Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
The small closet holds a few jackets on hangers but not much else.
As I’m about to close the closet door, a small cut in the wall behind the jackets catches my attention. I search for a light inside the closet and find one of those small, round tap lights. I push the on button, praying the batteries are fresh.
The harsh white glare helps illuminate the back wall of the closet. The cuts in the wall are roughly the shape of a small door. My own house has plenty of little oddities, strange doors, and closets. But those have been there for decades. The house was designed with them.
This looks recent and sloppily done. Like Gade was in desperate need of a hiding place and took a utility knife to the drywall.
Dread fills my body.
What’s behind that makeshift door?
I tease my fingernails into the seam and pry the rectangle of drywall loose. It swings toward me like a broken piece of cardboard. Cool, musty air drifts over my exposed wrists. No scent of decay, thank God.
Edging closer, I thrust the light forward and peer inside. VHS tapes. Stacks of them against the walls. Shoeboxes also stacked in neat rows. I don’t have to be a criminologist to know what’s on the videotapes. Probably more of what was playing out in his living room.
I duck inside and pick up a large, yellow padded envelope sitting on top of the stack of tapes. It’s addressed to Gade at this address from a PO Box in Kentucky. Inside, it feels like another VHS tape.
Sure, knowing his parole officer would be monitoring his computer usage, Gade had to go old school—all the way back to videotapes. Amazing that he’s only been out of prison for a few months and already managed to track down this appallingly large collection of depravity.
Curious about the shoeboxes, I flip the lid off of one of them.
No, no, no.
A photo of a child in pajamas with terror written all over his face rests on top.
I slam my eyes shut. I can’t.
The box is full of photographs that I assume only get progressively worse.
I rest the lid on the box without closing it fully, afraid the malignancy of what’s inside will somehow wear off on me if I touch it too much.
Slowly, I back away from the tapes and boxes. A whispered zing of metal against the nylon of my jacket stops me. I turn my head to the side and stare. A large silver nail that has to be at least five or six inches long juts out of one of the wall studs at a sharp angle. That could’ve hurt if I’d backed into it. More large nails stick out from different spots. I can’t tell if Gade is planning to hang items or the contractor who built the house went wild on his nails budget, but it does give me an idea…
Otherwise, I’ve seen enough.
It’s time to finish what I came to do and then get out of here. The longer I stay, the greater my risk.
Gade’s eyes are glued to the screen when I return to the living room. They have a distant, far-off dreamy quality that crawls over my skin. He grunts and twitches as I stand in front of him, blocking his view.
“You’ve been worse than I expected.” I stare down at him, already weary of this disgusting man.
His throat works hard to release whimpers and muffled pleas of innocence. His fear and desperation only disgust me. I take no pleasure in torturing him and I certainly don’t want to drag this out.
My mind spirals with the dark possibilities. In a perfect world, no one person should act as judge, jury, and executioner. But the price of following the “law” in this case is an innocent child’s life being forever altered.
The videos.
The photos.
In my limited observation of Gade, I’ve already caught him wandering too close to the local elementary school. It’s all proof that it’s only a matter of time before he harms another child. He can’t help himself.
Should I try calling his parole officer first? What will they do—send him back to prison? Then I’ll be doing this in two to four years when they release him again.
No one else is going to put this man down. It has to be me. Besides, I’m already here and he’s already drugged.
We’re halfway there.
I’ve fantasized about this for fourteen long years. I can’t turn back now.
“I’d like to do this as quickly and cleanly as possible.” I pace in front of him, weighing my options. “I have my scalpel.” I pat my pocket. “I bought a new one, just for you.” I toss him an evil smile. “But that might get messy.” I look down at my black jacket and pants. I’m planning to burn them after tonight anyway, but I don’t want to encounter anyone between here and home with blood on my clothes. “That giant four-poster bed gave me some ideas though. I don’t need to get you high off the ground to—oh.” My nose wrinkles. “I found your disgusting stash. Your hidden room.”