CHAPTER 13

Ackerman wandered in darkness for a couple of hours. He loved the dark. It made him feel at peace.

Eventually, he came upon a quaint, little house at the end of a long dirt lane. The dwelling wasn’t nearly as beautiful and inviting as the home of Maureen Hill, but he was certain that the inhabitants would prove to be just as accommodating. He hoped that his visit would be as significant of an event in their lives as it had been in Maureen’s.

Old aluminum siding, yellowed and cracking, covered the ranch-style home. The wooden soffetting and fascia sagged in several spots, leaving open fissures. A dusty green El Camino that appeared to be on its last legs sat in the driveway, and a swing set rested in the sparse vegetation of the yard.

He could tell that this family didn’t have a lot of money, but such things didn’t matter to him. Black or white, rich or poor—he was an equal opportunity killer.

Moving with purpose, he stalked through the front yard and past the inviting front porch like a lion creeping through the tall grass. The hunger was upon him now. He felt that, if he didn’t appease it soon, it would devour him from the inside out.

He often felt like a man trapped in a well but dying of thirst. He felt cursed by the fates to wander the world, trying to propitiate a thirst that could never be quenched and satisfy a hunger that would never diminish. He sometimes compared his own situation to the fates that the Greek gods bestowed upon the likes of Tantalus and Prometheus, destined to spend eternity in torment. He felt trapped in a world in which he would never belong, surrounded by people whom he hated with a voracity that he could not truly explain. Maybe some part of him sought an end to all of the death and madness, but the unrelenting urge to kill eclipsed any misgivings.

He crept around the house and into the backyard, where he could see a light shining from one of the home’s windows. Despite his unrelenting urges, he continued with calculated and silent movements.

He had honed his capabilities for stealth, learning to control his hunger—at least enough to facilitate the necessary caution.

He peered into the window and saw a beautiful, young woman in her late twenties, washing dishes in her kitchen sink. Her dark brown hair was tousled, and although it was tied in a ponytail, untamed strands flowed down her cheeks. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t place the vague familiarity. She wore a light-blue tank top and a pair of dirty blue jeans. She looked exhausted as she toiled over the menial chore. Her eyes were a lovely shade of green, but the dark circles that had taken up residence beneath them overshadowed their brilliance.

He wondered what poor job choice or unfortunate circumstance had cultivated the dark patches under her lovely eyes. Was she a waitress? A factory worker? A single mom, or was there a man in the house? Was an unfaithful husband the source of her stress, or did her worry stem from guilt over her own infidelities? Maybe the dark areas could be contributed to a simple lack of sleep? There were a million different possibilities, but he would never learn the real cause. And that disturbed him.

He watched and soaked her in. He found himself intoxicated by her. An urge to hold her, to love her, overwhelmed him. He wanted to pull her close and whisper that everything was going to be alright. He was strong. He could protect her. He could give her all that she lacked.

Ackerman had always dreamt of loving someone. Other than the distant memory of his mother, he had never truly experienced love. He had never loved and had never been loved in return. He wondered whether it would be possible to walk away from his life and start over as a normal person.

I wonder if she would come if I asked her to run away with me?

You’re not worthy of love.

Shut up. I can be better than this.

You’re a monster. You can’t deny what you are.

He clenched his eyes shut and pressed his hands into his temples, but he couldn’t shut out his father’s voice.

We’re going to play a little game, Francis.

No, I don’t wanna play anymore. I want the game to be over.

Kill her, and the pain will stop.

But he knew the pain wouldn’t stop. It never did.

He thought back on the first time he had killed. His father had started him small. Ackerman Sr. had captured an alley cat for use in his little experiment. He ordered his son to murder the animal, but the boy didn’t want to kill it. When he refused…

Ackerman unconsciously ran his hands over the scar tissue on his arms.

Kill her, and the pain will stop.

But no matter what he did, no matter what he killed, his father never let the pain stop.

He lowered his hands and wiped the tears from his eyes. Even if she did run away with him, he knew that he would never truly be normal. He was beyond any kind of redemption, whether he wanted it or not. He couldn’t change his fate any more than he could stop the world from turning or make the sun grow cold. His thirst for suffering would always be too strong.

As he continued to watch her, he thought about all the paths that would never be open to him and of all the wonderful things that he would never experience. Such thoughts filled him with fury. The red shroud of rage fell over him, and the woman in the window ceased to epitomize all the good that could have been. Instead, she represented all that had been stolen from him and all that he would never know.

He hated her beyond reason. He hated them all, and he would take from them what had been taken from him long ago. He would take their lives.