The Andersons’ house.
The Killer returned shortly before noon and parked in the garage, having spent the night and a good portion of the morning engaged in the tedious labor of covering up last night’s risky venture.
The gas station explosion forced the Killer to work against the response time of the area’s fire department, but also aided with eliminating certain evidence before police arrived and had a chance to collect it. True, only a handful of people could recognize the significance of Penelope Styles’ death and become alerted to the approaching carnage, but kingdoms had crumbled because of such minor oversights.
The Killer destroyed each vehicle in a rainstorm of fuel and flame.
Mutilated all the bodies and cast them into the blaze.
Due to the rural location of the store, the Killer managed to complete some of the work before the firefighters arrived, but most of it secretly took place in their presence, while they battled the flames. It was a painstaking process, operating covertly, avoiding detection, but essential to maintain anonymity. The Killer’s efforts would be rewarded with time. Proper identification of the victims would now take a matter of days, and the Killer only required one or two to complete the final preparations before Mallory’s death.
Tonight, the Killer would assemble the various components at the cemetery, the ones collected from Penelope and the others, then capture Mallory and her family the following evening. The end of five years of agony had finally crept within sight, and the Killer shuddered with anticipation, like a wild dog gnawing through a restraining rope, soon to be free.
Searching through the Andersons’ garage, the Killer collected rope, chain, and tape. Paul Wiess should cooperate nicely when shown his daughter bound and gagged, assisting with the one task the Killer cannot complete alone.
Along the back wall of the room, the Killer located a variety of lawn and garden tools and paused to select a weapon. The Andersons’ firearms remained in the van, but for Mallory’s death, the Killer preferred to use something that cut.
A chainsaw. Tempting, but too noisy.
An ax. Perfect.
The Killer loaded the items into the van then returned to the house to make sure there wasn’t anything else of use.
Someone knocked on the front door.
The Killer halted in the foyer, poised at the foot of the staircase not twelve feet from the sound.
The doorbell rang, followed by a voice. “Mr. Anderson?”
The Killer kept silent.
“Mr. Anderson, it’s Father Kern. I was wondering if we could speak?”
The Holy Man.
Despite the fact that his calls went unanswered, Kern remained on the step.
“I heard you weren’t at mass this morning,” he said in a grave tone. “It pains me to think I’m the reason you were absent.”
The Killer drew closer, moving with caution. A tall rectangular sheet of clouded glass in the center of the door revealed nothing of the priest but a foggy silhouette.
“I assume you’ve heard I’m leaving the church,” he added. “I can understand how hypocritical that might appear in light of what we discussed about belief, faith, and salvation, but please don’t let my own… uncertainties… influence your newfound interest in The Church.”
The Killer paused inches from the door, a hand above the knob.
“I think it would be best if you sought spiritual counsel through one of my colleagues. If you decide to, that is. I’ve already talked to Father Bachman about it. He knows I’ve blessed the house for you, but if you’d like him to perform a second—”
The Killer threw open the door, and Kern snapped his head up in shock. The man’s pupils dilated, his eyes focusing on what loomed in the entryway.
His face paled.
The Killer stared back, peering through ragged holes cut in the scarecrow costume. The dirty burlap face reflected in Kern’s eyes.
“Holy Mary—”
“Mary was mortal,” the Killer said. “If you want the attention of a god, pray to me.”
The Killer seized the priest by his throat and lifted him off his feet, throwing him inside the house. His body crashed through the staircase’s newel post and railing, the noise of cracking wood accompanied by the sound of breaking bones.
Acting before Kern could utter an invocation of his discarded faith, the Killer leapt on the priest’s back and locked an arm around his neck.
The scarecrow mask pressed against Kern’s head, disorderly ranks of teeth brushing his right ear. “Atum has given me my hands.”
The Killer seized a shaft of wood from the shattered staircase railing and rammed it through the priest’s front teeth, shoving it down his throat. Broken incisors clattered on the ground.
“I perform The Opening of the Mouth on this, your mouth, so that you may speak in the Afterlife and praise the one who sent you.”
The Killer yanked the makeshift adze to the floor, tearing Kern’s lower jaw from his skull. The man’s arms flailed in wild arcs. He knocked the straw hat off the Killer’s head and tugged at the burlap mask while an arterial torrent pattered on the hardwood. The rich scent of spilled blood enveloped them like a crimson mist.
Kern’s eyes rolled in their sockets, and the Killer pulled his head back by the hair to gaze down on them, widening the wound. Raising the other arm, the Killer bit into the scarecrow’s glove, ripping it off to expose a hand wrapped in grime-covered rags. Claws jutted from each fingertip like cracked shovel blades of bone.
Kern’s eyes bulged.
“I am the flame which shines upon the Opener of Eternity,” the Killer roared, thrusting the exposed hand into Father Kern’s gaping gullet.
Blood spurted upward around the Killer’s forearm as it slid deeper, claws plunging through the muddy cavern of Kern’s insides, stabbing through the soft flesh to find his beating heart—and yank it free.
The Killer stood, extracting the blood-soaked prize.
Kern’s corpse smacked the floor.
The priest’s heart still pulsed in the Killer’s grip, triggering the welcome rush of energy that always punctuated the conclusion of a kill.
The house fell quiet, impartial to the bloodshed.
Sated, the Killer relaxed, refocusing on the situation.
People had noticed the Andersons’ absence and soon others would question Kern’s whereabouts. The time to leave had come, meaning—
The Killer straightened up and whirled around, tossing Kern’s heart aside. The dead muscle hit the ground and—thunk, thud, thunk—rolled down the hall, leaving bloody ovals on the floorboards.
Through the open front door, the Killer spotted Mallory jogging up the street.
The Killer moved to the doorway, momentarily captivated.
Her vitality. Her energy.
So strong.
Like a star among candle flames.
She ran inside her garage and vanished from sight, but the Killer stared after her, bewitched by the thoughts of her imminent demise. How magnificent it would be. How glorious.
Shaking the spell of enthrallment, the Killer realized the front door still stood open.
The Killer seized the doorknob, quickly searching left and right, making certain no one had seen.
The Wiess house.
Across the street, Mallory’s brother stood at the open front door, staring back, watching wide-eyed.