by David Beers
“I’ve got to go to work, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m going to make coffee. It’s your job to be out of bed by the time I pour you a cup, okay?”
He opened his eyes and blinked as he stared across the room.
“There you go.” Emi turned, grabbed a robe off the back of her door, and put it on as she walked down the hallway.
Last night had done the job, and that was the most important thing. She wasn’t thinking about the little girl as much as she had been, and she’d be able to start work without that hanging like an albatross around her neck. Maybe this morning had started a bit rough, but she was feeling better already.
It’s waiting on you, though, Emi. You may have kept it at bay for a few hours, but it’s waiting.
She pushed the thought away and started the coffee maker. She looked through her cupboard, finding an old plastic mug she could stand to part with.
“Let’s go!” she called from the kitchen. The sun still wasn’t up, but it would be soon and Emi needed to be in the office by then.
She finally heard movement, and then watched as the man walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. His shirt was wrinkled and he was still buttoning it up. He was wearing his shoes, though, and that was a good sign.
He walked over to her, red-eyed, but smiling.
“How old are you?” Emi asked as she poured him a cup.
“Twenty-six.”
She shook her head and smiled, handing the cup over to him. “Did you give me your number?”
“I think so,” he said.
“Then I’ll call, okay?”
Emi saw understanding cross his face. He’d done this before, to other people, but he’d never had it done to him. The good-bye, knowing that neither of you would ever see each other again. Of course, it’d been done to Emi before, but not in a long, long while.
She took no pleasure in it, but maybe it would do the kid some good. Maybe he would remember this when he thought of doing the same next time.
If not, oh well—Emi had to get to work.
She reached forward, gave him a brief hug and light kiss on the cheek, then sent him on his way.
Chapter Four
Vince Demsworth murdered Terrie Klindsman on Thursday night. He left her house in the early hours of the morning, the rain pouring down. His suit was clean for the most part, given the trash bags he’d worn once he got inside the house. He remembered little of that, though. Walking to the car in the torrential rain, Vince remembered very little of the entire endeavor.
He’d gone home, parked his car in the garage and then started to clean. He first undressed and put his clothes in a pile, stripping down completely naked. He then grabbed bleach, cleaning spray, and five or six rags. Vince scrubbed the car for the next two hours, going over every single detail. He did it without thinking, his mind on autopilot.
When he finished, he stood and dropped the rags into the same pile as his clothes. He went inside, got a garbage bag, then put the whole load into it. He brought that into his kitchen, setting it down just to the side of the back door. The sun would be up soon, and he would wait until this evening to burn the clothes. He wanted to do it before the moon returned, and a Friday afternoon sounded like the perfect time. People would be busy preparing for their weekend plans. No one would take notice of something burning behind a neighbor’s fence.
Vince went to his bathroom and got in the shower. He scrubbed himself hard as the hot water poured over him, his skin reddening at the pressure and repetition. He got beneath his fingernails and even his toenails. He scrubbed at his scalp, ensuring that any trace DNA would wash away.
Finally, Vince stepped from the shower and went into his bedroom.
The sun was peeking over the horizon now and he would need to get to the office quickly. He was running a bit late, though he doubted it would matter much.
Being a little late on a Friday was okay. Most people showed up late on Fridays.
Vince had thought these thoughts, though they were no more human than the actions he had taken the previous night. It was as if he was assessing humanity, and making sure his actions aligned with its expectations.
Vince dressed, thinking no more, only knowing what needed to be done. He put on a yellow tie and a white shirt.
He went out to the car he had just cleaned, opened the garage door, and pulled onto his neighborhood road.
Vince drove to work, his car smelling of chemicals.
The voice he’d been hearing was quiet, though Vince didn’t notice. There was no emotion in him, no caring at all—no real thought. No one who knew Vince could believe such a thing; whatever else might happen, Vince was a thinker, his mind always jumping two or three steps ahead of those around him.
Yet, with two murders on his conscience, he seemed to not notice at all. It was if nothing had happened.
Vince went to work, and for the first time in four days, he actually started focusing on the jobs that needed to be done.
Hours passed and Vince worked them all. He stayed late, just as he always did, but unlike the night before, he actually sent emails and looked at proposals.
He spoke on the phone with the governor for an hour.
Slowly, over the day, his mind had returned to him. He felt a bit odd, as if he should remember something, but he couldn’t—like leaving the house without your wallet. Something should be in his pocket, but it wasn’t, and yet he never reached down to see if it was missing.
Vince’s assistant had come in at six in the evening to tell him she was leaving. Vince was the youngest person he knew with an assistant, though it was something he’d gotten used to long ago.
“See you Monday, Sherry,” he said.
She smiled, waved, and then left the building.
He had another full hour of work to finish, but something was itching at him. He couldn’t scratch it or relieve the annoyance at all.
Vince did finally leave the office. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and he found himself ravenous. He pulled into McDonald’s on the way home, hating to spend money on such horrible food, but knowing he hadn’t been grocery shopping in a week.
He ordered a Big Mac Meal and then pulled up to the drive-thru.
“Different order today, sir?” the clerk asked him, smiling as if the two knew each other.
Vince didn’t eat at McDonald’s, and thought the man must be remembering someone else. He simply smiled and said, “Yeah.”
He took the meal and drove out of the parking lot. His car smelled strongly of cleaning chemicals, and Vince only slightly remembered cleaning his car this morning. It felt more like a dream, though, and he couldn’t imagine why he would have woken up early to do such a thing.
You need some rest, he thought.
Vince didn’t eat, but drove the 15 minutes to his house in silence. No music. No talk radio.
Something itched and he didn’t know what. He didn’t know how to figure it out either.
He got home and went to the kitchen, putting the paper bag down on the table. He stared at it for a second, the itch he’d felt all day much worse now.
Something had happened last night and he couldn’t remember what. Something had happened this morning and for some reason, he had cleaned his car … but couldn’t remember why.
Vince sat down at the table and pulled out the burger. He opened its box, but didn’t take a bite.
A bag sat to his left, and he slowly turned to look at it. A white garbage bag that was full of stuff, though it didn’t look like trash. Vince forgot about the meal and stared.
A cold settled in the pit of his stomach, the size and shape of a huge bowling ball. He didn’t think he could get up if he tried.
What’s in that bag?
The question hung in his mind, but the itch had suddenly ended. He’d found it, the thing he’d been unable to scratch.
He didn’t want to look, and he didn’t know why. Maybe because he lived alone and he kept his place remarkably clean, especiall
y considering the amount of hours he worked. Maybe because no one else had come in here—Vince wasn’t even dating anyone.
So that meant he had put stuff in that bag.
And cleaned your car.
And can’t remember the last time you ate.
And can’t remember sleeping last night.
And if you really want to be honest, Vince, old buddy—can you remember any of the emails you looked over today? The same ones you’ve been sending the past week?
A calm, but cold thought came next.
You can’t remember anything, and that bag isn’t even the beginning of it.
Vince stood up from his chair, the bowling ball made of ice holding solid in his stomach. He stepped to the plastic bag, and for the first time—just something else you missed, Vince—smelled the pungent odor of bleach. He slowly pulled loose the tie at the top, then squatted down as he opened the bag.
Clothes and rags stared back at him, and Vince fell down on his ass.
He saw blood on the clothes. A dark red stain sitting on the cuff of his shirt, glaring at him like a large red eye. One without a pupil, because it saw everything all of the time. Nothing could hide from that eye, nothing that wouldn’t be revealed beneath its withering stare.
No, Vince thought. No, that’s not true. None of what you’re thinking is true. It’s not. You’re imagining this, the bag, and everything else.
But he wasn’t, and he knew it.
Last night came back to him in a flash. He heard the baby squalling; he saw the blade cutting into her flesh as her face turned purple from the shrieks.
A woman—the woman—had been tied to a chair and she’d been trying to shriek as well, though her mouth was taped shut. Tears streamed down her face and she struggled against the duct tape that bound her. Vince hadn’t looked up, though. He hadn’t been able. He kept staring at the dying baby, his need all encompassing.
In his kitchen, Vince fell fully down onto the floor, his head hitting it with a thump.
“No, no, no, no, no ….” The words flowed from his mouth, unending and unacknowledged—his subconscious trying to refute what he now remembered, though didn’t understand at all.
Vince closed his eyes even as the tears streamed down his face.
He cried until his face hurt, and then he cried some more.
Eventually though, hell took Vince once again.
The voice had first spoken to Vince in his dreams, and when he swam into unconsciousness while lying on his kitchen floor, it spoke again.
What’s wrong, Vince?
The voice sounded like he imagined a snake might if it gained the ability to speak.
What’s bothering you? Talk to me. I’m your friend. You know that.
Vince didn’t like the voice one bit, and if there was anything he knew, it was that they weren’t friends.
That’s not fair, Vince. You hardly know me. We’ve had some good times so far, haven’t we? Yes, yes, I think we have.
Vince said nothing, not wanting to hear the voice nor remember anything that might be above—up in his kitchen, up above this dream.
Vince, Vince, Vince. I know you’re dealing with some stuff right now. I really do. I don’t blame you. But, there’s a tiny problem with that garbage bag. You did a really tremendous job both at the house and in cleaning, a really, really great job. There isn’t going to be much for THEM to find you with, but … there’s this problem with the bag. We do need to get rid of that. It’s okay. I can take care of it if you want. I can take care of a lot of things from now on, so that you don’t have to worry your pretty head about it.
Vince, even deeply unconscious, tried to pull away from the voice.
No, Vince. You can’t hide anymore. And there’s not a whole lot you can do about it. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. Can’t be. Don’t know how to be. And really, where’s the fun in being sorry? Always wandering around apologizing for every mistake. That’s not our style, is it? No, no. Not the two of us. I’m sorry, I keep getting off track—and look, there I go apologizing. No, no, that won’t do at all. What needs to happen is you have to wake up. We have to take those clothes there and then create a little bonfire in your backyard. We have to get rid of this stuff, Vince, because we’re not done here. I like it here, and I want to stay. But to stay, we have to follow the RULES. I’m learning them, and slowly, but the RULES are important and you lying on your kitchen floor isn’t part of them.
In his kitchen, Vince’s eyes twitched behind his eyelids, his brow remaining furrowed.
The voice kept rambling, whispering its continuous, sourly sweet directives. The rules. Fun. Cleaning up. Keeping going. Altars. All were just words that filled Vince’s subconscious.
An hour passed, maybe more, but Vince’s desire to ignore the voice subsided. Slowly, word by word, it took over, convincing him—at least subconsciously—that there was nothing to worry about. That they only needed to get rid of the bag and then everything would be okay.
Vince’s eyes finally opened, now absent tears. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments, but wasted very little time. He sat up, then climbed to his feet. He stared at the bag for a second, seeming to decide something. He turned and went to the garage. He was in there for only a few moments, quickly finding what he needed in such a well organized home.
He came back to the trash bag carrying an aluminum container of lighter fluid and a fireplace lighter.
Grabbing the bag, Vince walked out into his yard. No thoughts moved through his head, and the voice was silent now.
He walked to the middle of the yard, dropped the bag, and then squirted it down with the can. The scent of gasoline spread across the yard, though Vince didn’t smell it. He made sure to get the clothes inside wet as well before stepping back, careful to avoid getting any on his shoes. Leaning forward, he lit the bag on fire.
The flames spread quickly across the outside of the bag, melting the plastic away and finding fertile cloth beneath.
The sun had passed below the horizon and night had come.
The fire blazed in front of Vince Demsworth, destroying evidence of a murder.
Or rather, it blazed in front of something that wore Vince Demsworth. Vince wasn’t there in that moment, having given just a bit more of himself to that strange, sweet voice.
A Glimpse of the Past
1940’s
Hans Albrecht had no idea how far into the future his actions would resonate. If told that what he did would follow his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, he would have laughed. Such fantastic imaginings couldn’t possibly exist, and anyone believing in them was a dummkoph, an idiot.
Unfortunately, Hans would discover that such things did exist.
Hans Albrecht was Deputy Commandant at the Bogdanovka Concentration Camp in Ukraine during World War II. Hans hated Ukraine. He hated the people and he hated living there. The Deputy Commandant post had been a promotion though, and at 35 years old, the war was going well and he would have been a fool not to take it. So, when his commander told him he was being promoted, Hans moved himself and his pregnant wife from Germany to Ukraine.
“It won’t be for long,” he told his wife.
She had been happy for him, having no idea how things would end. She had been happy for both of them, really—for their family. It was good news, and surely meant that her husband was doing a great job. That he was supporting the war effort and helping further the Führer’s aims.
They’d moved to Ukraine and Hans immediately couldn’t stand it. The people here were not German, regardless what the Führer claimed—though Hans of course would never say such a thing aloud. These people were less than German, just like the rest of Europe, and he would be fine marching the Ukrainians into concentration camps just like the Jews. Tattooing numbers on them with the same ink and holding them there until they could be sent to death camps.
The Führer wouldn’t do that, of course. Hans would have to live next to this filth until he received word of his reassignmen
t back to Germany.
Despite hating where he lived, Hans was happy with his promotion. Not only was the pay increase nice, but it gave him more power and a chance to further his career. Above all, Hans prided himself on efficiency, and that’s what he planned on doing at Bogdanovka. The commander over the camp was a drunk, and Hans saw that on day one. He could hardly believe it, the fat man drinking behind his desk while German men died on the frontlines. Hans kept his mouth shut though, saying nothing of his true thoughts. This man had been placed above him, and Hans would not buck rank; it was now his job to ensure the camp ran in the most efficient way possible.
Hans poured over the numbers, realizing with horror how much waste was happening beneath the commander. If the Führer saw this, Hans thought he would die from a heart attack right there in the commander’s office. Just simply keel over.
Germans should be better than this; the camp’s waste was surely contributing to deaths on the frontlines. An extra bullet used here was one not used against the enemy.
During his first week, Hans inspected the conditions of the prisoners. He never thought of them as anything else. Simply prisoners. They were not even Jews to him, because that word somehow gave them personhood. To Hans Albrecht, they were only prisoners, and he sometimes wondered if that granted them too much privilege—because in his mind, they weren’t even stray dogs to be cleared from the streets. They were more akin to furniture. Ancient furniture that needed to be destroyed. Hans’s greatest hope, even if he told no one but his wife, was to be Commander at Auschwitz. To be able to murder them by the thousands there … He could think of no higher service to the motherland.
First, though, there was work to be done at Bogdanovka. If he could change this place into a model of efficiency, Hans might have that future opportunity.
In 1941, failure was inconceivable to the young Hans Albrecht. Both personally and the war in general.
“What are these coats?” Hans asked, his voice snapping across the still silence of the camp’s yard. “Why are they wearing coats?”
