A murderer gets a taste of his own medicine
It’s not something I’m fondly proud of, and getting away with murder isn’t exactly something that your typical everyman would boast about. Not that I would boast about it, because you never know who could be an undercover policeman these days, waiting to flip out their badges and arrest you, then it’s ‘hello jail’ for me.
A week after sentence was passed, I moved from the crazy, busy city of New York to a small house in the forest on the outskirts of Boston, Maine.
Since I was a murderer, I had to keep a low profile, and even if I didn’t get convicted, there could still be more forensics that could track down my New York apartment, so I left there without a word, burning any evidence that would possibly lead to my capture, in the beautiful county of Maine.
The long drive up to Maine wasn’t eventful, and I quietly grew bored of the sight of boats bobbing lightly against the harbour over the gentle waves, with the cold East board wind blowing gently against the sails, until I caught sight of a red boat.
“Red…” the word lingered in my mind for a while, as the red boat remained in the corner of my eye, like a memory that wouldn’t go away. But I passed the boat and a sigh of relief passed my lips once I had.
Twenty minutes later, I had arrived at the new house. It wasn’t big, as it looked like on the brochure, but the surrounding woodlands make the place seem more homely. There was a porch where I could sit back and think about my terrible past, while chowing down on a gumbo or a piece of pie.
I parked the car in the garage and then took a look around the house. It was spacious and homey. There was an average size kitchen in the back, a small living room, and upstairs there were two bedrooms, a guest room and a bathroom, then down below, I had a storm shelter filled with old vintage wines that the previous owners must have forgotten about.
I stood in the hallway of my new home, and inhaled the oaky smell of the wooden walls around me. It excited my senses.
“Marlon….” A sinister voice whispered.
The sound of my name echoed throughout the house, coming from upstairs. The voice made my spine shiver, as the voice almost matched something that came from the depths of Hell.
I took one step on the stairs before calling out:
“Hey, you betta’ think twice before breaking into ma house. That be breaking the law!” That was ironic coming from a murderer. “You best get out my house before I sock you!”
There wasn’t a reply from upstairs. I growled, and then sprinted up the stairs, like an athlete, onto the second floor.
There was nothing on the second floor that suggested a presence. There wasn’t any open windows, no curtains floating in the breeze, or footprints. It was almost like I had found a criminal better at hiding his tracks than myself.
Then I heard a light tapping above me.
“You’re in the attic, you little –”
I was interrupted by the tapping again, except this tapping was louder and angrier than before. I felt fear in the pit of my stomach but I took in a deep breath and pulled down the ladder to get in the attic.
The attic was the largest room in the house, except from the hall. It was spotless and even had the scent of fresh lemon lingering in the air, slightly calming my nerves for the moment. Again, like downstairs, there wasn’t anything suspicious that would suggest a break in of any kind. It was a completely normal attic.
“If you’re trying to pull one over me, you’re surely mistaken. (I pulled out a small knife from the back pocket of my jeans) You best be warned that I’m armed. I will slice you without thinking twice, if you don’t come out in three seconds.”
This person must have had some balls. After counting to one, this intruder still decided to hide itself in the shadows.
“Very well, stranger,” I said finally. “More fun for me. Come out; come out, wherever you are.”
“Marlon!” the voice boomed, more his tone was austere and livid with pure and hateful anger that even the lemon scented room couldn’t calm me this time.
I kept firm hold of the knife. “I-I-I warn you. I’m armed!’
“How do you know my name? TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE?!”
My head was spinning. My heart was beating, like the fast paced beat of a race horse. I looked from left to right, right to left, left to right, even up and down! There was nothing!
“Marlon Kowalski, you will pay for your rash actions.’
“What you talking about?’
At that moment, a shape was forming a few inches in front of me. My mouth agape at the realisation of the shape that formed out of a black mist, as if it had formed itself out of the shadows itself. I stepped back when the apparition managed to achieve its’ full form.
“No, no, that ain’t possible!” I cried. “It just ain’t!”
This was the man I murdered.
He still looked the same. He still retained that mocking glare I always hated: the prissy, classy, college fund brat look. A look I always got from those types of folks. He wore the shirt he wore the night I finally put him out of his misery, but it wasn’t the mocking glare, or his clothing that made my heart skip a beat.
He looked the exact same on the day I left his house. His face was mutilated, with parts of skin hanging on and flapping when he say something. His left ear was gone. I remember hacking it off out of sheer pleasure and also in dedication to favourite movie Reservoir Dogs.
I raised my knife to his decrepit face.
“Now, now, Stanley, don’t make me cut your other ear off,” I warned, jerking a childish laugh. “Why aren’t you dead?”
“Marlon Kowalski....they will be here in a moment.”
“What? Who will?”
Stanley shot another mocking glance at me. I growled at this. No one was going to look at me that way and get away with it. No freakin’ way!
I launched my knife so I could dig it where his heart was, but then I felt my whole body lunge forward after my knife. I turned around in morbid horror. Stanley was still standing there. He had been completely unaffected by my knife.
I had walked through him.
I was scared now.
“You ain’t real! You’re just some figment of my imagination!”
Stanley smiled, his mutilated skin rising up to his cheekbones as his smile became wider and wider, his skin going higher and higher and higher.
“Can a figment of your imagination do this?”
At that moment, Stanley snatched the knife from my hand, then drove the weapon, like a bullet from a gun, into my left foot.
I howled in pain, as I tried to move my foot. It was impossible. My foot had been completely attached to the floor. I grabbed my leg frantically, my heartbeat racing and my whimpering getting louder and louder.
I looked up at Stanley.
“Please, Stanley, alright? I’m sorry for what I did! I was stupid! I’m stupid! Just don’t kill me please!”
Stanley stopped smiling at that moment, and his expression turned into a heavy frown, once again his mutilated skin pushing together, looking like a messy cherry pie.
“That’s odd, Marlon.” Stanley began. “I do recalling hearing myself shout the very same thing. You didn’t listen, of course. You had to fill your terrible urge to kill me. But now, it’s my turn!”
At that moment, Stanley’s form began to shift...into me! Stanley – Marlon kicked me onto my back, hitting my head against the hard wood. He took a firm hold of my neck and slowly, I felt his two thumbs push against my windpipe, getting tighter and tighter and tighter.
I wasn’t ready to die yet!
With all the strength in my body, I took hold of Stanley’s hair and pulled his head back in absolute fury. I must have been able to grab him since he was in my form. Stanley cried out an inhuman shriek of pain as he backed away towards the ladder of the attic, tripped and went tumbling down onto the second floor.
I rested once more, breathing in a sigh of relief. Leaning forward and gritting my teeth, I yanked the knife from my shoe and pulled myself towards the ladder. I looked down to see Stanley – now in his mutilated body form – lying on the floor. His eyes staring into nothing.
Dead. For good.
Trying my best to ignore the pain from my foot, I managed to get myself down to the second floor, and began to decide what to do with the body but, with my good foot, I launched a mighty kick to his sides, spitting on his face.
“Told ya not to mess with Marlon Kowalski, you big ol’ bastard.”
I pulled Stanley by his arms across the landing, down the stairs, and out into the front yard. There weren’t anybody in sight that would be spying, so I laid the body on the grass. I grimed, staring at the mangled flesh, the visible teeth and sinews in his legs.
Suddenly, his lips opened, speaking in a hoarse and unclear voice this time:
“Marlon....Marlon....they’re coming, Marlon....he may be seeing ya real soon.”
“Stop your bellyaching, Stanley, or I’ll pull your head off this time.”
He didn’t say anything after that. I grinned. He obviously didn’t want to have to go through what I already gave him. Serves him right, breaking into my house and all. I mean, that’s just not right.
Although, I never would have prepared myself any better for what happened after Stanley was gone. It was the biggest mistake any murderer would probably make: standing in the open with a dead body in front of you, and covered in blood too. I turned around to look for a shovel in the basement, at that moment, there was a booming voice:
“Marlon Kowalski! You are surrounded! Put your hands up!”
My body went stiff.
I knew that voice.
I turned around to see ten police officers at the foot of my driveway, pointing so many guns I didn’t even recognise, with red and blue lights flashing into my eyes, I nearly got a migraine from just looking at them.
“Marlon Kowalski,” the sheriff continued, through a megaphone. “Put your hands on the ground where everyone can see them! Right now!”
I was speechless. I had never been caught before. Never! I always stuck to the rules of never getting caught.
“We received your whereabouts from a source that wishes to remain anonymous!”
As I placed my hands on the ground, I turned to the dead body of Stanley. He was smiling.
It couldn’t be possible, could it? Was he this anonymous source!
As the officers cuffed me and shoved me into the police car, I looked back as some cars remained to take care of the body. I couldn’t believe some supernatural ghost would be the key to my demise.
“You clever bastard,’ I muttered to himself. “You clever bastard.”