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"We have forgotten how to be good guests-- how to walk lightly on the Earth as its other creatures do."

~ Barbara Mary Ward

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

"Thank you, Mercy." The ageing man responded to the nurse. The falter in his voice had still not recovered from the peculiar events of the previous month. What had brought around the unexpected transformation in the great and proud Mr Aldrich Hunter was unknown to most. How could such an arrogant, power-hungry beast be so humbled over a few mysterious days? But everyone knew it had something to do with Nixie. Phoenix Landskein. His bombshell of a second wife. Unlike Mr Hunter and his son, she never returned to the mainframe, and no one knew where she was.

Neo Hunter took the chair on the other end of the fine dining. The table was older than the portrait of the Mona Lisa, spanning nine feet and carved with fine, intricate details from head to toe. The delicacies were not abundant enough to cure the hunger of an entire state anymore. Only what was required was served, and nothing went to waste. Neo ensured that was the case, and no one had any objections to raise. Perhaps it all had to do with the generational transfer of authority from father to son, most people believed.

But Neo Hunter knew better. Neo Hunter knew firsthand what had brought around the radical transformations in the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein, his enigmatic stepmother.

Sighișoara, Romania

April 9th, 2005

That bitch. Neo Hunter rolled down the haystacks piled so high atop one another. How could she? Neo always knew Phoenix Landskein was up to something, but everyone refused to believe him. But with hands tied against a coir rope and rashes of his allergy presenting themselves on his pale skin, Neo knew that was his best chance to prove his suspicions right before everyone. Phoenix Landskein was a gold-digger bitch.

Vision yet to be stable, Neo raised himself to stand, gaining support from his elbows and knees. The whole world spun around him, dizziness almost throwing him into another long daze. But Neo was desperate not to lose consciousness once again-- he slammed himself against the wall in the hopes of steadying his composure, his head held tight between his arms to squish some sense into him. Neo felt his throat ache and his entire frame sweating, leaving his body devoid of moisture. He needed water. Lots of it. Quick breaths. Long breaths.

The barn doors opened with a rasp to reveal before him a courtyard left unchecked for years prior. Ferns and rust had reclaimed all the fences and adornments once white and lustrous. Hints of a winding path leading to an old estate hid beneath the extensive flora consuming whatever men built over its natural state. The tall stone manor at the end of the road-- made almost entirely of stone and iron-- was all too familiar for Neo Hunter. It was his childhood home.

July 1986

The nights were the hardest. So were the days, but the newfound solace of jabbering strangers at school offered Neo an odd comfort. Was there a name for the fear of dinners? But it wasn't the food that scared him. It was what came with it. The people. His family. Every time he heard his name being hollered from downstairs, every step he took towards the dining room-- it all took an act of courage.

Gripping silences. Heaviness in the air. Neo often attempted to not let his cutlery touch the dishes, to not produce the slightest noise so that his parents wouldn't notice his presence. He only left the table once his mom disappeared into the kitchen and his dad to the porch.

But some days, even his silence could not save the tumults which were to befall. Sometimes, it was a hair in the soup, sometimes a tad amount of extra salt in the bacon. But his father's outrage always shook the entire cabin to the core.

Neo never looked at his father when that happened. He looked at his mom. How her eyes were shut, and a lonesome tear caressed her folds. How her palms clutched the dress she was wearing. Before long, when his father disappeared into another room, Gaia always asked Neo to go to his room. And there, he would sleep to the muffled cries of his mother in the place of lullabies, pillows tight against his eyes and ears to tuck himself into dreams where everything was alright.

April 9th, 2005

The rashes grew bigger and redder with the passage of every minute. Unable to find anything sharp and steady, Neo headed to their old kitchen, hoping to find something to free himself. But it was empty. Hollow. The fire and aura had long settled into smoke and filth. That was when he heard a cry from the floor above. Father. Rushing atop the stairs, Neo shouldered open the doors to their old bedroom.

"Finally. You're awake." Phoenix Landskein was a woman of stature, or at least she possessed the charm of someone alike. There she stood, at 5"7', holding what seemed to be a leash made of the creepers from the grounds-- stains of red embellishing the light green of the stem. His father lay on his chest atop the busted cot, his bare back adorned with streaks of blood as he struggled to flee his chains. His restraints were not coir, but cold iron, leaving him zero chance of escaping the onslaught.

Phoenix walked up to Neo, stopping only a few inches away. Neo wanted to back up, but the notion of her kicking him down from the foyer persuaded him to keep his ground. The whip safe in her right hand, Phoenix stared right into his soul-- her green eyes threatening to claw out his deepest fears. In the end, a smile. She took his arms and twined her palms around the coir ropes, only for the yarns to magically untangle themselves, freeing him from its clutch. She passed the leash to his hands, whispering to his ear, "Careful."

As Phoenix strolled down the stairs, Neo ran to his father to help him escape. He needed something to break the chains apart, and soon upon his search, he found all the utensils from their old kitchen on the bedside table, spread neatly on a wet towel. And while picking up the hammer, Neo noticed how his rashes had faded into his skin, no longer inducing an allergic reaction.

But before he could carry his father out somewhere safe, Neo felt the temperature rising around him. Fire. He walked faster only to nearly slip over the stairs, losing the clutch over his father. His rather plump figure tumbled down the stairs, and for a moment, Neo was afraid he had marked the end of his father's life. But the day had other intentions, not a life being lost, though the stone-cold manor collapsed in on itself, leaving no reminiscence of the world Neo once knew.

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

Putting his father to sleep and piling a heavy blanket atop his fragile frame, Neo walked out of his bedroom to the cold verandah. Phoenix Landskein was never found after that day. Even the most capable investigation teams couldn't gather a clue as to where she was. And the non-cooperative silence of the father and son only led to more and more suspicions and never a proper answer.

But whenever Neo brought around a change in his father's allocation of wealth for the better, the trees and animals seemed to bow before him. The sun seemed to shine brighter on the days' Neo had felt his best. And on the days when Neo felt despair, the clouds taught him to let his tears fall. And whenever he reminisced about his mother, he felt the air tug him into a warm embrace. The leash no longer had the stains of blood, but it bloomed and flowered in the courtyard of their home.

Neo knew what had happened to the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein.

#####

I struggled with writer's block for a long while in between, and I'm sure a lot of people out there has the same issue. I'd never been much of a pantser and had always leaned to more plotting tendencies, and thus reading upon and listening to a lot of storytelling theory and experimenting with a lot of techniques, I'm figuring out an outline to help me with the task. It's not rigid, it's arbitrary, it's constantly changing, and it helps me gain more insight into the stories I want to write, and helps me explore what all I could incorporate into them. And I thought this could be somewhat helpful for someone out there too (: So, I'm sharing the outline I used to write this story here, and... hope it helps!

Outline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1l0Rc2EuvqCKDFnmw-Z6wv5yXSWdZTDa9aqVUS51F28o/edit?usp=sharing

*****

Shoutout

[cuz it feels like a wholesome thing to do (: Also, these will be some of Prose's best, so keep an eye on them (:]

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence feels like an episodic thriller with its division into separate books and parts. Featuring a team of cops with the primary focus on a divorced female law enforcement officer and single mother (with the most adorable son), Janis Baker, this series really justifies its title throughout its course... Trust me, no matter how humane a person you think you are, you'd root for some of these characters to suffer the most-brutish-deaths possible... The evil is constantly on the rise and the saviors are on a never-ending effort to keep the streets clean. Sacrifices, serial killers, assassins-- An over-arching threat, loved ones to protect-- this series will not give you a break! Do check it out!

*****

Instagram: (Um, I'll edit that in later...)

To whoever this may concern,

Life is short. And if I had continued lingering on my unsatisfactory, perpetual workdays and the weekends, which passed me by like a meteor, far in the night skies, quick and barely perceivable, I'm afraid I might transform into some lost spirit post my death, haunting old houses and creepy, dark woods. And I don't plan on being a nuisance after my death, which would only contribute to my mumbling paternal grandfather's distasteful prediction that I would be a massive waste of time and effort, given a chance. Also, I would be eternally grateful if you could hold back your irritable impulses to retrieve and establish me back into my mundane, tiresome, unimaginative life that I used to charter. Because if my calculations are not altered by any unexpected factors I forgot to consider, I will return on my own accord in around a year. Until then, I would be finally leading a life that I love and should have lived in this mortal, transient experience of being yet another human on this little blue planet, potentially insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe and everything in it. Thank you for reading and your patience-- see you in a year, hopefully not.

Hanging by a thread,

Hope Tulow

Sunday morn, skies that mourned,

wrinkled blankets, undone laundry,

notes that piled, lectures paused,

plates and bowls, last night meals.

Seasons changes, fall and rains,

falling apart, piece by piece.

Save me, please, screamed to the skies,

begged and hurt, lone in a crowd.

Deep inside, something changed,

life felt different, so did I.

What once was, what now is,

what would be, all blurred in one.

Barely human, days all same,

can't be machine, feelings clawed.

Bewitched in a maze, no way out,

dark that stayed, lights that frayed.

Would I leave, this game of hurt,

or would I stay, forever and frail?

Shall I try, when all things fail,

or just let go, as fate may plead?

But I will wake, to another day,

for dawn may break, and the sun may rise,

birds may sing, and the rains may pour,

nights may fall, and the cold may creep.

I will wake to another day.

A flower is known as delicate and sweet

A beautiful scent is quite the treat

But when you lean down

To pluck it away

Its thorns fight back

A bloody dismay

A delicate warrior

You’d best leave it be

For it is too proud for you and me

In September 2022, I received a call from Craig, and he asked me to check on his son as he hadn't heard from him over the last several days. Craig's in the hospital at this point.

I go across the hall and knock on his door. It's after nine-thirty and know he's home but he doesn't answer the door. I knocked louder and called out his name. "Doug! Doug! It's Bill. "

No response.

This time I pound on his door and in doing so, the door actually opened. All the lights were on, the television on, and water was flowing over the bathtub. My first thought is he fell asleep and forgot he did that. I could see him half-curled in a fetal position, on his couch, and for a moment, I thought he was just passed out drunk. Beer and Vodka were his mainstays.

As I stepped closer, I noticed two things right away. His feet and hands. They were purple. It was a moot point, but I still went up to him and shook him but got no response. When I went to check his pulse, I let go quickly because with no doubt, by the feel and texture of his skin (cold and stiff), he was dead.

Thing was, Craig was still on the line. It was an awkward thing to have to tell him, over the phone, him in the hospital, that his son at the age of 53 was dead. But tell him I did.

Because we both have the same landlord, I called Myles to let him know, then I called 911. Within two hours (yes, two hours) after police did their initial investigation, they then called the county morgue to have Doug's body removed and that took a good hour after they arrived before they did so. And just like in the movies, they put him in a body bag and zipped it closed.

They said to make certain that this was a as they put it "simple suicide", an autopsy would be performed. All this time, Craig was still on the line and could hear everything going on.

I handed the phone to one of the "morgue guys" saying this was Doug's father, the man asked Craig for his permission, then handed me back the phone.

With them taking Doug's body downstairs, I said to Craig I was sorry this happened the way it did. He said, "Nothing that boy does, surprises me anymore." Then he said goodbye and hung up.

Three weeks later in that same hospital, Craig died in his sleep. He was 72.

(I want to clarify that there was a great deal of activity going on with police coming and going. Paramedics assessing the situation, then the people from the county morgue I didn't describe but this did happen.)

My wish then is as it is now, that they both found the peace that had eluded them in life.

St. Peter’s – 2:36 p.m.

“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”

“I remember your voice. Please, tell me you didn’t kill, again?”

“But, Father, I did. I know you have called the police before. I’m much smarter this time. I didn’t track any evidence into your precious box.”

Bishop Ekerson wanted to say booth but remained silent.

“I’m not staying long, but you know something. I love that word, but. I can go on and on with a single, but. But it’s the assholes who think they know everything; the BIG BUTTS who try to get away thinking they will never get caught. This is why I do all this.

“I’m going to put an end to their self-centered pitiful existence. I may even be caught one day. But there’s that word again, but. But my being caught remains to be seen. Right now, no one is doing a particularly decent job trying to catch me.

“There are others on my list of assholes I must take down; but that’s my secret, Father.

“Now, are you going to forgive my fucking sins, or what?”

“My son, all those who have been saved or wish to be saved by Jesus Christ, and the Holy Father, can be forgiven their sins, but….”

“See! SEE! There’s that all too important fucking word again!”

“Either for-fucking-give-me, or just shut the fuck up with your religious bantering. I don’t have all day to play games with you.”

The confessional booth’s door opened, and then banged closed leaving the sound to faintly echo throughout the church.

“See you in church, padre.”

In mere seconds, Bishop Ekerson was beside himself, breathing in the quiet. And very scared.

Medical Examiner’s Lobby – 2:56 p.m.

“Thanks, Stan. So how are things going for you these days?”

“Same-o, same-o, Baker. Some days are better than most. Other days just suck. I still find myself missing the thrill of a good bust or a righteous shoot, but I keep up with what’s going down on the streets with my scanner. Of course, the best news is over at Benny’s Pub, so it’s not all bad.

“I hope that report helps you to nail that son-of-a-biscuit eater soon. Creeps like him make me sick. And yeah, I peeked, Baker. Couldn’t help myself.”

She smiled at Stan.

“Don’t worry about peeking. Just keep what you saw to yourself. We’ll get this guy, trust me, Stan.

“You take care of you, okay? Be good. Be safe.”

“You too, Baker. You, too.”

Such a sad, lonely look he carries, she thought.

St. Peter’s – 3:05 p.m.

“So, Father Ekerson, were you able to get a better look at him this time?” asked Ed.

“From what I could see, he appears to be in his early to mid-thirties, his hair looked dark, and stockier than I first believed. I still couldn’t get a good look at his face or eyes. Once inside the booth, the lighting is minimal, and designed that way for a reason.”

Somehow, Ed knew he was back to square one except for one statement.

See you in church, Padre.

Baker’s Townhouse – 7:30 p.m.

Both she and Stevie, barely walked into her living room when her cell phone rang again.

“Get that out for me, will you, Stevie. My bladder is about to explode!”

Stevie reached for the phone as she dashed off, and he held it to his ear and said, “Baker’s professional Answering Service. How may I help you?”

Laughter on the other end.

“Pretty good, Stevie. Where’s Baker?”

Stevie knew it was Ed.

“She’s in the bathroom. She should be out shortly.”

“Heard tell you had a fun day.”

“It was pretty cool. I picked up over two-hundred seashells, and I think a couple of them might even be fossilized. I won’t know that until summer is over and I’m back at home with my dad.”

“Wow, fossilized, might be worth a few bucks if they are.”

“Maybe. Anyway, here comes mom. Bye.”

Baker grabbed the phone as Stevie walked past her and whispered, “Ed.” What’s up, Ed? What are we looking at?”

“If you have no objections, I’d like to run all this by you at your place. I’ve made copies of all my notes from the murder scene, plus our perp show up again at church. Ekerson was able to give me a better Ident on the guy, but it’s still sketchy. He was extremely rattled.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Promise not to laugh or get pissed off?”

“That doesn’t leave many options.”

“I’m parked next to your rig.”

She laughed.

Still There – 8:20 p.m.

“These are the autopsy reports of former General Arnold Kilpatrick, and Mrs. Ethel Mattingly.

“Both throats slit, both with a double incision in the shape of an X. Kilpatrick had his ears removed with a message printed backward reading: Hear no evil.

“For the record, Mrs. Mattingly had lung cancer and Kilpatrick had a bad kidney. Beyond that, both showed elevated endorphin levels in the blood. Time of death for Kilpatrick based on a rectal thermometer on scene: 9:30 p.m., with a plus or minus ten minutes.

Mattingly, roughly 9:50 p.m. Both had trauma to the scalp, rendering each unconscious.

“The weapon used appears to be a large blade, looks to be two inches wide from its most narrow point, and five inches wide at the hilt. Estimated length is fourteen inches. It was first thought to be a Chef’s carving knife. After searching online, it is now believed to be a replica of a Bowie knife.

“No skin or hair follicles were found under any of the victim’s nails. This indicates no struggle took place. Both were checked for full, or partial prints, and although a partial was found, it isn’t enough to run it through fingerprint analysis. There is currently some DNA testing being done to determine who Kilpatrick may have had sexual relations with prior to his death.

“All the handwritten notes have also been sent to Albany to be run over by handwriting experts.

“Finally, the blood first found at the church was Kilpatrick’s blood. Right now, we have absolutely zero on the perp. So, what do you think, Ed?”

“Your idea to stake out the church might pay off if in fact he really shows, for one. Depending on what the two black and whites find out about Gulatta and Olster; seems like one, or both were well, doing the wild thing with the general.” Ed let his voice trail off to convey his meaning.

“No to worry, Ed,” explained Stevie. “I know what sex is. Dad says sex is healthy as long as you have protection and are aware of your surroundings and environment. Mom has told me a million times, if you love a girl, you’ll wait until marriage, since love is all about respecting the one, you’ll be with.”

Baker looked at Stevie and thought, too bad your father didn’t hold onto to those ideals, but he and Donnie are happy together, and Stevie’s head hasn’t been corrupted. Mark has always been a great father. Just not a great husband.

“Any way, it’s my night to cook, Ed. How do you like your hamburger?”

“No, that’s fine. No bother. I can pick something up on my way home.”

“Too late. I already started. Just tell me how you like it cooked. Are we talking medium, medium-rare, or dead?”

All three busted out laughing.

Then Baker’s phone rang.

“Baker here.”

“This is Carl. Just to let you know, Albany faxed me back the report I sent. Seems like the general was fond of Miss Olster.”

“Thanks, Carl. I have Ed here, I’ll let him know. If nothing else major happens, I’ll see you Monday. Goodnight.”

She closed her phone and told Ed what Carl told her.

“Seems your suspicion of the general’s sexual activities are pretty spot on and….” The phone rang again.

“Baker, here.”

“Lieutenant Baker?”

“Yes.”

“This is Officer Phil Mallory. I’m one of two units dispatched out by Detective Manning. I’m at the Olster residence.”

“And?”

She rolled her eyes at Ed just a bit. She could sense that Mallory was still fresh out of the Academy.

“I’ve called it in, but Detective Manning said I was to call you or him if something didn’t go right about the interview. Three other units are pulling up now.

“Miss or Mrs. Olster is dead.”

She passed on what Mallory told her to Ed. She took a last bite of her burger, stood up and went to her bedroom, and opened a dresser drawer and snatched up her Snap-on holster with her police special to her belt, grabbed her badge, stuck that in her jacket pocket and walked back out to the kitchen.

She looked at Stevie.

“I know, mom. I won’t wait up.”

She looked at Ed.

Ed looked at Stevie. “Burger was great, thanks.”

“You ready, Detective Manning.”

Both headed for their respective cars.

Neither one was smiling.

I normally never PRACTICE

My DESPAIR to be DEMOCRATIC.

I DISTANCE myself so that

My GENE is my only status.

My ASSOCIATION with CONSTRAINT

Does not QUALIFY me to PROVOKE.

Some things I put into a PARAGRAPH,

Can also cut my throat.

A simple EQUATION will BAN me,

PAT me for PROSECUTION.

A simple TUMBLE will SQUASH the

SACRIFICE I use as a delusion.

I PREDICT an accident

with a simple Pole and CABLE.

In all Hope to survive it,

I'll be INCAPABLE but stable.

May 16th - Saturday Afternoon – 1:05 p.m.

“Thanks, mom. Today was great!”

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. I see by how the bag looks, you collected quite a few shells.”

“Today was the best. I found some really cool ones, and some with neat color patterns and….”

Her cell phone rang.

She looked at Stevie.

“Go on mom, answer it. We know what it means.”

She pulled her cell phone from the bottom of her beach bag that held the towels, blanket, and lotion.

“This is Baker, and it better be good.”

“Trust me, Baker, you’ll love this.”

“Hello, Ed. I can tell from the sound of your voice, I won’t. What have you got?”

“Another body, the same way, except this one has all the body parts intact.”

“How long have you been on the scene?”

“Close to sixty. First impressions; he’s been dead according to initial study, three to four hours.

“I’ll fill you in when you get back from the lake. By then I should have more information.

“You and Stevie have a good time?”

She looked over at Stevie, his head bent over the open bag of seashells, and she smiled.

“Yeah, we did. Look, we were just on our way home as it is. We should be back in thirty. Check the victim to see if he was part of the congregation from St. Peter’s."

“Can do, will do. I emailed you the address. Call me when you’re on your way here.”

Baker hung up no sooner than her cell phone rang again.

She sighed. Stevie looked at her and grinned.

“Baker.”

“J.B., Carl here.”

She’d known Carl for several years, and she stopped trying forever ago to get him to quit calling her by her initials. It just wasn’t happening. At least he had the presence of mind not to do it with anyone around.

And no one in the force called her, Janice, or Jan.

“What’s the good word, Carl?”

“I found four different matches. A partial on one; but too smeared to get in Ident, and it appears to have been enclosed in surgical gloves. One set belonged to the vic. The other two sets belong to a Mrs. Josephine Gulatta, and the last one, Marianne Olster. I have their addresses and phone numbers for you.”

“Great, Carl. Stevie and I are on our way home from the lake. I’ll stop by and pick up the report. Just leave it at the front desk for me. Stan is still working there on weekends, right?”

Stan is the weekend guard. A retired cop. Time on his hands and all that rubbish.

“He is. I’ll let him know you’ll be stopping by.”

“Thanks, Carl.”

“Oh, before I forget, the Mattingly murder. One set of prints; hers.”

They disconnected from each other, and she was about to put the key in the ignition when her phone rang again.

“When it rains, it pours, mom.”

“But not in my car. This is so frustrating. This was, supposed to be our day.”

“It still is mom. No sense in getting frustrated. Besides, it’s who you are and what you do. That’s why I’m proud of you.”

She reached out and gave Stevie a quick hug and a smile.

“Grand Central. Baker here.”

“This is Macklin again. I just received the prelim autopsy report on the two vic's from the other night. Seems the general was a busy boy before he went to heaven; or hell, after you hear this.

“The other one; nothing unusual about the cause of death other than the eyes missing. No signs of forced sex or semen stains anywhere in or around the vaginal cavity.”

“All right. So, what have you got on the general?”

“Seems as if he was into passive role-playing. Somewhat of a closet sexual deviant. Upon examination, tears and lacerations were found on his back legs, and buttocks, as well as around and inside the anus and sphincter muscle. No traces of any semen though. I’m thinking more of a penis substitution such as a dildo, or some sort of plastic phallic object was used, and I should know by who in the next few hours.

“I ran a swab over his genitals, and there were traces of dried seminal fluid, both his and his partner. Last night I sent the swab to Albany where they will do a DNA test and hope to have a confirmed report back shortly. You have to love the invention of DNA analysis.”

“The minute you find out, call me, Carl.”

While driving home, all Baker knew at this point is that someone out there was having a field day and wasn’t in a hurry to call it quits anytime soon.

Marianne’s Apartment – 1:17 p.m.

The doorbell rang twice.

Looking through the security eyehole of her front door, she smiled when she saw who it was and opened the door.

“Ben!” she exclaimed. “What a wonderful surprise. I wasn’t expecting you until Monday. Have you missed your mommy?”

He walked in abruptly, turned, and made sure the door was closed. He locked it and put the dead bolt in position.

He quickly spun around, striking out his right fist, connecting flush with Marianne’s mouth. Blood splattered across her lips as four teeth were torn away from her gums. Two others were barely holding on as she teetered backward three steps, and fell over her stepstool to the floor, the back of her head bouncing hard.

A dazed but horrified look came over her. Tears slid down her cheeks from the intense pain, and a look of shock held her from moving off the floor. Her hands, desperately trying to keep the other two teeth from being forever useless.

“Ben, why did you him me?”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch! You didn’t think I didn’t know all the other silly little games you play with other people besides me. Didn’t I tell you, no one else but me! You gave me your word. You lied! Like your playmate, the general; you are going to die.”

Marianne found the energy to crawl toward the kitchen table where her cell phone waited quietly.

He kicked her in the back of the head.

“You will never make it. But I’ve set it up where you can keep doing the general when you meet him in hell. I’m sending you to meet him right now!”

From under his plastic coat, and with hands covered by surgical gloves, he removed a Bowie knife and expertly and efficiently sliced her throat as Marianne looked up at him with a pleading, sobbing cry. “Fir gib me.”

Blood erupted in the air.

He reached down and tore away her dress until it lay limply around her waist and deftly made the crisscrossing X, across her pale white skin.

Then he walked to the table, grabbed her cell phone, but not before he opened her mouth, and sliced her tongue off and placed it next to her left hand, with another message written backward.

LIVE ON KAEPS.

Placing the cell phone in her right hand, he used one of her lifeless fingers to press 911.

Then he hurriedly left her apartment. No one would see him. He always made sure of that, except for the old woman. But who she thought she saw, and who he really is, are two entirely different stories.