Chapter 9
The screams had taken me back to the day they killed my family, and I couldn’t handle it. I needed it to stop, and that’s why I shut my eyes—closing my mind off to the world. Only the darkness calmed me.
Typically, I only blacked out during periods of highly stressful situations. Angela’s abduction and the Xmas Day Butcher’s evil game was breaking me in ways I didn’t think possible.
Jesus, I was out for a long time, but I haven’t been sleeping well at all lately.
I rose from the floor slowly, preparing to leave in the dead of night, when everything in George’s house would be silent, including him. He was a heavy sleeper and went to bed early. I’d be able to sift through his house if I were quiet enough.
I had made the short trek to George’s place and crept through his backyard, my breath fogging in the freezing air.
I had the key to his back door firmly in my hand.
I crouch-walked over to it and quietly inserted the key into the hole and turned it, slowly pushing the door open.
It opened easier than I thought it would.
When I got inside, the house was very still. I crossed through the living room, careful not to make a sound. I went to Clara’s bedroom first to search for the supposed proof.
I turned on my phone’s flashlight and noticed that the room was very neat as I opened drawers and rifled through her clothes and makeup stuff—I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. I looked around, swiftly feeling my way around her closet, but there was nothing of interest inside.
I stared at her bed and crouched to illuminate anything that might’ve been underneath. I saw something. I crawled closer, and as I searched underneath her bed, I found an opened lock box with a red ribbon on top—similar to the ones I had been receiving at my doorstep.
How peculiar.
Inside, there were pictures of Clara with a guy I half-recognized. There were a few photos of them hugging at what looked like school events and one in a dark bedroom. I hammered my head for the name. Then it came to me—it was Henry Hamonte, Mayor Hamonte’s son.
My heart skipped a beat. Clara never spoke much about Henry, but I sort of recalled them being friends.
I had no idea that she was involved with him in an intimate fashion.
It might’ve been something that was covered up.
It was strange because…Henry was dead. The cause had been ruled as alcohol poisoning.
A tragedy from approximately a year ago.
Why hadn’t George told me about the connection with Henry and Clara? He was always so controlling of her. It really made me wonder—did he kill her?
I shook my head because I couldn’t believe it.
Why would he?
I put the pictures back inside the lock box, shut it and slid it back under the bed. I needed to leave before George heard me.
I froze as the light clicked on in the bedroom. I was caught with my pants down, too lost in thought, not realizing he had woken up from his deep slumber.
I turned off the flashlight of my phone and stuffed it inside my pocket. I spun around slowly and stood up, without looking at him. When I mustered up the courage to see him, he was standing in the doorway like a towering monster, his old, wrinkled face twisted with fury.
“I’m going to kill you, son,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. His thick, meaty hands were wrapped tightly around the handle of an axe.
My heart hammered in my chest. I hadn’t expected to be caught like this. The anger in George’s eyes was palpable, and I genuinely felt like he did want to kill me. Especially when he had that axe in his hands.
“Wait, just one second,” I pleaded, backing up, my voice cracking. “George, please. I’m just trying to find out what happened with Clara. I know I shouldn’t have broken into your house, but I didn’t think you’d let me in here. I’m sorry.”
George lowered his gaze, steadily staring at me, axe firmly in hand. He charged at me, knocking me down to the ground before I could move a muscle. Thud!
“Gaaaahhh!” I cried out in pain as my back smashed against the hardwood floor. He pressed the handle of the axe to my neck, both of my hands attempting to push it off, my arms burning with pain as he furiously pushed harder to choke me.
I sputtered, trying to regain my breath.
“P-please…please, George,” I squeaked out.
“You’re going to kill me.” He saw my face turning red and froze.
His arms grew weak as he slowly got off of me, guilt on his face, horrified at what he had done.
He backed out of the room, staring at me as he did so.
I slowly tried to rise as my back flared; I was groaning and wheezing.
As I breathed hard, my face was hot, my throat closed up, and my heart beat faster than I could count.
“Holy shit, George. You almost killed me. I’m really sorry.
I’ll never come in here again without your permission.
” I dragged myself to the bed to leverage my body before I toppled over.
He lowered the axe and softened just a smidge.
“You’re right, you shouldn’t be in here, you sly little rat.
Look what you almost made me do!” He patiently came back in and took a deep breath.
“Goddamn you, Lenny, if your wife wasn’t missing, I’d beat your ass.
You spooked me!” he shouted, looking around nervously.
“I’ve been hearing things at night—footsteps, weird noises, like someone’s been inside my house.
I thought it was a fucking squirrel or something.
It’s been happening since the beginning of December. I thought I was going nuts.”
Can it be the Xmas Day Butcher? Has he been sneaking in here? Did he leave the “clues” in his house? Am I being played?
I tried to steady my breathing as my heart pounded against my chest. “I’m really sorry, George. I didn’t mean to spook you. I’m just looking for answers, okay? The Xmas Day Butcher left me another gift box. He says that Clara’s connected to this.”
George’s eyes widened in shock as he set aside the axe by laying it against the wall. “Clara? Connected how?! What does that bastard know? What did he write to you?!” he demanded as he came closer.
I held up my hands, indicating I didn’t know much. “He didn’t say anything specific, just that proof of Clara disappearing is in your house. I don’t know why. I think he’s just playing games.”
George tiredly rubbed his face and sighed. He sat down on the bed, defeated. “There’s no damn proof of anything here.”
I contemplated asking more, but I hesitated. The man had almost tried to kill me, but I had to—for Angela. I needed to know more. I needed to do what the Xmas Day Butcher wanted me to.
I quietly sat beside him and cleared my throat. “What do you think happened with Clara? Why do you think she’s gone?”
George gave me an annoyed look and then scoffed.
He cracked his knuckles and looked into space, misty-eyed.
“I was strict with Clara because she liked to party and drink. She was only 22 years old.” He sucked in a breath, fighting back tears.
“We always fought about that. She loved her freedom and felt entitled to it, but I was trying to keep her safe. I loved my daughter, and I always will.”
I nodded, understanding his reasoning. “So you were strict with her because you wanted to protect her?”
“Damn right,” George said, his voice getting rough. “But when I found out she was seeing Henry Hamonte, that was it. That kid’s nothing but trouble, and his father, the mayor—don’t get me started on that crooked son of a bitch.”
I swallowed hard, heat rising in my throat, the thrill of learning something new in this dark mystery. “Wait…you think Henry Hamonte killed her?”
George nodded firmly. “Oh, I’m sure of it. That boy was a disaster. I bet he killed Clara and hid her body somewhere. I always knew it was him,” he muttered.
I took a deep breath. “It could explain why Henry is dead, too. He was found frozen in the snow just a few days after Clara’s disappearance. They said it was alcohol poisoning.”
George leaned in, turning his head, his eyes filled with fire. “You think that was an accident? That smells like guilt to me, Lenny. I bet he killed her and then did himself in because he couldn’t take it.”
It did make sense. If Henry was involved with Clara in a romantic way and things went sour, he might’ve killed her—perhaps by impulse or by accident. But he could never be properly questioned because he died soon after.
I rubbed my chin, thinking of any possible connections. “If Henry killed Clara, what does that have to do with Angela? What is the Xmas Day Butcher getting at?”
George shrugged. “Angela was at that Town Hall holiday party too, wasn’t she?
She worked for the mayor, after all. What if she saw something she shouldn’t have?
What if she knew too much? Remember—Mayor Hamonte is a corrupt little shit swallower.
If I could crush him underneath my foot like a cockroach, I wouldn’t hesitate. ”
I recalled what Angela had said to me once, before she vanished. She’d warned me that Mayor Hamonte wouldn’t like the restoration project she was working on for Whisper’s Creek, but she hadn’t had a chance to give more details.
What if Angela’s disappearance is tied to that restoration project? What if Mayor Hamonte didn’t want that to happen?
There was a hard knock at the door. I froze. George looked at me, suspicion in his eyes. I could barely move, but I knew what it was. I had a feeling, churning away in my stomach.
We both slowly got up. George grabbed his axe as he led us down his dark hallway towards the front door. “If it’s anyone I don’t know, I might chop off their arm. I’m just letting you know,” he warned.
When we arrived, he opened it slowly, and there it was, waiting for us on the doorstep. Another gift box, wrapped in white paper with a red ribbon.
George stepped outside and looked around to see if the person who dropped it off was still in the area. They weren’t—they always vanished like a shadow.
I lifted it and opened it up. Inside was a red envelope, a bloodied Christmas gnome, and a severed finger with a ring on it. It was Angela’s finger.
I glanced at George, my stomach rising with bile—his face paled. I kept it together and quickly tore open the envelope, sliding the letter out, reading it as George opened his mouth to say something.
CLUE #5: “Do not trust him, but do check his basement; a man’s secrets are grim. Check tomorrow night, and turn on the light. You’ll see that the Xmas Day Butcher is right. Do not check before; I’ll be at your door…I’m always watching you, Lenny, and always remember—Angela’s body parts are plenty.”
I slowly looked up at George, my chest tightening with fear. My hands trembled as I stuffed the letter in my pocket. “What does it say? What the hell does it say?” he asked frantically.
“He cut off Angela’s finger,” I mumbled, my throat dry. “It’s signed by the Xmas Day Butcher.”
George gasped, short of breath. “My god…”
I have to play his sick, fucking game…I can’t risk it. He’ll kill Angela, or worse. Fuck! What the hell will I find in George’s basement? When will this end?!