Horrorscopes: Twelve Tales of the Macabre

The Death of George Logan

 Maple Street was as it always had been; the houses stared in sheltered silence at the empty street. Cars were parked for the night in driveways and garages, their doors unlocked, for crime had never reached the nicer side of Bardham. Windows on the sleepy houses were un-shuttered, open to the pleasantly warm mid-June midnight that lay ahead. The sky was clear of clouds and the moon radiated lovingly on Bardham, as it always seemed to. The Old Timers in town loved to tell the ignorant younger generations that God loved Bardham more than the other towns in the Sauk Valley, and He showed it by bestowing upon them the most beautiful weather they could ask for. “Oh, there’s the occasional ball-shaker storm,” they would say. “But where farmin’ and livin’ goes, there’s no place like Bardham.” Tonight was no exception.

The moon, three quarters full, alit the night with a blue haze, as the first of the midnight fog began to appear. The bedroom lights on Maple Street winked out as the last of the Bardham “Night Owls” put aside their television remotes, phones, or the newest horror best-seller, wiggling their toes under the secure comforters of their beds. It was eleven o’clock and the world had become a gaunt painting of blue moon and stark shadow.

One of those shadows had a name. Deep within the shadowy cache of the Henderson’s hedges, this shadow watched with cautious, meditative eyes as the world fell asleep around him. Bill Walters hunkered with his arms rested on his knees, dressed in his blackest hooded sweater, black trousers, and black tennis shoes. On his head he wore a black, knit cap beneath his hood. His hands were gloved, for this was a business which required gloves. The shadow that was Bill Walters sighed silently in anticipation. The last light on Maple Street had gone out twenty minutes ago; if there was an apt time to get on with it, it was now.

Bill crept along the dark hedges to the property line and slid expertly over the neighbor’s fence like a practiced cat burglar with a jewel shining in his eyes. He stalked along the fence for a while, allowing the dark wood to soften the silhouette of which any nosy window-peeper might catch a glimpse. When he had aligned himself properly, Bill dove and somersaulted into the shadow of the porch. He allowed himself a moment to gather himself before continuing. Bill knew that no amount of caution was unnecessary with his agenda. If he had to crawl there upon roof-tops, he would.

George Logan was going to pay.

Bill smiled sharply as he imagined the end of his business, the pay-off that George so greatly owed. Too long had Bill waited to get this dirty job over with. Too long had Bill suffered the injustices of the sadistic George Logan as he be-bopped down the streets of Bardham as if he owned them. Bill was doing the world a favor to eliminate so vile and criminal a creature as George Harrison Logan. But who was he kidding? Bill didn’t care about the world, about the innocent denizens of Bardham, the would-be victims of George’s hateful crimes to humanity. All Bill cared about was his own redemption. George had crumbled Bill’s entire world these past few years of their acquaintance. He had destroyed the content, if not joyful, life that Bill had once known. And for no other reason than George was a brutal, cold-hearted son of a bitch.

Bill’s hands were balled into tight fists, hard as granite, their knuckles as white as alabaster. He made an effort to uncurl the shaking fists and as they relaxed he moved on. From the safe darkness of the porch’s shadow, Bill moved with arachnid stealth to the confining shrubs along the side of the house. From there he crawled on his chest to the next yard, finding solace in the evergreen shadows therein. Bill Walters had become a creature of shadow in life. The once sunny Bill had become a vigilante of darkness because of the evil perversion George Logan had embedded within him.

As undetected as an aneurysm, Bill continued from one yard to the next, all the way down the length of Maple Street. After far too long—after years of fantasizing—Bill was ready. He was ready to do what had to be done. The home of George Logan loomed ahead like a lighthouse in turbulent seas. Bill’s smile returned. He had become a shadowy predator, but he didn’t care: life would go on. But not for George.

With a heroic burst of courage, Bill ran across the street on silent shoes and ducked down in the shadow of George’s garage. He paused there for several minutes to catch the breath that was hitching rapidly with excitement. He knew that he was too deep in the dragon’s lair to compose himself, but once he had stilled his limbs from trembling like with palsy, he crawled further on. The side of George’s yard was barren of trees or bushes, so Bill had to be quick as he moved to the back of the house. He stared from his low vantage point in the back yard, George’s pool sloshing behind him as if in warning. Look out, Georgie! Bill Walters is here for you!

Bill didn’t care. He was too close to back away now. It was time to avenge himself for the heinous acts performed by George Logan.

Bill climbed as quietly as he could onto the deck attached to the rear of George’s house. He cringed with every creak of the old boards as he crossed to the drain gutter at the corner. Bill had never been athletic, but he had no trouble shimmying up the gutter to the second floor; he was fueled by years of pent-up rage, finally, explicitly exhaustible.

The window to George’s bedroom was dark and only inches from Bill’s face. He caught a quick reflection of his own face and turned away. His expression had been gaunt, pallid, and undeniably sinful in that midnight window pane. He recognized that he had gone from jack-rabbit to jackal, but he had come too far. What ever eternal consequences may come, it was time to do the doing. Besides, he was the victim. None of this would be necessary if not for George…

The window slid open with the easy silence that Bill—that any predator—considered a miraculous sign from the Omnipotent One that his mission was righteous. Bill took one last justifying breath of his past life, and then slid in through the open, vulval window. It was time for his rebirth.

The sleeping form of George Logan swelled with snores beneath the blanket-shroud which covered him. Bill watched the evil face of his enemy in repose. He stood over him for several minutes, smiling, his eyes marking every detail to hold in memory, smelling the mephitic breath of his nemesis.

At last, when the ecstasy had proved too much, Bill produced a filet knife from within his dark, exoskeletal clothing. He held the knife over George’s vulnerable throat just long enough to spit on his sleeping face, and then swiped the blade across with vicious force. The blade cut nearly through to the spine and blood spewed up from the wound, spattering Bill’s face. George’s eyes opened wide, his mouth moving like a caught bass’s as his words disappeared in a bubbly froth at his opened throat.

Bill smiled coolly from above George’s dying face, reveling in the arterial spray that weakened with each slowing heartbeat.

Black sneakers slapped the pavement as Bill Walters returned down Maple Street, not sneaking this time, but nonchalantly be-bopping as if he owned the place. He whistled merrily with the song the breeze sang and snapped his fingers in time. He was elated that George was finally dead. Bill would never sleep tonight, but that was all right. That was fine. Because he knew that tomorrow would be a new day. Tomorrow, Georgie Logan wouldn’t pinch him in the lunch line. Tomorrow, Georgie Logan wouldn’t call him names while he traded baseball cards with Scott Madison on the playground during recess. George was dead, and could never bother him again.