by Amanda Holt
It had somehow known what to expect all along, yet had not conveyed to me anything but a sense of urgent need to get to this location.
Immediately I noticed that in the large room was the queen-sized bed in the middle with the shackles and chains at both its head and its foot. The bed was in a state of disarray, the white sheets messy and spattered with what appeared to be blood and other stains.
A single brown teddy bear sat alone at the center of the bed, a prop of some kind, its cute button eyes bearing witness to the horrors that had unfolded here.
I felt my eyes widen as I took it all in.
There were three small cages, one empty, two with a small child housed inside their locked panels. The cages were a foot apart and no larger than dog kennels, which had likely been their original purpose.
The captive children were so tiny.
It was so wrong for them to be here.
The one on the left was a blond boy, the one on the right, a cocoa skinned girl.
Their faces were turned away from me and I shuddered to think of what their little eyes had seen here, in this basement that was their prison.
The kids couldn’t have been more than three years old…
I surveyed the rest of the room quickly, seeing the video recording equipment, the various implements of torture hanging on a rack on the wall, nearest the bed.
The open door to the walk-in closet had a rack of child-sized costumes in a multitude of styles and materials.
The sole adult in the room was a balding heavy-set man seated in front of the computer his back to me. From my position on the stairs, I could see that he was manipulating a photo of the blond haired boy with some kind of computer graphics software.
I didn’t want to believe what the image on the screen was showing me.
An image of an act so terrible, I had to look away.
How many photos had there been in this room, of children forced into these sick acts?
How much innocent blood and tears had been spilled on that bed, for the sake of this man’s perversion?
The perversion of others who made use of the photos for their own sick purposes.
The Dark Thing didn’t want to wait for a confrontation with the man.
It wanted justice.
More than justice, it wanted this man’s blood.
It had made its decision before we had even reached this house of terrors.
Now, I made mine.
I understood the Dark Thing’s wishes.
There would be no day in court for this monster.
No sentencing hearing, no insanity plea and no treatment or rehabilitation program.
No time off of a jail sentence for good behavior.
Only the dark hand of true justice.
I descended the rest of the stairs, feeling stronger and more determined with each new step. The Dark Thing’s raw hunger for his blood drove me on, adding intensity to my sense of purpose.
I walked past the unmade bed, past the camcorder on its tripod, past the closet of costumes, willing my hands to grow claws as long as knife blades. With my newly lengthened fingers, my hands would fit perfectly around his throat and so, they did.
The balding man was so engrossed in his sick labors that he didn’t even notice – didn’t even sense – me standing there behind him, reaching my hands around each side of his throat.
In a frenzy, I dug my claws into his fat flesh, burying them into each side of his larynx.
I burrowed deep and true.
The Dark Thing fed off the man’s surprise, as surely as it fed on his blood, its satisfaction growing with every weakening beat of his heart. His only sound of protest was a wet gurgle as his throat filled with blood.
The fat man flailed, grabbing at my hands, trying to pry my talons from his corrupt flesh.
In this unnatural form, I was far stronger than him and getting stronger by the second. Every drop of blood that fell on the leather-like surface of my dark second skin was soaked up by the Dark Thing, devoured completely, adding to our power.
Just as had happened with my other victims, images of the pervert’s crimes washed through my mind while his blood quenched the savage hunger of the Dark Thing.
Little boys and little girls…
I closed my eyes against the imagery, but the man’s memories wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t leave me alone.
Little boys and girls…
There had been many of them, over the years, tortured in this room and photographed, their images traded and sold so that afterward, their little bodies could be disposed of in the City’s garbage dumps when he and his circle of pornographers tired of their tiny broken spirits.
Looking down at the pedophile from above, I saw his brown eyes bulge in their sockets.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing in the reflection of his computer screen – but then, who would?
I certainly didn’t look human.
Not anymore.
In the reflection of the monitor was a monster of one kind facing a monster of an entirely different variety.
I reminded myself, then and there, that his evil by far surpassed that of anything I might do to him.
I could barely suffer the idea of letting him live any longer.
I wanted the images of his deeds out of my head since they were sickening to me.
They were a poisonous lot that filled me with hatred for this awful bastard.
He made more horrified gurgling sounds as I decided the feeding was over and tore out his throat, severing his carotid arteries. Twin arcs of blood splashed across the air, landing on the computer screen and soaking the orange shag carpet of the floor with heavy crimson droplets.
The fat man grabbed at his throat with his hands, trying to stop the blood flow.
It was too late!
I had cut too deep, had shredded his neck.
His injuries were fatal.
I felt eyes upon me and turned to see the blond haired boy and dark skinned girl watching me intently, their eyes wide with horror, their breathing distressed around the gags in their tiny mouths.
Considering the children, who had already been through enough, I tore the top sheet from the bed and covered the dying man with it.
I had a few decisions left to make.
What to do about the children?
About the fat man’s body?
I saw the large key ring hanging on a nail in the wall near the cages – holding what were likely the keys to the children’s cages.
I could let them go, here and now, I thought.
But no. The police were the best suited to care for the children, to return them to their parents and free them from this Hell that had been their prison for so long.
Now, as for his body…well, I supposed the police were the best suited to handle that, too.
Either them or the city coroner…
Seeing the phone line next to the computer, I decided to use the dying man’s own telephone to call the police.
I willed my fingers to return to their natural proportions, though not uncovering so much as to leave the fingerprints of my bare skin.
I had never dialed nine-one-one before and, after punching the three digits into the cordless phone, I was surprised to hear a list of options.
“If this is a fire emergency, press one. If this is a police emergency, press two. If you need medical assistance, press three. If you do not have a touch tone phone, please stay on the line and –“
I interrupted the recording by pressing two, for a police emergency.
The line began to ring.
“Hello, nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” Came the nasal voice of the female telephone operator.
“Hello. I’m calling to report a very dead man and two children who’ve been to Hell and back in the basement of the white and blue house at sixty-five Carter Street.”
There.
Quick and to the point.
“Your name?”
“It doesn’t matte
r.” I told her, wondering if she was tracing the phone call, as they did on the police shows on television. “Just send the police as soon as you can, please. I can’t bear the thought of these children being in those cages much longer. They’ve been through enough.”
“Is this some kind of prank?” The woman demanded, suddenly, as though she didn’t believe me.
She had to believe me!
I couldn’t take care of the kids myself and I couldn’t exactly stick around to talk to the police…
“No – I’ve just killed the man who was keeping them hostage. Forgive me for putting the phone down, but I have to leave before the police get here.”
“What makes you think that the man is dead?”
The Dark Thing seemed to sense that she was stalling for time, which probably meant that the police were on their way.
“Because I tore his throat out and bled him like the pig he is – that’s how I know.” I was losing patience. Not to mention losing valuable time to get away before the police arrived. The Dark Thing was encouraging me to hurry. “Goodbye.”
“Wait—“ I hung up on her before she could get another word out.
I turned to the children.
“I’m sorry for leaving you like this, kids, but the police will be here soon to take you back to your parents. It’s over now. That bad man can’t hurt you anymore.”
It bothered me, how they looked as terrified of me as they had no doubt been of him.
I willed the Dark Thing to fade from my face, knowing that my black eyes and reptilian skin weren’t helping things much, where their fears were concerned.
I tried to give them the most reassuring smile I could manage.
“I promise you – you’ll be safe at home, in no time.”
They didn’t look reassured.
They looked frightened.
Oh well.
I had tried my best.
Without further ado, I left the way that I had come, willing the Dark Thing back into its dwelling place beneath my skin. I paused at the door briefly and took the key from the lock, where I had left it, deciding to keep it as a trophy, a souvenir of what had happened this night.
My work done, the door left open, my heart pounding – but the Dark Thing sated, if only for now – I walked back to the bus stop as quickly as I dared, though not too quickly to avoid drawing attention to myself.
An elderly lady with soft brown skin and even softer brown eyes was sitting on the bench at my stop, waiting for bus fifty-eight, the only bus that came down Sergeant Avenue.
“Do you know what time the next bus comes?” I asked her, politely.
“Oh, any time now.” She extended her hand to me, a package of mints in it. “Would you like a mint, dear?”
“Sure.” I accepted the Mentos from the package she offered. I was delighted to find that the mint took the copper taste out of my mouth – the taste that seemed to accompany my transformations into the Dark Thing. The copper taste was probably from the slightest trace of my victim’s blood, I suspected. After all, the Dark Thing did seem to devour every drop of blood that touched it. “Thank you.”
“So where are you coming from? I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“I was babysitting,” I lied. It was more like baby-saving, I thought to myself, with a bit of amusement. “This is a nice neighborhood. I noticed that almost everyone grows flowers or trees in their yards.”
“Yes, people around here take great pride in their homes. I’m Luisa Mendez.”
Oh shit. What to say? I said the first thing that came to my mind. “Avril Lavigne.”
“So, Avril, are in high school yet?”
“Yes.” I told her. “Grade ten.”
“What do you plan on doing, once you’re done with school?”
The sound of sirens approaching made me smile. “Actually, lately I’ve been thinking of becoming a police officer.”
Which, of course, I had—even more, since the night of my attack.
That night had changed me, in so many ways...
I saw the white, red and blue lights of two squad cars approaching us at high speed, from where they had turned unto Sergeant Avenue and I found myself smiling with satisfaction. The police had responded quicker than I had expected. I hadn’t known they would get here so quickly, but the Dark Thing had seemed to know.
Somehow, it had known.
“Oh, dios mio, what has happened now?” The nice elderly lady asked, of the approaching cars and their flashing lights. “The street gangs to the North of us, no doubt.”
I watched the cars with her, in silence.
They slowed as they passed by us and I saw the cops in the second car glance at us briefly. They would never in a million years suspect me of the murder – me, a fifteen year old girl sitting next to an elderly woman at a bus stop eating Mentos.
Yet I couldn’t mince words, not even with myself.
It was murder that I had committed, compelled by the Dark Thing inside of me, compelled by a need to correct a grave injustice.
Murder no matter what my reason, my justification and ultimately, my choice to commit.
The nice Hispanic lady looked horrified, as the squad cars turned off unto Carter Street.
While I was impressed by their quick response to the call I had put into 9-1-1, I figured that it was a good thing I hadn’t lingered at the dead man’s home.
“I know people on that street.” Luisa’s voice was concerned. “I hope that they’re all right.”
“I’m sure they are.”
A bar of lights above a large vehicle a few blocks away heralded the slow, steady arrival of the bus that would take me back in the direction of my home.
When the bus finally stopped in front of us, I gestured for her to board first.
“Nice meeting you, Luisa.”
“Nice meeting you, dear.”
I boarded after her and took my seat beyond the few other passengers, at the back of the bus.
As we rode past Carter Street, I saw the two squad cars parked outside of house sixty-five, their bright lights flashing off the walls of the blue and white house. The officers were already somewhere in the house, the front door of which I had left wide open for their easy access.
In that moment especially, I envied those police officers, envied their access to the criminals of the City.
How many evils did they encounter daily?
How many resources were at their disposal to help them track and detain criminals?
Thinking of how I intended to right some of the many wrongs going on in the City, I decided that being a police officer might be one of the easiest ways to affect those changes.
It was a great way to learn all that I could about the criminal element that plagued out City.
It was then that I decided, with certainty.
In a few years’ time, I was going to become a cop.
-2-
The Dark Thing inside of me seemed to need to feed on corrupt blood and that, in part, is why I found the prospect of becoming a police officer to be an attractive one. I would have access to many resources that could keep the Dark Thing in its supply of guilty blood and make the world a safer place for the innocent, at the same time.
The Dark Thing, I knew, would be a benefit to society.
There would be no escape for criminals of even the worst sort.
What I couldn’t accomplish as a police officer legitimately carrying out good deeds in the legal system, I could accomplish as a vigilante acting alone with my dark gift to guide and empower me.
That first night, the night of my attack, I had walked home half-naked, holding my torn top closed with both hands. I had been able to make the organic second skin of the Dark Thing disappear merely by hoping that it would fade away.
Much to my amazement, it had obeyed and left without a trace, retracting itself back into my body, the very site from which it had come.
For that, I was glad—I could hardly go home with black cla
ws coming out of my fingertips, after all.
Nevertheless, I had ended up on my parents’ doorstep with my clothes torn, bruises forming where I had been slapped in the face, not to mention, grabbed and restrained.
My mother and father had of course wanted to know what had happened. To avoid a scolding, I didn’t tell them about cutting through Lincoln Park. Instead, I told them that someone attacked me on my way home, a block from our house and that I had gotten away by kicking my single attacker in the face.
Of course, the truth was quite a different story.
All three of my attackers had died at my hands.
My vengeful exoskeleton covered hands.
After an interview with a police officer, they took me to the doctor, who reassured them that I was okay, that there was nothing broken but my split lip and of course those few small abrasions from where their hands had treated me roughly.
My hymen was intact – I was still a virgin.
My parents wanted me to quit my job at Bo’s Ice Cream Parlor, but we compromised.
I could keep the job, but one of them would now pick me up and drop me off, to and from work.
They especially warned to stay away from the park now, after dark. There had been three grisly murders in that area the night I was attacked and the killer was still at large.
The police had no leads, save but for the account of one eye witness, who claimed that the murders were the work of a demon, with blades for fingers and burning black coals for eyes…
Given that the eyewitness was a transient old man living in the park, with a history of drug and alcohol abuse, his account of the murders was somewhat less than credible. His claim that the cold-blooded killer was a demon made his story less than credible, still.
However, the tabloids had loved it and ran the story as front page news.
The police were less than impressed, what with their lack of a real lead and all…
When, at the age of sixteen, I told my family that I wanted to be a police officer, they had mixed reactions.
My adoptive father, Paul, initially thought that I should go to law school, if I wanted to play any role in the justice system.
My brother, Darren, younger than me by twelve years, thought it would be cool if I became a cop, since he wanted to be one too. Then again, he was only four and still had full respect for law enforcement officers back then.
