When I perform as them… well, it goes way beyond acting. I become them, live for them, feel for them. ’Course, some people call me sick, call me a killer but I’m giving these girls the kind of exposure that they could only dream of. Sure, they may not be around to enjoy it but if they were trading in their looks, why shouldn’t I? Granted, I have taken it a step further but fuck them, survival of the fittest and all of that.
Do I feel sorry for those that I‘ve farmed? No… not really. A pretty face was all they ever had to offer the world, a pretty face that just so happens to be mine now.
Killing Gary
Detective Honeysett had seen a lot during his thirty years on the force yet he had seen little to compare to what lay on the other side of the door that he now found himself paused before. His head ached from a shortage of both sleep and coffee. Realising he had stalled long enough, Honeysett entered the interrogation room.
PC Nelson acknowledged Honeysett with a brief nod as he crossed the room, eyes firmly fixed on the floor. He was not yet ready to look this particular monster in the eye and took the seat opposite moving his attention from the floor to the stack of files that he held in his left hand. He regarded them for a moment, their outline blocking the sight of the suspect sat opposite. He placed the files on the table and locked eyes with his prey. “Seven years work.” His suspect stared back. She was short, stocky and in her late thirties, older than he had imagined her to be. She was also entirely the wrong sex. Honeysett continued, “Seven years, countless sleepless nights, resources and man hours spent trying to apprehend you!” Honeysett taped on the stacked files, “This all of this, it's down to you!”
“Allegedly,” replied the suspect.
PC Nelson coughed. “Are we ready to begin the interview now sir?”
Honeysett flushed and slammed a thick digit into the record button. “This is the interview of Kirsten Shaw, regarding the murder of one Gary Howe. The date is the fifteenth of March and the time is nine forty-two a.m. Those present are me, DCI Honeysett, and PC Nelson.” He opened the files and began to spread them out on the desk. Kirsten watched on. “Do you wish to request the services of a lawyer?”
“Killed my last lawyer,” replied Kirsten. Honeysett fixed her with his best steely gaze before returning his attention to the files.
“Ah yes… so you did. Fed his face into a paper shredder. Nice. Chalk that one down as a confession Nelson.”
“Aye sir,” nodded Nelson.
Honeysett clasped his hands together and leaned forwards in his chair. “So, Miss Shaw, shall we start with your latest?”
Kirsten grinned. “Seems as good a place as any, after all you caught me dead, bang!” She raised her hands into the air in a mock surrender.
“Let’s see, Gary Howe, thirty-three, divorced, gas safety engineer. According to forensics—you beat him to death with his own wrench while he serviced your boiler—that sound about right?”
Kirsten chuckled. “Yep, first thing that came to hand. I hate to shatter your illusion Detective but there was no master plan, this was purely a crime of passion.”
“Passion?” Honeysett scoffed. “You mean you were involved with Gary?”
“Fuck no!” Kirsten exclaimed. “I killed the greasy son of a bitch because I was passionate about his disgusting body odour not polluting my air! Then there was his massive ass crack staring me in the face. I couldn’t stand it… he had to go.”
“So you killed him?”
“Yep.”
“And dragged his body outside and left it on the kerb?”
“Yep, his tools too. Figured the gypsies might take ‘em and sell them on.”
Honeysett rubbed his temples. “You left a dead body on the side of the road in the hope that the gypsies might get rid of him for you?”
“Oh no, not the body… just the tools,” explained Kirsten with a smile.
Honeysett sighed. “You knew you’d be caught right?”
“Right.”
“So why now, why like this?”
Kirsten shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe I’d gotten tired of killing Gary.”
“Perhaps” mumbled Honeysett as he closed one file and opened another. “How about Gary Govik, forty-one, civil servant… the one killed with the bin lorry… you know anything about that?”
Kirsten sank in her chair. “Oh, that one.”
Honeysett smiled. “So, you do? Care to elaborate?”
“He was the bloke I spoke to about bi-monthly bin collections. Patronising jobsworth. I found out his address online; it’s easy enough if you know where to look. Then on the morning of the grey bin collection I waited until the crew had gone in for lunch and took their lorry… I-I didn’t mean—.” A stray tear rolled down her cheek, and she caught it with the sleeve of her grey cardigan.
“You didn’t mean to kill him? You feel remorse for this one?”
Kirsten began to sob. “No, it’s not that…I tried to get him under the wheels, but I misjudged it and caught him between the wheelie bins instead!” She began to cry harder.
Honeysett shook his head. “Jesus Christ, you’re a piece of work aren’t you?” Kirsten stopped crying and shot the Detective a hurtful look. He replaced the file of Gary Govik with another. “How about this one then? Gary Farthwright, twenty-one, student—killed falling off a bridge.”
Kirsten suddenly sat upright. “okay, that wasn’t me! I saw that in the papers, they said he jumped… wasn’t he the depressive sort anyway? Nope, not me. Next one.” Honeysett narrowed his eyes and watched Kirsten carefully as he closed the file. “Still, did me a favour, one less for me to do,” mumbled Kirsten.
Honeysett stood up and slammed the palms of his hands onto the table, startling both Kirsten and PC Nelson. “All right, enough of the crap! How many was it? Give me a number, no more bullshit theatrics! I wanna know just how busy you’ve been!”
Kirsten thought for a moment. “I’d say fourteen. Well, fourteen and a half…”
“A half?!” exclaimed Honeysett. “How the hell does that work?”
Kirsten fixed Honeysett with a stern look. “Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt an answer to a question you only just asked?”
“Fine, whatever,” stammered Honeysett with his temper soaring. “Do go on.”
“Right then, there was the rude waiter from Nom, he went into the storage refrigerator with a cleaver in his head, he was called Gary. Then there was Gary, the driving instructor who failed me. I stabbed him in the eye with his pen but pushed a little too far… then there was…”
“The half, get to the half!” interrupted Honeysett.
“Oh yeah, Gary, sorry… once I start reminiscing it’s hard to get me back on track! The half, he was a mechanic doing my MOT. Wanted to fail me on emissions so I slammed the bonnet on his head a few times. Thing is they make them so bloody light these days it only knocked him out. I drove past a few days later to see him working on a new Kia! I count him as my half.”
Detective Honeysett threw his hands up in the air. “Ah, now I see how that could be interpreted as half a murder, how shortsighted of me!” He crossed to PC Nelson and whispered something into his ear. Nelson nodded and left the room.
Kirsten sat back and smiled. “Don’t stress it, we all make mistakes right?”
Honeysett crossed back to the table. “Interview suspended at nine fifty-five am.” He clicked the recorder off and leaned deep into Kirsten’s personal space.
“Woah there tiger, you wanna back up or something?”
“Who was the first? Tell me.”
“Well… Gary obviously,” replied Kirsten.
Honeysett felt his anger rise. “Which Gary?”
Kirsten sighed and retreated from the Detective. “Gary Baker, my first love. He had a moped and a parting in the middle of his hair. He was gonna work at the pot bank, and we were gonna have kids and a nice terraced house, the lot… till he went and messed it all up.”
�
��What did he do?” asked Honeysett, his anger evening out a little.
“He sold the moped and went to college to study media,” Kirsten began to cry again. “After that things were never the same between us, he’d talk about blue-skying and PowerPoint presentations, it was like he was from another planet! He broke my heart, so I broke his… with a lump hammer.”
Honeysett stood up straight and rubbed his eyes. His head pounded, and he was desperate for a drink. He took his seat and looked at Kirsten. “You are telling me that you killed all of those men just because someone broke your heart?”
Kirsten shrugged. “Well, not just because. I mean there’s something about Gary’s isn’t there? Something weasel-like? Let’s be honest, it’s the kind of name you give to the kid that you dropped on the head right? Oh sorry, darling I just dropped baby on his noggin but at least we don’t need to struggle to think of a name now—it’s gotta be Gary right?” Honeysett felt his jaw tighten as Kirsten continued. “And they’re all so stupid with their eyes so close together and dubious personal hygiene. Can you even name one Gary who has contributed anything to the benefit of the human race? Any at all? I challenge you… you can’t right because all Gary’s are simple.” Honeysett rose from his chair, his fists were clenched, and his jaw was set but still she continued. “Honestly, I’m doing the world a favour… if I’d started younger, maybe I’d have culled their numbers more… I guess we’ll never know now.”
“My name is Gary,” muttered Honeysett, barely containing his anger.
“What?” replied Kirsten, her voice low and dangerous.
“Detective Inspector Scott Gary Honeysett, that’s why I took such a particular interest in this specific case. Call it a sense of pride, I was doing my bit for Gary’s everywhere.”
Kirsten began to tense. “You—you’re one of them?”
“Yes,” replied Honeysett. “Yes, I am.”
For a moment neither moved and each regarded the other intently. Then with a shriek the likes of which Detective Honeysett had never heard he found Kirsten upon him, desperately trying to wrap her hands around his throat.
After a brief, mostly silent struggle Honeysett managed to pry Kirsten’s hands free and call for help. PC Nelson thundered into the room to see the two of them struggling on the floor before freeing his taser and administering 50,000 volts to the base of Kirsten’s spine.
Honeysett stood up and fought to get his breath back. Nelson cuffed the dazed serial killer and rolled her into the recovery position. “You told her your name was Gary didn’t you sir?”
“I did yes,” replied Honeysett.
“Why did you do that? Your middle name is Hugo?” asked Nelson, puzzled.
“Gary was my father’s name. Lock her up officer; let’s hope Judge Gary Willis is in session for her hearing!”
With his morning coffee calling, Detective Scott Gary Honeysett straightened his tie and exited the room.
Brammerly House
It was a farmhouse by design, squat and damp. Situated on the outskirts of a remote village and accessed by a narrow dirt track, Brammerly House cut a solitary figure amongst a sea of freshly turned earth. Interminable rain fell here in that I cannot recall a single visit where the skies had not opened and the road to the house, not flooded.
Its occupants were relatives of mine, a distant and obscure connection that demanded an occasional visit, more out of politeness than wanting. He with a heaving gut barely contained by a sweater that was ridden with holes tended the land, and she, with her check apron and drawn features, worked the kitchen.
This was the room used to entertain guests (and as far as I could gather, was the only room utilized by the house’s inhabitants, save for the bedroom on the first floor and the outhouse across the yard). Many a Sunday afternoon was spent listening to the idle chatter of adults who maintain a charade of understanding of the world and its wants.
There were two children who lived at Brammerly House, or so I was told for they were seldom seen. I once caught a glimpse of the little girl who resided there. Again it was raining, the sky a quiet and angry grey, yet on her swing she sat, clothed in a yellow Macintosh and green, frog-eyed Wellington boots. She saw me looking at her from my vantage point, snug and warm by the open fireplace that perpetually burnt, and though the heavens lashed upon her, on the swing she remained. For hours I stood watching her (or so it seemed) until father called me away, my attention needed elsewhere. Of the boy, I saw neither hide nor hair.
I often wondered what it was that gave Brammerly House such an air of unease. Was it a fault of design? Those crooked passageways and low ceilings all added up to a sense of foreboding; it was almost as though the house did not want anyone amongst its innards.
My thoughts constantly return to the solitary staircase that ran from the front room to the first floor. Seldom used, the front room was home only to darkness and the mice. Upon entering, the door leading to the kitchen would fall shut behind you, sealing all but the loudest sign of life behind its bulk.
Accessing the stairway meant crossing the room behind one of the two, heavy-set sofas. It was impossible to tell their colour in the low light as everything in that room carried a tired, grey finish. No matter the time of year one could always see one’s breath, the room containing a perpetual chill.
Having braved the crossing, the stairwell was located through a further door. Again, almost as though the house willed it, the door would slam itself shut, leaving the stairway bathed in a blackness so tangible it smothered itself over the surface of your teeth. Dead ahead and barely visible was the doorway to the boy’s bedroom. On most visits to the stairwell the door was closed but on this particular occasion it stood ajar.
Feeling the familiar pinch of needing to urinate, a crossroads had been reached. Did I mount the stairs, groping my way through the murk and attempt to slip by the open doorway without alerting whosoever dwelled within to my presence, or did I try to hold the urge until we returned home?
The need to visit the toilet was great and without time to rationalise my foot was upon the first step. Of course, it almost goes without saying at this point but the stair let out a mournful creak. The second step followed quickly as did the third. Progress was swift and filled me with an unknown confidence, that was until I looked towards the top of the stairs. Standing there, outlined in gloom, was the little girl from the swing. Her eyes were holes of black, and her mouth hung open. I paused mid-step, my heart raced, and my bladder grew heavy. For a moment, there was nothing between us but the still and the dark.
I caught the sound of shallow footfalls coming from the room directly behind the girl. A shadow, cumbersome and twisted, appeared over her shoulder. It towered above her; its hunched form filling the landing. I could not see its eyes, but I could hear the anger upon its breath.
I turned and fled, leaving the girl and the thing atop of the stairs. My bladder gave way, and I stumbled into the kitchen terrified and wet. What followed was a severe scolding from my father and a hurried car ride home. Not once did I utter a word about what I saw at the top of the stairs that day; suffice to say, whether through shame or fear, we never visited Brammerly House again.
Alone
I stand alone on a narrow plinth of rock. Around me is a sea of blackness, still yet menacing. It hides my path, my choices. It mocks me, daring me to leap, daring me to be swallowed by its chaos.
In the distance, I can see the lives that those around me are leading, blissfully unaware of my plight, of my loss. Behind me are the choices that I have made, many of which I sometimes wish I could unmake, but only sometimes. In weak times.
What choice? Do I stand on my pillar, still and safe? Do I watch the world go about its business and remain secure within the void? Am I ready to give up emotion whether it be love or loss and all that each entails?
I have dwelt long enough; my path lies somewhere in the darkness. I place my leading foot before me and step into the abyss.
About The Author.
Dan Weatherer
Award-winning author Dan Weatherer was first published by Haunted Magazine in Spring, 2013. “The Legend of the Chained Oak” was an immediate success and was made into a short film which won the award for ‘Best Horror’ at the Portobello Independent Film Festival (2014), ‘Best Short’ at The Bram Stoker International Film Festival (2014) and also the ‘Best UK Short Film’ award at the Stoke Your Fires Film Festival 2014. The film featured at numerous film festivals around the world during 2014. The premiere screening took place in his hometown of Cheadle, Staffordshire, where he kindly donated all of the proceeds to local charities.
In 2015 Dan was shortlisted for the prestigious position of Staffordshire Poet Laureate 2016-2018.
Aside from the publication of numerous short stories with a multitude of presses, his next major project was a solo collection of short stories titled ‘The Soul That Screamed’ (Winner of the Preditors & Editors™ Readers' Poll ‘Best Anthology 2013’).
A further two collections “Only the Good Burn Bright” (Spring 2015, James Ward Kirk Fiction) and “Neverlight” (Spring 2016, Spectral Press) quickly followed.
His first non-fiction book titled ‘What Dwells Within’ was released in the Autumn of 2015 and details the life’s work of paranormal investigator Jayne Harris.
An accomplished playwright, Dan has had several of his plays appear at festivals and fringe events. Expect to see more of Dan’s work on stage very soon.
Work continues in earnest on his debut novel and a fourth collection. Expect to see a book containing a complete collection of his stage plays appearing via Spectral Press towards the end of 2016.
He lives in Staffordshire, where is married to his wife Jenni and is a (proud) full-time dad to his daughter Bethany and his son Nathan.
Visit www.fatherdarkness.co.uk for more information.
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