destroy you.
He had been right. Bess was right. It was the not remembering that had always caused her the most trouble. And what if Bess were right? What if there had been other victims? Victims not so lucky as she had been?
Chapter THREE
He watched from his bedroom as the twilight lengthened into darkness. This was his time. The night belonged to him. It was as though God had created the darkness just for his pleasure.
He raised his arm to his face and brushed away the thin beads of sweat that had gathered across his forehead. He wanted to go out. It had been building for several days. It would be two weeks before another trip. Could he wait that long?
The need to kill was a boiling, churning fire in his gut. It was as important to his survival as food or sleep. The planning, the execution, and the aftermath were like heroin to an addict. An indescribable high. And just like an addict, the need for a fix was becoming stronger and more urgent.
He would have to fight against the need. It would be only two weeks. Then it would be safe. He would be safe. His plan had worked well all these years. He couldnât afford to get careless now.
Maybe he would go visit the blind lady. At least it would get him out of the house. The old bag prattled on and on about her German heritage, and how her grandfather had been among the group of Volga Germans who fled from southern Russia to escape service in the Czarâs army and the dangers to their Catholic faith. Shit. He knew her story by heart.
Sometimes he mimicked her as she spoke, making elaborate facial expressions. Once he had opened up his fly and banged himself as she droned on and on. It gave him an immense sense of power to know the old lady couldnât see what he was up to.
And she liked him. âI just canât tell you how much I enjoy your visits, son. I get to talk with others once in awhile during the day, but youâre the only one who comes to see me at night.â Her next words had pleased him even more. âActually, Iâve outlived most of my friends. About the only people who come calling anymore, are the Meals on Wheels ladies and my priest.â
At one time, he had thought about killing her. He had occupied an entire week thinking up ways to do it without anyone catching on that it was murder.
He was glad he hadnât carried through his plan. One night in her mindless ramblings she had told him about the roomâthe secret room that no one knew about. She had proudly gone over to her curio cabinet, opened the curved glass door, and removed a large iron key.
âThis is the original key, you know. My father helped build that tribute to the good Lordâs bounty, and when they decided to board up the room, he kept this key.â She had handed it over for his inspection.
He had known at that very moment, what he would do. Two places the world knew nothing about. It was almost too good to be true.
He jumped slightly as the sound of the telephone ringing in the living room jarred him back to the present. He moved quickly through the dark house to answer it. âYes,â he spoke into the receiver. âOf course. That will be fine. Iâll see you later, then.â He smiled to himself as he replaced the phone. He wouldnât go visit the old woman. He would go to his loft instead. He needed his things around him. He needed the comfort his tiny room offeredâhis panacea when he couldnât have the real thing.
No lights were burning in the house, but it didnât bother him as he located his ladder and went to the closet. Even though all the windows in the house were covered with heavy drapes, he took no chances of being seen when he went to his hiding place.
He was in the attic quickly, walked a few steps, then dropped to the floor where he had scattered a few throw pillows. His hand reached out automatically for the book they were covering. He raised it to his face and breathed deep, relishing the rich
He had been right. Bess was right. It was the not remembering that had always caused her the most trouble. And what if Bess were right? What if there had been other victims? Victims not so lucky as she had been?
Chapter THREE
He watched from his bedroom as the twilight lengthened into darkness. This was his time. The night belonged to him. It was as though God had created the darkness just for his pleasure.
He raised his arm to his face and brushed away the thin beads of sweat that had gathered across his forehead. He wanted to go out. It had been building for several days. It would be two weeks before another trip. Could he wait that long?
The need to kill was a boiling, churning fire in his gut. It was as important to his survival as food or sleep. The planning, the execution, and the aftermath were like heroin to an addict. An indescribable high. And just like an addict, the need for a fix was becoming stronger and more urgent.
He would have to fight against the need. It would be only two weeks. Then it would be safe. He would be safe. His plan had worked well all these years. He couldnât afford to get careless now.
Maybe he would go visit the blind lady. At least it would get him out of the house. The old bag prattled on and on about her German heritage, and how her grandfather had been among the group of Volga Germans who fled from southern Russia to escape service in the Czarâs army and the dangers to their Catholic faith. Shit. He knew her story by heart.
Sometimes he mimicked her as she spoke, making elaborate facial expressions. Once he had opened up his fly and banged himself as she droned on and on. It gave him an immense sense of power to know the old lady couldnât see what he was up to.
And she liked him. âI just canât tell you how much I enjoy your visits, son. I get to talk with others once in awhile during the day, but youâre the only one who comes to see me at night.â Her next words had pleased him even more. âActually, Iâve outlived most of my friends. About the only people who come calling anymore, are the Meals on Wheels ladies and my priest.â
At one time, he had thought about killing her. He had occupied an entire week thinking up ways to do it without anyone catching on that it was murder.
He was glad he hadnât carried through his plan. One night in her mindless ramblings she had told him about the roomâthe secret room that no one knew about. She had proudly gone over to her curio cabinet, opened the curved glass door, and removed a large iron key.
âThis is the original key, you know. My father helped build that tribute to the good Lordâs bounty, and when they decided to board up the room, he kept this key.â She had handed it over for his inspection.
He had known at that very moment, what he would do. Two places the world knew nothing about. It was almost too good to be true.
He jumped slightly as the sound of the telephone ringing in the living room jarred him back to the present. He moved quickly through the dark house to answer it. âYes,â he spoke into the receiver. âOf course. That will be fine. Iâll see you later, then.â He smiled to himself as he replaced the phone. He wouldnât go visit the old woman. He would go to his loft instead. He needed his things around him. He needed the comfort his tiny room offeredâhis panacea when he couldnât have the real thing.
No lights were burning in the house, but it didnât bother him as he located his ladder and went to the closet. Even though all the windows in the house were covered with heavy drapes, he took no chances of being seen when he went to his hiding place.
He was in the attic quickly, walked a few steps, then dropped to the floor where he had scattered a few throw pillows. His hand reached out automatically for the book they were covering. He raised it to his face and breathed deep, relishing the rich
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