THE LAND OF DEAD FLOWERS
by
NATASHA A. SALNIKOVA
Copyright © Natasha A. Salnikova 2013
Kindle edition
Acknowledgement
My thanks goes to Nanci Nelson Rogers for adaptation of my song, which was no good until she took it over and created something new and beautiful.
Thank you to Letty S. Fuller for suggesting to me a perfect town for my characters to live. I’ve never been to Watervliet and thus took some frivolity in describing it. Because of that, my Watervliet can be called fictional.
Thank you to my Facebook friends for naming the villain.
And a final thank you to my friend, Julia Aleekseeva, for virtually kicking my butt and making me finish the novel and then reading it and telling me it was good.
Follow me on Natasha A. Salnikova’s FB page
Natasha’s books on Amazon
Psychological thrillers
Quiet River
Dark curtain
The savior
Love, Thais
The hairdresser
Mean girl
The garden of dead thoughts
Suspense thriller
Rotten Apple
Supernatural thrillers
The voice of waterfalls
The calling of waterfalls
Silence in the house
Science fiction
A step to nowhere
One hundred lives
Description
Morris Bishop killed his first girl when he was nineteen. He loved his neighbor and he didn’t see any other way to make her belong to him, so he captured her in his house. He couldn’t stop since then. He didn’t think anything or anyone would ever stop him.
A popular mystery writer, Max Stevenson is a realist. He doesn’t believe in little, green men, ghosts, or messages from the world of the dead. That is, until he reads an article in a newspaper and starts having dreams of the house. The same house night after night. Now, he suddenly wants to write a supernatural thriller, but not until he finds the house. The house from his dreams … Then, not only the genre of his book will change, but his whole life.
TOC
Prolog, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24, Chapter 25, Chapter 26, Chapter 27, Chapter 28, Chapter 29, Chapter 30, Chapter 31, Chapter 32, Chapter 33, Chapter 34, Chapter 35, Chapter 36, Chapter 37, Chapter 38, Chapter 39, Chapter 40, Chapter 41, Chapter 42, Chapter 43, Chapter 44, Chapter 45, Chapter 46, Chapter 47, Chapter 48, Chapter 49, Chapter 50, Chapter 51, Chapter 52, Chapter 53, Chapter 54, Chapter 55, Chapter 56, Chapter 57, Chapter 58, Chapter 59, Chapter 60, Chapter 61, Chapter 62, Epilog
Natasha's books
The voice of waterfalls
Every human being is the author of his own health or disease.
Buddha
***
No strength to move. No strength to open her eyes, swollen from tears. No strength to breathe. If before she tried to escape her imprisonment, now she just wanted to die. He wouldn’t let her go anyway and she couldn’t flee. All her entreaties, promises, threats—everything vaporized in the air like cigarette smoke, before reaching his ears. How many days had he been holding her here? Five, ten, three hundred?
For her, there was no day or night. Time stretched like resin stuck to fingers. She fell asleep and woke up countless times. It seemed as if no one would be able to sleep in pain, fear, uncertainty, but her exhausted body took what it needed, even though it was supposed to stop functioning a long time ago. Her body didn’t belong to her; it belonged to that monster, to that heartless creature.
She had trusted him. She hadn’t seen the monster behind his smile. Had she ever thought something like this could happen to her? Never. Things like this happened in big cities, to bad girls. Those who kept bad company. Those who had bad guys as their boyfriends, and those who went out partying and returned home after midnight. Not her. She was a good girl, one of the few who still had her virginity at the age of sixteen. She always called her mom if she was running late getting home and she only let her boyfriend get to second base. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t. Oh, why hadn’t she done it with Alex?
This monster took her virginity, he destroyed her.
A key turned in the lock and she forced open her hot eyelids that had stuck together. The door cracked, and a shadow fell on the narrow strip of light coming from the hallway.
She started to shake, eyes burnt from fresh tears. She thought she hadn’t had any left, but as soon as she saw his feet in checkered slippers, and a rope in his hand, they came in a rush. Now it was the end. The end of her suffering and her life. Her mother told her that death didn’t exist. Her grandma told her that kind souls went to heaven and mean ones to hell. Was she kind enough? Where was her soul going to go? She wanted to see Alex one more time and hug her mommy. Would they notice that she was gone? Would they understand that they were not going to see their friend and daughter ever again?
Please, make it fast and painless. Please, no pain. Please, be fast.
He flipped her on her back and studied her as a customer would look over a piece of rotten meat at the market. He stretched a rope in his hands. It was going to hurt.
Did he say something? Sorry? Sorry it came to this? He can’t change anything?
Right. Of course he couldn’t. It didn’t matter what or how much she was going to promise. He wouldn’t believe her and wouldn’t let her go.
Twisting the rope in his hands, he threw it on the floor and reached for the pillow.
God, don’t make me suffer long. Make it not hurt.
Where was her soul going to go? No one, ever, would find out what had happened to her or who did it. No one. Ever.
It’s going to hurt. Mommy. Save me, Mommy.
CHAPTER 1
Morris read the story one more time, paying close attention to details, holding the paper far from his face. His eyesight had been getting worse and worse with each year. He could see well items far away from him, but anything close to his eyes went blurry. He couldn’t even see his fingers up close anymore. Hypermetropia they called it, or farsightedness; damn snotters. He had to visit an eye doctor and get it under control; it was about time.
He took scissors and cut out the article with his picture and the story about Morris Bishop saving the life of a child, pulling her from under the wheels of a moving car. He didn’t want his picture taken. He even told that obnoxious reporter about it. That obnoxious reporter who had knocked on Morris’s door, promising him that he was taking his picture “just in case” and telling him that the country should know its heroes. Yes, sure, he was a hero and his country had to know him. Maybe Morris could sue that bastard, that snotter, but it would mean more attention drawn to him—not the best scenario.
Morris cackled. A hero. Good thing the picture was black and white, and unclear. On the other hand, what was he afraid of? No one had even glimpsed in his direction over the years. The police had interviewed him only once, after the first disappearance, and because the missing girl was his neighbor. And what kind of interview was it? Just a few banal questions. When did you see her the last time? Did you see her with a stranger? As if he and his neighbors were into each other’s business.
At that time, this area wasn’t as populated as now. About two dozen small, single-family houses. Nobody knew much about each other’s lives. Maybe it was only his family, but Morris didn�
�t think so.
If he was a suspect, he would be in jail by now or feeding maggots. He wouldn’t be living like a happy bird, enjoying his favorite hobby whenever he pleased. No. Here, like everywhere else, no one cared about anyone. People hid behind the walls of their rotten houses, masking their rotten souls from the others and hoping to stay this way. No one cared.
Taking the article from the table, Morris wobbled it in the air and went to the bedroom where he placed it in the folder with the others. Not all of the missing girls made it into the press, but he found the ones who did, filling up his collection. In this routine, he wasn’t much different from others—the ones he’d read about in papers or watched on the news. They also collected everything related to their activity. Ambitions and vanity, no one could get away from them. Oh, well, forgive us sinners. Only, unlike the others, he didn’t leave any tracks. No one knew about him. They hadn’t given him a nickname him or created a psychological profile. What was it? Luck? Creativity? Forethought? All of these, he was sure of it. He was lucky, and he took his time to get everything ready before taking a step. He wasn’t proud of his work; he didn’t start feeling illusive, and didn’t do anything irrational. One mistake and everything could go topsy-turvy. One mistake, panic, and the snowball would pick up speed.
He sorted out the articles with love. Some of them had become yellow after thirty-two years of work. Thinking it over, Morris attached the article about him to the wall over the dresser. The folder was not a good place for a hero. Hero. He was crossing the road and this girl rushed under his feet, almost knocking him down. He just wanted to move her away, so he swooped her under her arms and put her down on the sidewalk, hearing the screech of tires behind his back and a crazy woman’s scream.
Everything had happened in a matter of moments, and he didn’t even realize what was going on until an obese woman in an open jacket dashed to the girl, who was standing like a statue on the sidewalk.
“What are you doing? You! I’m gonna kill you! You crazy! I’ll kill you with my own hands!”
Morris moved his eyes from the crazy mother to a pale man beside his sports car, and then to a fast gathering crowd. After wild screams, embraces, and kisses, the mother threw herself upon him, burying him in her flesh.
“Thank you! God, thank you! You saved her! If it weren’t for you…!”
She reeked of detergent, cheap perfume, and something burnt. Morris just wanted her to get away from him. He hated gawking and whispering witnesses. The reporter, this snotter, appeared from nowhere, as if he had materialized from the air.
“Tell me your name. What did you think when you saw the child in the road, in front of an approaching car? Give me your phone number; I’ll write about you. The country should know its heroes.”
The woman had let go of him by this time and now watched him like he was God. She pressed her child to her stomach and wiped her face, which was wet from tears and snot. Morris, confused by the situation, spilled not only his real name, but also his phone number. Then the reporter visited him without a call or any kind of formal warning. Hello, snotter. The idiot explained that he found Morris’s address and came like this to save time. In reality, he was just afraid that Morris would turn him down, refusing to talk. Reporters were the worst damn snotters out there.
Morris smoothed the article, and admired it from afar.
“Hero.”
He readjusted twelve wooden statuettes, meticulously arranged on the dresser. Twelve. Not that many if you thought about it. Not that many if he compared himself to the others. Only it wasn’t a competition. He didn’t aim for fame. He went hunting only when his desire became unbearable. This fact also worked for him. Those who went missing because of him didn’t stand out from hundreds of similar cases. He had been doing everything right. He didn’t sit and wait in bushes to track down the first girl walking by. He didn’t ambush her, like a predator. You could leave trails that way and gain accidental witnesses. He patiently watched and chose the best places where he wouldn’t be noticed. He didn’t know if there was anyone as wise as he was, even though he was interested. It would be educational and even fun to talk to a colleague.
Why could candy wrapper collectors, pooch lovers, and fans of farting in public gather in groups, but killers couldn’t? The answer was clear. Society called them sociopaths. Sociopaths. The ones who considered the company of other people as a burden. They were the ones who thought of society’s norms were silly and absurd. He was one of them—a sociopath, but no one around him questioned him or suspected that anything was wrong with him. No wife, no kids. Shit happened. They probably even felt bad for the lonely, older man, who was a talented architect, if they cared at all.
Morris moved one of the statuettes closer to the middle. It was time for the thirteenth. He would find a good piece of wood for her, to cut out a beautiful face when she was gone. As a memory. Who was she going to be this time? He preferred redheads, like his mother, but sometimes his heart stopped when he saw a brunette or a blonde. He couldn’t control his heart, so it just happened. His heart chose, pointed, directed him. Twelve wonderful women slaked his thirst, satisfied his hunger. His passion.
He came back to the living room and looked out the window. November and no snow. It came down a couple of times, but melted right away, leaving muddy roads behind. He liked it when the bodies of the young were opened, when the ground was soft and pliable, but summer had a big disadvantage. Some people opened their windows and patio doors; some spent a lot of time outside. In the winter, they hurried home to plop in front of the TV with a cup of hot chocolate and a slice of pizza. No one saw anything and didn’t want to see. Just what he needed. The walls of his house were like an impregnable fortress. No one knew anything about him. No one was interested; no one visited him. Did anyone care about him? No. No one cared about anyone. The world was wonderful, like it was made for him. Some people talked about indifference. Some wanted every damn snotter in their business. Not him. Not Morris Melvin Bishop.
The desire became insufferable. It ate at him from the inside like a pack of sewer rats. It was nipping pieces from his heart. No one could understand his pain. No one could understand how life bloomed inside him again when he found the right girl, when he found something important to do besides making drawings for another house, when he became busy. Even the most unconcerned noticed how good he looked and asked if he had fallen in love. He had, he wanted to scream, but only smiled. Could he really describe his joy with words when a girl was in his house? When she belonged only to him? So helpless, ready for everything. He was her God, her world. She existed only for him, and he for her.
Morris went into the kitchen to make breakfast. He had to eat well before leaving the house. Who knew how long he would spend outside? He was going to the big city today, where he would sit on a bench by the fountain and wait. Maybe he would stay by one of the office buildings, or the subway. It was also good to wait by apartment buildings. That way he would know right away where she lived. There were two disadvantages though. She could be visiting someone, which meant he would waste time. Also, if he waited too long, someone might notice him. By the subway, he could easily get lost in the crowd, but also in that crowd, he could easily lose her.
After putting eggs on the stove in a metal pot, he went to the bedroom again, to admire his statuettes and his picture. Hero. On the wall, over them, he looked like God. Why didn’t he think about putting his picture there before? Idol and his fans. A dozen was going to turn into a baker’s dozen. Then he would soon have fourteen of them. He probably wouldn’t wait so long for the next time. He was fifty-two already. Not an old man yet, but also not a full-of-energy young stud. Not only was his sight getting weaker, but also his back hurt from time to time, he had been getting heartburn more often, and his lungs were not as strong as they used to be. He was getting out of breath just going up the stairway to the attic. Before, the job would have taken him only a few seconds, he broke resistance as easy as a branch of a tree, now
he would sit behind the wheel breathing as hard as if he had run from an enraged bull. How long could he keep doing it? Maybe he had to retire in two or three years. Maybe before that. Maybe he would get a dog, and satisfy his desire by fantasizing and watching certain films. Would that be enough? If somebody wanted meat, could he satisfy his hunger with a carrot? Maybe he should eat beef until even the smell of it would make him nauseated. Would it work? Could anyone become a vegetarian after overeating meat? Maybe for a short time.
He didn’t know how much time he had, which meant waiting another two years didn’t make sense. Then, even if they found him, it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to live another fifty years and he wasn’t going to hunt being senile. He preferred to die than to become helpless and incapable. He didn’t want some young snotters laughing at him, yelling in his ear, as if he was deaf, or talking slowly, as if he had lost his mind.
The smell of burning food reached the bedroom, and Morris, cursing, rushed to the kitchen, to take the dry pot with a cracked egg on the bottom from the stove.
“If they suspected a serial killer, would they give me a nickname?” The pot sizzled when he put it under cold water.
They would not suspect him, and they would not find him. Too many people went missing every day. No one cared about them. They would never catch him.
CHAPTER 2
Max opened his eyes and looked up. The house seemed imprinted on the white surface of the ceiling, and it hung there for a few seconds like smoke before disappearing. Gray walls, gray roof, a chimney. Only, a chimney was impractical. No one had used the fireplace in the house for a long time. Where had Max gotten this information? He just knew. A low fence along the house, painted green, the windows, spotlessly clean. In spite of its visible calmness, the house reflected danger that Max couldn’t explain. He couldn’t explain anything at all concerning this house. For example, why had he dreamed about it four nights in a row? Why did it look familiar?
The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Page 1
