I was afraid to face the memories living there. I was scared to confront the man who haunted them. But most of all, I was terrified to face what happened after, for fear of what I may lose.
Fine. If ‘after’ was the price, I’d pay in full.
Screams emanated from down the hall, their crescendoing echo breaking my focus on the files spread all over my living room.
Paper fluttered as I sat up and looked around. The contents of all seven boxes were strewn around the room in organized chaos. Chaos that, judging by his hell-fire eyes, Jesus was not happy about.
More screams came pouring into my apartment and if that wasn’t the twelve shots of espresso I needed to get through the day, I didn’t know what was.
Even better was that, if I knew murder, and I did, the screams sounded like the sort that normally came from Barb’s apartment. Exhausted, yet still able to feel holy terror.
Perfect. I needed to talk to her.
“Let’s go see what Barb is up to, shall we?” I needed a break anyway before I went cross-eyed permanently.
Jesus was not a fan of my cheery tone, as was expressed by the bitchy swish of his tail.
“There might be fingers involved,” I sang, hoping to be a little more enticing.
The hellcat watched me for a few beats before throwing me a mental eyeroll and following me out the door.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to pass that up, Mister Holier Than Thou.”
Jesus growled a warning. I ignored him.
The furry king of pride rested his ass on the stairwell banister as I stood on the landing and listened in, trying to determine which direction the screamshad come from.
“I swear, Jesus, if I missed out on a good killing because you were so indecisive I’ll lead Judas right to you.”
I got lucky. As soon as I was done cursing the cat, another round of torturous tunes led me up the steps and giddy excitement tingled down my limbs.
My favorite sadistic neighbor was working her magic.
When I hit the landing, the sweet smell of cooked meat was like perfume in the air.
I inhaled deeply. “Do you smell that Jesus? Ahhhh,” I sighed on the exhale. “That is the simmering smell of psychopathy.”
I nodded down to my best friend and smiled when he licked his lips.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Barb?” I called out. “Can I come in?”
Pained moans were the answer, followed by the high pitched squeal of a power tool.
“Barb!” I pounded on the door. “Let me in, you cranky old bitch!”
Instruments slammed and the telling sound of her shuffled footsteps came closer.
My hair ruffled in the wind created by the violent opening of her front door.
“What?” she answered as joyfully as a hundred year old Louisiana Bayou serial killer could.
“Barb! You’re looking great!” The instant glare drilling a hole in my forehead told me she was highly unamused. “Sounds like you’ve got some fun stuff going on in there.”
I smiled, peering over her shoulder as I rocked back and forth on my feet. A murderer I may be, but I was not raised without manners. One does not simply invite oneself into a serial killer’s lair. Unless, of course, they’re eager to be the next one on Bayou Barb’s medicine table.
“You look like shit,” she said as she stepped aside.
