by Mae Ronan
“I know who you are, Jacob Ginwood. And your brother, Micah – and Brandon Dúpont.” She looked sadly towards the still form upon the road. “And Edmund More.”
“How do you know us?” Micah asked, his suspicion aroused. “Why are you here?”
“I was a friend of Long-knife,” she said simply.
Micah narrowed his eyes. “He never mentioned you.”
She laughed. “Of course he didn’t. I told him not to. But I heard plenty – oh, plenty about you! Tell me, Clerkenwell Boys – why so far from home?”
“We came to see Long-knife’s father,” said Jacob.
“Hmmm,” said the woman, lowering her eyes to pick at a splinter in her bow. “And now he is dead.”
“How do you know that?” cried Micah.
“That’s enough questions for now,” she said. “We must go from this place, before the demon returns.”
“The demon?”
“The Wendigo.”
“How will we kill it?”
“That is a question for another day,” she said, offering Micah her arm. With her help and his brother’s, he was situated shortly upon the back of her horse. She indicated for Brandon to mount, as well.
“And what will we ride?” asked Jacob.
Again, she whistled; and there came tramping a second horse to meet her. She swung herself up on his back, and smiled to Jacob. “Come along, Mr Ginwood,” she said.
Jacob pulled himself up behind her. “Will we return to the inn?” he asked.
“For now.”
Jacob sighed, and looked off to the trees, at the place where he thought he remembered the white smoke to have disappeared. He looked hard at it; but he could make nothing of it. So he looked to the back of Ariel Hoffenstein’s head, and into the folded tresses of her shining hair (tucked up neatly under her hat), as the horses began to move off down the road.
Poor Brandon was sitting with Edmund laid out across his lap. The body was wrapped in a blanket; but this fact did little to alleviate the miserable desperation of the situation. So he, too, looked off towards the trees; but neither could he see anything there that satisfied the churning of his brain.
Micah moaned with the pain of his wound, and Ariel Hoffenstein whispered gently to the horses. Their feet clicked softly, as they trotted along down into the dark nothingness that lay all upon the road; and there were no other sounds but these.
Me & Sam
(Present Day)
I read the paper every morning. Sometimes it’s interesting; sometimes it’s not. One morning it was especially so – and I’ll tell you why. Almost as if having tripped across a long-lost identical twin, or at the very least a much-resembled uncle, I crashed headfirst into an article concerning a fellow named Sam Sidney.
Now, after making a statement like that, I am well aware of what further information you will require. First of all – who in the world is Sam Sidney? Well, I never knew either. That’s most likely why I never noticed the resemblance.
Second – who in the world am I? I assure you that you shall know the answers to both of these questions, long before I’ve even finished talking. To begin with: Samuel Stephen Sidney – born December twelfth, 1960 – was a serial killer. Also he was a dock-worker from Maine, happily married for fifteen long years. Alberta Sidney, née Stanwick, was the name of his wife. He called her Bertie. Isn’t that adorable?
Well – I’ve told you that Sam was happily married. But it seemed that Bertie was not. Just after her thirty-sixth birthday, she fled the apparent distress of her life with Sidney, with a gentleman named Ronald Ellis. She did not even leave a note. Now – and this may just be my own old-fashioned thinking – but wasn’t that rather rude?
She and Ellis remained missing for over a year. Her husband, however, was searching for her all the while; and finally found her, in an overpriced condominium in Jacksonville. He had been driving for days. He arrived in the dead of night, and snuck around the back of the building, to a rear-garden entrance. He forced it silently – clever fellow! – and proceeded inside.
Upon visiting next day at three o’clock, Elizabeth Winston (Bertie’s co-conspirator in all schemes concerning the best method of squandering Mr Ellis’ ample funds) found nothing but a bed full of blood and bones. Of course, I would add skin to that very short list – a thing you can most times predict to be a dependable component of the human body – but it seemed that Sidney had removed most of it, and tossed it into a great black trash bag, which he left in the closet as a special present for the valiant police officers of southern Jacksonville.
But then – perhaps not so valiant after all. It seemed that three of the four members of the reporting squad were so very distraught at the sight of the gore, that they vomited all over the most important parts of the crime scene. What remained of the blond curls Bertie had once been so proud of, were then unfortunately covered with foul little chunks of partially-digested bean-and-cheese burrito. (You might think this detail a little too explicit for a newspaper article; so I will tell you that there later followed a long broadcast about Sidney on the evening news, that including some very macabre information, no doubt the handiwork of a very dark and disturbed little reporter.)
Well, after that, Sam Sidney was lost to the world. Everyone knew who had killed Bertie – but no one could find him. Pity!
About six months later, though, a most interesting thing happened. Another couple was found – this time in Atlanta – all pulpy in their bed, with their skin wrapped up in a nice neat little package, just as with Bertie and Ellis.
And, of course – everyone knew who had done that. Quite the mess of bodies followed, too. Every six months precisely; but now two couples at a time. (If you are mathematically deficient, that comes to about four people, more or less; considering what parts of them were missing upon discovery.) It seemed that each bi-annual spree was resulting in less and less – well, presence of victim. First the hearts gone; then the lungs, too.
But there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for that. You see, after Bertie abandoned him, Sidney claimed that his heart would no longer beat properly. A little after that, he said that his lungs must not be working very well, either – for he could no longer breathe. Imagine that! Isn’t it romantic? He couldn’t even breathe without her!
I suppose he figured that no one else should be able to, either.
The killings began in 1997, with the murders of Roberta Sidney and Ronald Ellis. Then they went on – and on – till just eight months ago, when Sidney was finally caught, and given lethal injection. (Again, here’s a little assistance for you: one-hundred-and-eight sorry souls altogether!) I’m fairly certain that it was a record.
Well – now you know Sam Sidney. But still you don’t know me! My name is – oh, you can just call me Johnnie. I don’t think I’ll have to say very much at all, for you to see just how much old Sidney and I have in common. Well, no – I wasn’t married. But I was in love with her for five years! Doesn’t that count for anything? It did to me!
We’ll call her Anne, for conversation’s sake. I always liked that.
You see, just as I don’t think it prudent to tell you my name, neither do I think it a very good idea to tell you hers. After all – they don’t even know I killed her! Why would I want to go and spoil good fortune like that?
Anyway. Once upon a time, I was very, very happy. I was happy before her; and I was happy with her, for five perfect years. But then she changed. Now, tell me – why do people want to go and do such silly things?
To save myself the embarrassment, I’ll only tell you this much. His name
was . . . let me see . . . Richard. I always hated that.
Now, I suppose, if you want to call him anything – you could call him very, very dead. Dearly-departed. Bucket-kicker. Farm-buyer. Worm-food. Stupid, stupid bastard!
Oh, my. I’m sorry. It’s been a few years now – but still it gets me so riled! I just can’t help it.
Anyway. I cannot honestly say
that I hardly think of her anymore. In fact, she bothers my thoughts rather often. Her face; her smell; her beautiful eyes! And damn, boy, she was a smart one. And – oh, oh! – the way she walked across a room! Everyone wanted her. Everyone envied me.
But I didn’t care much about all that. There was just that certain something, that incendiary spark that lit the fire we shared. I tell you, it could have swept me countless times directly past our people-friendly atmosphere, and into a world of darkness and suffocation. But I had an especially strong grip, I think.
Oh, Anne! Just look at me! I’m crying for you again. But I can’t let myself regret it – that’s one thing off-limits, that’s a no-no. You made your bed with Richard. Now you can lie with him forever.
But there is one thing, I think, that differs me from Sidney. He killed his woman, and enjoyed whatever comfort the deed gave him; but then he felt the need to kill more, and more, and more.
It’s been three years since Anne, but I’ve not felt the smallest urge to take anyone else’s life. The mere thought of her blood-soaked body; simply the recollection of the beaten, caved bones of Richard’s face: that gets me through. Whenever I feel angry, whenever I feel betrayed, I remember them. What need to bring anyone else into it?
Anyway. I think I hear the front door opening – Erin’s home!
Oh, my sweet Erin. You’ve helped me to sort through the chaos of my mind; to wade over the trauma of my past. What purpose have I, for a selfish thing like Anne – when I have someone so wonderful as you? Of course, you do not know about Anne. You do not know about Richard. But I think – well, I think that every relationship needs its secrets. It needs those small, shadowed interstices where the demons hide; those little cubbyholes of painful memory, that make one cry out if they are invaded. They are always sore, always infected, always secreting a sort of red-white ooze that is hot to the touch.
You are coming, now, into my study. I look up from my papers, expecting your usual bright smile – but am met instead with a strange frown. Your countenance is twisting and turning in rather a strange manner. You seem to be in pain.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
“Quite all right,” you say. “Everything is fine.”
“Then why so sobre, darling?”
“Oh – it’s nothing, Johnnie. But . . .”
“You’re biting your lip awfully hard. Careful, dear! You’ll make it bleed.”
“Never mind that, Johnnie.”
You seem almost irritated now.
“But why, dear heart? Why so upset?”
“Oh, Johnnie – can’t you guess it? It’s been months now; and you just don’t see. I can’t take it anymore! I have to tell you the truth. His name is –”
But I won’t let you finish. I begin pulling at my hair. I grind my teeth, and stamp my feet. Tears stream profusely from my eyes. Not again!
You’re coming nearer now. “Oh, Johnnie – don’t cry! You’re breaking my heart!”
“Your heart? What about my heart, Erin? You don’t seem to care very much about that!”
“Oh, that’s not true, Johnnie! You know I love you. It’s only that I’m not . . . I’m not . . .”
“Not what, Erin?”
You shake your head. You say – “I’m not in love with you, Johnnie. You’re my best friend. But you could never be my husband!”
You say much more – much more, after this. But I’m no longer listening. I’ve grown suddenly calm. My flushed cheeks are now cool; my wretched countenance is composed. I nod all the while you speak, though I am thinking of something else. A plot is forming, thick in my brain.
Finally I look up, and smile. “You’re right,” I say. “You’re right, Erin. We were never meant to be together – I see that now.”
Oh – you look so relieved! I rub my hands together excitedly, under the desk where you cannot see them.
“But you were going to tell me,” I say softly, “his name?”
Your face falls. You say – “Why would you want to know a thing like that?
I smile brightly, sincerely. I say, “I only want to know his name, Erin, when I shake his hand. I’m sure I’ll stumble across him, sooner or later.”
You seem a little less anxious; but not altogether unruffled. Yet you tell me anyway. You tell me anyway, because I know that you loved me once. You loved me once – much more than you do now.
Oh, confound it! Why do these things keep happening to me?
“His name is Bill,” you tell me. “It’s Bill.”
“You know,” I say, “I think I have a great idea. Why don’t you call Bill, and ask him to dinner tomorrow? I really would love to meet him. I want to know that a good man is taking care of you, Erin.”
Do not misunderstand – you certainly think this request very strange. But I think, in a fashion, that you are also somewhat touched by this display of untainted affection. And, after all – I know you loved me once. So you agree.
“Wonderful! That’s wonderful, Erin,” I say. “And I’ll tell you what. I’ll even make your favourite. Chicken parmigiana! Tell Bill we eat at six.”
Your eyes sparkle. “Thank you, Johnnie,” you say. “Thank you for this.”
I wave my hand. “You needn’t thank me. I know that we’ll always be friends, Erin.”
You cross the room to embrace me. I savour this last moment; this last minute of my love for you, expressed through the soft touch of my lips against your cheek; the feel of your hair in my face; the strength of my arms all around you, as I twirl you once more round the room – for old time’s sake.
You laugh, as I set you down. I sigh heavily, as I watch the light twinkle once more in your big blue eyes. When you turn to quit the room, I do not try to detain you. After all – I’ve only until six o’clock tomorrow, and there is quite a lot of planning to do.
I’ll Fly Away
(1993)
I.
There are a handful – or perhaps many handfuls – of very bad people in this world. This short account will prove that fact to you.
The proving of it, however, is not my primary intention. I would rather you see what effect true goodness can have upon evil.
It is like watching a dying cigarette, crushed beneath the heel of a great heavy boot.
I was very young when I met Foster Vine. But then, he was not very much older than me. Graduation was behind me, uncertainty ahead. I did not want college. My father wanted it for me – but if you are anything like me, you will know that any amount of yearning and begging on the part of an observing party (no matter how much you may love said party; and they you in return) cannot suffice to alter your own intentions.
Anyway. The fact is not overly important to the trajectory of this tale; but I’ll tell you that I was working in a little gas station on the corner of Barley Street, at around one in the morning at the beginning of an eighteen-years’-gone July. The place was empty. I sat on a high stool behind the register, flipping absently through a magazine, and looking out every so often into the island of pumps, which was lit up like a stadium by four tall halogen lamps. I’d not seen a soul since eleven o’clock.
Absorbed in the strange fascination of an extraordinarily inane article (probably you know what I mean), I did not perceive his approach; and so was considerably startled, when the tiny bell over the door began to chime, and a young man entered the building. I looked up quickly, and tossed the magazine aside. I peered out into the island, and saw an old Nova parked there.
“Here for gas?” I asked.
“I only have two dollars,” said the young man. He took a turn round the front of the store, and snatched up a couple of candy bars in his hand. “I’ll give you a dollar-fifty for the gas; and the rest for these.”
He reached into his jeans’ pocket, pulled out two crumpled dollar bills, and tossed them on the counter. “There you go,” he said.
“Well,” I said, “the candy only comes to forty cents. I suppose that gives you about another twelfth of a gallon.”
“It’s my lucky day,” he returned, with a very nice smile that made me stare for a moment. His jeans were ripped, and his white T-shirt was stained with black grease. There was a smudge of the stuff on his right cheek, just below a shining blue eye. His hair seemed made of blond feathers, and his skin was brown with sun-stain.
I’ll have you know, now, that I’m not one to stare at people. To be wholly frank with you, really I don’t even like most people. But there was something rather captivating about this young man’s smile; and something rather endearing about his greasy face.
Already I had tried to hand him a receipt, but he waved it away, and I threw it into the waste basket below my feet. He took his candy from the counter, and crammed it into his pocket. By all means, then, he should have gone – but for some reason he stayed. He flashed me another smile, and leaned his elbows down on the counter.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I want to tell you that.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a nametag, or something?”
“Not in this place.”
“Then how am I supposed to find out what you’re called?”
“I’m called tired,” I answered; “very tired, and almost off my shift. That should be enough for you, I think.”
He shifted his arms on the counter; and the hard muscle flexed beneath his thin shirt. I’ll have you know, as well – that I’m not one for muscle, either. But there was something very smooth, and almost pretty about this young man’s arms. I saw, presently, that the skin of them was marked with the same black stuff.
“You know,” he said, “I think I like that answer best. If you had told me your name, I probably would have left.”
“And why is that?”
“I wouldn’t have had any respect for you.”
I feigned annoyance here; but honestly I was almost flattered.
“I’m sure that I’ll sleep much better tonight,” I said, “now that I know you think me respectable.”
