The Home of Ellen Timms
Walking up the ancient wooden steps of that old stoop was always hard for Detective Demmer. The entire house bled sorrow.
Knowing what he knew, knowing what he didn't know, seeing that frail, elderly woman in anguish, it was always a lot. Now he was going to go into her den and feed her grief ridden hysteria with these insane questions.
The smell of dead ivy and grass, a little too tall for itself, usually followed you well into the house, a kind of smell that stick to you well into the night, but today it ended abruptly at the door today. Which caught Demmer by surprise. Instead, a vague scent of copper hung in the air. Something wet.
As he opened the rusted screen door to knock, he noticed it. The small scrape. A long thin shaving of bright silver metal inlaid into the rusted patina of the door itself. Right by the latch.
'Strange, that's the kind of mark left when-'
Greg's guard went up alongside the intuitive hair on his neck. He slowly opened the screen door, put two fingers on the main and applied pressure.
′Creeeaakkkk'
The door swung wide. loud, but effortlessly. His senses were dulled from all the events ramping up in his world recently. Otherwise, he would've already had his Glock in hand. But doing so now was still equally smart. The house was dark. Abnormally so, with the mid-day rays beating on the front face of the home.
Demmer produced a penlight from his pocket, cross-locked his arms, and focused his barrel and the light into the darkness.
′Blackout curtains?′
Demmer made a mental note, ′these weren't here a few days ago.′
A quick scan of the immediate entrance showed a disaster. Greg stuck to the rules when it came to these things.
Demmer knew that protocol dictated a return to the vehicle, a radio for report and reinforce and no contamination of the crime scene if there was any.
′Damn it, Molly and I should've stuck together today.′
His fear overrode any respect to the protocol today. Because now he found himself stepping over a broken kitchen chair. A chair that should be in a dining room on the other side of the home, and trying not to slip on a pile of tossed about paperwork with no drawer in the hall to call home.
′What the fuck happened here.′
Greg approached the door to the living area and swung left, beaming his light within. Blood spackled right corner seat of the flowered sofa where Mrs. Timm's sat and spoke to him before.
′Fuck'
Streaks of red permeated across the white carpet and further into the darkness the shared wall at the far right of the room. Greg remembered using the half-bath on the other side to wash his hands the first time he came and broke the news to Old Lady Timm's. He knew that the next hallway door was the second entrance to that bathroom.
Taking another step into the home, this time side stepping a puddle of spilled ′something'He took a deep breath and twisted the handle to the half-bath hall entrance, Shoving it wide and fast.
At first glance, Demmer's eyes caught a non-climatic sight. But that was because he expected a body. After a moment, however, what he discovered was much worse. The scene made Demmer's vision flash like an old bulb on a noir era crime scene camera.
′Blood stained the sink'
flash!
′A clump of hair still attached to flesh on the tiles'
flash!
′The toilet seat smudged dark with congealed blood, as if someone's head was held inside′
flash!
′Vomit in the toilet, chunks across the floor'
flash!
Greg followed the trail of yellowed bile from the pot to his shoes. Where he realized, he was standing on something.
Something slippery.
Lifting his shoe, the world blurred.
′That's a fucking tongue.′
The shock caused Demmer to buckle at the knees, slipping in the vomit and reaching for the door handle, missing and crashing backwards into the hall, falling back first into the mystery liquid he just side-stepped moments earlier.
For just a moment, the world faded out and the only thing that existed was the sound of Greg's heartbeat in his own ears.
′Get up and get out'
'Get. Up. Get. Out.'
The detective rose to his feet and stumbled backward toward the door, pushing the chair and papers out of his way, but just as he reached the entrance, he heard it. It wasn't a voice, but a raspy groan somewhere far above him.
′Fuck, she's alive.′
That was enough for Greg to turn, raise his firearm, and proceed down the hall at a march. Hesitation was over, Demmer veered right and headed up the stairs.
The Groans were weak and distant, but he could make out their general location. The back master bedroom. He knew he couldn't run straight to her aid; however, he needed to clear the other three rooms first. So, he did. The first two were simple, there weren't any black-out curtains on the second floor and the first two rooms were wide open.
The first was a pink room, stuffed animals lay piled in the corner, a crib and mobile adjacent.
'The Grand baby's room.'
Greg wanted to spend some time inside. In a way, to give proper condolences to the young child lost. But there was evil outside of that pink room, and it was his job to stop that.
The second was an upstairs restroom. A quick glance showed that the bathroom was empty and pristine. A quick clear.
The third was shut and latched.
Greg's heart began to race, Ellen's moans had stopped. Time was well beyond out.
′All or nothing, let's go.′
A quick slam of the shoulder revealed another pristine room.
′Ellen's daughters' room.′
The sheets on the queen bed were pastel purple with a grey topper, folded to perfection and there was an outfit laid out perfectly on the bed. Clearly a young woman's choice of dress. A deep blue and next to it. Pumps.
Greg fought hard to keep. The sadness of the losses out of him.
As he turned to exit the room, the closet doors shuddered.
The Detective approached slowly and raised his barrel to fire. Reaching out with his foot, he swung the door wide and to his surprise found old lady Timms sobbing in a ball.
Greg couldn't help himself. He collapsed and gave the old woman an embrace. She wept in his arms.
"Help her please!"
Greg frowned in confusion.
"Help who? Who else is here?"
That's when he noticed that the old lady had no blood on her, no wounds, her tongue clearly was still intact.
Ellen cried harder and gripped Greg's arm pleadingly.
"The Clarey girl's mother came to talk to me about our losses and that... that man in the mask was outside again. When she got out of her car, he pulled out a knife and grabbed her by the hair. I tried to stop him, but he made his way inside and we were trapped. Please. Please help her!"
"Greg stood up. "The bottom of the house is clear. Go and get help. Run to a neighbor and call the police. I haven't called this in yet."
Greg walked her to the door, Timm's went left, and shimmied down the steps as quickly as she could, Demmer went right. One door left, the master bedroom. Slowly, Greg rounded the corner into the room, all was still. All was silent. Sissy Clarey, the mother of the missing girl, came to make peace with a grieving elderly woman. But instead lost her life.
There was no need to check for a pulse. Sissy's mangled and fileted body lay motionless on the floor. Skinned from her chin to the back of her head. Greg remembered the tongue under his foot moments ago and fell to his knees sobbing.
Falling to his side, he laid there on the floor and wept, staring endlessly into the face of an innocent death, wrapped up in a case of innocent death.
And it went this way for what seemed like an eon. Her blood pooling into the eccentric old-fashioned rug.
When the blues showed up, they had to pull him from the floor, guide him out of the house and set him in a cruiser. As they lifted him from the pool of Sissy's blood, he noticed how black and deep her eye sockets were.
′Where are her fucking eyes.′