Ethan Powell felt a single bead of sweat trickle across the side of his face as he watched the old Ford pickup truck drift by. Having only crossed the border to this humble little town some days before his leisurely stroll, he was certain nobody could have found him here; not yet anyway.
The fact that the truck was a near-perfect doppelganger of the one his older brother used to drive fueled his startled state just as much as the man behind the wheel. He had only viewed its pilot for seconds at best, and the rational side of his brain was certain it could not truly be who he had initially thought. Of course, his was not always the most rational mind; not with the particular hobby that defined his life.
•
He was only nine years of age when he experienced his first kill; the first he could speak of anyway. Jeremy Powell had only taken the youngest of his three children with him for this excursion out into the woods, though he hoped to make such outings a family affair in the future. Edward, the eldest of the Powell kids, had accompanied his dad many times over the years.
Being a good three years older than his sister, Lisa, and five years his brother’s senior, he had experienced a good deal more than his siblings. He could be quite cocky about it at times; his vast knowledge of the way the world really works. Though the only daughter of Jeremy and Samantha Powell looked up to her big brother, Ethan grew to despise his arrogance.
After their mother passed, a little over a year before this outing, their father learned to drown his sorrows in old rotgut, otherwise known as the cheapest whiskey his money could buy. Rarely did his daily inebriation cause him to lash out at his kids, as he was quite the mellow drunk, but there were those times that his grief and intoxication got the better of him.
Edward, being the oldest of the trio, was more of their dad’s buddy than his son, so he never had to worry about being on the receiving end of his wrath. Lisa was Jeremy’s little angel, not to mention the spitting image of her mother, so her father would sooner cut off his arm than ever raise his hand to her. Ethan would not be so fortunate.
He never beat him, so to speak, but the lashes from his belt most certainly left their mark, both on his rear end and subconscious. He wasn’t a child of great emotion, nor was he one of many words. He would take his whoopin’, while not allowing the tears to release from his welling eyes, but he wouldn’t argue against it; not at such a young age anyway.
•
Regardless of how slim the likelihood of the beat-up old truck being the one his brother used to drive was, just the sight of it stuck a fork into Ethan’s lower back. While still glaring at the cracked and tarnished tail lights as they drifted up the road, taking a left and leaving his sight, he idly pushed through the door of whatever shop he was next to at the time.
He continued to gaze at the road until the small, brass bell jingled against the door, effectively snapping his attention away from the sporadic traffic outside. The building he had walked into was small but spacious. The items that sat upon the shelves before him all looked ancient, yet well-kept, pulling his curious mind away from what led him there, to focus on what now surrounded him.
He idly stroked his fingers across the old grandfather clock, which stood next to a row of smaller, tabletop time pieces arranged on an oak shelf. He continued to allow his forefinger to lightly caress each one, while he paced farther down the aisle.
Why such things held such fascination to him at the time, he couldn’t say. To a certain extent, each trinket he passed by looked to have a story attached to it, or that’s how it felt to his curious mind. He gazed upon framed paintings that lined the walls, again absentmindedly creating intriguing worlds in which they originated.
The image of the blonde woman, whose hair blew in the wind as she stared out into the world from the clifftop upon which she stood, caused his pulse to quicken slightly. He could only see her from the back, but he imagined her to be quite striking, were she to have the ability to turn around from her frozen stance.
He could practically hear the sounds of the waves brushing against the lighthouse that shone its light upon the stormy seas in the next painting in line, as the rain fell upon his subconscious. The one to the right featured a small child with wide eyes and a vacant stare; something that once more flashed his mind back to days long since passed.
•
“Squeeze the trigger, boy. Don’t pull,” Jeremy spoke directly into the ear of his youngest son, “breathe in deep. Don’t let it out until…”
Before his father could continue his coaching from the sidelines, Ethan tightened his forefinger. At first, the kickback from the rifle made him jump, feeling as though he’d just received a slug to the shoulder from his big brother; an all too familiar sensation.
He didn’t even notice the blood gushing from the wound he drilled into the unsuspecting buck at first, only the enthusiastic cheer from his father. When he once more turned his focus back to the task at hand, he felt almost loopy from the adrenaline rush. He couldn’t have predicted such exhilaration from witnessing the large deer fall limp to the ground.
“I knew ye could do it, boy!” Jeremy said, clapping his son across the back, WOO-EEE! I ain’t never seen shootin’ like ‘at from a first timer!”
Though his heart still thumped against his sternum, Ethan had already returned to his default, vacant glare. He had never been one to show a great degree of emotion, but this out-of-character pride from his father almost inspired his blank eyes to light up, for the briefest of moments. The small child even offered his dad a smile for his efforts; something that almost caught the old man off guard for a second.
It’s not as though he never showed happiness, just not to a particular extent. While his siblings were often quite loud, running through the house playing hide and seek, or cops and robbers and the like, Ethan had little interest in such things. He liked to read, solve mathematical equations, and plenty of other things the average nine-year-old had no interest in, but he saw himself as a thinker, more than a doer, so to speak.
It wasn’t until his father led him to where his prey had fallen, that he truly understood the one joy that would trump any of his other desires in life. He gazed into the wide eyes of the buck, feeling his pulse quicken even more than when he squeezed the trigger.
As he glanced up to his dad to see tears trickling down his weathered and wrinkled cheeks, he felt his own eyes begin to well up. Though the old man responded to this by wrapping his arms tightly around the son he had never before connected with, he couldn’t know what had actually caused the boy to cry.
Ethan continued to stare at the lifeless shell, spurting blood across the forest floor, while his dad sobbed upon the bright orange vest his eldest son had grown out of some years back.
“I’m so damn proud of ye, kid!” Jeremy said, rubbing his son’s back.
“Thank you, father. I am too,” the young boy replied, barely shifting the tone of his voice.
•
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” a voice spoke from somewhere behind where Ethan gazed at the paintings.
“Hmmm? No, sir. I’m just browsing.”
He didn’t look back to meet the eyes of the shop’s proprietor; only continued to gaze upon the framed canvas.
“Looking to decorate your home a bit?” the man continued, almost annoying his potential customer with his badgering.
“I do not have a home to speak of. Just passing through “
“Very well, then. Should you have any questions, simply call out, and I shall be at your beck and call.”
“Your name, sir?” Ethan replied, finally turning to face the man in the neatly pressed, black velvet suit, “You do have one, yes?”
“I do indeed, my new friend. I’ll be available should you have any questions.” the man with the curled mustache said, holding out his hand.
“Pleasure,” Ethan replied with a nod, cutting his eyes down to the outstretched hand.
“My apologies, sir. I do not shake hands. Germs, you understand…”
The shop owner returned a courteous nod, followed by a slight bow, before turning on his heels to stroll back to his counter at the rear of the shop.
Momentarily caught off guard by what he almost considered to be harassment, Ethan continued his tour of the little shop. He could feel the man staring back at him from time to time, causing his face to flush slightly.
Surely he does not think me to be a common thief! He thought, seeing this as the most feasible explanation for the man refusing to allow him peace.
He could tell that this store likely didn’t do a whole lot of business, being such a classy place in an otherwise hovel of a town.
Perhaps he’s just desperate to make a sale, practically begging you to purchase something, his more rational mind offered.
Yes, that made so much more sense than seeing the well-spoken and well-dressed Ethan Powell as nothing more than a meager shoplifter. This allowed his facial temperature to regulate, as well as the pulse beating beneath his wrists and neck.
His tastes, after all, were far too refined for something as pathetic as ripping off a local shop. He had committed crimes like this humble store owner could not fathom; something that caused that rare smile to breach his lips once more.
He continued his pacing up and down each aisle with his head held high, even when his eyes glanced down to meet another series of intriguing artifacts. It wasn’t until he was content enough to make his way back to the exit, as he glanced to the man at the rear of the shop, pulling open the doors to a simple, wooden cabinet, that he saw something that immediately captured his attention. One more precious trinket that opened the floodgates to memories of days gone by.
•
The young boy could barely contain his excitement while his proud father taught him to skin the deer. Being his son’s first kill, Jeremy promised to preserve the head until he could get it to the local taxidermist; something he had done for his eldest son and daughters first as well.
Ethan wasn’t fond of the frozen eyes of the decapitated trophies gazing down on him from the living room wall, but he wouldn’t deny himself this memento. He was one of few words; always had been, but he made sure to ask every single question that came to mind while stripping the carcass. Though he didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, these would be lessons he would utilize a great deal in the future.
Even while the whole family feasted on the venison the youngest of the Powell children had provided, his mind was elsewhere, still on the hunt for something new to feed his growing impulses. He would offer his token words of gratitude to those unusually complimentary from his siblings, but none of that mattered to him.
That night, once every stomach in the house was satisfied, Jeremy asked his youngest son to accompany him to his den. The boy was nervous at first, as he had never been allowed to enter his father’s sacred space before. Even with the adoring and prideful look on the old man’s face, Ethan had no idea what to expect.
He took a seat across from his father with a small table between them. As two short and stumpy, crystal glasses were laid before him, he finally understood what was happening. Jeremy pulled the familiar, tarnished silver flask from his pocket, unscrewing the cap before pouring a small amount of the dark liquid within into both glasses.
The old man lifted his glass while nodding to the one remaining. When his son lifted his drink, staring intensely at the dark brown fluid, he clinked the rim of his glass against the other.
“Ye did good today, kid; damn good!” he said, gulping down his whiskey in one shot.
Ethan sniffed at his glass, glancing at his father as if to ensure this was acceptable, before following the example and allowing the entirety of the liquid into his waiting gullet. Jeremy was already on his feet, patting his son on the back as the boy violently coughed from the shock of such a thing entering his throat.
His father chuckled while he continued to slap the palm of his hand against the sweat-moistened t-shirt until the spluttering gag subsided. His son glared up at him, both thankful for the assistance, while somewhat agitated by the situation.
“Thank you,” he said, still clearing his throat, but maintaining his monotoned and emotionally vacant tone.
“I coughed like ‘at when my pop gave me my first shot too,” the old man said, still chuckling, “he called it a right of passage or somthin’.”
Once his breathing regulated, Ethan allowed himself to enjoy the somewhat light feeling in his head, as well as the lingering flavor of the cheap whiskey. When his father pulled the flask out once more, holding it outstretched with his eyebrows raised, he gave a single nod to signify he was ready for another.
Over the years that followed his first successful hunt, the whole family would trudge out into the woods on many early mornings. He would allow his brother and sister the occasional kill, but his instincts were already honed so finely at such a young age, that he was quick to put down any prey that slipped through their fingers.
Though he adored the adrenaline rush of the bullet tearing into the flesh of his victims, he far more enjoyed what came next. As the blood would leak between his slender fingers and along his boney forearms, he would find his pulse quickening so erratically, that he feared he may lose consciousness before the job was done.
After every successful hunt, the Powell children would share a drink with their old man. Though Lisa and Edward only reluctantly accepted their glasses, Ethan looked forward to it more each time. His older siblings did not have as refined a palette as himself, but he enjoyed the celebratory drink almost as much as the hunt itself.
•
The small, tarnished flask that sat upon the shelf was identical to the one his father used to carry. Ethan found himself standing beside the shop owner, gazing at the thing, mesmerized by the all too familiar object.
“What is this!?” he belted, not breaking his gaze from the artifact before him.
“Hmmm?” the unusual man replied, seemingly having not noticed the approaching, potential customer.
“How did you acquire this?” Ethan asked, ignoring the question presented to him.
“If memory serves, I came across that one in London…”
“No! This belonged to my…someone I used to know. Now, sir, how did you acquire this?”
Ethan finally turned to face the owner of this curious little shop, while gesturing to the flask with a slightly trembling finger.
“I am afraid you’re mistaken, my friend. If you will allow me…”
The well dressed man pulled a light blue handkerchief from the inner pocket of his coat, cupped it in his hand, and pulled the flask from the cabinet. Powell looked on with his face reddening, instantly feeling rage tremor beneath his skin while this unusual individual held what he was certain to be his father’s flask.
“If you look right here,” the man said, turning the small canteen upside down, “you will see the base is imprinted with a crest, yes?”
Ethan looked to the object and back to the eyes of the shopkeep, still attempting to calm his quickened pulse.
“And?”
“Well, this is a royal crest, my friend, as this once belonged to a somewhat, well, forgotten member of England’s royal family, you see?”
Ethan studied the man, allowing his breathing to regulate. Though he couldn’t deny he had no recollection of seeing such a brand on his father’s flask, he was uncertain if he had ever examined it in this much depth. The more the man before him attempted to explain the origins of what he held, the more he took in the little details of the thing.
While at first, it had looked identical to the one that provided him that frequent taste of cheap whiskey, he could now make out subtle inconsistencies. A blemish here, a missing scratch there; little things that he remembered from his youth that were not present on the article he now gazed upon.
“A forgotten member? If so, how can you know of him?”
“Well, mister…?” the shop owner replied, attempting to receive his customer’s name for a second time.
“Jameson,” Ethan replied, “Jack Jameson.”
Mr. Powell had used this alias; inspired by his fathers love of whiskey, for some twenty years or so. While the brands that lent their names to the false moniker he adopted would only grace his old man’s gullet on those rare occasions he could afford something better than old rotgut, he thought it had a nice ring to it.
“You see, Mr. Jameson,” the man continued, barely missing a beat, “I am something of a collector–not of simple baubles and trinkets, but stories.”
“And this flask?”
“This flask, my new friend, is said to have belonged to one of the most infamous killers in history: none other than the legendary Jack the Ripper.”
The two gazed at each other, both wearing a similarly subtle grin.
“It may be no coincidence that this particular object caught your interest, Mr. Jameson, given your forename, of course,” he said, allowing his smile to widen, “Naturally, that is the only thing you have in common with its previous owner, after all.”
•
It was only two weeks after receiving his own rifle for his thirteenth birthday when Ethan Powell finally gave into the desires which had been building since his first kill. A surprise storm had prevented the planned hunt the day after celebrating him becoming an official teenager. Responsibilities and a handful of other reasons had gotten in the way of being able to plan the next excursion out into the woods after that.
Whether it was the constant badgering from his older siblings or the indifference of their father, the young boy found his patience with them waning. Granted, his old man had a busy work schedule at his factory job, as did Edward at a local shop, now that he was saving for wherever life was to lead him after high school.
Lisa had little time for either of her brothers, as her only concerns were with her friends and her ever-changing series of boyfriends. Ethan could not deny that his sister had grown into quite the striking young woman, though he would never allow her to hear that from him.
He had never given much attention to the opposite sex, as his passions were leading him on a different path. Still, the changes his body was going through caused his normally focused mind to stray from time to time. Perhaps that was a factor in his transitioning from a socially distant, yet intelligent boy, to what lay just around the corner.
It had been some time since Jeremy Powell lost his temper with any of his children, but that Tuesday evening would be the last. Being exhausted from his work, the attitude his youngest son put behind every word he spoke quickly got under his skin. He was already a good four beers and half a flask of old rotgut into distancing himself from his troubles when Ethan completely ignored his request to take the garbage out.
“I’ll get it later,” his son replied to the third attempt to get him to do this simple chore.
“You’ll do it now, boy. I ain’t askin’, I’m tellin’, you hear me?”
Both the bluntness and the underlying disrespect of his old man’s words caused the young boy’s face to flush. He had been strolling towards the stairs when the demand was belted out across the living room, causing him to stop in place while attempting to compose the anger building within.
“I know you heard me, boy! Don’t make me…”
“Make you what, exactly?” Ethan asked, spinning in place to face the man still sitting on his recliner, “Make you stop binge drinking for two seconds to do it yourself?”
The arrogant tone fueled his father’s rage as much as the blank look on the face of his youngest child. He pressed his palms to the armrests of his chair, pushing himself to his feet, feeling his head spin for a moment. He stood in place, waging a staring contest with the cocky young man across the room, battling for some semblance of dominance before he spoke again.
“You’re gettin’ too big for yer britches, boy,” he said, unbuckling his belt before pulling it free, “been a long time since I’ve had to set you straight, but don’t think for a second, you ain’t old enough for me to tan yer hide!”
He continued to glare into the blank eyes of his son with the belt dangling from his right hand. Had he not still been attempting to convince his head to stop spinning, he would’ve already closed the gap, but he knew if he tried to take one step at a time, he would have likely dropped to the floor.
Ethan took one glance to his father’s feet, before meeting his gaze again, allowing a small smirk to reach across his lips.
“You can barely stand, old man,” he said, condescendingly, “how exactly do you expect to tan my hide, hmm?”
Jeremy Powell grew more angered by the arrogant look on his son’s face, than the disrespectful words he spilled. As he forced one foot forwards, not taking his eyes off his youngest child, he felt his mouth form its smirk, finding his stance more stable than anticipated.
For the briefest of moments, Ethan felt his back stiffen with fear as his father plundered toward him, but he would not show it. He stood in place, finally letting his grin melt away.
I am not a child anymore, old man, he thought, balling his fists as the man who doubled his height drew closer.
As his dad reached for him with one hand, while raising the one holding the belt high above his head, the teenage boy took advantage of how slowly the man moved. He sped right at him, releasing his tightly balled fists to push against the round beer belly, just below eye level.
Whether it was the shock of the swift attack, or simply not being as stable as he presumed, Jeremy felt his feet betray him. In that one quick motion, the boy caused the old man to lose his footing, falling straight to the floor behind him. He would not connect directly with the weathered and stained carpet; not at first anyway.
The chipped and tarnished coffee table had sat in that same spot for the better part of a decade, before the skull slamming hard against the corner closest to the door caused it to shift back a foot or so. While the wide eyes of the father of the Powell children met those of his youngest boy, he accepted that this would be the last thing he saw before falling into the black, just as his wife had so many years before.
Ethan continued to stare at the twitching shell his father used to occupy, tilting his head from one side to the other as though he were a curious deer. He traced his eyes from the dead stare of his old man to the shimmering crimson pool forming around where he lay.
He did not feel guilty for his actions, nor was he repulsed by the sight of the corpse of the man who raised him. It was nothing more than a fascination to him at the time. He had gazed into that vacant glare of many forest animals over his thirteen years, but none were as intriguing as this. Once more, his lips formed that smirk; something he experienced with every kill before, and the many more that lay ahead.
•
Ethan blinked from the old flask to the annoyingly friendly face of the shopkeep, seeking meaning behind his words.
Why would he choose to say something like that? He thought, attempting not to reveal the gears spinning inside his skull to the well-spoken Mr. Hyde.
Could he somehow know that I share a similar passion to the legendary Ripper of White Chapel?
He’s never laid eyes on you before this day, his rational mind argued, stop being so paranoid! He’s simply trying to sweeten the pot.
He continued to study the unblinking eyes of the man who still clutched what he had presumed to be his father’s flask, between his fingers and handkerchief, unable to get a read on the unusual individual. Ethan always had a talent for being able to understand what was going on behind the gaze of those he looked upon.
It was a talent that aided him in his craft; being able to get into the mind of his prey. The mysterious shopkeep, however, was a nut he couldn’t quite crack.
“Would you be interested in purchasing this item, Mr. Jameson? I understand if the grim nature of its previous owner is something of a deterrent, but I assure you it has been thoroughly cleansed.”
The usual man offered a slight chuckle with his words, inspiring the would-be Jack Jameson to return a smile. He glanced back to the tarnished flask, maintaining his light grin and holding his hand out to receive the curious item. Once the man in the velvet suit placed it into the waiting palm, Ethan felt the cold metal react with his flesh in a not unpleasant manner.
He turned it from one side to the other, upside down to further inspect the crest, and back to face him from the side once more. He unscrewed the lid, holding the open vessel to his nostrils, closing his eyes as he could swear the familiar scent of old rotgut spilled from within.
Momentarily stunned, he took a second sniff, to find nothing more than fresh oxygen greeting his senses. He gave a slight chuckle, both at the memory of those first drinks he shared with his father, as well as the silliness of allowing his imagination to get carried away.
“Yes,” he said, still staring at the article in his hand, “I believe I would like to purchase this.”
“Would you like to know the cost before making a final decision?” the man asked, maintaining his grin, “given its history, I’m afraid it is…”
“The price does not concern me,” Ethan said, interrupting the words of the surely common salesman.
He had little doubt the strange individual was pulling his leg with his claims of its previous owner, but money had never been a problem for him; not for some time now.
•
“What the hell happened!?” Lisa Powell asked, having sprinted down the stairs to see what the commotion was, “Oh ma Gawd! Daddy!”
She ran to her father’s side, kneeling in the fresh pool, still growing wider. Rubbing his face, while shaking him softly, she begged him to wake up. Tears flowed down her face as she walked out, gazing at his empty expression.
“He fell,” Ethan stated softly, finally choosing to answer his sister’s initial question.
“I…I think he’s dead…” Lisa said, hiccuping from her erratic breathing, “we…we gotta call someone…we gotta do something!”
“Nothing to be done. It’s too late for him.”
The teenage boy continued his emotionless words while staring down at his sister while she wept on the floor. The sight of her kneeling in his father’s blood, wearing only a thin tank top and sweat shorts caused Ethans’ pulse to quicken. The way the red seeped into the fabric of her garments fueled his gooseflesh just as much as the stains upon her tanned skin.
Though he was well aware of how wrong it was to be glaring at his older sister this way, it didn’t prevent his mouth from watering. He licked his lips, not breaking his gaze from her heaving back while she wailed on her knees. The plan began to form before he even realized it.
He finally cut his eyes from his sister, peeking at his watch, before redirecting his gaze to the gun cabinet, only a few feet from where he stood. When Lisa finally got to her feet, still breathing heavily, she walked towards the phone, mounted to the wall, next to the kitchen. That should be all the time he needed.
Given that it was nearing seven o’clock, he only had a little over an hour before his brother would return. His shift ended at eight, and the drive home generally only lasted fifteen to twenty minutes.
Plenty of time to have a little fun, he thought, pulling open the unlocked glass door, and retrieving his father’s replica Colt 45.
Be sure not to fire the weapon, the more rational portion of his brain added, keep it simple. Keep it clean.
Clean? He thought, glancing back at the still widening crimson pool, too late for that.
You know what I mean…
While his trembling sister attempted to dial the simple three-digit number with her shivering fingers, Ethan spun the blueish-black cylinder to ensure each slot held a bullet. For his plan to work, he had to do as his logical mind suggested, but he hoped he could instill enough fear without pulling the trigger.
“Hang it up,” he said, aiming the barrel on his sister, who stared back with shock in her eyes.
“Eth…”
“NOW!”
She jumped, allowing the phone to slip from her grasp. At the time, she was unsure if the gun scared her more or the out-of-character raised voice of the one who trained it on her. Ultimately, she would never secure the answer to this brief debate.
“Back away from it,” Ethan said, pacing towards where the phone still swung from side to side, bouncing against the floor as the spiral cord expanded and contracted.
Lisa did as she was asked, her whole body spasming as she stepped back with her hands raised.
“W-what’re you d-doin’, Ethan?” she asked, struggling to form words, “d-did you do that to daddy?”
“He started it,” Ethan shrugged, racking the phone back on its perch, “I finished it.”
“W-what’re you gon’ do to m-me?”
“Nothing. Well, nothing you haven’t done with plenty of boys already. I’m certain of that.”
She stared back, fighting against the urge to retch from the implications.
“Why don’t you go ahead and get undressed, hmmm?” He said, spinning one of the dining table chairs to take a seat.
“You’re fuckin’ sick!” she barked, spitting with the words.
“Strip, you filthy whore!”
As those words slipped his watering lips, he felt his previously still extremities begin to shudder with anticipation.
“NOW!” he belted, cocking the pistol.
Lisa jumped, certain she would be shot dead any second. Just the idea of what her brother was planning caused her stomach to churn, but she knew she had little choice in the matter. As she gripped her trembling fingers around the hem of her flimsy, white shirt, she began to sob even harder than before. Unfortunately, this only made the boy even more excited than he had been.
Ethan felt his muscles twitch as she pulled the garment free of her upper half, and even more so when the shorts fell to her ankles. She stood there, still violently shivering while attempting to hold one hand high and the other low to maintain some semblance of dignity.
“D-don’t,” Ethan stuttered, “d-don’t you cover-up. Not yet.”
He got to his feet, momentarily embarrassed by the way his body was reacting to the sight before him. The look of sheer hatred and disgust his sister wore, caused his cheeks to flush even more.
“Don’t look at me!” he barked.
She did not comply.
“DON’T FUCKING LOOK AT ME!”
Her spiteful gaze did not falter.
Holding the gun outstretched before him, with his arm shuddering, he stomped toward her. As he drew closer, he noticed his sister’s hands, tightening into fists. For a second, he considered abandoning the plan and shooting her dead right here and now, but that would ruin everything.
Having lost his previous urges, he stopped in place, still facing the contemptuous gaze of his older sister.
“Get dressed. You disgust me.”
Lisa felt her heart beating so hard against her sternum, that she was certain she could not maintain consciousness much longer. Her rage was boiling over, as was her fear of what the boy she barely recognized had planned for her, but she did not hesitate in obeying his demands this time.
By the time she raised back up, pulling her shorts securely back in place, she had no time to react to the knife being plunged into her midsection, once and once again. In those seconds before her rapid descent into oblivion, she glanced over to the knife rack beside the kitchen sink, now missing the one that pierced her flesh, over and over.
“Why?” was the last word she was capable of speaking before she felt the agony give way to something almost blissfully light.
•
When the proud new owner of the silvery and tarnished flask set foot back on the sidewalk outside the odd little antique shop, he had already forgotten about what initially sent him inside. He had turned down the shopkeeper’s offer to box up his new artifact, choosing to slip it into the pocket inside his coat.
Though he had a certain fondness for old rotgut, he stopped by one of the numerous local liquor stores to pick up something with a bit more class. He would still sample the dirt cheap whiskey from time to time, but he favored something smoother. He saw himself as having a far more refined palette than that of the late Jeremy Powell, so he would generally allow nothing less than twelve-year-old scotch to pass his lips, outside of those times he felt nostalgic.
When he returned to the Honda he had left in a nearby parking lot, he picked up that old familiar scent again. He took his place at the driver’s seat, inspecting both of his recent purchases to assure himself neither had leaked, though the flask was yet to be filled. Regardless of the strange shop owners’ guarantee the flask had been cleansed, he would not feel secure drinking from it until he had fully rinsed it himself.
Once he was certain the seal was yet to be broken on his bottle of significantly aged scotch, he began the drive to the cabin he was renting on the outskirts of this little town. The familiar aroma lingered throughout the handful of miles he traversed, at right around the recommended speed limit, but it wasn’t unwelcome.
Being one of such intellect and imagination, Ethan often found himself experiencing surprisingly vivid reactions to his wandering mind. Given the nature of his childhood, this would be neither the first nor last time he would pick up that old scent, being carried on the wind from unknown origins. Yes, this time was far more intense than normal for him, but not enough to cause him any distress. He did have quite the fondness for it, after all.
During his brief drive to the outskirts of this humble, yet ratty little town, Ethan began to consider that the mysterious shop owner would be his first prey in this new hunting spot. Whether or not his remarks were indicative of any insight into how Jack Jameson passes his hours away or not, he did seem an arrogant sort. Perhaps he could relieve him of a few of his interesting belongings after the work was done.
It’s only fair with how much he charged me for such a simple trinket, he thought.
You didn’t have to buy it, the more rational side of his brain argued.
And have him think me a pauper!? I certainly could have bartered with the infuriating man, but that would have left him the victor. Besides, I’ll get my money back soon enough, with interest.
Settling in for the night in his temporary living quarters, Ethan began rinsing his both new and ancient flask. Every time he poured the hot water back into the sink, his memory revisited just about every drop of blood he had spilled to the floor, from one vessel or another. He offered a smile to the imagery flashing before his mind’s eye, even those of the lone incident of his own fluids soiling the stained and weathered carpet.
•
Glancing from the spasming corpse of his sister to the clock on the wall, Ethan knew time was running short. Of course; for everything to go as planned, he would have to be certain the timing was perfect. Time had flown more rapidly than he had expected, while he enjoyed his previous task so much, leaving him maybe a half hour to have everything in place for his brother’s arrival.
He would occasionally arrive back home substantially later than expected, having spent time with friends or romantic interests after leaving his job. Fortunately, his recent break-up should all but guarantee his lack of desire for any such social interactions. Edward had been moping around the house these past few days, and he had surely been of that same mindset at his place of employment.
Taking one last glance at the knife protruding from his sister’s leaking corpse, Ethan wiped down the revolver and placed it back in the gun cabinet, just where he had found it.
He’ll see father first, he thought, tracing his eyes from his lifeless old man and up to the door.
That goes without saying, his rational mind insisted, inspiring him to roll his eyes at his sarcastic thoughts.
Taking note of where Lisa had knelt in the crimson puddle, leaving a trail leading to her body in the kitchen, he hoped this would not raise any eyebrows.
It’ll take him a minute to notice that. He’ll be in shock, seeing dad like that. He’ll cry, try to resuscitate him perhaps. Five minutes tops. Then he’ll follow the trail.
He paced onwards, attempting to mimic the predicted actions of his older brother.
This’ll hit him harder than seeing father. He’ll assume the old man tripped, likely being drunk and unstable. This one is no accident.
He stood in the doorway, gazing at the vacant husk of human flesh once more.
He won’t take as long on this one. The shock will hit him like a sock to the jaw, but he’ll think someone broke in and killed her. They may still be in the house.
He walked back to the cabinet, being sure to avoid stepping in any specs of evidence. Yes, he had his sister’s blood all over his shirt, but he didn’t have time to dispose of his clothing; not in a manner that wouldn’t be discovered. If his plan was sound, he hoped this wouldn’t be a problem for him.
Ed prefers a rifle, but he won’t want to risk a longer weapon hitting a wall if he had to act fast.
He glanced from one rifle to the next in line, and the handful of pistols on the bottom shelf.
Automatics can jam. He won’t want to risk it; not if he wants to be sure.
He smirked at the replica Colt he had returned only moments before.
Yes. That’s what he’ll use. Won’t matter if I didn’t wipe it down well enough with his prints on it.
He walked to the staircase that led to the second floor. His room was in the very back of the hall at the top.
Father’s dead, Lisa’s a goner, he’ll want to check on me as well. He’ll move slowly, keeping his wits about him. If the killer is still here, he can’t risk getting too hasty.
He reached his bedroom door after acting out the entire scenario. Taking one final glance at his watch to see only nine minutes having passed since he began his walkthrough. This left a little more than a quarter of an hour before he should arrive.
The scene was set, but he would have to act quickly as soon as he saw the lights of his brother’s truck approaching. He flipped off the lights, taking one last mental note of any blood spatter he could not risk trudging through. Surrounded by darkness, he took his place next to the phone, wrapping his fingers around it. Glancing back at the hilt of the blade still embedded in his sister’s gut, he knew he would have to move quickly. With the time to act drawing closer by the second, Ethan felt his fingers tingle and shudder with anticipation.
When the time when Edward would normally arrive came and went, the blood-covered teenage boy began to feel his heart racing.
What if he’s late!?
He’s already late, dingus!
But what if he doesn’t get here soon!?
Then the evidence will show that he cannot be responsible for this.
His breathing grew heavier by the second, Ethan felt his previously calm, yet jubilant state becoming something far more harried and manic. He left his post by the phone, pacing from one side of the room to the other, attempting to prevent himself from having a meltdown.
When a subtle light was cast across the back wall of the otherwise darkened room, he almost stepped right into the puddle which had formed around his sister’s shell in his haste to reach the phone.
His shuddering fingers battled to dial the simple, three-digit number, but with him having mentally rehearsed it several times while waiting, he got it on the first try.
“9-1-1 emergency response. What is your emergency?”
“H-help m-me…” Ethan whined into the receiver.
“Sir!? What is your address?”
The lone car driving the otherwise empty street drew closer each moment, inspiring the boy to quicken his performance.
“43 Denford drive…h-hurry! H-he’s coming for me n-now!”
With that, he set the phone back on the cradle, snatched the knife from his sister’s gut, and began his sprint to the bedroom at the rear of the second-floor hallway. He heard the wheels directly outside coming to a halt as soon as he hit the landing. He made sure to wipe a bloody handprint across the front of his door before he slammed it shut, preparing himself for what had to come next.
“DAD!?” screamed out from the floor below.
Here we go, kid. Can’t back out now.
Ethan pressed the hilt of the knife against the left wall, preparing to push himself upon the blade when a thought occurred to him.
You’ll spray across the wall, you simple shit! How’s that going to look?
He hadn’t thought about the potential for leaving obvious evidence in plain sight.
“LISA!? JESUS CHRIST! NO!”
Fuck! No time left! Why is he moving so quickly? He should be frozen with shock right now!
“ETHAN!? ETHAN, WHERE ARE YOU!?”
Damnit!
Without giving himself a chance to back out or even put much thought into where he was aiming, Ethan raised the knife out in front of him, instantly plunging the blood-soaked blade into his own gut. The pain was far more intense than anything he could have imagined, but he knew one cut wouldn’t be enough to sell him as the victim.
You’ll be fine with just one kidney.
One more swing, right to the side of the last one. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to scream out against the horrendous agony.
As he heard footsteps thundering up the stairs, he pulled the blade from his stomach, slicing it quickly across one palm and the other forearm. Dropping to his knees, he planted the blade one last time into his left shoulder, barely gripping onto consciousness when his door was thrown ajar.
“NO!” Edward shrieked, running to where his brother swayed back and forth on his knees, “who did this to you, kiddo!”
“Ed?”
“I’m here, kid. Just hang in there, okay?”
Without taking the time to second guess his actions, the eldest of the Powell children yanked the knife from his brother’s shoulder, releasing a thick and sticky spout of blood across his shirt.
Ethan wrapped his weakened arms around his brother, squeezing as much of the fluids that spurted from his body across him. He slid down, tracing more blood in his wake, before dropping limply to the floor.
Having done considerably more damage to himself than planned, before his panic and haste got the better of him, Ethan blacked out as his brother dropped to his knees beside him, still holding the bloodied blade in his trembling hand. Neither of the boys was fully aware of the flickering blue lights, just outside that splayed open front door, nor was the near-catatonic Edward fully capable of understanding why the cold metal handcuffs were being tightened around his wrists.
Somewhere in the black, Jeremy Powell’s youngest son was still hopeful that his plan would come to fruition, almost as much as he hoped to grasp onto life. When he would finally awaken, some two months later, he would find his world far different from how he left it, with his brother behind bars, and his father and sister buried.
He would resist the smile attempting to breach his lips when the sheriff gave him the horrific news of his brother’s unfathomable crime, but his tears looked genuine enough, to someone not looking for anything else behind them.
•
Ethan took his time cleaning out his purchase from the curious little antique shop. He was always thorough when cleansing anything from silverware to his most recent victim. Grime and germs belong on his cutlery just as much as evidence at a crime scene, after all.
After no less than ten straight minutes of soapy hot water therapy for his new flask, he spent another five or so, rinsing out the suds. Once content with his work, Ethan peeled off the seal from his fresh bottle of aged scotch, slipped the cork free, and gently poured some of the contents into their new temporary residence.
Swiping the cork under his nostrils before sealing the bottle shut, he took one quick swig from his flask. The sudden cough caught him by surprise as his throat was prepared for something far smoother than what drained into it. The flavor wasn’t unpleasant, mind you, just unexpected.
Once his spluttering fit calmed down, Ethan popped the cork to the bottle again, taking a sip directly from the source. The smooth scotch almost instantly cleansed his pallette of whatever it was that the small flask provided, causing quite the puzzled expression to form on his face.
Following that sip with another from the flask, there was most certainly a variance. If he didn’t know better, Ethan would almost think he did indeed drink from that very flask his father stored in his pocket just about every day before he passed. With the flavor of old rotgut swirling across his tongue, the strange sensation of nostalgia did not cause an unwelcome reaction. Only an unexpected one.
Being of logical and sound mind, Ethan chose not to dwell on this unusual occurrence, simply chalking up the confusion to the experience of drinking from such a vessel. Though he poured some of the fresh scotch into a glass, he continued to indulge in the occasional belt from the weathered flask, in between refills of the stubby glass.
As his head began to grow light and blissfully loopy, he carried the bottle, glass, and flask out to the front deck of his little cabin, just a ways back from the coastline. He gazed up to the long-since darkened lighthouse, some miles in the distance, pondering whether or not that could be the prime location for his first kill in this dilapidated little town.
Perhaps a certain shopkeep would like to visit the old place with you? Bring a little life into the old thing…
…Then snuff it out.
“What the fuck you doin’ all the way out here!?” a voice sneered from behind him.
Turning to see only the exterior wall of the small cabin, Ethan took an accusatory glance at the half-drained bottle of aged scotch on the table to his left.
“Hello?” he called, darting his eyes from one side to the other, pressing his palms to the armrests of the simple rocking chair, “Who’s out there?”
With only the distant sound of the waves brushing the shore replying to his voice, he was certain he was simply hearing things.
Old rotgut gets the wheels spinning, is all.
It always did. Each time he would sample its flavor over the years, it brought a different sort of inebriation than the good stuff. There was something more vivid about the sensation than the average drunken echoes.
Regardless of attempting to convince himself the voice was only some bizarre flashback of sorts, he wasn’t about to leave it at that. After a quick jaunt back inside to pull his Walther from his bag, Ethan returned to the front deck, peering around the side, glaring from left to right once more.
“You ain’t tryin’ to hide away from somethin’, are ye?” the voice whispered in his ear as he descended the steps from the patio.
Without taking the time to investigate, he spun to the left; to where the sound came from. Two shots were fired from the Walther, in search of whoever it was that taunted him.
Once more, he saw no trace of anyone. No footprints in the sandy dirt around the little cottage. No evidence of anything around him, other than the sporadic trees. Nothing that would have a voice with which to badger him.
Someone’s fucking with you, his rational mind called out in an attempt to slow how quickening pulse.
But how?
Maybe there are speakers set up around the cabin?
Ethan was quick to investigate the claims of his inner bargaining, practically tearing apart anything not bolted down. He tipped the chair he had previously been sitting in, shattered the bulb of the lone light above the door, and even flipped over the unassuming welcome mat.
Once he cleared the exterior of the house, he began on the interior. Within a little over an hour, after the quaint little cabin looked as though a veritable hurricane passed through it, there was no trace of any manner of something that could have provided the disembodied voice.
The drink got to you, kid. Only thing that makes sense.
That wasn’t enough; not for Ethan Powell, the man who had butchered men and women alike across all seven states on his way to this one. Were he a man with nothing to hide, perhaps he could let this rest, but he was one of many secrets.
No. Must investigate further.
Taking another enthusiastic swing from the flask he did not recall placing in his pocket, he marched back towards the front deck. With his Walther in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Ethan planned to check the entire surroundings of the small cabin. He stood in the open doorway, staring out into the night, when,
“I ain’t out there, ya damn dumbass!” a female voice sneered from behind him
Spinning again to see nothing but the wreck he had made of the cozy living room, his anger began to reach its boiling point.
“FACE ME, YOU CHICKEN SHIT!”
“Why?”
He spun again. Still nothing.
“Gonna gut me like a fish, are ye?”
With every word seemingly coming from a different direction, Ethan screamed with rage, spinning in place while unleashing a barrage of bullets. He continued to squeeze the trigger, even after the ammunition was spent. When the laughter erupted from all around him, so many more voices joined in on the hilarity.
He shrieked out an anguished wail, which barely registered over the apparent throng of invisible audience members who scoffed at his pain.
“STOP! FOR GOD’S SAKE STOP!!” he cried out, only inspiring the crowd to jeer more violently.
Covering his ears did not muffle the mockery in the slightest, nor did his continued wails. The only chance he could fathom was to escape this place. His head was swimmy from the alcohol, while his limbs felt like slightly muscled gelatin, but if he lingered any longer, he was sure to lose his sanity.
As he fled the cabin, climbed into his vehicle, and cranked the engine, Ethan could barely believe his ears when the laughter quietened. He could still hear it as if the muffled sounds of the crowd of hecklers were indeed trapped behind the door of the cabin, but all that mattered was his escape.
As he sped away, leaving that horrible cottage in the dust, the jeers faded into the beyond. Whether the maddening laughter that erupted from his mouth was an indication of some level of insanity kicking in, or simply the sweet relief of silence after such an experience, he did not know, nor did he care at the time. He was free. That was his assumption anyway.
•
While the young Ethan Powell had not truly accounted for whatever would come next for him, with his only remaining family member locked away, the news of his father’s generous life insurance policy allowed some semblance of security. Yes, he would not be able to touch a cent of it until turning eighteen, but surely the next five years would pass quickly for him.
Once he was released from the hospital, with many months of physical therapy to look forward to, he would be placed in the foster system for a time. It wasn’t easy for the boy to resist his urges when bounced from one temporary family to the next; each one solely interested in the cheque they would receive for his care, but he knew he could not give in.
Derek and Elaine Crawford, parents of twin boys, attempted to make his living arrangements comfortable. It was clear they didn’t especially want him in their home, but they would at least play the part from time to time. Daniel and Jake, the twins, did not conceal how they felt about the situation, however.
It took far more restraint than Ethan had expected to not slice through the throats of the entire family in their sleep. He even awoke in the wee hours of the morning, one rainy Thursday in October, to slide one of the blades from the rack in preparation. Fortunately, that more rational voice talked him down from the ledge of his impulses.
Just a few more years, kiddo. Then we’re free and clear.
His more rational mind could make a good point at times, though it would be quite annoying when it made too much sense. Ethan wanted nothing more than to gut the owners of every home he lived in over those five years after his father’s death, but he held his ground. When the time would come for him to be able to access his father’s insurance money, however; all bets were off.
With no responsibilities to bind him in one place or another, the young Mr. Powell began to see the wonders of the country around him. For years he lived life on the road, adopting a new town as his home for a time, before heading on to the next one.
Though he didn’t attend any further schooling after graduating, he continued studying just about any subject that caught his interest. most of these topics involved just about anything that would assist him in his passion: anatomy, biology, criminal law, and forensics, were only a handful of those he acquainted himself with. With every lesson, he would adapt his routine to fit.
He never followed a specific type of victim; nothing with which the authorities could narrow down their search. He slaughtered a couple of working girls in Miami, as well as the disrespectful individual who sold them for hours at a time. He made quick work of the girls, after he indulged his other impulses, of course.
With the flesh peddler, he took his time a little, testing out some new tricks he had picked up along the way. His bits and pieces were scattered from one side of his ratty apartment to the other by the time Jack Jameson had his fill of blood for the evening. He could only imagine the reaction of whatever poor bastard was the first on the scene for that one; something that inspired quite the satisfying belly laugh from the cross-country killer.
After Florida, Ethan skipped over his home state of Georgia, heading straight for Tennessee. A bartender who took far too long to serve Mr. Jameson was the first of many across that state. A few tone deaf karaoke singers were next, a snarky, elderly librarian, and some random, middle-aged man who gave him a look he didn’t care for after that. He could never predict who or what he would look for in his next victim, but his plans would form quickly when it came to him.
With several states crossed off his list over the decade that preceded his visit to the little town of Grady, Mr. Powell thought it best to seek out a more humble venue for his next performance. While authorities were still baffled by the identity of this madman, he was beginning to feel their breath on the back of his neck, so to speak.
While there was little in common with each of the fifty-seven people he had laid to rest over the years, he had gotten sloppy a time or two. A portion of a fingerprint here, an eyelash there, perhaps. Perhaps it was only his paranoia, given his chosen profession, that fueled his need to get away from the more bustling areas, but even his rational mind agreed this would be for the best.
He had never even heard of this little seaside hole in the walls of the world until his headlights shone upon the city limits sign. It may have been little more than the hours on the road that inspired him to pull over to a nearby truck stop to inquire about lodgings in the vicinity.
After being directed to a realtor in a somewhat larger town some miles away, they spoke of many rental properties they had spanning both the coastline and further back from the little town that caught his eye. After arranging a small cabin, just a ways back from the ocean, Jack Jameson set his sights on the denizens of this shitty little slice of America.
Surely a rathole such as this has plenty of people in need of killing.
•
Speeding across that forest-lined back road, Ethan knew he should let up on the pedal a bit, especially in his inebriated state. As he attempted to release the tension of his lead foot, he found it to be resisting his will.
Cool it already. We’re not going back there any time soon.
As the needle slowly drifted back from the seventy miles per hour he had reached, he let out a trembling sigh. Reaching into his pocket while settling back into a more comfortable speed, he pulled the flask out to calm his quickened pulse. With the familiar liquid burning the inner wall of his throat, he felt the trembling of his fingers begin to subside.
I should’ve grabbed the bottle before I left, he thought, inspiring a light chuckle.
Had he screwed the lid back on after taking that lone sip, he may have noticed the dark figure on the road sooner. As it was, he was tipping the flask to his lips once more before he saw it standing in the dead center of the lane he was traversing at the time. If nothing else, having slowed down substantially made the impact with the tree he veered into after dramatically cutting the wheel far less jarring.
Peeling himself back from the windshield on which his forehead had collided, Ethan briefly considered that he should have buckled up before speeding away from the cabin. With his head pounding and blood steadily trickling down from the open wound, it took him a moment to recall what forced him off the road in the first place.
They’ve found me! he thought, ducking down in the seat he had only just flipped back to.
There’s no fucking way anyone found you out here! Get your head straight already!
He raised up, glaring through the passenger side window, to see no trace of that shadowed figure from before. Absent-mindedly, he reached for the flask which had practically flown from his hand as he jerked the steering wheel to the left. Paying little attention to the fact it was laying open on its side in the seat beside him, he took in yet another mouthful of the liquid within.
Don’t you think that’s a little strange?
What? The disappearing man on the road?
No, you idiot! The whiskey you keep knocking back!
It keeps me calm. Get off my ass about…
But why isn’t it empty yet!? Think about it for two fucking seconds!
He glared down at the open flask, swirling it around in his hand. He tipped it to his lips once more; not to take another sip, but to test how long it took the liquid to reach his mouth. After barely having to raise the thing for the fluid to caress his lips, he cut his eyes to the puddle, splashed across the passenger seat, and back to the open container he held.
How is it still full?
Even if you hadn’t spilled it, how long have you been knocking it back? How many times did you even fill it up!?
He continued to stare at his recent purchase, realizing that it could not be as simple as the metal flask causing expensive whiskey to taste more like the cheap shit his father used to drink.
The shopkeep…
Yup! That son of a bitch drugged us!
But I cleaned it! How the hell…
It doesn’t matter how he did it! It only matters that he pays for it!
He turned the key, instantly causing the engine to rumble. The front end took a decent hit, but the engine wasn’t shot just yet. As he pulled the seatbelt across his body, preparing to get back on the road and make his way to the nearest pawn shop, he took one last swing from the flask.
Stop that! For fucks sake, man!
He tossed it back to the passenger seat, pulling the shifter into reverse and peeling the hood away from the thick tree.
“Don’t run off on me now, boy…” the voice sneered from behind him.
Ethan ignored what he assumed to be inspired by whatever hallucinogens were hidden away in the flask, turning back to the road, pressing his foot to the pedal harder than he had before.
“Where the fuck are you going, ya damn psycho!?”
He cracked the window to allow fresh oxygen to circulate him. Not only did he hope to clear his senses of whatever drug was coursing through his system, but his head still thumped as though the wide trunk of a tree were beating against it every second or two.
“You think you can escape me, boy? You think I’m all you got to worry ’bout?”
“You’re not real,” Ethan stated to the voice that grew more familiar with every word, “I don’t believe in ghosts…”
“Don’t matter,” the light and almost joyful female voice spoke from his right, “we believe in you…”
When two more shadowed figures appeared before him, he pushed the pedal harder, tearing right through the pair. They burst into a cloud of dark smoke which spiraled and spun around him, even as he pushed far past the speed limit. He would not be distracted from his mission. Nobody could talk Jack Jameson down when he had killing in mind, not even the false shadows of the long-since dead.
Even when the smoke shot through the open window, encompassing the entire cabin of the car within seconds, Ethan would not take his eyes off the road. As the thick fog separated in two; one drifting to the back and the other to his right, the driver refused to pay any attention to the silhouette riding shotgun, nor the one in the back seat.
“You got this all wrong, kid,” the one beside him said.
“That’s right, ya damn dumbass. We ain’t in your head,” the other stated, before both began that hysterical laughter again.
With the sporadic lights of the town ahead of him, he continued fighting to ignore the wailing hallucinations. Being certain the drugs would run their course soon enough, he refused to even entertain the idea that they could be anything more than false shadows. That was until a sharp and near blinding pain erupted from the side of his face.
It’s not real! It can’t be real! You’re almost there! Don’t let up now!
While the blood rained across his shoulder from the split tissue of his cheek, he began to scream out as he had back at the cabin. This only caused the shadows to wail even louder, causing his ears to ring from the sheer volume of their maddening howl.
The tires bounced across the curb, almost sending the side of the car careening into the boarded windows of the old pharmacy at the end of the main strip. When another sharp pain screamed from his right hand, his jaw dropped at the sight of the crimson spray where his knuckles used to lead to four fingers.
“Aw shit,” the female voice whined, “someone’s got a boo-boo!”
Ethan tumbled from the driver’s seat after throwing open the door, with that howling laughter echoing from all around him. He whipped his belt off, wrapping it around his wrist to slow the blood spewing from the four gushing nubs. He almost planted his face on the sidewalk as he fought to flee from the buckled and beaten sedan.
As he began to stagger across the sidewalk, his head loopy from the combination of old rotgut and blood loss, he felt his body violently collide with a storefront window. Ethan screamed out against the pain of his torn cheek making contact with the glass, sending him back to the concrete below his feet.
“Damnit, boy! You can’t handle yer liquor fer shit!” the voice jeered from behind as he pushed back from the ground, wincing as he pressed his oozing stumps against it.
“What, you ain’t never had a drink before?” the other sneered in between her wailing laughter.
Ethan crawled across the ground before stumbling back to his feet, still attempting to charge across the sidewalk in search of the strange little antique shop.
Maybe he has an antidote…maybe I’ll let him live if he gives it to me…
“You really think you been drugged, boy?”
Another blinding pain; this time from his right knee, sent him back to the concrete. Ethan shrieked with anguished horror when he looked down to see his leg flipped backward at its middle. Jagged bones pierced through the flesh, spilling another flood of crimson across the sidewalk.
Keep going!
Ethan still fought through the agony, pulling himself across the ground with his fully fingered right hand, while pushing with the foot that still had feeling.
“You’re fuckin’ pathetic,” the voice of his father said, as Ethan felt a tight grip around his right upper arm.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!”
“Yeah…you disgust me,” Lisa sneered, wrapping her shadowy tendrils around his left.
Ethan screamed out in horror as the two gently lifted him from the pavement, planting him back on his feet. He continued to squeal, even after lifting both hands to his field of vision, seeing eight fingers and two thumbs, with not a speck of blood in sight. Standing there, shivering from head to toe, gazing slack-jawed at the emaciated and decayed faces of his father and sister, Ethan felt little more than a child in their presence.
They simply stared back at him, allowing him to take in each of the deep and grizzled wounds he had carved into his sister.
“I…I’m sorry…I’m so fucking sorry for what I did to you! Both of you!”
Both gave him a warm smile at these words; something he could never have expected.
Perhaps the shopkeep had pure motivations, after all, he thought, allowing his lips to form a gentle smile in return.
No more…no more death…time to…
His thoughts were cut short when the corpses before him snatched him up by the arms once more, spinning him in place to look upon what approached from behind. The large, muscled man who charged right at him, wore a far more weathered and time-worn face than he remembered.
Under different circumstances, Ethan Powell would never be caught off guard. He was careful, almost to a fault. He was meticulous in his preparation for things both expected and unexpected. For every angle that stood between him and his goals, he would have a plan in place. When it came to escaping whatever horror he left scattered in one back alley or hotel room across the country, he figured out no less than ten options for escape.
In those brief moments, before his consciousness fell into the black, Ethan could not deny that even at his best, he couldn’t have seen this coming. When Edward had been released from prison, or how he was able to track him to this particular hole in the world, he still could not fathom, but as the long, serrated blade pierced upwards, entering just below his sternum, he was almost proud of his older brother.
The old, beat-up red truck was parked only a few yards away; something he would have surely noticed had he been of sound mind at the time. As he gazed into the sheer hatred behind the eyes that almost mirrored his own, he felt the blade slip free, before cutting into him over, and over again.
Edward did not look at the mortal wounds he was inflicting, as Ethan often would. He loved to watch his hands at work, as well as the thick fluids that poured from within his victims. His older brother clearly did not share his passion. His gaze did not falter until there was no life left behind the eyes of the youngest son of Jeremy Powell.
Edward was still heaving with heavy breath, gazing down at the twitching corpse of his youngest sibling. When a subtle light began to stream across the blood soaked sidewalk, his heart skipped several beats, fearing that he would be dragged back to the cell he had only recently been freed from.
His head was still in a daze as he approached the door of the small shop which had previously been closed up for the night. The bell above the door as he pushed through it, once more caused him a moment of pause, before his eyes met those of a tall and slender man, with a curled mustache and neatly parted, dark hair.
As he approached the counter, his gaze drifted from the man in the classy dark vest and rolled up, white sleeves, to the object perched on the countertop.
“I believe this belongs to you,” the man said, sliding the tarnished, silver flask across the glass surface.
“How much? I don’t got much money.” Edward asked, uncertain of why this was the only question that struck him at the time.
“I’m a collector of stories, my friend,” the shopkeep said, his lips forming a crooked, but innocent smile, “how about a trade?”
As the only living child of Jeremy Powell walked back out into the chilly night, he was only vaguely aware of the vacant sidewalk. He strolled back to the truck he had left parked on the side of the road, choosing not to register the absence of the younger brother he had laid to rest only moments before entering the curious little shop.
The headlights illuminated the dry and unblemished pavement, his fingers absentmindedly twisting the cap from the small, silver flask. He would not take a sip until he returned to his hotel room, a few towns over only breathed in the euphoric scent that only Old Rotgut could provide.
As he pulled back onto the road, set to drive off into the night, leaving behind the burdens he had carried these many years, he glanced at the older man riding shotgun, and the young woman in the back seat. He screwed the cap back on the small flask, tucked it in his pocket, and allowed a smile to cross his lips.
After the door to the little pawn shop was locked up for the last time–the last time in this pleasant, if somewhat downtrodden town, its owner made certain to fully cleanse his new artifact. As the final droplets of the late Mr. Jack Jameson’s blood was rinsed away, the slender, and well dressed man admired the craftsmanship of the old hunting knife.
Once he was secure in the fact that not a single blemish remained, he paced between the aisles, approaching his simple, wooden cabinet. Pulling open its doors, and resting the blade upon the red, velvet cushion he had hand picked for this very object, he took a single step backwards, to appreciate how nicely the red complimented the silver.
“I cannot wait to meet your new owner,” he said, a mischievous smirk lifting the left curl of his mustache.
As he lifted his arms to close the doors back shut, a quick wink reflected in the polished metal of the hardened steel.
“Farewell, Ethan Powell…and good luck, in whatever awaits you next…”
Last Lodge Media 