The Curse of Millhaven

The Curse of Millhaven

It’s all on there, every morbid memento, every atrocious artefact. As I discovered some time ago, people will pay big money for this stuff.

I’ve got murder weapons, blood-stained clothing, soiled leather gloves, spent shell cases, suicide notes. I’ve got Fred West’s front door key, Ted Bundy’s plastercast, Harold Shipman’s stethoscope and just about anything else you wouldn’t care to mention. None of it’s real, of course, but how would they know that?

It hasn’t always been like this. The Curse of Millhaven, that’s what they called me. Now I have to sit here, while others do my work. I’m trapped, as a steady stream of pretenders to my crown take the limelight. The media writes as if the curse lives on, and it does, but not in the way they’re talking about. None of these copycats have half my imagination or ingenuity. Who else would think of taking down the warning signs and inciting younger children to walk out on the lake’s fragile skin of ice? Who else could engineer the accidents I did? Not these clowns! It’s all bullet and blade in Millhaven now, and the nut jobs come from far and wide.

I’m not sure if it’s the lack of subtlety or the fact I can’t show them how it should be done that annoys me more.

*

I don’t think anyone’s ever done as many Rorschach tests as I have. Still, the tests have proved both my torment and my salvation. You see, Doctor Slain has a little secret he’d rather nobody knew. The tests let me unearth the skeletons in his closet. I’m sure he thought the fancy new Rorschach computer program would be a vast improvement on all that messy ink. He never should have left me with his laptop while he took that call.

I’m not sure how convinced he is that I took a copy of his internet history, but the doubt is enough to keep him in line. The price of my silence is two hours' unmonitored internet access per night. He probably thinks I can’t do any harm from in here, even with the world at my fingertips.

He’s wrong.

I found it, what I’ve always been looking for, an original sin. It’s not even illegal yet! It’s almost perfect.

The internet, you see, is very new in legal terms. You’d be surprised, but there aren’t enough lawmakers in the world to update all the statutes for the online generation.

The killer keepsakes are just a money spinning sideline, the real reason I need unobserved internet time is so I can partake of my new hobby. I say new hobby, it’s more of an extension of an old hobby. Did you know there are suicide chat rooms? Well, there are. People visit them to - you know - share their troubles, discuss methods, make contacts for the other side and whatever else the chronically depressed want to talk about. I lurk there, in the shadows, waiting for likely prey. I never have to wait long.

I find someone contemplating suicide and just ensure they make the correct choice. It’s surprisingly easy to gain their trust and talk them round. Ideally I instruct them on a suitable method and request they provide a webcam link up, so I can observe. I tell them it’s in case anything goes wrong or they change their mind at the last minute. I’ve watched hangers, gun-in-mouthers, overdosers, bag-over-headers, wrist-slitters – you name it. I even found this one guy who lived near a road bridge, I got him to aim the webcam out the window and zoom in next to one of the supports so he’d know where to jump. He was a grainy red smudge at the bottom of my screen afterwards.

As I’ve said many a time, all God's children, they all have to die.

THE END

Word Count: 642

Inspired by the Nick Cave and the Badseeds song of the same title:

I live in a town called Millhaven
And it's small and it's mean and it's cold
But if you come around just as the sun goes down
You can watch the whole town turn to gold
It's around about then that I used to go a-roaming
Singing "La la la la La la la lie"
All God's children they all gotta die

My name is Loretta but I prefer Lottie
I'm closing in on my fifteenth year
And if you think you have seen a pair of eyes more green
Then you sure didn't see them around here
My hair is yellow and I'm always a-combing
La la la la La la la lie
Mama often told me we all got to die

You must have heard about The Curse Of Millhaven
How last Christmas Bill Blake's little boy didn't come home
They found him next week in One Mile Creek
His head bashed in and his pockets full of stones
Well, just imagine all the wailing and moaning
La la la la La la la lie
Even little Billy Blake's boy, he had to die

Then Professor O'Rye from Millhaven High
Found nailed to his door his prize-winning terrier
Then next day the old fool brought little Biko to school
And we all had to watch as he buried her
His eulogy to Biko had all the tears a-flowing
La la la la La la la lie
Even God's little creatures, they have to die

Our little town fell into a state of shock
A lot of people were saying things that made little sense
Then the next thing you know the head of Handyman Joe
Was found in the fountain of the Mayor's residence
Foul play can really get a small town going
La la la la La la la lie
Even God's children all have to die

Then, in a cruel twist of fate, old Mrs Colgate
Was stabbed but the job was not complete
The last thing she said before the cops pronounced her dead
Was, "My killer is Loretta and she lives across the street!"
Twenty cops burst through my door without even phoning
La la la la La la la lie
The young ones, the old ones, they all gotta die

Yes, it is I, Lottie. The Curse Of Millhaven
I've struck horror in the heart of this town
Like my eyes ain't green and my hair ain't yellow
It's more like the other way around
I gotta pretty little mouth underneath all the foaming
La la la la La la la lie
Sooner or later we all gotta die

Since I was no bigger than a weavil they've been saying I
was evil
That if bad was a boot that I'd fit it
That I'm a wicked young lady, but I've been trying hard lately
Oh, f*** it! I'm a monster! I admit it!
It makes me so mad my blood really starts a-going
La la la la La la la lie
Mama always told me that we all gotta die

Yeah, I drowned the Blakey kid, stabbed Mrs. Colgate, I admit
Did the handyman with his circular saw in his garden shed
But I never crucified little Biko, that was two junior high school psychos
Stinky Bohoon and his friend with the pumpkin-sized head
I'll sing to the lot, now you got me going
La la la la La la la lie
All God's children have all gotta die

There were all the others, all our sisters and brothers
You assumed were accidents, best forgotten
Recall the children who broke through the ice on Lake Tahoo?
Everyone assumed the Warning signs had
followed them to the bottom
Well, they're underneath the house where I do quite a bit
of stowing
La la la la La la la lie
Even twenty little children, they had to die

And the fire of '91 that razed the Bella Vista slum
There was the biggest shit-fight this country's ever seen
Insurance companies ruined, land lords getting sued
All cause of a wee girl with a can of gasoline
Those flames really roared when the wind started blowing
La la la la La la la lie
Rich man, poor man, all got to die

Well I confessed to all these crimes and they put me on trial
I was laughing when they took me away
Off to the asylum in an old black Mariah
It ain't home, but you know, it's f***ing better than jail
It ain't such bad old place to have a home in
La la la la La la la lie
All God's children they all gotta die

Now I got shrinks that will not rest with their endless
Rorschach tests
I keep telling them they're out to get me
They ask me if I feel remorse and I answer, "Why of course!
There is so much more I could have done if they'd let me!"
So it's Rorschach and Prozac and everything is groovy
Singing La la la la La la la lie
All God's children they all have to die

La la la la La la la lie
I'm happy as a lark and everything is fine

Singing La la la la La la la lie
Yeah, everything is groovy and everything is fine
Singing La la la la La la la lie
All God's children they gotta die