Return to Slaughter House

It was that time again.

I had an appointment with that lunatic at Burkham.

All he would do, normally, was stare with that blank expression. He tried to look somewhat innocent, but I knew if that bastard was ever one thing, it damn sure wasn't innocent.

'How does this guy manage to sleep at night knowing he cut up three people like they were Thanksgiving turkeys?' I ask myself as I make my way down the frost-white walls of the assylum.

First, the city of Hamilton puts this guy, James H. Delaney, in prison with no bail and gives him life. Sounds pretty fair, right? Then, the ward says that he had a psychotic breakdown one glorious afternoon in his cozy cell and decides to inform the police chief. So the city decides to stuff this son-of-a-bitch in this nuthouse. Personally, I would've given him the chair. Or some similar form of torture. Nobody, I don't care if you were the Queen of England, gets away with chopping off body parts without getting some things chopped off, themselves. An eye for an eye, I always say.

Our first visit was somewhat momentus. To give you a little bit of background on why I was at this hell-hole in the first place, I'm a private investigator hired by a Mr. and Mrs. Lansing to find out what the hell really happened in Hamilton, Texas nearly a year ago. The Lansings lived about five miles from the infamous Bridgewood place, and they claim to have heard screaming, moaning, and so forth during the late hours while they were sleeping. Now I'm thinking, this case is closed, people. This farmer, Jim Delaney, who as I have been informed has had frequent bouts of hysteria, got the sick and twisted idea to lure the homebuyer, the Realtor, and the Realtor's assistant in the barn behind the house and tear them apart limb from limb. So I talk to Mr. Delaney, who is heavily confined at the time of our meeting, and he says that he did nothing of the sort, as he should say. No killer really confesses. They just make excuses until the truth smacks them in the face.

Unfortunately, there isn't any concrete evidence that this nutball committed any crime other than the fact that he was the only one on the property at the approximate time of murder. There have been skeptics in that backward little town crazy enough to defend Mr. Delaney, claiming that he would never do such a thing. And then I tell 'em, "That's what they said about Norman Bates," and that usually shuts them up. The only reason I'm even doing this job is so I can pay off my car note, so you can probably guess that my emotional attachment to this guy is slim to none. And that '07 Solara in the parking lot isn't going to pay itself off, I can tell you that.

The Lansings, as old and feebleminded as they are, mean well. They just want to know the truth, which by all means is understandable. The only problem is that there's nothing to work with. No evidence. No clues. The house and the barn were totally refurbished inside and out so that the idiots of Hamilton could convert it into a theme park attraction.

Come one! Come all! Step right up to the famous Slaughter House where not one, not two, but three people were killed by ghosts and goblins! If you don't believe it, just check out that creepy-looking barn behind the house!

Oh yeah, that's where I'd spend my money any day. If the old fogies weren't paying me fifty bucks an hour, you wouldn't see me get within a hundred yards of that place.

Back to my visit with the criminal-in-denial, I finally get the nerve to ask the bastard his motive for the killings. He says there was no motive. What a surprise. So he's not a schitzo, a homicidal maniac, or a paid assasin. He just happened to accidently kill three innocent people in a barn. Makes sense, right? So before I ask him my last question, he bursts out of his seat and yells, "There were two guys! A man and a little boy! They walked out of the barn and then they just disappeared!"

So as security was taking care of poor Jim, I made the conclusion that he was in the right place after all. Mr. Delaney was clearly beyond therapy, but I told him as he was being hauled off to his cell that I'd make one last visit before I report anything back to the Lansings, bless their souls.

So here I am once again at Burkham Assylum, and frankly, I want this visit to be short and sweet.

My gray pennyloafers squeak loudly as I make my way down Burkham's sterile hallway. The sound is enough to make me want to take off my shoes and throw them out the window. Then I remember that all of the windows are protected by rows of iron bars. My shoes would've never escaped.

With every step, I hear a soft, steady murmur. I know people are watching me. Crazy, deranged lunatics with piercing, yellow eyes. I'm sure that they haven't had sleep in quite some time. The crazies howl and cry out obsenities as I pass each of their padded cells. They probably think I'm some kind of prick trying to intimidate them. The briefcase I hold firmly in my left hand carries more than the papers I use to jot down notes and various interviews. It is also used for protection. I could knock out any one of these crazies with one swift blow. They probably wouldn't even feel a thing, having been so immune to physical pain for so many years due to their drug dependancies. But who am I to judge? I'm not a looney.

I'm about three doors away from the Slaughter House murderer and to tell you the truth, I feel like Jodie Foster before she goes to visit Hannibal Lector for the first time. Except in this instance, I think I already know what's in store. He'll start ranting and raving over some dream he had, or maybe he'll vent about his disturbed childhood. The last thing I'm expecting is a confession. Or even some small piece of evidence that could take me where I can find the real culprit, if he or she exists.

I'm at his room.

It's the moment of glory. I told myself before I left home that if I don't get anything, I can always drop the case and say I tried. The Lansings might not mind, although I'm sure they wouldn't be pleased with the fact that I wasted two days (and about five working hours) of their time (and more importantly, their money).

The door handle is cold to the touch. It feels about forty degrees in here already, so I can imagine that the knob had absorbed quite a bit of the chill. Before I turn the knob, I realize that I forgot to swipe the special visitor's key card in the slot above the door knob. I'm already getting ahead of myself. Maybe I can call in sick or find a way to excuse myself from the meeting. 'Sorry, Jim, my car broke down after I stopped to let a black cat cross the street,' I'm sure he could appreciate that answer.

No, I have a job to do.

Talk to the crazy man. Get as much as you can in the allowed time and leave.

I jam the card key into the slot. Then I swoosh it across. No cigar. By the fourth time the door manages to open, and I'm now fully aware of a large Hispanic security guard to my right. He has his eye on me. I make an uneasy grin and open the door.

As I make my way inside the claustrophobic cell, I see the lunatic, bound to a chair. There is a small table and an office chair to the right of the door, and I take my seat. I'm not even sure what to say at this point because I know I'm not dealing with someone . . . what's the word I'm looking for--normal. I see him shaking vigorously in his white straightjacket. He's not going anywhere. I take out my briefcase and open it, just to bide some time. I can't stand to look around the room because it feels as though the walls might cave in on me. I'm not technically claustrophobic, but tight spaces have a way of rattling my nerves. As if I weren't nervous enough.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Delaney?" I finally ask him as I sort through my papers for the interview.

"F-fine, Mr. Summoner,"

"It's Sumner, not Summoner,"

"Oh . . . Sumner. That's right,"

I knew he was bullshitting. I should've just stayed in bed this morning.

"Do you have anything new that you'd like to share with me today?"

By the look in his eyes, I figured that he isn't up for any kind of interrogation today.

"Now look, I'm not here to make a fool of you, Mr. Delaney," I tell him as I recline in the chair. "I just want to know what really happened the night of October 3rd in Hamil-"

"I told you I didn't do shit!" he shouts angrily, lifting up his head. His eyes are yellow and sick-looking. While observing his gangly, thin frame, I can assume that he probably refuses to eat, as well.

"Well, can you tell me anything at all?"

He thinks over this for some time. After about five minutes (which felt more like five hours) Jim straightens up in the chair, eyes locked on to mine.

"I did have a dream last night," he says.

Do I know crazies or what?

"Okay, Mr. Delaney. Humor me,"

"Well, I'm at the old Bridgewood place. In my dream, that is. And . . . this little boy just comes out of no where. I don't really know where I am in the house, but there's stairs in front of me. This little kid . . . he's holding some woman's head . . . he keeps saying 'Don't scream or he'll find you' over and over again. Then . . . the head starts sayin' it! Over and over again . . . Don't scream or he'll find you! Don't scream or he'll find you!"

"Well, that was certainly entertaining, Mr. Delaney, but I'm afraid I'm not a psychiatrist. I want some answers, Mr. Delaney. I could get you out of here and back to your home! Just give me some more detail of that night,"

I'm lying through my teeth, but I figure, what else is there to lose?

He lowers his head, and I hear him mumble something under his breath.

"What's that?" I ask intently.

Jim raises his head up once again and looks at me with those sickly, yellow eyes.

"Don't scream or he'll find you! Don't scream or he'll find you!"

I slowly get up from the chair and make my way towards the door.

"Don't scream or he'll find you! Don't scream or-"

"He'll find me," I reply calmly. "You told me that more than once. Who exactly is going to find me?"

"Don't scream or he'll find you!"

"Thanks again for your time, Mr. Delaney,"

And good riddance.

As I leave the room, I glance at Jim in his chair, screaming and shouting like a mad dog, struggling to get out of his straightjacket.

I need a vacation.

Walking down the Clorox-scented hallway, I let out a sigh and tighten my grip on the briefcase handle. Only one place left to go, and I'll be done with this case. I just hope Bridgewood gives me more answers than Jim.



The house isn't really as grand or intimidating as I'd originally imagined.

Just really creepy.

As luck would have it, I came to have a look at the house when there was a tour, with atleast a dozen families, couples, and elderly folk flocking to know the haunted history of Bridgewood. Just lovely. I knew I shouldn't have come on a Saturday.

Wait a minute. There must be some other reason why Bridgewood is such a hot spot during this time. I know it's the weekend, but Halloween isn't until the end of the month and . . .

Oh shit.

I took out my cell phone and opened up the face. Today's date was October 2nd. The day before the one-year anniversary of the big Bridgewood murder. The same one that I'm investigating. How the hell didn't I realize it sooner? I know I'm not good at remembering dates, but for Christ's sake. It should've been apparent to me long before now. Thankfully, Bridgewood tours are closed on Sunday. I could slip in tommorrow with an approval from the tour director, check out the place, and leave. It's too goddamn busy today. I'd be weaving in and out of blue-hairs, brats and babies all day. No, thank you.

But then again, what if the tour director denies me access? It shouldn't happen since I'm licensed. But you never know about some people . . . Maybe I should do a quick tour of my own before tommorrow, just to get acquainted with the house and its creepiness. And if it takes me over an hour, it'll go straight to my wallet in the end. Adios, car note.

I park my little Solara out of the way so these hicks don't notice it, although it does stand out rather distinctly against the wave of trucks and beater sedans. I don't even think I saw one that was newer than 1992.

Nevertheless, the house was calling my name. If I didn't atleast get a taste of what I'm getting myself into, I might be diving headfirst in this mess a bit too carelessly. So it's turned into a funhouse. So what? It's still a crime scene.

The line is depressingly long, as I knew that it would be, and I realize that the day would probably never end as soon as I wanted it to. There's a elderly gentleman a few people in front of me that looks as though he could describe every detail of his World War II experience and remember only about two sentences of what he did this morning. His light blue golf shirt is so worn from being washed that I could swear it was originally navy. Not that I could say any different about two-thirds of the other tourists. Museum-quality clothes with the scent of Burberry and cat litter.

A mother in her mid-thirties and her daughter, who appears to be about nine or ten, are directly in front of me in the line, and they look as though they'd already spent the day at Disneyworld. The girl starts toying with a disposable camera and begins to take pictures of the foliage. After a few minutes, that chore apparently gets old.

"Mommy, I want some juice," she cries.

"In a minute, hun. We'll get some after the tour," says her mother, probably at her wit's end with her daughter's wants.

"But mommy, I'm really thirsty!"

"Just wait a few minutes, Daisy! I promise you'll get some,"

The girl starts to pout, stamps her foot a few times and then crosses her arms. I've never been so glad not to have had kids.

"Okay, we'll begin the tour for the next group," says a man at the front of the line. "We'll take up to fifteen people. Please present your ticket to the woman just inside the front door,"

Thankfully, I was number thirteen.

After paying the man and getting my little purple ticket stub, I follow the line of tourists and make my way inside.

The house smells stale, even after the "refurbishing" that had supposedly taken place. There's no doubt in my mind that this old place is well preserved. Upon arriving, we're greeted by a grand staircase lined with gold railing, leading up to what I assume to be more stale-smelling bedrooms. To my left is the entryway leading to the sitting room, where a bunch of old paintings are hung on either side of the fireplace. More paintings hang in the lobby, where we're supposed to stay until the tour director makes his way inside to introduce us to this haunted abode. I give my stub to the ticket-taking girl and wait patiently.

"The more time, the more money," I keep telling myself.

"Welcome, welcome," says the tour director as he weaves in and out of the tourist barricade blocking the front entrance.

"I hope that you all enjoy the tour. The Bridgewood estate has been a fixture of Hamilton's rich history for decades. The original owners were . . . "

The more the man talks, the less I'm inclined to listen. I'm here to investigate, not to get a history lesson. As my mind starts to drift off, my eyes scan the various parts of the house. Although it's not technically the scene of the crime, the house will atleast give me some background information. I still think Delaney killed those people in cold blood, but I'm not going to rule out any possibility that he was framed. As the tour director is still rambling on, I spot something rather odd out of the corner of my eye. In the sitting room, next to the hallway leading to what I think is the master bedroon, a row of paintings are hung in a neat, straight line. Except . . one of them is missing. There's clearly a space reserved for a painting, and yet it's not there. Ok, so that's probably not the biggest clue I can find at the moment, but it's a start.

"Ok, lets begin with the kitchen," says the tour director.

I quietly sneak off to the sitting room to take a look at the row of paintings. I begin to study them intensely. The one to the left of the reserved space is of a woman sitting in a chair, looking straight ahead. She looks like one of those Amish women, probably tired from churning butter all day. The one on the right has a bunch of dogs playing cards. It's so absurd-looking that I have to laugh a little.

After a few useless minutes criticizing art, I quickly make my way back to the tour. I can bet that I didn't miss much.

As we leave the kitchen and go upstairs, a strange feeling hits me. The air is getting strangely . . . colder? Wait, I thought that heat rises. That doesn't make any sense unless some jerk-off decided to screw with the air conditioner. I'm probably just really tired.

"I apologize for the temperature changes," says the director as we file in a group at the top of the staircase. "Our maintenance man is still working on it. Now here to my left is the study where Mr. Sharp would . . . "

I leave the tourists and decide to go clue-hunting again. I open the door on the opposite side while the tourists are being entertained in the study. The first thing I notice is how gross everything looks. The wallpaper is the color of something I probably threw up at some point in my life, and there's a number of outdated toys and trinkets lying on the floor. The kiddie's room, I imagine.

As I turn to leave, I hear a voice call out, "What are you doing?"

I jerk my body around and see a little boy blocking the entrance.

"Are you lost?" he asks.

I didn't see this kid when I first went on the tour, but I figure he must've been just as bored as I was and decided to stray off.

"Nah, I'm just lookin' around. Neat old house, huh?"

"What are you looking for?" he asks.

I notice his clothes and his hair. He's got on some old cordoroy pants and a plaid long-sleeve shirt covered by a blue vest. This kid's definately not from around here.

"Where'd you get those old duds?" I ask.

"None of your business," he says. "What are you looking for?"

"None of your business," I reply with a grin.

He isn't amused.

"You still think Jim killed those people, don't you?" he said with a devilish smirk.

"What did you say?"

I'm starting to feel pretty uncomfortable at this point. Who the hell is this kid? And how does he know about Jim Delaney? And better yet, how does he know that I still think he's guilty?

Just as I begin to ask him who he is, the little twerp runs off.

I start to chase after him, and then I realize that I'm not as young as I used to be. Sure, I did track about 30 some-odd years ago, but those years are pretty far behind me. I can't keep up with him for shit. I hear a door slam downstairs, and I already know it's gonna be a tough race.

As I stumble down the stairs, I hear the tour director calling from behind.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"Um, yes. I just need to use the bathroom,"

"As you exit the kitchen, it's the first door on the right," he said.

"Thanks,"

I wait until he goes back to his tourists, and then I make a dash for the front door. Before I can leave, the ticket-lady stops me.

"Where are you going, sir? The tour is still going on,"

"I'm looking for a little boy. He's got brown hair and a plaid shirt with a blue vest, he's about nine or ten--"

"No one's been through here, sir,"

I'm not even about to argue with this woman, so I burst through the door.

I look around the front lawn and then make my way back behind the house. That little brat isn't going to get away. I want some answers, dammit.

"You shouldn't have been sneaking around," says a voice.

I turn around and see the little shit sitting next to a barrel cactus, smiling.

"What do you know about Jim Delaney?" I ask him.

"Plenty," he replied smugly.

I wanted to slap that smirk right off of his face.

"If you know any information, I would really appreciate it. I'm a private invest-"

"I know who you are, Mr. Sumner," he says.

I wasn't sure how to take this. I've never met this kid before in my life. That I knew of, anyway.

"Who are you? Have we met before?" I ask, feeling a little disoriented.

"Edwin," he replied.

Was he some kind of spy sent by Jim?

"What's your last name, Edwin?"

He pursed his lips together and squinted his eyes.

"Sorry, not telling you that," he said.

"Why not?"

Before I even finish saying "not" Edwin starts running towards the barn. I try to keep up, but before I can stop to catch my breath, he's already made it to the door. Something inside me is saying that I shouldn't go in after him, but I've got a job to do, dammit. If he knows something, I'm gonna have to get it out of him anyway I can.

I start to run after Edwin and then realize that my pant leg is caught on something. I can't stop now, dammit. He's probably inside already. I struggle with the increasing pain inching up my pant leg and decide to just rip the thing off. Despite the fact that the side of my leg is now pierced from multiple cactus barbs, I hobble along the rocky terrain towards the blood-red barn. I don't stop to think. I can't even hear myself breathe. I just have to find out what he knows.

The kid probably wants to play hide and seek. Well, two can play that game.

I search the perimeter for anything suspicious or noteworthy. There's none. So, instead of waiting for him to leave, I burst inside the barn. I've never been a stealthy seeker. Making some noise seems to work much quicker.

The barn smells like holy hell and I'm looking around the inside for anything that I can identify as a clue. After all, this was the scene of a crime last year.

There's multiple rows of barn-like equipment. Sharp things, and things with rotating blades. Didn't they get rid of this shit when they refurbished? I think I can still smell the blood, but it might be something else.

"Edwin! Come out of here, now! I need to ask you a few questions. That's all," I said.

As I scope the interior, I notice a few odd things. Like the lumpy hay that's randomly scattered all over the place. And the fact that there's an old grass-cutting scythe to my right. Haven't seen one of those in a while. I think the last time I ever laid eyes on a scythe was when I saw that creepy (yet equally cheesy) horror movie last month. Something with zombies, I think.

Since Edwin doesn't want to cooperate, I decide to get nosy. Get my hands dirty, so to speak. I figure he's hiding in the "lumpy" hay, so I decide to move it around a bit and see if I can find the little twerp. This barn isn't that big, anyway.

As I search the clumps of hay, I feel something odd. Like . . . hair. Yep, it's definitely hair. I dig deeper in the hay mounds and . . . oh shit. Oh fucking shit. Jesus Christ.

No fucking way.

I hear the sound of screaming, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that it's my own voice. I don't even remember clearly what I saw, but I could make out enough to realize that I need to get the hell out of here.

As I stuff a handful of hay on the specimen, the barn door slams shut, and darkness encompasses everything that I used to see. What scares me the most, though, is the sound of my own breathing. It's short and sporadic, like I'm hyperventilating.

"Jim told you not to scream," said a voice, which I recognized as Edwin's.

After that, I was hit with something hard and blunt from the back of whatever direction I was in.



I wake up, and it's still pitch black. I hear the sound of crickets. It's already fucking nighttime. Didn't the tour go to the barn today? Or at least inspect it to see if maniacal children were playing tricks on washed-up private investigators?

I reach for something to pull myself up, and I realize that only my left arm comes up. Only my left arm is moving. Was I sleeping on my right arm this whole time?

I feel for my dead arm, and I can't find it. I wave my left arm around the place where it used to be, and then I feel the large nub, wrapped in thick bandages. I don't have a fucking right arm. I don't have a fucking right arm. They took off my fucking right arm! I curse and wail and cry and scream for a good ten minutes. I can't do shit without my right arm. I can't write. I can't brush my teeth. Hell, I can't even drink a cup of water. I don't do anything with my lefty, and now it's the only one I have. Someone's gonna fucking pay for this.

I put my left arm against the barn wall for support as I try to stand up. Well, at least they didn't take my legs.

As I run to find the door, I'm stopped by my right leg. It's stuck on something. I awkwardly reach out my left arm to feel for whatever is holding me back. Then I feel the chain on the ankle. You've got to be fucking kidding me. That little kid just tore my arm off and chained me inside the barn. And I call myself a private investigator.

"Found yourself a little tied up, haven't you?" said a voice. It wasn't Edwin this time.

"Yeah, and arm-less, too, you fucking prick! Who are you?!" I yell out.

"Name's Edward. And there's no need to thank me. Edwin helped too," said the voice, low and raspy.

I heard a giggle in the background. It was the creepiest sound I've ever heard in my life. Delaney wasn't a nut after all. He actually wasn't crazy.

"You killed Janet Tarkington and those other two men, didn't you?!!" I cry out, trying to get my foot out of this damn chain.

"Well, yes," said Edward. "I didn't know them personally, but one thing's for sure. They can sure make one hell of a sandwich,"

My insides were churning, and I felt vomit exit my mouth. Just kill me now. Just fucking kill me now, you son-of-a-bitch.

"You know what curiosity did to the cat, Mr. Summoner?" the low voice echoed.

"It's . . . Sumner," I said, taking in deep breaths to counteract my nausea.

"You shouldn't have been the cat, Mr. Sumner. You should've just stayed the hell out of our way," said Edward.

I couldn't see the bastard, but I wanted to knock the shit clean out of him.

As I started to swing my left fist towards the sound of his voice, a hand grabbed my throat. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.

I tried to get my left hand to help me out, but the hand holding my throat was much stronger. As I struggled, I felt the arm that was grasping my neck. It was like touching a piece of ice. The hairs on the arm felt like needles. As I started losing consciousness, the inside of the barn began to go from pitch black to bright white. The light started to flicker. Faster. And faster. It was like someone was turning a light switch on and off inside in the barn. I wasn't sure if I was going to have convulsions or a seizure. I tried kicking whoever was holding on to me with my free leg, but there wasn't a body to kick at. The arm that was choking me was mine.