Stan the Man

My birth name is Stanley Waldon the Third. Stan for short. The kids in school used to call me Stan the man. I hated it, but they called me it, anyway. "Stan the man here, just pissed his pants in front of the entire school!" "Stan the man got caught eating glue!" "Stan the man has cooties!" Kids are awful. I never once heard a "Good job, Stan the man!" So, it's not surprising the same nickname found its way into my current job or any other place I found employment. It rolls off the tongue. You can't help yourself, like when you're tickling someone and they want you to stop, but you keep going. People think it's funny or that they're being real clever by saying it. I never thought it was funny. Or clever. It loses its novelty after someone says it to you for the thousandth time.

I started cleaning offices downtown only a couple of weeks ago. It's in the Waramount Solutions building, but you already knew that. I'm not the smartest man, but they do a lot of research and development. It's a decent enough job and pays decent, considering I only clean the place. I take out the garbage, vacuum the offices, mop, dust, and all the other janitorial duties. It was smooth. I had my routine, and nothing went wrong. That was my problem. I got too damn comfortable again.

So much time has passed since the last time - I just didn't think it would happen again. It's what he wanted me to think - the bastard! I quit my previous job because of him. I moved to another state because of him. It's not the first time I have had to do that, and I have a sick feeling it won't be the last. I know it won't be the last.

I used to work in Michigan a few years back. Rose City. It was another janitor job, like this one, but for a smaller company. Best job I have ever had. I won't bore you with all the details, but I did the work that most well-to-do people think is beneath them. Most employees in the office see me, but they don't really see me. Most don't even say good morning back to you if you say it to them. It's like you don't exist. Do you have any idea what that does to a person over time? People are so rude, especially people in fancy suits who are always running around with their espresso drinks, making deals, and whatnot. But Kara - she was different from the rest of those stuck up I'm better than you types.

I enjoyed cleaning her office the most. It always smelled like her - that scent – her fragrance… just heavenly. When I close my eyes and focus real hard, I can almost pick up the subtle hints of the perfume mixed with her natural odor. I understand how weird this sounds, but she always smelled real good.

She took fantastic care of herself, too. The pictures of her and her family always showed her being so happy. She made happiness contagious - like she spread hope. She always smiled at me and said good morning before I could say it to her. Beat me to it every single time.

And then she'd ask about me, and I would fill her in. I never had anything fun to talk about. My life is boring. She listened all the same. She listened! I existed! I'd ask about her day, and she would vent about her husband and kids - good and bad stuff - typical family shenanigans. She was always so lovely and so beautiful. The prettiest dark brown hair you ever laid your eyes on, too. Just perfect, along with those eyes. Those blue eyes that were always so sincere…

One morning, she didn't bother coming in. I noticed right away. It didn't feel right. It felt like something was wrong, not like she called in sick, but like something terrible happened. The same day, I experienced a horrible headache, and I blacked out that night like I often do. I took it as a bad sign, but let it be. The morning after, Kara didn't make it to work again. Next thing you know, an entire week flew by without her in the office. People got worried.

After that first week, a detective came in asking everybody all kinds of questions about who saw her last, where she was, and whether she had any known enemies. I remembered all those crime shows. I thought of the husband; they always say it's usually someone the victim knows, like the husband.

The detective skipped right over me. I guess that's the best thing about being me. Nobody ever notices you. Nobody bothers to. To these people, I'm just a prop, a thing. I clean the place they work at every single day. To them, I don't have a proper job. I'm part of the facility. A lucky stiff who gets to be the perk of making sure all the offices are spotless and tidy, so they don't have to. An odd sense of relief washed over me. I didn't know why. Why was I relieved the detective didn't bother asking me anything? I knew nothing.

Later that night, after work, he contacted me. I happened upon a note clear as day on my kitchen table. The back door to the lower half of the duplex I rented creaked from the slight gusts of wind hitting it. He left it open on purpose. In the note, he told me to be somewhere and to make sure I made it on time. The note said he had Kara and that if I didn't show, he would kill Kara. I was to come alone, and no cops.

I could have ignored it. The entire scenario was real strange. I didn't have a choice, though. The headaches were getting worse. The blackout happened again the same night, and I couldn't remember a single thing after it. But I did what the note said. Kara needed me to.

The sonuvabitch led me to some apartment somewhere I'd never been before. It was a real nasty place. Abandoned from the looks of it. Garbage was tossed about like every spot was a smaller version of a dump site. Rats ran around like they were training for the Olympics. Even the homeless degenerate bums came across as too good to call this place home.

The pungent odor of urine and shit filled my nostrils when I walked closer to the building that marked X on the map he gave me. The stench grew stronger when I stepped inside. It made me feel nauseated. As I walked into one of the far rooms, as directed, I picked up the scent of something else entirely. It was so strong. I will never forget it; it is a smell that has become as natural to me as breathing.

A surreal euphoria held me in place for a while. I didn't move. I was scared. I understood as soon as I set foot inside that room, I would cross a line, and it would change my life forever. My instincts told me to turn and run, but I fought it. A part of me needed to know that Kara was okay. When I turned the corner, I found her. Kara was naked and strung up like a morbid art project on display.

Chains ran from the ceiling, holding up her arms by the wrists. The shackles looked old, and the blood from her wounds mixed with the reddish rust. The support beams the chains attached to were strong. They held her up effortlessly. The shit and urine that had evacuated her body after she died sat in a pile below her. The urine dried, but the overpowering niff baked into the floor. She'd been dead for a while. A deep indentation highlighted the skin around her neck like a thin string or wire had choked her. The blood from the wrists was because of the shackles. Other than that, she appeared pristine – angelic. She remained a thing of beauty. Her naked, pale skin glowed in the moonlight, shining through the only open window in the room. Her eyes remained deep, but they weren't sincere anymore. They came across as scared. She died afraid.

I should have called the police immediately and told them about the note, but I didn't. Something inside of me held me back. Someone was watching me. Someone killed someone I knew and wanted me to know about it. This asshole, whoever he was, got his sick jollies off it. I left her. I was too afraid to move closer to the body. I'm sorry Kara stayed that way. I have no idea how long it took for someone to find her, either. I just left. I didn't look back. I wanted to leave it all behind me. But my luck wouldn't hold up.

It happened again just as I was getting comfortable. It happens every time I let my guard down! When Paul died, I realized the truth. Paul was a guy I worked with at my last job. He was a genuine friend. Probably the only one I've ever had. He was friendly, the kind of nice you pray for when you're down on your luck. He was the type of guy that would give you the shirt off his back - God's honest truth. He did the training at my last job.

We went out for a few drinks one night after our shift. There was a little corner bar he liked to go to, and it was a great place to relax after working second shift. He was a regular, and they all knew him. The bar staff and locals treated me like I was one of them for a change. The feeling of belonging is powerful. It made me happy. Plus, he hadn't shown up for a while. I thought I lost him, but I let my guard down. It happened again. This time was different, though. This time, he wanted to show me more than just another dead body. He wanted to show me the truth of it all.

The blackout hit, and when I came to, Paul was dead right in front of me. His head was smashed wide open, and blood touched everything in the apartment, especially the places close to Paul's body. He had never killed a man before. It had always been women, and it had always been by choking them with some kind of thin wire. Paul's death was so much more brutal. There was jealousy behind it like he didn't want me to have a friend.

As I took in the bloody mess surrounding me, a voice spoke up in my head. It wasn't my voice. It was him. He laughed at me, and he wouldn't stop laughing. I realized I had something in my left hand. It was a bloodied hammer. The fear coursing through my body kept me from moving, and he knew that. He taunted me. I remember his voice. It was so cold and dark, and it seemed to be everywhere as I stared at Paul's corpse. He said, "You did this, Stan. Stan the man. I can make you do anything, Stan the man."

I wanted to yell. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. I didn't move. I killed Paul, but the voice told me it was him. He said he needed to do it. He didn't like too many people knowing who I was and that all the deaths in the end were for my own good. He told me I should thank him! He protected me and kept people from getting too close because if they found out what I really was, I would be in trouble, and he wouldn't let that happen. Can you believe that?

I ran from the apartment. I ran like before, moving to a new city, getting a new identity, and blending into the background. It was what the voice wanted. If people didn't know me and continued to ignore me, then it made it easier for him to kill. Now, I understood how wrong it was, and I wanted to stop it. But I did nothing.

Mary, the thing is, if I turn myself in, he will kill me. I will black out, and that will be the end. If I did something honorable and whatnot, like ending my life, then I'd still be dead. The truth is, I don't want to die. And for me to live, so does he.

Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry. I know you don't believe me right now, but I really am. Ahhh! My head! You don't have a lot of time left, Mary. I can feel him coming. I'm about to black out. It hurts so much when it happens. I…

* * * *

Stanley Waldon the Third stood atop the rooftop of one of the many buildings downtown. The night air gave off the aromas of a busy city, and the smog from the factories kept the stars hidden. He turned to face his latest victim, Mary.

Mary sat tied up and huddled in a corner behind him. Dried mascara tears clung to her cheeks, and she still wore the casual business attire she meticulously picked out for work earlier in the morning. The woman struggled to break free of the ropes binding her ankles and wrists. Stan smiled from ear to ear; he remained confident Mary's restraints wouldn't give. On this night, Stan the man, would receive another notch on the belt.

"Good old Mary, it is nice to see you again. Stan has left for the moment, but don't worry. I'll be here to keep you company. My lovely little secretary, we'll get to know one another well." Another terrifying smile of sadistic joy spread from ear to ear on Stan's face as he approached Mary during her last moments of life.