Stories to Tell in the Dark

Nihil

'The first time I heard the legend of the Mad Hangman was from another inmate in our prison. He told me that there was a man with the ability to ward off death. That he was immortal. At first I thought it was a comforting fable for people who were about to be executed, but then I heard it from other places. '
'His name was August Atherstone. A master executioner in Britain in the 1800s.'
'He hanged a countless number of criminals. There were rumours that the only way August could get so effective at killing was that he performed 'unofficial' executions. Favours for prisons who quickly wanted rid of an inmate.'
'August said he had seen 'reflections of the afterlife' in dead eyes so many times that death and life became one. He was Death's Messenger, and through this, entered into a pact with Death Himself.'
'Some people say he was afflicted with eternal life. Some say Death rewarded him.'
'He walks the earth now. Waiting by the graves of his loved ones for Death to finally come for him. But he never does.'
'They say that some cults worship August as a God. They offer him sacrifices so that they too can live forever. I tried to find them. I couldn't. That's why I ended up here.'
– The legend of the Mad Hangman, pieced together by various letters found in an abandoned apartment.
Death Himself is a mystery; the milestone to which we measure life. We wait for him like we await an old friend, often attempting to delay his intervention, but never to defy him entirely.
He was my obsession. I longed to see the world through Death's gaze. By the time monotony and routine had become the foundations of my existence, I had learned that life held no discernible meaning. Death would come for me, and I would be a name carved into stone, long forgotten before high winds prevented graveyard visits and overgrown wilderness masked the details of the dead on my colorless headstone. Through some divine inspiration; perhaps driven by the stale nothingness of reality, I unknowingly embarked upon a journey into the realms of the unreal.
I began contacting murderers, serial killers, terrorists, cult followers, cult leaders, mental patients, grave robbers, necrophiliacs, cannibals; any type of deranged mind I could locate the whereabouts of. Within a few months I had contacted notorious inmates such as John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy. It seems that I had a natural talent for eliciting a response from such people. I would study their victimology and work backwards, often posing as a woman, or a gay man, or a devotee of their interpretation of art. On the night Ted wrote his last letter to me, he had signed off with 'your friend', and it was no coincidence that he was executed the following morning. I always found it humorous how the prospect of death reveals true intentions, even from someone as experienced in the art of death as Ted was.

My interest in high-profile killers began to wane, as their stories were often elaborated to the point of fiction. My concern, then, moved onto lesser known evil. The nameless occult killer haunting the backstreets of small towns; the curious Satanist eager to offer his new God-deity his first sacrifice. After all, if I was to unlock the secrets of Death, would I not find it veiled in the unattainable depths of a morbid psyche?
What became clear through my correspondence was that although serial killers were the most egotistical people alive, they held a secret admiration for each other's work. An admiration which existed only in the murderer's collective conscience, never to be spoken of. It was not uncommon for me to play the part of the middle man, passing messages between psychopaths across the country. It was through this that I learnt the legend of the August Atherstone, the Mad Hangman, and his pact with Death Himself. Whenever a serial killer with occult connections was incarcerated, several murderers would try to contact them, and the subject of the Mad Hangman seldom arose.
Occasionally, I would be asked if I could contact certain people who I wasn't familiar with. It was rare that this happened, but one name in particular kept arising; Baron. I had uncovered no details regarding such a person, but I was assured he existed. Robin Gecht informed me that Baron was an unstoppable, merciless killing machine driven by ritualistic delusions. Rod Ferrell was certain he had met Baron before, and that he was somehow affiliated with the cult which worshipped the Mad Hangman. Months of searching for this mysterious inmate yielded no results, until I received a letter from a cannibal in Britain.
'He's here.
There's a cell in the basement we call the Throne Room, because it's just a chair and nothing else. Some of the guards organise fights between inmates down there and a couple of guys claim to have seen an unknown prisoner in the Throne Room. I've overheard conversations between guards – he's painted the walls with his own blood, his mouth has been sewn shut, he wears a mask, he's been eating rats. I sometimes hear sounds coming from his cell. It isn't screaming, or shouting, or any of the shit you usually hear in prisons at night. The noises coming from down there are not human.
I know from experience that he won't be around long.
I've heard that the guards have been told to 'get rid of him.' They will unofficially execute him, August Atherstone style. If you want to see Baron, get here quick.
Stephen G, inmate #364, Wakefield Prison Monster Mansion'
I made arrangements to travel to Wakefield, not hesitating to leave routine and monotony behind.
Standing infront of the Monster Mansion itself, its gigantic stone walls cast a shadow on the sleepy town beneath. Cold January rain beat against the arched gates which slowly opened to reveal a gothic palace housing the most deranged criminals in England.
'I have a visit scheduled to see Stephen Griffiths, inmate #364,' I told the guard, who escorted me to our allocated room.
'I'll be supervising your meeting with Mr Griffiths,' said the guard. He tied back his long hair with a hairband from his wrist and straightened his uniform.
'It's for your own safety, and to make sure nothing is given or exchanged. Do you understand?'
I agreed to the protocol, and soon found myself sitting face to face with Stephen – a sociopathic cannibal lusting for infamy. His shackled hands rested in his lap, and his gaze was primarily focused on the table between us. We made small talk, such as how I was finding my stay in England and what I did for work. Stephen's crimes did not interest me in the slightest, nor did his life story. I had begun regular correspondence with Stephen so that my motives for entering Wakefield Prison would not be questioned. I suspected Stephen knew my true agenda, but who was he to reject friendship?