Death Awaits You Here, My Dear

The Cherry Hill Murders Still Go Unsolved the headline read.  Normally, I wouldn’t have looked at the headlines.  Normally, I wouldn’t have cared about any current events.  What seventeen year old girl does?  But those murders ... they were the only thing on everyone’s mind.  And on that particular day, it was on my mind too.  But, for reasons you’ll soon understand, it plagued me.  I mean, it really consumed every inch of me.

I had lived in the small town of Orchards, Oregon.  Our police department was not good about keeping crime details from the public.  In fact, I’m not sure they really tried to.  The details of these murders barreled headlong into our local Orchards Print newspaper and all over town through the grapevine’s contemptuous ranks.  There seemed to be no regard for us, the public.  I didn’t want to hear about clean cuts that were made by a large bladed weapon, or how the girls, all of whom I knew, were found in pieces.  And I certainly didn’t want to know that the person who inflicted these assaults, was a psychopath—who by the way, was wandering around our town.  I found it sickening how people would get off on this vile, evil crap.  I’d actually accumulated enough insight into these murders, that I was having nightmares.  I  was tired and hadn’t been getting any sleep—for fear if I fell asleep, I’d have another one.

If they’d only given me details I could live with—like the tire tracks they said were made by factory issued tires for the Toyota Camry; and how the tires should have traces of blood on them and a distinctive pattern on the rear right tire that was shaped like a lightening bolt—I probably wouldn’t have had the nightmares.

They always began the same way:  He just stood there, leaning on his car.  He appeared to be watching the comings and goings of the townspeople.  People seemed to recognize him.  In fact, they treated him as though he were a trusted long-time resident of Orchards.  My vantage point was just far enough away that I could only see prominent features and body language.  And, because I was in a dream state, my clarity was somewhat fogged ... as if I was looking into a crystal ball. 

He was a tall man—a man built like a logger with an unshaven face.  His hair was short and he sported stubbly growth where a mustache had begun to grow.  He didn’t appear to be threatening:  he had a friendly demeanor.  To me, he was old,  I guessed  around thirty-five or forty.  He wore blue jeans,  three layered shirts and steel-toed logging boots.

Is he looking for someone in particular? I wondered as I noticed he’d been standing there for a while.

That’s when I saw it, or at least I thought I did.  Something seemed to glimmer in the back seat of his car.  I wanted to move closer to investigate, but I couldn’t.  The man seemed to be getting antsy and adjusted his position, causing the car to rock.  There it was again--there was definitely something shiny in the backseat of that car. 

I was looking at his back, which made it easy to see his body suddenly stiffen up.  I glanced around at our surroundings.  What made him so tense? I wondered. 

It was then that I saw her:  Little Miss Stephanie Shaw, the town slut.  Stephanie and I were never friends, so it surprised me when I got this intense feeling in my gut.  Nothing prompted me to suspect foul play.  Nevertheless, I  felt this terrible pang and felt my heart drop to my feet.  Maybe he was nervous at the mere sight of her.  Some boys do that, you know.  When they see a captivating woman, their groin  becomes consumed by anticipation.  Then their brains kick in and they hope they won’t somehow spoil their big chance.

I couldn’t shake that gut-wrenching feeling that something terrible was forthcoming.  Despite my indifference toward Stephanie, I experienced an overwhelming sense of sympathy for her just then.  And, it wasn’t because she wore a very short, low-cut, form-fitting red dress accompanied by red stilettos.  Stephanie could pull off a dress like that.  No, it wasn’t because she portrayed herself as a tramp:  she likely never had a clue.

The man relaxed a little as Stephanie approached him.  She looked at him, as though she knew him well.  Her finger found the unbuttoned portion of his second flannel shirt and moved slowly down, toward his midsection.  Her gaze followed her finger down.  She stopped where the shirt started to button and teased the fabric a little as she slowly returned her gaze to his face, biting her lower lip.  He placed his large hands on her arms and slowly felt his way down to her wrists.  It looked as though he was saying something to her.

The street had pretty much cleared by this time.  The last of the bars had closed and everyone had gone home. 

In an abrupt turn of events, without provocation, he grabbed both of her wrists.  The hold was so tight that, even from my vantage point, I could see that Stephanie couldn’t escape from his grasp.  Everything about her body language screamed, though she never screamed aloud.  She was scared to death.  He must have said something to her.  Maybe he told her he had a weapon.  Maybe he threatened that he was going to use it on her if she screamed.

He pulled something out from inside one of his shirts.  I couldn’t see it.  He appeared to be doing something with Stephanie’s wrists.  My God!  Is he tying her wrists?  Shit! I panicked.  I wanted to help.  But, I wasn’t really there.  I couldn’t do anything.  I felt so helpless.  “Stephanie!” I yelled. 

The man pulled her closer to the car so he could pin her to the back half of the car as he opened the driver’s door.  As he forced her in he must have told her to scoot over to the other side because he quickly followed her in through the same door.  At this point, I wasn’t able to see much.  It was dark,  and the street light that glowed above the car barely shown through the rear passenger-side window.

They drove off.  I followed, hovering over the car in my spirit-like form.  He was driving out of town, toward my house.  Where is he going? I wondered.  I desperately tried to guess where he could be taking her.  Could it be the lake?  Or, maybe one of the orchards?  Why is he doing this?  Who is this man?

I know everyone in Orchards.  He must be someone I know,  and everyone seemed to know him.  Even Stephanie was completely stupefied when he suddenly grabbed and bound her.  After traveling several miles down old Doc Sam’s Blossom Road, he finally pulled into an abandoned parking lot right up the hill from my house.  He walked around to the passenger side and opened the back door. 

There it was--the shiny object I’d seen.  What I saw in town was only the tip of it.  As he extracted it from the car, I could see how large it actually was.  As he pulled it out, he appeared calm … almost restrained. 

“My God, that’s a freakin’ machete!”  I screamed.

As he moved toward the passenger seat, I expected the worst.  I was helpless in my dream-state to stop him.  The machete was huge and unlike anything I’d ever seen.  It was so shiny.  It was narrower toward the handle, and grew wider as it lengthened.  About three inches from the end of the blade, at it’s widest point, it began it's narrowing decent to the tip.  The entire blade was curved at about a twenty-degree angle.  If I hadn’t known what that machete was about to be used for, I might have found it a very attractive design.

The man opened Stephanie’s car door with a perverse sense of confidence.  Even in my dream-state I was nauseous.  What was about to take place was more than I could handle.  I wanted to puke. 

I was appalled when I saw him lend his hand out, like a gentleman, to help Stephanie from of the car.  What kind of a sick bastard are you?

Stephanie began to tremble with fear when she saw the machete.  Her survival instincts kicked in, and she began to fight with every fiber of her being.  It was useless:  he was too strong.  What’s this?  I thought.  Stephanie’d stopped flailing.  She was calmer, though I could still see her shaking.  He seemed to be talking to her--easing her fears.  What can he be saying to her?

I saw her nod in agreement to something he said.  She held out her shaking hands, and allowed him to cut off the string.  He motioned with his arm, again - as a gentlemen would, for her to go ahead of him.  “Is he letting her go?” I whispered.

Stephanie looked around.  She was rattled, but still able to determine where she was.  She was on Cherry Hill Road, and ahead of her was Cherry Hill Park.  She ran, stumbling, up the hill toward the park.

Meanwhile, the man was still standing at his car, tracking her with his demented gaze, as he fondled his weapon.  Not too long after Stephanie made her escape, the man began to walk toward her.  His stride was both purposeful and patient.  As he held the machete in his right hand, he stroked the tip and outer edge of it with his left.  His head swayed back and forth as though he was having a conversation with himself. 

Desperate to help Stephanie, I somehow willed myself to get closer to her.  It was as though my soul was summoned to bear witness to the events that would follow.  I hovered over the man, facing his front side.  Just then, I realized I could hear.  I heard something further up the hill.  I turned to investigate.  I worried that Stephanie might be giving away her position.  I floated toward the sound and positioned myself so I could see them both. 

She was trembling.  The horror on her face was the most frightening expression I had ever witnessed.

I could see him coming.  It seemed, no matter how fast she ran, he was catching up to her with his deliberate, lagging pace.  As they came within sight of one another, their eyes locked.  His were fixated on hers, and hers were captured by his.  He began to chant as he  approached Stephanie--each step more calculated than the last.

Death awaits you here, my dear; Death awaits you here.  You cannot escape my dear; Death awaits you here my dear. 

Stephanie was paralyzed with fear.  Unable to move, she shook uncontrollably and her breathing was labored as she waited for him to arrive.  Her body was exhausted.  Again, he taunted,

Death awaits you here, my dear; Death awaits you here.  You cannot escape my dear; Death awaits you here my dear. 

As he finished the last line of his bizarre stanza  and stepped within arm’s reach of her, his left eyebrow curved upward in sync with the left corner of his mouth, as if to say, I’ve got you now.

I wanted to, but I couldn’t turn away.  I watched in horror as he wielded the machete ten times:  Each swing completely severing a part of her body until there was nothing left but ten pieces of what used to be a beautiful woman.  I wanted to puke my guts out.  I couldn’t cry.  Even though no one could hear me, I screamed over and over again, “No!  God... no!” I suppose it’s just human nature to cry out like that. 

And that was when I’d wake up screaming.  I hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in over a week.

As I sat looking at the headline that day, the realization that these murders had been going on for two weeks finally sunk in.  Nine brutal slayings had occurred. 

I was getting twinges of disconnectedness from my surroundings.  The last nightmare left me with the strongest feeling - that I may actually know who that man is.  I thought the disconnectedness was due to lack of sleep and intense anxiety, but it was actually helping me see things with a heightened sense of clarity.  From the moment I woke up that morning, I knew something was incredibly amiss.  It had been right in front of me, but I wasn’t getting it.

Mom was dutifully making breakfast, like she did everyday.  As she was flipping the eggs, she spoke, “Good morning, baby girl.  You didn’t sleep well again?”

“No, Mom.  Can anyone?”  I griped back, holding up the newspaper to justify my moodiness.

“Well, maybe some breakfast and a brisk walk will help.  You know, your father has been home for two weeks now and you haven’t spent any time with him.  He may have to leave next week for another deployment.  Why don’t you go ...” and she was cut off by my dad coming into the kitchen.  He bent down to give me a kiss on my forehead.  He noticed the paper in front of me. 

“The Cherry Hill Murders Still Go Unsolved,” he read aloud.  “That guy must be pretty good if they haven’t found him yet.”  He continued, looking right at me.  After he said that, he got a quirky look on his face.  His eyebrow and his lips curled up to the left simultaneously.  I got a knot in the pit of my stomach.

No!  I thought.  There’s no way.  No, don’t look.... don’t do it... please don’t do it!  But, I did.  I looked.  I guess I’d never noticed things like that before.  After all, he was my dad.  I avoided my parents as much as I could get away with it.  My gaze shifted upward in slow motion as I took in the full view of my dad’s face.  I struggled not to wet myself.  His face was unshaven, his mustache was stubbly and had been for two weeks.  I tried not to, but my eyes locked onto his for a moment.  I was scared half to death.  I could see something in his eyes.  It was a glimmer of distrust, of fear that he’d been found out.  When I was able to break my eyes away from his, I adjusted my view to include his hands.  They were large.  I found myself unable to look up.  I continued to stare at his hands, trying to construct a way out of this in my mind.  Then I noticed what looked like paper cuts on his finger tips.  He had rugged hands, so it wasn’t too hard to notice. 

My God!  I screamed in my head.  What do I do?  He knows I know.  The only clear thought in my head at that moment was that no one was going to believe me.  I didn’t believe me.

“So, anyway, as I was saying...”  Mom continued.  She had been facing the stove top the entire time.  “Darling, you should spend some time with your daughter today.  You may be deployed again in another week.  I was saying that you two should take a nice walk together.”

I grew stiff in my seat.  How can she do this to me?  A somberness had come over me when I realized she didn’t know.  She didn’t know anything.  “No!”  I shouted.  “I don’t feel like going for a walk.  I’ve got an important report that needs to be done first thing Monday morning anyway.”

I thought, if it worked, that outburst might have gotten me a reprieve.  I needed to reconcile what had happened between my dad and me with the facts I knew about the murders.

My mom pushed the issue, “I insist, sweetheart.”  She gave me the eyes.  I don’t know.  I’d begun to think it was all coincidental.  I thought I’d created it in my mind.  Maybe I was too tired.  After all, there was just no way my own dad could have done something like that.  There just wasn’t.  Or perhaps I felt trapped.  Maybe I wanted it all to whirl away in a tidy cloud of denial.  My gut was telling me to run.  My heart was telling me I was crazy.

“OK, Mom.”  I agreed.

“Well, OK then!”  Dad cheered.

Throughout breakfast, thoughts raced through my head.  If it’s Dad, where’s the machete?  Did Dad know Stephanie?  Did he know the other girls?  How did he get those cuts on his left hand?  That’s the same hand the man in my nightmare used to caress the blade.

After breakfast, Dad and I left to go for a walk.  He excused himself for a moment and veered off to the right, where the car was parked.  When I looked at the car, I flashed back to my nightmare.  It was the same car.  I remembered the way the tires were described in the newspaper.  They WERE the same.  It was then I knew--I knew with absolute certainty that my dad, my very own father, had killed those nine women.  But why?  And, what was he getting from the car?

Maybe it was my survival instinct taking over, but I found myself running.  I ran faster than I knew I could.

I ran down the drive and down the road.  I stopped at the intersection.  I don’t know why I did it, but I ran up Cherry Hill Road.  What was I thinking?  I wasn’t really thinking.  No, I was reacting.  I was running for my life.  I remembered how his eyes engaged mine when he suspected I knew something--how his eyes locked onto Stephanie’s just before he sliced her into pieces.  It played over and over in my head.

I ran up the hill.  I remembered how Stephanie stumbled up the hill and the man always seemed to be one step closer to her, even as he purposefully lagged.  I turned around.  Part of me believed I was being ridiculous, but another part of me knew my nightmare was playing itself out in real life—My life.

There he was, following me.  I felt urine running down my legs.  I began to shake as visions of what he’d done to Stephanie flashed through my head.  It had only been a few seconds, and there he was.  Did time stand still?  Was I in shock?  Why couldn’t I move?  I thought.  Now he was, maybe, thirty-five feet away.  He chanted that certifiable verse...

Death awaits you here, my dear; Death awaits you here.  You cannot escape my dear; Death awaits you here my dear. 

More warm moisture ran down my legs, and I knew it was the last moment of my life.  I remember screaming, but after the first blow I didn’t feel much.  My essence floated out of my body and above my dad.  He was slaughtering me.  He grimaced at me as he severed my arms and hands as my body stood there.  A blow to my neck decapitated me.  My body continued to stand for a couple of moments, and then fell to the ground.  A strike to my abdomen separated what was left of my body in half.  And severing my legs and finally my chest, just below the sternum, finished me off.  As I floated over the scene, I felt nothing, really.  No emotions, no fear, no disgust, no hate, no ties, and no regret. 

It is from beyond my grave that I have come to tell you my story ... for blood is all you will find on Cherry Hill Road.