THE OLD BARN

My name is Malone, Jock Malone. I’m a private detective and I’ve been hired by a woman, who’s sister along with three other people had been brutally murdered, then bisected, dissected and intersected inside an old dilapidated barn. The gruesome murders were committed almost 20 years ago, and the case went cold, you might say icy cold almost immediately. The only solid evidence the police really had was that whoever the killer was, he’s either a very big man or an enormously large woman with the strength of a grizzly bear. My guess is, it’s probably a guy since the victims were all strangled to death before being sliced and diced; large bruised finger imprints around their throats were still visible when forensics took the ghastly photos. There’s a slight possibility the killer may be a butcher because of the way the victims had been fileted while their bodies were hanging on meat hooks. As odd as it seems, even though buckets of blood, which belonged to the murder victims had soaked into the ground, floorboards and the walls, a trace of someone else’s blood had been discovered as well, most likely the killer’s.

This is not the usual sort of case I would take on. I’m more of a peeping-tom type of PI, always sneaking around, constantly on the prowl and taking photos of cheating spouses or perps (like to call them that because it makes me sound like I’m an up-town, big-shot detective). I wouldn’t say that the job is without risks. I’ve had to sprint like a jackrabbit with a hungry fox on its fuzzy-bunny tail when I’ve been caught red-handed by a cheating husband. Luckily, I’m 6’4”, built like a brick shithouse and able to take mighty long strides, when I have to make a dash for it. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll duck around a corner and then, whammo! I’ve got fists the size of jackhammers and equally powerful. Like I said, I don’t usually take on murder cases but the woman who hired me is a real looker, drop dead gorgeous, and besides paying me in cash, her special perks are terrific if you get my drift, (wink, wink).

The barn’s location is on the outskirts of a town so small that if you blinked just before you arrived, you’d drive right on by. Not to look conspicuous out in the country, I’m driving a white 2011 dinged up, cracked windshield and mud-splattered half-ton Dodge Ram truck with a red fiberglass canopy attached to the box. Inside is a foamy, sleeping bag and a small fridge stocked with a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels and ice. I like my rye whiskey over the rocks—cools off the heat as it slides down my throat like a slithery snake. When I reach the entrance to what had once been a small farm, the rusty old mailbox attached to a busted wooden post had been lying in the ditch for a long time. After I turn off the gravel road and pass the remains of the farmhouse, I park the truck in front of the big barn, which the locals declare is haunted. Apparently, the house was bull-dozed down in attempt to sell the property, but to my way of thinking, I would have burned the bloody barn down instead, since that’s where the gory murders were committed.

I’d seen the photos of the victims hanging on meat hooks and the barn’s interior taken from many different angles and read the files regarding their deaths. I hadn’t noticed anything unusual except the slabs of human flesh had been cut into small portions and piled neatly on a large table. I’m not sure why I’ve come to this barn of death, especially since it’s doubtful there’s any clues still to be found after so many years have gone by, more likely the joint is caked in mounds of dust and mouse turds but I have to start somewhere. The large double doors have been chained together and padlocked but a PI of my caliber always carries a crowbar, not just for prying off locks but sometimes it comes in handy to put a dent in someone’s skull. When the doors squeak open, the gloomy interior is illuminated by the hot summer sun as a couple of pigeons fly out over my head.

The barn is not very large. Besides an open area, which was most likely used for parking a tractor and a baler, three stalls are situated under the loft. Although the interior is dank, dull and dreary, a certain charm only a barn can possess is still evident. The slight scent of animals, manure and hay persists. I didn’t think the four meat hooks would still be inside the barn but there they were, hanging on chains that were attached to a thick overhead wooden beam. I have to mention that not too many things bother me but seeing those big metal meat hooks made my skin crawl and the hairs on the nape of my neck stand to attention. Even if I didn’t know what had occurred in this place, an eeriness of despair hung like a heavy black shroud within. I wouldn’t have noticed the dark splashes of blood on the walls if I didn’t know what they were, would have just thought the wood was weathered and stained from the rain seeping through the leaky roof. As I peered into each stall, I wondered why only one had floorboards and didn’t consist of hardened dirt like the others. Deciding to get a bird’s eye view, I began climbing the ladder to the loft. When my eyes were level with the floor, I saw several mice scurry off, squeaking their disdain as they disappeared into some broken bales of hay. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary in the loft, so I retraced my steps.

As I stood in the centre of the decaying rodent infested barn I sighed and then thought, what the hell. I grabbed the crowbar and began tapping the floorboards in the stall with it. I didn’t really expect to discover anything but after pounding around in one of the corners a couple of more times with my head cocked concentrating on the sound, I was quite certain I’d found a hollow spot. Although the floorboards were irregular lengths, one of them had a small piece cut off the corner. I’ve got big hands and fingers like sausages but after cursing like a drunken sailor or a raunchy lumberjack, I finally managed to pry a corner of the board up. It was attached to a trap door, which exposed a hole in the dirt floor containing a ladder that disappeared into the darkness below. I could see a lightbulb with a tiny chain hanging from the socket. What were the chances I thought as I pulled the chain? Nothing, only a clicking noise could be heard. But like I said earlier, a PI of my caliber doesn’t just carry a crowbar for emergencies, I also had a high-powered flashlight back at the truck and extra batteries when needed.

From the looks of the spiderwebs gathered around the opening, it must have been a long time since anyone had used the ladder but it still gave me comfort as I patted the gun resting inside my shoulder holster—I wasn’t taking any chances—might be another entrance besides this one. I had to admit, I was very curious as I slowly climbed down the ladder, one rung at a time. Expecting to enter a room, the flashlight instead lit up a long tunnel that had a hole in the floor at the end of it. As I cautiously climbed down the ladder brushing the spiders and their webs away, I was amazed to find myself standing in a large room that looked nothing like a cave. It was a kitchen, one that contained all the latest electrical appliances of twenty years ago. Besides the stove, fridge and freezer, a double stainless-steel sink took up most of the space. The cupboards were filled with pots and pans of every dimension and several different sized frying pans were hanging from the ceiling. The drawers contained eating utensils and all sorts of other paraphernalia. Two large vents were also situated in the ceiling, one for probably taking the air out and the other to suck the fresh air in. I didn’t bother opening the fridge or the freezer because whatever was inside had probably turned into a science project once the electrical power had been cut off.

A door on the far wall opened into a dining room, which contained a large wooden antique table, matching sideboard and china cabinet. Two intricately carved wooden armchairs had been placed at each end of the table along with ten other matching chairs. Whoever had been living here must have been expecting company judging by the way the table was neatly set. A doorway on the other side of the room led to a large bedroom that had beautifully framed paintings hanging on the walls depicting men and women having sex in many different positions. Judging from the number of couches and beds tastefully placed throughout the room, something told me, many an orgy had occurred here. Opening yet another door expecting to reveal a large clothes closet, I was horrified as I shone the flashlight along two walls that had rows of floor to ceiling shelves stocked with human skulls. A man, or at least his remains, was sitting on what looked like an elaborately carved throne festooned with jewels. He had been dead for a long time and the dryness of the underground abode had turned him into a mummy only an Egyptian would appreciate. Leathery brown skin was pulled tight across his cheek bones and his eyes had sunk deep into the sockets. His gaping jaws looked as if he was laughing at a joke that was being played on me, which hopefully wasn’t happening. He was dressed in a long purple satin robe with a white fur collar and wore a gold crown imbedded with gleaming gems that had two large goat horns protruding from the sides. As I inspected the leering corpse, I realized this giant of a man had been the elusive killer, especially after reading the bloodstained note I had pried from his boney hand.

To Whomever It May Concern…

I am one of Satan’s many chosen princes and I dwell here in the depths of the earth as close to Hell as I’m able. Like Christ, I have faithful disciples and many followers. To embrace evil is no different than embracing love, the feelings are much the same. As you can see, I am surrounded by skulls—people who were against our beliefs. They were justly sacrificed and then, after drinking their blood, we fed on their bodies so they would become one with us. It’s rather ironic though, because when I began butchering a beautiful woman for our sacred ritual, she must have been still alive because she deliberately grabbed the small chainsaw that I’d been using. Unfortunately for me, the saw chewed into my arm and nicked the artery high up near the shoulder. I couldn’t stop the flow of blood and I am now like you found me—lifeless—yet living still in the kingdom of Hades.

As I was about to leave this cavern of horrors, I thought I heard a noise behind me in the orgy room. Quickly pulling the gun out of its holster I spun around, the flashlight illuminating the room like a strobe, dark shadows dancing everywhere. My nerves must be on edge I thought because the room was empty, only paintings of gorgeous women being screwed in every erotic position imaginable prevailed—time to report back to my client—I’m sure her bonus will be most enjoyable.