click one of the titles below.
By Tom Boscarelli
At night, discarded newspaper rode the thermals unfettered by human
contact. Buildings rose on all sides, but the streets were eerily empty, giving
the downtown area the appearance of an abandoned movie set or a bomb-test
site. Midday in this city the sidewalks bustled, but now…no one.
Well, almost no one. There was a Mexican restaurant that stayed open at
night, and the surrounding blocks were occupied by the parked cars that
belonged to its patrons. But that was it. This was the heart of Phoenix, Arizona
in the early 1980s. You wouldn’t recognize it today as the same place. Since
that time, a major league baseball stadium has been erected; the Arizona
Center fills to capacity every night. Condominiums were built and quickly
occupied; the prostitutes, drug addicts, drifters, and homeless who had
previously lined Van Buren Street were shooed off to seek out different haunts,
in order to make the city more “family” friendly. Yup. The gentrification of
Downtown Phoenix has been complete.
But back in the day, a wino or junkie could shuffle from avenue to avenue at
night without having to deal with human contact of any kind. The occasional
patrol car would drive by slowly, but the cops would never bother to stop. What
for? There was nothing at ground level to steal or vandalize. Yeah, those
street people died down here – some, horribly so. But no one missed them.
One less hand out. The yuppies would go to their upstairs offices during the
day and then drive back home to Scottsdale or Paradise Valley, never once
thinking about who, or what, occupied the space they had left behind.
But Andy Victor thought about it. Downtown was where he had hunted, day
and night, for the past two years. At dawn, before the civilized businessmen
returned, Andy would wash in the fountain that was out in front of one of the
monoliths called an office building. He didn’t want to be offensive when he
panhandled. After 6 p.m., however, he changed into his “business suit” and
pursued the career to which he now devoted his life. Andy’s “attaché case”
was a knapsack, and pens, papers and briefs were replaced by a ten-inch
razor-sharp buck knife, a garrote, and a pair of skintight leather gloves. Andy’s
path was more of a mission than a career. There were no promotions for
Andy, no gold stars or Christmas bonuses, no nice retirement package, no
golden parachute.
But none of the suits who invaded his territory during the day were more
driven to succeed than Andy was. Andy was motivated by the voice in his
head. Not the one that we all have. Not the voice that tells us to try hard, to be
proud of the job that we do. Not that voice. Andy’s voice was louder and
clearer. It was carried on the wind that snaked through the downtown canyons
of Phoenix, Arizona. It was repeated in the echoes that rose and fell. It
shouted at him from between his ears. It told him to kill the man who had raped
and murdered his wife; the man responsible for Andy’s current condition. Andy
Victor had no idea what this man looked like. The police had only said that he
was one of the faceless drifters who populated downtown Phoenix after dark.
But that wasn’t going to stop Andy. No way! He was going to keep on killing
until he was sure that he had found the right man.
On that fateful night, twenty-six months ago, Andy had come to Arizona’s
capital to root for his alma mater against ASU in their annual football game.
This was the first time since his college days that he had made the trip, and the
plan was to meet his wife in Phoenix. She was just completing a business trip,
and they were flying in on separate airplanes the night before the game. Andy
was to arrive first, get a hotel room near the stadium and leave a message for
Marsha, his wife, with the courtesy desk at the airport. All went well at first, and
Andy got his hotel room in downtown Phoenix and then called the airport with
the address. It wasn’t until Andy went downstairs to walk around that he
remembered that the stadium was not in Phoenix, but instead, was in Tempe, a
town that was a good half-hour’s drive from where he was staying. Andy
checked out of the first hotel, took a cab to the second, checked in, then called
the airport with his change of plans. Marsha wasn’t due in for another fifteen
minutes.
But on this night, Marsha’s plane arrived early. She got the previous
message, and the courtesy clerk at the airport neglected to tell Andy of this
fact. Marsha went to the first hotel at approximately eleven p.m., and was told
that Andy had checked out. Figuring that Andy would call for her with the
address of the new hotel, Marsha asked the front desk to take down the
address while she went out for something to eat. That was the last time that
anyone saw Marsha Victor alive – except of course, for her killer. The next day
her body was found, naked and ravaged, in the doorway of one of the state
buildings. Andy was called to identify her body, did so, and promptly lost his
mind.
Rather than ranting and raving, Andy retreated into himself. He flew home,
but never returned to work. Instead, he drove back to Phoenix, sold his car
there, and took up residence on the streets. He had a story for the others
there: he claimed to have lost his job and his home to bad investments, and
that he had nowhere else to turn. His madness kept him vigilant and his grief
kept him fierce.
Soon the downtown denizens gave him a wide berth as they came to see that
he wasn’t the easy prey they’d assumed he was. Those who had first tried to
take him off later became his first victims. One by one the Phoenix downtown
night people were being picked off, and no one seemed to care.
There were reports written in the papers. The television news even covered
the phenomenon for a while. But, eventually, the fuss died down. Each new
murder brought a few lines on one of the inside pages of the newspapers, but
not much in the way of police action. None of the dead or soon-to-be-dead
had been major contributors to any politician’s campaign. None was a
homeowner and none paid taxes. All seemed to be without families – at least
families that would claim them. A murder, a few lines in the paper, and life went
on.
Andy thrived in this vacuum. But he would have continued with his mission
even if the whole police force was tracking him. His first victims were random –
they tried to prey on him, so they might have preyed on Marsha. But after the
fourth or fifth kill, Andy began to receive guidance. He saw the devil in the
faces of those he would kill. When he approached a burning trashcan that was
surrounded by the homeless trying to keep warm, he joined in the circle as a
joint or a bottle of wine was being passed. As he did, he would look at the eyes
of those around him. If no one morphed into the Evil One, Andy would move
on. But, if one or more did, they would be dead by morning. And when they
died, Andy would see a wisp or two of smoke or vapor lift to the skies. Heat
trapped in the corpse, he thought, that escaped as the body cooled.
The people among whom Andy walked at night were not stupid. The word
quickly spread to be on the lookout for a killer. But more often than not, these
unfortunates were driven by forces that overshadowed their fears. Andy often
provided the drugs, liquor, or food that drove the impromptu gatherings. If he’d
had a bad day panhandling, he would dip into his reserve money from the sale
of his car. He would tell the others that he had stolen the goods he was
sharing. Soon Andy became known as a generous man and none of the
others suspected that he might be the one doing the killing. Their hungers
overcame their fears and they willingly came forth for Andy’s surreptitious
inspection and possible slaughter.
At one such gathering, Andy was treated, for a change, to the sharing of
some cheap wine. Always eager to ingratiate himself with the others, Andy
asked who he should thank for the vino. A large raw-boned man stepped
forward and planted himself right in front of Andy. “That would be me, friend,
and I’m called Red,” the man said with a gravelly voice. “Who’s asking?”
Andy was taking the man in, and for the first time since he’d begun his
search, he felt fear. It wasn’t just the size of the man or the aggressive way
that he had approached Andy. Nope. Andy had dropped bigger, more
aggressive men. It was the tattoo on the man’s bare chest. There, rising from
flames that began below the man’s beltline was the face of Satan, the same
face Andy had seen on all of the others he’d killed. And as he looked up into
Red’s face, he saw that the devil’s face was not there. The man’s eyes, though
- they were filled with the coldest pure evil that Andy could imagine. When he
locked eyes with Red, he knew – he KNEW – that Red knew who Andy was,
and that he was out to do Andy before Andy did him.
Andy smiled pleasantly. “Thanks for the taste, Red. I go by Vic now-a-days.
Come on around tomorrow, and I’ll see what I can ‘appropriate’ for us.”
Red grunted, a crooked slit forming at his mouth. It was probably meant to be
a smile, but there was nothing humorous about it. “We’ll meet again soon, Vic.
Count on it,” Red said. Then he turned his back on Andy as though he had
nothing to fear on this earth, walked past the trashcan fire, and melted into the
night. If any of the others had sensed anything odd about the encounter, they
gave no indication of it. Besides, there was half a jug left.
Later that night, Andy went to one of his many sleeping dens. Although
isolated, this one was probably the safest, and he chose it with Red in mind.
Andy set up behind a gate that guarded the indented entrance to the city
planners building. There was just enough space between the top of the gate
and the ceiling of the alcove for Andy to climb up and squeeze through. He
had been rousted there before in the mornings; if he overslept, there was
nowhere to run. He had to wait as the guard opened the gate, and then Andy
would run out as the man cursed him and hit him with his baton. It was worth it
though. No escape for Andy meant no ambush by Red. Thinking himself safe,
Andy covered himself with the Arizona Republic and fell asleep.
He smelled Red before he woke up. When he opened his eyes, he stared
into the fires of hell standing before him, on the other side of the gate. Any
security that Andy felt was quickly quashed as he watched Red take a crowbar
to the gate’s lock, and throw the gate open. Leaping to his feet, Andy barely
had time to grasp his knife before Red was on him. Seeing that he would be at
a disadvantage if he rose completely, Andy threw his shoulder into Red’s chest
and knocked him off balance. But as he did, he felt his shoulder burn, as if he
had been branded. Shrinking back, Andy felt the spot that had made contact
with Red, and it actually was smoldering. Red threw his head back and
laughed. “Well, crusader, you’ve never come across anyone who ‘burned’ with
passion the way you do, have you? Both of us are going to straight to hell,
Vic. The only difference is I’ve already been there!”
As they wrestled, Andy felt his skin rise in boils from making contact with the
flames on Red’s chest. And through his fear, Andy Victor had his first sane
thoughts in over two years. He knew that he couldn’t beat Red. And he knew
that Red was right: Andy’s mission had turned him into the kind of killer that hell
was made for.
Disarmed by a blow from Red’s crowbar that broke his wrist, and after being
thrown through a glass window, Andy was bleeding from scores of cuts. He
marshaled what was left of his strength, and screaming for all he was worth, he
leapt at Red, catching him off balance. As his scream died out, his mouth
closed on Red’s ear; he bit it clean off. Red howled, tossed Andy off with little
effort, then backed off with both hands to the hole where his ear used to be.
Andy spit the ear out, but as he did, he saw the earring that it held: a diamond
in two intertwined gold hearts. It was a special earring – part of a pair that was
one-of-a-kind. Andy had them made for Marsha on their tenth wedding
anniversary. After all of his hunting, Andy was finally face-to-face with the man
who had brutalized his wife. And as Andy eyed Red, he became filled with an
energy and power he had never felt before.
Red loomed before Andy, unaware of Andy’s new resolve. “You can’t beat
me, Vic,” he said. “I am powered by the souls of those I’ve killed. When I’m
ready, I’ll take them down with me, to present to my master. He in turn will
release me again to walk your world and gather more souls. I kill only those
who would never have gone to hell. They are my gift to my boss. I’m the best
at this. I am his favorite! This is why I return, time and time again. You have
known me by many other names throughout your history. But I digress. Back
to you, Vic – you aren’t innocent. You I kill for my own pleasure!”
With those words, Red hurled himself at Andy. But Andy caught Red by his
throat and his belt and lifted him over his head. Red reached down, and with
one massive hand on either side of Andy’s head, began to twist the man’s neck
as if to tear it off. Andy Victor lifted his eyes and implored with all of the faith
that he had left in his soul, “Marsha, my love, talk to the others! Together, we
can beat him! Help me now, Marsha! Save our souls!”
The understanding of what was happening could not save Red from his fate.
From without and within, forces rallied to defeat him. Against his will, his arms
moved slowly from Andy’s head and his legs straightened out, until he was
completely spread-eagled over Andy’s head. He looked like a man hovering
over a pool on his way to a huge belly flop. But there was no water below.
Andy walked Red to the broken window and stood in a spot that placed Red’s
neck over the jagged remains of the pane. As Red’s eyes widened with the
recognition of what was about to befall him, Andy gathered his strength, bent
his arms, then thrust them upward, while at the same time retreating from below
Red. The big man seemed to stay in that position for a split second, before
falling to the glass below. Red’s sickening scream was cut off, along with his
head, as the glass did its work. His body trembled in place as his head rolled
into the lobby of the building.
When it stopped, Red’s eyes looked aghast at Andy before the life drained
from them. The moment Red’s body stopped shaking, wisps of air and smoke
rose from his neck, and ascended up and out of sight. Only one of those
spirits lingered, and she came slowly to Andy Victor – then entered him. Andy
heard his wife’s voice in his head. It was the most beautiful voice he had ever
heard. “My Love, you are forgiven. God will welcome you as he is welcoming
those of us who you have freed. Your voice and mine will be the only ones that
you will hear from now on. You will be deaf to those sounds that have
tormented you from within and without, as well as the words of man, from now
until the day that you come to be with me again. Andy Victor, my husband and
one true love, you are to continue your fight against the Evil One. You have
the gift of being able to see him in the faces of men. Destroy them wherever
they are, wherever you travel, wherever you wander. Protect the good people
who survive beneath the radar of the police and the governments. Avenge
their murders and free their souls. You are an army of one – doing God’s work.
I love you, my hero….”
Marsha’s spirit rose to the heavens and Andy could barely hear her next
words, carried to him on the wind: “I’ll return when you need me, my love.
Remember, you are never alone. We are all with you…always….”
Andy scooped up Red’s ear (the one that he’d chewed off) and fled the scene
moments before the cop cars arrived, summoned no doubt by the building’s
silent alarm that was tripped when the glass broke. It was autumn, and there
had been an unusual amount of rain for Phoenix. The Salt River that flowed
through the southern part of town actually flowed, and Andy used the water to
wash his wounds. He camped along its banks in one of the homeless
encampments while he healed. Drifters often came to the camp battered and
bruised; no one asked any questions. They didn’t even question the earring
that Andy had taken to wearing, having pierced his left ear himself. There was
no pain when he did it – all Andy felt was Marsha’s soul entering his. Anyway,
it wouldn’t have mattered to Andy if the others in the camp had asked
questions. He couldn’t hear them. He heard the wind. He heard the
sagebrush and the tumbleweeds. He heard the rain fall and the fire crackle.
But, anything that was of man, Andy heard none of it. He knew that the things
he heard were spiritual. They were holy sounds – of nature and of God. Each
sound he heard reminded him of his purpose and of his guardians.
Andy healed quickly (which was a good thing, because he’d had to kill two of
the men at the encampment). He decided that it was time to pull up stakes and
move on anyway. The roar of bulldozers and the rousting by the police
signaled the end of the Phoenix that Andy knew and in which he could hunt.
The building had begun. The suits were moving close to their offices, and
killings would no longer go unnoticed. One day in early December, Andy
walked to the Greyhound station, bought a ticket to a city that he had read was
becoming dangerous due to the influx of homeless that always wintered there,
and headed west. He was never seen in Phoenix again.
I guess we’ll never know if Andy Victor was actually visited by his wife, or if his
hallucinations had morphed into something that made it easier for him to go on
killing after smiting Marsha’s assailant. Maybe those wisps really were just
escaping gasses or moisture. One thing we do know: Andy Victor was real. In
soup kitchens and shelters from Seattle to Fort Lauderdale, from Boston to
San Diego, you can still hear stories about the weird deaf mute who sported a
gold and diamond earring and who stared through your eyes into your soul.
The talk was also of the deaths that always followed his arrival in a city or
town. But no one ever went to the police; police don’t care what homeless
drifters have to say. Anyway, the ones who Andy killed – they were just plain
mean suckers, and most of those who whispered about Andy agreed that the
rail cars and river bottoms, the alleys and subway tunnels, the shanty towns
and slums were better off and more peaceful without the likes of them.
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
looking for your short stories for future
issues of the Magazine For All Things
Horror
Please see our new website
BloodMoonRisingMagazine.com for info
on submissions of short stories, artwork
and articles.
Blood Moon Rising can also be found at
these websites & online bookstores
Shocklines.com MagazineCity.com
ShopMags.com GenreMall.com
WerewolfCafe.com MagMall.com
MagazinesofAmerica.com
BloodMoonRisingMagazine.com
MagazineTime.com E-Bay.com