The Murders Continue
I knew that I was dreaming, I knew because I dreamt of that clearing, the clearing with the wild yellow dandelions and the moss covered tree stump. I looked around me, but I didn’t see him, which was strange. He was always there waiting for me, I had never been there by myself before. I heard footsteps, growing louder and the rustling of leaves, and it echoed eerily in the clearing but I knew that it was only him so I wasn’t scared. Not for the first time I wondered why I wasn’t scared of him, why I was only disgusted and annoyed with what he had done to his family and the families of the victims he had murdered. He appeared at the dark end of the clearing, as just a silhouette.
“Hey Sean,” he began, “Haven’t seen you in a while. I thought maybe you had forgotten about me. I thought you might not visit me again.”
“You got it the wrong way around, you visit me. I don’t need nor want you, it’s you that needs and wants me.”
He came into the light and walked towards me, a sad kind of smile on his face and his shoulders bent as if under heavy strain.
“Besides you came to me in April, to rub my nose in it about Gwyn.”
“No I haven’t seen you since before you started uni. Who is Gwyn anyway?”
“You know exactly who Gwyn is, the girl from uni that I used to date. God I knew you’d lie to me sooner or later, or at least I knew I’d catch you out sooner or later. What do you think I am stupid or something? That I wouldn’t remember?”
He sat there in silence for a long moment wearing a mask of bafflement that would have won him best actor in any film award he cared to enter.
“Sean, I won’t argue with you, I haven’t the strength to at the moment. I’m not well Sean and I am afraid. There have been other murders, not in Maple Vale, but in some distant land, and it’s me Sean. I am killing again. I thought that the killing had stopped, but I was wrong. You have to stop me Sean, I thought I had stopped myself but I haven’t.”
“What do you mean you’re killing again? That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said yet. You’re dead; you can’t kill now, not anymore.”
“But I am, I did, oh Christ you have to stop me Sean. I don’t know how to anymore, I don’t know what I am doing, but it has to stop Sean.”
“You’re insane, man, wacko. Ok, so where is this supposed to have happened?”
“I don’t know, it’s cold and dark, and blood so much blood, how can there be so much blood? She is only a baby, such a good baby,” he sobbed, falling to the ground and rocking himself.
“She is killing again. She’ll never stop. Oh Christ somebody help me!”
I closed my eyes and then opened them and stared up at the ceiling above my bed. Shaking I reached over and turned my bedside lamp on, sweat began to pour from my face and I buried myself back under my blanket. The light made all the shadows disappear and the echoes of my dreams fade away.
Time to think about other things I told myself sternly. The winter holidays start in a couple of weeks, and it’s time to put aside these dreams, after all they’re only dreams. Not for the first time I asked myself if I should see somebody about my brother and not for the first time I talked myself out of it. Whatever I needed to face, I needed to face on my own, besides T.R had talked to people and look where that got him. No, the only way I was ever going to exorcize this ghost was to do as he asked and find out the truth, then pray to whatever God was listening that it would be enough.
* * *
The year after T.R died she killed again. She had died her hair purple and gotten green coloured contact lenses and had gone overseas on a holiday to backpack her way through Europe and eventually the United Kingdom. She had joined up with a group of young people like herself, and though she had tried hard to fit in, it had been impossible. She was too used to being on her own, too used to being a loner, too used to relying and thinking only of herself. They had known her as Angela, after all T.R had changed his name to suit himself, so why couldn’t she. He was a killer just like her.
The problem with Angela was the fact that she had nobody to share her secrets with, nobody who’d understand and accepted her just the way she was. Nobody that is, accept the real Angela.
Every night on the full moon she’d go outside to summon Angela’s spirit to join with her so they could become one. She had done this ritual every full moon since she had been eleven years old, but Angela never came. She had thought this was because Angela was bound to T.R, but even after T.R had died too, she still could not invoke the spirit of her idol.
She had studied such rituals for years, read hundreds of books that claimed to hold the key to spiritual awakening; she had even dabbled in Satanism briefly, but she had been disenchanted with its practices because she felt that she was betraying Angela by worshipping someone else as well.
First she would create a circle using thirteen black and thirteen red candles. She would then cleanse the space with salt and holy water that she would steal from churches and light her incense sticks. She would then disrobe and light her candles, step between the flames and call Angela’s name three times.
“Oh Angela, you that are the most supreme of evil,
You who are what I have always longed to be
I call you forth, on this moonlit night
And welcome you into my embrace.
Oh Angela, though I am nothing compared to your brilliance
I ask that you join with me so that we can become one
And continue to wreak havoc across all nations of this earth.
Angela, it is your devoted servant,
The one you demanded should carry on your gallant work.
I come to you to offer my body as your temple
For it is not enough for me to carry on your work in your name.
I request that you join with me Angela, like you joined your brother,
For it is I, and only I, your true and blessed slave.
Come I call ye forth to settle here.”
Angela would then drink some of her own blood mixed in red wine from a ceremonial chalice, and then kneel down on the ground to repeat an ancient summoning spirit spell over and over until her voice became hoarse and her body weak.
A young man from the group whose name was Justin had come across her during this ritual and had seen her naked kneeling on the ground and crying with anguish. He had been drunk and stupid and she had hit him in the head with a rock when he had tried to force her. She had then bound his wrists together and set his pubic hair on fire. He had withered and screamed in anguish but nobody had heard him.
Angela had felt empowered by the danger of being caught, laughing because it had added to the thrill of it all. She had smiled wickedly at him while he withered, terrified, on his back in pain, and when she went over to her bag she had loved hearing him beg her to let him go.
So this was what it was like to be fully in control, she thought smiling wickedly. She drew out the knife that she had carried in her backpack and stood over him, letting the light from the candles glint on the shiny blade.
She picked up the bottle of water lying next to her bag and dosed the remaining fire under his balls. He had whimpered and thanked her and she bent down and took his abused penis into her mouth until he was throbbing and erect. She had laughed then, because it both hurt and pleased him when she had done this. She took him into her hand, brought him to the place of no return, and as his seed spilled out onto her, she sliced his penis off in one smooth move.
She had left him there too, crying in anguish, knowing that he’d bleed to death, but not caring enough to stay around and watch; he hadn’t been important enough for that.
She had run then, back to the hostel she had been staying at to gather her remaining things before catching a train back to London and a taxi to the Heathrow airport and getting a plane home under her real name.
And Angela McNealy is still to this day wanted in Scotland for the murder of Justin Joy.