Transcription (8 page)

James nodded, but he wasn’t sure if he would be around to see Bo or not. Every day was questionable to one degree or another. He was never quite sure if he would survive another night of transcribing the terrible legacy his father had left behind. But, every five years, his mental strength and stamina were tested even more.

In one of the boxes, his father had left him a series of letters. Each envelope was inscribed with instructions on when he was allowed to open it. The one coming up in two weeks was thick. James had a pretty good guess what would be in it, but he didn’t like to think about it. If he was right, there was a decent chance that the letter might break the last remaining strength that James possessed. It could mark the end of his ability to keep everything in control.

James thought about the last letter he’d read. In those typewritten pages, he’d finally heard the whole story about what had happened to Ron. At the time, he only remembered the long funeral, standing next to his dad, who seemed only half-conscious of the world around him. The letter had revealed just how aware his father had been.

James opened the box and found that letter about Ron. He’d first read it five years before. It was stained and smudged by his sweaty fingers.

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Dear James,

If you’ve followed instructions, then you’re reading this when you’re thirty-eight years old. That’s the same age I was when my friend Ron died. I wanted you to have the perspective of a few years before I revealed the whole story to you.

It’s difficult to write. I can’t help but think of you as a little boy, even though you’re a teenager and already taller than me. I can’t even imagine the man who is reading this. In fact, if I’m completely honest, I hope you never read this. I hope your life takes you to wonderful places where the travails of your crazy father never intrude.

Let’s just regard this letter as for me then. This letter is my attempt to clear my conscience and let go of an old friend. Just to give it meaning, I’ll address it to the future you, and we’ll both agree that in a perfect world, this letter will go unread. Okay—enough procrastination.

Ron was never meant to read that story. Nobody is ever meant to read those stories. I don’t know what kind of strange denial allowed me to leave them in an unlocked room, in a cardboard box, where they could fall into anyone’s hands. I won’t make that mistake again.

This isn’t the time to talk about the nature of those documents, or why I’m compelled to write them. I need to record what happened to Ron. The police don’t know. If there’s any grace to this life, his family will never have to cope with his pain. The only reason I know all the details is because I’m the one who recorded them in the first place. When I saw that Ron had read them, I already knew that his fate was sealed. Therefore, I wasn’t surprised when he refused to believe me.
 

Ron left our house troubled, but not because he was worried about himself. He was worried about me. First, because of the crazy story of blood and murder, and then because I tried to warn him of what was coming his way. But what could he do? I don’t have any family to come help out, and he’s my closest friend. If he went to the police, your fate would have been put in question. Ron loves you like a nephew. I’m certain that your well-being was forefront in his mind as he covered the short distance to his house.

According to his neighbors, Ron was working on his motorcycle in the driveway that afternoon. He had the game on the radio, and he was elbow-deep in parts and motor oil until dusk. The woman across the street was walking her dog and waved to Ron as he was wiping off his hands and heading inside. That was about sunset.

Back here, I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t take the night off to go monitor Ron, I had to sit down, record the next terrible story, and just hope that everything would turn out okay for my friend. It seems crazy to think now, but maybe the reason I couldn’t convince him was that I really didn’t believe myself. There’s a world of difference between what lives in your heart during the day, and the shadows that creep in after sunset. Unfortunately, Ron learned that for himself.

He probably tried to go to bed. He was dressed in his boxers and a t-shirt when he left the house again. I’m guessing that he was conscious of what his body was doing, but he was helpless to stop it. Ron drove his motorcycle. It was still running rough—I assume that he didn’t finish all the repairs he had been working on. He got on the highway and headed west, towards the foothills.
 

I don’t know how he found the place. Maybe he had run across it at some point in the past, or maybe the strange infection that controlled his mind was drawn there. Ron pulled up in front of the old folk’s home just before midnight. The orderly thought maybe engine trouble had caused him to stop. He expected Ron to come in and ask to use the phone. He said that if Ron hadn’t killed the engine, it sounded like it would have died in a few seconds anyway.

Ron didn’t come in—at least not right away.

Instead of heading for the front door, Ron walked through the parking lot until he found a truck with unlocked doors. He then located the tire iron mounted under the seat. Ron took that and used it to snap the lock on the side door of the building.

Once inside, he moved with stealth. The desk at the end of the hall was staffed with two nurses. One was filing case reports for residents, and the other was preparing medication to be dispensed. Neither saw a thing as Ron moved into the first patient’s room. The woman there was eighty-nine years old, and suffering from a bad case of dementia. At the time of this writing, the police haven’t released her name. I have a good idea what she looked like—I saw her when I wrote the story.
 

She opened her eyes and smiled when Ron entered her room. In her mind, she was a little girl, and Ron was her father, coming home from second shift at the mill. She worked her arms free from her covers and held them up, so her daddy could give her a goodnight hug. Ron swung the tire iron and brought it down on the side of her head. The thin skin covering her skull was covered with fine, wispy hair and a network of blue veins. It split wide open. Her skull shattered. The murder happened so quickly that she still had a smile on her face as her life was extinguished.

The door finished its slow swing shut and Ron was in the dark with her. The slanted streetlight coming through the blinds banded the scene into strips of gore.

Ron used his shirt to wipe the blood and hair from his weapon. He reached into the old woman’s head, scooped a handful of brain tissue, and jerked it back. He slopped her brain onto the floor before he turned back to the door.

Across the hall, an old man moaned softly with each exhale. He was waiting for his next round of pain medication. Inside, his body was hot with cancerous tumors. Ron plunged the sharp end of the tire iron into the man’s gut. He punctured the man’s stomach and severed his spinal column. The old man’s feet twitched and danced in the bed as his bladder and bowels evacuated into the sheets.

Ron pulled his weapon free and then stabbed it back a little higher. It punctured one of the man’s lungs, but missed his heart. After four more punctures, the man finally stopped twitching. Blood seeped from the corner of the old man’s mouth.

The room featured an eyebolt in the ceiling where a traction device could be hung. Ron stepped up on the bed, fed the end of an electrical cord through the eye, and then dragged it down. He tied the end of the cord around the old man’s ankle and used it to haul him upside down. Thick blood flowed down the corpse and mingled with the other fluids already soaking into the mattress. Ron left the man hanging there and moved on to the next room.

The thing that possessed Ron’s body moved with brutal efficiency from room to room. He killed each resident within a minute of invading their space, but he took no care to otherwise diminish their suffering. Meanwhile, the real Ron—my friend—was trapped inside his body, witnessing the events with all the horror one would expect. I know the pain and guilt he experienced.
 

He was leaving the room of his sixth victim when the nurse came upon Ron. She screamed at his bloody visage and her shocked arms sent flying the tray of pills she carried. Ron smiled at her.

Behind his smiling face, the real Ron gained control of himself for a moment. He smashed his fist through the glass panel of a machine in the hall. The pill-nurse fell to her knees. The other nurse rounded the counter and began to run towards them. Ron pulled a shard of glass from the display and sliced both of his wrists. He made jagged gashes from his hands down to his elbows, opening the blood vessels wide.

As Ron’s own blood began to flow, he lost control of himself again.

He retrieved the tire iron, and raised it over his head. He brought it down again, sweeping through the nurse’s raised hands and connecting with her cheek. The other nurse skidded to a stop, reevaluating her desire to help her co-worker. She pedaled her shoes on the polished tile and tried to gain momentum away from Ron and the other nurse. She began to scream.

At the front desk, the orderly put down his newspaper and stood.

Ron killed two more people before his body finally lost enough blood to bring it down. He finished the nurse and another old woman. His tire iron was stuck in the nurse’s throat, so he killed his final victim with the scratched oxygen tank that sat at the side of her bed.

When he turned to leave that room, his heart had a spasm. There wasn’t enough blood in its chambers to pump. It cramped around the empty space and began to twitch in his chest. Ron didn’t make it far after that. He collapsed in the doorway as the second nurse and orderly arrived. The next few minutes were filled with grisly discoveries for the pair. The nurse ran for the phone and couldn’t get the dial to roll around to the zero, to connect her to the operator. She had to try several times before her shaking hand could manage the task. The orderly made inventory of the dead and then simply stood. There was nobody who could be helped, and he didn’t want to touch any of the evidence. He shivered as he stood in the middle of the hall. Goosebumps rose on his arms as he waited. The nurse stayed in her seat by the phone.
 

Firemen and police arrived in minutes.

They couldn’t coax a word from the survivors for several hours.

I didn’t need to read the article in the newspaper, or see the police photos, to understand what happened in that old folk’s home. The details of the account met me with great sadness, but no surprise.

When I allow myself to think of what happened to Ron, I’m hollowed out by the sadness of it. You’re the reason I carry on. I’m continuing this terrible duty because I need to see you through your childhood the best I can. Sometimes I think you’d be better off if I were to disappear. You might at least have the chance of cobbling together some kind of normal life with foster parents. But I can’t take the chance that you’ll wind up with your great uncle. Lyndon is a terrible man, who will lash out at you with his words when his fists can’t reach you.
 

My only solace is that I can still be a father to you during the day. Hopefully, I’m hiding my misery from you. Of all the terrible things I’ve done and witnessed, ruining your life would be the thing I regretted the most. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.

I know I’ve made a million mistakes, and I’m sure to make many more. I hope you still understand that everything I did was out of love for you.

-Dad

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James folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope.
 

He glanced around his living room, stacked high with boxes of his father’s writing.

“Of all the writing you left me, why is it that every page contains some tragedy or horrific act of violence?” he asked the room.
 

James squeezed his eyes shut before the tears could come. He knew the pattern. He would be sad, start crying, and then begin to feel sorry for himself. Over the next few days, the sorrow would lead to emptiness and desperation. If he allowed himself to wallow, within a week he would be grinding his teeth at his depression and plotting his suicide.

He couldn’t do it.
 

That’s the path his father had taken, and look what it had led to. His father hadn’t spared anyone anguish. His father’s selfish, desperate act had passed along a legacy of pain. In each letter, he had professed his love for his son and a desire to make sure that James didn’t suffer. Then, because he hadn’t thought through the ramifications, he had cursed James with the same unthinkable life he himself couldn’t deal with.

Selfish. Thoughtless.

James couldn’t forgive his father, and he couldn’t pass on the burden to someone else.

He had his father’s notes on everything that didn’t work.

He couldn’t burn the documents. Shredding, burying, and submerging the papers didn’t work either. Untended, the words found a way to spread. Their evil, when not bound to the page and carefully stewarded, leaked into the populace, and caused horrific mayhem. How many thousands, or tens-of-thousands of deaths were collected in the documents? How many people would suffer if James decided he couldn’t handle the duty that had been thrust upon him?

He couldn’t fathom the consequences of stopping.

James closed the box of correspondence. He moved to his desk to begin readying himself for the night.

CHAPTER 8: PRISON

Diary of Thomas Hicks, 1977

W
HEN
I
LOOKED
AT
my hand just now, I realized I don’t know how long it has been since I’ve written anything. The shadows on the cellblock have grown. One expects shadows to grow as the sun sets, but the sun has been down for a while now. Yet the shadows keep growing. They’re not simply getting longer, as if the light source is lowering down. They’re taking on shapes that no longer represent the objects that cast them. It’s inexplicable.