The Devil's Lullaby

by Chris Scalise

  Shortly after her eighteenth birthday, Autumn vowed never to kill again. Her antics had generated a lot of local attention, and she’d even been given a nickname by the local media: The Sin City Slayer. Local police were supposedly setting up Craigslist sting operations to try and catch her, and she was even capturing the imagination of true crime authors. It was all getting out of hand.

  Then, one night, she was spotted leaving the scene of a killing. A forty-six-year-old truck driver had noticed her scurrying away from the victim’s home shortly after 3 a.m., and though she was smart enough to leave her car parked several blocks away, her face was in full view. The witness described her features to a police sketch artist, and a generic but somewhat accurate likeness of her was plastered all over the news the next day. That’s when she knew it was time to quit.

  She also needed to get out of Vegas for a while. Her mother stayed behind in the house they had purchased together, and Autumn rented an apartment in Riverside, California. It was far enough away that she could walk the streets without attracting suspicion, but it was still close enough to home that her mother could easily visit on the weekends.

  For the next five years, Autumn kept her nose clean. She still robbed wealthy people of their incomes, but nobody died. She joined a church located in an affluent section of Riverside, and found numerous ways to profit from its wealthy and upper-middle-class congregants. She delivered heartfelt pitches for phony children’s charities, blackmailed church deacons whom she had bedded without the knowledge of their wives, and even hosted women’s Bible studies at her home with the intent of rummaging through her guests’ purses.

  At age twenty, she pulled together some of the guys from the music ministry and started a Christian metal band. She had always loved the aggression of heavy metal music, and this would open up a whole new racket for her. She could push her faux charities on unsuspecting concertgoers and charge wealthy fans for bogus VIP experiences like overpriced meet-and-greets and superfluous special edition CDs.

  It worked better than she could ever have imagined. As one of the few decent female-fronted metal bands with a Christian message, Sakrifyce became an overnight smash, garnering heavy rotation on Christian rock stations and receiving invites to Christian music festivals from Huntington Beach, California to Tampa, Florida. The VIP meet-and-greets took fans for no less than three hundred dollars a pop, and the limited-edition silver print of their Set Free album was described by one Christian e-zine as “ridiculously overpriced.” Nevertheless, all three hundred copies sold in under twenty-four hours, and Autumn pocketed the lion’s share for herself.

  In California, she made a killing without actually killing, and that bothered her to no end. The longer she went without a bound and dying victim, the more depressed and frustrated she grew. It ultimately became apparent that she loved the torture and dominance far more than the money. She would have returned every penny just to watch one more rich, dying bitch beg her for mercy with her final breath.

  By age twenty-three, she couldn’t take it anymore. She missed Vegas, and she missed the smell of rope fibers and gasoline. She devised a plan to not only return to Vegas, but to resume her killing spree as a ghost. She would never be caught because she would kill on her own terms. The victims would come to her, and they would die in a hidden location within her own home, never to be seen again. Most importantly, there would be no witnesses.

  What she needed was a patsy, someone who could deliver the victims without even realizing it and then unwittingly take the fall if things ever went south. She would be the silent onlooker, never drawing attention to herself and never making the first move. And she knew exactly who she was going to recruit.

  Dominic Maffiore was the perfect choice. She had been observing him for months in the church they both attended, and she knew about his frustrations with the leadership. Unlike some of the other leaders in the church, Dominic cared first and foremost about making money. That was his god, and that would be his undoing. Money worshipers were the easiest people in the world to manipulate, and Autumn knew exactly which buttons to push.

  She told him that she was planning to start up a church in Las Vegas, and she asked him if he would be interested in serving as head pastor. “This isn’t like a regular church,” she told him. “I’m looking to start up a church specifically for people who need instant healing. Those people will pay through the nose to beat their demons.”

  She had him at “pay through the nose.”

  And so, everything was set. Using the untraceable Tor web browser and an equally untraceable Bitcoin transaction, she paid to have an anonymous LLC purchase a home for her in Henderson. This was where she would do her dirty work. The purchase of the church building was made in Dominic’s name. She insisted on being a completely silent and invisible partner because, as she explained to him, “Some people might find our ministry controversial, and I don’t want to alienate my music fans.”

  With everything set in motion, they made their way to Las Vegas. Autumn transformed her new home into a haunted fun house designed to traumatize those who were already traumatized. The biggest haunted attraction would be Autumn herself, dressed like a Victorian-era androgynous vampire. The look was inspired by her first victim in Dominic’s church, a troubled and outrageously wealthy young woman named Denise.

  Denise came to the church in desperate need of deliverance. She was convinced that a demon named Abaddon was haunting her, and she claimed to have visions of a pale, decaying figure in a century-old men’s suit. Not wanting to miss out on a valuable opportunity, Autumn lured the young woman into her secret home and transformed herself into Abaddon, complete with tattered Victorian attire and milky white contact lenses. She would even wear a tight strapless binder over her chest and waist to present a more masculine appearance.

  The illusion proved so effective that it would become a centerpiece of all her hauntings moving forward. She would don the horrific costume and whisper the name Abaddon into all of her future victims’ ears as they slept.

  The eerie rigmarole caused Denise to collapse with desperation. That was Marlene’s cue to step in and inform the poor girl that there was one way—and only one way—to defeat the demon once and for all. But it would cost a lot of money.

  Once Autumn had the cash in hand, the rest was just a beautiful, nostalgic killing. A secret room. A canister of gasoline. Denise strapped to a restraint bed. Autumn was back in business, but this time, the victims came to her, and not even God himself could reveal her sins to the world.

  29

  Just south of the Planet Hollywood Las Vegas Resort and Casino were three high-rise towers: The Frank Sinatra, the Dean Martin, and the Sammy Davis. These opulent apartment properties were designed for high rollers who truly wanted to live the Vegas life to the fullest. They provided luxury living right at the center of the Vegas Strip, complete with white-glove accommodations and the best views in town. Even the cheapest lower-level apartments started at four thousand dollars per month, and those were the east-facing apartments that overlooked Henderson. The prices for Strip-view apartments were not unlike the rates in Midtown Manhattan. Autumn was clearly doing okay for herself.

  The towers’ underground parking structure was inaccessible to the general public, so Aren opted for the valet at the neighboring Planet Hollywood. Once out of the car, he and Allison jogged along the perimeter of the famed Miracle Mile Shops, the Moroccan-themed indoor shopping mall surrounding the Planet Hollywood.

  They exited onto the Las Vegas Strip and raced south on Las Vegas Boulevard, crossing the intersection of Las Vegas and Harmon. The Sammy Davis was the southernmost tower, an ornate skyscraper with white walls and symmetrical turquoise windows. It made Allison’s high-rise apartment complex look like a condemned third-world hospital building.

  Allison and Aren raced through the massive glass doors and entered the tiled lobby, where they came face to face with a uniformed security guard seated at a desk. Allison realized that this was g
oing to be more complicated than simply strolling upstairs and kicking down the door to Autumn’s apartment.

  “How you guys doing?” the guard asked. He looked to be about sixty, with graying hair and a lot of extra padding along his midsection.

  “Terrific,” Allison said. “Maybe you can help us out with something. My sister lives in this building, and I just flew in from Orlando to surprise her for her birthday. I even arranged for her idol, Aren Anzalone, to come along and surprise her as well.” She gestured toward Aren with both hands, and Aren smiled. “Is it okay if we go and see her?”

  The security guard studied Aren. “Oh yeah. Aren’t you on that billboard on i-15?”

  “Guilty,” Aren replied.

  “That should be nice,” the guard said. “What apartment is she in? I’ll ring for her.” He reached for a black business phone on the desk.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Allison said. “I was really hoping to surprise her at her door. It would really mean a lot.”

  “Well, unfortunately I can’t let—”

  “You can come up with us,” Aren said. “Like, escort us. We just want it to be a surprise. Do you think you can help us out? It will only take a minute.”

  Allison flashed an annoyed glance at him, and he smiled at her.

  “Well, okay,” the aging guard said, “but we’ll need to be quick.”

  Confused about Aren’s intentions, Allison followed the two men into the gold elevator. Before she could press the button marked “17,” Aren swiftly pressed the button for the fourteenth floor. The elevator ascended quickly, and Aren nodded as if to say, ‘Just go with me on this.’

  The elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor, and the doors slid open to reveal a long hallway with a gray patterned carpet. Aren stepped out first, followed by Allison and then the security guard. Before Allison could even process what was happening, Aren pushed the security guard to the ground and then pulled Allison back into the elevator, repeatedly pressing the “Close Door” button. Like most such buttons, this one was completely unresponsive. The doors remained wide open as the security guard struggled like a turtle on its back to pull himself up and return to his feet.

  Finally, the man rolled over and used his hands to pull his torso upward in a single pushup. Then he straightened his feet and slowly rose to an erect position like a crawling baby just learning to walk. As he turned around to face the elevator, shouting at the top of his lungs, the doors finally started to close.

  The guard stretched his hand in front of him and barreled forward in an attempt to use his arm as a barrier against the closing door, but he was a mere second too late. Aren smiled and waved as the doors finally closed, leaving the guard alone in the hall. Aren then pressed the “17” button, and he and Allison ascended once again.

  “That was smart,” Allison said as the doors slid open on the seventeenth floor. “You just committed assault, and now that guy knows exactly who you are.”

  Aren turned to her, kissed her on the lips, and whispered, “Desperate times, Babe. We’ll worry about all that later.” Then he exited the elevator.

  Allison was briefly elated by the unexpected kiss, but her thoughts quickly returned to Kristen. We’re coming for you, baby girl.

  They ran across the hall for several yards when they finally reached the door marked 1706. Aren pounded three times on the door, and Allison shouted, “Open the door, you fucking piece of shit. I’m not going to tell you twice.”

  They waited a few seconds. No sound. The second time, it was Allison who pounded on the door, and her knocks were much louder and more forceful than Aren’s. Still nothing. Aren then took a step back and kicked the door with every ounce of strength he could muster. Then a second time. Then a third. After the seventh time, the door splintered and he was able to push it open.

  The two of them rushed inside and found a very average-looking apartment with a basic gray sofa, a couple of bookshelves, and generic paintings on the wall that resembled the kind of artwork found in hotel rooms. One painting actually featured an image of a sailboat on the water. Aren and Allison scoured the apartment from end to end, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were cooking utensils, fashion magazines, and books by Danielle Steel.

  When Allison entered the singular bedroom, she saw something that immediately caught her eye. It was a black notebook sitting inconspicuously on the dresser. It had no label on the cover, but Allison was immediately filled with hope. She grabbed it, flipped it open to the first page, and saw three words that made her heart soar: Cassidy Sinclair 2018.

  This was Cassidy’s diary.

  Allison’s hands trembled as she turned the pages and skimmed the handwritten reflections. Cassidy had poured her heart out in each entry, discussing her thoughts, hopes, dreams, fears, and struggles. One entry in particular caught Allison’s attention:

  Dear Mom,

  I know I haven’t always been the best daughter. I haven’t always sent Christmas and Mother’s Day cards. I haven’t always made time to visit you. In recent years I haven’t even had the decency to call you on a regular basis. So I know why you think I’m ungrateful, spoiled, and selfish. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either. In case I don’t have the chance to tell you face to face, I want to put my feelings on paper right now.

  Mom. the most important thing that I can say is that I love you. More than anyone and anything. Every day my heart breaks because I know that our relationship should be better, and the reason it’s not better is because I’ve been too weak to tell you the truth. When you and Dad broke up, I took his side. I said really mean things to you, and I cry when I think about them now. You know what kind of person he was, but I was just a kid. I didn’t understand anything.

  And then he started getting drunk and calling me horrible names. I didn’t understand it. I just knew it hurt my feelings. He was my hero, so I guess I just figured that whatever he said must be true. I started to hate myself. I made a promise that I would become a better person and I would make him happy.

  And then he started hitting me. Just slapping me around at first, but then knocking me to the ground. One time, he held my throat and punched me in the stomach until I threw up. Then he made me get on my knees and clean up the throw-up while he kicked me in the stomach and slapped me in the back of my head. He never hit me in the face, probably because he didn’t want to leave a mark. But the pain was too much. It was too much.

  I should have been mad at him, but stupidly, I took it out on you. I didn’t even have the guts to tell you what he was doing, but I still resented you for letting me live with him and not protecting me. But that was the court’s decision. Again, please understand, Mom, I was a kid. I didn’t know how courts worked. I didn’t realize that he was a rich asshole who could afford super powerful lawyers and you were just a hardworking mom trying to do your best. I was young. I was stupid. And I’m sorry. I should never have taken it out on you.

  I haven’t forgotten that day. I came to visit you, and I was still broken inside from my most recent beating. Dad had blamed me for killing Frisky, our dog, and he had beaten me like never before. It’s hard for me to even say this, but he actually wrapped his belt around my neck and choked me with it while he dragged me around the house kicking me and screaming at me. I’ll never forget it.

  It was hard for me to even eat after that beating. I mean, it physically hurt, but it was more painful emotionally. I lost a lot of weight, and I didn’t sleep a lot. When I came to see you, you didn’t ask me if someone had hurt me. No, you asked me if I was on drugs.

  That hurt me so much, Mom. I needed you. I needed to confide in you. But I was so shocked by what you said, and so hurt by everything that happened, I just shut down. That’s why I said all of those horrible things to you. I didn’t mean them. You couldn’t have known. And now I’m scared that I can never make things right. I messed up. And I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you a long time ago, Mom, but I was scared and ashamed. Part of me thought I deserved it. I just
want you to know that I love you. You’re the only person that’s always been there for me, and look how I returned the favor. Can you ever forgive me? Maybe someday? I love you, Mama. I need you to know that. Even if I never get to say it to your face again.

  As Allison read Cassidy’s heartfelt words, she began to tear up. Then her hands trembled. Then the tears streamed down her face. Then she fell to her knees, weeping. She clutched the diary against her chest, imagining the incessant misery that Cassidy must have endured. There was no one she felt she could confide in, no one to embrace her, protect her, and tell her that everything would be okay. Allison so desperately wanted to be that person, and now it was too late.

  She pressed her forehead against the carpet and let the tears flow. She hadn’t cried like this since childhood, and she was determined to ensure that the world knew the truth about Jack Sinclair, the sick, abusive fuck who had destroyed his own innocent daughter. Allison didn’t know how she would do it, but she would ensure that he paid for his sins.

  “Aren, you need to see this,” Allison shouted as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “Come here.”

  No response.

  “Aren, come here,” she shouted again.

  Nothing.

  She raised her head and turned toward the door. “Aren!”

  “I’m afraid Aren is unavailable right now,” said a female voice from inside the living room.

  Allison felt every muscle in her body tense up. She slowly rose to her feet and turned around, fearful of what Autumn may have done to Aren. Allison scanned the room, looking for anything that might serve as a suitable weapon, but nothing caught her eye. There was a bed, a dresser, a mirrored vanity desk, and some unimpressive artwork on the wall, but nothing that could serve as a suitable offensive or defensive object. She folded the diary and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans, then opened the closet door and searched frantically for a potential weapon. On top of the closet shelf, she found a folded black umbrella. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She grabbed it, held it tightly, and exited the closet.