Chapter 11
ASHER
His pulse thrashes beneath my grip.
“Stop struggling.” I clamp my hand tighter around the old man’s throat, pressing my fingers into his paper-like flesh, and cutting off his oxygen.
His struggles weaken, his limbs jerking. A soft, almost imperceptible noise escapes his throat, and his body slackens as unconsciousness claims him.
Exhale. Silence.
Perfect.
I tug the ropes tighter around his wrists, yanking them one last time. You can never be too sure. “No escaping now, Dennis.”
I step back, wiping the back of my hand over my forehead, admiring my handiwork.
The ropes cutting into Dennis’s wrists and ankles are a work of art, really. Tight enough to restrain, but not so tight as to cut off circulation. I want him fully aware for what I’m about to do.
I want him to watch as I slice open his flesh.
I want his heart to hammer in his chest as I linger a little too close.
I want his breath to stutter as I kneel before him and take what is owed. The same way he took from me—from Caleb.
And when I’m finished, he’ll no longer lay a hand on another child. Or another person for that matter.
Adrenaline surges through my body, like an electric current, igniting every muscle. It’s better than any drug. This moment has been a long time coming, and now Dennis McCosky is exactly where he belongs.
At my mercy.
Moaning.
Struggling.
Fighting against the inevitable.
Did he really think he’d escape my clutches a second time? His death has been etched in fate since I torched half the orphanage ten years ago.
I wasn’t about to let him go for good. Last time, he slipped through my fingers with the help of a dark-haired nightmare I can’t seem to shake.
Not that I want to.
She’s close. So close. Trying to put the pieces together, desperate to pin Caleb as the monster. But she doesn’t know how many pieces there are. Or how little she understands the puzzle.
Caleb isn’t the monster.
I am.
And soon, she’ll know it. She’s already questioning herself, wondering why she’s so drawn to me.
Does she hear it, that little voice inside her head, telling her to obey, to listen?
Oh, how satisfying it’s going to be to watch her unravel.
Whistling softly, I move through Dennis’s spacious living room, tidying up the mess from our little struggle for dominance. A few toppled books, an overturned lamp, nothing of importance.
If only Caleb allowed me that much control. He knows I’m here. But how else will he learn to live with me if he keeps pretending I don’t exist?
I pick up pieces of a shattered vase, the jagged edges catching the dim light.
Even for an old bastard, Dennis still has some strength behind his sloth-like exterior. Not that it matters. Look at him now, slumped in a chair, helpless. Drooling all over himself.
Pathetic.
I turn the fragments over in my hands, testing the weight of each piece. They’re heavier than they look. Sharper too. I place them on the mantle, arranging them into a neat pile.
Such a shame to ruin such a beautiful item. But everything must be in its proper place. Even broken things still hold beauty.
Behind me, Dennis whimpers, a pathetic, high-pitched sound that crawls over my skin like tiny spiders.
My hands fist at my sides. He’s finally coming to. I exhale slowly, smoothing the irritation from my posture, and move towards him, fluid, unhurried.
We have time.
“Now, now,” I murmur, stepping closer as Dennis writhes in the chair, the wood creaking beneath his panic. “There’s no need for all this fuss. You knew this day would come eventually, Dennis.” I tilt my head, studying the red marks around his throat the way one might observe a pinned butterfly. “You can’t go unpunished forever. Not after all the vile things you’ve done.”
His eyes, wide and bloodshot, track my every move. It’s amusing how humans cling to life, even when it’s clearly futile.
I crouch beside him, slow, deliberate, and trace a finger over the curve of his sweat-slicked cheek. His breath hitches, and he flinches, jerking away.
It won’t do him any good. The ropes prevent any real movement. Tight. Unforgiving.
There’s nowhere he can run.
A smile lifts the corners of my mouth, and I grip his cheeks, squeezing until teeth cut into thin flesh. “Quiet,” I whisper, pressing a finger to his trembling duct-taped lips. “You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”
Dennis shakes his head violently.
The tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock in the corner mimics the steady beat of my heart. So orderly. Predictable. A perfect rhythm.
Unlike humans. Unlike their erratic panic. Their messy, clumsy emotions.
I roll my shoulders, and with a sharp tilt of my neck, a satisfying pop breaks the silence. “Let’s get started then, shall we.”
I lay out my tools—scalpels, pliers, a bone saw—each one placed neatly on the polished mahogany table in front of Dennis.
Every instrument has a purpose. Every incision, a lesson.
A muffled scream rips through the air, and Dennis thrashes against the restraints. His feeble attempt at freeing himself almost topples the chair.
“Now this just won’t do, Dennis.” I shove a booted foot between his knees, forcing the chair back onto four legs. “That’s no way to gain my attention. In a matter of minutes, you will have all of it.”
Dennis continues to blubber while I select a slender blade, running a finger along the edge. This will work.
The human body is a fascinating canvas, and I’ve always loved testing its limits. Unfortunately, the mind often goes first. Fear makes one do and say, just about anything.
“Isn’t that right, Dennis?” I say, blinking slowly at the snivelling man in front of me. “The mind is such a fragile thing. Like that beautiful vase, so easily shattered.”
Dennis whimpers, his protruding stomach convulsing with each pathetic sob, filling the air with the stench of fear.
What a fucking waste of oxygen. Nothing stopped him when he took what he wanted from us. Nothing will stop me now.
A muffled “please” escapes from Dennis’s mouth. Tutting, I circle the chair, each footstep absorbed by the plush ivory carpet beneath my boots. That hush money didn’t go to waste after all. I hate to admit it, but Dennis has fine taste in style.
Not my style, of course. I’ve seen worse.
Pity he can’t take any of it with him where he’s going.
“You know”—I kneel in front of him, tapping the scalpel against his sternum—“I’ve always wondered something about you.” I press in, just enough for a bead of red to escape. “Not about how long you’ll last. That part’s obvious.” A smirk creeps onto my lips, and I lean closer, my breath grazing the shell of his ear. “No. I wonder what shade of red your insides might be. Shall we find out together?”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut as though I’ll somehow disappear. The duct tape across his mouth muffles his protests.
How considerate of him to keep the noise down. Wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbours, after all.
Not that anyone in this godforsaken town would do anything. Blind eyes still rule it, just as they did when Thornhaven Orphanage housed sadists and paedophiles.
The police are still just as buried in corruption, handed hush money to sweep the orphanage’s secrets under the rug, leaving them to rot.
Not that I’m complaining. Just makes my job easier when I’m not being hunted by incompetent pricks.
I press the blade to Dennis’s abdomen and drag it across his flesh. Slow. Deliberate. The sharp edge glides effortlessly through his skin and fat, parting it like butter. A thin red line appears, beading up, trembling, before spilling down his torso.
Well, that’s . . . disappointing.
Tapping the scalpel to my chin, I purse my lips, studying the colour. Not quite the shade I was expecting.
“Right,” I murmur, tilting my head. “We’ll have to go deeper.”
Dennis writhes against the ropes, his screams blending into the steady rhythm of the clock. I press the scalpel in further, peeling back more of his flesh. Each layer reveals shades of red more vivid than the last.
Now that’s what I wanted to see. The colours remind me of Maeve. Deep crimson. Slick against my palms. Soft where flesh should be firm.
What shade would her blood be? My mouth waters, my grip tightening around the scalpel.
Would she let me cut her open? Let me see the darkness inside her?
Of course she would. Maeve understands things, things Caleb never would. I won’t waste her. I’ll appreciate her in ways no-one else ever can.
Dennis’s body jolts, snapping me back to the task at hand. The piece of shit is slipping into shock. This just won’t do. I need him fully awake for what’s coming.
I slap his cheek and his head lolls to the side. “Wake up, you fat fuck. Don’t go soft on me now.” Dennis groans, his heavy eyelids stuttering. His grey-blue eyes find mine. “There you are,” I say, tapping his chest with the back of my hand. “Focus, Dennis. This is no time for a nap.”
He sobs into the duct tape, saliva and what looks like vomit escaping through the small gaps along the top and bottom of the tape.
My top lip curls. What a putrid human being. It’s all about control. Something Dennis obviously lacks.
Tutting, I snatch up his discarded shirt from the floor, wipe his face, then drop it back at his feet. “There,” I say, rearing back as I inspect Dennis’s face, “that’s better.” I tap the blade to my chin. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes, now this will only hurt a little.”
Or a lot.
Narrowing my focus, I trace the tip of the scalpel along Dennis’s quivering abdomen once again, barely breaking the skin. Another thin red line follows in its wake, beading with pinpricks of blood. I retrace the line, going a little deeper, blood rushing from the open wound.
“I’ve always found the human body to be a fascinating canvas,” I say, wiping the blade clean on his blood-stained pants. “Each person’s flesh tells a unique story, but I’m sure you’re aware of that. How many children came to your office for guidance, only to leave with bruises? Or worse, bleeding from orifices. Hundreds? Thousands?”
Dennis’s eyes dart frantically around the room. If he’s looking for an exit, he’s sadly out of luck. There’s no escaping. Not tonight.
A single tear rolls down his cheek and I reach out, catching it on my finger.
“Now, there’s no need for that,” I say gently, as if soothing a child. “We’re making art here. You should be honoured. After all, it was you who taught me how to use the human body for your own enjoyment. Do you not remember?”
A loud sob breaks free from his chest, spit dribbling out from under the duct tape and down his chin. “Please.”
Another muffled attempt to appease me.
Vile piece of shit.
“Please? Please!” I press the blade against his bobbing throat. “How many times have you heard that word over your lifetime, Dennis? It means nothing to you, does it? So why should it mean anything now?”
I return my attention to his torso and trace the scalpel along his ribs. The blade catches the light, small orbs dancing along the walls. Each cut is precise, calculated, a work of art carved into a living, breathing canvas.
Dennis’s whimpers fade into white noise as I focus on my craft.
Time blurs as I work. One hundred and seventeen cuts, each one adding to the tapestry of red pooling beneath us. The blood tells a story only I can understand, a Rorschach masterpiece etched into flesh.
Dennis’s chest heaves, rising and falling in frantic, disjointed gasps. His body fights instinctively, uselessly, his ribs expanding like a trapped animal’s. His wild eyes fix on mine, silently begging, desperate for a mercy that doesn’t exist.
Exhaling, I stand back. It really is a sight to behold.
The way his skin pales beneath sweat. The way his pulse flutters, erratic, at the base of his throat.
A perfect display of biology at work.
Fascinating.
Once upon a time, I may have felt such things as fear, when this man—one of many—took his pleasure in my screams. Eventually, I learnt to block out the pain and focus on my breathing, on what I would do to them once I was old enough, strong enough.
I sigh and lift Dennis’s head by his hair. Perhaps I should vary my technique.
With one last swipe of the scalpel, I stab it straight into his chest. The blade sinks past flesh, muscle and bone. Blood spurts from the small wound, flowing down Dennis’s chest, and dripping into the carpet beneath us.
“Well, now,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s going to be a nightmare to get out, Dennis.”
More choked sobs. More bodily fluids. It’s just as well I have a strong stomach.
My movements unhurried, I wipe the blade clean on his discarded shirt by my feet, and stand, sliding it back into its place. It’s back where it belongs until the next time. With quick hands, I roll the leather pouch up and shove it into my duffel bag.
Dennis groans, not yet dead. But he will be soon enough. I’ve punctured a lung. He’ll suffocate. Suffer through the pain just as I did. His death will be drawn out for as long as his mind will allow.
His punishment really does fit his crimes.
His movements slow, the blood draining from his puffy face. Fear is frozen in his eyes. It’s always the same, that moment of realisation, of utter terror when they know death is coming for them.
I can’t relate to the emotion, but I imagine it’s terrible. Death was something I wished for often back at the orphanage, and when that never came, I learnt to embrace the power Caleb’s fear gave me.
With a sigh, I tap Dennis’s cheek. His head falls forward as tears and snot leak from every orifice on his age-weathered face.
I glance at my watch. It won’t be long now. His lungs will be filling with blood, pushing out the last remaining vestiges of oxygen. Eventually, he’ll drown in it.
I wait. Let it settle. Let the silence creep back in.
But the silence doesn’t last long.
It’s broken by approaching footsteps. Outside. Soft, tentative.
A creak of timber. A shift in the air.
The click of a latch.
My body stiffens.
Someone’s here.
“Now, who would be visiting you at such an hour, Dennis?”
The old man’s head snaps up, a sudden burst of adrenaline filling his veins, his eyes darting to the front door, his wrists bleeding, the skin rubbed raw from his continuous struggles. His screams remain muffled, useless.
I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and flick the light switch off, melting into the shadows, my back pressed against the wall.
I’ll wait. My night just got much more exciting.
The door creaks open. A sliver of moonlight spills across the threshold, and with it comes a dark figure.
The scent hits me first—vanilla and something softer, more delicate.
Maeve.
My Maeve.
I exhale, my pulse slow, steady.
Well, well. Little Shadow, you continue to surprise me.
But what is she doing here?
Is she here for me?
Has she finally figured out who I am?
Or has she finally figured out who she is?