THE FINAL VICTIM

Genre: Horror 

 

 

 

THE FINAL VICTIM

By Randy Romero

 

 

 

I am no longer anonymous, no longer a faceless entity.

They have a name, Jeffrey Fisk, and a detailed description to go along with that name.

I slipped up. I got sloppy, careless. There was a witness. I panicked. I never panic, but I did this time. I left them behind. You don’t leave witnesses behind. I should have known better. You don’t leave things unfinished.

So, for now, I lie low. Bide my time. The cabin isn’t a dream house, but it will suffice. It’s not registered in my name. It’s not connected to any family members or friends or colleagues. No way for the police or the FBI to track me here.

I acquired the cabin from someone whose name escapes me, but they no longer had any use for it. And I acquired it specifically for this reason. In case things went sideways one day and my identity was exposed to the world. The cabin is tiny but adequate, especially for evading the authorities.

The walls of the cabin are comprised of stained wood panels. Beyond the front door of the cabin is the kitchen and living room area. To the right of the living room is a small rectangle of a bathroom with a tiny shower stall inside, no bathtub. Behind the living room couch is a sliding glass door that leads out to the back deck. A thin curtain hangs above the slider from a flimsy iron rod that was installed half-assed.

To the left of the living room-kitchen combo is a single bedroom with a twin-size bed. A trap door lies in the center of the kitchen floor, which leads down to the cellar.

A brick-and-mortar fireplace in the living room with a bucks head mounted above the mantle. Pictures on the mantle of people I don’t know or recognize. All except for one. The man whose name I can’t recall.

There are lot’s them; names I can’t recall or remember. Some names stick with you, some don’t. But the faces stay with you, embedded in your subconscious. You see them when you’re awake and every time you shut your eyes.

I know I’m a bad person. I don’t pretend that I’m not. Every serial killer has their own reasons, their motive, their message or purpose. For me, there was no message. Compulsion is what drove me to kill. Impulse. An irresistible urge.

It just got easier and easier with each victim. It got even easier when I didn’t get caught right away. I kept doing it, and I kept getting away with it. It made me feel powerful, invincible. And with that power, the urge grew stronger. I lost control.

The cabin is quiet. Outside, even quieter. No noisy cicadas or pesky insects buzzing around. A radio plays in the background while I monitor the station for news updates about yours truly.

Reception is spotty at best up here in the mountains. But it doesn’t really matter. There’s no Wi-Fi and I don’t own a cell phone. Just another way for them to track my location. But it also affected the radio. No channels came in clearly, but I could make it out enough to keep up with what was being said.

Muffled dins emanate from the cellar. Probably just rats. Wait, are there rats this far upstate? What am I saying, of course there are rats upstate.

That’s it. It’s got to be rats. That or some other wildlife that got in through the cellar somehow.

I listen closely as the din grows louder. Something is kicking around down there. Too big to be rats. Maybe a possum or a raccoon. Plenty of deer around these parts, but no way in hell a deer got into the cellar. The windows are too narrow and besides the trap door, there’s only one other entrance to the cellar, along the side of the cabin, and it’s chained shut.

The radio cuts in and out, and when it comes back, the voice of the energetic DJ is replaced by another, different, somber voice.

“Jeffrey? Jeffffrey. Can you hear me, Jeffrey?”

“Who said that?” I glance nervously around the cabin. The buck mounted above the fireplace seems to be staring back at me. An unnerving thought.

“Pssst…over here, Jeffrey.”

It took a moment for me to realize that the voice was emanating from the radio itself.

“Who the hell are you? How are you even talking to me right now? What is this, some kind of sick joke?”

“You should know my name, Jeffrey. Hell, I know yours. And you are staying in my cabin, free of charge, mind you.”

“You’re…you’re–”

“Caleb. Caleb McCaffrey. The man you murdered in cold blood because you needed a place to hang your hat. I hope the accommodations are to your satisfaction.”

“Caleb McCaffrey,” I repeat, finally putting a name to the face. “What do you want from me?”

“For you to remember us, Jeffrey. All of us. We’re all here in one form or another. We’ll always be a part of you, Jeffrey. But you already know that, don’t you?”

A cacophony of distorted voices cried out from the radio speakers. I turn it off, but the voices persist. They’re all around me, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

I smash the radio to pieces, and it doesn’t have anything else to say.

A loud THUD causes my body to almost leap out of my skin. The trap door. Someone’s pounding on the other side.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Nobody’s there. I’m losing it. It’s all in my head.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Nobody there. Ignore it.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

I storm to the kitchen, grab the brass handle, and thrust open the trap door. The acrid stench of bleach and chemicals rise up, permeating the cabin.

I get a flashlight and shine it down those shoddy wooden stairs and find nothing. I slam the trap door shut and chuck the flashlight aside.

A knock comes at the door. I check the window; nobody on the front porch.

The door swings wide open. Another familiar face stands at the threshold. Female, young, brunette. Her skin was ghostly, her throat opened up from a serrated blade, the blood still spurting out.

I rush to the door and close it before she can get in. But she’s standing right behind me when I turn around.

An invisible force pounds on the trap door. Another face from the past emerges from the bathroom, his body riddled with innumerable stab wounds. Blood still leaks and gushes from each gaping wound. Another appears in the kitchen, their skin flayed from their upper body. Then another materializes, their eyes gouged out, face rearranged like a jigsaw puzzle.

These are but a few of my victims. My ghosts. Content to haunt me until the day I die. As hard as I try to forget their names, I recite each one as fast as they come flooding back to me.

David Burke, an accountant with a wife and two kids.

Janet Dixon, a bank teller and mother of three.

Mark Boone, just a teenager with his whole life ahead of him.

Terry Hart, a businessman from out of town.

Ryan Madison, a model I found online.

Darlene Fish, a sweet, innocent hitchhiker who I thought nobody would miss.

These are just a few of my victims. I thought by acknowledging them, by saying their names aloud, they would find peace.

But their ghosts offer no reprieve, only haunting memories.

This is my punishment. My eternal torment. My hell on earth.

Their ghosts surround me, boxing me in; Caleb McCaffrey in the center, clutching a knife which he holds out for me to accept.

This is how it’s meant to end.

All the people I’ve hurt, all the lives I’ve changed, all the lives I’ve taken. It’s only fitting that I take my own.

I’m the final victim.