WHO ARE THEY?

Moments can be terrifying. Even more so when you wait sixty six years for your first moment of terror. The shock hit him like a tidal wave.

The iron fist now showing cracks.

The look he had seen so many times before in the eyes of so many victims. The feelings behind that look had, so suddenly crept into his being.

Blood on the bat. Old and worn.

Less than a second and he knew what they all must have gone through. In the blink of an eye he felt it all. The instance from sleep to wake.

Sleep like the dead. Voices in his head.

Bloodshot eyes stared at the clock that belonged to his cruel mother. His maker.

It read one minute to midnight. His last waking memory had been the time. Two minutes to midnight.

Gasping, clutching his chest, feeling his heart pounding. What would happen in the witching hour? When the clock struck midnight?

Would they come and find him?

Drugs. Someone had drugged him. No, impossible. He had been here. In the secret room. Maintaining his arsenal. Tomorrows job needed guns. Bats and blades would not be enough. If you didn’t have a shooter you might as well save your bus fare.

Scratching. Like nails on a school blackboard. He hated that.

The fat history teacher, he used to do that. He used to enjoy it, until one of his pupils had hit him with a chair. Tom Stone. His first name. How many times had it been changed since then?

Sweat stung his eye as the scratching grew in volume.

“Stop it, I’ll find you and.”

The sentence left unfinished, still hanging in the air. The scratching had changed.

No longer outside, now inside. In his head, grating on his skull.

It was the little things that scared him. What you could not see. What you could not explain. What. You don’t say what you say pardon.

Blood and missing teeth. What happens when you tell someone to say pardon. He still had all his own teeth. But, he made a lot of dentists rich. Did those guys enjoy their work? Did they care how the teeth were lost?

Probably not. It all comes down to money. He wouldn’t have inflicted pain and death for free.

“I know what you did.”

That came from outside, somewhere far off. The scratching in his head was, what was it?

Intense, that’s it. Much more intense. The voice was far away.

“If you know me, leave here. I know you’re playing mind games. Get out while you still can,” he said.

What was wrong with his voice? Nothing really, apart from the fact it sounded different.

“Fear,” a shrill voice whispered.

“What,” he stammered.

“Fear has crept into your voice. Does the sound of your fearful voice sound worse than the scratching in your head?” The shrill voice whispered.

He laughed, but the laugh had lost its confidence. “You’re clever, I’ll give you that. You shook me, but now I’m rolling. I’ll roll right up to your door, believe it.

“The three esses. Stammering, sweat and scratching. Ask yourself what is happening. Go on, ask,” the shrill voice whispered.

“No, you can’t make me,” he screamed as his wild eyes scanned the room.

Laugher filled the room, or was it filling his head? Squashing his psychotic brain.

“Quiet, walls have ears.”

“You’re smart, I’ll give you that. I don’t know how you’re doing this, but you’re doing it well. You shook me up, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m not doing it, its all done. I’ve done it and I’ve succeeded. The doing is done and cannot be undone,” the shrill voice hissed.

Hilarious, the man thought. He wanted to laugh at the last ridiculous statement, but could not find it within himself to do so. The words were cold, the voice creepy. Nothing funny there. A cheap, tacky line straight out of a black and white gangster film.

He shivered as someone walked over his grave, he saw the headstone, lit up by lightning. The word UNKNOWN chiselled into the stone.

He dropped his gun. As it hit the floor something exploded in his head.

Memories of who the gun had killed.

“Not the gun, you, you killed us all. A gun is an instrument, nothing more.”

“You’re crazy. Coming here, in here, bastard. Where I live and doing this. You’re crazy. This is my house. No one gets in without an invitation, no one, you hear. You won’t get, you won’t get out,” the man screamed.

He rubbed his neck. His throat stung, as if he had drunk petrol and smoked immediately after.

He wasn’t speaking with his own voice. His voice was deep and booming. Confidant and scary. Not like the voice his trained ears had just heard.

“Listen to you’re voice and hear what you have lost. The plot, old friend the plot. The whole damn plantation, gone in the blink of an eye. The ball ain’t in your court no more. This sure ain’t cricket. You got no balls. You missed the bus and its raining,” the shrill voice hissed.

“My house, my words. You damn fool. Get out before you die,” he stammered.

“Make me leave. Pick up your trusty sidearm and shoot me down, like a mangy dog. Blow me away with the old peacemaker.”

He reached down for his gun, trembling hands scrambling on the dusty floor, desperately trying to grab his 45. The voice came from a mouth and the owner of the big mouth would soon make himself known. The gun found his hand and he gripped it, finger on the trigger. It was primed and loaded, fully serviced and ready to end life.

Then he would die, painfully. Blow his guts out and watch him die. Two bullets in the guts is brutal and it never fails. 100% success rate.

“Your time is running low. Either run or face me, if you dare,” he hissed.

Speaking was difficult. Moving becoming impossible. Rooted to the spot with fear.

“The brain. Always put one in the brain. Two in the guts and the poor bastard can survive. He might creep up on you one day, and BOOM.”

He leapt up, sending the chair crashing to the floor.

“Your seconds are numbered. You and your silly voice. Believe it.”

“Do it now. KILL ME YOU SHIT.”

An apparition vaporised before him, as if from nowhere. A hideous contorted face, full of fear, anger and death. The face of a deranged lunatic, it’s rancid breath stinging his eyes and draining his spirit.

The apparition stared at him, full of hate and anger. Eyes unblinking, stare unwavering. Long grey hair falling across it’s face.

As he raised the gun he pushed his own hair out of his gaunt features. He shoved the gun into the mouth of his enemy. The apparition did not move, it did not struggle.

It simply stood, staring him down.

As he pulled the trigger he felt the muzzle flash sting his tongue.

As the bullet tore through his brain one last thought entered his mind.

Developing a conscience is a terrible thing. A curse to a killer.