Hellbound: The Tally Man

by David McCaffrey

  Pulling up at a small cottage, the man invited Obadiah in as though they were friends and journeyed upstairs to find some clothes. As he waited, Obadiah softly padded around the living room, reconnoitring his environment. For the second time today, he saw a photograph that piqued his curiosity. Obviously taken on a night out, it showed a group of people, men and women, jeering towards the camera with their arms around each other, drinks held high in the air. A woman second to the left Obadiah recognized as the woman he had encountered this morning. Besides her, he saw himself, smiling as he mouthed something to the cameraman.

  Interesting.

  Aware of the man returning, Obadiah turned towards the living room door holding the picture frame in his hand. He ran his tongue over the fronts of his teeth, biting gently the front of it. He could hear the man explaining as he got to the bottom of the stairs that he was sorry if they weren’t very stylish, but they were all he could find. Obadiah positioned himself in front of the doorway, the picture frame by his side. His breathing was slow and even. His demeanour relaxed to the point his heart rate was bradycardic.

  As the man turned into the living room, Obadiah grabbed him by the throat and propelled him against the wall. The clothes dropped to the floor, the man trying to grab at his attackers hands, but finding a grip like steel.

  “Jesus Christ, what the fuck…?” His voice was tremulous with the shock. Obadiah leaned in close. “Shhhhh. I simply want your attention. I’ll release my grip and allow you to take some deep breaths and calm yourself. If you try to run you’ll be telling God in heaven that you never saw evil so personified as you did in my eyes. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded franticly, the colour draining from his face with the understanding that the person he thought he knew was also very dangerous.

  Obadiah relaxed his hand and took a small step back.

  “Who are you?” Obadiah’s tone remained quiet, yet laced with insistence for an answer.

  The man swallowed audibly as he rubbed his neck. “What? Mark. Mark Thorne. For fuck’s sake, Obadiah. What’s gotten into you? You must be ill, mate. Let me call Eva and she can come and get you.”

  Obadiah ignored him and continued. “How do you know me?”

  “I’m a friend of your wife’s. We went to school together. I introduced you both.” Mark’s hands were now shaking violently, as adrenaline flooded his brain and body’s stimulus centres.

  “I’m not married,” Obadiah replied matter of factly. He held up the photograph. “When was this taken?”

  Mark paused as he tried to recall the time period. “Erm…two years ago. When we all went to Portugal. Don’t you remember?”

  “Two years ago, I was in Absolom in a cell with a three inch by three foot long slit for sunlight.” He moved closer to Mark, his eyes never once blinking.

  “Absolom? What’re you talking about? You’re sick, man. Let me help you. We can call Eva and deal with it together.” His tone failed to hide its pathetic, pleading quality.

  “And where are we?”

  “Killarney. We’re in Killarney.”

  Obadiah barely reacted to the confirmation he was in the place of his childhood, his only movement the release of the picture frame which shattered on the floor. He couldn’t explain why Killarney looked different than he remembered but then again, he hadn’t been here for over thirty years.

  “Please let me go, Obadiah. What’s with all the questions? I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  “Ah, the eternal refrain of humanity. Pleading ignorance and begging for help.”

  Obadiah moved so quickly, Mark didn’t have time to react. The vice-like grip back around his throat once more, causing him to become frantic and aggressive.

  “For god’s sake, man. Let me fucking go. I mean it.” Trying to sound intimidating, he simply sounded like a wilting flower.

  Obadiah tightened his grip, pulling Mark close. “Do I look like someone who cares what God thinks?”

  Grabbing his head with both hands, Obadiah snapped it round, the accompanying sound like a tree limb breaking. Mark’s body seemingly hung in mid-air for a moment, before sliding down the wall and crumpling in a rag doll heap at Obadiah’s feet.

  The house became silent once more. The tick-tock of a clock in the passageway and the insectile hum of traffic outside in the distance the only sounds accompanying the moment.

  Obadiah sniffed belligerently before picking up the clothes and holding them up one at a time - dark blue Diesel jeans and a white T shirt. Obadiah nodded at Mark’s good taste in leg wear before stripping of the shirt and pyjama trousers he wore and changing into them. He caught sight of his back in the mirror behind him as he pulled on the T shirt. The absence of his tally still confused and frustrated him in equal measure. Not only had his chance at death been stolen from him, his shrine had been taken from him.

  Dressed, Obadiah stepped over to Mark’s body and removed his trainers. Checking the size, he sat on the floor to put them on before rising and picking up the house keys from the table by the door.

  Venturing outside, the street remained quiet, the occasional passing car the only sign of activity. He locked the door and posted the keys through the letterbox, taking in a deep taste of the clean, morning air before setting off back in the direction of town. He considered taking Mark’s car, but quickly dismissed it. Having spent so long behind concrete walls, he was enjoying the opportunity to walk freely.

  Approaching the town again, he noticed it was busier than when he had left. People wore casual clothing, making the most of the unbroken sky and the uncharacteristically warm autumn weather. Aside from Dublin, Killarney had always been the most popular of tourist attractions in Ireland. Its historical exposure had begun when Queen Victoria had visited in 1861, and had continued ever since. Indeed, the place had spawned Hugh Kelly and Brendan Moloney. Obadiah smiled wryly that its most famous son was currently walking amongst them, and they had no idea. He knew they had tried hard to forget that one of the world’s most infamous serial killers had grown up in the same town as Michael Fassbender.

  With the streets becoming crowded and hot, Obadiah returned to the bench he had originally sat on and once again studied the passers-by. Their movements and actions reminded him of flies trapped behind a window, struggling to find a way out of their prison of glass. Their behaviours were random and manic, as they haphazardly flitted from one window to the next, never appearing to stop long enough to take in any information at all. Within this abstract chaos, Obadiah noticed the red-haired woman again.

  Carrying bags of shopping, she was more focused than the others, seemingly set on a particular destination. Obadiah stood and proceeded to copy her route, weaving between parked cars in the lot like a Great White honing in on its prey. She fished a set of keys from her bag, as she approached a shop currently empty and cloaked in darkness. He realised she was either opening up or she owned it - most probably the latter.

  His footsteps light as though cushioned, Obadiah steadily made his way towards her, using her blind side to avoid acknowledgement of his presence. His mind was focused, the initial caprice of his arrival here now tempered by the opportunity presented to him.

  Who was he to deny his true nature? In the absence of the reason for his being here, why not test the boundaries.

  She saw Obadiah’s approach reflected in the window and turned to face him, her expression one of curiosity as to the approach of a handsome stranger. Using the opportunity to get close, Obadiah smiled, flicking his tongue across the front of his teeth before bringing his elbow round and catching her directly on the jaw. He caught her as she slipped to the floor, gently guiding her down. He glanced around, ensuring no one had witnessed his actions before plucking the keys still gripped in her left hand and locating the one that opened the door. He dragged her into the cool, darkened shop and positioned her against a wall, closing and locking the door behind him. He scanned outside a second time before carrying Red’s body towards the rear
of the shop, propping her in a chair in such a way so she didn’t fall off in her unconscious state.

  Obadiah grabbed another chair and sat opposite Red, studying her face. Her complexion was like porcelain, almost alabaster in contrast to her fiery hair. The V shape of her lilac sweater trailed a path to a suprasternal notch that delved deeply into the border of her sternum, her breasts below rising and falling gently in her cataleptic state.

  He could have watched her all day and night, the perfection of her face a direct contrast to the sights he had seen for so long at Absolom. But he had a job to do. If the answers he required wouldn’t come freely to him, he would use his new environment to entertain him instead.

  Obadiah gently slapped Red’s cheeks to bring her round. She murmured slightly as reality slowly dawned on her, her body tensing with the veracity of her situation and how she had arrived here came flooding over her in waves. She worked her aching jaw from side to side, suddenly noticing the throbbing in her head. As she spoke, she tried to hide her fear, but the slight tremble in her voice seeped through.

  “Please, you can take the money. Just don’t hurt me. You don’t have to do this.”

  “I don’t have to, no.” Obadiah smiled a baboon’s smile that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. “Forgive my manners. I didn’t ask you your name.”

  Red’s eyes began to moisten, but her voice became steadier. “Susan. Susan Sheridan. Please, let me go. I haven’t seen you. I won’t say anything to anyone. This isn’t necessary.”

  Obadiah’s green eyes flashed with intent as he stood and wondered over to the counter, randomly opening drawers and cupboards. Red glanced feverishly toward Obadiah and then the door, trying to calculate if she could make the distance. Obadiah sensed her intent.

  “I didn’t tie you down. Therefore, I would strongly advise you don’t try to make the door. Stabbing someone in the back is so…uncivilised.” His voice was playful, yet menacing as he continued scanning the area. Opening the drawer behind him, he smiled before grabbing the knife and closing it again.

  Obadiah returned to his seat, not at all surprised to see her still sat there. She could have possibly made it, if she had seized the moment.

  Coulda, woulda, shoulda, he thought, playfully pricking the ends of his fingers with the knife as he looked upon her.

  He had to admit, the smell of her fear was exhilarating. He hadn’t experienced it in so long, not in such a raw, unbridled fashion. Tears silently streaked her face.

  “No crying please. It’s a waste of suffering.”

  Susan sniffed repeatedly before finding her voice. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

  Obadiah simply smiled, his eyes appearing to glint, despite the absence of any direct light. His expression caused Susan’s breathing to become more rapid, as though suddenly deprived of oxygen. The realisation of what was about to occur was the most surreal sensation she had ever experienced.

  “Please…I’ll give you anything you…”

  Already bored, Obadiah’s hand snapped out like a coiled snake. The knife he held swung in an upward arch, effortlessly slicing through the soft of her neck. Susan gasped quietly before the blood began to flow freely from the now gaping wound. Her eyes developed a peaceful, distant gaze as her head slumped down to rest on her chest.

  Obadiah wiped the blood that had splashed his face with the back of his hand. The coppery smell of Susan’s blood slowly filled the air. Whatever the reasons for his emancipation from Absolom, why had he been returned here - to the place where his torture had begun? The country, never mind the town, was a constant reminder of who he could have been if his childhood circumstances had been different. Had he been destined to become this way, or did his father take a child and manufacture a monster?

  He was saddened that the two souls he had liberated so far could not be part of his now absent tally. Obadiah found himself wondering what Dr. Franklin would have to say concerning this disappointment. At the time, he had found it amusing, though interesting, that someone would want to devote so much time and effort trying to understand what made him tick. Franklin had believed Obadiah was a loner, suffering from a narcissistic personality disorder with the potential for explosive violence that could all be linked back to his childhood. Obadiah didn’t doubt any of that. But as far as he knew, Franklin had missed the one key understanding that made his crimes special. Obadiah Stark had killed for no reason more complicated than he chose to. His liberation from Absolom had not changed that aesthetic.

  He looked at Susan’s motionless body for a few moments with an expression devoid of emotion, wondering how long it would take for someone to find her before moving towards the door and stepping outside, the knife in his hand.

  The sun appeared to be maintaining its persistent campaign of attempting warmth through the cold chill. The wind had risen slightly, stirring the leaves on the trees, the current ignorance of Obadiah’s campaign of horror ensuring the morning remained as motionless as a painting.

  Here, Obadiah was obviously an unknown quantity, his history unrealised by the people living in the place he was born. That, compounded with his lack of understanding about his purpose here, did not sit well with him. He had been ready for death, had prepared himself, and someone had stolen it from him. Therefore, by his reckoning, he didn’t really have anything to lose. He hadn’t wanted a second chance. After all, you only felt guilty if you thought you had done something wrong.

  His mind focused, he decided that if he couldn’t understand this place, he was going to make damn sure it understood him. Denying him his death had been a grave mistake and one that many would now suffer for.

  He randomly approached a lady trying to get into her car, grabbing her by the hair. Swinging her around by her ponytail, Obadiah slammed her into the neighbouring car. As she slipped to the floor, she began screaming.

  Ignoring her cries, Obadiah leaned over and sliced the knife across her face, neatly popping her right eyeball and severing her nose in half. She squealed and grabbed for her face as he cut across her neck, her body going limp almost instantly.

  A couple ahead of her had already started their car having witnessed Obadiah’s actions and were accelerating away. He picked up the woman’s body as though weightless and threw it into the car’s oncoming path. The driver of the car swerved to avoid it, acting on instinct despite knowing that she was already dead. The front of the car crumpled as it ploughed in a parked Mercedes, the red automobile sliding sideways before striking the car next to it.

  In his dazed state, the driver didn’t notice Obadiah coming up beside his window, his hand holding a stone that was subsequently launched through it, striking the man in the face. Obadiah reached in and roughly pulled him through the shattered glass, its serration slicing a wound in the top of his head. The female passenger was slumped forwards, her head bleeding from the impact to the dashboard. Obadiah knew she was already dead.

  The knife in hand, he brought it up towards the man’s hands pitifully trying to protect his face, slicing the man’s fingers off neatly below the knuckle. Its journey continued on and came across his cheek, widening his mouth into a clown’s grin. Obadiah quickly stabbed it into the other side of his face, the muscles making a soft sound as they met resistance with the knife. His mouth severed wide, the man shuddered as he passed a final fluid-filled breath, losing his fight against Obadiah’s claim of his body.

  Obadiah paused for breath, considering his next move whilst surveying the panic that had ensured. Coupled with the buildings around him, cathedrals of shimmering glass and brick and shining with life in the bright sun, the whole situation was almost heavenly.

  Restoring his focus, he scanned the streets. He could see people, pitifully trying to barricade themselves inside shops and cars. Many souls were hurriedly trying to leave the location on foot, not looking back in case they caught his attention.

  Tightening his grip on the knife, he began to run towards the nearest pedestrian, gathering speed as the w
oman with the pram tried to flee Obadiah’s charge. He wasn’t interested in finesse or meticulous detail. He just wanted them to die. Their only crime being in his presence.

  The woman with the pram didn’t get very far as Obadiah bounded up with dancer-like precision, grabbing her by the throat from behind. Kicking the pram out of the way and ignoring the cries from within it, he brought the knife down in an overhead motion. It entered the woman’s stomach just below her sternum. Sliding to the floor, she tried futilely to hold her stomach and protect her head at the same time, failing to intercept the foot traveling to her face. Obadiah’s kick to her head shattered her skull. She tried to call out for someone to protect her baby from between the disjointed fragments that had once been her jaw. Obadiah’s final kick broke through her fragile latticework of ribs, puncturing her lungs in the process and forcing blood to explode from the wound in her abdomen. The pram remained stationary on the path. The newly orphaned baby continued to cry, sensing the fractured emotion in the air.

  A man altruistically charged Obadiah from his left side. Gesturing towards the pram with a bow, as though encouraging him to pursue it, Obadiah kicked it again, this time into the road, the baby’s screams rising with the sudden violence of movement. Twisting to the side as the man tried to shoulder-barge him, Obadiah grabbed him by his hair and began stabbing in a brutal frenzy. The knife penetrated his lower abdomen and groin area repeatedly, some of the incisions so deep, his ileum poked out through various apertures. The man cried out, from shock more than pain, before falling silent. His eyes slowly collected a glazed expression of bewilderment and peace in equal measure, before stilling themselves and staring towards the sky.

  Obadiah’s heart was racing with the exertion of his actions, but he quickly managed to slow it to its normal rhythm. Looking around, he realised that little more was necessary for what he wanted to accomplish. Keeping hold of the knife and ignorant of the receding sounds of terror around him, he scanned the now emptying streets for somewhere he could wait for the authorities. Somewhere less fussy.