Paige looked down. "Oh shit. Penny, you did this wrong, we were supposed to take his balls and cock first." Behind her, Penny nodded, pointed.
Paige smiled and ambled back to the bag. "Nice change of plan." She took a string of barbed wire from the ground and walked back to her mutilated husband. Michael was crawling, his one eye on the BMW, his only (slim) solace. Paige stood on his broken leg. Michael groaned, his energy sapped, no longer able to scream. He mumbled, and tried to thrash. His arms flopped down beside him.
Paige unclasped his belt and struggled with his button. She used the claw on the hammer and popped it free. She yanked down his trousers and briefs, pulled them off and tossed them behind her, keys jangling as they landed. His broken leg was at an obtuse angle to his body, the skin mottled purple and bloody. His flaccid penis lay on his pasty, urine-soaked thigh. To think I used to fuck that, she thought. Jasmine had her treacherous cunt around it; her pussy fucked it like it was hers. He was mine.
"Slut," Paige said aloud. She shot her husband a glance. His eyes were half closed, his body going into shock. "Till death do us part, my love." Paige sneered and spread his legs.
Michael passed out as his wife inserted the barbed wire into his urethra. A high pitch squeal used the last of his energy and he was unconscious before the second barb sliced his foreskin. As she pushed it in, blood sluiced over her fingers. She laughed over the ripping of her husband's cock. "My, my, someone's backed up." She inserted a finger into his anus, the body twitched and after a moment, semen shot from the gouge in the penis. "Premature, as always. How boring!"
She didn’t stop until the fifth barb was firmly inside Michael's shaft.
Then she shoved Jasmine's mutilated labia and clitoris in his mouth and tied him to the post with his mistress. Picking up a rotor blade from the bag, the final item, she hammered it into his skull and left the corpses behind.
No one would find them. Not in time to ID or link them to her.
If at all. Lake Whisper was exactly that: A whisper on the lips of people who avoided it.
A tragic memory.
The BMW traversed the asphalt with no effort. Paige turned into a bend. She looked at her left hand on the wheel and noticed a chunk of bloody flesh beneath the nail. She wiped it on her top and made a note to burn it. It wouldn’t survive the slaughter.
She didn’t recall what happened.
Jasmine and Michael were dead. Probably because of their fling, something she had known for some time. She should have cried but she couldn't find it in her heart. Maybe her sister had a boyfriend tucked away somewhere and he took offense.
Fine, saves me an expensive divorce.
Paige felt stoic, numb. She didn’t know how to process the feelings inside of her. Then, within a moment, something shifted in her brain and she remembered.
Floods of memories came pouring out.
She did this. Her husband and his mistress, her sister, were her victims.
Paige gasped, her body rocked with surprise. She settled into her seat.
An evil grin spread across her lips. As her lips curved, the BMW curved into the road. Paige didn’t see the small girl beside her, but she was all too aware of her presence.
Penny.
Her daughter. She needed her.
She hadn't been there at the important moment.
Five years ago, when Lake Whisper took her.
The BMW careened into the oncoming traffic lane.
I'm coming, Penny. You need me.
Paige stared, helpless and unknowing as the semi-truck plowed into the BMW. The horn shrieked as the BMW exploded in the head-on collision. Shards of metal and glass littered the air for long moments. A slice of metal tore through Paige's face, taking her life before the car hit the tarmac with a screech. It took a whole minute for the debris to settle.
Paige saw her daughter head into the light as she closed her eyes. As the life ebbed from her leaking body, she smiled.
She needs me.
You going back there? To bury the bodies? Toss them in the lake? Face the girl again?
No fucking way.
Besides, I'll be the first person they question regardless. I'm his wife.
A voice broke her train of thought. A young voice.
A girl's voice.
'That’s right, you're his wife. And families are supposed to love one another.'
Paige looked up and instantly checked the rear view mirror. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized the seat was…
Empty.
She breathed out. Thank fuck for that. Don’t do that to yourself, Paige. It's all in your fucking head. She laughed and reached for a cigarette on the passenger seat.
Penny was staring back at her.
'Love one another.' The black pools of evil were swirling. 'You didn’t love one another.'
The straight line curved into a smile.
Paige gasped.
Then all was black.
Hollow Be Thy
"You can't escape. There's no way out."
The woman said it matter-of-factly and with certain conviction.
She dragged the axe behind her, its vicious steel blade scraping the rough, uneven concrete. It left a small trail of blood behind her, remnants of her previous, recent victim, smearing the boring grey with a thin streak of bright vermilion. The woman was limping, but laughing, the pain making her delirious and, coincidently, extremely dangerous.
She's already dangerous, thought Jacques. The bitch has a fucking axe.
"This basement has one way in and one way out. And you're heading in the wrong direction, sweetie." The woman laughed, the distorted sound echoed off the solid, dark walls.
Jacques didn’t want to believe the woman's words but the way she said it, the tone of her voice, told him he was in serious trouble. He knew he was heading into a dead end but it was that, or take a blow from the axe.
The thought made him shrivel up inside.
Jacques retreated further into the basement.
He discovered a set of stairs and glanced into the haunting darkness below. Maybe he could find a dark corner to hide in, trick her, and get behind her. If he remembered the way out, he could run by the crazy bitch. She'd have no hope with the busted knee. He half smiled when he remembered kicking her. The sound of her kneecap popping had put a spring in his step.
A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
He heard the woman's staggered footsteps behind him. Jacques gulped, took a final look at the stairs, and started to descend. He had no choice.
The woman's words haunted him.
There's no escape.
That’s what she wants you to think. Don’t give in; you can get out of this.
Jacques hoped he was right as he stepped off the last stair and walked into the darkness.
Something splashed under his feet.
Then his hands hit the flat, smooth wall ahead of him, signaling the end of the path. The cool, slick plaster blazed through his hot, sweaty palms, making him jolt in surprise and shock. He looked left and right; saw nothing but wall and smooth mortar covered bricks, the same for the entire room. The swinging, dim bulb above exposed very little with a very small cone of yellow, blinking light. He was in a cubic room with one exit; the way he'd come in.
How many other basements do you know with more than one exit?
A cold pang shot up his spine. The squelching sound was getting louder, emanating from beneath him. He moved his feet and felt a soggy sensation fill his sneakers.
He looked down, squinting in the low light. His eyes focused.
The light swung back behind him, lighting the mess below.
Jacques screamed.
He jumped back, his sweat-soaked chamois shirt slapping against the mortar behind him. Jacques receded away, heading deeper into the dark room. A sour, coppery smell attacked his nostrils, sending a nauseous rippling to his stomach. His feet slipped and slid and he fell, placing his hands back. A huge plop filled the air as his rump and
hands hit the soaking surface beneath him. The vision of the mutilated corpse inches in front of him; his feet in its eviscerated chest cavity, would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Or minutes. Maybe seconds.
"I see you found my abattoir. How fitting."
The woman stepped into the doorway. The light from behind her cast her as a demented, hunched over silhouette. Her hair, black in the dimly lit basement, hung scraggily over the dark form of her body. The unmistakable outline of the axe, tilted in her hand, leaning menacingly against her injured leg, made Jacques moan in anguish.
He felt his bladder release, urine streamed down his leg, soaking his trousers, and flowed onto the sodden surface below him. As he backed away, he felt cold, dead, soggy flesh lick his hot, sweaty skin. The blood was everywhere. Nausea took a back seat to the fear riveting through his body. His heart slammed in his chest and his breath caught, coming in short, frantic gasps.
His eyes didn’t leave the woman.
She took a step forward.
Jacques crawled back. "Why are you doing this?"
"It's my masterpiece. And it's nearly complete."
"What…what masterpiece?" Jacques came up against another wall. Tears started rolling down his face but he didn’t realize he was crying. His attention was averted, some kind of adrenaline rush protecting him from his imminent fate. His body wasn't ready to go into shutdown. His eyes burned from focusing on his predator, the woman who was surely going to kill him.
"You'll see. You're part of it, Jacques. You've always been part of it…"
The woman stepped forward again. Her left hand grasped the oak handle of the axe. Jacques noticed a low, wet swishing noise as she dragged her injured leg towards him. He would have prayed to the gods—had it mattered—and thanked them for keeping the room dark. The noise of the gallons of blood was bad enough, it wasn't something he needed to see.
The woman hoisted the axe into her hands and laughed.
"You don't have to do this…we can talk. You can let me go. No one needs to know…"
"Oh, but I do. It's of utmost importance."
And with that, the woman swung the axe, lopping Jacques head from his shoulders with one savage swipe. His heavy head, skull and skin and brain and sinew, spun into the air, sweaty hair whipping, and bounced on the blood-soaked concrete with a sodden splash. It hit the wall with a solid thunk and came to a rest beside a dismembered arm. The woman looked down at the limb and noticed a rat chewing on the fingers. The rat ignored her as it feverishly devoured its meal.
She laughed and scooped up the blood-spattered head. Jacques's corpse toppled behind her, splashing in the blood that flowed around it. Its sliced neck hole sprayed, adding to the crimson floor. Moments later, it was a part of the room—another headless corpse that littered her soundproof, slaughterhouse basement.
"Mom, where’s my shirt?"
"What shirt?"
"My best shirt, the blue one."
"It's on your bed, where I left it."
Jack looked behind him, in the reflection of his mirror. His bed was a mess; the duvet crumpled over and haphazard, the red sheets below wrinkled from last night's restless sleep. A pillow hung off the edge of the mattress. He smiled and walked over, turned the duvet and saw the shirt he was looking for. He picked it up by the hanger beneath its shoulders and placed it on the door handle. With one firm stroke of his hand, he swished some dust from it. It hadn't creased. He smiled.
"Perfect."
"You find it?"
"Yeah, thank you."
Muffled footsteps came along the upstairs hall and Jack's mother appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the white woodwork and folded her arms. Her eyes brimmed with pride, a smile turned her full lips. "Look at you, all handsome."
Jack jumped, splashing cologne on his white vest. "Jesus, Mom. You scared the shit out of me." He put the small bottle down and spread the smell around his body.
"Hey, less of the cursing in the house." She continued smiling. "Anyway, where are you going tonight?"
"I have a date. Remember?"
"Oh yes, with the woman from the bookstore. Where are you taking her?"
"I was thinking somewhere Italian…Pirlo's maybe…"
"Nice. Romantic."
A comfortable silence filled the air. Jack pushed his arms into the shirt, the cuffs flapping as he did so. He moved his arms up and down, loosening the ironed material. He put it back on the bed behind him.
"Tell me how you met again?" his mother asked.
"I already did."
"I know it was in a bookstore…it's not a normal place for chatting to strangers. How did you meet? I mean like, the circumstances, you know?"
"Didn't I tell you…?"
"Yes, but it's so romantic. Like…you couldn’t write this sort of stuff. It's like a Harlequin novel, only better."
"What the hell is Harlequin?"
Jack's mother shook her head. "Never mind. Just tell me, please."
He sighed. "Nothing to tell, Mom." Jack buckled his belt. He checked his hair for the umpteenth time and grabbed the shirt. "I asked about a book at the counter, she was there when I did, asking for the same book. We started chatting, had a bit in common and she asked me out."
His mother stepped into the room. "She asked you? You didn't tell me that."
"Is it important? Women do that, don’t they?" Jack tucked his shirt in.
"Yeah, sometimes. Not often, but sometimes."
"So why the fuss?" Jack buttoned his shirt up and stepped back, holding his arms out. "What do you think? Too much?" He half twirled; checking the sides of his shirt, making sure it was tucked in properly.
"Handsome. My boy has grown up. I'm so proud of you." She leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. Jack leaned away. "Gross, Mom." He smiled, sheepishly.
"You'll knock her dead." She patted him on the back, walked towards the door, paused, and turned back to her son. "Remember, you're taking your cousin Scotty trick or treating tomorrow. And don’t be late, you have school in the morning. Have a good time tonight, okay?"
"I will. And it's college, not school."
"Love you, Jack."
"Ewww, sick." His mother narrowed her eyes in his direction. He noticed it in the mirror and their eyes met. Jack sighed. "Love you too, Mom." She left, plodding off down the carpeted hallway. Jack clasped his watch around his wrist and took one final look in the mirror.
"Perfect."
Jack walked out of his room, flicking the light off as he went. He took the stairs two at a time and landed in the lounge. His mother was standing before him, looking out of the window, her fingers between two slats of the blinds. Jack frowned. "You okay, Mom?"
A small yelp. She turned and held a hand to her chest. "My God, now who's scaring people? I'm fine, a delivery truck for UPS just arrived." She looked at the clock on the wall. "It's nearly eight. A little late, isn't it?"
"They deliver at all times, Mom. Anyway, wish me luck."
"Good luck, you'll knock her dead."
Jack smiled and opened the front door. He walked down the path, checking his cellphone for messages. He nodded to the UPS delivery person who walked by. His mother appeared in the doorway as he climbed into the car.
Jack started the car and drove off, heading into town.
The UPS person reached the door. "Mrs. J. Walker?"
"That’s me."
The Italian, Pirlo's, was a small, independent bistro on the corner of Bachman Street. Situated between a butchers and a grocers—both of which supplied the restaurant with the freshest ingredients—it was the perfect place for a date.
Jack knew it well; he'd been here with his parents in the past. Before his father had left them, he'd taken them once a month. They made the best spaghetti and meatballs in town. The marinara sauce was one of a kind.
Jack glanced at his date and smiled. Emma returned the gesture and looked down, her arms in front of her, hands in her lap, nervous.
Jack took a chance.
"You look beautiful tonight."
"Charmer." She sipped her water and looked around, taking in the view. Jack felt a swell of pride. He knew Pirlo's was quaint, well decorated and romantic. The low music and the clatter of kitchenware lent the place an ambience of relaxation and peace. Jack had been here multiple times and never once had he felt rushed during his meal. The sign of a decent, family run restaurant. Emma turned back to him.
"This is a beautiful place. Have you been here before?"
"Yes, with my folks. Several times. Never on a…date."
"Well, I'm honored to be the first woman you've dined with here."
"Apart from my Mom."
Jackass, he thought. Emma chuckled and sipped her water. Jack grimaced and looked away, feeling the blush spread across his cheeks. "I'm sorry."
"Not a problem." Emma stared, her eyes searching his, relaxing him. As if saying: you're doing fine, I'm nervous too. We're both nervous, this doesn’t happen to us often.
Jack hoped that was the case. He really did.
Emma was an attractive girl. Her brown hair, flecked with blonde highlights, curled at the edges so it caressed her petite visage. Every time she looked around, the locks swished silently against her face. Her stark brown eyes shone in the candlelight, the homely luminosity bestowed the look of a supermodel. Her mouth was small, lips the right shape. Her nose was button like, which gave her a striking aura of cuteness at the right angle.
Jack smiled on reflex. Emma glanced around once more. "Family business?"
"For forty years. Pirlo is the surname of the family. They make the best Italian in Lake Whisper. Coming from experience."
"Ah, so you're a foodie."
"A what?"
"You like good food. You know what's hot and what's not." Emma said it like it was a fact.
"I know it's better than a burger and fries."
"An enema is better than a burger and fries."
Jack frowned. "What?"
Emma laughed. "That's a little exaggerated. Sorry, ignore me; it’s been a long day." Jack nodded. Long day. Am I inconveniencing her?
An awkward silence settled over them. Jack noticed a basket of bread on the next table and welcomed a distraction. Maybe a waiter will bring one over soon. He wiped his brow. "Is it hot in here?"
Whispers - Volume 1: A Collection Page 9
