by Sam Harding
He noticed all sorts of different types of people on the street this morning, but he knew they weren’t really people. They were demons disguised as people, unworthy of sharing the world with the truly righteous such as himself. These demons were old, young, and in between. There were so many to choose from, and to him, that was a rush in itself. When the 24th came along, he would be limited to the young, but right now he could have whomever he wanted. He felt like a little kid in a candy store – at least, he guessed this is what it would feel like to be a kid in a candy store. His upbringing hadn’t involved many candy stores.
Belts, switches, chains and even the occasional broken beer bottles are what dominated his childhood. Both his father and mother had seen to it he understood the true concepts of pain at a young age, and as far as he was concerned, that was a good thing. He hadn’t understood then, but he understood now. His parents had only made him stronger; he just wished he’d have thanked them when he had the chance. Instead, he had witnessed their demise at the hands of a Seattle SWAT team when he was fifteen years old.
He couldn’t help but wonder if his parents would be proud of him today. If they would approve of what he was about to accomplish in his upcoming performance on the 24th. Christmas Eve – or Butcher’s Eve, as the locals of Solace County infamously had called it for the past five years.
What a fucking honor!
The man smiled under his hood, pleased with his role in the legendary day. It was an amazing feeling to finally find the thing God had put you on this earth to do. The slaying of demons was the noblest quest of any in history. His right thumb rubbed the dull side of the blade in his coat pocket, sending an almost sexual thrill throughout his body that he knew he needed to tend to soon.
Today, he was unleashed, free to do whatever he pleased. What he wanted, more than anything, was to hunt a worthy opponent. A demon who’d lived long enough to where it would think it was immune to men like himself. A demon undeserving of dying at the peaceful hands of old age.
As he moved along the sidewalk, movement across the street and to his left caught his eye. He looked, peering under his hood, at two figures walking in tandem on the icy sidewalk. One was a grown man and the other was a small boy not much older than six or seven years old. A demon and his hell spawned demon son, both twisted creatures from the pits of hell that had taken the form of human beings. It was truly disgusting and vile. He couldn’t wait for the day when God would take his revenge on the world and rid it of filth like those two creatures he now studied. His thumb rubbed his blade even harder as he watched the large and small demon disappear into a diner – an establishment no doubt also ran by filthy fucking creatures from hell.
He spit a gob of saliva on the sidewalk as if to get a nasty taste from his mouth and turned his thoughts and energy away from the diner.
That’s when he saw it. The perfect candidate.
The old man – a demon to be sure – shuffled along the sidewalk no more than fifty yards ahead. He carried in his hand a brown paper bag from the hardware store he’d just exited from and then took a right, disappearing behind the shoe store on the corner.
The Demon Slayer followed the old man, remembering to keep a distance and not get too close as to arouse suspicion. His thumb was pressing the dull side of his blade even harder now as his heart-rate increased. When he rounded the corner, he caught sight of the old man again and it then became clear where he was headed.
This street dead ended a few blocks ahead and at that dead end was the city park. In the summer time, the park was lush and green with colorful gardens that surrounded a large pond where ducks and geese spent most of their day bathing and eating bread crumbs from the local animal-lovers. In the winter, the park was a white winter wonderland where many took up ice skating on the frozen surface of the pond.
The old man slowly made it to the edge of the pond and then took a seat on one of the iron benches surrounding the frozen water after brushing off a thin layer of snow. As he approached, the Demon Slayer could see the old man reach into his paper bag and remove a candy bar. Slowly, he unwrapped the candy and began chewing on one end, looking to be in deep thought.
The Demon Slayer smiled to himself. It was a beautiful scenario. The old man was long retired; he had no job or occupation. Chances were, his schedule was completely clear of all obligations, whereas most people had appointments and jobs to attend to. That was why, the Demon Slayer figured, the park would be completely empty. He picked up his pace now, eager to do what he intended to do and then leave before another person void of obligation interrupted his mission.
The old man hadn’t seen the younger man approaching him, but when the Demon Slayer sat down on the bench next to him, he slightly jumped, startled to realize he wasn’t as alone as he’d originally thought.
Doing his best to suppress his annoyance, the old man calmly said, “Young man, I don’t mean to be rude, but there are plenty of other benches in this park and I’d really like to be alone –"
The old man never had time to finish his sentence. The demon slayer spun on the bench and shot his right hand out from his coat pocket in a blur of motion. The four-inch blade sank into the side of the old man’s neck and then slipped back out in less than a second. The old man winced, and then brought a gloved hand to the sting on the left side of his neck, confused as to what had just happened. When he removed his hand from his neck, blood shot from the wound, coating the white snow in a layer of bright red arterial spray. The old man looked at his glove, still not sure what was going on until his eyes finally widened in recognition.
“Why?” He croaked, immediately grabbing his neck in a futile effort to stop the bleeding.
“Because, you get what you deserve. In the name of God.” The demon slayer got to his feet and turned away from the dying old man just as he fell from the bench and landed in the blood-covered snow.
As he moved away from the crime scene, he glanced around to make sure no other demon had seen what God had sent him to do. He smiled again, seeing his deed had gone unwitnessed.
Yes, he thought to himself, slipping the bloody knife back into his pocket. The 24th will be a good day, indeed.
CHAPTER FIVE
End the Nightmares
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say, ignoring my now-cold cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of me. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The words coming out of West’s mouth trigger memories I’ve spent the past three years trying to cope with. Memories I’ve tried to live with without feeling the urge to put the barrel of a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger.
And yet, for some sick fucking reason I cannot explain – a part of me wants to hear more.
“I’m not at all kidding,” West says before taking another sip of coffee. “I know this is painful for you, Micah, but at the same time, I see this as a good thing.”
“A good thing? How can bringing this back up be a good thing?”
“Micah, look around you,” West’s look is stern and his voice is sharper now than it had been minutes before. “Nearly six years and nothing has changed. I’m sorry to say this, but what happened to you was only one of six other cases nearly identical to yours.”
“I know that . . .”
“And it’s about to be seven,” West adds before I can get in another word. “Seven murders and nobody has yet to be held accountable for it. The police have nothing. Yeah, sure they have suspects, but that doesn’t do a lot of good when they don’t have any evidence to go with those suspects. This is your chance to make things right.”
“What? Like catching this motherfucker will bring Dani back? Like it’ll bring back my wife and Thomas’s mother?” Although I’m speaking in a harsh whisper, Thomas must have heard his name, because he removed an earphone from his left ear. I can hear “Shipping Up to Boston” by Dropkick Murphy blasting through the earbud, and I signal for Thomas to put it back into his ear. Considering the song, he doesn’t seem too upset about having to comply.
“Micah,” West tries again, his voice much softer now. “Nothing will bring Dani back. Nothing will, no matter what you do or how badly you wish things were different and I am so sorry that’s the case. But what you can do is honor her memory by catching the guy who took her from this world.”
The man on Little Sweden, I think to myself, picturing the old man’s face in my mind’s eye. He must be about seventy-five now – yeah, that’s right, because I remember he’d just turned seventy when the first murder happened.
December 24th, 2016. The murder of his ten-year-old son.
The first year of Butcher’s Eve.
My life had truly descended into madness on December 24th, 2018 when Dani was killed, but two years before that was where it had all truly started. Doctor Heinrich Shultz, German immigrant and world-famous psychiatrist, had lost his one and only son to the most horrific serial killer Solace County had ever seen. Before his son’s death, Shultz had been referred to as “The Man on Little Sweden” with fond vigor, as the man who’d helped thousands of people get their lives back on track. Now, the nickname “The Man on Little Sweden” carried with it a dark tone, one reminding everyone of blood, and suffering and death. Since that day, his booming practice had ceased and his face was no longer the poster-image for the psychiatric community. How could it be when his face hadn’t made a public appearance since the murder of his son?
As my thoughts splash through my head like a sea on a stormy night, I turn in my seat out of habit to catch a glimpse of the front door and the other patrons behind me. Since I’ve entered the diner, nobody else has set foot inside, but my eye is drawn to the window viewing out into the snowy street. There, across the road there is a man. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his fluffy coat, his hood is up and a scarf is pulled tightly across his face. Even at this distance, I can tell there is something strange about him, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. Perhaps it’s because he walks faster than the other pedestrians on the sidewalk? Or maybe because the majority of his face is hidden, unlike everyone else outside despite the icy cold. I watch as he passes the antique shop on the corner and disappears from sight. I become aware of the 9mm on my left hip, even though I know I am in no immediate danger. I consider for a second that the current conversation with Henry is riling me up and that the man outside is no more of a threat than the old man I’d seen leaving the hardware store twenty minutes earlier.
“Micah?”
I turn back around to look at West. He’s staring at me expectantly, as if he’d asked me a question that’d I’d yet to acknowledge. I suddenly feel a craving for a cigarette but I try to ignore it. “Yeah?”
“I said, finding the Christmas Eve Butcher had been an obsession for you for two whole years – even in the eleven months between kills when he wasn’t active. You ate, slept and breathed this guy. Just because he – he did what he did to you, doesn’t mean he has won. This is your chance to set things right.”
“Why me?” I ask, a question that had been sitting at the back of my mind since the beginning of the conversation. “Better yet, how did you find out Dr. Shultz wants to hire me?”
“Dr. Shultz is my doctor,” West said, a half smile forming on his face.
“What? I thought he quit his practice after his son died.”
“He did for the public, yes. But he still takes the occasional clients – particularly ex cops and other first responders. He says it’s his way to say “thank you” for all we’ve done to try and help the community.”
“Help?” I say skeptically. “His son’s murderer is still out there.”
“He still sees us as the good guys.”
Then he’s a better man than I am, I think to myself. “So, what? You’re having a session and he just asks you if I’m up for picking his son’s case back up?”
“In a matter of speaking. He actually asked me if I was interested. He didn’t realize you had gone to the private sector and when I mentioned your name, he knew you were the perfect man for the job. He said you were the man he needed because he doesn’t expect you’d ever give up trying to get your revenge.”
“Is that his professional opinion?” I ask, my sarcasm finally finding its way into the conversation.
“It’s his opinion as a man and a father,” West replies, his tone sharp again.
“Henry, I’ve already failed. Two years investigating the son of a bitch and to this day, I’ve gotten closer than anyone ever has in catching him. Because of that,” I stop, swallow, and then continue, “because of that, he came to my home one day and fucked up my world. I can’t go outside without feeling like he’s watching me from somewhere in the woods. Like he’s watching me right now through the windows of this fucking diner. Like he follows my son around all day when he’s in school. It’s a five-year-old game of cat and mouse, and I’ve been nothing but the mouse the entire time.”
“Then stop feeling sorry for yourself and become the fucking cat.”
West’s use of the f-word takes me by surprise. I can’t remember ever having heard the man curse before, much less say “fuck.” I try to find the right words to get my mind back on track, but he cuts me off again.
“Micah, I know you. I know you want to find this man. I know you want to get ahold of him. I know that when you finally pull your head from your own butt and accept this job, you won’t call the cops once you finally have him cornered.”
“You’re fine with me murdering a man?”
“That’s not murder,” West says, shaking his head. “That’s justice, Micah. That’s the kind of justice you couldn’t give as a cop, but you’re not a cop anymore.”
I’m silent for a long moment. I know deep down everything Henry has said is true. It’s true there is nothing I want more than that killer’s fucking head on a spike. Finally, I softly ask, “Why now?”
“Why now, what?”
“Why does he want to hire me now?”
“Because it’s almost the 24th –"
“No. I mean why now?” I tap the top of the table with my index finger. “Five murders, including Dani’s, have occurred since his son’s death. The police haven’t even gotten close. It’s been nearly three years since the original detective assigned to the case,” I point to myself, “has been off of it, and Dr. Shultz wants to hire an outsider to solve it now? Why wait all this time?”
“Are you going to do it?” West asks, a hopeful look in his eyes.
“Henry, why now?” I push, growing even more impatient.
He sighs and looks down at his mug. His hopeful eyes change in expression, now giving off a sense of deep sadness. Softly, West says, “Because he’s dying.”
“He’s dying?”
West looks back up, checks the room with a flick of his eyes and then, “Pancreatic cancer. He’s only got a few months, and that’s if he’s lucky.”
“Damn,” I whisper. How is that just? The man had just endured five of the most painful years of his life, and now he would die in even more pain and agony from fucking stomach cancer.
“This is his dying wish, Micah.”
I look up at the white ceiling and take a deep breath. I then look back to West. “I’d imagine having your son’s murderer caught would be.”
“No,” West shakes his head again. “He doesn’t want his son’s murderer caught, Micah. He wants him killed.”
Without thinking about my next words, I say, “So do I.”
The storm in my head rages harder now. On one hand, I don’t want to put Thomas in danger again. I look over at him and almost admire his obliviousness to the world as he rocks out to the Boston-Irish rock band. He’s all I have left – all I have left of Dani. But on the other hand, if I do nothing, then Thomas can never truly be safe and he’ll forever be in danger anyway. Maybe this is how I prevent Thomas from hating me as he does in my dreams. Maybe this is how I end the nightmares.
The decision is painful.
But it’s obvious.
For the fi
rst time since sitting down, I take a drink of my coffee. I hear the sounds of a wailing siren from a passing ambulance behind me, followed closely by one of a police car. If my ears serve me correctly, it sounds like they turn and head east towards the park. I can’t help but be reminded of the hooded man from earlier, the one across the street with the scarf across his face and his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his coat. My dark imagination reminds me that there are nonstop horrors in this world happening every second of every day. Rarely did people get opportunities to avenge the ones they’d unjustly lost. This is my rare opportunity.
I look up at Henry. “If I do this, Thomas can’t stay with me.”
West looks at Thomas with kind eyes. I know he adores my son, he asks about him every chance he gets, and I think Thomas likes Henry too. For West, I don’t think the decision is very difficult. “He can stay with me for a while. I’d be happy to have him over. My wife and kids are in Utah visiting the in-laws, whom I very much loathe. We’ll do Christmas at my place, even.”
I’m silent again, still weighing my options. After another period of silence, I decide to stop delaying the inevitable.
“I’ll do it.”
“I know. You have to.”
CHAPTER SIX
Darkness and Light
HE CLOSED THE door behind him, making sure he locked it along with the two deadbolts above the doorknob. With a deep breath, he turned away from the door to face his living room. For someone who lived in a single-wide trailer, his level of cleanliness did not at all scream trailer trash. His living space was spotless. Not a crumb was on the carpet and not a smudge could be found on the old 1970’s-era wall paneling. His neighbors in the trailer court, however, more than earned their trailer trash reputation, but what could one expect from animals?
