Box Set: Scary Stories- Vols. 3 & 4 (Chamber Of Horror Book 8)

by Billy Wells

  “The unopened candy may be what the old man purchased and not this generic stuff. Maybe he was telling the truth.”

  “Then where did the deadly candy come from?” Toast asked. “Everyone says the old man didn’t have a friend in the world, and he hadn’t had a visitor for years. Where did this mystery person come from?”

  They looked at each other and had no answers.

  Toast pointed to an obscure sign nailed to the wall outside the front door. “What’s your take on the sign?”

  “What sign?” Fogarty asked.

  “Oh, maybe you didn't see it yet. Step closer.”

  A sign with barely visible letters that appeared to be scrawled in blood read: Beware the Ripper.

  “That's what Joe Ramos told me was written on the notes his brothers got when someone threw a rock through their window, slashed their tires twice, and killed their dog,” Toast explained.

  “Who in the hell is the Ripper?” Kojak asked sucking a Red Devil fireball.

  Toast shrugged his shoulders, and turning away, stepped back inside the house, holding his nose.

  Moments later, the agents heard him retching his guts out moments later when the crime scene crew wheeled out several open stainless steel basins of skin slices, hanks of hair, and bone fragments unidentifiable with a particular brother.

  The agents returned to their Crown Vic. While Fogarty drove, Kojak ran the name Ominous through Motor Vehicles and found there was a Maude Ominous listed at the Shady Lane address for years until 2006. He also found someone named Jacqueline Ominous had a license twenty-five years ago that expired and was never renewed.

  When the agents arrived back at the office, Fogarty started checking on the history of Gomer Ominous and discovered he had been married to Maude Snyder and had a daughter named Jacqueline, who had spent most of her life in a mental institution. He called the Rosewood Sanatorium where she had been a patient since 1984. “This is Special Agent Fogarty from the FBI. Can I speak with someone in authority who could tell me if Jacqueline Ominous is still a patient there?”

  Fogarty was transferred to another line. It rang three times and a woman answered. Fogarty introduced himself again and repeated his question.”

  “My name is Marjorie Flanders. I am the director here. I'm sorry, but I cannot give out information about our patients on the phone. You will have to come to the Sanitarium and fill out the necessary paperwork.”

  “Look, Mrs. Flanders. I can get a court order if I have to, but that will take time and more people could die. Do you want that on your conscience?”

  “I’m sorry, I’d like to help, but…”

  “I’m not asking for the moon. I just want to know if she’s still there. A serial killer is on the loose who slaughtered ten children.” Fogarty winked at Kojak. “The coroner is scraping their remains into body bags as we speak.”

  Flanders’ long silence told Fogarty he had struck a nerve with this remark. Finally, her rigid adherence to the rules softened and she said nervously, “This may cost me my job, but due to the extenuating circumstances, I want to help. Miss Ominous had been a patient with us for over thirty years, but she escaped from our care while attending her father's funeral three weeks ago. We notified the authorities, and they have been looking for her ever since.“

  “How did she escape?”

  “Sadly, she brutally attacked her armed escort, who is still in critical condition. Somehow, she got her hands on a butcher knife from the kitchen and slit his throat. Miss Ominous is highly schizophrenic and is extremely dangerous. Do you have any information concerning her possible whereabouts?”

  “No, I don't, but we suspect she may have arranged the murder of three individuals in Montclair, New Jersey who threatened her father, Mr. Gomer Ominous. Do you think it’s possible she could drive a car from Cleveland to New Jersey after being confined for all those years?”

  “It's hard to imagine, but she took the keys of a Nissan Altima from the man she stabbed and drove it away. Miss Ominous is highly intelligent and very resourceful, in spite of her psychosis.”

  “Can you tell me what caused her to be committed in the first place?”

  Flanders thought about the rules regarding confidential information, and then continued, “Well, they can only fire me once. She butchered several students at college in her senior year and later confessed to doctoring candy with razor blades on Halloween. She poisoned and maimed quite a few children in 1984. Several of them died of internal bleeding. I hope this helps.”

  “I'm afraid she's up to her old tricks,” Fogarty confessed more than he should have to Flanders. “We had an outbreak of mischief this past Halloween. Several children were hurt badly. One more question. It's a long shot, but…”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea if Miss Ominous has ever mentioned “The Ripper?”

  “It's odd you mention that. Inside these walls, it’s common for a patient to believe he is someone else. Some think they're Jesus Christ, or Napoleon, Elvis, or God knows who, but Jacqueline always had the delusion that she is a direct descendent of Jack the Ripper. Isn't that incredible? He was like a rock god to her by today's standards. She posted pictures she drew of him all over the walls.”

  “Mrs. Flanders, could you send me a fax of one of her most detailed drawings? It might help.”

  “Sure. I'd be happy to.”

  Fogarty gave her the telephone number, and five minutes later, the image scrolled up on his fax machine.

  As soon as the agents saw the drawing, their mouths fell open in disbelief.

  “It's Gomer Ominous,” Fogarty exclaimed as he glared at the detailed portrait of a young man with one lazy eye drawn meticulously in charcoal.”

  “What does it mean?” Kojak asked. “No one ever found out who Jack the Ripper was, but he must have died decades ago.”

  “Keep in mind, Kojak, the note didn't say Jack the Ripper. It said the Ripper. Maybe Gomer really is a direct descendent of the monster who terrorized London, and Jacqueline is a chip off the old block.”

  The phone rang, and Fogarty answered, “Fogarty.” Kojak saw his partner’s face light up as he listened intently and made some cryptic notes on a pad. He saw his face darken and then pale in color from something the person was telling him.

  After putting down the phone, he slumped backward in his chair, unable to speak for several moments, just staring into space.”

  “Who was it, Partner? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “It was Toast with an update. They found Jacqueline Ominous’ body with her throat cut in a dumpster close to where the Ramos brothers’ Ma and Pa live. The body had been in there for several days. Joe Ramos, the cop, told me someone slashed all four tires on his brothers’ Mercury Marquis for the second time a few days before her body was discovered. On the morning before the massacre, the mailman delivered a letter from The Ripper warning them to stay away from Shady Lane or else.”

  “Well. I’ll be. I guess The Ripper is dead, and possibly the Halloween killer. Maybe we can close the book on this one, Partner.”

  “There’s more. The boys down at the station put one of their ace techies on Gomer’s past history. He found the old man became a sperm donor in 1984 and impregnated hundreds of women for over thirty years.”

  “Do they have any records on how many of the women went to term and gave birth?”

  “They do, and he gave me the estimate the techies gave him.”

  “Well, how many potential psychopaths are walking the streets right now that are descendents of the London butcher?”

  “The records indicate Gomer sired 79 children, who sired 115 children, who sired 203 more children. Toast says the genealogist they consulted estimates over a thousand new Rippers could be lurking in a dark alley somewhere in the world.”

  “No wonder there are so many nut cases like Dahmer, Bundy, Manson, Ed Gein,” Kojak remarked.

  “Mateo, I have more news. Some good and some bad. Which do you want firs
t?”

  While Kojak tried to decide, Fogarty said, “Do me a favor, ask for the good news first.”

  Kojak stared at his partner incredulously and started to sweat. He didn't like where this was going so he unwrapped a grape Tootsie Roll, one of his favorites, and popped it into his mouth. “All right, Partner. Let's have the good news first.”

  Fogarty said brightly, “Toast said they traced the candy, the arsenic, and the mind altering drugs to a local address, and they arrested the Halloween Killer, who confessed to all the heinous crimes during their interrogation. And can you believe it? The psychopath is one of the descendents of Jack the Ripper from Gomer's sperm.”

  “Damn. That is great news,” Kojak shouted jubilantly. “I wasn’t sure we would conclusively nab the miserable child killer. It's almost a miracle, we got the lowlife scum. In my opinion, anyone who hurts a child should be drawn and quartered in the town square.”

  Fogarty's face darkened. “I'm sorry, Partner, but do you really mean what you just said?”

  “Of course, I do. Whatever punishment we dole out is too good for any miserable degenerate who blatantly hurts a child. And when we finish with them, they will certainly rot in hell for all eternity for what they’ve done. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “I don’t want to curb your enthusiasm, Partner, but you’re gonna find out soon enough.”

  “What?” Kojak said, wondering what could possibly be negative about everything coming together wrapped in a tight, beautiful bow.

  “Remember in 1998, when you found out from the fertility doctor you couldn’t have another child, and Louise and you adopted Madeline when she was four years old?”

  “Of course. It was one of the happiest day’s of my life.”

  “Madeline is the Halloween killer. She’s the miserable degenerate and lowlife scum you just referred to. I don’t know if she’s gonna rot in hell for all eternity, but I know she’s gonna fry in the electric chair.”

  FEELINGS

  A 747 carrying 279 passengers had crashed into a mountain near Dulles Airport en route to Washington DC. Harry Crood, a reporter for Allied Press, was on his way in his SUV to the airport where the loved ones of flight 357 had been told to meet with representatives of One-Stop Airways.

  It was the morning rush hour, and Harry drove like a maniac to beat as many of the reporters from the other networks to the terminal as he could. In his haste to be first, he ignored the danger, ran a red light, and barreled through the intersection like a tank. A small Kia that had the right-of-way skidded out of control into a lumber truck to avoid colliding with the humongous SUV. Harry knew it was his fault, but he didn't hesitate one nanosecond to consider the possible injuries to the people in the other car. He had no time to fill out an accident report and dick around with an insurance claim. He had bigger fish to fry.

  When he pulled into the terminal, he called over one of the valets and gave him a nice tip to park his car in the lot. He knew from experience, he would be there for several hours interviewing the relatives of the dead. The plane had exploded in flames upon impact, and everyone aboard had immediately received a free cremation, courtesy of One-Stop Airways. He knew exactly where the meeting would take place. He’d been there and done that many times.

  The representatives of the airline usually let a few of the mourners into a small anteroom before they were summoned into a larger conference room. This went on for hours. The process was ideal for his selfish purposes. He could catch the bereaved person in his or her most emotional and vulnerable moment. They were fair game to all the bloodthirsty reporters circling the room like sharks. The airline staff gave each loved one the same heart-breaking synopsis of the crash privately, rather than announcing over the loudspeaker that everyone have been burned to a crisp, and there was nothing else to say.

  Harry saw his cameraman, waved him over, and said excitedly. “God, Bennie. I'm so happy you got here so soon. How did you do it?”

  “I stopped for a brew at the Slippery Nipple, and I saw the breaking news on TV and came running.”

  “Here comes the first mourner,” Harry said, running a comb through his perfectly quaffed hair. “Roll 'em, Bennie. And be sure to put some light on their faces. I hate dark pictures. You can't see their pain as clearly.”

  The first woman, who was about fifty years old with her head stuffed in a handkerchief, shuffled through the door. She was in a pitiful state. Her face was red and streaked with tears. Her makeup running down both cheeks made her look like she was trying out for a horror film.

  “I’m Harry Crood from Allied Press. Did you have a loved one on flight 357?” He knew she did, but the question always cracked the ice.

  She choked a tearful response, “Yes. I did.”

  “Was it a close relative?”

  “He was my grandson. My daughter sent him to me so I could babysit for her while she went on a cruise next week.”

  She sobbed uncontrollably into a handkerchief and tried desperately to catch her breath so she could speak.

  “How old was your grandson?”

  “He was only six.” The woman broke into a hysterical wail. “What am I going to tell my daughter? She'll never see Mikey again.”

  Harry ignored this response and went in for the kill shot knew would tear the hearts out of every person watching the broadcast and make him a player on the evening news that night.

  “How did you feel when you heard there were no survivors?” He wrinkled his forehead to pretend he felt at least a crumb of concern and sympathy for the poor soul on the brink of a breakdown. But the total lack of compassion for the pain this devastated woman felt appeared like a red flag in front of a bull on his emotionless face.

  The woman saw this immediately, and teetered back on her heel as if she had been slapped in the face. “What kind of monster are you?” she screamed. “My little grandson has just been incinerated in a plane crash, and you want to know how I feel about it?”

  “Mrs. Jacob French, come to Room 59 at the end of the hall,” came a voice on the loudspeaker.

  The woman’s eyes were ablaze as she swung her enormous purse with everything but the kitchen sink at him with all her might. The blow landed on Harry’s temple and sent him sprawling to the floor. Before the cameraman could remove his eyes from the monitor on his camera and retreat, the woman pounced on him with her sharp fingernails, kicking, and screaming at the top of her lungs.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, while the doctor in the emergency room set his broken leg in a cast, Harry saw the footage of the distraught woman attacking him. The segment when he asked, “How did you feel when you heard there were no survivors?” might be devastating to his career. The inept cameraman had panned in for a close-up on his face rather than the bereaved woman and caught him like the proverbial deer in the headlights. His blank expression left no doubt to anyone watching he was completely devoid of feeling, not only for the woman, but also for anyone or anything except himself. He wondered if he would ever recover from this damning clip that was certain to go viral on YouTube.

  Bennie only had a few cuts and bruises, and he’d been released from the hospital earlier. At least his own cameraman’s film wouldn’t be used to put the brakes on his budding career. The worst setback for Bennie was when the irate woman grabbed his camera and stomped on it until it flew apart. But, it was just another day in the life of a news photographer.

  * * *

  The doctor finally released Harry from the hospital during the evening rush hour, and he went home in a taxi. After paying the cabbie, he stood on the sidewalk in front of his house and looked for his wife, Millie, who was supposed to meet him on the corner and help him with the stairs. He glared nervously at the four steps he would have to negotiate with his crutches. He assumed it would be difficult, but he thought he could make it, if he took his time.

  He withdrew his cell-phone and dialed the number for his house. After several rings, it went to voice mail. Where was Millie? And
why was the house dark? She knew he would be here about now.

  Well, he would give her a piece of his mind when she returned from wherever she’d gone. He turned his body toward the stairs leading to the porch and the front door of his townhouse. He’d received a crash course in the art of using crutches in the hospital but hadn't taken the lessons as seriously as he should have. But he wasn’t worried, yet. He didn’t think a person had to be a rocket scientist to climb four steps with crutches.

  Five minutes later, he reached the threshold and awkwardly opened the screen door. He still thought it odd no lights were on inside as he peered through the glass insert in the entrance door. He fumbled for his key, inserted it in the lock without his crutches toppling over, and unlocked it. By tomorrow, he would be a crutches expert.

  He pushed open the door and immediately felt an unease he had never felt before in his own home. The silence was so profound without his six-year-old son scurrying around on his big wheel, which was the bane of the neighborhood. He couldn't get his mind around it.

  Typically, when he arrived home, Millie had something cooking on the stove, and the TV was blaring. He couldn't remember when he came home after dark and found no one in the house. He turned on the hall light and made his way into the kitchen.

  When he reached to turn on the kitchen fluorescents, his right crutch slipped on the ceramic tile. He let out a yell and down he slid as if he’d just stepped on a patch of ice. The ceramic was wet, sticky, and slippery all at the same time.

  What had Millie spilt on the floor? Had she gone to the store for some cleaning products? He finally struggled to his feet, and when he switched on the light, he found the floor was covered with swirls of designs fashioned in fresh blood. The unmistakable imprint of a woman’s breasts and thighs splayed in swirls of scarlet like a giant body painting reminded him of women mud wrestling on TV. He vomited all over the erotic designs, his senses reeling from the horror.