Blackened Spiral Down (5 page)

I quickly turned around, my light frantically looking around the basement for her.  That’s when I noticed something was different on the table.  There was more added to the display of human carnage I had seen many times now.  The body of the frail, young girl was naked and lying spread-eagle on the table, her rib cage filleted open, exposing her organs.  Her hands were bound with twine to nails on the table, and her feet as well.  I shined my light on her face, which was contorted in a display of sheer agony, as if she was alive when the maniac opened her up.  My eyes welled up seeing her this way.  My grief was endless, wondering if I had called the police when I first saw the lights in the basement, if she would have been saved.  Her short life was met with a diabolical end, at the hands of this dark stranger, who invaded our small, simple town.

Just then I heard footsteps above me!  There was someone on the first floor, making their way toward the basement door.  Did the stranger come back to finish his work with the fresh corpse?  Was it someone else who maybe saw his flashlight in the basement windows that faced Old Farm Road?  I knew that I had the advantage of surprise, as I shut off my light and crouched down, steadying the barrel of my shotgun at the stairway.  My eyes had already started to adjust slightly, and I kept them fixed on the stairs.  I heard the basement door open.  Whoever it was didn’t call out, but began to descend the stairs one at a time, the creaking of the old wood filling the stillness of the basement.  I could feel the tension.  My heart was racing as I did my best to keep the barrel steady and my finger on the trigger.  One by one, the figure in darkness made its way to the basement.  I couldn’t make out detail, but it did appear to be a male.  He didn’t stop, slowly taking one stair at a time, until he stood on the concrete floor. 

I knew this had to be the stranger.  Who else would be here at almost midnight?  I decided the best thing to do was to turn on my flashlight, in hopes of blinding him for a moment, and then sending a deer slug into his chest.  Once he was dead, I could go to my house and call the police, knowing I would be considered a hero for capturing the sadistic killer and avoiding a costly trial for the county.  I could see in my mind the Peoria Journal Star or the Bloomington Pantagraph, complete with my picture on the front page – above the fold of course.  I would be standing outside the church with one or more of the deputies, beaming with pride that I had done my duty.  I used my left hand to turn on the flashlight, so my right hand was ready with the gun. 

The click of the flashlight caused him to flinch, yet as the figure was awash in the bright light, I was taken aback and nearly fell over with shock at who was standing only ten feet from me!  I knew it had to be a dream.  There was no way he could be here in this basement right now.  Yet he was, in the flesh, standing there and grinning at me.

“Hi Ronnie.  Seen a ghost?” he said, laughing at me.  It was my grandfather, standing there in the same clothes I found him in that day in the basement, swinging from the water pipe.  He had on an old pair of blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and a John Deere ball cap. 

I stood up, unable to say a word.  I blinked a few times, hoping that I would make the mirage go away.  That didn’t work.  He was still standing there, now taking a step closer toward me.  He didn’t seem concerned about the gun pointing at him. 

“Stop where you are!” I yelled out, pulling the trigger as my slug tore into his left shoulder.  He only laughed as he jerked back, and then continued walking toward me.

I put another shell into the gun.  I shot at him again, this time I hit him center mass in the chest.  It only stopped him for a moment, while the gaping hole barely bled at all!

“I’m already dead Ronnie.  That’s not going to do anything.  You’ve been a bad boy here at the old church.  Look at what you’ve done!”  His voice was cold; his stare was colder.

“I didn’t do any of this.  I’ve been helping the police catch the bastard.”

“You lying son-of-a-bitch!  Just like you lied and told those cops that I killed your Grandma,” he continued to walk toward me, “after I told you to shut your mouth!”

I moved back toward the three cells as he moved closer.  I could see the bruises on his neck from where he hung himself years before.  I was staring into the eyes of a dead man, but he looked very alive as he crept closer.  He was now only a couple feet away, his rancid breath was cool yet foul.

“There’s been no one over here but you, Ronnie.  No one else.  Just you and those poor girls.  I’ve been watching.  You were picking up prostitutes in Peoria or Bloomington and bringing them here.  The ones you paid were the only girls that would have anything to do with you.”

Images were rushing through my mind as he spoke.  I could see a young girl in my car, driving down Old Farm Road toward my house.  She was pretty, but dressed like a hooker, wearing too much make-up and trying to hide the track marks on her arms.  Then I could see myself on a country road, stopping to talk with a girl walking home from her bus stop.  She couldn’t have been older than 11 or 12.  She looked very much like the girl I found in the basement alive!  She was the same one that was on the table now, ripped open and spread-eagle.

“You’ve been doing this for years.  I’ve seen it all,” he said, only a foot away from me now,  “I let it happen, because I wanted to damn your soul to Hell.  You turned me in, your own flesh and blood.  You knew I did that to put your Grandma out of her misery.  You . . . “

His hand reached out and knocked the shotgun from my grasp.  More images were running through my mind.  I could see myself sawing a woman’s foot off, with a leg tightly in my vice.  I could see me standing back to admire the collection of severed heads, as if they were trophies in a case at a local high school.  To me, I guess that’s just what they were.

Now my grandfather was holding open the door to the middle cell and pushing me inside.  I was helpless to resist.  I felt as if I were a rag doll in his firm hold, as he put the manacles on my own wrists.  I tried to scream, but no sound came out.  I tried to fight him, but there was no strength to do so.  He slammed the door, and I could hear the lock engage.  I was now trapped in one of the cells.  His laughing echoed throughout the basement.  It sounded more distant as he made his way back up the stairs.  Faintly I could hear him walking on the floor above, and then silence.

5

Days pass, and I’m still in the middle cell.  No one has come to give me any food or water, and I’m fading slowly.  I’m left to my own thoughts, which, as I relive each and every encounter in this basement, are my own living hell.  I can hear their screams and cries for help as I did those horrible things to them.  I only wanted someone to love, but they wouldn’t love me back.  No matter what I did to make their stay in the basement better, they still cringed in my presence.  They still recoiled at the mere sight of me.  When I raped them, they kicked and punched at me, until all I could do was knock them out and finish my business.  I just wanted someone to love.  Instead, I continued my spiral down into madness.  Now, in the darkness of the basement cell, I curse my grandfather for putting me in this situation, and hope that death comes to call. 

As I stare into the blackness, I fear I will be here for all eternity, waiting for someone to love me back.  All I hear is their screaming in the silence, and it’s deafening.

Elvis and the Two Dead Hookers

Elvis had no idea where the two dead hookers came from. He had never seen the two young girls before. He couldn't deny the facts. The car was his. The hookers were dead, and they were in his trunk. It was as simple as that. Right now as the hot afternoon sun baked everything in sight, Elvis Lee Lewis was hiding in the shade under some random back porch on Clayton Street. He was panting heavily after running from the cops for the past half hour. He was out of shape, and the smoking didn't help. Speaking of smoking, he craved a Marlboro right now, but in his frantic foot race from the police, he lost the pack he kept rolled up in his shirt sleeve.

Less than one hour ago, he had been cruising down Lincoln Street in his hometown of Bloomington, Illinois. He was on his way home from his job as a mechanic for Taylor's Tire and Auto on the west side of town. It was a blistering August day in 1982.  It was Friday, and all Elvis (and his pelvis) could think about was getting home, taking a nice cool shower, picking up his girlfriend Cindy, and going out to Dawson Lake for her birthday. This had become an annual tradition for them and their close friends. Elvis and Cindy had been an item since their junior year at Bloomington High School. He had grown up a lot in the last few years and hoped they would get married soon.

Elvis installed a modern stereo in the blood red 1950 Ford Mercury his grandfather left him when he died three years ago. He had restored the car as his first real project after high school and spent a lot of time searching for as many original parts as he could find. His dad let him use the garage at work when he needed it, since it had a hydraulic lift, and got him any parts he came across at the junkyard. It was decked out with rear fender skirts and a chopped top, just like the 50's bad ass gear heads would have done it. The stereo needed to be modern so he could play his massive collection of 1950's music that he had. Elvis knew that people made fun of him and his family, but he didn't care much at all. Some days he wished it was the 1950's all over again - a much simpler time.

With a name like Elvis Lee Lewis, it was no surprise that he loved the 1950's. Well, his parents were mostly to blame for that. His father, Odell, went by “Buddy” due to his obsession with Buddy Holly. He had an impressive 1950's record collection, but his Buddy Holly memorabilia was considered one of the most extensive in the country. Every year, on February 3
rd,
Odell spent the day listening to only Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper, in tribute to the fallen three on the anniversary of the plane crash that ended their lives far too soon. If he could, he would even take the day off work. His mother Daphne was also a huge fan of the era and loved to travel the Midwest with her husband to attend the cruise nights and stock car races during the summer season. She would shamelessly jump up and scream “go Big Daddy” when he rounded each turn. When Elvis was born, Odell wanted to name him Buddy, but Daphne won out by naming him after her two favorite 50's crooners – Elvis Aaron Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis.

Their house on Bunn Street was small and modest, adorned with not only 1950's collectibles of their musical icons, but also old TV shows like Perry Mason and Maverick, St. Louis Cardinal stuff, vintage car models, and much more. They had a vintage jukebox in the living room that played nothing but 50's music. Odell sported a duck-tail hair style and worked at the junk yard on Bunn Street, across the street from their house, where he tinkered with cars all day. His hands were permanently oil-stained. He didn't make much money, but had full access to parts he needed for his own stock car that he raced on dirt tracks in nearby Fairbury, Farmer City, Canton, and Peoria throughout the spring and summer. He was also always in the middle of restoring at least two or three cars in their two-car garage. His mother had a poodle cut hairdo and wore vibrant colored dresses straight out of the 50's. So it's no wonder that little Elvis liked the 1950's as much as he did. It was in his blood.

He glanced down at his dashboard and was surprised his gas tank was nearly empty. Elvis decided to stop at the Freedom gas station near his parents' house.  He lived in a small apartment above their garage. He paid rent and helped around the house, so they didn't mind at all having their only child around in his 20's. All six of the pumps were busy, but as Elvis pulled in, one of the cars drove away – giving him access to a spot to fuel up. He got out of the car, his lanky 6-foot frame clad in jeans and a white t-shirt. He changed out of his uniform at work. He put the gas nozzle into the Mercury, showing off his tattooed fingers that said “ROCK” on the right hand and “ROLL” on the left. His short sleeves were rolled up and displayed the ace of spades tattoo on his left forearm and the pair of dice on his right. He also loved to wear his hair in a duck tail, but when he was at work, they required him to wear a ball cap to avoid getting his hair caught in a moving part of one of the cars he was working on. Most would look at Elvis with a bewildered amusement, but the Lewis family had been in Bloomington for a very long time, so they didn't give it much thought. He had his share of run-ins with the police as a teenager, but most of it was petty stuff that only made them bring him to his parents in a squad car. The kids in the neighborhood enjoyed watching the spectacle and hearing Odell give him the belt good when that happened.

After fueling up, Elvis went inside the Freedom gas station to pay and also to use the restroom. The colas he loved to drink by the bucket-full were catching up to him, and he wondered if he would make it home without taking a piss while there. There was a long line at the counter, so he decided to use the bathroom first. It was a small one-man-show with a toilet that looked like it hadn't been cleaned for a year and a urinal that was perpetually running water into the disgusting pool of scum at the bottom. The smell of sour piss was strong, and Elvis did the best he could to do his business and run water across his hands to make it feel like he washed them before shutting off the light and closing the door behind him.