The One Who Got Away

by L. A. Detwiler

  Stupid boy. Poor boy. Disgusting boy.

  I’ve tried to come to terms with it, but the hunger hasn’t ceased. No other flesh will do. It was her. It will always be her. She was always supposed to be the finale. Out of all the gorgeous women on my route, she’d been the one who excited me most. But instead of an article about the awe-inspiring death I’d have given her, I am left with this rubbish – an article commemorating the failure of it all.

  I was and always will be a failure.

  Stupid boy. Foolish boy. Failure of a man.

  And it is all her fault. It is her fault.

  Chapter 43

  Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

  2019

  I’ve heard that tune before. He used to whistle it when he’d hand us the post, his notes always slightly off-key. I think back to all those moments he dropped off the letters, his cap perched perfectly on his head, his eyes dancing up and down my body. He was the harmless postman, a quiet but efficient man only a few years older than me. He was the odd boy who grew up to be a quiet man, the one we sometimes whispered about. We’d heard the stories about his flat, about his mother, about everything. But we never paid attention. Why would we? He was the one we so often overlooked. He was the perfect criminal, it seems now.

  I remember that day when the final letter came, the terrifying message from Oliver that made me escape – I remember him whistling the tune. It all comes whirling about, the greatest mystery of my life and of the past few weeks ending.

  The letter ‘P’ in the letters, the postman’s signature – P for postman. The song. The words he whispered to me in his room that day with Dorothy, the words that made me faint.

  ‘You’re the one,’ he’d murmured nonchalantly to me. ‘You’re the one who got away. I killed your friend because she found out too much.’

  Had Dorothy seen the letter of mine? Had she pieced together that he was dangerous? What had she seen? What had she figured out?

  It doesn’t matter now. It’s too late. The object stabbing into my throat, the final letter on the table. It all has come together.

  The West Green Killer. The postman was the West Green Killer all along.

  And I was, apparently, his final victim. I was the one who got away. I’m the reason he stopped his spree in West Green. My mother was right – it wasn’t safe. I got away from him. I was the next on his list, I must’ve been – and by some twist of fate, by the universe, or by karma for a sin I haven’t yet repented, he caught up to me. I was delivered to him, meat on a platter, by the daughter I let live. I’m the finale in his twisted, murderous game.

  ‘I dreamt of this for so long. For so, so long. All those days, I’d drop those letters in, wondering when it would be my chance. Wondering when I’d get to crawl through that door, up those steps and to your room. I thought about it over and over how I’d do it. You were going to be my grand finale, you know. I had such big plans for you. You were going to be a magnificent display, the truly perfect end. I was so hungry for it, starving to see your lifeless body. I was laced with joy over the mere thought of what that close-minded, backwards town would think. They would know my power, my glory, my intelligence. It was brilliant, really.’

  I squeeze my eyes shut, praying for an end to this suffering. I have the answers now, but I realise they aren’t what I really wanted. This isn’t where I thought my life would go. This isn’t what I imagined all these terrors would lead to.

  ‘But then, the plan was foiled all too soon when you escaped. Why did you leave me? Why did you have to do it? Why couldn’t you have waited? It would have been so much better then. I had so many grand plans. But then you were gone. You left. You ruined it all, Adeline. You fucking ruined it.’ The object cuts into my flesh, and I feel the stickiness of a dribble of blood. My breathing increases, but every breath aches now. Tears mix with my blood, my head resting on the pillow. I hate that I’m in his arms right now. I hate the intimacy of it all.

  ‘I spent my life wondering if it would ever be all right again. I chased those dreams, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t you. You were the missing piece to my achievement. You were the one. No one else would do. I tried. I really did try. But whenever I tried to kill again, I couldn’t go through with it. I knew they would just leave me hungry for more because they weren’t you. It had to be you. Dammit, why did it have to be you?’

  ‘Please,’ I beg, but he just chuckles. I feel him kiss the back of my neck, and I tremble. This can’t be how it ends. This can’t be the answer to the mystery I’ve been searching for.

  My mind thinks of all those other women. I think about all those women from so long ago. Is this how they felt in those final moments? Are these the words he spoke to them? What raced through their minds at the end – and how much did they suffer? I shake at the thought. I shake at the realisation that he was right under our noses the whole time – the unsuspected, unassuming postman, who had so much access to our lives. Who had so many ways to get close to us.

  What would the finale have looked like? Each murder was bolder than the last, each display of the body more brazen. What would he have done to me? If we hadn’t left when we did, what would’ve happened? What end would I have faced?

  ‘I came to Smith Creek years ago, thinking I would die a failure. I hadn’t succeeded. I had lost. You were off my route. You were gone. I hadn’t got you in time,’ he continues, bringing me back to the reality at hand. I’ve escaped him for so many years, but there’s no escaping now. There’s no escaping the end. Barbara was right. I’ll die here.

  ‘Did … you … t-try to find me?’ I choke out, wheezing out the words.

  ‘You left me,’ he spews, gripping me tighter. ‘No one knew where you went. Your parents didn’t know. The police didn’t know. And when the fire happened, you didn’t come back. Why didn’t you come back? It doesn’t matter, though. Even if I could’ve found you, it didn’t matter. I needed you here, in West Green, just like it was supposed to be. You were the most beautiful in West Green. I wanted you from the time you moved into that house. I knew you would be in the plan even before I knew what the plan was. But after you left, something about it wasn’t right. I wanted you here, on my route, like it was meant to be. It wouldn’t have counted anywhere else. I needed to beat his record here, fair and square.’

  ‘Whose?’ I ask, confused and terrified. Who is he talking about?

  ‘John, of course. He had six. Six confirmed, anyways. I needed seven. Everyone lauds him as the most notorious killer here. Are you kidding me? He had six. The fucking fool. And he got caught. He didn’t have a plan like I did. I had a brilliant plan.’

  My mind chases the name John, but I can’t remember. What is he talking about? This really is all a game to him, I understand now. A sick, twisted game of wits. And I’m the final checkmate.

  ‘The universe delivered you to me like a dream. It was a dream, Adeline. I thought it was a fever dream at first. It was too perfect. You, wrapped up like a damn gift. Coming back here, on my floor. On my route, nevertheless. You were back on my route. I could die achieving my goal.’

  My heart beats wildly, and I try to clutch at my chest, but he squeezes me so tight, I can’t move. I’m at his mercy, and I don’t think he has any left to give.

  ‘It’s not the same of course. It’s not as beautiful. It’s not as magical. I’m too frail now, and you’re not as wily of a fight. But it still counts. I still get to strip that life out of you, watch your embers burn out. I still get the seventh. The one who got away has come back. I get to slither your life out of you, snuff it out. I win, Adeline. I’m the winner now.’ I can feel his lips curve up into a wicked smile. I look out the window into the courtyard, the rain pattering against it. Fitting that it’s raining. Fitting that it all ends here, in this room with a view. Because it will be the last view I’ll see. I won’t go out saying goodbye to the sweet, chubby faces of grandchildren. I don’t get to lay my eyes on my daughter one last time or go out peacefully clutching a p
icture of Charles.

  I will go out in bed with a serial killer, with the maniacal man who has lusted after my death for decades. I will die cold and suffering in my own bed, the terrors of my past skulking close by. There is no time to repent or to beg forgiveness. There is no peace of mind.

  ‘Get up,’ he orders. For a split second, I think maybe this is all going to end differently. He’s changed his mind. There’s still a glimmer of hope.

  With a swift move, he yanks me backwards and pulls me to my feet. His arms are still wrapped around me as I shuffle and struggle, trying to gain my balance and my bearings.

  ‘Scream and I’ll slit your throat, splatter your blood all about.’

  I inhale deeply, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The sharp object stabs harder into my throat. I think about screaming, about taking my chances. I wonder if I can make enough noise to wake the Philip Woman. She snores in her bed, unaware of the peril prowling nearby.

  He drags me backwards, the sharp object to my neck. Where is he taking me? Fear settles into my chest, and my heart races. I pray for relief from this. I pray that he comes to his senses – although there are clearly few senses there.

  Backwards, backwards, he drags me, his breathing on my neck causing me to shudder. The corridor is empty, and his movements are swift. When we stop at the stairwell, I sigh in relief. He’s trapped. He’s made a mistake. I will be—

  But then, he leans over and punches in the code. I hear the four buttons beep, echoing down the corridor yet drowned out by the groans and moans characteristic of the floor. Where is the nurse? Where is Jones? Please, anyone—

  The door shoves open, and I stand, hovering above the steps in the stairwell I wanted to see all along. How did he get the code?

  ‘Sometimes, Adeline, it’s all about being observant. I was always observant. It’s paid off so many times. People aren’t observant anymore. People are helpless, caught up in what they mistakenly think is important. I see what’s important.’

  The sharp object still stabbing into my throat, I stare at the steps, wondering if the banging, if all those noises in the stairwell were a coincidence or something much more sinister. I wish I’d been more observant, more dedicated to figuring it out. Why couldn’t I figure it out?

  ‘This isn’t what I planned for you,’ he whispers. ‘But it’ll have to do.’ He trudges towards the top of the stairs, and I think about crying out. But who will hear me? There is no one to hear me. There is no one to save me.

  There is just sharp pain and the horrors of knowing he’ll hold me close as I say goodbye to this world. I think about Charles, tears falling, as the postman creeps me towards the top of the stairs. The steps loom below me, a deadly long fall to the next floor making my achy, weary bones shake. It’s all over now. This is where it ends. And there will be no one to tell my story, to tell them how the one who got away didn’t. There will be no one to tell them all that I’m not crazy. I will die a lonely, old, batty woman, forgotten by many. Remembered by Claire, but not as I should be. He will win. In the end, don’t they always? Don’t the mad or the evil always win? They like to tell us otherwise, but here we are. Sometimes, there really is no escaping the horrors we’re destined for.

  ‘Goodnight, Adeline, dear. Goodnight, sweet girl. I told you that you would be mine, after all,’ he whispers.

  I open my mouth to plead with him, to implore him to think again. I’m so tired, but life is always worth fighting for. No one willingly fades into that darkness. I struggle against his arms, managing to turn slightly. I claw at his arms, no longer worried about the sharp object at my throat.

  I want to live. The need to survive is stronger than the grip of his arm. I claw and kick, screaming and flailing about with every bit of strength I have in me. But it’s not substantial enough, and he’s too strong. I am a dying carcass in the jaws of a predator.

  My clawing and pawing at him does nothing but expedite his plans. With an unmatchable strength, he shoves me down the steps, and I have no time to react. I roll, my head burning as it clunks on the steps, as I tumble, as the scorching, searing pain silences me. I feel the shattering of my body, and the air I claw for does not come. He whistles from up above as everything blurs, as the pain becomes too much, as the reality sinks in. I’m dying here, in Smith Creek Manor, in the sight of the postman, under the wrath and careful plotting of the man on Floor Three, the West Green Killer.

  When the blackness swallows me and my lungs drown in the thirst for oxygen, my last thoughts aren’t of Claire or Charles or the life I’ve lived. My last thoughts are the stark realisation that all the questions, the torture, and the events of the last months were all for naught. Evil trumps all in the real world, even if we don’t realise it.

  Evil always wins.

  Death of Resident at Smith Creek Manor Under Investigation

  West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

  9 July 2019

  The death of Mrs Adeline (Walker) Evans, 79, at Smith Creek Manor in Crawley, West Sussex, has been labelled as questionable by investigators. Mrs Evans’ death has incited an investigation into the nursing home’s alleged abuse and neglect of its patients and has stirred protests from family members and the public, underlining concerns with care facilities across the nation.

  On 1 July 2019, the body of Mrs Adeline Evans was discovered in the stairwell near her room, 316, in the Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home at approximately 5.02 a.m. The coroner declared the cause of death to be a deadly fall. However, injuries on the neck of the victim and several bite marks were also noted, leading to suspicions about her death. The time of death is approximated to be around 2.02 a.m.

  A nurse who works on the second floor discovered the body. Staff members are labelling the death as a terrible accident. However, investigators question how the resident obtained the code for the locked stairwell and why the victim’s neck revealed cuts and bite marks.

  The roommate of the deceased was described to have been in hysterics and removed from the home. Her current whereabouts are unknown.

  Mrs Adeline Evans, born 17 May 1940, is survived by a daughter, Claire Evans. Claire is working with investigators to determine the cause of death and potential perpetrator of this suspected crime.

  The death of Mrs Evans has led many to question the ethical treatment of residents in the particular home but also across the nation and has prompted investigations into other deaths labelled natural at Smith Creek Manor. The deaths of several other patients are now being examined as some discrepancies in records and reports have been uncovered. Investigators are determining potential suspects as well as questioning the staff’s potential negligence, considering Mrs Evans was deceased for several hours before her body was discovered.

  Many family members have removed their relatives from the home after Mrs Evans’ death, citing gross negligence on behalf of the nursing staff.

  ‘It’s an outrage that a patient died in the establishment in that manner. I don’t care what they say. She was murdered. We entrust them with the lives of our loved ones, yet gross injustices and violent crimes are happening there. Someone has to be held responsible,’ a resident’s son told reporters last week.

  Evidence is still being gathered, but no eyewitnesses have been named. Reports indicate that cameras in the nursing home facility are not available due to technical difficulties, leaving surveillance of the corridor out of the possible sources of evidence. It has been discovered that several other policies are consistently ignored regarding care of the elderly at the facility.

  Epilogue

  I trudge down the hallway, passing Father Patrick from 310 on my way back to my room. He holds open a Bible, flipping through and repeating verses from the Book of Revelation, giving me a slight nod as he ambles towards 316, which is still cordoned off. Something tells me, though, that the priest will find a way around it. There really is no stopping him when he sets his mind to something, after all. He needs to spread the good word, and he won’t let a little tape get in th
e way.

  Which Bible verse will Father Patrick pick for Adeline? I wonder if he’ll use one of the ones he used for the others, or if he’ll pick a new one. I shake my head as I plod along. I used to get angry when Father Patrick wandered into Adeline’s room. I felt like the man was prying on my business, was claiming what belonged to me. But Father Patrick was harmless enough, leaving a few verses here and there. Coupled with that Oliver bloke’s senseless tampering, it had all worked quite well. I still hate that bastard, hate what he stands for. Still, Oliver’s manipulative, transparent ways paid off. All of them worked almost like a perfect ballet, concocting clues in an elegant dance that led Adeline’s suspicions away from me. They led Adeline astray, and that made the game last longer. I’m thankful for that.

  Which verse would be befitting of a magnificent beauty like her, of my number seven? It’s a hard question. I’m glad I don’t have to decide. After all, she’s always been my favourite, the wild one with gorgeous features. She had some kick to her, always, even in her older age. That was why I’d originally saved her for last. She was going to be the challenge, and I was crafty enough for a test like this one. The last one, after all, had to be splendid in every way. It would be the finale. It had to be perfect.

  I smirk, clicking my teeth as I march into my room. I need a rest. There’s been so much excitement this past week. The fools are pathetic. They’re so oblivious. It saddens me sometimes to think how moronic they all are. Some things don’t change, even with technology and time.

  After parking myself on the edge of my bed, I sigh in relief. It is done. The raving lunatics of the place made it easy. There were so many to blame. There were so many distractions. From Babbling Barbara to Oliver, it had been so simple to fly under the radar. It had been easy to torture her without getting caught. Add to the whole scenario Jones and his volatile personality, the staff’s incompetent nature, and Adeline’s declining mental state, and I had the perfect recipe for my game. Smith Creek Manor is a microcosm of insanity, which made it effortless to toy with my prey. The blood on the wall, the daisy, the mice, the notes. All those nights watching – they had all been relatively simple to pull off thanks to all the other chaos. I’d almost gotten angry at her for taking so long to figure it out. But I’m patient, so I simply waited and watched.