Burn, Baby, Burn by Michael Seale (Chapter 24)

 Chapter 24

Into The Light

He made his way to the light. The other gone for now. Unable to articulate a sentence, he had drunk himself into another stupor. This was his time, his time in the light. He knew exactly what to do.

The slut’s apartment was dark from the street, she wouldn’t be home yet. He waited behind the stairwell. There he could see when she came home. That fucking slut, seducing him, groping him, fucking him. He hated her. He wanted her to suffer. He would bite every goddamn finger off her fucking hand. She had touched him, forced him to defile himself. 

 She will pay for it, pay for it in blood. He knew this one was more than a cleansing to send her to the light, this was his atonement. His pitch-black eyes narrowed their focus on the door. She would finish at the bar soon. It was after two am. He had all the time he wanted in the light, now. Knowing he could control the other. He’ll push him farther into the corner; cage him, like he had been. 

 The stairwell was quiet, the fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead. The walls were dirty with age, the floor dingy, littered with chewed up gum and dirt from years of neglect. He waited, he planned his actions. 

 The door opened and closed again. An older man checked his mailbox, dropping the free newspaper onto the floor. The man bent down to retrieve it. If the man even glanced in his direction, he would have to take care of it. No one could know that he was here. Not if he wanted to finish what he had started. The old man shuffled up the stairs without a thought. He hadn’t looked behind the stairs. 

 How long would he make it last, he wondered? How long should she suffer? They defiled her, the other had defiled her, he had defiled her. Their combined sins must be punished. He had punished himself by burning his hand, the hand that he had cut the night that she had seduced him. It had been only his second time. His innocence stolen once again; at least this time he had wanted it. 

 The smell of rot and death wafted in the air. He was here. He wouldn’t show his face, not yet, but he was waiting. 

 “I know you’re here, old man. There is nothing you can do.” He whispered.

 There was no answer. He knew the answer would come later. 

 She was there; fuck, the old man had distracted him. She was making her way up the stairs. He needed to be quick. She fumbled for her keys at her door. He bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time. She was inside; the door closing. 

 He got his foot in between the door and the jam. She pulled it back, not realizing what was going on. He pushed his weight into the door, forcing it open all the way. His hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream. Her eyes were wide with fear and recognition. 

 Her apartment was lit only by the street lamps from outside. She smelled of stale beer, cigarettes and a faint flowery perfume. He pushed her against the wall, knocking over a small round table that held her keys and change. He had twisted one of hands behind her back and with the burnt hand he covered her mouth. She tried to scream and bite at his hand. He pushed her harder back into the wall. Tears welled up in her eyes from the pain. He had forced his bandaged hand half the way between her lips; they stretched, nearly ripping them open.

“I’ll kill you,” he whispered. “Don’t say a fucking word.”

She nodded her head. The tears ran in rivers down her cheeks. He gagged her with an old sock and duct taped her mouth closed, the taste of cotton filled her mouth. Snot and tears covered her face. She coughed.

“I said, shut the fuck up!”

He walked her over to her sofa and pushed her down. 

“I’m watching. If you fucking move, I will kill you.”

He locked the door. Every few seconds he would look over to her and check on her. She didn’t dare move; she fought back the tears that choked her. 

He paced around the room muttering and talking to himself, cursing at no one. 

“I’m in the light, I’m in control,” he muttered over and over.

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck. Fuck.”

No one was there but him and the frightened woman. 

Her eyes followed him around the room. Frozen with terror. He would lunge at her, stopping just short of her face and laugh as she flinched away. Sometimes he would slap her across the cheek. A loud, hard slap that echoed in the room's silence. Her cheek was glowing red hot. This went on for what seemed like an hour.

Finally, he hit her hard enough to knock her out. Her nose exploding in a shower of blood. A loud crunch completed the event. He picked her up off the sofa, like a loving father would a sleeping child, and carried her out the door.

***

Trish was home for the first time that week; she had been sleeping at Bill’s. She decided it was time for a quick break, get some clothes and sleep a night in her own bed alone. 

In her old worn-down kitchen, her answering machine flashed. She clicked the play button.

“You have forty-two messages.” She flinched and stared at the machine.

“First message,” the machine said. Silence. She clicked to the next, nothing. The next one, the same, nothing. That went on and on.

On the twelfth message, she heard a quiet whisper. 

“I’m going to kill you… fucking bitch… Kill you…” then nothing. 

It was a voice spoke through clenched teeth, barely a whisper. She jumped. She recognized the voice somehow. 

The next message played.

“You’ll die soon… whore.”

The next. “I’ll gut you…”

On and on they went, the next thirty messages in some variation or another.

She shook with fear; she left her house, the lights on, and drove as fast as she could back to Bill’s. 

***

Sam woke up alone, naked, hanging upside down from the ceiling. The room was without light, although she could sense that the floor was inches from her head. Her faced throbbed, her nose barely open. Breathing was difficult. Blood had dried on cheeks which burned from the beating that they had received. 

She could hear labored breathing in the corner. He was there, watching her.

The sound of steps across a dark, quiet room loudly echoed. A click and a low buzz, the light blinded her; she flinched and shook. He kicked her in the ribs. A muffled scream escaped her.

He kicked her over and over, her skin opening and bleeding. She couldn’t breathe; she swung back and forth in the air. Her hair brushed against the concrete floor.

It was too much. She blacked out from the pain.

He smiled as he worked. His breathing was intense and labored. The bitch looked like a fucking animal hanging there. Her white skin glistened with sweat and blood. She shook, making her tits bounce. 

It disgusted and delighted him at the same time. He bent low and put his face between her legs. Her stench filled his nose; the small patch of pubic hairs tickled his face. He punched her directly in her pussy and laughed.

“Fucking whore.”

He unrolled his knife bag; it was black with red stitching. His collection had grown over the years. His first knife was a Wüstof, then he bought Heinkels. He had chef’s knives, a butcher’s cleaver, a filet knife, a boning knife, a fish knife, bread knives and even a ham knife; it was long and perfect for slicing a roast. 

He took his boning knife; it was thin and flexible; it held easily in his hand. Putting it to her skin, pressing lightly, blood instantly appeared. He set the knife aside. That was for later, he thought. 

He left the room, turning off the light, leaving her in the darkness. She was still alive; he wanted her that way. Her breathing was heavy, her nose broken and almost closed, her ribs crushed. 

He started the fire in the oven, as always, a few logs, kindling and old newspapers. He would get it as hot as he could. The temperature would rise quickly. It took only a few minutes for the fire to burn hot. He added more logs and returned downstairs. 

The old man stood in the corner, his stench filled the room. Tears ran riverbeds down his dirty cheeks. His eyes swollen and red. 

He was dying. The smell of death was on him. He could no longer talk. But he watched, saddened by the event that was taking place before him. 

He looked to the old man.

“I told you, I would be in control.” He left him in the corner. He knew that the old man would be gone soon enough. 

He took out a small blowtorch that he used in the kitchen for desserts. And lit the end, the flame was blue with a tinge of orange at the end. It made a horrible blowing hiss sound as the gas escaped and burned.

She whimpered he traced it across her skin. At first, he held it far enough away only to burn the fine peach fuzz like hairs that covered her stomach. He moved closer towards her crotch and set her pubic hair on fire. She convulsed and shook, trying to break her bonds. 

He bent to the space between her legs and breathed in the smell of burnt hair, sweat and blood. He set the torch to her privates and blistering the skin. Charring it, first white and then black. She passed out once again.

He splashed cold water on her face, forcing her to wake up. The dried blood and water mixed, producing a rusty brown liquid that stung her eyes and dripped down her face.

He stood naked in front of her, his dick erect. He stroked himself. Watching her struggle turned him on, her pain, her suffering, her blood, that was his pleasure.

He came quickly, his fluid spraying her chest. She sobbed once again as his cock slowly went limp, hung in front of her with a drop of cum still clinging to the tip. He breathed heavily, almost sobbing. 

“I’m sorry,” he said with clenched teeth. His breath stunk of rot. The old man forcing him out at his moment of ecstasy.  

“Fuck you!” he screamed. He was back in the light. 

How the old rotted fuck took over is beyond him. He beat him back into the corner of the other’s mind. He will never come into the light again.

His cum dripped down her chest and onto her breasts. The sight disgusted him. He kicked her in the head. A crunching sound reverberated through the room. He plunged his knife into her throat, ending the torture in one swift swipe. Blood gushed over him and her down over face and hair. Flowing into the drain on the floor. 

The rest was the same as before; the meat, he marinated in olive oil, rosemary and garlic, bones cut up and put to the side, the rest found its way to the oven. Hot coals shoveled out and put into a bucket to cool. The oven would radiate heat well into the next day.

 He cleaned up himself and the mess. No one would know that he had been here. It would be hours before anyone else would arrive. By that time, he would be back in the dark place. Hidden away until the time was right.