I ferociously rubbed my temples, trying to stop the brutal pounding in my cranium. I felt him taunting me—the Xmas Day Butcher. That monster wasn’t just out there somewhere, playing their sinister game, toying and torturing my mind; they were with me, twirling me around their finger, unraveling the very last crumbs of sanity I had left.
I couldn’t stop seeing Angela’s severed finger, frozen and red. The Xmas Day Butcher had left it for me like a deranged trophy of what he had done to my poor wife. That horrific image was burned into the inside of my eyelids. When I shut my eyes, I imagined her face contorting in excruciating pain, the pleading sobs as tears ran down her flushed cheeks.
I wanted to hold her close, to tell her it would all be okay. When I found her, I knew nothing would ever be the same again, but that was fine. We’d get through it—together. I had the Xmas Day Butcher to thank for that.
Something shadowy moved outside the window across from me as I jerked my head up, eyes wide. I froze, my breath becoming quiet. When I blinked, the black shape was there again—a tall, crooked thing staring back at me with cold, dead eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. I blinked again, and it was gone.
I’m imagining things…I’m imagining things…it wasn’t real.
I thought about going to Detective Castillo, but the idea filled me with a dull sense of hopelessness. She wasn’t able to recover any traces of DNA from the gift boxes I had given her, and she wasn’t much help, even if she wanted to be. She just didn’t have the resources.
Waiting for her to do something was a death sentence. I needed to find the answers myself. I needed to do what the Xmas Day Butcher wanted. That meant that I needed to check George’s basement tonight, without him knowing.
There was something about him, something different. Maybe I was just imagining things, but it seemed like he was hiding something regarding Clara and Henry Hamonte. There must’ve been something there, but I didn’t know what it was yet.
My eyelids felt heavy, and I had a hard time keeping them open. I got up from my chair too fast and felt dizzy. When I walked forward, I tripped over myself and fell to the ground. I groaned as I turned on my stomach, rubbing my spine as it burned with pain. I couldn’t take the tiredness anymore—I shut my eyes, engulfing myself in total darkness.
I woke up with a jolt. I was still on the floor, a heaviness draped all over my body. My head was still pounding, though slightly. Then I remembered what I had to do, as I felt a sudden surge of heat on the back of my neck.
George’s Basement.
I checked my watch; it was11:05 PM. I slid out my phone and checked my call log: no calls. It seemed like I was behaving myself.
I still had time to do what I needed to do. I rushed to my room and pulled clean clothes out of the closet. I took off my own, which were sweated in, and quickly slipped on the new ones, which included: my coat, a beanie, a pair of gloves, and sweatpants.
I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was doing it for Angela. I walked out of my house calmly and shut the door behind me, locking it.
I set myself on the path back to George’s house. I still had his set of keys, and I wouldn’t think he’d have the energy to change all the locks in the house just to keep me out. I kept my head down and marched on, braving the cold winds that were picking up as I went forward.
George’s house looked dead quiet in the icy darkness. I slowed my walk as I approached it and kept my eyes peeled just in case he was crawling around. I avoided the front of his house altogether and snuck around back. I hopped over the wooden picket fence and crouched down.
I waited. There were no footsteps, no labored breathing. I was good to go. I stood up, maintaining my balance, and gently stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, until I reached the basement door.
I saw the heavy padlock dangling from it—old and rusted. I had the key, but if I didn’t, I was sure I’d be able to break it open with a good swing from a sledgehammer I could get from the nearby shed.
No one ever really went down there, not even George. I took the keys out of my pocket and inserted the right one into the lock, gently turning it until it clicked open. I grabbed it and took it out, tossing it aside on the ground.
When I gently opened the door, the smell hit me first—a musty aroma of old copper and damp air. My stomach almost erupted, but I kept it down.
I went down the steps cautiously, taking out my phone to turn on the flashlight. The beam illuminated the inside, while my throat went dry. My heart raced as I mentally prepared myself for anything to jump out at me.
The basement was creepier than I remembered, the walls lined with old wooden shelves for tools, cobwebs draped all over them, and a few boxes filled with tools were thrown about.
When I approached the center of the basement, I saw it. A dark shape, dangling from the ceiling.
My first thought was a mannequin—some grotesque decoration from the Xmas Day Butcher, in an effort to scare the shit out of me and send another one of his twisted messages.
When I raised my flashlight, I saw that it was a horribly decayed body—a dead one. It was wrapped in strands of Christmas lights, half-frozen and zombified. My breath quickened, and my heart hammered against my ribs as I dared to step closer.
I shone the light on the face of the poor victim. Her dead eyes stared blankly back at me, her lips slightly parted.
It had a pink sweater on, with a name tag.
I staggered backwards, my breathing becoming quick and frantic, my head spinning, my phone slipping from my shaky hand. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at.
It was Clara’s dead body.
CHAPTER 11
