The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (6 page)

“Wow,” I said, honestly impressed. “That’s a lot of books.”

“No, no…” he groaned, like I was some idiot totally missing the point. “Read one!”

I picked one out at random and started thumbing through it, my eyes getting wider and wider with every page. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Read another, pick any one,” he cackled, so excited I thought he would crap himself.

Holy Mother of God. They were diaries. Written by murderers. Notice the plural. Perhaps ten or twelve small volumes would be written in one hand with a similar binding style. Then there would be an equal number, or in some cases up to thirty or even fifty, written by another sicko, each and every one of them covered with the skin of their victims.

“Where the hell did you get these?” I asked, my head spinning as I grabbed one after the other, thumbing through quickly. The gruesome descriptions were beyond anything I had read in a hundred horror novels or even the nightmares I had afterwards.

“Can’t say, can’t say,” he repeated in a mumbling chorus, shaking his head, the gleam in his eyes snuffed out instantly by my prying question. “Have to close now, anyhow. Good day to you, sir,” he grumbled, suddenly as surly as when I came in.

Crazy old coot. I was pissed at him for giving me the bum’s rush, but I had my treasure to ease the sting. I went back to my hotel and stayed up all night reading and writing. Had some revelations that bordered on the sublime, but my mind kept erasing those visions of a divine realm bathed in ethereal light and replacing it with the sight of a cramped closet filled with hatred, torture and sadistic glee.

I went back the next day. The store was closed. I cursed. Even stomped my feet. My plane was leaving in a few hours. I took the flight, figuring I’d come back again soon and get another dose of that horror of horrors. But I kept putting it off and putting it off. When I finally returned three years later, the store was empty of everything but cobwebs.

I couldn’t get that sick scrawling script out of my head. I was so preoccupied with what I’d seen that I started reading books about serial killers. Suddenly, they were much more interesting than all the horror books or the occult mumbo jumbo. Scarier too. Ted Bundy, Ed Gein, Jeffrey Dahmer. The real monsters. Monsters like I saw in the Skin Library. I learned a lot about them. What they did. How they did it. Where they lived. It was the last category that really got me into trouble.

One day while I was wandering around my favorite flea market, I saw a painting of a clown. The seller had no idea who the artist was—I could tell by the price tag and his complete lack of interest when I forked over three dollars for it. But I knew. Oh, yes, indeed. John Wayne Gacy. After I went home and proudly hung it on the wall, I began to wonder: What if you could get your hands on some of the
real
collectibles from serial killers? The things
they
collected?

A few days later, that crazy bug of an idea shaped itself into a plan. I would go on a road trip. Stop by some of the homes and haunting grounds of these real-life monsters. Maybe visit some of the police precincts where they were captured and see what I could find. See what might be available. At this point, I suppose it wouldn’t surprise you that I was quite successful in my quest. I’m quite sure that certain people would do almost anything for a peek at my collection.

Who could blame them for their curiosity? I mean everybody knows about the severed heads that Jeffrey Dahmer kept in his refrigerator. But who do you know that has one?

Rose felt wonderful. She stayed in bed long after Martin had left, feeling the steam drift from her body in little clouds. Her whole body sighed with satisfaction, a deep, relaxed “now I know what everybody’s been talking about” contentment that everybody wants, but nobody seems to get. She hugged her chest with a pillow and sighed again with another feeling she couldn’t comprehend, a deeper, more elemental emotion...a feeling like...no, not love.

It couldn’t be love.

She shook her head to clear away the schmaltzy cobwebs and stared at the table. There was a big leather pouch lying between the candles. She looked at it for a long time, torn between curiosity and the comfort of her bed. Curiosity won out, as always, pulling her to the table. The pouch was heavy, about ten pounds she guessed. She opened the drawstring and peeked inside. Holy shit. It was gold. Tiny ingots, fat round coins. She spilled the contents onto the table, the falling chunks ignited by the flickering candlelight. Some of them fell in puddles of milky wax, melting them all over again, painting them gold, painting everything gold, the deep dark corners of the room now gold, a gold disco ball of rays on the ceiling.

Martin pointed at the bag and the ugly barren kitchen before he left. His last words echoed in her mind. “Finish it,” he said.

She stood there naked, sweating gold, knowing what he wanted, wanting it as much. Yes, she would finish it and make a golden nest for them. For
them?

“Let’s not get carried away. He’s just a guy with a big dick and a bag of gold.” Then she picked up a one-ounce ingot and added, “Well, that’s not too bad for starters.”

Martin felt terrible. He felt cold and he felt hot. Was he sick? He never got sick. He sat on his favorite park bench, rubbing the worn wood under his palm, willing it to heal him, to cure the chill of confusion sweeping over him like a fever.

What happened to him? What was he going to do? Panic came in waves, but between the crushing tides, he felt something different, something struggling to come to the surface. It was a feeling for the girl, a feeling like…

Suddenly, he looked up. He was here. He knew it.

Martin looked in every direction. Nothing. He tried to relax and rubbed the wood. Words floated by in his head, calming him like a nursery rhyme…over and over and over. He closed his eyes and willed the world to go away. As soon as he calmed himself, the waves came back, propelled by an image of Rose smiling at him.

He snapped his eyes open. There he was. Over by the fountain. Martin watched as he came toward him in slow motion, his long black overcoat rippling in the sun, his stringy white-blond hair blowing from his shoulders. He smelled the stale alcohol on his skin as he lowered his beefy bulk next to him. Then he looked into those blue-gray eyes, watched that mustache curl into a smile, and felt the oldest fear he had ever known.

“Hello, Martin,” the big man said.

Martin took a long, slow breath and answered, “Hello, Paul.”

Paul didn’t say anything. Neither did Martin. He just looked into Paul’s cold eyes and wondered what he wanted. Whatever it was, he knew it was going to hurt.

Rose did tattoos and she did them well.
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
Wipe off blood.
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
She did piercings too and liked them even more. She had gained quite a reputation for doing what were known as technical piercings. “Technical” because they represented a level of difficulty requiring an equally demanding level of skill. Uvula piercings, for example. If you’ve ever seen a Warner Brother’s cartoon you know what a uvula is. It’s that quivering punching bag blob of flesh dangling at the opening of your throat. The one that wobbles like a bowl of pudding whenever Elmer screams at Bugs.

Why would someone want it pierced? Don’t ask me. The challenges are significant, not the least of which includes the ability to hold your mouth open a really long time without moving even a teeny, weeny bit because someone is trying to lance that squirming sucker with a six-inch-long needle. And that’s just the pier
cee
. The pier
cer
has to take that needle and…well, it gets pretty hard to describe without pictures.

Technical, very technical.

Rose had become skilled at even more challenging body modifications, involving grafts and implants. She was the one to install the row of eleven stainless-steel wedges into the shaved skull of Jim “Stegosaurus” Robbins.

In most countries, you would need seven or eight years of intensive medical training to perform this type of surgery on another human being, or at least a well-forged diploma. But God Bless America, all you need here is a reasonably steady hand and a compulsive desire to carve and mutilate the flesh of your fellow tribal community members.

Anesthesia isn’t a problem. Nobody wants it. Pain is more than a fetish in this neck of the woods, it’s a badge of honor. The more you can take, the greater your standing in the ink and metal clique.

Rose was no slouch either. Pain and pleasure had become so entwined in her brain that she would give herself a new piercing just to take the edge off a rainy afternoon. She had fifteen earrings, three nose rings (which she would alternate, being one to frown on ostentation), two nipple rings and dumbbell combos, one tongue ball, five labial rings on either side and two clitoral rings (just because the first one felt so good).

Needless to say, airport check-ins were a nightmare.

Rose, still in bed, flicked her clit rings back and forth, debating whether to skip work altogether or stop in for a quick tongue job scheduled for the early afternoon.

She looked at the bag of gold and looked at the kitchen. She thought about the tongue job and how much she loved her work. She thought about Martin and his big horse cock and fingered her clit so furiously it sounded like the phone was ringing.

If she jumped out of bed right now and didn’t shower (as if she would shower and wash off the smell of him!), she could do the tongue job, sell the gold and still make it downtown to the fabric shop before closing time. She didn’t like to rush but she couldn’t bear to wait. She wanted it all: the warm blood, the cold cash and most of all, she wanted what every New York City woman wants, whether she’s a manicured, pedicured Upper East Side, Hampton Jitney JAP or a downtown magenta-haired bone-through-the-nose juke joint junkie.

She wanted to shop.

“You look troubled,” Paul said. “What would a big strong man, a great fine animal like yourself be troubled with on such a lovely day as this?”

Martin hadn’t seen him since…he couldn’t remember. It seemed like no time had passed from the way Paul was acting. He spoke in that showy way of his, that Irish brogue managing to sound happy, sad and angry all at once. He waved his arms broadly for emphasis, scaring away the ambling pigeons. Scaring the old couple on the next bench. Scaring Martin too.