For
Every Sinner
John Whitehouse
Marlon stands in the sullen glow
of the lamp post’s light. The park is the ideal place for what he’s about to
do. Its twisting paths, not to mention the abundance of shrubbery, create a
sense of seclusion, especially at night.
Marlon tenses. Someone is
approaching. He conceals himself in some bushes and watches as a woman emerges
from the darkness, entering the dim circle of glow. She’s walking her dog, a
small terrier-like thing. Apart from her the path is deserted.
Marlon feels the familiar jolt
of excitement. Hands shooting from his pockets, he springs from the bushes.
Within seconds, the piano wire – whose ends are covered in plastic – is wrapped
around the woman’s neck. Marlon can feel the wire sink into flesh as he pulls
it tight.
There’s not much chance for the
woman to fight back. Her hands claw aimlessly at her neck, desperately trying
to get at the wire while it sinks deeper and deeper into the tissue. Apart from
Marlon, there’s no-one around to hear her raspy, gurgling gasps.
Marlon stares at the woman’s now
lifeless body, sprawled at his feet. Once again he’s filled with a savage
exhilaration. He shoves the piano wire back into his pocket and hurries away
along the path.
Leaving the park, he makes his
way along the street to his car, which is parked nearby. His blood’s still
tingling as he climbs in and drives off. He’s crossing an intersection when a
truck jumps a red light and ploughs straight into him.
It’s a hot and sultry night.
Music spills out of clubs and bars. Marlon’s standing on a crowded sidewalk
wearing jeans and a loose fitting shirt. The last thing he remembers is the
truck, then blackness rolling over him. Where is he? What’s happening? His mind
spins with utter confusion.
His gaze fixes on a girl leaving
a bar alone. She’s in her twenties, slim with peroxide hair, wearing a short denim
jacket and skirt. She makes her way drunkenly along the street and, as if
compelled by some invisible force, Marlon follows. About a block further on she
halts outside the door to an apartment block. Marlon is standing just a few
feet behind her. His memory prickles. There’s something familiar about this
scene.
The girl pushes her key into the
lock, opens the door and steps over the threshold. Marlon casts furtive glances
to left and right and, before the girl can close the door, he rushes forward
and shoves her inside. He slams the door behind him. He can’t stop himself. His
hands are round her throat, crushing, squeezing. He lets go and the girl’s
lifeless body crumples to the floor.
The scene fades, and now he’s
standing on the edge of some waste ground, dusk thickening about him, the
grinding throb of traffic nearby. A woman is walking across it, a shortcut on
her way home from work. She’s in her thirties, dark hair fluttering about her
head in a light breeze. She’s wearing a business suit, dark blue jacket and slacks,
and carrying a leather purse. Marlon glances about him but there’s no-one else
around.
As the woman nears the mouth of
an alley Marlon sets off toward her at a trot, once again compelled by some
unknown force. When he reaches her he grabs her and pulls her into the alley.
She tries to scream but the rope is already around her neck. This, too, seems
familiar.
The truth rushes in on him.
These were his first two kills. With a sickening lurch of understanding, he
realizes. He’s never believed in the afterlife but it’s true, nonetheless.
Whatever misdeeds a person perpetrates in their earthly life, they’re doomed to
keep repeating them in the hereafter. No scorching flames. No devil with horns
and trident. For every sinner, his own private hell.
Now Marlon is standing on a
deserted beach, the rising sun making a golden dazzle across the sea. A woman
wearing shorts and t-shirt appears, jogging along the sand. Marlon sets off
toward her. He’ll keep on killing again and again and again …
I
enjoy writing in various genres, including fantasy, horror, mystery and
suspense. To date my work has appeared in print publications, both in the UK
and US, and also on the internet.
