Slave Quarters

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The Slave Quarters (FINAL CHAPTER): Chapter 22 – Back to Work

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 30, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

Before Agent Cloud Beaudry can close the book on the Slave Quarter case, there’s one last objective, which brings him to the scenic city of Savannah, Georgia. You see…Cloud is one of those rare individuals who takes his vows very seriously. Even if it was a promise made to a ghost.

Chapter 22 - Back to Work

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 22 – Back to Work
By Rock Kitaro

The coastal city of Savannah should be called the City of Spanish moss. There are giant oak trees at every turn and the aged moss hangs like garland throughout the year. It’s the oldest city in Georgia, a history replete with tales of the Civil War, colonial pirates, and remnants of the grand Old South.

Its college town atmosphere reminds me of Athens, except it has more character reminiscent of antebellum class and sophistication. Horse-drawn carriages are one of the key stables for tourism. The many churches, statues, monuments, and Victorian age street lights…it makes the city a time capsule by which one could escape from the modern world. Liberal Arts is huge in the area. Even on a crisp Thursday afternoon, one could hear a distinct cello or some classical string arrangement carrying with the wind.

It’s not my first time to Savannah. To date, I’ve solved three cases here. The last one involved the disappearance of a teacher who was so fascinated with the pirate folklore that she managed to get herself trapped in an old dungeon. By the time I found her, the rats had stripped her to the bone. The graphic image has scarred my mind and ever since, I’ve dreaded the idea of coming back. Between Savannah, Charleston, and New Orleans…the ghosts really are the worst.

Thankfully, I’m not here on official business. I moseyed on down after stopping by Augusta to testify at Det. Griffin’s Internal Affairs hearing. It’s been one whole week since I helped solve the Slave Quarter mystery. Det. Griffin was still a mess but my guilt no longer held me down. Griffin will probably spend the next three years in and out of the psych ward. And here I am indulging on a decadent dish of shrimp and grits at a highly recommended kitchen near Hutchinson Island.

It’s a satisfying meal. My belly is full and my schedule is clear for the rest of the afternoon. So as per usual, I seek out aesthetic beauty in the form of quaint scenic parks where I’m least likely to find horrible humans beings. Notice how I said “horrible”. I don’t mind the company of other humans so long as they’re good and decent. It’s been my experience that horrible human beings don’t bask in nature’s glory. If they do, it’s rare and brief.

The golden sun glistens through the browning crowns of Reynolds Square. The blue jays and robins are tweeting their lovely tunes as they bathed in the jade waters of a trickling green fountain. I’m wearing khakis and a cream-colored sweater vest over my shirt and tie. The cool breeze and a soothing scent of jasmine makes me feel lighter than a feather.

Indie Rock plays in my earbuds as I stroll the park on a grass stained walkway of maroon colored bricks. My mood is so chill, so cool. That rare sensation of “be free” enters my bloodstream causing my hands to wave along with the groove of the guitar. My shoulders bounce along with the beat. I don’t care who sees me, it’s all good. It’s all gravy. Dog walkers and joggers smile as they pass by. Single mothers are checking me out. I smile and nod to everyone. These are good people. It’s a good day.

I should be heading back to Atlanta. I have to work in the morning. Apparently Jessica and Leanne picked up a gangland murder that threatens to break the stability of Atlanta’s most prominent mob family. It wasn’t my case, and yet, for some stupid reason I feel responsible for those women. Call me chauvinistic if you want, I don’t care. They are my women and I protect my women. Yes, it’s this old-fashion obligation that compels to make one final stop before getting back on I-16. When a man makes a promise, he follows through. It’s just one of those things.

So here I go.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 21 – Warmth (Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 23, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud and Jessica attend the heartwarming wake of KeNedra Thompson. Here, Cloud finally releases the floodgates of so much emotion. He receives comfort from KeNedra’s mother and in return…Cloud is able to give her something from KeNedra.

Chapter 21 - Warmth

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 21 – Warmth
By Rock Kitaro

– Mika “Happy Ending”

There are things about African Americans that I can’t help but find truly endearing. For starters, there’s the gospel music, a genre that’s been stuck in my head for the past few days. I hope Miranda’s burning a CD for me when I get back.

But also…when it comes to church congregations, the unity, warmth and acceptance. It’s in times of tragedy or celebration that these people really know how to put aside their differences and treat one another as family. Everyone is a brother or sister, momma or pops. You feel loved. You feel supported. Even the few Caucasians are embraced and welcomed with warmth.

I wish this sentiment could carry on every day. I wish strangers, pedestrians, and passengers could see one another in the same light regardless the circumstance. I wish they’d put down their phones and look each other in the eye; say hello, smile and don’t be afraid to step out of their bubble. Don’t be afraid to introduce yourself. Talk to someone. Learn something new. The world is too big to confine yourself to one ideal, one culture. As long as your faith is strong, there’s nothing to fear and you’ll never be offended.

Some people slight the south, calling it “the Bible Belt” as if that’s a bad thing. In my opinion, it’s the “Bible thumpers,” those who embrace the “God first” mentality, those are the people I’d want to surround myself with. These people have an optimism I severely lack. Theirs is a pure beauty that shines through my gloom and melancholy. They have an ability that, to me, seems almost superhuman in the sense that I find it impossible to ever emulate.

That ability…is forgiveness.

The wake of KeNedra Thompson takes place at the Goshen Heights Community Center. It’s a huge turnout. KeNedra’s classmates, friends, relatives, and various figures from the majorette community have come to bid farewell. The parking lot is packed with vehicles having to park curbside along the streets of the neighboring houses.

The golden lawn of browning grass is garnished with sprinkled red leaves. The maples themselves still have plenty of foliage in their vibrant crowns as the morning sun trickles through the canopy. It’s brisk but warm enough for people to leave their heavy coats in the car. Thus, everyone is donning their Sunday’s best, black if they had it.

Leanne elects to stay in the rental while Jessica accompanies me to the front entrance. We’re dressed corporate but don’t intend to stay long. Her beauty and my bruises draw unwanted attention yet, oddly enough, I’m not nervous. In fact, I’ve found that when I’m attending public events with a purpose that transcends the sole act of socializing, I function much better. My agoraphobia remains subdued. My heart remains stout. The bouquet of yellow roses in my arms serves as my olive branch.

The reception lobby’s loud and congested. It’s a wake, sure, but there are so many reunions going on. Jessica hooks onto my arm as I see “brothas” checking her out. I smirk and nod their way. They nod back as if to congratulate and say, “Aight, now. Gah head.”

Two girls wave at me. I reciprocate, marveling at their charm, their modest attire providing a glimpse of the mature women they’ll one day become. It’s Jacqui and Meghan, the two prominent members from KeNedra’s majorette team. They’re surrounded by friends from other teams, all high school students, glowing with blooming youth and promise.

Like the guys, the girls seem surprised to see Jessica with me. I know she’s out of my league, but I confess, my ego starts to swell as Jessica squints with a playful glare as if I’ve forgotten the majorettes are all minors. I whisper if she’s jealous. She responds by merely jutting her chin and batting those long lashes.

Nearing the banquet hall, I spot two familiar faces dressed in sharp purple vests over their black attire. They have to do a double-take to recognize me with the patch under my eye and the queen by my side. Immediately, the brothers erupt with laughter and disbelief as their friends stand puzzled.

“Dayyum!”

“What in the hell happened to you?!”

“This man stay in trouble, boi. Shieet! Hahaha!”

“For real, though. Is there ever a fight you’re not involved in?”

“Straight up! Can’t take this dude nowhere.”

“You know what? Shut up, both of you,” I chuckle.

Jessica releases to let me embrace the brothers in that awkward hand-clap pull-hug technique that I never truly mastered.

“Bruh! You really need to learn how to fight or something!” says O’Shea.

“Forgive me, but I do seem to recall slinging one of you over a sofa set.”

Jamar laughs, clapping his hands as their young friends turn wide-eyed in shock. Apparently O’Shea is known for his prowess and the fact that this here white boy bested him is somewhat hilarious.

“Ah, man! I wasn’t even ready. You came out of nowhere with that kung fu shit. I got you back though! Look at his face. Hey! Look at his face.” O’Shea brags.

“Yeah. You got me back.”

“Anyways! Who dis?” Jamar asks.

“Yeah, Cloud. Who am I?” Jessica asks, flustered to just be standing there in awkward silence.

“I’m sorry. This is one of my best friends and colleagues, Agent Jessica Arroyo. Her expertise was pivotal in solving the case. She used to work for the FBI so, yeah. Best watch your back.”

“Okay! Okay! I’m Jamar Thompson aka JT Smooth. This my little brother O’Shea aka O’Sssh!”

O’Shea tries to give Jessica a hug but Jessica juts her hand like a spear, preventing him from coming too close. The disappointment on O’Shea’s face is priceless.

“You’ll have to excuse their profanity, Jessica. I assure you, I have been working with them about that.”

“Um. Profanity is just an expression by which we add emphasis. Can’t help it if society wants to demonize the practice.” Jamar explains.

“Well said.” Jessica compliments.

“No! Jessica, please. For the love of God do not encourage it.”

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 19 – Flickering Lights (Horror Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 9, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud Beaudry casts judgment on the Slave Quarter Killer. Maggie is unleashed. (warning, graphic content)

Chapter 19 - Flickering Lights 3

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 19 – Flickering Lights
By Rock Kitaro

There’s something about an individual who isn’t afraid to admit his mistakes that warrants my respect. I prefer someone like that over those who hide their flaws yet presume to openly criticize the faults others, forgetting that we are all imperfect. We are all marred by error. That is to be human. No one is without sin. Especially me.

I admit it.

Bigots beget bigots and the accusers of hypocrisy are often the biggest hypocrites. To accuse another man of being too judgmental would in turn make me judgmental. I’m aware of this. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one.

The thing about today’s society that drives me wild is the implied expression of what is and isn’t acceptable. If a man slips up and makes an offensive comment, it could spell the end of his career. One sentence is all it takes. Demons behind computer screens will dig into the wounds and rip it open all in the name of justice. They call it social justice.

I don’t condone racism. I deplore it. In fact, I’m quite sure I’ll never understand it. But in this day and age, what seems more prevalent than racism is the backwards ass standards by which other flaws are swept under the rug. The glorification of sex, rudeness, and riches runs rampant. Despicable bullies now use their self-proclaimed victimhood to silence those they disagree with. They walk about with their heads held high, as if hurt feelings aggrandized them moral authority. At some point…all of this has become acceptable.

Shameless is confidence. Ambition is blurred with greed. Protesters embark for the sake of bringing purpose to their own meaningless existence. And those who simply just want to live their lives on the fields of neutrality are guilted into wars they never wanted to fight.

It’s not out of hate that I mention these things. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t waste my breath. I love you but I have no place amongst you. That doesn’t make me cool. It doesn’t mean I’m better. In fact, it’s lonely. I wouldn’t want anyone to have to walk a mile in my shoes. But it is what it is. I am a man from the outside looking in. The guy on the hill overlooking the fog infested city, the one in the bell tower weeping over debauchery below.

That’s me. Cloud Beaudry, the walking contradiction. The man who sees the unseen, who hears secrets from grave. I know at some point I’ll be judged by the same measure. But quite frankly, if one were to peer into my soul right now they’d see over a hundred middle fingers raised in defiance.

This is my creed, my manifesto, if ever I’m caught and made to be held accountable for my actions on this day. Everyone remembers the killers. No one remembers the victims. I’m about to change all that. I’m sorry Det. Mark Griffin. I’m sure you think I’m like everyone else in assuming you’re cool or something to aspire to. But I’m not. I find you detestable. I’m here to hand down your sentence.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 18 – This Isn’t Over (Detective Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 2, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

They’ve caught their man. Cloud Beaudry risked his life and got his ass kicked in the process, but he isn’t the hero everyone’s propping up on their shoulders. Det. Griffin is taking credit. Det. Griffin is the man of the hour. Det. Griffin needs to be dealt with.

Chapter 18 - This Isn't Over

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 18 – This Isn’t Over
By Rock Kitaro

Det. Griffin is the man of the hour. Dressed sharp in his black overcoat, Griffin is met by thunderous applause as he parades a traumatized Calvin Chalmers through the 3rd floor bullpen. Detectives, deputies, and sergeants alike stand with adulation, thankful and relieved that the storm battering their withered department will soon dissipate. And of course, perhaps no one is more grateful than the police chief himself.

“Breaking News” scrolled on the lower third of every major network. The police chief was preparing to make an official announcement at the eleven o’clock broadcast. No doubt, it must have been how Obama felt when Bin Laden was killed. Because at long last, the police chief was ready to announce that the “Slave Quarter Killer” has been captured.

Calvin Chalmers was severely beaten. His jaw was popped back into place, but other than that, the police didn’t bother with his broken ribs or the cuts and bruises swelling over that baby face of his. After Calvin refused to say another word without his attorney, Griffin locked him in a holding cell down in the basement. It was the same holding cell Jamar and O’Shea was kept in earlier in the day. Cell 1-A, the one closest to the entrance and directly in view of the camera so Calvin was supervised attentively.

Turns out, the paranoid Leanne logged into a computer to track the GPS on her phone, the phone she left in the rental car. Once they found out I was at the slave quarters, she, Jessica, and Griffin hauled ass. I guess I should be thank…No. I’m not thankful. If I wasn’t distracted by Griffin’s obnoxious LED headlights I would’ve seen Calvin scooping up the dirt that he threw in my face. I suppose the only thing I am thankful for is the confession recorded on my phone. Better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

Jessica and Leanne briefed the police chief with the details of the evening. Jason Hicks was taken as a material witness. Since I couldn’t give up how Miranda hacked the Halo-Star servers, it was Jason’s testimony and the confession from my phone that backed the warrants needed to search Calvin’s home. Hair fibers and blood samples were found on Calvin’s clothes, his bed, and in the car he owned. The victim’s wallets were kept in drawers. Their DNA was found in the sinks. All of it was incriminating, enough to condemn him.

The revelations were appalling but served as an eye-opener for the department and the community. Everyone was so focused on pointing fingers and casting blame. None of it was productive and if it hadn’t been for my rebellious determination to get to the bottom of it, more people could have been seriously hurt or killed.

The protesting mob that gathered outside eventually broke up and started planning vigils. The police chief would later face criticism from his own department for dropping the assault charges against Jacory. He did shoot three officers, after all. But I guess losing a leg and having to register as a sex offender was punishment enough. His face, distinguished by those orange contact lenses and his bald brazen build, made it difficult for him to fit in with any neighborhood. He’d eventually go on to leave the state and start a new life somewhere in the Southside of Chicago.

Jason Hicks would lose his job as a paramedic. In fact, the community would forever think twice every time they saw an ambulance parked near a school. It’s kind of sad actually, how a few bad eggs can tarnish an entire occupation.

Griffin was golden. His clean image and tall statuesque build made him the perfect poster child for the department. The chief credited him with Calvin’s apprehension and planned on giving him a promotion. Even on the news, it was Det. Griffin’s face beaming as the man who caught the Slave Quarter Killer. He was lead detective after all. Everyone praised him for staving off years of racial tension that threatened to proliferate throughout the state and possibly the entire nation. In every hallway and every bullpen, Griffin received a warm welcome and another round of applause. Yes, the police were proud to have him, a paragon of exemplary service.

As for me…I didn’t hear any applause. No one came to shake my hand and tell me, “good job.” I sat on the examination table of the 1st floor infirmary receiving medical attention from a nurse who was all too eager to go upstairs and meet the darling Griffin. She slaps on a cold methane pack where the butt of my own gun hit me. Even touching it with something as soft as gauze would cause half my face to flare up something fierce. I fear its an orbital fracture that would require surgery.

Nope. I’m just a wimp.

The nurse doesn’t make conversation. She doesn’t ask how I got the bruises or what I did during the night. She doesn’t care why I’m wearing a bulletproof vest or why my back’s covered in dirt. Even when she fetches a bottle of painkillers, she just puts it on the tray next to me and promptly leaves the room. She doesn’t return.

After a while, I slowly turn to look in the mirror. I’m like Quasimodo with this face. My left cheek looks like it’s about to give birth to a plum. If I took off my shirt, I’m sure it would look like the aftermath of a paintball fight. And as much as I needed to rest this body and let it heal…I can’t let things stand as is. I just can’t.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 17 – Don’t Fear Me (Paranormal Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 27, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

It’s a showdown in the cotton fields. Cloud confronts the Slave Quarter Killer and sets the perfect trap…but as per usual, other people keep getting in the way.

Chapter 17 - Don't Fear Me

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 17 – Don’t Fear Me
By Rock Kitaro

Calvin and Jason arrive under the auspices of a full moon. They can see their own breath in the frosty cold air. All is quiet on the cotton fields. The crickets aren’t chirping. There isn’t any gospel music. No wind. No humming. No croaks from the big house. Just the packing of soil beneath their feet and the occasional chirp from the radios strapped to their shoulders.

An unsettled agitation creeps to their core. They know they’ve been had. They came responding to an emergency but the plantation seems devoid of all life. Even so, they feel as though they’re being watched. They are. Jason is scared out his mind. I can see it.

“Hey, son! I’m saying though. Ain’t nobody here,” he says.

“HELLO! IS ANYONE OUT THERE?” Calvin calls.

“Yo! Let’s go!” Jason begs.

The paramedics are snug in their dark blue coveralls. The ambulance is parked on the side of the road with the engine still running. With his red medicinal bag in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Calvin embarks in the direction of the slave quarters. Jason is right behind him but he keeps throwing wild-eyed glances to the big house. Calvin remains fixated on the slave quarters as if he expected a Doberman to come running out.

They’re waist deep in the middle of the cotton shrubs when Jason flinches and shines his light on the big house.

“Yo! You see that?” Jason whispers.

“There’s nobody in there.” Calvin says.

“I’m telling you. I saw something up on the second floor. Let’s get the fuck out of here, man!” Jason shrieks.

Calvin sweeps the field with his flashlight once more before heaving a heavy sigh and starting for the ambulance.

…

“Quick question.”

My voice cuts through the silence, clean, crisp, and clear.

They’re dropping f-bombs as they fumble with their flashlights. They cast their lights on the slave quarters and there, they see a new and improved version of Cloud Beaudry, one exuding with the swagger of a champion. My blazer is in the rental, parked further down the road. I’m wearing a bulletproof vest and there’s a .380 on my hip.

The sleeves of my white collared shirt are rolled up and if you think I’m freezing, think again. I’ve been practicing Wing Chun drills for the past two minutes. My chain punches, front kicks, and Ton Saus are on point.

The paramedics emerge from the cotton fields to enter the soft patch of soil in front of these here slave quarters. They look pissed. Reasonably so.

“You would be the one to call us out here in the middle of the goddamn night!” Jason snarls.

“Let me ask you something.” I begin, pausing for a moment to stretch out my neck. “1896 Drew Street. Ring any bells?”

They ponder for a moment. Then a bewilder expression befalls Jason.

“That’s my girl’s house, homie. How the fuck you know Kyrah?” he snaps.

I’m snickering out loud. I never snicker. After unclasping my watch and sliding it into my pocket, I lock eyes with the Slave Quarter Killer. He has no fucking clue.

“Sup, Calvin. You want to tell him. Or should I?”

“Man, whatchu talkin about?” Calvin says, as if I’m wasting his time.

“Not bad. Yes, your performance was very convincing. When we first met, I never thought for a second you’d be capable of stalking six teenage girls. Abducting them. Raping and molesting them until you’ve reached the pinnacle of pleasure. And then…Well you couldn’t let them go, could you? So you killed them. And you didn’t just kill them softly. They all died brutally. You could have just shot them. You could’ve slit their throats. Hell, for someone in the medical field, it would have been easy. But no! You bludgeoned them. You choked them. You drowned them, you unimaginable piece of shit. And perhaps the worst came when a girl felt so hopeless, so utterly defeated that she’d rather bash her own brains out than see your face again.”

Jason turns to his partner. He doesn’t believe me at first, but Calvin…He just stares at me with an empty gaze of morbid denial. I’ve seen that look before. It’s one of the worst feelings in the world. The realization that everything is caving in and there’s nothing he can do about it, like a submarine filling up with water.

“Hey, fuck you!” Jason shouts. “There you go again, pointing fingers. I heard ya’ll already caught the motherfuckuh who did this so why you messin with us?”

Calvin drops his red medical bag. It hits the dirt and I hear something break, prompting me to whip out my Glock and aim it at the bridge of his nose, both hands holding it steady.

“Don’t move a muscle!” I warn.

“Whoa! What the hell are you doing? I don’t believe this!” Jason shouts.

“Calvin Chalmers. You’re under arrest for the rape and murder of Tiquasia Payne. Denedra Harrell. Samantha Fox. Ashley Hunt. And Alisha Collier.”

“WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” Jason screams.

“Tell him, Calvin! Tell him what you been up to every time you drop him off at his girl’s house. Go ahead. Ask him, Jason. I’ll wait.”

“Nigga…What is he talkin about?” Jason asks.

“He’s got nothing.” Calvin snarls. “Probably hit his head one too many times. Should have someone look at that, bruh.”

I’m smirking as I lower my weapon and take the finger off the trigger. “Just tell me one thing. What exactly did you say to KeNedra? If I’m not mistaken, once you boys picked her up, it was Jason doing the driving while you had her alone in the back cabin. She recognized you didn’t she. You must have told her something. So let’s hear it. I want to hear what the devil said to the angel. To get her to kill herself like that. SPEAK!”

Calvin shakes his head with a cocky grin. “Don’t know what you talking about. And to be honest, you starting to work my last nerve. Got us out here in the middle of the…”

“Look around! There’s no one out here but us. You don’t hear any sirens. No helicopters. No cops. Other than the three of us, not a single soul knows you’re an ass-raping murderer. I don’t give a damn about the justice system. We all know there’s no right or wrong, only public opinion. All I care about is closure for KeNedra’s family. If a coward like you met them, you’d break down on the spot. I can tell just by looking. You don’t have the balls. All reserved and hiding behind your silence. To be honest, I respected you more when you throwing hands in the big house. That was a warrior. That was a beast. Frankly, I don’t know who this scared little shit is.”

My words…they sting. I know they do. He’s grinding his teeth. He doesn’t know what I know or if he should even believe me, but there’s one thing he took away from my little speech. Other than the three of us, not a single soul knows he’s the Slave Quarter Killer.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 15 – The Wrong Man (Detective Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 12, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud is alone, alienated, and outnumbered. Jessica and Leanne are convinced they have their Slave Quarter Killer in custody but Cloud isn’t convinced and he’s called back to Atlanta. The ladies lay it on thick, scolding Cloud for striking out on his own and not being a team player. Considering the facts, he has no choice but to submit to their logic and starts to second-guess himself…that is until he runs into KeNedra’s ghost.

Chapter 15 - The Wrong Man

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 15 – The Wrong Man
By Rock Kitaro

Since 1:30, I’ve been sleeping in a hospital bed on the 3rd floor of Augusta Medical Center. I have the whole room to myself. The alarm on my phone is set for seven. A strip of light floods the floor from the base of the door, getting brighter in the darkness. It wakes me up fifteen minutes earlier than expected.

It’s cold. My blazer is resting on the back of a chair but I’m still too tired to get up and get it. Thus, goosebumps prick up and proliferate my arms, causing me to slip my frigid hands into my pockets.

I’m staring at the ceiling with brooding eyes, dissatisfied, annoyed, disheartened. Nothing seems to be going my way. Now here I am, laid up in a hospital bed with the bumps and bruises stiffening my joints.

Meanwhile, Griffin’s the celebrated hero. Thanks to his “hunch,” he located the bodies of five missing girls. He’s rallied behind the judgment of my colleagues to settle on the idea that Jacory Godchaux is the Slave Quarter Killer and thanks to his provocations, he backed the poor fool in between a rock and a hard place.

Jacory’s shootout caused a stampede of protestors that resulted in five more injured civilians. He then led the police in, I would say a “high speed pursuit” but in downtown Augusta with its old narrow roads and stop signs galore, it was more like a game of cat and mouse. Either way, a victorious Griffin and his sidekick Jessica captured him without a single civilian casualty. They have every right to believe Jacory is the Slave Quarter Killer after everything he’s done.

I shouldn’t blame them…but I do. Especially Griffin.

After Jacory smashed his father’s SUV, he was brought to this very same hospital for emergency surgery. His right leg had to amputated and due to heavy blood loss, he hasn’t been conscience since. Right now, there were two officers stationed outside his hospital room down the hall from me. He was cuffed to the bedpost…as if they figured he’d try and hobble away on one leg.

Jamar and O’Shea Thompson received a police escort back to Coventry where their mother Amarah laid into them real good. The Thompsons, something about that family pulls at my heartstrings. They’re a good family. If KeNedra was still alive, I imagine she would’ve fared well with the lot of them backing her. I wish I had a family like that…little brothers, a sister, a mother who preached forgiveness but had the resolve to use the rod when the situation calls.

“Your mom is dead right?”

Jamar’s question comes out of thin air as clear as when he first said it.

“Are you glad?”

It wasn’t out of malice, I’m sure. Jamar was just curious. But still, why on Earth would he ask me that? My brows furrow at the thought. It’s in times like this that I could usually count on Maggie turning up to get a rise out of me, but at present, she does not reveal herself. She’s letting me rest, letting me think.

…

…

Focus on Griffin. He’s my guy. My next move is to lure him into a trap. Make that oaf give himself away. He’s out in front of everything, which means all eyes are on him. So what are you worried about? This should be easy for you, Cloud. So think…How do you get him?

Someone’s calling my phone. It lights up the room. A fiery sting spreads across my neck as I reach over to pick it off the nightstand. It’s Miranda. She’s been blowing up my phone for the better part of the afternoon, eight calls and twelve text messages.

“Hey, missy.” I groan.

“Cloud, what happened? Why aren’t you answering your phone?!” Miranda stresses with touching concern.

“Dude, you’re not gonna believe…” I’m just about to get started when suddenly I’m blinding by the overheads. Leanne whipped open the door and flipped on the lights as if she’s trying to wake a suspect for questioning. Jessica is right behind her, carrying a bag of fast food and sodas in foam coasters. My eyes are squinting with a confused grimace. Comical, I’m sure.

“Mm-hmm! Who ya talking to? One of your lady friends?” Leanne asks.

“Could be a guy,” Jessica smirks.

“Nope. All of Cloud’s friends are women. Trust me, I know.” Leanne points out as they drag over screeching chairs to sit in front of me.

I wince to sit up with the phone still pressed to my cheek. “I’m gonna have to call you back. I’m fine, Miranda. I promise.”

“See. Girl!” Leanne brags.

I’m a little embarrassed for the ladies to see me so disheveled. My hair looks like a blond fire that’s been hit by a freeze ray. My wrinkled white shirt is unbuttoned halfway down my chest and I have pillow lines engraving my red cheeks. I’m sure I smell or at least my feet do. My shoes are off and I have to move like an old man to keep my feet from touching the women. Jessica’s laying out burgers but from the way she keeps her chin tucked, I can tell she wants to laugh.

“Just got off the phone with Chomsky. He wants us back in the office by tomorrow afternoon,” Leanne says.

“Afternoon? We haven’t closed the case yet.”

Leanne and Jessica shoot me the same scathing stare.

Leanne continues with, “The local authorities can take it from here, Cloud. Chomsky’s been briefed. It’s a done deal. You should be glad. And you should know that while it was tempting to tell him about your gallivanting off by yourself and getting beat to a pulp, I refrained. We’re partners, you see. I wouldn’t throw you under the bus. Contrary to popular belief.”

“Thank you, Leanne.”

I say that bluntly. Now I have a time limit to catch the real killer. The ladies just swept the rug out from underneath me and I’m struggling real hard to hide my frustration.

Leanne senses it. She bats her lashes and leans back to cross her legs. Once settled, she gives me a long hard stare as if I stole her money and she’s still waiting for me to fess up. I don’t react. I’m starving. After putting on my shoes and buttoning up my shirt, I dig into a platter of burger and fries.

“Cloud, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why exactly did you ask to join this case?” Leanne starts in.

I’m sipping on lime soda through a noisy straw.

She continues with, “Ever since we got here we’ve been carrying you on our backs. I mean, seriously. What exactly have you done? We told you to come with us to the other plantations. You didn’t want to do that. We asked you for a hand in profiling Jacory. You didn’t want to do that. It shouldn’t have been Griffin in their questioning Jacory. It should have been you. But no! You had to go off and get yourself damn near killed. Yet, I’m the one who needs the partner! See! This is why I can’t stand this, condescending, patriarchal society. Meritocracy, my ass! It’s sexism at its finest!”

I sigh as I stay chewing on my burger. Leanne…Don’t worry. For all your talk of misogyny, I certainly see you pair on you. That’s what I’d like to say. What I do say is:

“Leanne…I hate to keep coming back to this. Fuck it. I need to know what time Griffin left your hotel room last night.”

“Cloud!” Jessica snaps.

“Un-freaking-believable!” Leanne shouts at the same time.

“That’s none of your business, Cloud. It’s extremely rude!” Jessica says.

“Thank you! Geez!” Leanne adds.

The purpose of my question isn’t to shut her up and get her off my back. I really need to know. My stubborn brown eyes are locked on Leanne. She’s munching on a fry but she knows I’m waiting.

“It’s none of your business when he left my hotel room, Cloud. That’s just none of your business.”

“What if I told you it’s pertinent to solving this case?”

“Alright, you need stop right there!” Jessica objects as her hands coil into a clenched fist.

I’m suddenly gripped with suspense as Jessica removes the box of fries from her lap, gets up and paces around while massaging the back of her neck. I’ve never seen her like this. In my own fantasies, I always imagined her anger as a source of arousal…not terror.

“Don’t tell me you think Griffin did this. And before you answer, consider this. Your line of questioning is extremely disrespectful and unbecoming. You’re insulting our intelligence and demeaning all our efforts, the integrity of our investigation. Believe it or not, you can’t always be the smartest person in the room. Jacory confessed!”

“To statutory rape, Jessica. Not murder.”

“Yeah and it adds up! You’re not a certified behavioral specialist. I am. The first victim, Alisha Collier, the arrangement of her body was positioned in a congenial state. That’s postmortem. She’s on her back with one hand resting over the other, on top of the navel. That tells us the killer was either racked with guilt, remorse, grief, or regret. All emotions displayed by our suspect during interrogation. Maybe if you had enough sleep you would’ve seen it for yourself instead of sitting there all high and mighty as if wisdom speaks only to you. Seriously, it pisses me off more than I fucking can stand!”

Jesus…I can almost see the steam fuming from her shoulders, her cheeks quivering with rage. From the way she stood in the center of the room with that arch in her back and those glowering eyes, feels like I just poked and prodded a caged jaguar whose on the verge of snapping. Even Leanne was surprised. To her, Jessica was still a newbie to the GBI.

I contemplate telling them what I know about Griffin, the racism and how it makes more sense that the Slave Quarter Killer could be a cop. But even if I did, all they’d see is the color of jealousy. Because honestly, I am a little jealous. It’s pointless to deny it. Jessica thinks she has the right man and after her little tirade, I’m starting to believe she might be right.

“I think you owe us an apology, Cloud.”

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 13 – The World Media (Mystery Suspense)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 30, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud’s worst fear comes to fruition as the media flocks upon Augusta, Georgia, foaming at the mouth with cries of racism and police corruption. Families of the Slave Quarter Killer’s victims demand justice. They say, if the victims were white girls, the police would’ve had a greater response. Cloud confronts the whistle-blower for fanning the flames and, in the end, gets checked for all the world to see.

Chapter 13 - The Worldly Media

Chapter 13 – The Worldly Media
By Rock Kitaro

Whelp…After I got beat the fuck up, I had no choice but to file a report. The sergeant working the graveyard shift wasn’t too pleased about my going out without a service weapon. Thankfully, he was polite about it, keeping his skepticism and scolding to a minimum. Other than a description of my assailant, he couldn’t care less why I was there or what I was looking for. He suggested I visit a hospital but wasn’t persistent about it. I ignored the suggestion and opted to return to my motel room.

As the shower rinsed the sweat and dirt off of my battered body, I saw the messy blotches of black and blue swelling all over my chest and back. The area between my neck and shoulder was worse from the barstool. Never before had I been so thoroughly thrashed. I winced with every turn. The simple act of reaching sent a wave of inflammation through my shoulders like popping battery acid in my bones.

My face remained unblemished, thank God. However, a migraine persisted and no matter how many painkillers I took, this migraine would stay with me for next three days.

On top of all that, there was blood in my urine. I couldn’t remember if pissing blood was a good or bad thing in terms of the healing process. All I knew was that I definitely didn’t want to go to the hospital and get a catheter stuck up my urethra. Too much information? Good! Street fights aren’t cool, kids. They suck. And as an investigator who depends on his sharp senses and clever wit to outsmart criminals, a throbbing headache is the last thing I need.

I should have sprawled out on that inviting floral pattern comforter covering my queen size bed. I should have nestled my head in between those crisp and cool pillows and let my burning eyes recuperate from the strain of staring so much. Like an imbecile, I don’t do any of that. I don’t know what’s driving me. It doesn’t make sense. It’s stupid. I know.

With a disgruntled mug, I wrangled on a white collared shirt. I shoved my legs through black slacks and yanked my blazer off its hanger. My head dangled forward in a dazed stupor as I glared at myself in the mirror and fiddled with frustrated fingers to tie this stupid tie. I’m whispering f-bombs. Should’ve brought a friggin clip-on.

I had to stop, calm down, and breathe.

This time, before I left my motel room I made sure to bring my service weapon. It’d be a shame to have to shoot the suspect, but I’d rather put one in his back than watch him scurry off in the woods again.

As I made my way to the motel’s front office, my face gradually descends into the droop into a disheartening grimace. I passed by Leanne’s room and as much as I didn’t want to think about what was going on inside, her nasally laughter couldn’t be ignored. She was still up but I don’t hear anyone else. I didn’t expect to. Because I know Griffin excused himself not too long ago to try and kill me.

I thought about kicking in Leanne’s door like riot police and interrogating his departure time out of her. I thought about it, but didn’t have the nerve. So I simply proceeded to the front office and dropped off the rental keys to the car. Leanne would pick them up in the morning and that would be that.

It was closing in on three in the morning when I hit the streets. Downtown Augusta is an eerie sight, not for the timid or fainthearted. The roads are barren and silent. Tungsten streetlamps cast a burnt orange tint over the sidewalks, but beyond the cracked cement and chained linked fences is a vast sea of darkness. I saw outlines of historic buildings with no electricity. Every once in a while I’d hear a random cough in the distance. I wondered how many squatters took up residence in those vacant buildings. I wondered how many were watching me.

Police HQ was only few blocks away, a thirty-minute hike. I take out Miranda’s pack of cigarettes and just as my lips snag one out, a strong pressure squeezes in my head so hard that my jaw clenches. That was my body’s way of telling me, “Nope!” and I listened. The pack is discarded in the next trashcan I pass.

Flipping up my collar, I replayed the last few hours in my head wondering if there’s anything I missed, anything I might have overlooked. Mr. Wayne said the killer drove in a vehicle with flashing lights. It has to be law enforcement! The desk sergeant knew where I was going. Anyone could’ve found out where I was from entry logs but I can’t just approach the sergeant and make inquiries. It would let the killer know I’m onto his trail. And when you’re trying to set a trap for someone the last thing you want is to let them know you’re baiting the hook. Not to mention, a hawk scooping up a venomous snake still runs the risk of getting bit in return.

So what should I do? Was it really Det. Griffin? For all I knew, Griffin could’ve still been in Leanne’s motel room when I heard her laughing. I don’t know for sure. And if Leanne was with Det. Griffin all night then his alibi is airtight. However, if he slipped out sometime around midnight, then yeah…he’s my guy.

After thirty minutes, the cold finally penetrated my defenses. It numbs the pain but my front teeth’s doing Morse code as I stopped under a lamppost on the corner of Moor and Hightower. Police headquarters was a stone’s throw away. I just stood there staring at the ghastly four-story building of Beaux-Arts architecture like a vindictive criminal coming for payback on the pigs who locked me up. My brooding eyes were fixated on the main entrance and the line of squad cars parked out front.

Migraines…they not only dull your senses, they reduce your common sense. I’m strutting down the middle of Moor Street like it’s nobody’s business. There wasn’t any traffic but even if there was, I doubt I’d get out of the way. I was in a mood unbecoming of an officer of the law, unbecoming of the authority vested in me.

Even as I passed City Hall on my left, I was squinting at it with disgust as if the entire building was sprinkled in bird shit. I never understood why people liked to put City Hall and police HQ within spitting distances of each other. It’s like having quarreling siblings grow up and deciding live next door to each other when there’s a whole world of space out there. So stupid. Like I said, I was in mood.

When I entered police HQ, I ignored the desk sergeant’s judgmental gaze and didn’t react when she called me a dumbass from afar. I simply found refuge in the mostly vacant 2rd floor bullpen. It was sad. The Chief just finished giving a press conference talking about how urgent this case was, but I only saw two detectives burning both ends of the candle. These two good detectives were following up Jessica’s suggestion to search J-Poopy’s sanitation truck. I could’ve walked over for an update but it was so quiet, so tranquil. I’ll ask them later.

Taking up a post at an empty desk, I spread out the case files, the pictures, the documented statements. I was ignoring the obvious in search for trivial details, any kind of discrepancy I could use to prove J-Poopy’s innocence. I was walking on eggshells because I knew my agenda undermined that of Jessica and Leanne’s. They’re not gonna want to hear that I think their primary suspect is innocent, so I’m determined to keep my suspicions to myself until I have concrete evidence.

My eyes jumped from page to page, timecode to timecode, dates to dates, addresses and their correlation to the points of interests. It’s…it’s all so very taxing. It’s never a good sign when you start seeing things in three, when your vision blurs the lines and causes the letters to come floating off paper like leaves on the surface of a rippling pond. My body finally seizes control. Fatigue grabbed me by the back of my neck and gently lowered my head to rest on the surface of the wooden desk, right next to Tiquasia Payne’s autopsy report.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 7 – The Cotton Fields (Mystery Thriller)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on September 17, 2018
Posted in: Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The GBI Agents arrive at the crime scene where KeNedra was held captive, where Tiquasia was murdered. The location is an abandoned cotton plantation on the outskirts of town. Ignited by his paranormal curse, Cloud sees exactly how Tiquasia was murdered. It’s an emotional experience but he has to keep it together. All eyes are on him. Not to mention, in order to convict, he still needs to gather that annoying thing called evidence.

Chapter 7 - The Cotton Fields

Chapter 7 – The Cotton Fields
By Rock Kitaro

It’s strange. In all the days since I’ve embraced the paranormal, I’ve never experienced anything quite like this. As soon as I step out of our rental car, a strong frosty breeze overwhelms me. I don’t wrap up in my coat as my colleagues do, instead I embrace the cold air to come in and wrap around my chest. The wind appears in the form of bending trees. The branches rustle in a perpetual wave.

What I found unusual is the ceaseless rhythm of gospel humming. It’s the soulful blues of people making the best of their hardship, their toil. It’s serene, the complete opposite of graves and cemeteries that usually come replete with screams and demented pleas.

As the investigators advance into the crime scene, an unbearable sadness prevents me. I close my eyes with a clenched jaw. Horrible things have happened at this place, terrible atrocities passed off as a way of life. Justice turned its back and ignored an entire class of people. They say, unless you’re black you could never understand the pain and suffering of a slave. I wonder if that applies to me…with what I see…with what I hear…with what I feel…

 

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 3 – Meritocracy (Mystery Thriller)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 27, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Original Stories, rock kitaro, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

For those still scrambling for the pieces, allow me to introduce special investigator, Cloud Beaudry. When people think of spoiled, entitled, Millennials with bad work ethics who complain about everything…let’s just say that Cloud forces everyone to rethink those stereotypes. And it probably has something to do with the fact that he’s tormented by a curse that allows him to hear and see ghosts all the friggin time. And of course, when you know secrets that are supposed to be buried, you tend to make enemies among the living.

Five years ago his mother was killed and the local police was quick to pass it off as an accidental suicide. It was a dark, depressing time in his life where Cloud was on the verge of ending it all. Then he met Maggie. And for seemingly no reason at all, she helped him avenge the death of his mother. Cloud was grateful. So grateful, in fact, that he vowed to hunt down those responsible for killing Maggie back in 1959. And unfortunately, there are still names on the list.

Chapter 3 - Meritocracy

Chapter 3 – Meritocracy
By Rock Kitaro

It’s a brisk morning, just before the auburn glow makes its ascent. I was once told that this is the best part of my day and it goes downhill from here. But that’s just a matter of perspective, one I choose not to entertain. There’s nothing like busting out a 5K at five in the morning. There’s no one around. Barely any traffic. With Korn’s “Take a Look in the Mirror” album blasting through my earbuds, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come. It doesn’t make me proud, it just… it strengthens my resolve. And I need that strength. Else I would have killed myself a long time ago.

For those still scrambling for the pieces, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Cloud Beaudry. Ever since I was a child, I’ve always been able to hear, see, and feel the presence of the dead.

It started with my ancestors during the Salem Witch trials. The family matriarch wasn’t a witch herself, but was hanged for speaking up in their defense. Since then, a wretched curse has been passed down the Beaudry line from generation to generation.

This curse…you can call it a curse, however, I choose to believe it’s just some twisted sick coincidence. For instance, every generation in my family gave birth to just one scion. Every family member died before they reached the age of forty-five. And nearly everyone has been regarded by his or her peers as crazy or delusional. I’m probably the first to embrace the paranormal instead of letting it drive me insane.

To me, the traditional concepts of weird or normal are no longer relevant. I’ve trained this ability to interact with the dead so well that it’s now about as familiar as my sense of sight or sound. I know. It sounds unbelievable. That’s why there’s only one person on Earth I’ve told this to.

I’m only thirty but the atrocities I’ve faced have advanced me well beyond the years of any average Millennial. That might sound like I’m bragging but I’m not. Dread doesn’t even begin to describe my life. When I was growing up, I couldn’t remember a single night that I didn’t hear people screaming for help. Dark twisted faces, weeping dead children, relentless murderers and the toe curling sounds of ripping flesh and wet hacking…I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.

Dark eye circles of sleep deprivation stayed with me until I was at least twenty-one. It was during that year that something snapped in me. My mother. She was raped for the second time and nearly beaten to death. I’ll never forget sitting by her hospital bed with a permanent scowl lined with crusted dried tears. I never had any best friends. I never had a social life where people sought me out. But paranoia and fear followed me every day of my life almost as constant as the sun and the moon.

It was fear of letting shit like that happen to my mother again, the paranoia of forever being a loser, the butt of the jokes, and everyone’s punching bag. It was fear of failing to make something out of myself. The fear of going mad by watching the rotten assholes move up in the world while decent honest hardworking individuals are stepped on because they lack “ruthless ambition.”

I won’t say I embraced the fear. I only use it as motivation. I turned this negativity into a fuel for production. It’s what prompted me to take my fat ass in the gym and shed 140lbs over the span of four years. I dropped from 320lbs to a healthy, athletic180. Working out and martial arts became a source of therapy for me, an outlet for my frustration. It was fear that prompted me to stay in shape, which is why I’m on this exhilarating jog around my subdivision.

As far as my encounters with dead people, I’ll not go so far as to say I’m no longer terrified, but it’s more like I gradually adopted an air of defiance. I strengthened my mind and stopped worrying about what ghosts could or couldn’t do to me. I laid awake on countless nights watching the blinds rattle and the shadows crawl along the ceilings. Then I’d close my eyes and drift to sleep, fully aware that I may never wake up again. If any demented phantom stared at me from the fog or through some milky reflection or behind that dead tree in the distance, I’d glare right back at them.

If they wanted to kill me, they were more than welcome to try.

After my mother was raped, I switched majors and enrolled into law school. I would’ve preferred to send assholes off to prison as a prosecutor, but defense attorneys made way more money. The idea was to get a good paying job so my mother could quit waitressing and stop sleeping with every flannel-wearing cowboy who just so happens to throw a wink at her.

That plan went up in flames just days before I was about to graduate. After four years of endless studying, of sacrificing the holidays and weekends to climb my way to the top of my class, someone went off and killed my mother. Her body was found floating beneath a bridge on the outskirt of Athens.

The police heard about her promiscuous reputation with men. They also heard from neighbors and co-workers that she believed in aliens and claimed she could speak to ghosts. Eventually, the detectives ruled her death as an accidental suicide. They said she got drunk, bumped her head on the railing, and tumbled over to drown. She was only forty-two.

I can’t even begin to describe how livid I was. My worst fears had come true. This woman was my life! She was the reason why I toiled so hard, put up with so much shit, why I sacrificed so much. Nothing else mattered. We had come so far! Only for it to end like this!?

No one showed up for her funeral. It was just me and fifty white chairs on a cold rainy day. The rage in my heart, it forced me to ask questions no decent human being should ever need to ask themselves. The police were wrong. I knew it from the get-go but as a mere law-grad I was powerless to do a damn thing about it. The outcry of inner demons demanded an audience and to be honest, I was about ready end the torment once and for all. Perhaps it was hitting rock-bottom that lured me to Maggie.

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The Slave Quarters: Chapter 2 – Horrid Sounds (Mystery Thriller)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on August 20, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Original Stories, rock kitaro. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Florence meets Maggie. Or rather…they’ve already met. And last time Florence checked, Maggie was dead.

Warning: Contains a Graphic Haunting

Chapter 2 - Horrid Sounds

Chapter 2 – Horrid Sounds
by Rock Kitaro

Florence gets an uneasy four hours of sleep before waking up in a cold sweat. It’s just a few minutes past midnight. Her throat is parched but it’s the discomfort from her drenched blue nightgown that prompts her to open her weary eyes. She doesn’t get up right away. She’s too tired. The AC is set to 70 degrees on an already frigid November evening but her bedroom feels moist and warm. So she lies there, contemplating if she should try and sleep through it.

It isn’t until she raises her knee that her heel drags along the bed. She feels an alarming puddle of fluids as if her foot was sinking into a soggy sponge mattress. She sits up, whipping off her sheets with a frantic gasp before the cracking bones in her back reminds her of her age. Shadow stripes from the window blinds line across her face as she sits on the edge of the bed, planting her balmy feet to the wooden floor.

She wipes the bangs from her forehead with a puzzled look. The beads of perspiration once there was now gone. She reaches over and slides a hand across the sand colored bed sheets. It’s dry. She checks the dent in her pillow. It too is dry.

After a soft confusing chuckle, a relieved Florence lies back down and pulls the sheets over her body. As soon as she does, a thousand fingers rush up from the mattress desperately trying to grip at her flesh from her shoulders down to her ankles in a straight line like a tidal wave approaching the shores of her body. The fingers stay submerged under the bed sheets but violate her with the unnerving strength of a groping maniac trying to peel at her wrinkled skin.

Florence gapes open with a groaning shriek. Entire hands jolt through the sheets to wrap around her legs, slithering, grabbing, closer and closer up her thighs like a determined molester on a mission. In a frantic struggle, Florence’s thrashes herself off the bed.

She lands in a hard thud before crawling to the wall. Her heart’s racing. She’s crazy-eyed and panting like a jarhead in boot camp. The patio light goes dim. She reaches for the lamp on the nightstand. It’s not working. The digital clock says zeros in all slots.

Suddenly, the entire house begins to tremor. Rocks grind with the loud tenacity of a jackhammer on cement. The wooden floorboards crack and splinter as they shift and bend upward of their own volition. The walls contract, popping streams of chalky white plaster like water bursting from a pool. A web of cracks stretch across the windows and the bed sheets bulge as if a monstrous anaconda was emerging, slithering from one corner of her bed to the other, slowly approaching Florence.

“AAAAAAAAACK! NO!”

The defiant shout comes from the other side of the closed bedroom door. It was a deep bass-heavy voice, hollow and it echoes. Splintering bangs boomed one after another. As if someone was pounding a nail gun into the floor.

“NO! NO! AAHAAYAK!!! OW-HOW-HOW-HOW!!!”

Florence’s imagination takes her to a dark place where murky death invaded and demanded her attention. All of her worst fears consume her at once.

The screams get louder, more desperate, more dire. The hard mechanical pumps of the nail gun were driving sharp metal into someone’s flesh. She hears it, the tearing of tendons, the wet patter of blood splattering on the floor. The harsh guttural cry was from her husband… Her husband! Florence recognized the voice to be that of James Leach crying out in agony.

“JAMES!!!” She screams.

“RUN” James screams back.

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