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It began in darkness, a shovel swung with all my strength to the back of his balding head. The heavy steel edge of the shovel split the flesh on the old man’s head and sent him down the back stairs with a pathetic groan and a dull thud. I wiped the blood from the dirty grey shovel on my jeans and continued. The whole body wouldn’t fit in one bin bag, I had calculated this before hand and so had several set aside in the basement. Preparation is the key to success.
I dragged the body down the remaining cold concrete steps to the garden, across warm summer grass clinging to the morning dew, and down further steps into the chilly basement. Atop a chilly workbench I grasped a hacksaw and began furiously tearing at his left arm. It bled a luke-warm crimson flow but the bone remained intact. I searched around the dim basement until my eyes came across the object, which wouldn’t fail me, the axe. I used it earlier this summer for cutting through the thick roots of an old oak and knew it would make no fuss going through bone. I cut off the arm in two swift blows and set to work on the legs. They took more effort due to a thick layer of fat on the thighs but after half an hours hard work the deed was done. I had the arms wrapped up in one black bin bag, the legs bent and placed in another, the torso by itself and the head in a smaller lighter carrier bag alone. This is what they would find first.
I took the bags to the end of the small wooden jetty that overlooked the lake; it took two trips because the old man was rather heavy, even in bits. I slung the bags out as far as I could but only managed to clear a few meters. The bags splashed loudly as they collided with the water, air escaped the bags and bubbled on the surface and a dark crimson trail emanated from the tops of the bags. Blood is heavier than water so it sinks. It was then I noticed some kids on jet skis across on the other side of the lake, but they hadn’t noticed me dumping the evidence. The perfect crime.
Back in the house I sat in the living room in front of the huge grandfather clock that my father left me in his will. I watched its elegant ivory hands ticking slowly, bellowing in the silence of the house every second. My nirvana was interrupted by a nervous “ding-dong” of the doorbell. I dragged the bloody axe, still held tight in my large hands, knuckles white, to the front door. I placed the axe to one side and partly opened the door to see the wrinkled old face of Mrs Tinsell, the old hussy from across the street.
“Is your father home sweetie?” She questioned. I stared at her wrinkly old mouth, smeared in lipstick like one of those chimpanzees you see on the flyers to prevent animal testing of cosmetics. “He’s out in the lake” I replied in a cold, dead voice, “But please, come on in.” She entered the dim hallway and I closed the door firmly behind her. I regained my white-knuckle grasp of the axe and swung with an almighty force at the back of her skull, knocking her to the hard wooden floor with a dull crack. It ended like it began, in darkness.
I dragged the body down the remaining cold concrete steps to the garden, across warm summer grass clinging to the morning dew, and down further steps into the chilly basement. Atop a chilly workbench I grasped a hacksaw and began furiously tearing at his left arm. It bled a luke-warm crimson flow but the bone remained intact. I searched around the dim basement until my eyes came across the object, which wouldn’t fail me, the axe. I used it earlier this summer for cutting through the thick roots of an old oak and knew it would make no fuss going through bone. I cut off the arm in two swift blows and set to work on the legs. They took more effort due to a thick layer of fat on the thighs but after half an hours hard work the deed was done. I had the arms wrapped up in one black bin bag, the legs bent and placed in another, the torso by itself and the head in a smaller lighter carrier bag alone. This is what they would find first.
I took the bags to the end of the small wooden jetty that overlooked the lake; it took two trips because the old man was rather heavy, even in bits. I slung the bags out as far as I could but only managed to clear a few meters. The bags splashed loudly as they collided with the water, air escaped the bags and bubbled on the surface and a dark crimson trail emanated from the tops of the bags. Blood is heavier than water so it sinks. It was then I noticed some kids on jet skis across on the other side of the lake, but they hadn’t noticed me dumping the evidence. The perfect crime.
Back in the house I sat in the living room in front of the huge grandfather clock that my father left me in his will. I watched its elegant ivory hands ticking slowly, bellowing in the silence of the house every second. My nirvana was interrupted by a nervous “ding-dong” of the doorbell. I dragged the bloody axe, still held tight in my large hands, knuckles white, to the front door. I placed the axe to one side and partly opened the door to see the wrinkled old face of Mrs Tinsell, the old hussy from across the street.
“Is your father home sweetie?” She questioned. I stared at her wrinkly old mouth, smeared in lipstick like one of those chimpanzees you see on the flyers to prevent animal testing of cosmetics. “He’s out in the lake” I replied in a cold, dead voice, “But please, come on in.” She entered the dim hallway and I closed the door firmly behind her. I regained my white-knuckle grasp of the axe and swung with an almighty force at the back of her skull, knocking her to the hard wooden floor with a dull crack. It ended like it began, in darkness.
You mind is enshrouded in darkness, my friend. Good story.
Thanks for all the comments
Aye, I liked this too. Well written and rounded-off nicely.
No sarky comments for this tale :)
Very nice. I enjoyed reading that.
Very nice. I enjoyed reading that.
Morbid, very morbid. But i really liked it. Well written Kyle. Well done.
I was going to ask how your day was, but I guess there's no need.
You big meanie.
It began in darkness, a shovel swung with all my strength to the back of his balding head. The heavy steel edge of the shovel split the flesh on the old man’s head and sent him down the back stairs with a pathetic groan and a dull thud. I wiped the blood from the dirty grey shovel on my jeans and continued. The whole body wouldn’t fit in one bin bag, I had calculated this before hand and so had several set aside in the basement. Preparation is the key to success.
I dragged the body down the remaining cold concrete steps to the garden, across warm summer grass clinging to the morning dew, and down further steps into the chilly basement. Atop a chilly workbench I grasped a hacksaw and began furiously tearing at his left arm. It bled a luke-warm crimson flow but the bone remained intact. I searched around the dim basement until my eyes came across the object, which wouldn’t fail me, the axe. I used it earlier this summer for cutting through the thick roots of an old oak and knew it would make no fuss going through bone. I cut off the arm in two swift blows and set to work on the legs. They took more effort due to a thick layer of fat on the thighs but after half an hours hard work the deed was done. I had the arms wrapped up in one black bin bag, the legs bent and placed in another, the torso by itself and the head in a smaller lighter carrier bag alone. This is what they would find first.
I took the bags to the end of the small wooden jetty that overlooked the lake; it took two trips because the old man was rather heavy, even in bits. I slung the bags out as far as I could but only managed to clear a few meters. The bags splashed loudly as they collided with the water, air escaped the bags and bubbled on the surface and a dark crimson trail emanated from the tops of the bags. Blood is heavier than water so it sinks. It was then I noticed some kids on jet skis across on the other side of the lake, but they hadn’t noticed me dumping the evidence. The perfect crime.
Back in the house I sat in the living room in front of the huge grandfather clock that my father left me in his will. I watched its elegant ivory hands ticking slowly, bellowing in the silence of the house every second. My nirvana was interrupted by a nervous “ding-dong” of the doorbell. I dragged the bloody axe, still held tight in my large hands, knuckles white, to the front door. I placed the axe to one side and partly opened the door to see the wrinkled old face of Mrs Tinsell, the old hussy from across the street.
“Is your father home sweetie?” She questioned. I stared at her wrinkly old mouth, smeared in lipstick like one of those chimpanzees you see on the flyers to prevent animal testing of cosmetics. “He’s out in the lake” I replied in a cold, dead voice, “But please, come on in.” She entered the dim hallway and I closed the door firmly behind her. I regained my white-knuckle grasp of the axe and swung with an almighty force at the back of her skull, knocking her to the hard wooden floor with a dull crack. It ended like it began, in darkness.
I dragged the body down the remaining cold concrete steps to the garden, across warm summer grass clinging to the morning dew, and down further steps into the chilly basement. Atop a chilly workbench I grasped a hacksaw and began furiously tearing at his left arm. It bled a luke-warm crimson flow but the bone remained intact. I searched around the dim basement until my eyes came across the object, which wouldn’t fail me, the axe. I used it earlier this summer for cutting through the thick roots of an old oak and knew it would make no fuss going through bone. I cut off the arm in two swift blows and set to work on the legs. They took more effort due to a thick layer of fat on the thighs but after half an hours hard work the deed was done. I had the arms wrapped up in one black bin bag, the legs bent and placed in another, the torso by itself and the head in a smaller lighter carrier bag alone. This is what they would find first.
I took the bags to the end of the small wooden jetty that overlooked the lake; it took two trips because the old man was rather heavy, even in bits. I slung the bags out as far as I could but only managed to clear a few meters. The bags splashed loudly as they collided with the water, air escaped the bags and bubbled on the surface and a dark crimson trail emanated from the tops of the bags. Blood is heavier than water so it sinks. It was then I noticed some kids on jet skis across on the other side of the lake, but they hadn’t noticed me dumping the evidence. The perfect crime.
Back in the house I sat in the living room in front of the huge grandfather clock that my father left me in his will. I watched its elegant ivory hands ticking slowly, bellowing in the silence of the house every second. My nirvana was interrupted by a nervous “ding-dong” of the doorbell. I dragged the bloody axe, still held tight in my large hands, knuckles white, to the front door. I placed the axe to one side and partly opened the door to see the wrinkled old face of Mrs Tinsell, the old hussy from across the street.
“Is your father home sweetie?” She questioned. I stared at her wrinkly old mouth, smeared in lipstick like one of those chimpanzees you see on the flyers to prevent animal testing of cosmetics. “He’s out in the lake” I replied in a cold, dead voice, “But please, come on in.” She entered the dim hallway and I closed the door firmly behind her. I regained my white-knuckle grasp of the axe and swung with an almighty force at the back of her skull, knocking her to the hard wooden floor with a dull crack. It ended like it began, in darkness.