Page 5 of The Silent Night Stalker
I put on a fake smile reserved for irritating customers. “Oh, yes. I apologize, sir. It’s easy to get swept away by the news,” I say as I scan the vodka and rum liquor bottles he placed on the counter. “That man they’re talking about on the news is so interesting, no?”
The man scoffs. “Please. ‘The Silent Night Stalker.’ What a joke. Why do these killers all have to get ridiculous names?”
While I agree about the name, my skin prickles, and my face heats. The urge to press a knife to his jugular makes my hand twitch. The taunting voice of my stepfather from years ago fills my mind, attempting to drown me in my past. He spins in my head, round and round, laughing and pointing. Then the beatings soon follow.
He needs to die!
No! You don’t kill out of anger. He doesn’t want or need your help.
I take a deep and cleansing breath, but once the anger dissipates, it’s replaced by my past. I’m brought back to my childhood in that old, dingy house I grew up in, making me want to cower fetally. I beg him to stop, but he never does. My stepfather made the holidays unbearable, especially on Christmas Eve. I hate it. I hate that day more than any other day of the year, even more than my birthday. It takes all my power not to freak out when the first Christmas song hits the speakers in the liquor store right after Thanksgiving. I want to rip off my ears, so I don’t have to listen. When the manager isn’t around, I change the music or just turn it off altogether.
“Hey! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I gasp, and my heart races at being ripped from my thoughts. I look down at my hands gripping one of the liquor bottles hard enough to nearly break it. The rage threatens to consume me. I want to kill this man with every fiber of my being, but I control myself. Control is what keeps me from being caught. Control keeps me from doing what I do throughout the year. Control keeps me from lashing out. I haveto because I never want to be like my stepfather. Instead, with another deep breath, I calm down and force myself to smile at the man again. At least he brought me out of my spiraling.
“Sorry, sir. It’s been a very long day.”
He eyes me warily and hands me his debit card to pay for his alcohol. After I bag the bottles and give them to him, he leaves the store, and I’m nearly in tatters.
God, I need to get better control over myself, but it’s so hard this time of year. I fight my inner demons as I try to help people. It’s a constant battle. A war waged with the ghosts of my past and my present, where I try to do good in the world.
Soon.
Soon, I’ll have relief from my torments. Once the Christmas holidays are over, I’ll be able to breathe again.
I glance at the clock hanging over the door. There’s over an hour left on my shift, then I can go on the prowl to find the next person who calls to me.
Sometimes I don’t have to prowl. They come to me at this liquor store. It’s the reason I have this job. A lot of lonely people shop here, broken ones who seek some sort of comfort in their alcoholic numbness. Some just buy the alcohol for parties or enjoyment. I don’t pay attention to those people.
But there’s no one else tonight. Tuesdays are always slow. So, by nine o’clock, I close up the shop and head home. It’s time to find my person, and I’m starting tonight.
Myhouseisn’ttoofar from the store as I shove my bare hands into my coat pockets and walk home in the cold. The wind is gusting, so I keep my head down, away from the chill.
By the time I reach home fifteen minutes later, I’m shivering and my teeth are chattering.
I open the chain-link gate and step through. The postage-sized yard is barren of life. I don’t think even in the summer there’s a blade of green grass. Maybe a few weeds. The house is decrepit, but it’s mine.
After I killed my mom and stepdad, I got to keep the house, although no one knows I killed them. I’d made it look like a robbery gone wrong. The police took one look at me and didn’t believe I could’ve pulled off something like that. I’d been slight as a child, being small and underfed. That was the only time I actually murdered, and I never regretted it.
That was also when I started perfecting not getting caught or leaving behind evidence. Because I had lived in this house my entire life, my DNA was everywhere, so it was useless as evidence. Still, the police gathered my DNA and prints after I’d committed the murders, so I always need to be careful not to leave any traces behind.
The porch creaks under my weight and threatens to collapse while I unlock the door. I hate this house. I don’t care enough about it to fix it up. The only reason I keep it is to give a big middle finger to my stepdad, who’s in hell. He’d never want me to keep it, so I did it out of spite. I can’t tell you how long it took me to get over the triggers of simply living here. The trauma and the ghosts linger, but it’s on nights like this that my stepfather lives in every corner of every room. The house is oppressive. It’s a heavy weight that holds me down and keeps me from fully breathing. I should burn the thing to the ground, but I don’t. It’s paid for, making my expenses low, which allows me to invest in other things that keep me from getting caught by the police.And saving money has allowed me to decorate my body to hide all my scars.
After a quick shower, I stay naked to air-dry myself. It’s cold as hell, even with the old radiators pumping out heat, but I don’t care.
I head to the spare bedroom. It’s painted a dusky pink with cobwebs in every corner. Mom would sew in there, back before she got high on drugs or was drunk off her butt. Against a wall sits a worn, cushioned chair that was beige once, but is now a dingy gray. A table and a sewing machine are sitting there as if waiting for her to come back one day and use them again. Some wooden shelves hold fabric and other sewing supplies that are collecting dust.
The main bedroom, the living room, and this room are the only spaces I don’t clean. They weretheirs, and I don’t care about their stuff. But this particular room holds my secrets. The only thing I keep clean in here is the floors, so my footprints don’t lead to the hiding places.
I shove the large chair aside and ease onto my knees to pry open a slat from the worn wooden floor. After setting it aside, I grab the small metal box. I open it, revealing my love for the people I’d saved. Inside are five carved hearts, and I lift one out. It’s hard in my palm and no longer resembles a heart. It’s curled into itself, but I know each one. This one belongs to Eric. He cried at first when I started to cut him, even though I was sure he couldn’t feel any pain. But when I soothed him with love, he calmed down and finally understood I was only trying to help him.
He’d been so beautiful with blond hair and pretty brown eyes. Eric was even more special than Emma. Too bad he’d been in so much mental anguish. I’ve been lonely my entire life, and I could’ve used some companionship, but I did the right thing by ending his pain. It would’ve made me selfish to keep him alive for my own needs.
Touching the hearts eases my soul. Whenever my past starts consuming me, all I have to do is look at them, and I feel warmth deep inside. They bring me peace. Soon, I’ll be adding to my collection.
I close the box and put it back in its place, hidden away from possible prying eyes.
I stand and walk to the closet, opening the old wooden door. The space is small, but what you can’t see is the false wall on the right side. It looks like drywall, but behind it is a space to hide the box holding my disguises.
