Jack stepped into the shop, his coat was bloodied once again. He meant to take it to the nice dry cleaning lady, but she asked too many questions. She was thump thump thumping about in her dryer now. He took his cloak off and heard the Reaper sing in his ears of death and turmoil, the pain he'd cause, and the pain he already caused. He attempted to ignore the Reaper's voice, which was a dim whisper, but to no avail. He'd never escape the whisper until he served his new sentence. But who wanted to die anyway? Sure, he'd be annoyed, but shouldn't he be used to it by now?
Yes, I suppose I should!
He stepped briskly to his chair behind the counter. Another busy day of sitting here and reading his book! Oh the joy! He had it all, had everything he wanted! A book, a home, endless murder with no possible punishments in sight! Oh this was the life! He placed his coat on the rack, along with his hat, and sat down. He reached into his desk, he couldn't wait to read the book! He reached around in the desk, his hands resting on forgotten pencils and toe-nail clippers, but no book. He pulled the drawer open full length and looked at the mostly empty space. No book. He swore and ripped the drawer out. Where was it!? Who took it?! He reached into the drawer below that, rummaging through magazines. No book. He ripped that drawer out too and looked on top of his desk, finding a hand written letter on it.
Dear Workman,
I know who you are, I got your nice book too. You won't see it again either. I'm burning it as we speak, maybe I already did and I'm stamping out the ashes, either way, it's gone. Oh and the witch and detective (who's names I forgot but I'm sure you remember haha.) lived and the others, aside from Jacky, were killed by the Devil. Nice little ending I suppose. Not my cup of tea personally.
As always,
Boss.
He didn't make it past the third line, he tore it up and yelled. His eyes were red again, not contacts either. He looked at the shreds on his desk, they weren't small enough, he ripped them again. Rip, rip, ripped until there were the size of an ant. He reached into his pocket and pulled his knife free, the blood from the laundy girl had dried on it and a single stream was stuck dripping endlessly to the handle. He stabbed it into the desk multiple times, each jab making the hole slightly deeper. He did this until it went all the way through the desk. Only then did he relent. The Reaper was laughing at him behind his back.
Hehehehe, poor Jacky can't read his booky, are you maddy? Hehehe!!
"Shut your trap, ya annoying b*****d!!!" He swung the knife at the Reapers head, but it was like chopping at smoke. Jack slowed his breathing, he could always buy another book couldn't he? What if the guy who took his book, undoubtably a police officer because of the letter, was watching him? He put his knife back into his pocket. he was feeling paranoia set in, he'd had to be clever if he wanted to avoid capture, but he was a professional at it wasn't he? He'd done it for years! Centuries even! But things were different than those old times. Technology had improved, and even the Devil can be beaten. God was, and he just sat on his a** all day! Jack opened the door to his office, away from the front desk. He locked the door behind him and paced around the square room.
He thought who would send him that letter back, immediatly, he shot to his computer. He had a new message, it was from somebody named "Bogeyman" He opened the message, intrigued.
I know. I know who you are, how long you've been alive, what you've been doing. I know, other's don't believe me, I can't turn you in for being him, but I can watch you, capture you when you're in the act of murder, kill you. Don't mess up, because I'm the bogeyman in your closet, I'm always watching. Watch your back, and the roof above your head. I have eyes everywhere, even as you read this I'm watching you. I have cameras. I swear, but the fifth of November, I'll have you in my arms. Remember remember the fifth of November because it'll be the day you rot in hell.
The Bogeyman.
Sweat was dripping down Jack's cheeks now, he attempted to click on the 'sent' box, but his computer was frozen, and a message popped up on the screen, it was the message he had sent to the police officer, who's name escaped him. His virus had been used on himself.
"DAMN!! DAMN, DAMN, DAMN!!!" He rubbed his forehead, he knew it was a bad idea to kill the irishman. He knew he'd made the mistake of starting the game. But he was in it wasn't he? He'd have to see it to the end, he'd do what he had to, at least lead a good game. He sat up and wiped his brow. Jack was frustrated, he couldn't say check mate to this b*****d, then he'd be a coward, a pathetic coward. He would be executed either way. There was only one way of escape available to him.
America.
Hello, red, white, and blue. He began packing his things into a suit case he'd hidden in his closet. He threw in his old top hat, a pair of pants and a spare shirt which he hid in his closet as well. He'd have to return home and grab his other things before setting off to the airport. He was nervous because he'd never flown before.
Roland Kingson wore a heavy coat, it was raining and the clouds were a dark cloak over the sky. He heard the pat pat pat of the rain drops landing on his hood, he enjoyed the sounds of nature. Roland made his way to his apartment complex thinking about his wife who would be waiting on their bed in her new white see-through lingerie. He couldn't wait, he was nearly sprinting now. He marched up the stairs of his apartment building, finally reaching his door. He pulled his key ring out and pulled the doors key out. The door turned with faint resistance, and a subtle click assured him he'd be on time for "Dessert." When he opened the door his wife lay snoring on the bed, looks like he had been late after all. Sighing, he pulled his coat off, throwing it to a distant corner in his room. He sat down on their bed and pulled his black shoes off. Work had been hell and would be hell tomorrow, too. Roland took his pants and underpants and lay next to his wife, who's breasts lay out for him to see, at least she did something for him. He was tempted to wake her up, but figured she'd be pissed off at him for waking her up.
He reached for the lamp and switched it off, the room was almost as dark as the raining midnight sky now. Roland sighed and rested his head against the pillow, thats when a knock came on the door.
"Who the hell could that be?" He pulled himself out of the bed, leaving his wifes side. A thought occured, he didn't have to open the door did he? No, he supposed not. He walked back to the bed and rested his head on the soft pillow once again.
Another knock.
Ignore it, it was probably nothing, just some annoying kid asking if he had cream for his coffee. His mind had just barely drifted to sleep when a third knock reawoke him. He threw his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his neck.
"What the ******** do you want." It was more of a statement then a question the way it came out of his mouth. "I'm trying to sleep here!"
The knock came a fourth time and Roland grabbed his metal bat from the closet. This a*****e was about to get it. He walked to the door and asked who it was, he was answered by another knock.
Wait, this is how murder flicks start out, might as well call security.
He called them, and he heard a security guard tell the person behind the door to- well that's as far as he got, his words were cut off by a horrific gurgling sound. A puddle of blood began to form under Roland's door. He called securty again, this time four guards came running up the steps.
"Listen I- HOLY s**t! HE CALLED DAWSON!!" He heard running, then finally, gurgling. The Guy Behind the Door had killed all four. Roland was sweating with panic now, and he heard another knock on his door. The poem by Edgar Allen Poe came into mind, Death was rapping on his chamber door! Slowly, he heard a faint click from the doors handle, and it started to turn with little resistance. The door opened wide, and Roland couldn't make out the hazy figure before him, all he could see was the pure white teeth and eyes smiling and staring at him in the dark. The figure loomed over his head, a bloody knife in one hand, a bottle in the other.
"Oh my god, I'm going to die." His eyes flicked to his wife, who was still sleeping in their bed. He'd been married five years, he was twenty-nine now and he couldn't imagine a life without her. He'd told her they'd be together forever, he'd told her he would never leave her. He'd made a promise. He could feel adrenaline enter his body. His hands gripped the bats steel handle. His knuckles had turned a faint white. The figure lunged forward, the point of the knife headed for Roland's throat. He ducked hit the figure in the side with the metal bat. The Knocking Man, keeled over, his eyes staring at Roland. Roland heard faint wheezing, then saw the figure make another stab at his stomach area. He jumped back and slammed the bat with all of his force on the knife holding hand. He heard a blood curdling crack from the wrist and pulled back even more. Even with a broken wrist the Knocking Man hadn't said or uttered a sound. The figure looked at him once more, then fled out the door.
"Ho-holy s**t." His wife stared at him from their bed. Roland looked at her for a moment, then marched to the door and locked it and put a chair against the handel for good measure. He joined his wife in their bed and realized he'd fought the b*****d off without any clothing. His hugged his chest tightly and wrapped her hand around his crotch.
"How about a reward, my hero?"
"I'd love one."
They made love that night, and the Knocking Man never returned to that apartment, although he did kill their neighbors prompting them to move to a new area. All the time, the Knocking Man followed close behind them, planning his revenge.
