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They Just Never Listen

It is in the silence that we hear the most

By Lisa VanGalenPublished about a year ago 5 min read
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They Just Never Listen
Photo by Nolan Issac on Unsplash

I could just scream. The police are back again, poking around, spraying their noxious fumes, not expressing interest in finding the truth. I can see it on their faces. Their words betray their non-involvement. To them, this was just another disappearance. From my vantage point, I had no prior knowledge of the others. But the officers have filled in so much.

I understand now why she cried out “I'm not like the others! I didn't do anything wrong.”

Her words had confused me. She was the only one I knew about. I had watched as Edgar tormented her, teasing her with food before throwing it in the trash. How he hissed at her, hit her when she screamed, soiled her with his filth.

There had been so much blood. Never having witnessed a murder before, I was blissfully unaware of how many pints a human body held. It was much more than the cats. Even the large dog Edgar dragged home had been relatively cleaner.

Each episode resulted in a thorough cleaning. I appreciated the effort. The overwhelming scent of copper lingers, even after bleach and vinegar soak into my pores. Compounding the issues I have are the layers of wallpaper plastered to my surface. A feeble attempt in my opinion.

The weight drags on my fibres, and though I am strong enough to handle it, I shouldn't have to. If Edgar had only stuck to small animals. Now I was going to have to find a way to reveal the truth.

“..why we have to keep doing this? The guy's a whack job. But I don't see anything here to say he actually killed that girl. We're wasting our time...”

The officer stomped away, leaving footprints on the dusty floorboards.

“..demolish this place. Even the neighbours want it gone. Seems like..”

What do you mean 'demolish this place?' You can't do that! Not while Cassie's blood is still here. Not while I have the answers you wanted. The clues you missed when you thought she was nothing more than a drug-addled runaway. Back before her family asked questions and made you do your job.

Another scream of frustration welled up and I shook as hard as I could. The strain on my plaster popped a nail loose, impacting the backside of the wallpaper shroud.

“What was that?” Officer One strolled back into the room.

Finally, I thought. Some progress.

“There's nothing here that a stick of dynamite won't fix,” Officer Two said, laughing heartily as he punched me in passing. “This place has been a death trap for years.”

Taking offence to his demeanour, and the unwarranted attack, I flexed again, popping a second nail. The tiny sound was lost beneath of shuffling of the policeman's booted feet. Damn it! Trying to talk to humans is hard work.

One more try. A third pop. Officer One whipped his head around.

“Be quiet, you idiot. There's something in this wall.”

“Probably rats. Nothing else would live here.” Officer Two wandered off to kick some more walls while Number One peered closer to my recent renovations.

“Hey,” he called to his partner. “Wasn't this wall a different colour the last time we were here?”

“Who cares if it was?” came the booming reply, the words dripping with sarcasm. “You can't dress up a turd. Maybe someone thought they could get a better price for this dump if the walls were pretty.”

Officer One poked his nightstick at my heavily coated exterior.

Don't give up, I pleaded. Look deeper! Poke harder. It's here. I'm telling you... but you can't hear me. Desperate, I once again pushed against the plaster tomb.

Snap! A piece of lath broke free.

One and Two jumped back, their hands dropping to their pistols.

Clearly curious, Officer Two circled the room, as if he could see through the layers to the treasure tucked inside.

“...OK dispatch. We'll hang tight and wait for the techs. Stevens out.”

“I'm not waiting around for the lab monkeys,” Officer Two complained. “That could take hours.” He continued to pace around. “Besides, what are we going to tell them? The wall spoke to us?” His snide question irritated me.

“Don't be dense. I'm telling you, someone has been here and papered this wall,” Officer Stevens poked again. “No one would do that in this dump unless they needed to cover something up.”

Officer Two sighed as if he had held his breath for hours. “I'm going out for a smoke. Don't call me unless the whole house is falling down or something.” He stomped out the front door, the latch rattling loosely on impact with the wall.

Stevens took out his notepad and scratched a rough picture of the room. Flipping back through his pages, he puzzled at his original findings. Turning around, he looked for the small step stool that had rested in the corner. Back and forth, image to reality, he compared and questioned every little detail. I watched as the policeman's face drew tight.

“Hey! Conrad!” he called to Officer Two. “Wasn't there a stool in this room?”

“How would I know?” came the belligerent reply. “Some junkie probably dragged it off to sell.”

He wasn't going to find it. Edgar had stashed the stool in the attic after he finished the wallpaper. It was a rookie move. There would be fingerprints all over it, embedded in the glue he dripped. Possibly more evidence too, as the stool had been in the room when Cassie died – was slaughtered, I corrected myself. Dying implies dignity and a cessation of life, preferably calmly. What I had witnessed was not that.

My control didn't extend to the attic. I pondered the problem while Stevens continued to wander about, making notes about everything Edgar had moved or removed since they sealed the house. I've heard it said that it's the little things that catch criminals. Hopefully that's true because all that's left are little things.

“..right. Thanks, dispatch.” Conrad poked his head in. “Let's roll. There's a robbery on 5th. We're up.”

NO! You can't leave, not now. What about Cassie? What about the evidence?

“On it,” Stevens replied, tucking his notebook back in his pocket. “Nothing more to see here, anyway.”

The door closing rang impotently through the empty house. In time, the crime scene techs would stop by and take things apart. Maybe they would stay long enough to find the lock of hair and the tiny spots of blood I had soaked in during Cassie's murder. I could only hope.

Mystery
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About the Creator

Lisa VanGalen

I am a panster by nature, discovering my characters as they reveal themselves. To date, my novel writing has involved the paranormal or magick within a more familiar setting, blending it with mysteries, police procedurals, or thrillers.

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Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

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  • Flamance @ lit.2 months ago

    Great story nice I like it

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