by Gord Rollo
This grotesque figure had to be at least seven feet tall and easily 300 pounds. He was dressed in an old-fashioned magician’s costume: polished black dress shoes, shiny black tuxedo with a silk bow tie, an extra tall black top hat, and a red silk floor-length cape. His misshapen face was hidden in the shadow created by the large brim of his top hat, but Wilson could clearly see a mouthful of frightfully long, jagged teeth.
“Who are you?” Wilson managed to ask. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s not what I want, little man,” the deformed giant answered, his voice thundering across the room. “It’s what the Heatseeker demands.”
Against the wall, the skinless man began to rattle his chains and laugh. It was a high-pitched hysterical giggle that sent a chill down Wilson’s back. He stopped abruptly though, when Wilson turned to look at him and sulked back against the stone wall wetly licking his teeth again, but thankfully remaining quiet.
“The Heatseeker?” Wilson asked, turning his attention back to the monster magician who’d spoken. He knew full well whom the cloaked figure was referred to but felt compelled to ask anyway. “What does he want?”
“Want? I thought you already knew. He wants your life…your eternal pain…your soul!”
The huge assailant had said all he intended to and surprisingly released his hold on Amanda, allowing her to take a tentative step toward her father. A brief spark of hope surged through Wilson before he realized the awful truth. He started to run toward his daughter, although he knew it was too late, and watched helplessly as the monstrous figure raised the deadly meat cleaver and, without hesitation, viciously sliced Amanda’s head from her shoulders.
“NOOOOOO!” Wilson screamed himself awake. A cry so raw and anguished, it physically hurt his throat.
“NOOOOOO!” he screamed once more, ignoring the pain, still not realizing he was back in his stuffy bedroom and not in the bowels of the earth trying to pluck his daughter from the jaws of hell.
When the reality of him being awake finally dawned, he couldn’t stop shaking. He lay curled into a ball, crying uncontrollably, still picturing himself trying to carry his daughter’s bloody fingers. Never had he experienced a dream such as that—NEVER. Hopefully, he never would again. It had been so horrible; so damn real.
It took another minute and a few slugs of vodka to calm his shattered nerves. He eventually lay back down to try and relax, but was terrified he might fall back asleep. There was no way he wanted to sleep and risk returning to his recent nightmare again, so he climbed unsteadily to his feet and paced around his bedroom floor trying to make some sense of things. He wasn’t quite sure what to do next when the front doorbell rang. It took him by surprise, the loud buzzing nearly stopping his heart. He glanced at the bedside clock and saw it was 3:30 A.M. Who could be coming to see him at this time of the bloody morning? Maybe if he just ignored it, they’d simply go away. It rang a second time though, and a third; the incessant ringing forced him to abandon his bedroom and go answer the door.
His legs wobbled like jelly as he headed down the hallway, his hands also shaking badly. Was this fear a lingering consequence of his terrible nightmare or did it have something to do with this early morning visitor? Maybe it was a lack of proper sleep or perhaps vodka withdrawal. Most likely, it was a combination of all those things.
The doorbell rang again. Wilson uttered a halfhearted, “I’m coming, damn it…hold your horses,” but doubted the caller had heard. A fiberglass hockey stick that had never been used was the closest thing to a weapon Wilson could find on short notice, so before answering the door, Wilson paused to grab it. He had no reason to believe he would have to defend himself, it could be his wife at the door for all he knew, but it felt good to have something in his trembling hands, just in case.
The front door was at the end of the hallway and could be reached in seconds, but every step he took seemed to take longer than the one before. Fear has a way of doing that, numbing the senses and slowing one’s ability to function.
“What if it’s him?” Wilson asked himself.
“It’s not,” he countered. “It can’t be. Impossible!”
“What about the skeletons in the park, and the message stuffed in the skeleton’s mouth?”
Good question. Wilson didn’t have a snappy answer to negate that one. What if the Heatseeker really has found him? What if he’s standing at the door?
Wilson slowly shuffled his way closer, his tightening fingers picking up slivers from the fiberglass stick. Ten feet away now, the doorbell continued its monotonous ring. His life had come down to this pivotal moment. For the last twenty years, he’d been living a lie, hiding from the horrors of his youth. If the Heatseeker really was here, there was nothing left to do but open the door. He’d been a coward for too long, and now he had nowhere left to run. The time had come to stand and fight. Offering one last silent prayer, he threw caution to the wind and yanked open the door.
To his utter amazement, no one was there. No one stood on the front porch, the driveway, or out on the street. Everything was quiet and desolate. Could he have possibly imagined it? Maybe the nightmare had affected him more than he’d realized?
Maybe I’m just going bonkers?
It was then he noticed the long-bladed dagger stuck deep into the wood close to the now-silent doorbell. Fear squeezed the air from his lungs and chilled the blood pumping through his heart. He definitely hadn’t imagined the doorbell ringing; ample proof was right here in front of him. Someone had stood with this deadly weapon, prepared to carry out some foul deed had he answered the door.
With a bit of levering, he managed to remove the dagger and noticed a small card had been pinned to the doorjamb. The light had long burned out on the porch, so Wilson brought the offensive weapon and the attached item inside to examine them. When he did, he wished he hadn’t. The long blade was frightening for sure, but it was the little card that grabbed his attention and caused his heart to start thumping crazily inside his chest.
It was an adult admission ticket to a magic show. A magic show that had taken place many years ago. A magic show that had changed Wilson Kemp’s life forever. Holding the small, faded ticket in his badly quivering hand, he read and then reread the familiar words:
NAGS HEAD NORTH - BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
FIRE AND ICE
THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH
GENERAL ADMISSION: $10.00
MARCH 10, 1988
March 10, 1988. That date had transformed his whole life. In one night, he’d gone from stratospheric success with the world at his feet to a life of alcoholism, fear, and lies. The weight of secret memories and unpaid burdens brought him to his knees.
Only one person knew who he was. Only one person could have such a ticket stub in their possession. Only one person could make Wilson feel the unimaginable terror he was feeling right now. He could deny it all he wanted but, in truth, his worst fears were coming true. The Heatseeker had found him.
Although he realized the futility of it all, Wilson locked every window and door in the house. If the Heatseeker were in fact here in Billington, a few cheap pieces of wood and glass sure weren’t going to stop him.
Nothing would.
Head spinning, Wilson returned to his bedroom and climbed back into bed with a bottle of vodka. He had no idea how any of this could be happening or how he’d been tracked down. More terrifying yet, was what might lie ahead for him and his family.
Susan! he thought, but his wife’s image was quickly replaced by a vision from his recent nightmare, of his daughter reaching out to him with bloody, fingerless hands, asking for help and how he’d been unable to save her. Amanda! Oh my God! What am I going to do?
Wilson didn’t have an answer and the pressure to do something—anything—was too much for him. He wasn’t strong enough to deal with this. Wasn’t strong enough to deal with normal life, never mind this insanity.
Time was of the essence; there would be no need for a glass tonight. Wilson quickly downed the entire bot
tle before lapsing into a pitiful yet welcome drunken stupor.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WE’VE ONLY JUST BEGUN
“I could have taken him out right then and there,” the Stranger said, his voice quiet but filled with venomous rage. “Just wait for the door to open and WHAM… drive my knife right through his fucking heart!”
He took out his frustration on the pickup’s steering wheel, lashing out and pounding it so hard the truck’s horn stuck on, blaring continually as he sped across town, heading home. Being on the razor-thin edge of madness at the moment, he barely heard it, but the irritating noise eventually broke through the dark, angry clouds swirling in his head and he pulled over to unplug the horn beneath the hood. The last thing he wanted to do was to draw unwanted attention to himself. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm down and regain his composure. When he felt capable of driving again, he fired up the old Ford and resumed his journey home. He was still furious, of course, but back in control for now.
“It’s a bad idea letting him know we’re here. Why do I play with him? Why? All I want to do is rip his throat out and be done with it!”
You already know the answer to that one, my friend, the trunk of secrets spoke. It talked in a calm, quiet, logical voice that abated the tall Stranger’s anger, soothing his madness and bringing his potentially volcanic rage back down to a manageable simmer once again. Killing Kemp will be sweet, but ultimately unsatisfying. If you simply let blind rage get the upper hand, we’ll miss out on all the sweet suffering to come.
We have a plan, you and I. A plan we are committed to, which is already reaping rewards. Kemp is already terrifi ed and we’ve only just begun. Before we’re finished with him, he’ll be begging you to kill him to end his misery. Only then, once we’ve pushed him beyond his wildest nightmares, will he have suffered enough to be granted death. Trust me, when the time comes…and it will come soon, Kemp’s screams of agony will more than make up for these delays.
The words were music to the tall magician’s ears and they calmed him down sufficiently that he had no further problems on his drive home. A small, satisfied smile crept across his face as the trunk began showing him image after sickening image of Wilson Kemp’s eventual slaughter. It was brutal and bloody, just the way the Stranger liked it. Chances were things wouldn’t play out exactly like his visions, but he could always hope. He was just pulling into the driveway of his hideout when a troubling thought occurred to him.
“What if Kemp saw me, or saw the truck pulling away? If he knows our vehicle, he might try to find us. I know he’s a drunk and a coward, but if he knows what kind of danger he’s in—”
Relax, my friend…he knows nothing. He’s already crawled back inside his bottle, I’m sure, so there’s nothing to worry about. Everything is under control.
“Perfect,” the Stranger said, easing the truck to a stop beside the side entrance to the two-story house. He had to learn to trust the trunk more; it had never been wrong before.
He carefully unloaded the trunk, one corner at a time, and moved it as gently as he could inside the house again. Placing it reverently in the center of the living room, he hoped he didn’t have to move it anymore. Experience had taught him he needed to be in close proximity of the trunk of secrets for it to be able to communicate with him, but it was just too damn hard carting it around with him. Potentially dangerous too, now that Kemp was aware of their presence. The tall man shuddered at the thought of Kemp getting his hands on the power within the trunk. No, he could never allow that to happen. Safer to just leave it here in the borrowed house and do what was required on his own from here on out.
“Well…what’s next in our grand master plan?” he asked, trying hard not to sound as impatient as he felt.
Have a look for yourself, was the trunk’s reply.
Like an excited schoolboy, the Stranger was on his knees undoing the thick leather straps as quickly as he could, lifting the trunk’s heavy lid. Inside, the trunk was empty again, save for a small 5" × 8" picture of a little girl in pigtails with beautiful jade-colored eyes. The sight of her took the dark man’s breath away, his heart already pounding inside his chest with excitement and anticipation.
“Kemp’s daughter?” he whispered. “Yes…oh hell yes!”
He was starting to like this plan more and more.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KING OF THE CASTLE
Last night had been an abomination, a terrible blow to Peeping Tom’s delusional, inflated ego. It would not be repeated. Even now, in the wee hours of the morning, he could hardly believe he’d been too scared to venture out into the night, choosing instead to cower inside his home like some frightened puppy. Puppy…bah! He was the black panther, the hunter, the fearless predator. He owned the night here, and it was he who spread fear in this town. He couldn’t let anyone challenge his supremacy here in Billington.
This crazy killer roaming the streets was admirable, even if for nothing more than his sheer audacity, but he was nothing to be afraid of. Avoided, for sure, but feared—never. The police would catch this madman soon and lock him away for a couple hundred years or so, and that would be the end of it. Billington would once again be his own.
In the meantime, nothing was going to keep him from prowling the streets, doing what he loved doing most. There were far too many succulent young bodies and depraved men and woman out there doing nasty things for his eyes only for him to shut himself inside. The extrawary citizens along with the increased police presence in the streets were all the more of a challenge for his considerable skills. When it came to nocturnal fun and games, police and sadistic killers included, Tom was still the king of the castle. No question about it—at least not in his warped mind.
Tom had stayed awake all night long, pacing the house, frequently watching the flow of police cars racing by his front window. The urges in his head had beat their drums for hours, demanding he go outside, but Tom had ignored them. He’d never disobeyed them before but his fear had trapped him inside his house, in a cage of his own making. In the early morning he considered making his move, thought about heading out to get some action, but it was already too late. The sky was getting lighter, the sun rising in the east and forcing him to let his frail alter ego have control of his body again.
It made him sick to think he’d acted like him last night: weak, cowardly, pathetic. Tom vowed it would never happen again. Afraid or not, madman on the loose or not, tonight he was suiting up in all his darkened glory and was heading out to regain his hold on this town.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MISSING THE BUS
The telephone sat on the nightstand beside Wilson’s bed, and when it rang near his ear it sounded like a thunderclap inside his aching head, a nuclear explosion startling him out of his drunken sleep and nearly causing him heart failure.
Wilson leaped out of bed, adrenaline pumping, head thumping, legs all rubbery, heart doing cartwheels, having no idea what was happening; only that something had scared the hell out of him and he was getting ready to run. It was a classic fight-or-flight nervous response to fear and it made him feel cowardly and foolish when the noise came again and he realized it was only the phone.
Idiot! he thought, trying to laugh it off as he reached for the receiver, but he pulled his hand back at the last moment, finally remembering what had scared him so much last night. The dream…the staircase…Amanda. It all came back to him in an instant, even the magic show ticket pinned by his front door.
The telephone rang again.
What if it’s him?
That was crazy. If the Heatseeker was coming to kill him, Wilson highly doubted he’d call to say hi first. Still, it took him another two rings before he could bring himself to pick up the phone. He put the receiver to his ear carefully, like it might bite him.
“Ah…Hello?”
“Oh, you’re home, Wilson? I was just about to hang up.”
Wilson had been prepared for the worst, expecting it even, but was relieved t
o hear his wife’s cheery voice on the line. “I’m here, Susan. Where else would I be? I just woke up and I’m feeling a little—”
“Just woke up?” Susan interrupted. “Christ, Wilson, it’s nearly three o’clock in the afternoon.”
Wilson didn’t know what to say to that. “Really? I…I didn’t think it was that late. I was just—”
“Save it, Wilson. I probably don’t want to know, okay? I need a favor today. You up for it?”
“Sure. Anything, Susan. What’s up?”
“I’m stuck at the mall and running late. Any chance you can pop over and meet Amanda when she gets off the school bus today? I’ll be on my way soon, but I’m not going to get there on time. Just be there when she gets off the bus and walk her home. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“No problem. What time?”
“Soon. Let’s see…she usually gets on the bus by three and it’s not far. She’s one of the first stops. About quarter after, I guess. Gives you about twenty minutes.”
“Lots of time. I’ll grab her and see you at the house. Take your time.” As an afterthought, Wilson added, “You can always count on me, honey.” He meant it as a bit of a light-hearted joke, but there was nothing but silence on the other end of the line.
“Just be there on time, okay?” Susan said.
“Absolutely.” Wilson hung up and went to get dressed.
Amanda Kemp wasn’t a huge fan of being in the second grade at Howard Avenue Public School, wasn’t a huge fan of school at all, in fact, but she loved her teacher this year, Mrs. Czepek, and liked getting to hang out with her friends too. It was just the math and science and endless sitting around in her uncomfortable seat she disliked so much. She wasn’t the kind of kid who liked sitting still. Besides, Amanda planned on being a rich-and-famous doctor when she grew up, and she doubted she’d need to know anything about math or science for that.
After the bell rang, Amanda knew she was supposed to head straight to the bus loop out in front of the school, beside the teachers’ parking lot, where she would wait in line to get on board bus number seventeen headed downtown, in the direction of Riverside Park. Her mother had worried herself sick thinking she’d never remember the right bus number but it was no big deal really. Besides, there were only four yellow and black buses that ever showed up in the loop and hers was always parked at the back of the line. Anyone could remember that. What did her mother think…she was in kindergarten? Geesh!
