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JON-A Day in the life of a Serial Killer Chapter 4. VISITORS GUIDE

Short story By: jon bladez
Horror


Chapter 4. VISITORS GUIDE


Submitted:Apr 29, 2013    Reads: 12    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   


Chapter 4. Visitors Guide




The recurring howl from an old dog awakens me, as well as the sound of a car pulling up into the front yard, its horn repeatedly blaring into the early morning. The familiar sounds cause me to jump up from the recliner in which I had fallen asleep in, and rush through the screen door and towards what appears to be a late model 1990's Toyota Corolla. I see through the bug splattered pitted windshield a woman in her late twenties, immediately pulling out her cell phone in horror, while eyeing me cautiously and locking her door. I can her hear scream "HEEEEELP!!!" probably to 911, as I smash through her passenger side window and grab her with one hand by her long dark auburn brown hair, unlocking the door with the other. I begin to wrestle with her, covering her mouth in an attempt to silence her screaming, finally snatching the cell phone and smashing it on the ground. I begin wondering who exactly was on the other end of that call, but the dog barking and nipping at my ankles again in disagreement, brings me back to the deed at hand. I can feel her trying to bite at my forearm and hands, as I switch back and forth between the two over her mouth, and drag her to what seems like an old tool shed. Tired of the restless attacks on my calves and pant legs, I kick at the dog again, still dragging my latest victim to the shed. This causes him to yelp and stagger back in pain, before walking away growling to show his disapproval and lying back down at his dead masters feet. He stares me down for a brief second before getting distracted, and licking some dried blood off his dirty black paws. He frequently snaps at the flies buzzing around his face, which had strayed away from the swarm now developing around the remains of the body. She continues to fight for her life as I drag her into the darkness of the old man's tool shed, stumbling upon a work table affixed with a rusty old vice, and scattered with various types of carpenter tools. I pick her up and slam her down on top of it, as she manages to kick me in the face in the process, sending me stumbling back in slight pain by catching me off guard. I laugh and smile while telling her goodnight, before picking up the ball ping hammer I just eyed with the rest of the tools, and swinging it down upon her head. The last thing I heard from her was a scream as if her life depended on it, and it did, but that wasn't enough to stop me from imposing my will or the hammers will down upon her. I think of your screams as somewhat entertaining, sort of like a soundtrack that continually plays in my head at night when I'm lying down, caressing my subconscious with your sorrow all the while rocking me to sleep. Her death filled shrill is quickly replaced by the sound of the ball ping hammers forged steel, splitting her succulent flesh and shattering her tender skull. Fresh scarlet red blood sprays out across the table and splatters across my hands, appearing slightly purple in the darkness, as she falls into unconsciousness. I check her pulse and realize she's not dead, and lay her body along the table, aligning her head with the vice while beginning to crank it open. Once I get the vice fully opened, I slide her body down the table and rest her head into it, and slowly begin to crank it closed onto her ears and the temples of her bleeding head. I can feel the resistance of her skull with every turn of the vices handle and crank it down one more time before stopping, and begin to look for some rope and perhaps some old oil rags to use for a gag. I spot a chain dangling off of a shop light hanging from the ceiling and give it a yank, illuminating the tool shed in unnatural fluorescent light. I can now see there are a few tool boxes and shelves aligned with all kinds of shit that I can use to tie her down with, as well as several oil stained gas rags to keep her quiet while she prays for death on her trip to purgatory. I snatch up a spool of wire along with some wire cutters and pliers, grabbing a few rags too and head back over to her. I shove the rags into her mouth and begin to undo the wire, wrapping it around the rags her mouth and fastening it around the vice. I tighten her head down securely with several strips of wire, cutting off long pieces to tie her arms and legs to each of the legs of the work table. After she is completely tied down and spread out like she is about to be crucified, I head out of the shed towards the disgruntled dog and the old man still decomposing in the front yard. This time I ignore the dog and grab the corpse by the foot, dragging him into the shed as well, noticing the dog now curiously following closely behind us. I finally get his body inside the shed and fling him into the corner, suddenly hearing the low moan of a woman in distress, suddenly hearing the pain that will remix all the soundtracks that play in my head at night. I look down at her helpless body as she begins to realize she has been restrained to the table, and that her head has been placed within a vice, watching the newly formed tears in her eyes roll across the dried blood on her stained cheeks. She looks wide eyed and terrified, as she should, still attempting to scream for help and break herself free from the firm grasp that death has placed newly upon her. I pick up a chisel, along with the blood stained hammer, and place it gently on the bridge of her nose. She screams and struggles with all her might as she watches me swiftly raise the hammer up, before slowing it down and aligning it just right with the base of the chisel. With one blow, I completely cut through her nose, embedding the sharp edge of the chisel deep into her face, leaving it lodged deep inside of her skull. Mass amounts of blood begin to pour out, her violent thrashing and shaking startles the dog enough to send him scurrying away in distrust, giving one final yelp as he exits. I remember seeing a red gas can by an old worn out lawnmower, and decide this is where i decide her tour of torture will head next and head over to get it. I grab the can and unscrew the lid and begin to douse her face in gasoline, the smell of it stirring up a nicotine craving, as I fish a fresh cigarette out of the pack in my pocket. I light it up using my Zippo lighter; keeping the lighter lit while I take a few long tokes, blowing out a few smoke rings before extinguishing the lighter and setting her ablaze. I watch as the fire begins to slowly end her misery, apparent by the less frequent violent thrashing of her legs, and the frequent sounds of her muffled pleads for help. I continue to watch on and begin to feel empowered, enlightened, and engulfed in the reality of what just happened and is currently taking place before me, and laugh silently to myself. I begin to think, "I don't care what anyone says, this is what life is all about. The weak shall always perish and be devoured by those that are stronger and willing to do whatever it takes to survive. It's not called the law of the jungle for nothing, it's survival of the fittest, and this concrete jungle is where I choose to roam." I take a few more hits off my cigarette before the smell of burning flesh begins to turn my stomach, as I can now feel another migraine headache coming on, causing me to stoop over and vomit up the remains of what was left of the last girl still inside of me. It feels like I just puked my guts out, slimy gobs of snot running from my nose down to my lips, while fresh beads of sweat roll down my forehead. I decide not to resist anymore and set myself down onto the ground, leaning myself against one of the tool boxes while staring at the dead gaze of the old man eyes. I begin to feel myself slip once again into a mysterious slumber, being soothed by the fresh melodies that were now playing in my head, hopefully carrying me away to a realm of tranquility.





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