The Black Chronicle (2 page)

“Okay, okay. Well what did he say? Why are you crying?”

“He said . . . He said he was going to kill me.”

“What?! Kill you?!”

“Actually he said he was going to rape me, then kill me.”

“Did it sound like your brother? I swear to God if this is one of your brother’s stupid pranks-”

“It wasn’t my brother,” she said with too little conviction for Greg to be sure she was right. He would kick the shit out of that little weirdo if it did in fact turn out to be him. He had once hidden a small recorder playing spooky noises in a wall socket of their bedroom, which of course scared the hell out of her. In retrospect, that one was funny, but to upset her this badly was not cool.

“It’s okay. Shhh. Shhh. It’s just a prank call. Nobody is going to kill you. I’m here, baby.”

“He knew my name! He knew your name!”

So it probably was her brother. He knew if he suggested it again it would only agitate her further so instead he just silently plotted when and how to confront him. 

“It was probably just someone we know, playing a stupid joke.”

“Probably?!” she screamed. She had a point. Just the very, very unlikely possibility this was real was scary enough. The name “Mister” entered his mind, but he quickly forced it out. He wasn't about to let her brother Kevin get him all worked up over this.                                                                                                                                                              

“Definitely,” he corrected himself. “What reason would anyone have to hurt you?”

The doorbell chimed and it might as well have been the bells of hell tolling for the reaction it got. The two of them flash froze, holding their breath. He couldn't let her see him scared, it would only throw her into a deeper panic, so he smiled and chuckled genuinely amused at the unexpected knot in his stomach. This was getting ridiculous. He kissed her on the forehead, tasting a slightly salty veneer of sweat.

              “Don’t worry. That’s probably your retarded little brother down there laughing his ass off right now.”

              “Greg, call the police.”

              “The police?! No, no. It’s fine. Trust me,” he said trying to convince himself as much as her. 

              The bell chimed again and as he got up to answer the door she clutched him with such fear that it broke his heart.

              “What if it's... him?” she gasped.

              “‘Him’ who?”

              Sara couldn't even bring herself to say his name. She just shook her head back and forth as if trying to shake the name from her mind and Greg realized the same thing had occurred to her”
Mister.

              “Oh, come on. Now this is just getting silly. It's not
him
. I promise. I’ll be right back.” The bell chimed again and Greg gently pulled himself free of Sara’s grip and headed down stairs.

              “Do not hit your wife’s brother. Do not hit your wife's brother,” he repeated over and over as he descended down into the darkness of the first floor. He could see through the frosted rectangular widows on either side of the front door that it was dark on the step. Which meant that the motion sensor hadn’t been activated. Which meant that whoever was ringing the bell had left or was standing very, very still.

              He walked quietly across the cold tile floor towards the door. He reached for it and hesitated, feeling scared and embarrassed and amused all at once. He shook his head, angry at Sara for working him up like this. As softly as he could, he tiptoed into the living room and removed the fire poker from where it lay on the mantle.

              With the poker concealed by his side he opened the door to reveal…

Nothing. Suburban silence. The sprinkler system jutted and sprayed, jutted and sprayed. He looked behind the small row of bushes next to the door for good measure. Nada.

He could feel his anger starting to bubble up again. The urge for sex and thoughts of his ex were both gone now and all he felt was the need to sleep. He wanted this situation to be over but he was confused. There was no way it was a coincidence that they’d received that disturbing call and someone had rung their bell only minutes later. This was someone having some fun. He thought about calling out Kevin’s name to let him know they knew it was him, but for some reason he didn’t understand, decided against it.

              Closing and locking the deadbolt he went to make sure the back door was locked knowing, Sara would insist he do so anyway. Somewhere in the safety of his home something foreign and unwelcome moved. Two quick footsteps and a mass was on him. A cold object pressed against his neck and there was a loud clicking sound his mind instinctively tried to place even as painful convulsions overtook him and brought him down to the floor, rigid and immobile. Just before the darkness swallowed him he recognized what the sound had been: a stun gun.

***

              Sara sat stiffly in bed, her lungs hungrily sucking at the air while she tried to bring some semblance of calm to her mind. Where was Greg? He had been gone for longer than she’d expected. Her fear had begun to be undercut by a sour note of annoyance; he knew how scared she was. She was annoyed at herself for feeling this way, and annoyed at Greg for taking so long, and
really
annoyed at her brother Kevin if it was him. She threw the book on the floor and cocked her ear to the side, as if angling a satellite dish for better reception.

              It was amazing what you could hear when you sat perfectly still. She could hear the barely detectable hum of the light bulb in the lamp next to the bed.  She could hear the cool central air gently seeping from the vents. She could even detect, she thought, the sound of her own heart, thumping wildly like a tiny animal hopping around madly in its cage.

              She thought about going to hide in the kids’ room. She could tuck the three of them away in the closet but couldn’t stand the thought of Greg teasing her all night when this all turned out to be some sort of stupid joke as he suspected. Maybe it was even him playing this joke. He’d left the room right as she’d gotten that call. Would he do something like that?

              Then there he was. Impossible but true. His ghostly white mass filling the door frame; she recognized him instantly. He stood perfectly still at the entrance to her bedroom, heightening the surrealism of the moment. He just stood there, unmoving like an ivory statute or a ghost stuck in time. He was facing away from her, looking at something else down the hall. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even conjure the impulse to want to scream. She was petrified and it was only her stomach which seemed to have the ability to react, as it tightened and turned once she realized what the intruder was staring at: the children’s room.

              Finally her empty lungs found enough air to gasp, and she did so loudly again and again. Mister slowly turned his head to face her, as though he’d only then realized she was there.

              He was dressed all in white: white shoes, white pants and white shirt. A long white trench coat and hood which hung down low over his face, which was also painted white. His tie, his gloves – everything white. Every single inch of him was somehow covered in white.

It really was him, the serial killer – Mister. This couldn’t be real, but it was.

What had he done to Greg and why hadn’t she heard a struggle? Knowing he would do whatever it took to protect his family, she decided right then and there that he must be dead. 

***

Mister remained very still and watched with a certain sense of satisfaction as Sara struggled with the hopelessness of the situation, grappled with the unbelievable. He could tell she recognized him. He was famous now and all of his victims recognized him. And why shouldn’t they recognize him? He was their nucleus after all.

              That of course didn’t mean it wasn’t still fun for him. It didn’t reduce the act to masturbation or self-mutilation. There was still the distinction of him and them, even if it was all so much illusion.

              He knew that the first step he took towards her would throw her into a frenzy so he let the moment between them stretch out. The tension was exhilarating. He let it grow and swell until it hung in the air, thick and dense like a noxious industrial gas.

Finally, he took exactly one theatrical and elaborate step into the room and watched the fear dissolve her like acid dumped on a flower.
Dance, puppet.

              It was amusing to see her clutching the pillow in front of her like some sort of shield. But it wasn’t a shield, it was simply a sack of feathers. The phone was right there on the bed. Why didn’t she try to call for help? Why didn’t she grab the lamp and try to fight him off? Was his will too strong for her? This phenomenon was familiar to him now. The ability to use terror to petrify the no-men. He was the snake charmer, her fear was the flute and he played it in sharp dissonant notes. He knew her type. She would comply. She would cry, and try and block it out and deny what he was about to do to her, but in the end she would comply.

              He took another slow step towards her. She was a beautiful manifestation. He inched closer to her, captivated by her pretty bloodshot eyes. Her tears were like diamonds streaming from red pools of amber and onyx.

              Sara lost bodily control and began wetting herself. Suddenly Mister felt his longing get the better of him. He watched as the wetness darkened the crotch of her pyjamas and slowly spread outwards. It was just so fucking cute. She had gone and wet herself just like a sweet little baby. His baby. His little baby doll for as long as he wanted her. She was so precious. But he shouldn’t be too gentle with her, lest she get spoiled and try and sass him. No, no, no. He would not tolerate any sass.

              He wanted to open his mouth and speak. He wanted to introduce himself and explain what he expected from her. But he kept his mouth closed for fear that she would see the red of his tongue or the pink of his gums as he spoke. He would not reveal so much of himself to her. She was not deserving of that. Not yet.

***

In a flash he was on her but Sara still found herself unable to move. It was as though her body refused to take any actions which might validate that what was happening was really real.

              He grabbed her by the hair and tore her off the bed. He then took a handful of her hair by the roots and curled his fist full upwards, tautening it at the scalp. They were out in the hallway and headed for the stairs before Sara was able to start struggling.

              She kicked and thrashed with her long legs, twisting and turning and flopping and shrieking, her hands wildly slapping at him. She was possessed by a single thought:
The children will be next.

              Mister just laughed at her as though she was a little kitten making hissing sounds. With a sigh of exasperation he grabbed her head with both white gloved hands and bounced it off the high polished glossy hard wood flooring, then calmly stepped over her and jabbed her in the mouth. He took a brief moment to observe the smattering of red blood across his white fist and then leaned over her and appraised her broken and bloody lips.

Sara thought she could see his white ghoulish face spread into a smile as he turned and pulled her down the stairs so fast the world around her blurred into a smear. And then she was at the bottom, her spine aching, unbearably hot and wet with sweat and blood and urine.

              Then, as though he knew the layout of their house as well as she, he pulled her straight to the door leading to the basement and dragged her down by her ankles. This time she didn't struggle and focussed only on taking the steps with minimal injury.

              The basement was cool and dark save for the light from the stairway which cut through the door frame in an elongated rectangle. He flipped her over and pushed her face into the soft carpet. Her first thought was that he was going to take her like this, with her face down on the floor of the room where she’d played board games with her children and watched movies with Greg late at night. But the rip she expected to hear on her pyjama pants never came. Neither did he begin to pull them down over her hips. Instead he fastened cold handcuffs around her wrists.

Only once she was secure did she feel his hands touching her buttocks and gripping her around the waist. He rolled her over, his sinister, white painted face sneering down at her like a scornful ghost. He began to slap and squeeze at her with such casual curiosity that it made what he was doing seem all the more morbid. It was less a lustful exploration than a taking of stock—as though he was concerned only with the width and roundness and depth of her proportions than from gaining any sexual pleasure from it.

Then his hand was on her crotch, his fingers measuring and gauging. He quickly punched her there and she cried out in pain. He punched her again and again, not as hard as he could, but hard enough to cause sharp ripples of pain to explode around her pelvic bone, shoot up her spine and explode in a strobe light of pain somewhere deep in her brain. He grabbed her by the throat and pulled himself in close to her. He began to lick at her tears and the blood flowing freely from her nose and mouth, moaning with satisfaction, as though they were the most delicious things he had ever tasted.