Read The Story?
Her foot hit a deeper puddle of mud and slid out from under her. With a painful thud she hit the ground, gasping for breath. Her blood thundered in her ears as she drew coarse, rasping breaths and tried to stand. A noise came from behind her and she glanced around furtively. From the distance came the sound of dogs and shouting. With a sudden surge of energy the woman took off again and she was running once more. Her breath was coming harder now, her legs trembling with fatigue, and the pack on her back seemed impossibly heavy .
The industrial estate was huge and deserted, its few lights fighting hopelessly against the dark, making pitiful reflections on the ground. She was covered in mud now, and frozen to the bone. If she didn't find somewhere safe to hide she'd surely collapse with exhaustion. This was all his fault, she thought vaguely as the sound of her blood pumping and her feet pounding filled her head. If he hadn't left her...
The wind caught the sounds of those behind her. They were very close now. Too close.
Return to the Table of Contents
Read The Story?
"James Woodlands. How do you do?"
I stared at his hand for a moment, then shook it a trifle half-heartedly.
"Do you know", he said, sidling up conspiratorially, "you're the first guard (I can't stand the word 'screw' - so unpleasant), who's shown me the decency of shaking my hand. You're obviously a man of good breeding. We'll get along very well, I think!" Bemused, and feeling like I had just met a new employer (which in a way, he was) rather than a prison inmate, I herded Woodlands into his cell. This curious incident occurred three weeks before George was killed, before I was fired.
I'm writing this account of events to put the record straight, but I don't suppose it will make much difference in the end. After all, at the investigation Woodlands' file disappeared and was never seen again. However, fortune was for once with me as during the three weeks Woodlands was in my care I copied his file, at risk of severe disciplinary action, in order to read it. He was - is - a fascinating man, and it was unfortunate that due to the illegal method by which I came into possession of the file that it could not be brought forth to exonerate me. However, the past is the past and my situation would be of little interest to anyone who came to read this, so on with the case of James Woodlands.
The murderer's file contained copies of his diary manuscripts, some of which I have reproduced, verbatim, in these pages. The details of the murders have been compiled from both his diary and police reports gathered since my dismissal. Perhaps I should start by describing what was known about James Woodlands, the man, before he became a killer.
Return to the Table of Contents
Read The Story?
Forgive me, I digress. For me, time is a particularly finite resource and speed is crucial. The point I am trying to make is that this apparently harmless spider was accused of murder and summarily put to death due to circumstantial evidence. Like myself.
I say that because I, too, am to be executed for crimes I
didn't commit. My name is John Harcourt - perhaps you've
read about me in the newspaper, or seen the shamefully biased
reports of me on television. Until two months ago I was an
anonymous school teacher, unmarried, approaching middle-age
(as my increasing gut and decreasing hair will testify),
living in a modest flat in an equally modest suburb of this
city. That was until I met Frank, bought a bed, and watched
helplessly as my life destroyed itself around me.
Return to the Table of Contents
Read The Story?
"Old lady inspiration has had enough of my working nights and drinking too much and has packed up the kids and gone home to mother," Peter murmured ruefully to no-one in particular, and smiled. Dawn had just began to slip its fingers through the shutters on the window of his upstairs studio, signalling that it was time for Peter to try to get some sleep. He lay down, slipped off his shoes and waited for sleep to overtake his racing mind. After an hour of laying awake, he turned and irritably picked up the book he was reading. Perhaps that would settle his mind and help him sleep, he thought.
Several hours later, Peter was jolted from his sleep to discover he'd dozed off with the book in his hand. Smiling to himself he put the book down and went to turn over, when he heard a sound. It seemed to be a light tapping noise, and it came from the corner where his computer sat, its monitor dark. He rolled over and sat up, straining to hear the noise. Nothing. He was about to lay down again when the noise came again, louder and more regular this time. He stood up and moved cautiously over to his computer, moving his head this way and that to try to identify the source of the noise.
As he bent over the keyboard, movement caught his eye and he jumped back. Peter rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The keys on the keyboard were going up and down in rhythmical sequence, and he watched, fascinated, as the keys spelled out words. He always left his computer on, but turned the monitor off each day. Tentatively he reached forward and pushed the monitor power switch. The screen leapt to life, revealing a page of typing. Sitting down at the keyboard, Peter began to read. WRITER'S BLOCK the title read. BY PETER TOLLER. Peter had to read quickly to keep up with the speed of the keyboard's tapping. As he read, Peter became more and more excited. It was good! Whatever this thing was that was happening, whatever strange demonic event or dream he was involved in, the writing was good.
Return to the Table of Contents
Read The Story?
Receiving no answer, he pushed the door with one elbow and it promptly swung open to reveal an attractive foyer. Robert moved in, glancing around for any sign of life. Even though the university term started the following day, Bradman Hall seemed deserted. Adjoining the foyer was what appeared to be a noticeboard and mail room, with rows of pigeon holes bearing the name of each student and tutor.
With a tired sigh, Rob dropped his luggage, shook the rain from his clothes and moved closer to the noticeboard above the mail boxes. There were photos of each years residents - fresh, young faces full of excitement and promise. He paused for a moment, and swung around to check the noticeboard on the opposite wall, but turned back again, puzzled. The photo of the previous year was missing, which was strange, particularly as the dates on the existing photos indicated that they had been taken at the start of each year. And where were all the students?
------------------------------
As Robert approached, his footsteps all but hidden by the sound of the crackling incinerator, he opened his mouth to greet the other man when his eye was caught by something within the incinerator. As the tutor reached up and pulled the sprung door open, Robert saw a pile of dirty white objects in the flames, and jumped back in shock as he realised what they were. Stumbling backwards he knocked against a pile of empty bins, sending them flying noisily in all directions. The man at the incinerator spun round, startled by the noise, and as he turned, the sunlight caught the colour in his eyes and they flashed brilliant blue. The tutor turned his eyes, now deep brown, to Robert's face, and they narrowed suspiciously. With a clang, the tutor let the door of the incinerator go, and stood motionlessly watching Robert, who lay panting slightly amidst the tumbled bins, his own collection of rubbish now scattered around him.
Return to the Table of Contents
Read The Story?
Joey Graham was seven years old and had always loved trains. He spent hours playing next to the train tracks which ran behind his parents small house, and was always getting into strife for it. His mother would scream and yell at him to get off those damn rails. Joey hated it when his mother used those bad words at him. He didn't often step onto the rails themselves, anyway - he kept for the most part to the gravelly edges of the tracks, where the best stones could be collected, and he could play 'jungle' in the weeds overhanging the trainline.
The whispers became louder, and Joey could just make out the sound of his own name.
"Hello?" he asked tentatively, kneeling down to get closer to the sound. At his voice the whispers abruptly stopped, and Joey put his ear to the gravel between the sleepers, straining to hear, his mind full of images of fairies and gremlins he'd heard about at school, the things his mother told him were 'rubbish'. The sounds of the traffic on the nearby road, a dog barking and the twittering of the birds seemed to fade as Joey concentrated on listening for the whispers. They came again, low and soothing, a mixture of children and adults, persuasive and friendly, and he lay down on the tracks, stretching out to get his ear as close to the ground as he could.
Return to the Table of Contents
Read The Story?
"I'm six and a half. I'm in the second grade at Lincoln School."
"You told me you came here for information. Is it that you are trying to find some one?"
With a serious nod, the boy spoke firmly, "Yes, I came here to find God. When I asked my Aunt Martha where I could find God she told me to ask in a church. That's why I'm here." He raised his small face. "Do you know where I can find God?"
The priest had never been asked this question; he assumed everyone knew the answer. Wasn't that why this edifice was here--why he was here? Yet, he hesitated because he found it difficult to give this child an answer. Finally, he said, "Dan, God is all around us, he is everywhere. This church is the house of God."
The small boy looked skeptical. "Sir, how can that be? There are so many churches in Hastings, can they all be God's home? Maybe God could have a couple of houses, but why so many? If this is God's house, why are there so many other churches? What are they for?"
Roul thought it was time to change the topic of conversation. This six year old was working him into a corner and he saw no way out. He said, "Tell you what, Dan. I feel like a cup of hot cocoa, how about you? We have some in the ladies kitchen." A cup of hot cocoa was welcome, and Dan rose to follow the priest into a side kitchen. He felt more comfortable in the homey atmosphere. When he took a seat at the long table the boy looked over at the church man putting two cups of milk in the microwave.
"Sir, I must find God. It is very important."
The priest stirred a heaping teaspoon of instant chocolate into each cup and brought them to the table, thinking of the boy's insistence. "Drink this, Dan, and you'll feel better. You must remember God is very busy, he has an entire world to keep his eye on, not just Hastings."
"Thank you, sir. Then, God doesn't really live here?"
"He does. This is God's house and we represent God here."
Again the skeptical expression on the young face as he asked, "Why do you say 'he'? Is God a man?"
A question which might might have been asked at Sunday school. Gomez tried to recall if it had even been asked of him. He did his best. "He is not a mortal man, but........
Return to the Table of Contents
Read
The Story?
The other small horses were in their open stalls munching on the hay. Most of them were about three feet in height with the exact confirmations of a larger horse. These were a special breed from England and the Willis's had only the best, it was a business for them. She heard a whinny from the back of the barn and George grinned at her. "Monica, your little friend, the Emperor, is calling for you."
When Monica stood before the end stall the small, black horse pranced and danced around in circles. He shook his black, white tipped mane and his bushy tail stood up proudly. She smiled with pleasure at the stately, little horse, saying, "I'm happy to see you, too, my handsome Emperor."
At the sound of the girl's voice the little stallion tossed his head and his upper lip curled back over his strong teeth in a grin. Monica reached over the rail to pat the horse's head and beside her she head Gary say to his father, "Dad, if Marcus is going to service the mares we better have Monica over here. He sure don't show any interest otherwise."........
Return to the Table of Contents
Read
The Story?
Doctor Kinsell wiped his gloved hands on a tissue before his stripped the disposable covers from his capable surgeon's hands. He always disliked the way the gloves made his hands feel clammy, and he was about to wipe them on his smock when he saw the bloody residue from the liver. He took a tissue instead. Looking down at the purplish liver, that nearly covered the glass plate, through his prescription glasses, gave Kinsell a warm feeling--a sense of accomplishment. This operation wasn't novel for him, he had removed many livers for diagnosis and transplant purposes, but he had taken special care with this one.
His eyes roved over the freshly removed organ... Yes, it was perfect, almost virginal. Only seventeen years old and not yet abused by the poisons of alcohol, drugs, and the contaminants of the polluted atmosphere. This would go in with the others in his private cache, the heart, the lungs, the perfect stomach. All he lacked were ideal kidneys--perhaps the most important organs of all, for he must have a mature pair, yet without contamination.
Thinking of this reminded him he must get the liver and spleen into the rapid freeze unit immediately. The big cabinet was ready, but Kinsell was not thoroughly familiar with it. Damn, he wished Miss Tompkins was here to help him, it was so awkward to work alone. He purposely had not requested the experienced surgical nurse's assistance because this cadaver had no organ transplant authorization. Kinsell had altered the records to show that it had and Miss Tompkins would have surely discovered this. He had risked having her assist him in some of the other operations and this may have been a mistake because he felt she had become suspicious of the stomach removal from the eighteen year old female cadaver.
Read
The Story?
"George!"
The call brought him back slowly, replacing the long sandy beach and the gently waving palm trees that his mind had seen through the window, with the bare branches of the familiar old elm tree. Stripped of it's leaves weeks ago, those branches now were capped with strips of white, the wet clinging snow of last night's storm.
Reluctantly he answered, "Yes, Liz". Tempted, he almost used the name he sometimes called her in his mind. She hated it when someone called her "Lizzie", said it reminded her of Henry Ford's old car, the Tin Lizzie, and she wasn't amused. He had other pet names for her, some of which she liked but he didn't feel like using any one of them today.
Read
The Story?
Return to the Table of Contents
Read
The Story?