Chapter 11
The clock struck midnight on my watch as my face went pale, my mouth and eyes wide with disbelief as I stared at Clara’s hanging, lifeless body before me.
My hands trembled at my sides as I struggled to grasp the shocking revelation unfolding in front of me.
Every muscle in my body froze, my breath growing shallow, my mind unable to process the impossible truth that stormed around my head.
I grabbed my phone from the floor and held the light on the box as I tore it open with my free hand. I lifted the lid and found a red envelope along with a single photograph.
The note inside read:
My heart nearly stopped; the Xmas Day Butcher was insinuating that George had murdered Clara, his own daughter. I had considered it in theory, but…I didn’t know what to think.
I picked up the photo and looked at it. Angela—bound with duct tape, eyes bloodshot and terrified. On the back, something was written:
“Remember the deadline: Christmas Day. Kill George, or Angela dies.”
I shoved the photo and the note into my pocket, tossing the gift box aside.
I couldn’t believe it—George killed Clara.
But it didn’t make sense the more I thought about it.
How would the Xmas Day Butcher know? What did they have to gain by pinning Clara’s murder on George?
Where was the body hidden all this time?
It couldn’t have been in the basement…could it?
Was I that blind? No…no, it couldn’t be.
Her body would’ve rotted away a very long time ago. Someone had kept it ice-cold all this time to preserve it, but why?
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go to Detective Castillo, and I sure as hell couldn’t confront George with the morbid possibility that he had killed his daughter all along.
I didn’t know if I had it in me to kill George, my own boss. He was grumpy, but he wasn’t evil, unless he really did murder Clara.
Still, if I murdered someone…I’d become a cold-blooded killer. I was never that type of person. I hated violence and always tried to avoid confrontation all my life. Lincoln had been the opposite. He didn’t mind throwing a punch, or six.
Angela helped mold me into a good person, despite the bloodshed I had lived through.
I had every reason to be a raving lunatic—a dark soul corrupted by the tragedy of my murdered family—but I wasn’t. I was simple and reserved—a married man who worked on a farm. Now I was being ordered to kill a man, and if I didn’t comply, that meant my wife’s death.
There was a sound upstairs. My mind went blank, and my heart thundered like hell. Then—heavy footsteps. He was awake, and he was coming for me.
George St. Nicklaus would be down any second, and I’d be forced to make a bold choice. All I could do was think of my poor wife, Angela. She had no foot, no finger…who knew what else the devil incarnate had chopped off my wife?
“Shit!” I whispered fiercely. “I’m out of time.”
He slowly came down the stairs, wild-eyed and angry, firmly grasping his axe. I backed away, turning off my flashlight and sliding my phone back into my pocket. He flipped on a light switch, and a dim light lit up the room.
His reddened, furious eyes stared into my soul, but they quickly tore off me as he saw Clara’s dangling body.
“Oh my—oh my god! What the fuck is that?! You motherfucker!” George clutched his chest, his breath starting to hiccup as he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Y-y-y-y-you killed her,” he gasped. “You killed Clara, my baby girl. All this time—you were the one!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing through the snow-covered fields outside his house.
I held my hands up, trying to prove my innocence. I had no idea what I was in for. “No, it wasn’t me! It was the Xmas Day Butcher! He did this! I swear it!”
He viciously shook his head, not believing me.
“No! You’re a liar! You broke into her room…
I knew there was a reason why. You wanted things to remind you of what you did, didn’t you?
You sick little rat! Murderer!” his voice cracked.
“Now I know it wasn’t Henry. Fuck! I got the wrong guy.
I killed Henry for nothing. I thought…I thought I had done it for Clara.
But it was you all along. You were the one who killed my daughter. ”
My throat closed up, trying to make sure I had heard that correctly. “Wait, you killed Henry?” I asked shakily. “I thought his death was an accident. I can’t believe you killed the mayor’s son.”
It made sense why he hadn’t mentioned Henry Hamonte in connection with Clara’s disappearance. He killed him without a shred of evidence to justify it and didn’t say anything out of guilt. That’s what George’s “dirty deed” was, and somehow, the Xmas Day Butcher knew about it.
Before I could say anything else, he lunged forward, violently grabbing my collar as I shoved him back. He blindly swung his axe, barely missing me by a hair.
He firmly grabbed the axe and crept forward, foaming at the mouth with rage. “Killer! Murderer! You will pay!” I refused to die in that moment. Angela needed me, and I needed her.
I found random objects on the floor and started throwing them at him: an old hose, a garden gnome, a set of extension cords, and a storage box filled with old files. He hit them aside, getting angrier by the second.
He yelled and charged at me, axe held high—I used Clara’s body for cover, and he stopped, lowering the axe, suddenly staring at Clara’s dead body, misty-eyed. “How could you, Lenny?! How could you?!”
I crouched down and picked up a stray hammer from a half-opened toolbox.
“I didn’t kill Clara!” He picked his axe back up.
“Liar!” I stood up and threw the hammer at his face; he cried out in pain, shutting his eyes and lowering the axe again.
With my body trembling all over, I sped over to him and kicked the axe out of his hand by aiming for the handle.
I picked it up swiftly and swallowed down the lump in my throat. He fluttered his eyes open, glaring at me with such anger; every fiber and cell in his body wanted me dead.
He roared and ran forward, his hands balled into tight fists, his face twisting with bestial rage. I did what I had to.
I swung the axe back and swung it forward, straight into his chest.
With a horrifying crunch—it sliced into him, creating a massive gash of red—blood spilled out as he gasped for breath, his mouth sputtering, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.
My hands shook uncontrollably as he fell backwards, his body hitting the ground with a strong thud. The axe stayed fixed into his body, crimson liquid pouring out of him and onto the floor. “Oh god, oh my god,” I whispered shakily. “What have I done? What the hell have I done?”
I looked all around, my eyes darting in all directions.
I needed to leave—I needed to get the hell out of there.
That’s when I noticed the window; it was slightly ajar.
That’s when I realized how the Xmas Day Butcher had entered.
But I couldn’t stay thinking about that; I needed to go.
My adrenaline surged through my veins, lighting up every molecule in my body.
I ran up the steps, my shirt getting caught on a pointed edge on the wall, a protruding nail. I ripped it off and exited the basement. I closed the door and didn’t bother with the lock. I ran for my life, the cold biting into my face, freezing up my throat, and burning my chest.
I’m sorry, George. I’m so sorry.