Dark Moon Digest Nine is Out!

Take a look and order one for yourself. Always nice to help out the local publishers, and local authors, I say,

Son of a Preacher Man: The Carver, Part Two

 Takeshi Sato, now off duty, clutched the ink smudged paper in his white knuckled hand as he stood in front of what he hoped would be the final chapter to this horrible nightmare. While his team had been able to decipher the code engraved upon the men, all it gave was an address to a used bookstore.
 Not exactly helpful.
 But then Takeshi had received a note from one of the numerous clerks that worked beneath him, saying it'd been left with a Polaroid photo.
 A black one.
 His forensics team had been able to determine it was a picture of the night sky in the city, the city lights blotting out the starlight and the moon going through its New Moon cycle. Written on the back had been a simple scrawl:
"Two truths in life: the blues and jazz will always be classic, and there is always a Silver Lining. So lounge about for a bit and enjoy some company one dark night."
The cold night air whipped by him as bundled up couples moved past him into the lounge where the low, mournful sound of the blues poured from.

Shaking away the chill of the night, he moved to the door, pulling it open. The low murmur of the crowd was pleasantly muffled by the blues group pouring out melancholy words of misery and sadness. A cheerful attendant stood behind a podium, smiling at the aged Asian officer as he walked up to her.

“Um… my name is Takeshi Sato. I think there might be somebody waiting for me here this evening?” Takeshi asked, feeling stupid for his wild guess that tonight would be the night the Organ-Snatcher would choose to meet, the darkness of the streets from the lack of a moon fitting his modus operandi, his only modus operandi that Takeshi was ever able to tag him with.

Much to his surprise the girl nodded and pointed to her book. “Yes sir, you have one of the private booths in the back near the band. Let me walk you there and I’ll have someone take your order for you.”

Following her through this surreal moment, Takeshi’s eyes scanned the rear booths, all shrouded with curtains for privacy, lit by candlelit from within. There was only one booth with the curtains drawn tight.

“My… friend, has he… has he been waiting long?” Takeshi asks above the den of the crowd, causing the hostess to turn and look at him with a thoughtful expression.

“He came in around seven, so only about three hours.” She said with a laugh, quickly covering it up. “He didn’t seem to mind waiting though, making requests from the band as often as we’ll let him.”

“What does he request?” Takeshi asked, his curiosity eating him alive as the wove through the sea of tables.

“He’s had the band play this one song three times now, the Son of a Preacher man, but otherwise he asks for Johnny Cash songs.” She said with a genial shrug, stopping outside the booth. “Mr. Salinger, your guest is here.”

“Go ahead and undo the curtain, but please close it after he’s settled himself in.” Came a calm voice with just the barest hint of an accent. “And anything he orders, just put on my tab.”

“Yes sir!” The hostess chirped before turning to Takeshi, “A waitress will be here in a moment.”

“Thank you,” Takeshi stuttered as he pulled the curtain open and moved into the booth seat, pulling the curtain closed as he took in the appearance of the man he’d spent a full year hunting.

He was disappointed.

The man was slightly older, yes, but Takeshi was older than he was easily. This man had greying hair peppered with black flakes desperately hanging on, skin that had just started to crinkle with age, around the corners of his lips and his eyes. Truthfully, Takeshi couldn’t place his age to save his life, but for some reason, be it the way the man held himself or by the haunted look of his hazel eyes, he looked far older than the rest of his body did.

He was dressed in a fine coat and suit with a blood red tie, golden cufflinks sparkling from his wrist.

“So…” Takeshi started, looking at the man he knew to have killed at least eighty people between the killings a few nights ago and his previous stint. “Why?”

The man, this Salinger, merely leaned forward, an expensive tray of delicious looking steamed crab and shrimp sitting untouched by his elbow. “Because a good crime can only be a great one if the people understand it.”

“What?”

“Chief Detective… not much more room for advancement for you, is there?” Salinger asked, changing the subject. “Barring a good number of people go missing or die in a sudden way.”

“What do you mean by that?” Takeshi asked, a little afraid to know the answer. He couldn’t exactly pull his gun on this man in such close quarters, and he saw the autopsy reports from his victims’ years ago, the pictures of those foolish enough to think he was harmless.

“What I mean is that you are stuck in a virtual quagmire of office politics and bureaucracy that will see to it that you’ll never advance beyond where you are now, and you know it.” Salinger said, once again leaning back in his seat, just as the curtain opened up and a slender arm reached in dropping off a martini with three olives and a medium rare steak.

His favorite.

He looked up at Salinger who merely waved it away. “You’d feel better not knowing, trust me. Now, the only way for you to advance is to have you make headlines like you did with my case.”

“But I never solved it!” Takeshi said around a mouthful of steak.

“Because you couldn’t. But I noticed you trying, and let me tell you if the game had been fair back then you would have caught me.” Salinger said with no bravado or derision, just as a man stating facts. “Go ahead, I know you’ll never be able to rest should you never be able to ask certain… aspects of my killings.”

“What were you doing with the organs that you stole? How did you choose who to attack?” Takeshi asked hurriedly, ignoring the eerie fact that the man somehow seemed to know what he was thinking.

“Eleven surgeons across the state of New York would trade with me the stolen organs for polluted blood taken from the ill: HIV patients, Hepatitis victims, and the like.” Salinger replied while lifting a small stray hair from his coat with a gloved hand. “As for how I chose, I’d usually choose them from weddings I would attend.”

“Weddings?”

“Yes, at a Temple I used to frequent. As you may not have ever guessed, I’m-”

“Jewish… that’s why there were three months when there were no attacks!” Takeshi said suddenly, interrupting Salinger, who merely sat by bemused. “The New Moon fell on the Sabbath!”

Nodding, Salinger clapped a few times while letting out a low chuckle. “I know you had the police searching the city from top to bottom for my supposed extra victims, but I never hunted on the Sabbath.”

“But why hunt during the full moon?”

“Well that would be because I’m a Vampire.” Salinger replied simply enough, holding up a hand to prevent Takeshi from saying anything. “As such, I have certain abilities that allow me to hunt better within the darkness, to read the minds of those around me and grant me a certain measure of strength and speed. Makes me an excellent killer, truth be told.”

“You’re a Vampire?” Takeshi chuckled, his opinion of this criminal mastermind slowly warping into that of a deranged killer who’d merely had a savant level of planning to prevent himself from being captured.

“Proof would change your opinion of me I assume? And savant’s are good at only a few things, while I excel at hundreds.” He asked.

Takeshi, unnerved by the comment, merely shrugged as he cut another slice of steak away, waiting for Salinger to turn into a wolf or bat.

Instead he turned into a corpse. Slowly at first, so slow in fact Takeshi couldn’t tell. But with every second that ticked by Salinger grew thinner, his eyes more sunken, his skin sallow. Blue veins stretching along his neck and temples slowly turned black, radiating out like spider webs over his frame as his hazel eyes turned a hellish red, his mouth distending as a pair of snake-like fangs unfolded from the roof of his mouth. His skin continued to grow paler and paler as it began to shed and flake away, as if all the moisture was being drained from his body. His bones creaking while his skin rustled like dry leaves in the street, he reached into his coat and pulled a flask from an inner pocket before passing it to me, his arm shaking from the strain.

“Take it…” he hissed, his voice now a series of sibilant tones whispering at the fringes of my mind.

Grasping the silver flask and unscrewing the top, I’m instantly revolted by the coppery scent of blood that comes from the flask, a scent that seems to send Salinger into a fit of blissful shivers.

“B Negative… my favorite…” The voices whisper in my ear, coaxing me to hand the flask back to the… thing sitting across from me. He takes it gratefully, putting the flask to his lip and drinking greedily from it.\

Within moments his body is once again whole, his skin flushed and pink, his eyes now a soft green color. Screwing the cap back onto the flask, he tucked it into his jacket in silence, staring at me with a wicked smile.

“Believe me now?”
Continued...

Stanton Creed Pt. Two

Stanton moved over to the cooler, squatting down to examine the various bottles of liquor arrayed before him. Despite the rot betwixt his ears, he could hear the girls murmuring between themselves, the remaining two boys muttering dark mutterings. Scooping up a heavy glass bottle of rum bearing an image of a cocky pirate, Stanton looked over his shoulder.

“Negro? You got a name?” Stanton asked, preferring not to have to call him by his race the entire game.

“It’s James you racist motherfucker.” The man replied through gritted teeth, a fist clenched at his side. “And you can’t just make us do this! What if we just run?”

Stanton let out a wicked laugh as he burst into a puff of black sand and shadow, reforming between the two men holding the bottle of rum, both arms slung around their shoulders. “I’m cursed to roam these lands boy,” Stanton said, stressing the last word with amusement before shoving the bottle into the older boys hands. “Since we’re getting along like a circle with a peace pipe, let’s hear some names so I don’t have to call you by what I think of you.”

The older boy, holding the bottle and looking a tad confused, merely said his name in a single word as he moved to grab shot glasses fro his backpack. “Jesse.”

“Jesse and James,” Stanton said with a thick chuckle, taking a moment to hawk and spit a globule of mud and roaches from his lungs, wiping his mouth on his dirt encrusted sleeve. “I knew a Jesse and a James back when I was more flesh than bone. Good fellas, honest through and through.”

“I’m Jessica,” A blonde girl in a two piece swimsuit, sitting next to a girl with similar hair and facial features. “And this is my sister Becky.”

Stanton merely waved at them with a cocky grin before turning his eyes as cold as death upon the last two women, Jesse walking amongst them passing out shot glasses, one by one.

Stanton smiled as his shot glass bore a small drawing of a devil on it, along with the words “South Padre” across the creatures furry ass.

“I’m Sara,” a thin brunette said, her hands in her lap and eyes on the bonfire. Girl’s in shock… Stanton thought, looking down at the corpse of the man he’d shot for being difficult. Toeing him with his muddy boot, Sara winced as he did so bringing a horrid smile to Stanon’s wrinkled features.

“And I’m Jackie,” Said a thicker girl that, if Stanton’s rotten eyes weren’t mistaken, was of injun blood.

“And who’s this lump,” Stanton asked, kicking the warm corpse soaking in it’s own bloody sand.

“Jay,” Sara said with a choke.

“Ah… young love.” Stanton said with a sneer. “You beat me in this contest girl, I’ll bring him back for you, healthy as a horse. But old Stanton’ll want something in exchange for this extra bet.”

“What do you want?” She asked, tears welling at the edges of her eyes.

“If I win, I get your soul nonetheless, as well as his, but I also want two additional souls. Don’t care how you get them. You just gotta kill two people before offing yourself.” Stanton said, smiling as he face went a further shade of pale. “You win, I’ll bring the boy back. Simple enough?”

“Now wait a minute mister!” Jackie said suddenly, standing and pointing down at the dead man perched atop a comfortable mound of sand. “Who the hell do you think you are to do this to us? What do we get if we win other than what we already had?”

Stanton stared at Jackie with his dead eyes for a moment before a wry smile cracked his face. “My oh my, a woman with sense! Alright then, you best ol’ Stanton Creed in the game of Drink and toss my body in the well at the top of the hill, you’ll find buried beneath my headstone a sack of gold. Don’t ask me how I got it ‘cause you won’t like the answer, but suffice to say it should make you all plenty happy.”

Quiet murmurs broke out around the camp at the sudden addition of not only living past this night, but possibly being richer. Only Sara remained silent, staring across the bonfire into the glimmering dead eyes of Stanton Creed.

“We’ll play your little game cowboy,” She said in a low voice, “and we’ll beat you too. We have to.”

Stanton just smiled as Jesse began filling up everyone’s shot glass one by one.

The game was on.

Stanton Creed

Stanton Creed blearily opened his eyes, a sickening series of pops and clicks as the desiccated corpse began to move from his fetal position at the bottom of the dried well. His dirt-caked leather jacket and moth eaten short shook free a variety of vermin as the skeletal ghoul rose to his feet, his body slowly rejuvenating as it did every year. Blue veins followed by grey muscle swelled and pulsed along his skeletal frame, filling his clothes with the body of a man who’d been prime physical condition before his death.

Letting out a rattling breath, a chilled fog seeping past his rotted teeth, the reanimated outlaw coughed, clearing his lungs of the dirt and spider webs that had filled them over the past year. Turning to the crumbling stone wall of the well, Stanton Creed began his yearly ascension from his barren grave. His ears picked up the sounds of laughter, of men and women celebrating close by, a sneer spreading across his face, shallow and dirty. As he began to pick-up speed in his ascension, the familiar hunger spread through his body, tingling in his limbs and rattling deep in his bones.

One leathery hand grasping the lip of the well, he heaved his fully fleshed body over the rim, landing on his half-rotted boots. One hand checking his holster for his pistol, he smiled a wicked smile as he made his way down the hill towards the bonfire set up on the beach. Dancing around the fire like the injuns of old, he could make out seven people in total, along with a bright red cooler full of bottles of liquor.

Stopping at just the edge of the light that the bonfire offered, he stood for perhaps five minutes before one of the scantily clad youths caught sight of him.

“Holy shit!” The shirtless man said, pulling a pair of girls further away from him, as if her were about to pounce upon them. “Dude, what the fuck? Get the fuck out of here, invitation only!”

In a voice as thick as mud, a burst of cobwebs blasting past his lipless mouth, Stanton Creed looked to the lad. “This here be my hill boy, I think that be invitation enough.”

One of the other man, a bald, muscular negro, let out a sudden gasp as a large yellow and red centipede curled out from a hole in Stanton’s chest, curling and crawling up to a hole in his neck, burrowing into the leathery flesh with glee.

“What the fuck are you?” The negro asked, the girls moving back to put the bonfire between them and the walking dead.

“A man who was just sleeping before being woken by a band of stupid boys and girls,” Stanton said with a sharp his, taking a moment to quickly take a snort and a bite, spitting out a solid inch of the invading centipede as any other man would spit out chewing tobacco. “Now that you woke me up, one of you has to put me back to sleep.”

“Or we could just fuck you up,” the first boy said, stomping up aggressively towards Stanton, only to realize the ghoul was armed and ready for him, quickly drawing from his holster and emptying three rounds into the boy’s sculpted chest. The boy dropped to the ground, dead, while the girls screamed and the remaining two men stood up, as if they were going to do something about it.

“You could try boys, but old Stanton Creed has an aim as dead as his body,” the corpse boasted, blowing at the end of his rusted six shooter before slipping it back into his holster. “Now just settled down with your womenfolk and get out your liquor, we’re gonna see if you folks can put me to sleep or not.”

“What?” The negro asked, looking at Stanton with a weary eye.

“Simple,” Stanton began, a chattering rasp echoing from his body as a series of spiders came spewing forth past his teeth. “Old Stanton is a man fond of the drink you see, and proud to say that not many can drink him under the coffin. We all take shots of whatever you folk have, the last one standing being the winner. If one of you win, I get to go back to my grave and rot until disturbed again. If I win, I get to bring your souls down to Hell with me.”

“Why the hell would we play against you?” The other man, an older one with a spiked ringlet of ink around his bicep asked.

“Because refusing me means I get to use my gun on you like I did your friend here, a fate that guarantees a good time with Lucifer himself.” 

Authors Note: Inspired by this song, a tribute to the band that has now been added to my playlist for when I write.

Coffin Hop

     To all that have participated in this great event, I am deeply moved by your kind words and well wishes towards my writings. Even the criticisms I received have helped me move forward as a writer, which is all I really want to be.

     As to my lack of updates these last few days, I'm wrapping up a few final projects I have that I am hoping to send to publishers in the near future. Apologies to those wishing to read more of my ongoing tales, but they will be seen to when the time is right.

     With my bones weary and my muscles aching, I think I shall retire for the next few days and try and let the stress just melt away. Perhaps put up a few movie reviews or previews, or merely relax in World Of Warcraft, fishing while listening to some nature sounds.

     Happy Halloween and Sweet Dreams,
     Nicholas Paschall

Zombie Games Coffin Hopper Edition Part Two!

The four-armed monstrosities were capable of taking an absurd amount of abuse, but in the end we downed them as much as they could be downed. One was torn to utter pieces, great swathes of hardened carapace torn free from it’s body, the tarry skin below ripped asunder by Tank’s frenzied rending.

The second one had been handled in a far smoother manner, with Soldier and Suit tackling the creature together, Suit using Tank’s discarded machete to parry away the creatures talons while sliding the blade skillfully between the segmented plating of the creatures body, all the while Soldier was merely breaking whatever limb she could get a hold of, dislocating joints and cracked the creatures shell whenever she could.

Now we had a much more difficult problem on our hands: Tank. The amphetamines I’d pumped into his system had kept him on his feet, but he had been bleeding out the entire time, finally collapsing on top of the twitching carcass of Doctor Dead’s little lab rat. Using what limited supplies I had, I had sewn him up as best I could, using a pair of makeshift tweezers and a needle with unwound steel wool for thread to stitch him back up. While I was patching him up, Geek and Scout were searching the rest of the laboratory, the earlier brawl having somehow made us not even notice the stairwell leading up to the second story and down to a basement. Soldier and Suit were now standing guard at the barricaded door, where the groans of the walking dead were still leaking through the walls.

As I was just finishing with the last hole that had been bored into Tank’s chest, Geek and Scout came down from the upper level, smiles on their faces.

“What’s the good news?” Suit asks casually, leaning against the rattling door as if this were any normal day.

“We found two places we could leave here from, plus a ton of supplies.” Scout squeals, hopping from foot to foot excitedly. “There’s a door that leads to a terrace up on the roof, where we could scale down the wall to the other side of the building and sneak away.”

“Problem is, there are a few of those fast zombies up there, and it looks like they have armor or something sewn into them.” Geek explains, rubbing the back of his head. “There’s a wide plate glass window that lets you look out onto the roof, and there’s like three or four of them just crouching up there, watching the door.”

“What about downstairs?” I ask, knowing Tank was in no condition to be climbing anywhere.

“A grate that leads to a sewer, some more supplies and a map of the island labeling other research facilities.” Geek says with a sigh. “If what I’m guessing is true, the grate should be like a sewer system, leading us straight to another building like this one. And one of them is near the waterfront where that boat is supposed to be.”

“What kind of supplies?” Soldier asks, stepping away from the barricade to begin walking towards the stairs leading up.

“Weird ones, a bunch of swords and knives, plus a lot of medical stuff.” Geek replies, nodding towards the mutilated corpses. “I think these things were supposed to wield weapons, because upstairs is essentially an armory.”

“I’m so there,” Suit says with a smile, moving to follow Soldier up the stairs.

“Where are the medical supplies?” I ask just as Scout hands me a first aid kit. “Perfect! Well, not perfect, but pretty close. Tank will need this for sure.”

Geek pulled a small metal handle from his pocket, handing it to me. “We snagged you this as well. A folding knife, just in case you get stuck too close to one of these fuckers out here.”

Looking at them, I could see that they’d both elected to grab a pair of swords that they’d strapped to their hips, Scout wearing a bandolier with a dozen stub handled knives.

Tank groaned, causing me to turn my attention back to him. I’d been sitting on the floor now with my back up against one of the broken containers, resting his head in my lap and monitoring him for a fever. He coughs and rolls over, spitting up a mouthful of blood as he pushes himself to his feet, wavering as he moved from the crash he’d suffered after the amphetamines had worn off.

“Damn,” he said, his voice dry and raspy, “What the fuck? Feel like I got hit by a truck and ate from a sand box.”

“Normal side effects of the stuff I gave you when you were dying,” I say quickly, grabbing his thick forearm as he teeters back and forth, his other hand rubbing at his eyes.

“Crank?” He asks, looking at me after a moment. “This feels like the crash from crank.”

“Yeah, what the monsters were being fed was a mixture of that,” I answer honestly. “When you got stabbed by the creature, you were about to go down and looked like you were going into shock, so I did what I thought was best.”

“Well I may feel like shit, but at least I’m alive.” He says after a moment, looking around the room. “We killed those fuckers I take it?”

“You killed one yourself, while we all took the other one.”

“Huh, well what’s the sitch now?” He asks, scratching at his stitches.

After I rely what Geek and Scout had told us all, he seemed far more excited as he slowly made his way downstairs with the two of them, asking if they’d seen any weapons for a “man of his size.”

Scout had merely giggled.

I’d just fought off the oncoming headache.

Trouble is, now we have to figure out where we can go without getting killed. Tank’s in better condition than I thought, though still vulnerable, but we’re all better armed now. The sewer system seems like a good idea, but who knows what kind of monsters our host has dropped down there? 

Authors Note: Just leave your vote in the comments below where you think they should head: out through the roof or down through the sewer.

Carver's Code

      After three hours with three dozen certified forensic scientists combing over the bodies, they had come up with the key, a letter folded neatly and wrapped in plastic, tucked into the throat of a younger woman, sixty-three silver-lined lead discs bearing the code J-6440. The following numbers were what was found. 

Codes Found Upon Corpses:

Upon the women: 1 1, 3 7, 4 7, 7 2, 5 5, 8 2, 9 6, 0 5, 2 9, 6 8

Upon the men: E 60, 5 A, NY, 1 1, 3 0, 4 6, 5 5, +, MH, 2 0

The letter itself was directed to "Chief Inspector Takeshi Sato". This had made the older man's stomach turn sour in mere seconds, especially when, upon opening it, his fears were confirmed.

The Organ-Snatcher was back.

"To Chief Inspector Takeshi Sato,

I know in our last correspondence, I swore we would never cross swords again, but I find myself in a situation just too delicious to pass up. With our seventh anniversary upon us, I felt that you needed to stretch your legs, so to speak, and have a chance to catch the one man that always eluded you.

Me.

Now sorry to say, I'll only be in town for the next few days. I have a specific little bar in mind where we could finally meet, face to face. The steps to finding out which one it is and when this will be are all up to you. I left you everything you need to know. Should you get so far, just be sure to ask for copy held in reserve for the past two months for a Mr. Sloan, in honor of your partners death.

Ciao,

S.S."

Authors Note: This is a special gift for the Coffin Hoppers who think themselves to be good at solving puzzles. All the clues are before you, just leave you answers, for those who dare to try, in the comments below. If a correct answer isn't provided in a day then the Carver must strike again, and Sato may never have a chance to close this last case.

Son of a Preacher Man: The Carver

“Gather ‘round children, gather round… I’ve a story to tell!” I say with a smile as I ease myself into my chintz chair, resting my cane next to my small table where I keep my pipe. My smile grows broader as my grandchildren and great-grandchildren all call to each other throughout the house, all giggling and shrieking at the thought of my stories.

I let them take their time as I pack my pipe and look about for a suitable match in my coat. By the time I’ve got my pipe lit and taken a few puffs, my living room has thirty pairs of eyes watching me hungrily, all chattering amongst them about what story I’ll tell tonight. It’s not often I visit anymore, after all.

I blame it on the distance, but my children know that my age is catching up to me.

“Oh my, so fast you’ve all come.” I say with mock-surprise. Over their heads I can see my daughter Ash smile at me, closing the door to the kitchen so that she and her brothers can have some time to themselves.

“We wanna hear your stories Grandpa!” One of my oldest grandchildren says, my dear little Holly. I brush my hand over her head, patting it gently before snuggling deeper into my chair.

“Well, for all of you I have a good tale to tell… a story of murder most foul!” I say with a dark whisper, causing a wave of cooing to come from my adolescent audience. “This… is the story of the Carver.”

***

“Found another one chief,” an officer calls from the upstairs bedroom, his voice a tad despondent. “Just like the others.”

Chief Detective Sato rubbed at his eyes as he stood in the middle of the third largest crime scene he’d ever had the misfortune of visiting during his long career as a, what the tabloids and papers referred to him as, the Serial Killer Catcher. One of the most decorated criminal profilers in the New York Police Departments history, his expertise had led to the capture and arrest of over thirty men and women that had somehow become the monsters that all serial killers were.

The only case he’d ever been unable to solve had been seven years ago to the very day. That left Sato… unsettled.

The Organ-Snatcher had been ritualistically killing every New Moon groups of people, either one at a time or en masse, and removing their organs with surgical precision. He did this for twelve months before he just… stopped. Sato had never mentioned it, but he had received a note from someone claiming to be the killer, apologizing to Sato for all the inconvenience he’d caused him over the years. The signature had been a simple pair of S’s, and three months with forensics had turned up nothing on the note worth, well, noting.

Now Chief Detective Takeshi Sato stood in the middle of an old three story home in Upper Manhattan, surrounded by over forty dead men and women, old and young. Hanging from the walls were flags bearing swastikas, copies of blood spattered copies of Hitler’s manifesto littering the house. While the whole situation was unsettling, what made Sato leery over the whole scenario was that most of the dead looked calm, as if they’d died suddenly, so suddenly in fact that they hadn’t even noticed.

That and they all had great holes in their chests, broken ribs and sternums abundant, with a total of forty-three missing hearts. It reminded him of a case his old partner had been assigned to just as the Organ Grinder stopped his killings. A young mother was found dead, her heart torn from her chest and her son missing. The husband had been ruled out due to the nature of the wound the mother had received, her chest opened with a single strike.

Just like all of these bodies. It was clear they were all in the middle of a meeting of some sort, a picture of Adolf Hitler hanging above the fireplace flanked by a pair of old German flags bearing the symbol that had become so synonymous with evil and hatred. The victims were all white supremacists, but they were still victims.

So far forensics had determined that a singular keg that they had all been drinking from had contained trace amounts of Rohypnol, better known as the date rape drug. Several small gas tanks had been found hidden throughout the house, slowly leaking trace amounts of Carbon Monoxide into the air. Not enough to be lethal, but enough to cause dry mouth and fatigue, enough to make a crowd of drunken racists grow weary and drop their guard.

“Another two up here, same as the rest!” Another officer called from another corner of the house. Sato rubbed at his eyes as he tried not to think of how this could quite easily be the same killer that had eluded him years ago.

Hours later, after sixty-seven heartless bodies had been discovered and transported to the coroner’s office, Sato now sat at his desk in his office, a cold cup of coffee at his side as he stared at a sheet of numbers, numbers that were still being sorted out.

Upon the delivery of the bodies, and the removal of their clothing, the officers had been horrified to find numbers and letters carved into each victim in their left forearm, with a single metal disk the size of a quarter inserted into their chest wounds bearing a number, all exactly the same.

J-6440

He had a few of his investigators looking into that number, but the answers weren’t as forthcoming as Sato would have liked. There were ten dead women with numbers carved into their arms, numbers that Sat believed were significant in two different ways. On one woman the number was 1 then a 1, while another one had a 2 and then a 9. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it.

Another ten, all young adults no older than twenty, had similar carvings, though these carvings also were done with something far more narrow, thin slices as if done with paper. The cuts would have barely even been noticed if not for the scabbing they had formed over the wounds.

Which mean the killer had made these marks before ripping their hearts out, allowing the wounds to close themselves.

On the oldest male they’d found, one Patrick Henderson, the coroner had dug out of his throat a key, a key with the word Sato carved into the side of it.

Taking a sip of his cold coffee, Takeshi shook his head as his worst nightmare had come true: some sick fuck out there was trying to challenge him in a game of wits.

Authors note: Read the previous installments if you wish for this tale to make any sense. I'll be posting the numbers carved into the dead, as well as the 'Forensic File' so that the dear readers can try and solve the mystery for dear Takeshi. Should you solve it, than Takeshi may get to finally meet the man he's thought of for the last seven years. If not, than the story will progress.

Sinister

     As you all know by now I frequent horror movies at almost every opportunity I can get. Well, I wish I had the time wasted watching Sinister back, as the whole film was nothing but a box of re-hashed pop up horror tricks and a ridiculously stupid protagonist that had me rooting for his death within the first half hour of the film.
     I can think of a dozen films that this one has stolen bits and pieces from, creating a true Frankenstein of a horror film, which in my eyes, was about as terrifying as the original Frankenstein in the early thirties. The plot is one that I think every writer has at least partially created at one point or another. In fact, sitting on my hard drive is a story quite similar to Sinister that I've yet to post out of shame.
     Save yourself some money and just wait for this one to come out on Netflix. Just grab any five horror movies you own and watch them back to back and you'll essentially get the same effect. Except there might be some decent acting involved.

Coffin Hopper

     For those who enjoy this blog and wish to seek out others like it, may I recommend visiting Coffin Hop? An excellent source for those who wish to sample the different flavors of horror throughout the whole year, with an emphasis on Halloween of course.

     So go ahead and check them out!