"Is this some kind of sick joke, Poppy?" I questioned, my heart in my throat and my stomach in knots. The ecstatic look on his face revealed the truth. This was sick, beyond sick, but not a joke. "What… what is this Pops? Where did you get this book?" knowing that the answer was something I couldn't even imagine, that this was truly his. It was his handwriting, and staring at this man, this man that I have known my entire life, I saw a wave of relief wash over his frail body.
How many people knew he was a monster?! Who else in the family is aware of this?! Why is he telling ME this, and why now?! These thoughts raced through my head, bouncing off the walls of my mind, until slowly I was able to regain control and they disappeared, much like a scream echoing through a canyon.
Realization struck. No one else knows. I mindlessly read through the first page, turning to the next, seeing the letters and words but being unable to string them into coherent ideas. While all the words were undoubtedly in English, and the individual letters were legible, it was as if I was trying to comprehend a foreign language never before seen to man. I flipped through the pages, until I came to the next entry date, 23 January 1936. As I scanned the journal for more entry dates, I leaned slightly forward in the chair, unconsciously aware of the broken spring pressing into my lower back.
14 May 1936
4 June 1936
25 June 1936
3 September 1936
22 October 1936
18 February 1937
11 March 1937
1 July 1937
11 November 1937
I counted five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-one, twenty tw- then abruptly slammed the book shut. I felt sick, not nauseous, but an almost fluttering in my stomach.
"You killed all these people?!" I exclaimed, knowing full well the answer.
"I've never told anyone, Mattie, just you. None of my children, or their children, or the great grandchildren know, except for you. You can't even begin to understand what a weight has been lifted from my shoulders now that you know the truth," he stated in a powerful, assured manner that betrayed fragility of his appearance. "There is so much more to tell you that's not in those pages, so much to impart before I go."
This wasn't just a deathbed confession, that was too simple, and it didn't seem like Poppy was that close to stepping through the veil. Did he really think I was so much like him that I was ok with the idea of murdering and mutilating bodies, like the stories in his journal told of? No, not stories. These are his memories, the memories of a deranged monster!
"I have to go," I blurted, standing suddenly, and throwing the journal down into my seat in disgust. Without another word, the door was swinging behind me as I bound down the decrepit steps and away from the horrific onslaught of information that I feared I would never outrun.
Jumping into my truck, I flew down the gravel drive, rocks spitting behind me – pelting the barn with a flurry of metallic pings. At the end of the drive was that GOD DAMN gate. Finally making sense, fully understanding that the only reason for his need for privacy was so he could go about whatever sick, twisted, DEMENTED deed he had before him. Shutting the truck down to unlock the gate, I removed the key from my key ring. I'm not coming back here again. I might as well just toss it, because I won't be needing it anymore.
After relocking the gate, I stopped just down the road, where the Cuyahoga came the closest. Parking, I exited, key in hand, and walked to the waters edge. I stood there, the tension in my body so strong I could barely move. I cocked back, with full intent to launch the small piece of metal to where it could never be recovered. Closing my hand harder, I could make out every groove. As hard as I tried, I couldn't release. I remained in place, eyes shut, face contorted in a mixture of anger, confusion, and fear. Every muscle in my hand, shoulder, and arm fully flexed, demanding a response. I relaxed my arm and put the key in my pocket. Disappointment and dread filled me as I made my way down the road, driving without a destination in mind.
Letting my body handle the manual end of things, my mind tried to comprehend the events that had just unfolded. My great grandfather was a serial killer. I had counted over 20 different dates in the journal, and he told me there was more to tell, more than what was on the page. I have to tell someone. It doesn't matter that he is family, or how old he is now. Everyone must be held accountable for their crime. Those families all deserve the closure this would bring, and I am NOTHING like that sick, twisted psychopath! I thought to myself while finally taking in my surroundings.
I ended up in some small town, about forty miles away from Pop's place. Seeing a small mom and pop-type motel ahead on the left, I sighed with relief. Finally, something seemingly going my way. The vacancy sign was not lit, but if the ramshackle sight before me was any kind of an indicator, it was probably just broken. The tires rolled over cracked concrete that hadn't been washed in decades, weeds overgrown throughout the lot.
A swinging wooden sign reading 'OFFICE' protruded from above one of the doors, and a single bell sounded as I entered, mounted to the inside top corner of the door. The makeshift alarm system must not have been loud enough, there was no one at the desk, and no one came as I waited.
"Hello," I shouted, into the empty room, shuffling around in a circle as I absorbed the small room. "Is there a room available? Vacancy sign wasn't on, but you look rather vacant so I was hoping to get a bed.
"Sure," the voice startled me, causing me to jump and turn quickly in the direction the sound came from. "We got a room for ya. Forty-five a night."
The man speaking was thin; long balding hair shuddering across his shoulders as his head twitched in small, continual jerking motions. The bulge of his tongue running across his teeth was clearly visible as his upper lip moved side to side. He made his way to the counter, grabbing a set of keys off the wall and setting them on the counter. A round piece of plastic read 12, indicating the room number I would spend my night in.
"Cash or credit?" he murmured while writing in the ledger.
Setting my card on the counter, he swiped it through the square card reader on his phone.
"Ya need a receipt?"
"Yea, I need the receipt please," I answered, stuffing it in my pocket and grabbing the keys to my room as I exited the office.
Entering my room, I turned around and hit the lock button on my keys to lock the doors of my '99 Dodge Ram. The truck was nothing special; it was black with the typical rust you would expect from a vehicle that's over 20 years old. It got horrid gas mileage, but I've had that truck ever since Poppy bought it for me the summer I stayed with him when I was 16. We looked at a few different trucks, but we went with this one because it came with the matching bed topper, which Poppy decided was absolutely necessary. He was paying, so who was I to argue.
After hearing the chirp that let me know the doors successfully locked, I closed the door and went for my laptop. I had to know more information, to see if any of this made sense. Opening my web browser, I searched "Unsolved murders September 1935". Scrolling, there was nothing that caught my eye, so I started clicking into random links are reading, but nothing pointed to my great grandfather or matched up with anything I remember from the journal. Closing my eyes, I rested my head in my hands and rubbed my brow. He wrote about cutting off that man's head. My heart began to race, and I could feel my face turning flush. I felt an uneasiness in my stomach, as it turned and I caught my breath. Slowly breathing out, the unease in my stomach melted, and I could feel my heart transitioning back into a normal rhythm.
EDDIE! I suddenly remembered the name from the journal, and searched "Unsolved murders 1935 Eddie". The very first link on the page was a Wikipedia entry for the "Cleveland Torso Murderer". The page said the Cleveland Torso Murderer was an active serial killer in Cleveland, Ohio in the 1930's. It also had another nickname for him, the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. Scrolling down the page, I finally came across the information I was looking for; his list of victims.
The first victim was a John Doe, but the second was a one Edward Andrassy; both victims were found the same day, September 23, 1935. Both were decapitated, as well as emasculated. Not knowing the meaning of emasculated, I opened another browser to enter query. Definition of emasculated returned with the result: Emasculation of a human male is the removal of both the penis and the testicles.
Dashing to the bathroom, I flung open the toilet seat and vomited inside, so violently that a mixture of my own bile, half digested food, and toilet water back splashed all over the front of me. My sinuses and the back of my throat burned from the acidic expulsion, so I quickly undressed and jumped into the shower. The intense heat barely registered as I rinsed my mouth and gargled, spitting the vile taste out. My mind still racing, I began piecing everything together. Poppy wrote about Eddie betraying him, turning him into a monster. Whatever the exact situation was, Eddie was now an enemy. Eddie could turn him in at a moment's notice, so he did what any self-respecting serial killer who doesn't want to be caught and put to death would have done. He murdered his friend. But why would he cut off their manhood? Why decapitate them? Shaking the thoughts from my head, I soaped up and scrubbed my entire body, never having felt dirtier than I do right now.
After toweling off and redressing, I sat back down and started learning everything I could about the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. There were only 12 murders attributed to him, with the possibility of one or two more, but from what I learned they were all white except for one black woman, and there were no other emasculated victims apart from Edward and the original John Doe. Since Poppy knew Edward, maybe he emasculated both of them to confuse the police and give himself distance from the crimes should they start questioning his acquaintances. Whatever his reasoning, my legs would involuntarily close every time I imagined these men having their penis cut off. I shut my laptop, readying myself to try and get some sleep. It was already past midnight, and I wanted to be up early to try and figure out what I was going to do with all of this information.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! My motel room door shook, as I bolted awake. My cellphone was on the other side of the room, charging, and there was no clock to tell the time, but the impenetrable blackness within the room told me it was still the middle of the night. I quietly made my way to the door when another BOOM shook the door, rattling so hard I was sure it would fly off its hinges. I meekly peered through the eyeglass, not seeing anyone there, but noticing something on my truck windshield. Opening the door, I looked to the left and right; there was no one there, so I looked to the truck, and my heart stopped. Spray painted across my windshield was "I know who you are. I know your secret!" and the tires were all slashed.
I don't have a secret! I'm no one! My great grandfather may have secrets, but they are not who I am!
An outburst of taunting laughter snapped me back to the here and now. It came from my left, with a figure in a hoodie turning the corner of the motel, disappearing out of sight.
I sprinted harder than I ever have, trying with all my might to catch this unwelcome figure. Who was this outsider that seemed to know of "my secret"? What did they want? How much do they know about my family? I couldn't not catch them. Reaching the corner, this antagonist was already halfway across a field, heading towards a rundown barn. Beyond that there was nothing other than open field. Seeing they had nowhere to go, I let off a little bit, conserving some of my energy. I expected a confrontation and was unsure of how physical it may get.
Arriving at the barn, the door was open, and I anxiously entered. Scanning the building as quickly as I could, I was unable to make out where they may be hiding. There was just enough moonlight coming in from the damaged roof to see, but not enough to make anything out clearly. With a shaky breath, I called out.
"H-hello? Wh-who's there?" The only response I was afforded was a deafening silence. Steadying myself, I tried again. "Show yourself!" I demanded, and this time I was rewarded with a slow creak coming from the darkest corner.
As if the person was made of shadow, they slowly began to take form, inching closer and closer into the lighter portion of the barn. It looked to be a man, slim build like me, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, but I still couldn't make out his face.
"Who are you?!" I commanded, with as much force as I could muster. But I never got a reply, the only response I received was to suddenly be violently thrown against a work bench as the man with no face grabbed me by the throat. I couldn't breathe, and as I gasped and chocked, I managed to ask one more time, "who are you?"
"You think you're so special, don't you? So righteous, but I know who you really are; I can see what's deep in your heart. Too bad you'll never get to see for yourself," he goaded, more chillingly than anything I have ever heard before. This was it, the end of my life. I could feel my body start to give up, the lack of oxygen shutting down my brain. In a pathetic, last ditch effort, I reached towards his face, determined to remove the hood to see who he was, but he smacked my hand away, so hard that it landed on the work bench I was pressed up against.
In that last second, before the pitch black twilight turned to permanent darkness, my hand felt something familiar on that workbench. A wooden handle, with a metal insert. Smooth wood with a sliver of cold metal. Adrenaline coursed through my body in a last-ditch effort to survive, and I gripped the handle and swung as hard as I could, connecting with the faceless man's neck. As metal met flesh, the familiar squelch from my summers butchering cows with Poppy was emitted, followed by a dull thud as the blade met bone. The hand released from my neck, followed by the shadowed figure stumbling backwards. Not thinking, only reacting, I lunged forward, taking hold of the handle and ripped it out as hard as I could, blood covering my face and chest as the man stood there, not moving. The familiar weight of the blade in my hand, coupled with the yearning in my shoulder and the unease in my stomach, I swung. THWACK! And again. THWACK! Over and over, not stopping, even when the head rolled away from the body. I moved to his arms. Each strike quicker and more powerful than the last.
By the time I finished, I could barely raise my arms. The metallic mist in the air coated my mouth as I labored to catch my breath. There was an unshakeable feeling, very similar to the runner's high I would get in track, but a hundred times more intense. Slowly, the reality and gravity of the situation pulled me into focus.
Looking down, in front of me, was a scene more grotesque than anything Hollywood could ever imagine or convey. Head rolled over face down, torso devoid of any appendage. An arm at each side, mangled beyond recognition at the dissection point, and the legs below; each having been first removed from the torso, then separated at the knees and ankles.
Jesus! What the fuck have I done?! What the hell just happened?! Not believing my own eyes, I looked at the blood-soaked cleaver in my hand. Trembling, it slowly dislodged as each finger lost the strength to remain gripped, and the blade dropped to the ground, next to the body.
Falling to my knees, and then rocking back, I sat on the ground in front of the mutilated corpse. I pulled my knees close, and rested my head against my legs, unable to stop shaking. The only thought, like an infinitely repeating recording, was What have I just done? I began to sob, knowing full well I have just destroyed my life. Self defense was one thing, but with this level of overkill, no one would believe I was only defending myself. And now, a new thought emerged, one that I could finally answer. Who is this person?
Standing up, I nervously made my way to the severed head. I reached out my foot, very lightly touching the head, and then I jumped. But nothing happened. I laughed, thinking to myself, what is it going to do, jump and bite me? Even though I just savagely killed and mutilated this man, I couldn't help but giggle, which in turn became a full-on laughing fit. Clutching my sides, I finally was able to calm down, and I bent down and grabbed the head. Still facing away from me, I held the head up by its hair, at eye level, and slowly turned him around, nervous for not knowing what to expect. When the decapitated head stopped, I was finally able to get a good look, and I started shaking uncontrollably. I dropped the head and backed up, falling against the workbench again.
Staring up at me, half smirking, with its dead, unblinking, soulless eyes, was my own face.