Chasing Them Down: Day 14

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Alphonse Bertillon (French, 1853–1914) [Album of Paris Crime Scenes], 1901–8 Gelatin silver prints; Overall: 24.3 x 31cm (9 9/16 x 12 3/16in.) Page: 23 x 29 cm (9 1/16 x 11 7/16 in.) The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gilman Collection, Purchase, The Howard Gilman Foundation Gift, 2001 (2001.483.1-.172) http://www.metmuseum.org/Collections/search-the-collections/284718

He died hard.

I found him in Boston, hiding in a Catholic rectory. What he had done with the priest or anyone else in the house, I could only guess.

I waited until nightfall, and when I broke into the house, I could hear him in a bedroom, raging against the inequities of life. I think he was arguing with god, and it was a decidedly one-way conversation.

Pastor Davies was pounding on the wall, his voice rising and falling. Occasionally he would scream or weep.

When I reached the door to the bedroom, I stood outside and listened, curious as to what he was upset about.

For about five minutes, I was able to stand the drivel coming out of his foul mouth.

He complained about god forcing him to kill his son, and to stab the women. He raged about having to kill Emily Anne and screeched about the incompetency of the Martin brothers and their kin.

When he paused for breath, I knocked on the door.

He went silent, and I kicked the door in.

The man stood naked in the center of the room, his eyes wild. On the bed to my right was a pistol and a knife, and I gestured for him to go after them.

He refused. The Pastor started to speak, a sympathetic tone to his voice. I ignored his words, though. Blocked them out.

I closed the door behind me and locked it. The man’s voice rose and fell. The tempo of his speech increased, and I smiled.

His eyes widened, and he closed his mouth.

“You killed your son,” I told him. “You strangled him.”

He shook his head and backed towards the window. I took a single step forward, and he turned and ran.

He didn’t make it.

I caught him by his hair and pulled him back. I broke both his knees, and when he collapsed to the floor, I ground his testicles beneath the heel of my boot.

As he writhed around, I took off my Colt and my knife, set them aside, and then I knelt down over the man. Smiling, I cracked each knuckle on my fingers, leaned forward, and wrapped my hands around his throat.

It was ten o’clock when I started strangling him, but he didn’t die until just before dawn.

I made it last.

#horror #monsters #supernatural #death

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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