The Shovelcidal Maniac Episode 2: The Spot

There’s a spot on my wall. I don’t recall seeing this spot at any point in the past. It’s a new spot on a wall covered in other spots of varying size. There’s nothing special about this particular spot, other than it’s new – and I can’t take my eyes off of it. I haven’t consciously thought about it until now and surely it’s been hours. My attention is just drawn to it. Perhaps it’s because of the slightly darker shade of red it sports over the other dots on the wall. It’s fascinating to me, and then I blink. Blinking for a split second takes my mind from the dot to the paper, no, the photograph in my lap. It’s of her. She’s a mystery to me still, even though I’ve felt her mother’s very soul.

What is it about this blonde girl that strikes me so? I’ve never seen her before, nor did I know that Chelsea had a daughter. How could that whore spawn something so majestic? My mind boggles at the thought of it. I hate the feeling that somebody like that can keep hold of a child while mine was so suddenly taken away. The thought had crossed my mind that she played a role in Michael’s death. The clues were there, but they ultimately lead nowhere. That was when I changed. I changed not just as a human being on the surface, but I morphed on a biological level. My cells adapted to the rage I felt, perhaps they simply let go and allowed my ire to flow to the surface. Maybe it was there all along, and my son had kept those emotions at bay.

Maybe I was always a monster waiting to break from my cage. These are questions that will never, ever be answered, like many question the universe asks of us, we cannot answer them. However, there are some questions that deserve answers, and I will not stop until I find out what happened to Michael, and Roslyn is the very first clue. There’s no doubt she no longer resides at that place, how could she? It would take a twisted mind to sleep in that dwelling again. That’s an interesting thought; an exciting thought at that. What if she were as twisted as I?

That’s impossible.

A knocking at the door disrupts my concentration for a moment. My head snaps back to reality and I turn in my chair to face the noise. Knuckles wrapped on the degrading wooden frame once again, but with more force.

“Mr. Hespeler! It’s the police, open up.” A burly voice rang out. Curious. I get up and slowly approach the door and peer through the peep hole. The warped glass revealed one detective in plain clothes with a form fitting sports jacket covering a t-shirt that he wore a size too tight. He was flanked by two patrolmen. I open the door, but leave the chain intact. As I lurch open the door he detectives hand slams on it, attempting to barge his way in. He’s lucky that he didn’t.

“Kodak Hespeler?” The detective asked, knowing damn well who I am.

“What sort of name is that? Did your parents just take stock of brand names were in the room and stuck them together?” He asked with dead serious face. He’s missed the concept of how to tell a joke.

“No, detective. My parents did not choose my last name; that was theirs before I was born. I simply inherited it.” I said with a coldness to my voice.

“But yes, my father had a fondness for Kodak, if that satisfies your curiosity.” I added, glaring through the small crack of an opening.

“Fine, whatever. Are you going to let us in?” He asked with an impatience only somebody of his stature could produce.

“No.” I simply stated. He looked taken aback. His previously tapping foot ceased, and the gum on which gnawed halted its journey around his mouth.

“Excuse me?” He said sternly, trying to provoke a reaction.

“I don’t know who you are. Is this your first day as an officer of the law?” I asked, “You have yet to provide me with a name, a precinct, or any identification. You could be a home invader with two disguised thugs for all I know.” I said looking back at his lackies. His level of amusement dropped from impatient to pissed off. Excellent.

“I don’t have time for games, Mr. Hespeler. Open the door.” He demanded softly.

“No.” I said again. The angry detective looked down in frustration before slamming the palm of his hand on the door. I didn’t flinch, nor break my eyes from his person. His intimidation tactics would work better with a weapon. He took a deep breath and sighed.

“My name is Detective Kinkaid. I would like to ask you some questions about your where abouts On Tuesday, and your knowledge of Chelsea and Jonathan Pierce. May we please enter?” He asked politely, however it was obvious he was boiling over with anger. His name however, it sounds familiar. More importantly, it feels familiar.

“No.” I stated once again. He clenched his jaw.

“Why not?”

“You have no warrant, and I don’t like strangers in my home.” I said lying through my teeth. Strangers in my home have no ties to me. I can do as I will with them.

“Fine. Fine!” he shouted. “If that’s how you want to play it. I’ll be back then.”He said turning on his heels, directing his goons to follow.

“Best of luck, detective.” I muttered just loud enough for him to hear. I gently closed the door, and with the satisfying click, engaged the deadbolt. I felt at home in this little shithole of an apartment. It was quaint, it was cozy, and oh… where did all this come from? Before me, dripping from the walls and ceiling were gallons of blood. I don’t remember putting that… Oh wait. Turning, I forgot about my strange guest from down the hall who now lay on the floor in the corner, well, what’s left of him. He came to welcome me to the building. That’s right, I nearly forgot. His shade of blood looks nice on my walls. I think I’ll keep it, though; it looks like I missed a spot, right above my desk. It’s a darker shade than the rest.

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