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Rated: ASR · Short Story · Horror/Scary · #2165138
Maybe buying the unpublished notes on Ebay wasn't a good idea...
I unfold the paper with shaky fingers, cursing the person who kept it. I’ve waited so, so long for this moment - if the manuscript is too
creased to read, I’m demanding my $2000 back.
The others are in bad shape, some torn, most stained. This is the best one. The second best is sitting on the table beside me, missing just the very bottom of the page.
I knew I was taking a leap of faith when I bought the unpublished manuscripts of Glen Parker on Ebay. It was more likely to be a scam than anything else - and yet, so far they seem legit.
The paper is dated in the top left corner. May 23rd, 2013.
I start to read.
“The killer knows what he’s doing is wrong. The man is respected, well known. A good guy, by all accounts. But if the assassin is being payed, he’ll do anything. So here he is, standing outside the man’s bedroom door, a knife in his hand. Many of his fellows have upgraded to guns with silencers, but he has always preferred the more... traditional ways.”
I look back up at the date. May 23rd, 2013.
A shiver runs down my spine.
On May 23rd, 2015, Glen Parker was murdered. He was stabbed by an unknown assassin.
“The killer hesitates, before silently pushing the door open. It scrapes slightly against the carpet, and he freezes, but the sleeping man does not wake. He reminds himself again that the mans power is just too dangerous. Unlike most people, the woman who wanted this man killed told the assassin why. He had developed a strange power in recent months - something that could threaten the entire world. That was all she said.”
“The killer stands above the bed, resting the knife lightly against the mans back. He finds the area behind the heart, and presses slightly harder. Gritting his teeth, he drives the knife home.”
“The man convulses, his whole body twisting. He cannot scream as he chokes on his own blood, making a horrible gargling sound. Blood leaks thick and wet onto the killers gloved hands. He yanks the knife free and steps back, watching as the man dies.”
“When the body goes still, he steps closer again and checks the pulse and heartbeat, just to be sure. Nothing.”
That’s it. Just a snippet of a story, something not even half finished. I doubt it would even make up a chapter.
I pick up the next one, the one with the piece missing.
“He thought this case was over. He thought, after he dispatched the first man, he could forget all about it. The murder was all over the news for about a month, then people realized that the police weren’t getting anywhere and the newspapers went back to printing stories about celebrities gaining weight.”
I take a second to glance at the date, and do a double take. 2nd August, 2014. Exactly four years ago, Glen Parker was writing this.
“But the woman called him again, said she needed him. Apparently, someone was in danger of discovering her involvement in the first murder - and mine, too. She sounded frantic, and when the assassin met her he was shocked by how much she’d changed. Her once sleek and shining hair was pulled into a severe bun, emphasizing her sunken eyes and unnaturally sharp cheekbones. Her skin was tinged a sickly yellow, and paper thin.”
“He remembers, the first time he met her, how he thought she was beautiful. No longer.”
“He clambers through the window, accidentally knocking a jar off the sill. It hits the thick carpet with a heavy thump, but doesn’t smash. He breaths a sigh of relief when nothing stirs.”
“Then he hears sheet’s rustling, and he swears under his breath. He’s going to have to surprise them.”
“He stands by the edge of the doorway, clutching the gun in his hand. He eventually gave in to peer pressure and upgraded. His beloved knife now lies wrapped in a blanket at the bottom of a lake.”
“The door opens, and he spins on his heel, raising the gun and-”
It’s at this point that I get to the torn end of the paper. I can’t read any further. Glancing at the clock, I decide to look through the others tomorrow.
I’ve barely slid under the covers when I hear a thump from my living room.
I lie frozen for a second.
Gathering my courage, I push back the sheets, getting to my feet. I stand by my bed for a second, but hear nothing more.
I pad open the door, pushing it open.
I catch a glimpse of the man in profile before he spins on his heel, raising the gun and-
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