Read Online The Mutilation Machination by Shaun Jeffrey - Free Book Online
Authors: Shaun Jeffrey
Tags: Horror
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I
couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice.
Bob smiled. “I like places with character. And after Mitchell
hacked the Jones family to pieces, he imbued the place with more than enough
character.” He looked almost wistful. “Mitchell was such a good man before I
came along. That’s my job you see, to lead you into temptation.”
“Well, you’ll not lead me into no temptation, that’s for sure.”
Before Bob could reply, Cherry came out of the kitchen. She was
holding a cup of water that was steaming hot. In fact, it was boiling.
“Daddy, can I have the big room at the front of the house.”
Bob looked at me and I nodded. It was my room, but how could I
refuse?
Cherry took a gulp of water and little wisps of steam drifted from
her mouth.
Bob bent down and kissed her forehead. “Now run along, there’s a
bad girl.”
She ran back toward the kitchen. Lance was standing in the
doorway. In his hand, he had my Victoria Cross and Military Medal. The little
bugger had been going through my things. I watched as he threw them away like
rubbish.
Bob smiled. “Kids. They can be such little devils.”
Over the next few days, I felt like a stranger in my own house.
Bob and his family took over. They went through my things, with no regard for
privacy. Bob joked about my acts of valour; he called me a little hero, but he
always said it sarcastic, mind. I think he liked having a dig at me whenever he
could to show who the chief was.
I had an inkling that the prolonged heat spell was down to Bob,
too.
Work on the house next door went ahead, and in a few days, it was
finished. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but then if you have the Devil
for a boss, you aren’t going to mooch around.
On the fourth morning after the devil and his family arrived, they
finally moved into 63, Grove Crescent.
I thought that would be the end of my problems, but I hadn’t
bargained on the kids. They were forever throwing stones through my windows and
banging on my front door in the middle of the night. It’s not as if I could
complain.
But then I woke one morning, opened the curtains and looked down
to see my precious poppies strewn across the garden. The stems had been
snapped, and the petals scattered like confetti.
Enough was enough. This had gone too far.
Even though I was an ex-soldier, I’ve never thought of myself as a
violent man, but something in me just snapped. My garden was a symbol of
remembrance, because some things should never be forgotten, and those kids from
hell had desecrated it, and the memory of everything it stood for.
The trunk containing my old uniform had sat beneath the bed for
years, and as I pulled it out, the courage I used to feel when wearing it,
surged back into my body.
This was war.
When nightfall fell, I crept outside and through the garden of
petals. It angered me to look at what they had done, so I kept my eyes averted.
The lights were on next door, and I could hear the familiar shouts
and squeals of the Devil and his spawn.
The petrol I carried sloshed in its can. If you listened real
close, it almost sounded like a phlegm filled voice, urging me on.
But I didn’t need no urging. I was mad as a March hare.
After dousing the house in petrol, I set it alight. It was a
remarkable sight. The screams of those trapped inside could be heard three or
more streets away, or so I was told.
When the police arrived, I was stood in my field of poppies,
watching the house burn. Dressed in my uniform, I felt proud. The medals the
kids had thrown away were pinned to my chest. This was my last, great act. My
final stand against the last great evil.
Sat here in my cell, awaiting sentence, I don’t feel any remorse.
People just don’t realise what a great service I’ve done for them. They showed
me photos of the bodies, their skin bloated and red, popped in places with
weeping sores. They gave the people names that were unfamiliar to me, but none of
it was real. I know who it really
couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice.
Bob smiled. “I like places with character. And after Mitchell
hacked the Jones family to pieces, he imbued the place with more than enough
character.” He looked almost wistful. “Mitchell was such a good man before I
came along. That’s my job you see, to lead you into temptation.”
“Well, you’ll not lead me into no temptation, that’s for sure.”
Before Bob could reply, Cherry came out of the kitchen. She was
holding a cup of water that was steaming hot. In fact, it was boiling.
“Daddy, can I have the big room at the front of the house.”
Bob looked at me and I nodded. It was my room, but how could I
refuse?
Cherry took a gulp of water and little wisps of steam drifted from
her mouth.
Bob bent down and kissed her forehead. “Now run along, there’s a
bad girl.”
She ran back toward the kitchen. Lance was standing in the
doorway. In his hand, he had my Victoria Cross and Military Medal. The little
bugger had been going through my things. I watched as he threw them away like
rubbish.
Bob smiled. “Kids. They can be such little devils.”
Over the next few days, I felt like a stranger in my own house.
Bob and his family took over. They went through my things, with no regard for
privacy. Bob joked about my acts of valour; he called me a little hero, but he
always said it sarcastic, mind. I think he liked having a dig at me whenever he
could to show who the chief was.
I had an inkling that the prolonged heat spell was down to Bob,
too.
Work on the house next door went ahead, and in a few days, it was
finished. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but then if you have the Devil
for a boss, you aren’t going to mooch around.
On the fourth morning after the devil and his family arrived, they
finally moved into 63, Grove Crescent.
I thought that would be the end of my problems, but I hadn’t
bargained on the kids. They were forever throwing stones through my windows and
banging on my front door in the middle of the night. It’s not as if I could
complain.
But then I woke one morning, opened the curtains and looked down
to see my precious poppies strewn across the garden. The stems had been
snapped, and the petals scattered like confetti.
Enough was enough. This had gone too far.
Even though I was an ex-soldier, I’ve never thought of myself as a
violent man, but something in me just snapped. My garden was a symbol of
remembrance, because some things should never be forgotten, and those kids from
hell had desecrated it, and the memory of everything it stood for.
The trunk containing my old uniform had sat beneath the bed for
years, and as I pulled it out, the courage I used to feel when wearing it,
surged back into my body.
This was war.
When nightfall fell, I crept outside and through the garden of
petals. It angered me to look at what they had done, so I kept my eyes averted.
The lights were on next door, and I could hear the familiar shouts
and squeals of the Devil and his spawn.
The petrol I carried sloshed in its can. If you listened real
close, it almost sounded like a phlegm filled voice, urging me on.
But I didn’t need no urging. I was mad as a March hare.
After dousing the house in petrol, I set it alight. It was a
remarkable sight. The screams of those trapped inside could be heard three or
more streets away, or so I was told.
When the police arrived, I was stood in my field of poppies,
watching the house burn. Dressed in my uniform, I felt proud. The medals the
kids had thrown away were pinned to my chest. This was my last, great act. My
final stand against the last great evil.
Sat here in my cell, awaiting sentence, I don’t feel any remorse.
People just don’t realise what a great service I’ve done for them. They showed
me photos of the bodies, their skin bloated and red, popped in places with
weeping sores. They gave the people names that were unfamiliar to me, but none of
it was real. I know who it really
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