SHUDDERVILLE TWO Read Online Free Page A

predator. Since then, there have been other victims scattered across the United States. Right now though, while I sat inside the widow’s kitchen, eating pancakes with her and the kids, I wondered if I it was possible to leave the past behind and lead a normal life? Just erase it all? Maybe if I got treated for my compulsions? Or maybe if I turned to Jesus? Could I keep the monster locked away in the closet? Was there any hope?
    I didn’t want to kill again. I was sick of feeling that way.
    But the cynic inside me laughed. And the laughter took over.
    The little girl was counting the blueberries on her pancakes. “One, two, three…”
    I held up my hands and counted. Ten fingers. Ten victims.
    And then I remembered—three more would make it thirteen.
    A perfect number.
    13.
    There was a symmetry there I couldn’t resist.
    Except for one problem. There were four people in this family.
    I suddenly heard a noise like the beat of a fly’s wing close to my ear.
    The little girl was asking questions. Babbling on the way some kids do.
    “What?” I said, distracted by the fly or the bug or whatever it was.
    “What are you doing?” Olive asked.
    “Doing?”
    “With your fingers?”
    “Counting.”
    “Counting what?”
    “My accomplishments.”
    “What accomplishments?”
    “Just stuff I’ve done in my life.”
    “What kind of stuff?”
    “Grown up stuff.”
    “What kind of grown up stuff?”
    “Nothing you’d be interested in.”
    She sighed. She grew frustrated, because I wasn’t going to be more forthcoming.
    I winked at Delilah, who frowned. She didn’t trust me. Smart woman.
    13 victims. I liked the sound of that.
    I could feel the compulsion bubbling up inside me, and my scars throbbing in agreement. But there were four people in this family. Not three. So the question was—which one should I spare? The lovely and mysterious widow? The dimwitted boy who wouldn’t be able to identify me? The girl trapped in the attic? Or the normal one?
    Then I heard it again. That noise.
    I turned and swatted at the air. I stood up and listened, then heard it again.
    Tick tick tick.
    “What’s wrong?” Delilah asked, wrinkling her upturned nose.
    “I thought I heard something,” I muttered, sitting back down and finishing my pancakes.
    “What did you hear?”
    “Nothing.” She asked too many questions. I needed to change the subject. “Hey, Olive, I got you something.”
    “Me?” The little girl’s eyes lit up. “Really? What?”
    “Stay here. Don’t move.”
    Delilah leaned forward and said, “Please don’t give her anything.”
    “Not a problem.” I went upstairs and dug the thing out of my bag. I hurried back downstairs and gave it to her. Wrapped in inky newsprint was a stuffed toy fawn—a baby deer with pink speckles on its tan back. It had tiny hooves, long painted eyelashes and an innocent smile on its adorable cartoon face.
    “For me?”
    “For you.”
    “Oh! It’s so pretty!”
    “You didn’t have to do that.” Delilah spoke intensely, as if some part of her was grateful, but an even bigger part might be jealous.
    “Thanks!” Olive said, hugging her new treasure. “I love it!”
    Now I heard that sound again. A flickering, awful sound.
    Tick tick tick.
    What was that? I looked around the kitchen but couldn’t see a thing.
    That day in the Alaskan wilderness, while I was sitting in the snow and playing with the dead girl’s fingers, I saw a whiteness beyond the mountains that filled me with fear. A whiteness ten times as bright as the sun. A great absence. What was that? It was the shimmering whiteness of finality. Death was coming for me. One day, in the beat of a fly’s wing, I would be gone.
    *
    After breakfast, Delilah finished doing the dishes, fetched her purse, issued a few instructions to the kids, and then drove into town. Olive and Andy ran outside to play. At last, I had the house to myself.
    I immediately went upstairs to the attic, a strange fear squeezing my