before.” I said as I approached her.
“And I was right, too.” She said as she pressed play.
“That you were.” I acknowledged as I sat beside her and the film music began.
AN: Here we are again, this puts me at about 3000 words for the day and I'm not even halfway done. The novel is roughly halfway through, next chapter will have a short time skip as we get to the party day and a return to the rest of the family. As you can see, I'm a huge Lord of the Rings fan, so naturally I picked Tolkien's birthday as Bailey's birthday, and Tolkien's day is a global celebration... one of the best parts of writing is the endless opportunity to be just a bit whimsical, silly, and self indulgent. I hope you all don't mind. :)
Now that I'm jobless, in between getting myself ready to search for more employment, I'm writing more often, so you can expect a fuckton of new material.
If you happen to be enjoying all this though, and you'd like me to be able to produce ever more of it, at this kind of pace, until I die. You can support my efforts for $1.00 per month on my Patreon. If just 1000 fans supported it, I could write full time.
OH, and about volume 4: The cover will be done by the 25th, which means the novel will be out by the 27th of this month.
submitted by endersgame69 to TheWorldMaker [link] [comments]
I was freshly showered and clean and my fur all combed down in the same direction, I didn’t know what costume I was supposed to be wearing, but it seemed like Lisa had something definitively in mind.
Now I have to explain something about ‘shopping’ now. Human shopping is very dimorphic. On the one hand, everything is about convenience. On the other hand, everything is about being ‘social’. They promote social behavior as much as possible, to the point where people who are determined to be hostile at all costs, can be punished not with fines or jail time, but simply by removal of social access to the online community.
For example, if a person were to simply go on to a website of women’s photos and simply post random strings of insults in an attempt to hurt their feelings, throw out large numbers of racial slurs, or otherwise engage in harassing or abusive behavior… they would find themselves unable to gain access to the wider network. Eventually they would be able to browse and shop, but be unable to communicate. Some communities of hostile people survive by self isolating among one another, as [Wolfbeard] and his ilk did, so that they could say terrible things to each other, but nobody would report it, therefore it could fester.
Some of those who were eventually caught as a result of the harassment of Fauve, were permanently barred from any form of electronic communication. The end result of policies like these being that…
The social network was a fairly decent place for most people now.
Which brings me to how ‘this’ kind of shopping took place. I was standing on a small circle of the sort used for video games, and Lisa was scrolling through various costume options, each time she selected one, a holographic display of her choice appeared around my body.
“What do you think?” She asked and tappend her finger against the dimple on her cheek. She wasn’t asking me, but rather the ‘fashion community’.
Recall what I said about things being social? Well there are people who exist on the wider network who revel in sharing beliefs and opinions on everything from meat dishes to fashion.
On popular sites like this one, there were always people willing to offer opinions on dress with an eye toward ensuring a person had the finest selection. Lisa, for her part in this, was actively rating suggestions according to helpfulness… and she had a gallery of literally thousands of people looking at me.
I was surprised until she said, “How often does one get to critique a costume for an alien? One quick post and you went viral. Especially since I told them this is for your birthday party.”
I could see the holographic light display of the chat section scrolling in front of me as people around the world began to wish me a happy birthday, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t touched. “Thank you.” I said, then glanced at Lisa, “They can hear me, right? As long as I’m standing on this thing?”
“Yeah, they can.” She reassured me and began cycling through more costumes. A pointy hat, gray robe, staff, and a pipe. A suit of armor with an ax. A bow and quiver of arrows. A black hood that came down halfway across my snout.
The costume designs went on. And I had little idea of just what I was going to be dressed as. Truthfully, I didn’t see the point. We’d ‘cosplayed’ for the late Mr. Barnum, but I assumed that was his prankish sense of humor.
But why now? Was this more of the human sense of play at work? Was there a ritual significance?
“By the way, can they see you right now?” I asked. We were still in her home, so naturally she was going ‘natural’ still, and her face turned a deep shade of red.
“Oh my goodness! Oh my! I completely forgot!” She started to say, then laughed, “Of course not, silly. Now hold still, every time you move, the system has to recalibrate your position.”
“What am I being dressed as, anyway?” I asked as I watched my image reflected back at me in costume after costume.
“That’s what I’m trying to work out.” She insisted, “I know there’s a right choice in here somewhere, something that will fit the theme…”
“What even is the theme?” I asked. “Can I at least know that much?”
“No.” She said, humans loved to weaponise their smiles, the way they tease is almost too charming to argue with. Almost. “That would ruin the surprise, besides, if you don’t recognize it, explaining would be useless. You’ll just have to watch the series.”
“This is making me suspicious… you promise me it’s nothing teetotaler at least, right?” I asked, and Lisa’s face turned very serious. Too serious. I think I was being mocked again.
“Absolutely. Don’t even suggest something so abhorrent. If we did anything like that, then we’d do it in the style of a roaring twenties speakeasy and I’d dress as a flapper girl, William and Rebecca would dress as Al Capone and his wife, Fauve would probably dress as their bodyguard complete with a tommy gun and a fake cigar… and the ‘raid’ would be opening up all the barrels of booze to ‘drink the evidence’. Hmm… you know…” I could see her imagination getting away from her as she thought it over. “That might actually be a lot of fun. Those jazz age hijinks were wild. Maybe it’s time they made a comeback.”
The audience of viewers critiquing her costume choices was already abuzz, echoing her thoughts.
I could see in the chat there were some people already talking about it. “This is just going to be a real quick change but… what do you all think?” She asked.
Then I was standing in a black pinstripe suit with a white collared shirt, red tie with a long coat, a cap, some black gloves, and there was a big gun in my left hand. “Wow. I look good.” I said, and I really, really did. A moment later the image of a cigar formed in my jaw as if I were biting down on it.
“Damn. Dlamisans look good as twentieth century mobsters…” Lisa said, and it was clear from the crowd responses…
“Amazing.”
“Beautiful.”
“Marvelous.”
“Fashiontastic!”
And more, that it was a hit.
“Hold still, let me just get a few shots…” Lisa said, and I could hear the electronic shutter click several times as she walked around me to get a full view.
“You’ve got to send this off to the other host families of dlamisan athletes, I’m sure they’ve got birthdays coming up too, maybe some roaring twenties theme parties would be up their alley, yeah?” Lisa suggested.
“Oh I will. This looks fantastic. How could I not send it out?” I asked rhetorically.
“Right, enough of that, we’ll try one more…” She then flipped to another, and there was no response for a moment. “We need some accessories…” She said, and fur boots were added, then a thick beard of dark hair, and some dirt dye in my fur…
“Yes! This is it!” She clapped her hands and bounced on her heels. “You’re going as the skin changer, you’re going as Beorn.”
“What’s a skin changer and who is Beorn?” I asked, stringing the two questions together as things simply made no sense to me at this point. I may have sounded a little sharp, but forgive me, I was missing the mobster costume already.
“I’ll explain, or rather, no, I’ll let the next twelve hours explain as we watch the expanded director’s cut heritage edition they put out for the last Tolkien’s day.” Lisa promised and after voting helpful on a number of supporting comments, she killed the link and placed the overnight order for the costume.
There was no need to take measurements as the hologram itself provided them to the seller, but I was more concerned with the thing she’d just said.
“How exactly is this… twelve hours?” I asked and looked with wary eyes at the viewing monitor on the wall.
“Because this edition has almost no cut content, like… everything is there if it could be included. It was a fan funded project supported by the author’s estate, so it’s not just a for profit film, it’s an experience to lose yourself in. Are you ready?” She asked as she flopped down on the couch.
“Would it matter if I’m not?” I asked while my tail wagged behind me.
“Only in that I’d make sure you got ready. Now come, sit, and trust me, you’re going to love this.” She promised.
“I’ve heard that before.” I said as I approached her.
“And I was right, too.” She said as she pressed play.
“That you were.” I acknowledged as I sat beside her and the film music began.
AN: Here we are again, this puts me at about 3000 words for the day and I'm not even halfway done. The novel is roughly halfway through, next chapter will have a short time skip as we get to the party day and a return to the rest of the family. As you can see, I'm a huge Lord of the Rings fan, so naturally I picked Tolkien's birthday as Bailey's birthday, and Tolkien's day is a global celebration... one of the best parts of writing is the endless opportunity to be just a bit whimsical, silly, and self indulgent. I hope you all don't mind. :)
Now that I'm jobless, in between getting myself ready to search for more employment, I'm writing more often, so you can expect a fuckton of new material.
If you happen to be enjoying all this though, and you'd like me to be able to produce ever more of it, at this kind of pace, until I die. You can support my efforts for $1.00 per month on my Patreon. If just 1000 fans supported it, I could write full time.
OH, and about volume 4: The cover will be done by the 25th, which means the novel will be out by the 27th of this month.
2022.12.23 16:38 Walnuts_Of_Time Ethan's Story
Quick Disclaimer: This contains some dark stuff so be prepared.
In the middle of a dark room sits a young boy. His hair is almost black, with a blue undertone. His hair is not styled but matted with a variety of horrid substances, he wears a decrepit blue tunic and black slacks that are far too small for him. He wears no shoes for the sizes we’re too small to keep wearing. His eyes are a light blue, and no light seems to reflect in his irises. He sits in the middle of the dark room staring at a small window with a row of iron bars making the light shine in a pinstripe pattern. He breathes a raspy breath, his skin a sickly color, his cheeks sullen, and his body withering.
He is dying. Even his abnormally tough body can not withstand half a year with no food or water. The floor in the room is clean, with not a pebble or speck of dust resting on the floor. Almost like a plate that’s been licked clean. Ethan tries to remember life before he turned six, the lavish banquets, though filled with poison, there were feasts. Ethan slowly limped towards the wall that housed the window, not being able to move his arms he slams his head against the wall.
He doesn’t know why he does it, he doesn’t know if it’s out of desperation or of a want to end it all. Ethan opens his mouth, he would scream if his throat wasn’t so dry. In pure desperation, Ethan bites that wall. He chewed hard enough to feel the blood in his mouth, but his jaw stood strong making a bite-sized indent in the wall. It was food. The rocks clack against his teeth as he chews. And with a dry gulp, the rocks go down his throat. He starts to eat more. He’s so hungry, a hunger that could never be satisfied. Soon the wall began to crumble, Ethan had eaten through a weight-bearing stone as he ate through the wall. After the dust settled Ethan clambered his way over the pile of rubble. His eyes began to shine, as the light of the sun hits his skin for the first time in six years.
The dungeon was housed on a cliff, overlooking the city of Yellose. Below Ethan could see people scrambling like ants, some moving carts others talking to one another. Some crowded around one that began to juggle, even from this far away he could make out the juggler's details. An elf, with sun-bleached skin, and hay-colored hair, as he juggled the ball erupt into a bright blue fire and begin to spiral in mid-air making images with the trail of light. It started with a circle then a star, and after that, it was an hourglass until finally the ball erupted into a tiny firework and the man took a bow. Ethan made his way to the edge of the cliff and jumped down, landing in a bush. He scrambled out of it and began to run to the city with all the energy he had left. He finally made it to a street lined with stalls, the tops made of striped fabrics. He looked around the place, turning around and around to the point where he probably looked like a top. He hasn’t spoken to humans for years, what do they like? He marches with a hop in his step toward a burly man who was carrying a log.
“Hello!” Ethan’s voice was still raspy, almost releasing a cloud of dust when he spoke.
The man looks Ethan up and down and scoffs. He walks away muttering “Damn, devil child.” Ethan was very confused, but he didn’t let that stop him. He walked towards a dozen people and got the same telltale scoff, mutter, and side-eye. Though one group did act differently, they took Ethan into a back alley and punched him in his gut. As he toppled over they began to stomp on him. Needless to say, he was very confused. The group left after Ethan coughed up a rock, saying a new phrase “Freak.” He hobbled towards the wall of the alley and smelled something edible. Next to him sat a garbage can, he dove head first into it finding cans, half-eaten food, and a bottle filled with a sour substance, all of it edible. He ate the trash like it was a five-star course. Next to the trash can sat a door, as Ethan was in the middle of his feast the door opened very softly. So soft he almost didn’t hear it.
A boy, around Ethan’s age, opens the door, his hair a soft white. The boy holds a new trash bag. Ethan clamors out of the trash to see what else he could feast on. This caused the white-haired boy to jump, fall over and land on his back.
“Whoops, sorry!” Ethan quickly apologized and helped the boy up. The boy’s white hair curled around his head making it look a bit like a cloud. His skin was a fair color and his face was dappled with freckles. He fiddled with a silver ring on his middle finger as he spoke “It’s all good…” He spoke softly, it would surely be impossible to hear the boy in a crowd.
“I’m Ethan!” Ethan said with a big grin.
“Um, I’m Baine.” The boy responded, Ethan grabbed the boy’s hand and began to shake it. But Ethan was a bit too strong and Baine’s whole body shook along with him. Ethan noticed how strange Baine’s clothes were, he wore a white coat with two coattails peeking out from behind him, and his undershirt was also white but went up to the top of his neck forming a sort of dress-shirt turtle neck. His pants were a similar white but around his neck was a striking black choker with a blue circle in the middle of it. Baine’s eyes were a bright almost neon green, but it was hard to tell because his hair covered most of his face. Baine took one look over at Ethan and offered him to come inside. Ethan readily accepted, the inside of the house was huge, and a pedestal sat at the front of two rows of benches. Baine explained that this is a temple, a temple to Shen, the true god. Ethan looks at Baine and then asks a question.
“Why don’t you hate me?” Baine looks at Ethan, at his hair especially.
“Um, why would I hate someone I barely know?”
The words hit Ethan like that punch to the gut earlier. He was starting to get used to the looks others gave him. Used to the way he was treated by his parents, used to being looked at like some sort of…animal, like a rabid animal rather than a human.
Ethan spends a year with Baine, hiding from the other clergymen, of which Baine was one, or one in training anyways. Ethan hid inside the church, he technically wasn’t allowed in there, so he had to hide very well. He spent that year talking to Baine, Baine sneaked him food and water, and soon he became Ethan’s best friend. Ethan turned thirteen on January 1st, Baine had taken him out to eat, there was a cake and everything. That was one of Ethan’s best days, but the good days ended, and like a fog Tragedy soon sank in. The day after he turned thirteen, Ethan decided to go to the plaza to check out various performers. He didn’t find it odd at the time how he hadn’t seen Baine all day. He went to the plaza and found a particularly dense crowd huddled around one area. So Ethan could see over them he shimmed his way up a lamp post, when he reached the top he saw various clergymen next to a log surrounded by hay. Confused, Ethan sat down on top of the post, the lantern barely big enough to fit his body. Half an hour passed and Ethan saw Baine, he was filled with excitement for a bit, maybe they were going to put on a show! Then he noticed that Baine was tied up. Maybe it’s an escape show to show how to get out of ropes?
The men pushed Baine next to the log and began tying him against it. Ethan was now getting a bit suspicious, then one of the clergymen spoke. “For the crime of protecting a devil! Baine Novak is to be burned at the stake!” The voice reverberated through his mind, then a sack of lead that he didn’t eat seemed to form in his stomach.
What? It was all he could think, it didn’t seem real. That was until with a quick motion a ball of fire shot out of a clergyman’s hand and the log began to burn. Baine let out a high-pitched wail, and Ethan stood still with both parts fear and shock. His vision turned red, and his body seemed to move without his knowledge. He clawed through the crowd jumping on their heads each time ripping off a scalp or a head. His lips parted showing his teeth and gums, like a rabid animal. He jumped across the crowd, not hearing the screams from them.
Two men stood in front of him, one wore armor and the other was a clergyman. Ethan pounced towards them taking the armored one’s spear to his shoulder, but Ethan pushed forward soon half the spear was through his shoulder. Ethan reached the end and came face to face with the man, and in one swift motion, he bit into his neck and began to eat his throat. Soon the man collapsed after a few seconds of being mauled. Ethan turned his attention toward the clergyman, as he shot a ball of fire at him. It hit Ethan in the chest and winded him, but he moved forwards, and with a piercing scream and a quick jab the man's face was dented inwards.
Ethan blacked out after that, flashes of blood and gore shot through his eyes in a red haze. Soon he was at what remained of Baine, now burnt to an unrecognizable state. Ethan began to cry and looked around him, dozens of bodies lining the floor, each missing limbs or being contorted in some way. He felt sick, and tears stream down his face turning red with the blood covering him. He hobbled away from the carnage, towards an alley. He felt empty like someone scooped out everything that made him, him, and left only the present. Ethan soon passed out in the alley, he dreams of better days but knows that it’s now lost forever.
He awakens to find himself no longer in the alley, instead, he seems to be in a room. The room lies bare with only a bed and a table in the middle. Soon an elf man, with sun-bleached skin and hay-colored hair walks into the room. He has an annoyed expression, but that dissipates when he looks at Ethan.
“Ah, Ethan Yucca, finally awake I see!” He said in a smooth and upbeat voice. He walked toward him and Ethan made no effort to stop him. The man looks at Ethan and an uncomfortable expression appears on his face. He coughs in his hand and begins to speak.
“I found you in an alley, and well I brought you in here.” He waited for a reaction but he got none.
“Now you might be wondering ‘How does this handsome elf know my name!’” he seemed to wait for a laugh of some kind…still nothing.
“Well I’ve got some good news and bad news, the bad news is that your family has a bounty on your head to capture you.” He tugged at his collar. Ethan wondered why his parents that never wanted him, wanted him now. Maybe they thought they’d need some spare organs in the future…who knows?
“Good news is that I’m a nice guy and feel a bit guilty about just handing you to them, especially with the information I have now… Which is the whole dungeon thing, in case you were curious.” Ethan was not curious, his expression remained blank. The man now seemed to get more uncomfortable but begins speaking nonetheless.
“So, the plan is that I’ll turn you in, but every night I help you escape, and when the day begins to break, you go back.” He started walking towards a closet and the sound of clothes hangers clanging together.
“Now as much as I would love to just ship you off to some foreign country, things aren’t that simple. For starters, your father, Duke Windsor Yucca, has his hands everywhere. Even if you were to travel from heaven to hell, he’d find you.” His face turned mildly annoyed as he couldn’t seem to find what he was looking for. Ethan sat still, his thoughts blanking, Ethan began to mutter.
“Where’s Baine.”
The elf looks at Ethan, and a strained expression flashes across his face. With a quick cough into his hand, he says.
“I think you already know…”
“How can I get him back?” Ethan replied. The weight of the past day seemed to start to sink in, and Ethan’s face transformed from a listless expression into one of sheer desperation. The man looks at the floor and quietly murmurs ‘Aha’. Off the floor he picked up a red coat, the seemingly new coat was a vibrant red. The coat had golden clips attached to the other side to close it. He began to walk toward Ethan all while not breaking eye contact.
“Unfortunately, there is no way to bring back your friend Ethan.” The man’s face showed sympathy, and he continued his gentle march toward Ethan.
“Life is very precious, something that most people take for granted, as much as I want to say that we could make a deal with the twins of death to bring your friend back, it would be nothing but false hope.”
The man drew closer. Ethan paid him no mind, rather he was thinking, thinking of Baine, of the good. It hurt him to look back on it, it hurt so much he felt like he did before he broke out of the dungeon. His throat was dry, his body weak, the wall looking like two means of release. But now, he doesn’t care if it broke down, he no longer cared about his long-sought-after freedom. The wall now held only one meaning. The man soon reached Ethan and in one movement, the red coat was soon wrapped around Ethan.
“But the one thing that I can tell you with most certainty, is that even though your friend may be gone. He still lives.” The man then points to Ethan’s heart and head.
“He lives on in your memories and feelings towards him, now tell me what would your friend want you to do right now.”
Those words resonated through Ethan’s thoughts, reverberating through his skull. The wall’s last meaning seemed to shatter, and with it, the wall did as well, behind it a beautiful scene of the sun shone brightly. Ethan cleared his dry throat and spoke.
“I…I think he would want me to live a happy life.”
The man nodded solemnly and rustled his hair. “Come on, let’s get going.” Ethan put on the coat, one sleeve at a time. It was far too big for him, but he had a feeling he would grow into it.
Ethan’s days passed by, and time moved forward. Soon he fell into a comfortable schedule, waiting for night, breaking out, hanging out with the man, whose name was Quinn, and going back into the dungeon before daybreak. One day Ethan, who was now eighteen, did the schedule as usual, but as he broke out of the dungeon a guard spotted him.
Ethan ran from him, but as he ran towards the city, something made him trip and a bright flash of light blinded him when it dissipated, he found himself in a new land. Surprisingly Ethan wasn’t afraid, no rather he was excited. Excited about the people he’ll meet, the fun he’ll have and the memories he’ll make. And if the time comes when he must leave, to his old life or a new one, he hoped that someone will remember him, the way he remembered Baine.
submitted by Walnuts_Of_Time to theworldofchertia [link] [comments]
In the middle of a dark room sits a young boy. His hair is almost black, with a blue undertone. His hair is not styled but matted with a variety of horrid substances, he wears a decrepit blue tunic and black slacks that are far too small for him. He wears no shoes for the sizes we’re too small to keep wearing. His eyes are a light blue, and no light seems to reflect in his irises. He sits in the middle of the dark room staring at a small window with a row of iron bars making the light shine in a pinstripe pattern. He breathes a raspy breath, his skin a sickly color, his cheeks sullen, and his body withering.
He is dying. Even his abnormally tough body can not withstand half a year with no food or water. The floor in the room is clean, with not a pebble or speck of dust resting on the floor. Almost like a plate that’s been licked clean. Ethan tries to remember life before he turned six, the lavish banquets, though filled with poison, there were feasts. Ethan slowly limped towards the wall that housed the window, not being able to move his arms he slams his head against the wall.
He doesn’t know why he does it, he doesn’t know if it’s out of desperation or of a want to end it all. Ethan opens his mouth, he would scream if his throat wasn’t so dry. In pure desperation, Ethan bites that wall. He chewed hard enough to feel the blood in his mouth, but his jaw stood strong making a bite-sized indent in the wall. It was food. The rocks clack against his teeth as he chews. And with a dry gulp, the rocks go down his throat. He starts to eat more. He’s so hungry, a hunger that could never be satisfied. Soon the wall began to crumble, Ethan had eaten through a weight-bearing stone as he ate through the wall. After the dust settled Ethan clambered his way over the pile of rubble. His eyes began to shine, as the light of the sun hits his skin for the first time in six years.
The dungeon was housed on a cliff, overlooking the city of Yellose. Below Ethan could see people scrambling like ants, some moving carts others talking to one another. Some crowded around one that began to juggle, even from this far away he could make out the juggler's details. An elf, with sun-bleached skin, and hay-colored hair, as he juggled the ball erupt into a bright blue fire and begin to spiral in mid-air making images with the trail of light. It started with a circle then a star, and after that, it was an hourglass until finally the ball erupted into a tiny firework and the man took a bow. Ethan made his way to the edge of the cliff and jumped down, landing in a bush. He scrambled out of it and began to run to the city with all the energy he had left. He finally made it to a street lined with stalls, the tops made of striped fabrics. He looked around the place, turning around and around to the point where he probably looked like a top. He hasn’t spoken to humans for years, what do they like? He marches with a hop in his step toward a burly man who was carrying a log.
“Hello!” Ethan’s voice was still raspy, almost releasing a cloud of dust when he spoke.
The man looks Ethan up and down and scoffs. He walks away muttering “Damn, devil child.” Ethan was very confused, but he didn’t let that stop him. He walked towards a dozen people and got the same telltale scoff, mutter, and side-eye. Though one group did act differently, they took Ethan into a back alley and punched him in his gut. As he toppled over they began to stomp on him. Needless to say, he was very confused. The group left after Ethan coughed up a rock, saying a new phrase “Freak.” He hobbled towards the wall of the alley and smelled something edible. Next to him sat a garbage can, he dove head first into it finding cans, half-eaten food, and a bottle filled with a sour substance, all of it edible. He ate the trash like it was a five-star course. Next to the trash can sat a door, as Ethan was in the middle of his feast the door opened very softly. So soft he almost didn’t hear it.
A boy, around Ethan’s age, opens the door, his hair a soft white. The boy holds a new trash bag. Ethan clamors out of the trash to see what else he could feast on. This caused the white-haired boy to jump, fall over and land on his back.
“Whoops, sorry!” Ethan quickly apologized and helped the boy up. The boy’s white hair curled around his head making it look a bit like a cloud. His skin was a fair color and his face was dappled with freckles. He fiddled with a silver ring on his middle finger as he spoke “It’s all good…” He spoke softly, it would surely be impossible to hear the boy in a crowd.
“I’m Ethan!” Ethan said with a big grin.
“Um, I’m Baine.” The boy responded, Ethan grabbed the boy’s hand and began to shake it. But Ethan was a bit too strong and Baine’s whole body shook along with him. Ethan noticed how strange Baine’s clothes were, he wore a white coat with two coattails peeking out from behind him, and his undershirt was also white but went up to the top of his neck forming a sort of dress-shirt turtle neck. His pants were a similar white but around his neck was a striking black choker with a blue circle in the middle of it. Baine’s eyes were a bright almost neon green, but it was hard to tell because his hair covered most of his face. Baine took one look over at Ethan and offered him to come inside. Ethan readily accepted, the inside of the house was huge, and a pedestal sat at the front of two rows of benches. Baine explained that this is a temple, a temple to Shen, the true god. Ethan looks at Baine and then asks a question.
“Why don’t you hate me?” Baine looks at Ethan, at his hair especially.
“Um, why would I hate someone I barely know?”
The words hit Ethan like that punch to the gut earlier. He was starting to get used to the looks others gave him. Used to the way he was treated by his parents, used to being looked at like some sort of…animal, like a rabid animal rather than a human.
Ethan spends a year with Baine, hiding from the other clergymen, of which Baine was one, or one in training anyways. Ethan hid inside the church, he technically wasn’t allowed in there, so he had to hide very well. He spent that year talking to Baine, Baine sneaked him food and water, and soon he became Ethan’s best friend. Ethan turned thirteen on January 1st, Baine had taken him out to eat, there was a cake and everything. That was one of Ethan’s best days, but the good days ended, and like a fog Tragedy soon sank in. The day after he turned thirteen, Ethan decided to go to the plaza to check out various performers. He didn’t find it odd at the time how he hadn’t seen Baine all day. He went to the plaza and found a particularly dense crowd huddled around one area. So Ethan could see over them he shimmed his way up a lamp post, when he reached the top he saw various clergymen next to a log surrounded by hay. Confused, Ethan sat down on top of the post, the lantern barely big enough to fit his body. Half an hour passed and Ethan saw Baine, he was filled with excitement for a bit, maybe they were going to put on a show! Then he noticed that Baine was tied up. Maybe it’s an escape show to show how to get out of ropes?
The men pushed Baine next to the log and began tying him against it. Ethan was now getting a bit suspicious, then one of the clergymen spoke. “For the crime of protecting a devil! Baine Novak is to be burned at the stake!” The voice reverberated through his mind, then a sack of lead that he didn’t eat seemed to form in his stomach.
What? It was all he could think, it didn’t seem real. That was until with a quick motion a ball of fire shot out of a clergyman’s hand and the log began to burn. Baine let out a high-pitched wail, and Ethan stood still with both parts fear and shock. His vision turned red, and his body seemed to move without his knowledge. He clawed through the crowd jumping on their heads each time ripping off a scalp or a head. His lips parted showing his teeth and gums, like a rabid animal. He jumped across the crowd, not hearing the screams from them.
Two men stood in front of him, one wore armor and the other was a clergyman. Ethan pounced towards them taking the armored one’s spear to his shoulder, but Ethan pushed forward soon half the spear was through his shoulder. Ethan reached the end and came face to face with the man, and in one swift motion, he bit into his neck and began to eat his throat. Soon the man collapsed after a few seconds of being mauled. Ethan turned his attention toward the clergyman, as he shot a ball of fire at him. It hit Ethan in the chest and winded him, but he moved forwards, and with a piercing scream and a quick jab the man's face was dented inwards.
Ethan blacked out after that, flashes of blood and gore shot through his eyes in a red haze. Soon he was at what remained of Baine, now burnt to an unrecognizable state. Ethan began to cry and looked around him, dozens of bodies lining the floor, each missing limbs or being contorted in some way. He felt sick, and tears stream down his face turning red with the blood covering him. He hobbled away from the carnage, towards an alley. He felt empty like someone scooped out everything that made him, him, and left only the present. Ethan soon passed out in the alley, he dreams of better days but knows that it’s now lost forever.
He awakens to find himself no longer in the alley, instead, he seems to be in a room. The room lies bare with only a bed and a table in the middle. Soon an elf man, with sun-bleached skin and hay-colored hair walks into the room. He has an annoyed expression, but that dissipates when he looks at Ethan.
“Ah, Ethan Yucca, finally awake I see!” He said in a smooth and upbeat voice. He walked toward him and Ethan made no effort to stop him. The man looks at Ethan and an uncomfortable expression appears on his face. He coughs in his hand and begins to speak.
“I found you in an alley, and well I brought you in here.” He waited for a reaction but he got none.
“Now you might be wondering ‘How does this handsome elf know my name!’” he seemed to wait for a laugh of some kind…still nothing.
“Well I’ve got some good news and bad news, the bad news is that your family has a bounty on your head to capture you.” He tugged at his collar. Ethan wondered why his parents that never wanted him, wanted him now. Maybe they thought they’d need some spare organs in the future…who knows?
“Good news is that I’m a nice guy and feel a bit guilty about just handing you to them, especially with the information I have now… Which is the whole dungeon thing, in case you were curious.” Ethan was not curious, his expression remained blank. The man now seemed to get more uncomfortable but begins speaking nonetheless.
“So, the plan is that I’ll turn you in, but every night I help you escape, and when the day begins to break, you go back.” He started walking towards a closet and the sound of clothes hangers clanging together.
“Now as much as I would love to just ship you off to some foreign country, things aren’t that simple. For starters, your father, Duke Windsor Yucca, has his hands everywhere. Even if you were to travel from heaven to hell, he’d find you.” His face turned mildly annoyed as he couldn’t seem to find what he was looking for. Ethan sat still, his thoughts blanking, Ethan began to mutter.
“Where’s Baine.”
The elf looks at Ethan, and a strained expression flashes across his face. With a quick cough into his hand, he says.
“I think you already know…”
“How can I get him back?” Ethan replied. The weight of the past day seemed to start to sink in, and Ethan’s face transformed from a listless expression into one of sheer desperation. The man looks at the floor and quietly murmurs ‘Aha’. Off the floor he picked up a red coat, the seemingly new coat was a vibrant red. The coat had golden clips attached to the other side to close it. He began to walk toward Ethan all while not breaking eye contact.
“Unfortunately, there is no way to bring back your friend Ethan.” The man’s face showed sympathy, and he continued his gentle march toward Ethan.
“Life is very precious, something that most people take for granted, as much as I want to say that we could make a deal with the twins of death to bring your friend back, it would be nothing but false hope.”
The man drew closer. Ethan paid him no mind, rather he was thinking, thinking of Baine, of the good. It hurt him to look back on it, it hurt so much he felt like he did before he broke out of the dungeon. His throat was dry, his body weak, the wall looking like two means of release. But now, he doesn’t care if it broke down, he no longer cared about his long-sought-after freedom. The wall now held only one meaning. The man soon reached Ethan and in one movement, the red coat was soon wrapped around Ethan.
“But the one thing that I can tell you with most certainty, is that even though your friend may be gone. He still lives.” The man then points to Ethan’s heart and head.
“He lives on in your memories and feelings towards him, now tell me what would your friend want you to do right now.”
Those words resonated through Ethan’s thoughts, reverberating through his skull. The wall’s last meaning seemed to shatter, and with it, the wall did as well, behind it a beautiful scene of the sun shone brightly. Ethan cleared his dry throat and spoke.
“I…I think he would want me to live a happy life.”
The man nodded solemnly and rustled his hair. “Come on, let’s get going.” Ethan put on the coat, one sleeve at a time. It was far too big for him, but he had a feeling he would grow into it.
Ethan’s days passed by, and time moved forward. Soon he fell into a comfortable schedule, waiting for night, breaking out, hanging out with the man, whose name was Quinn, and going back into the dungeon before daybreak. One day Ethan, who was now eighteen, did the schedule as usual, but as he broke out of the dungeon a guard spotted him.
Ethan ran from him, but as he ran towards the city, something made him trip and a bright flash of light blinded him when it dissipated, he found himself in a new land. Surprisingly Ethan wasn’t afraid, no rather he was excited. Excited about the people he’ll meet, the fun he’ll have and the memories he’ll make. And if the time comes when he must leave, to his old life or a new one, he hoped that someone will remember him, the way he remembered Baine.
2022.12.22 20:47 VirtuousFool [Pinstripe Alley] Carlos Rodón isn’t the injury risk you think he is
![[Pinstripe Alley] Carlos Rodón isn’t the injury risk you think he is](https://external-preview.redd.it/0rYgwfBDyT-OBiPpBksy4HvbmRZJnBFF8Z_YILmUMoI.jpg?width=640&crop=smart&auto=webp&s=5aceff5de5c48e4257cf1f45256b7fb19112a0c6 "[Pinstripe Alley] Carlos Rodón isn’t the injury risk you think he is") | submitted by VirtuousFool to NYYankees [link] [comments] |