Castillo paused for a moment. “It will have to be quick. I’ll be there in ten to pick you up, and we’ll head over together.”
I got up from my bed quickly and dressed myself before second-guessing what I was doing. I didn’t have time to think or to process anything. I had killed a man, my boss, in cold blood. Meanwhile, Clara’s body was still hanging from the ceiling of his basement. It was the perfect setup.
When Castillo pulled in, she beeped for me to get in the car. She drove fast with lights and sirens, not saying a word. Snow was falling; the town outside the windows was a blur of white, with not many people in sight.
That was the effect of having a severed foot inside a stocking in the middle of the town square. People were afraid. The Xmas Day Butcher had returned from the dead. I was certain they thought that, because I thought the same thing.
When we arrived at George’s house and got out of the car, you could feel it in the air. It was too quiet and too still. Something was very wrong. I knew what it was, but Detective Castillo was about to find out.
We went up the steps to the porch. Castillo pounded on the door and waited. There was nothing but silence.
She turned, a concerned look on her face. “Let’s go around back.” I followed her as she went back down and walked around the house, towards the basement. My chest tightened as we got closer.
She inspected the door. “There’s no lock.” Her eyes scanned around our immediate vicinity and eventually found the open lock on the floor. “Found it,” she muttered.
She swung open the doors and stepped inside slowly. I followed from behind, careful to keep my distance, just in case. I waited for her reaction…she soon gasped and cursed under her breath.
I peeked over her shoulder and saw that Clara’s dead body was still there, cold, lifeless, and continuing to decay. George was nearby, unmoving, in the same position I had left him in—the axe cruelly impaling him.
Castillo remained motionless. She didn’t speak and didn’t move for a good thirty seconds. “Holy mother of…my god, Lenny. Clara…she’s there. After all this time…the poor girl is dead, and George…good grief. What is this mess? This horror show?” she whispered, in utter disbelief.
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even breathe. The sight of them—of Clara and George, father and daughter, both dead…murdered…was truly haunting. I knew that this vile, disturbing image would be burned into my already tormented mind for a long, long time.
It reminded me of when Colton Kilhouser had slaughtered my family. So much death, so much destruction, so much pain…and all for what?
“No…it can’t be. George is dead, Detective. He was my friend. I can’t believe he’s dead,” I said softly, tears rolling down my cheeks. She turned and pursed her lips together, offering her condolences quietly.
When Castillo inched forward, she noticed the empty gift box on the floor beside the dead bodies.
Her low voice broke the silence, still full of shock. “Was this the gift?” she asked quietly. “Two dead bodies? Is this the work of the Xmas Day Butcher?”
I couldn’t look at her. A chill ran down my spine as I tried to calm myself. “I… I don’t know,” I lied, but even I didn’t believe it. “I think the Xmas Day Butcher has really begun the sick game he’s been wanting to play.”
She narrowed her eyes, scanning the rest of the basement. “There’s a big mess here, like there was an altercation. George must’ve tried to protect himself from an assailant.” Her cautious eyes landed on me. They drifted to my arms, which had a few bruises I hadn’t noticed before, but she didn’t say a word.
Her suspicious gaze was alarming. The idea that I might’ve been involved with George and Clara’s deaths could’ve crossed her mind. But I wasn’t saying a word. From now on, I’d keep the Xmas Day Butcher’s gifts to myself, unless I felt I’d be able to ask Detective Castillo for her assistance.
She inspected me closely. “You should go home, Lenny. You look exhausted. I’ll call someone to take you. Don’t worry, I’ll handle this,” she said gently. “Merry fuckin’ Christmas, Detective Castillo,” she said in an exasperated tone.
I didn’t say anything. I only nodded.
I didn’t remember much after an officer arrived to take me back home. I blacked out, hoping to wash out the dark memory of what I had done.
When I stumbled back inside my house, the dreadful silence echoed in my ears. A delayed sense of panic wrapped itself around my throat. I figured it’d only be a matter of time until Detective Castillo found out what I did.
I collapsed on the couch; the weight of everything I had done was crashing down on me. I could feel the guilt mounting inside of me like a volcano waiting to erupt.
I’d murdered George. He had killed Henry Hamonte; that’s what he had confessed to, but it didn’t justify what I did. It never would.
If he didn’t kill Clara—was it the Xmas Day Butcher? And why? How did that connect with Angela? With me?
I couldn’t make sense of any of it. I didn’t know what was real anymore. My nightmares were becoming more vivid, and those images were blurring with reality.
There was movement near the window. It was the shadowy figure; it was staring at me with wild eyes. It looked like me at first, then it shifted into Angela when I blinked. I sprang up from my couch, prepared to confront it, but when I moved forward, it was gone.
I collapsed back onto my couch, the room turning upside down as my eyelids grew heavy.
A familiar voice echoed in my ears: “Find me in the old white church…come with me…come with me! Now!”
