It was nearing midnight, Halloween coming to a close. All the little kiddies were at home sifting through mounds of sweets in preparation of cavity orgies in the days to come. Most adult revelers were still partying or finding spots to nurse their binges.
Usually, I’d be home with a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Black in hand, microwave popcorn by my side, watching Halloween 1 & 2 back-to-back. It was a usual tradition since my teens, but now I sit in a corner booth at the waffle house, nursing my umpteenth cup of truck stop Java, waiting on him.
It all started with my fascination of horror movies and urban folklore, but that little fascination turned into an obsession while poring through the library archives in the campus library.
Two years ago, I was just a normal college sophomore on scholarship in a small college town near the Texas-Louisiana border. I did the usual college things, binge drinking, binge fucking, football games on the weekend, cramming for tests on Sunday. I chose English as my major, but thought about film school ever since I saw my first horror movie at the age of twelve.
I considered myself somewhat of a movie buff. I hold the record of most rented movies at the local Blockbuster and have a pretty extensive collection of tapes and DVDs. It was my senior year that I started research on folklore and urban legends for my graduation thesis. It was one of my many late night in the campus library that I came upon an article about an abduction so obscure, that it only garnered a few inches of text on the back page.
Coed missing off campus
The disappearance of a local college coed has authorities searching nearby bayous and questioning several students. Shannon Bates, Liberal Arts major at E.A. Poe College, was reported missing by her roommate after not returning from the Halloween party she was attending two nights ago at the gymnasium.
She was last seen in the vicinity of the King Memorial Gardens. She was registered at the college with no next of kin and law enforcement said there might be a possibility that she just left on her own. Authorities are questioning students and ask that any information be directed to the Royal Parish Sheriffs office.
King Memorial Gardens wasn’t actually a garden. It was a small graveyard on the edge of campus, which held the tomb of the original landowners Richard and Betsy King. Around the ghastly mini mausoleum were a couple of unmarked graves, presumably offspring. It was too scary even for the like of me, with it’s covered walkways and mildewed smell.
Only horny drunken kids and frat pledges during rush week ventured out there at night. In the morning, empty beer bottles, used scumbags, and the occasional panties would litter the area. It wasn’t a murder yet, just a missing person’s case until I found another article with the same circumstances, five years later to the day.
Missing college student’s dorm ransacked
An E.A. Poe College student’s dorm was pillaged, prompting the Residence Advisor to alert police. Judith Myers, a Journalism Major, has since been reported missing, following an extensive search of campus. The annual Halloween party held in the campus gym was where she last talked to her roommate, whose identity is being withheld. According to eyewitness accounts, she was seen headed in the direction of King Memorial Gardens. What was first thought to be a Halloween prank became more sinister when a mutilated hand was discovered among the bedlam tips missing. Authorities are silent as to the owner of the hand and expressed concern for finding the missing student.
“We just want to find Ms. Myers ASAP and get this all behind us,” stated Sheriff John Stroh.
This is the second time at the college where a student was reported missing. In 1990, Shannon Bates went missing and after furtive efforts was never found. Like Bates, Myers was also a student with no next of kin, but local law enforcement says there is no connection. Poe College president Wes Romero showed concern for the allegations and promised, “to get to the bottom of it post haste.” Anyone with information should contact the Royal Parish Sheriffs office immediately.
Next to the article was a photo of Judith Myers from the student directory with another of President Romero in his office right below. She was a pretty girl with sad eyes, as if she knew of her own demise. President Romero looked stoic as ever, puffed chest, and straightened back.
Anyone that ever met him knew he was all spit and polish, from his starched cuffs to his always-polished Stacy Adams. Him and his Southern Belle of a wife, Jamie Lee Romero, were known Hitler and Eva in quiet circles. After a couple more hours of poring over articles, slugging Bawls energy drinks, and three trips to the rest room, I put together what I knew to bring me to the Waffle House off I-10 at Midnight.
Even without the fingerprints, I knew that the hand belonged to Shannon Bates, but who could prove it. The federal authorities were never called in to assist. Nor were they called five years later for Judith Myers or five years after that when another coed went missing on Halloween and the nipples of presumably Myers were discovered on the kitchen counter in the off-campus apartment of the third victim, Simone Carpenter.
I guess these southern towns, still don’t look too kindly on the “guv’ment” getting involved. All the victims were single with no next of kin to notify. They also were all African-American. Kinda easy to sweep them under the rug, with the Elizabeth Smarts, Jon Benets, and Natalee Holloways getting the above the fold headlines.
A few calls to area papers and even the USA Today produced no results and even the FBI confirmed what I felt. I realized that three black women missing weren’t too high on the priority list with Homeland security trying to monitor the corner store terrorists. After all, there was no real evidence except for untraceable body parts and all the victims were adults with no one to miss them anyway.
I drew up a shoddy timeline and pieced together what facts I knew. It happened every five years on Halloween. Usually right after the annual party in the gym. The killer had to be someone who lived here year round, probably a professor or a local. Somehow, the victims were alone and in the vicinity of King Memorial.
No lighted area, leaving perfect seclusion for the abductor. Even the horniest and drunkest sumbitch avoids that area on Halloween. By the time incoming freshman have graduated and moved on with their lives, the next abduction happens. The college is small but large enough for news to never stay in place too long, before the next big thing. The closest daily paper is 40 miles away and the college paper has enough soft news like alumni grants and football scores to shy away from anything investigative.
By the time I knew that no help was coming, Halloween was a week away. I hacked the databanks of the admissions records; too easy since the only firewall on campus was the one at the Homecoming bonfire. I narrowed a search down to possible candidates, or should I say victims. I found fifteen women with no next of kin, but only three of them were sista’s. I actually had to get off my ass and do some legwork. Of the three women, two lived in the dorms and one off campus.
The off-campus student was an Amanda Tittle, but after two hours of staking out her pad, I crossed her off the list. She had not one, but two men in her life. Not that she hid that fact, with her bedroom window open in the October night and both of them at either end of her like a Chinese finger puppet. I think if she came up missing, she would truly be missed.
Next on my list was Tiffany Jones. She was a sophomore on scholarship, Dean’s list, Varsity Cheerleader, and pledge of Lambda Epsilon Iota sorority. It was no secret that the pledges were whisked away in the middle Halloween night, chained together in a rundown shack in the middle of the bayou, to be retrieved in the morning. Just the thought of half-naked coeds huddling together for warmth in pitch black made me want to investigate, but life and death were at hand.
Therefore my target of the night was Jasmine Sweets. She had no boyfriend, kept to herself, and slaved away on the third shift at the aforementioned Waffle House, just two miles up the road from Poe. By the time I found her dorm, she already left for shift and there was no picture of her in the student directory for me to find her
I went back home to prepare. Not wanting to look out of the ordinary, I rummaged through my footlocker for something suitable. Since I was strictly on the espionage tip, I decided with all black. I shook off my old leather pants that I bought with my first motorcycle, wore once, and decided too gay for my liking. I strapped on a pair of hiking boots with the hidden contraband heel.
As an afterthought, I slid a three-inch blade I bought in New Orleans in the compartment. Looking at myself in the mirror, I realized I resembled a poor knockoff of Wesley Snipes in Blade. To finish the ensemble, I cut a hole in the top of my trench coat and slid my souvenir Hatori Hanzo from the Kill Bill Series down the back. A pair of Ray Bans and fake fangs and I looked a little better. I ran outside and jumped into my 78 Corvette Stingray with rebuilt engine, bald tires and rusted muffler. Hey, I was in college on a scholarship.
I got there about nine and there were few patrons scattered about. The only worker present was the portly cook slapping his spatulas together in an ungodly concerto as he moved hash browns back and forth across the spitting grill. I found a corner booth where I could get a good look at the door and the parking lot. I tried to relax, but my nerves were shot and the damn sword was rubbing a hole in my smaller back. My next move was nonexistent. Do I find her and say, “Hey, I think you’re about to be abducted and possibly murdered tonight.” That would probably put me in jail, she’d be killed and I’ll be on trial for conspiracy.
I tried to call the F.B.I again earlier, but was told to call my local authorities first. I should have told them my name was Ahmed and I have a nail clipper. So before I left the house, I sent a Fed-Ex to the headquarters of the F.B.I with copies of all my findings and a note about events that may or may not take place in the next 12 hours.
As I fiddled with my Zippo, I felt a presence and smelled the intoxicating aroma of cocoa butter.
“Would you like some coffee, Sir?”
That voice drizzled over me like caramel over an apple at the annual parish fair. It had just a twinge of Southern twang to let me know that the owner was born and raised here, but stayed long enough to assimilate. I felt myself stiffen at the outside chance that I could hear that same voice in my ear asking me to do things that you couldn’t get at the 24-hour restaurant.
“Are you Blade? I think that is so cute.”
I lifted my head to respond and was struck by the mocha-hued goddess standing there with a steel coffeepot in one hand; the other placed demurely on her hip. She stood about 6’2″, her hair blown out in a shapely natural with an Afro pick resting off to the side. Instead of the standard yellow WH smock, she was dressed in skin draped denim bejeweled with sequins and a pair of calf high boots with pimp heels.
“Foxy Brown?”
“Yep, you’re the first,” she replied as she poured that first cup of coffee smiling at me. “I thought that no one was gonna get it; you made my day.”
I smiled back at her, my mind thinking of her warm and wet place. I shook off those thoughts and concentrated on the steaming liquid in front of me.
“My name is Jasmine and I’ll come back when you’re ready to order.”
As she walked away, my heart dropped through my stomach and ended up somewhere near my right foot. It can’t be her. That is so fucked up. I felt like the Grim Reaper; knowing her possible demise and also realizing that I had a snowballs chance in hell of stopping it.”
I lit up a Marlboro and took a sip of coffee, wishing I brought my flask of Johnnie with me. I glanced at my watch and saw that I had two and half-hours before the witching hour. I glanced across the way as Jasmine scuttled back and forth with plates of steaming eggs, the never empty coffeepot, and her innocence intact.
I calmed down enough that when she came back to me, I was able to order without a panic attack. Famished from running around all day, I got the steak and eggs platter. When she returned with my order, she sat down and looked at me. This took me off guard as I stared back at her with knife and fork in ready position.
“So, Blade. What’s brings you out here this time of night. The parties aren’t even in full swing yet.”
“Waiting for somebody.”
“Are you early or are they late.”
“Don’t know yet.”
Her eyes closed as if she was trying to read me and her nose scrunched her like a rabbit searching carrots.
“Are you sure that’s all you’re doing?”
I shoveled in a mouthful of hash browns covered with onions and chili and mumbled, “Yep.”
“Well, I hope they take their time.” With that, she got up and went to greet a trucker with that smile and pot of coffee.
For the next two hours, I went through a pack of smokes, another steak dinner and a huge slice of apple pie. Jasmine checked up on me every once in awhile, throwing a little small talk my way every time. I found out that she was an orphan, here on partial scholarship, but raised in Haddonfield, Illinois. I also was on my own and knew how hard it was with nobody watching your back. Customers came and went, but I couldn’t spot anything out of the ordinary.
A few minutes past 11 o’clock, Jasmine came by with a check and her goodbye.
“I don’t think your friend is coming through, Blade.” She sat down and repositioned her comb. “I’m about to end my shift and I’ve got a date.”
As I fiddled in my coat pocket to pay the bill, my heart leapt just a little. She has a date, so she won’t be alone. My little celebration came to a screeching halt when she added, “I got the DVD warmed up and I never miss watching Halloween one and two. It’s tradition.” With that, she swept up the bill and my money and went to the cash register.
I jumped out of my seat, shook off the pins and needles, and abruptly headed for the exit.
“Your change,” she shouted after me.
“Keep it,” I replied as I shoved past a drunken Frankenstein and beeline for my car.
I parked a distance from the restaurant so I could get a bird eye view of the parking lot. Through the wide windows, I saw Jasmine check out and gather her belongings. She swiftly walked to a beat up blue Honda Accord and got in. I turned the engine over in the Stingray and stared at the dashboard clock. I had one hour to go before the witching hour and another two to keep vigil. A sudden shower speckled my windshield with watery drops making harder to see with activating my wipers, but I wanted to keep a low profile.
Jasmine pulled out of the parking lot and after waiting at the light, turned left onto I-10. I pulled out also and began to make the turn when out of nowhere, I was momentarily blinded and slammed backwards into my seat. I didn’t know what happened until I heard the scream of my tires and the sick twisting of my front fender and realized I was blindsided by another automobile. After the noise subsided in my ears and the car came to a halt, I shoved against my drivers’ side door and peeled my self from the mess.
“Dude, Are you ok?” asked a weaving Mummy as he tried to peel the gauze from his mouth to speak more clearly.
I thought about Jasmine’s fate, thinking about how I should have let her in on what I knew, and instantly puked all of my dinner on street and the Mummy.
“Shit, Man,” screamed the Mummy as my dinner mixed with his dressings and fake blood, actually putting an improvement on his costume.
I plopped down on my back fender and tried to clear my head. I looked at my car and saw it was finished. The front end was bleeding green, and both front tires were flattened. The other driver’s car was still intact due to the ram bars installed on the monstrous SUV. Before I thought about what I was doing, I jumped behind his driver’s seat, peeled his truck away from the wreckage, and pointed it west.
In the rear view, I saw a ghostly figure jumping up and down in the shadow of the overpass, loose bandages flapping like a tails on a kite. I pushed the accelerator down and let the hemi do the work. Five minutes later I slammed on the brakes in front of Jasmine’s dorm building, looking for any sign of her blue Accord. Not seeing it, I jumped out of the stolen truck and raced across the parking lot, up the flight of steps to the dorm monitor’s office.
“Jasmine Sweets. I need to see her now.”
The plump matron looked at me with bored eyes, smacking her gum. “Men are not allowed visitation after Midnight, young man.” Glancing at her watch, she added. “There’s no need to be waking her up anyhow, call her tomorrow.”
“Just call her, please.” My frantic eyes searched for a way in, but the front doors were electronically locked.
Sighing she picked up the phone, and dialed the three digits of Jasmine’s dorm room. After what seemed like an eternity, she put the phone back in it’s cradle and mumbled, “No Answer.”
I slid down the wall and buried my face in between my knees. I failed her. I failed myself. I wracked my brain for something and within an instant was on my feet again, hurtling out the door into the unloving night. The rains subsided, leaving the campus covered in a light fog.
I stopped short of the parking lot when I saw two campus security cars, circling, with hi-beams cutting through the settling mist. They targeted the Dodge and got out to investigate. I crouched low and swept along the shadows until I was far enough away to break into full stride. I ran into a group of revelers and blended in with them until I reached the West End of President Romero’s house whose footpath led right to my objective.
The stillness of the surrounding woods sent shivers through my thick jacket, right into the marrow of my bones. There was no spooky music to tell me what was around the corner, no camera angles to tell me which way to look. Only the sound of shifted pebbles under my cautious footsteps broke the night air. I crouched low to the ground to let my eyes adjust to the dark. I gripped the hilt of my Hanzo sword for comfort and proceeded forward. Before I knew it, I was at the entrance of King Tomb. I tried to control the fear seizing me by steadying my breathing, but truth is told I was a shivering bitch. It was that unyielding scent of cocoa butter wafting past my nose that steeled my nerves and told me I was in the right spot.
A branch broke underfoot to my rear and I quickly spun to face my intruder.
“You shouldn’t have come, what you think you’re doing is useless.” said a recognizable voice.
“Well, I’m here now and I got Hanzo with me,” I barked in false bravado as I reached back to pull my weapon. Squeezing the patterned handle, I snatched it out and took a defensive stance. The pull was easy; too easy. I followed the focal point from the handle to the blade only to realize that more than half the blade was missing. It must’ve snapped off during my fender bender. By the time I registered the mistake, I felt a crushing blow on the right side of my face, sending me hurtling down to the gravel. The last thing I remember were a pair of the shiniest damn Stacy Adams this side of God’s green earth planted a foot from my closing eyes.
I was dreaming of the Bahamas, White sands, blue skies, and crystal waters. I was nursing a Margarita that was way too salty and I was stretched out next to Jasmine. She looked as beautiful as ever but was troubled, Despite the gorgeous day; it felt damp and chilly. She mouthed something to me, but someone on the beach was playing a David Allan Coe ballad, preventing me from hearing what she was saying. I leaned closer, but I still couldn’t hear but a whisper. I concentrated on her ripe lips and realized she what she was saying.
“I don’t want to die.”
I jerked awake and the Bahamas was gone, replaced by a darkened room that smelling of earth and rot. There was no Margarita but the slight trickle of blood from a cut inside my mouth. Jasmine was there and she was still whispering those words.
“I don’t want to die.”
We were in a small room with no windows, a wooden door in need of repair, and the strains of David Allen Coe fell away to a Merle Haggard tune that came from a radio in the adjourning room. We were trussed up in an unusual fashion. Both our hands were tied in front of us, but my arms were looped around the outside of her waist. Hers were bound and pressed against my crotch. Then we were tied up with another rope encircling both our bodies and another at our feet. We were face to face with a couple of inches separating us.
My trench was taken, along with my cell phone, and any possible weapons and my boots were missing too. All I had on were my Under Armour top and those tights-ass leather pants. She was also in stages of undress, wearing only pajama bottoms and a bra. Her breath had an unusual odor to it. I realized it was chloroform. They must have gotten her in the room. I didn’t want to imagine what she smelled on my breath. I could only stare at the tear stained face of my fellow captor, realizing that her fate was also mine. I was also an orphan on scholarship. Who would miss me?
“Blade, how did you get here?”
She was still using my character name. I didn’t answer her at first, but tried to get my bearings. It wasn’t until a movement of her hands against my groin forced me to look at her.
“Is this some fucked-up Halloween joke?” she asked, eyes pleading for a hint of recognition.
“I wish it were, but I gotta tell you something I should have told you after that first cup of coffee.”
I tried to summarize as much as I could being we may have been pressed for time. She kept quiet, but her eyes watered which each discovered fact I released past my lips. I told her about everything leading up to us lying on the floor tied together like a rushed Christmas gift. I couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. It was tearing me the fuck up.
“I’m sorry, Jasmine.” I pleaded. “I tried to get help, but no one would listen and I thought that if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me either.” I closed my eyes to hold back any tears trying to escape when I felt her soft lips meet mine.
“You’re right. I probably wouldn’t have believed you.” She kissed me again on my right eyelid. “With all the things I’ve been through in life, I’m really honored that someone in this world cared enough to watch my back for me.”
“But, I didn’t watch your back. And now we’re both here in this fuckin’ root cellar and could be…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
She gave me a tired smile and said, “But you tried and that says a lot. Hell, you stole a truck and tried to stab Romero.”
I felt her hands moving below and while I wanted to believe that she was loosening her binds, my dick was thinking otherwise.
I closed my eyes in embarassment and quickly opened them when I felt my top button give way to see a smiling Jasmine.
“It is what you think it is, Blade.”
I tried to stretch my arms outward to give her some positioning room but the outer rope held. Then I thought about a trick I learned on a field trip to a magic show when I was with the orphanage. It was a long shot but it might work.
“Jasmine, on the count of three blow all of the air out of your lungs, it might give the rope some slack. We counted and on three blew out air while at the same time shifting our shoulders in a jerky manner. The rope moved some, but slacked up again when we inhaled.
“I felt it move,” she whispered.
“Again.”
We kept huffing and puffing and shimmying until the top loop passed my ear. All the while, my cock kept rubbing against her fingertips. Once in awhile she would lightly pinch the head.
“I know we’re in danger, Blade.” She explained. “But I’m feeling you, babe. No pun.”
I grinned at the crazy prospect that I might come and go at the same time. After another ten minutes of blowing in each other’s faces, the rope slipped off past the knot and we were semi-free. Without thinking, I leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. She accepted my advancement and countered with a probing tongue and a firm grip on my shaft. Stroking me with unbridled furor, she kissed me all my face and neck. I shifted my hips forward and searched for my cock’s final resting-place. She obliged by moving her hands and pushing the hem of her pajamas down her thighs. Our feet were still bound together, but she pushed her hands out and over my neck.
We continued kissing in the dampness while grinding our hips closer together, until I felt the small thatch of her trimmed pubic hairs tickling the topside of my thickening mushroom. With another lunge, I felt a small trail of wetness slide against my cock as her moistened flower beckoned me. It only excited me more as I struggled to get inside. Using my hands for leverage, I grabbed her apple-bottomed ass and lifted her onto me, until I felt my head break the outer folds of her vulva, sinking in a wet paradise.
Being inside Jasmine for possibly the only and last time was more beautiful than I imagined. The warmth from her pussy took the chill off my entire body, as I pushed deeper, trying to lose myself in her. I felt her contract her muscles, pulling me in deeper. We tried to keep quiet but the pleasure was more comforting than any pain we were to endure in the future. Shifting our hips back and forth on the dirt-packed floor amongst the gloom was better than if we were really in the Bahamas.
“Stay inside me, forever.”
I moaned my approval as we ground against each other for our final farewell. Her breathing became more frantic as well as mine as we melded into one being. I felt the pull on my cock become greater and as she bit into my chest to stifle the cries from her orgasm, I had to bit my already swollen cheek to silence mine. I came so hard that each blast inside her forced a reaction of more pressure into my pec. Just when I thought she would come away with a piece of my flesh, her jerks subsided and her breathing returned to normal.
After a while, my dick shrunk back down to normal and fell out, subjecting it to the cold of the room and me back to reality. I held onto my temporary lover tight and tried not to think of the future when I adjusted my eyes to the corner of the basement. I made out what I thought was a pile of dirt and after a closer look realized it was my trench coat and boots, There was also what seems to be a pair of bunny slippers.
“Jasmine, do yo own a pair of bunny slippers?”
“That was the most original question I heard after sex, but yea, I do.”
“Baby, we are getting out of here.”
We disengaged from each other and semi-crawled over to the corner where to my relief, I was right about the articles. A thorough search revealed my cell phone gone, but my boots unmolested. With a pull, out popped the blade I concealed earlier. Quickly I cut away the ropes at our feet and we took turns cutting each other’s binds on our wrists. Once we were free, we embraced and kissed again like true lovers.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said as I pulled away. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Even if I don’t know your real name.”
“It’s….”
She put fingers to my lips and said, “Tell me when we are long gone from here.”
I motioned for her to stay and crept towards the wooden door with cracks of light beaming through. I peeked through one of the larger cracks and found my sucker puncher. Sitting in a plain wooden chair with his gun belt a couple of feet to his right, pants hanging around his ankles was Sheriff Stroh.
He was busily jerking off as he watched a hidden camera video of two coeds fucking in front of the King Tomb. That’s how they knew I was there, I thought. I tried to push against the knob on the door and felt it give. I motioned to Jasmine to cover her eyes from the light. I picked up a piece of rope and fitting it like a garrote, slid forward. The Sheriff was still going at it, oblivious to me creeping up behind him. He was wheezing and kicking his legs back and forth as if he could force the nut from his body. By the time he noticed the dark figure in the reflection of the 13in monitor, I already had the twisted rope around his neck and pulling for all I was worth.
“Sucks to be blindsided don’t it, Bitch,” I screamed as I lay down my weight on the Sheriff’s shoulders. He tried to reach for the rope stuck in between the fatty folds of his neck but it was useless. In a fit a panic he stood up, with me still attached, raced over to the card table knocking over the monitor, VCR and the small transistor radio, halting the ballads of Mr. David Allan Coe. He tried to reach for his gun, but a well-placed knee in the back halted his progress.
I felt like I was in the PBC, riding the biggest and nastiest Brahma in the pen. His wheezing reached a crescendo and without warning, Stroh popped his load. He was shooting long arcs of cum, like a malfunctioning water sprinkler. It hit the walls, door and one caught the swinging light bulb. And just as he blasted one in the direction of Jasmine who moved her bunny slippers out of harms reach, Sheriff Stroh keeled over dead. I fell down with him; the circulation in my hands briefly cut off.
I stayed in the prone position on top of the Sheriff for another minute, until the crackle of his walkie-talkie snapped me back to reality.
“Stroh,” said the recognizable voice of Romero. “Bring the gal up here and take care of that goddamn Nigra.” The words flowed so easily out of his mouth, I would have sworn that Bull Conner himself had risen from the dead.
“You heard the man, Baby.” I rose to me feet, careful to avoid the unused seed of the late sheriff.
Jasmine came out of the corner and I handed her the gun. It’s a nine-millimeter. This is the safety. When I say, click this button to red. Just in case, shit jumps off. She took the firearm, hefted and sighted it like an old pro before sticking it in the holster and tying the whole thing to her waist.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Blade.”
“I can’t wait to find out.”
We both edged cautiously to the outer door. I pressed my ear to it for any sign of movement, but got nada. I cracked it open and saw a long hallway dimly lit by alternately hanging light bulbs about four feet apart. I took the lead, knife concealed in the palm of my hand, feeling my way down the hall. I paused when I heard what sounded like a female sobbing, consoled by another voice, also female.
“Shhh. Shhhh, ” said the quiet voice. ” You hush now and it will be all over soon. We had some good times, didn’t we?”
The voices came from a door camouflaged to look like the earthen walls that surrounded them. I felt a depression in the walls until I was able to gauge where the door was. I gave a push and it silently gave way to reveal a room somewhat like the one Jasmine and I was imprisoned in. Sitting in a wingback chair, with her back to us was none other than Eva herself, Jamie Lee Romero. Facing out of the corner was a naked and shackled Judith Myers. Ten years older and traumatized, but it was the same face staring back at me from the mugshot in the paper. She didn’t try to cover herself up, revealing the scars where her nipples were taken. She didn’t register my presence, just continued to sob.
Ms. Romero turned in her seat and shock registered in her eyes, but before she could do anything, I was upon her, hand wrapped around her lily-white trachea.
“What do you want?” she squeaked out as I herded her into another corner.
“To see you suffer at least half of what you put Judith through, Bitch.” Without warning, I head butted Eva right across the bridge of her nose, feeling cartilage give way. She tried to scream but I stifled her sounds with a little pressure to her windpipe.
“Where in the fuck is your husband?” I allowed her to breathe just enough to tell me.
“At the end of the hall. He ‘s expecting the sheriff any second.” I switched hands and curled the southern matriarch into the crook of my arm and placing my small knife blade against her cheek.
“I guess we are gonna pay him a little visit, then.”
I frog marched her out into the hallway when Jasmine was waiting with a look of concern.
“Me and Eva are gonna meet up with Hitler. Judith Myers is in there and I think Simone Carpenter is also here somewhere.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I need back-up.”
Jasmine nodded and we strode down to the end of the hallway. With the unwilling assistance of Mrs. Romero, we accessed the hidden door and entered a real chamber of horrors. Romero was sitting a large oak desk, similar to the one in his office on campus. Behind him sat a dozen monitors; each with a different face, but all dressed in business attire. I guess we interrupted him in the middle of his videoconference. To the right was a large space with all types of antique torture devices. The Iron Maiden sat in the middle, next to The Rack and a Guillotine, all of them looking well used. Against the far wall stood a rack of period costumes and a table with whips, dildos, and other assorted instruments of bondage. I tried not to think of what went on here, but the rage inside me would not settle.
“What have you done to my wife, Boy?” roared Romero as he set eyes on the bloody mask of his wife.
“Oh this,” I pointed to my handy-work. “I’m just getting started.” With that said, I deftly plucked out her eye using the tip of my dagger. Eva screamed bloody murder, wrenched loose from my grasp and ran blindly for her husband. Slipping in her four-inch pumps, she tottered towards the Guillotine and before Wes could shout warning, fell into it, where the blade was jarred loose, promptly chopping off her arm at the elbow.
Romero’s faced turned redder than our school colors as he reached in the left-hand side of his desk. I reared back to throw my knife when a shot rang out. I flinched at the sudden sound and looked up to see the great college president grabbing his forearm and squealing like a stuck pig. Behind me, Jasmine kept her gun trained on him. I strode around the desk and found out that he wasn’t reaching for a gun himself, but a red panic button. He wasn’t man enough to do his own fighting.
I hauled Romero from around the desk, past his wife who was spurting blood like a supersoaker and threw him up against the rack. I quickly bound his hands and feet and prepared to interrogate him, when I noticed that all the monitors behind the desk where still on and each face watching with renewed interest. None seemed taken aback by this intrusion at all.
“Is this what you done with the missing women, you cocksucker!” I screamed at him before pulling the lever down and stretching him out.
His face broke out in the sweat and he began to stink of fear
“Please, Let me explain,” He blubbered and began to soil himself. Here was a man who just two hours ago, was willing to sacrifice the lives of unknown and assuming unwanted, but not he’s a moaning, pissing machine.
I stepped over to the desk and picked up the phone where I dialed the number to the Houston office of the FBI. I had no idea how far his little bit of power stretched, but I knew that New Orleans might have been tainted with his poison. After convincing them it was no Halloween prank, by sending them a web cam link-up of the freak lab, I hung up and began to undercover the truth about the Halloween missing person cases. Jasmine sat down next to me as I searched his files and found what I was looking for.
Over the years, Romero and his conglomerate of perverts have been abducting women from all over the world, subjecting them to torture and sexual abominations, recording the events and selling them to the highest bidder. When the cost went down on the said victim, a snuff film was made. For Romero, it was on Halloween. As proof, the tape was real, articles of the abductions were provided as proof as well as the body parts. It was easier to cover up with local law enforcement in his back pocket.
As to the whereabouts of Shannon Tate, only Romero and Stroh knew and the sheriff isn’t talking. I copied all the evidence onto to backup disks and waited for the authorities. Romero was still blubbering and fouling himself and as I walked over to his stretched form, I began to hear voices. They were coming from the faces on the monitors.
“Do it!”
“Finish Him!”
“Quickly!”
“I’ll pay a Million!”
“Two Million!”
Romero sobbed and thrashed about as I approached the lever. Jasmine stepped forward to say something, then decided against it. I gripped the lever in my hand and with the voices on television chanting, Romero pleading, and the voices of those who no longer speak pounding in my head, I made my decision.
Five years later, Klieg Lights bathe the Kodak Theater in the hues of Crimson and White. Flashes from paparazzo bulbs temporarily blind me as I step onto the red carper. Looking back I reach into the car and feel the firm grasp of my wife, Jasmine in my palm as she steps out of the limo. We wave to the crowd and cheese for the cameras as we strode down the walkway. After three years of legal battles, we finally get our story told. Serial Hunt is making it’s premiere on Halloween five years to they day of our harrowing experience. You still want to know whether I pulled the lever or not, huh? Well, the premiere starts in five. See you on the inside.