Chapter 16
Ibarely slept because I couldn’t stop seeing the hanging body of Doctor Thomas T. Tuttle, or what was left of him anyway. His frozen corpse, his white coat soaked through with blood and snow, missing head and all.
“Learn of my deadly task, he only needed to ask.”
What the hell did that mean? What were they referring to?
My stomach turned just thinking about it. Colton was a killer, and apparently, I was next.
The knock at the door came sharp and sudden. I flinched, coming back to the present.
“Lenny?” a voice called. “It’s Joseph. You in there? Let’s talk, man.”
I wiped my face, stood too fast, and stumbled to the door.
Joseph stood on the porch, cheeks red from the cold, snowflakes caught in his hair. He held a brown paper bag in one arm, a bottle of red wine swinging in the other.
“Hey man, let’s just forget about what happened. I know you’re going through hell, and this is probably the worst Christmas you’ll ever have,” he said. “I figured you could use a drink. Well, maybe more than one, and I won’t let you drink it alone—amigo.” He winked at me.
Without saying a word, I let him in. Not because I wanted his company, but because part of me was afraid to be alone. I didn’t know if I could trust myself after what happened with George. I didn’t know what I was becoming.
He hopped inside, unbothered by the mess. I hadn’t bothered cleaning anything up since Angela’s disappearance. Files and unopened mail thrown about on our central table, empty cups toppled over on the floor, dirty laundry hanging off of chairs—I was a complete disaster.
I took a quick whiff and gagged. My place smelled like wet rats and dirty socks. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up because of how ashamed I was.
Joseph dropped the bag on the kitchen counter. “Eggnog, muy delicious,” he said, pulling out a half-gallon bottle. “With a little holiday spirit.” He cackled as he poured half eggnog and half wine into two mugs he pulled from my cupboard.
He pushed a mug into my chest, forcing me to grab it. “You frickin’ need this, my friend. With all the shit that’s been going on—we’re living in a damn horror movie!”
“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks,” I muttered.
He shoved my shoulder and nodded. “You’re damn right I’m right!
It’s Christmas time! Why do we have people getting their heads chopped off and shit?
! What the fuck is happening, bro?! Good excuse to have a drink, though.
” He chugged down his special Christmas concoction and quickly poured himself more.
I looked at him carefully, wondering how much he was going to drink. He caught my stare and shook his head. “No, no. Fuck you. Don’t judge me. This butcher motherfucker might come slice my ass off and eat it like a ham. I’ll enjoy myself until then.”
I let out a dry chuckle. “Fair enough, Joseph.”
We sat down on my couch and tried to enjoy our drinks, even with all the murderous chaos around us. At first, we talked about the town—how everything had flipped upside down. The Xmas Day Butcher, the fear, the way Whisper’s Creek felt like it was unraveling thread by thread, primed to explode.
“I mean, George St. Nicklaus?” Joseph shook his head. “Never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss the crazy bastard. I can’t believe he was murdered like that, bro, and then his daughter showing up like that next to him?! I mean—what the hell?!”
“Yeah,” I replied, sipping my drink. “It’s all going to shit, Joseph. Angela…still nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be found. I’m worried, man. I don’t know if I’ll ever find her.”
Joseph nodded solemnly and poured more eggnog for me. “You deserve a break. You need to take it easy. This is all too much for one amigo.”
I didn’t answer and accepted the refill.
A few hours passed. The bottle was drained—mainly by Joseph. My tongue got heavier and the ache in my chest softened. The snowfall outside deepened, pressing snow into the windows.
Joseph leaned back on the couch, eyes glassy.
“You know,” he slurred, “I always had a thing for Angela. Not just the looks—though damn, those didn’t hurt. She’s smart, so sharp, so hot, hot, hot! I used to find excuses to talk to her at the mayor’s office.”
My grip on the mug tightened.
“She flirted with me, man. I swear she did. One time, she touched my arm and laughed at something stupid I said. That laugh…man…”
He trailed off, smiling like he was remembering something precious.
Then he looked at me and said, “You think she got tired of you? Maybe she’s in on this whole thing. Playing a Christmas game for shits and giggles. Like, what if she just got bored, y’know?”
The world slowed and I sobered up quickly.
“You think this is a game to her?” I asked, voice low and hollow.
Joseph raised a brow. “I dunno. People change, Lenny. She did let me take pictures of her in the office. I wish she took me up on the offer to go back to my place for a more…private shoot.” He shrugged. “Maybe you didn’t know her like you thought—”
I didn’t let him finish. All I saw was red.
I launched across the room and tackled him into the center table—it cracked beneath us. Mugs shattered. Eggnog splashed across the floor like blood.
He tried to shove me off, but I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the floor.
“Take it back!” I shouted. “You don’t get to talk about her like that!”
We tumbled again—crashing into the Christmas tree. Ornaments exploded, ceramic snowmen shattered, a string of lights snapped loose and sparked.
Joseph punched me in the ribs. I hit him in the mouth. Blood sprayed across the tinsel decorations, and then—my hands found his throat. I squeezed—hard.
He clawed at me, choking and kicking, his face turning blue.
I squeezed even harder, until he stopped moving. Until his arms went limp and his eyes went still. I let go and sat back. I breathed hard, like an animal after a kill. A cold, howling silence filled the room.
My hands trembled as I looked at him—Joseph—no longer drunk, no longer breathing…no longer alive.
What the hell have I done?
I scrambled back, heart thundering. My mind sputtered. I was standing in a grave I’d dug with my own drunk rage. I had to move.
I sprang up and grabbed him by the legs—dragging him toward the back door, every inch of my body on fire. The snow outside fell heavily now, blanketing my path to the forest.
I pulled him into the woods behind my house through frozen branches and piled-up snow. My back screamed with every step. Then I ran back, boots soaked and heavy. I grabbed the shovel from the hallway closet and sprinted back.
I dug a spot in the ground as my heart pounded like hell. The cold was beginning to numb my limbs, but I had to keep digging.
When the hole was deep enough, I remembered the old abandoned church that sat on the other side of the woods. I contemplated taking him there instead, stuffing him inside some hole, never to be seen again.
It reminded me of my brother, Lincoln, and how he always told me that that place reminded him of Mercy’s Light—the orphanage.
I chose not to go there, there wasn’t any time. I rolled him in with no further hesitation, or pity.
Just dirt and snow covering his lifeless corpse.
I ran back, icicles stabbing my lungs. When I returned to the house, I stood in awe of the violent wreckage.
The Christmas tree had fallen, the decorations were ruined, and the floor was splattered with red wine that looked like blood.
If Angela were here, she’d have my head. Then I saw it—Joseph’s wallet and keys on the table. I grabbed them and headed back out into the snow.
Joseph’s truck started on the third try. I drove through the snow, headlights cutting through whiteness—his house was only seven minutes away.
I parked carefully in his driveway, walked up to the front door, and let myself in.
Inside, I tore the place apart. I opened drawers, flipped his mattress, and yanked open cabinets. Looking for evidence—proof—anything to justify what I’d done.
But there was nothing—no hidden letters, no racy pictures, no weapons, no sign of Angela.
Just a normal house—a sparsely furnished home with booze in the fridge and those damn masks. He was innocent, as far as I could tell.
I stared at the mess, my frozen hands numb, my throat burning with tension. I’d killed an innocent man. No one would believe it was an accident. I had done it again—I had killed someone. I had allowed the alcohol to suppress my judgement, and I had allowed him to drive me into a murderous rage.
I had to leave. I stepped back, my breath ragged. It’d take me twenty minutes to walk home, and I had to hurry—before anyone saw me—before the snow let up.
I’ve killed another man. What the hell is wrong with me?