Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

“No, it’s every sixteen years,” Kim said, with a chuckle.

Ray smiled. “So did she realise what was happening?”

“Sure. I mean, she had to have been wondering why I was driving her out to the middle of nowhere. And then when I tied her up. She sort of figured it out then.”

“About who we were?”

“No. That I was going to kill her. I had to tell her about what we did all those years ago, and who she was.”

“How’d she take it?”

“As expected. Badly. Anyway, at least she found out why we didn’t have her birth certificate and photos of her in hospital.”

“I guess we shouldn’t have burned those things after we killed our daughter,” Ray said. “But sixteen years,” he mused. “Wow, it doesn’t seem that long ago. You know what? It sounds silly, but I’m going to miss her. She was a good Rebecca. Fooled everybody, including my mum. Pity she had to start asking questions. At least we got to her before she rang the hospital.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life.” Kim noticed the sheet of paper sitting on the table. She reached over and picked it up. “What’s this?”

“Oh, that’s my list. I made it when I was deciding who to kill. It was kinda fun, actually. Made Jerry’s head spin, though. Couldn’t believe I was deciding the fate of my family on a list.”

Kim smiled. “Well it’s good to see I won. You really do love me.”

Ray grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her tight. “You bet I do.”

This was my contribution to the ill-fated Family Plots anthology. For people who aren’t aware, the basic story: Wild Roses was a small press that started up in Australia, back around 2002. They started off well, first releasing Rage by Steve Gerlach, then my debut novel, The Last Motel . They were set to release other titles, including The Wicked by James Newman, and Family Plots (which was to be a huge anthology, consisting of just about every horror writer going around at the time), but these were never released by Wild Roses. Even though the demise of Wild Roses left a bad taste in the mouths of many authors and readers, I am glad this story is finally seeing the light of day.

In the cavernous chapel, thick with the smell of blood and burning oil, Reverend Fred Barnett, in a black felt hat and long black jacket, had already begun his sermon. The light from the gas lamps adorning the brick walls flickered over the congregation. As Nathan moved over the cobblestones that had only been laid last week — this church, like many around the country, was still being remodelled — some of the converts stirred at the sound of his footsteps.

He knelt beside his best friend Joe in the back pew and they exchanged a nervous greeting.

“Late again,” mouthed Joe.

This was the fifth time in a row Nathan had been late. He was lucky the door hadn’t been locked, as was the norm after mass started. And he didn’t want to miss tonight’s mass — it was sacrifice night, to commemorate the death of Annie Chapman.

Nathan shrugged, bowed his head and listened to the reverend’s oration.

“…hundred years since our Lord graced this earth, two hundred years since the beginning of the new-world and in this bicentennial we pay tribute to the first and greatest of them all — His mystery, His fame, His legend — and pay homage to all who have followed in His footsteps. We honour the five apostles: Peter, Ted, Peter, Kenneth & Angelo and praise holy Not-Virgin Mary, for she sacrificed the most to the Lord. In the year two-hundred AR, at the dawn of the third century, we are fortunate enough to be closer to the truth than ever before; soon our true messiah will be named. Let us pray…”

Nathan took the bible from the back of the pew in front of him, ran a hand over the ominous visage of their cloaked god on the cover and watched Joe hesitate, a sheen of fear flash across his face before he picked up the small tome. Joe’s parents still believed in the old religion, a world that was rapidly dying, and Nathan understood the guilt Joe felt every time he stepped inside the White Chapel.

Clasping the holy knife he wore around his neck, Nathan glanced up at the walls; flanked by movie posters (everything from The Lodger to From Hell part 3 ) and artists renditions of the Lord and his five divine feats were the smiling effigies of Peter Kürten, Ted Bundy (Nathan’s favourite apostle), Peter Sutcliffe, Kenneth Bianchi & Angelo Buono; emblems of the new religion, a new passion that was sweeping the world They were much cooler, in Nathan’s thirteen-year-old opinion, than the chipped and desecrated statue of the old-world god strung up on a cross, now locked away in the storage room waiting to be taken to the wreckers. As one newspaper proclaimed of their new Lord: he is now bigger than Jesus.

“Turn to chapter nine, verse twenty-five, line seven,” the reverend ordered.

And Nathan, along with the congregation, intoned: “I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping…”

I’m a ‘Ripperologist’ — one of those sick puppies who have an unnatural fascination with the crimes of Jack the Ripper. So when Cat from The Red Light District website had, as her inaugural flash fiction contest, a Jack the Ripper theme, I had to jump in and write something. This story won third place.

And for the record, of all the suspects that have been named, I lean towards the mad butcher Joseph Levy (though ultimately I believe it was a local nobody of the ‘disorganised’ variety of serial killers).

For anyone with an interest in the Ripper case, please check out my Jack the Ripper site, Saucy Jacky: http://saucyjacky.wordpress.com/

Simon slipped the key in the front door. It was his fourth attempt. “There! Finally got it.”

Sherry chuckled behind him. “About time, darling.”

Simon pushed the door open and stepped inside. The house was in total darkness, so he slammed his hand to the left of the doorway and ran it clumsily along the wall until he found the light switch. He flicked it and the hallway lit up.

Sherry slipped past him, and Simon watched her arse as she walked down the hallway. The slim, tight blue dress hugged her round behind perfectly.

Feeling himself begin to go hard, Simon broke his gaze and slammed the door shut. He wandered down the hall and stumbled into the bedroom, where Sherry was sitting on the bed, taking off her shoes.

Simon smiled and threw the keys onto the mattress. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Make sure you’re naked when I return.”

Sherry giggled as she flung the second shoe to the ground. “What makes you think you’re getting any, mister?”

“Two reasons. One, we’re both drunk. And two, I don’t know about you, but I’m horny.”

Sherry laughed. “Where’re you going?” she said.

“To take a leak. Where else?” Simon turned and left the bedroom. He walked slowly down the hall and headed for the bathroom. His bladder was full of bourbon. He had lost count how many he’d downed after the fifth drink.

Great restaurant, though , he thought.

And it had also been a great surprise. Sherry had met him at his work and had taken him to a new restaurant, an Indian place not too far from the city, where they ate divinely, and, of course, had a little too much to drink. He had initially been worried that he’d forgotten their wedding anniversary, or perhaps Sherry’s birthday. But she had smiled and reassured him it was simply because she wanted to. Simon had left it at that.

Simon switched on the bathroom light. The bright glare hurt his eyes. He squinted and soon got used to the harsh glow. Simon staggered over to the toilet and lifted the lid. He urinated forever, flushed the toilet, then turned to his left and headed into the small laundry room. He flipped on the switch and staggered over to the deep stainless steel basin.