Weathering Old Souls

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Weathering Old Souls - book excerpt

Prologue

It’s odd the way blood will splash upward once it’s pulled violently out of the flesh. Over and over, each time a knife is expertly plunged in and out, spraying and sticking to every surface it touches. It reminds him of rain. The thick, slightly painful kind of rain that stings your skin when it pours from the sky and slabbers in puddles, like a dance of jumping beans. The biggest difference, he’s decided, is that fresh splattering blood is hot as opposed to rain, when even on scorching days it still holds a bit of a chill. Blood is different, especially when it squirts onto the more sensitive parts of his face, like his lips and eyelids.

The victim no longer wiggles in his restraints or cries and tries to scream for help through the muffled coverings on his mouth. All that’s left is the mushy, cut-up torso that looks remarkably like ground beef, along with the twitching of nerves that causes his feet and arms to occasionally jolt. The killer smiles through his blood-soused, terracotta face and stares at his handiwork, enveloping the satisfaction he’s gained from all his previous victims.

“For you,” he sighs, taps his chest, and stares high above. “I got another one for you.”

The oddly contented man stands and wipes his glove-covered hands down the front of his makeshift surgical coat, not exactly clearing them from the crimson liquid completely, but he rubs them just enough to prevent any dripping. His victim’s little girl sleeps soundly in her room, courtesy of the melatonin he’d slipped into her juice cup an hour ago. Sneaking into the kitchen while she played outside in the yard with her babysitter was a risky move, one that he had no choice but to make.

He prefers to kill when his victims are home alone. The only trouble with this particular fool was that he rarely idled in such a position. He was the extra-controlling sort, hardly letting his wife out of sight. On the rare occasions that he permitted the woman time to herself, she was sure to receive a beating afterward, just in case she misbehaved in one way or another while they were apart. Their kid was always either at school or at the house. They didn't stash her with friends or family—ever. The couple worked together, and on this night, they had separate meetings; hers predicted to last longer than his. It was an opportunity the killer couldn’t miss.

While scrutinizing the dirtied remains of his now mutilated victim, he recalls their conversation, one he’d listened to outside their bedroom window a few days ago.

“You could leave early. People do get sick, right? They’ll understand,” the man cajoled his wife.

“I can’t; you know that. I’m in charge of the proposal.” The woman slipped into a skimpy, silky nightgown and stared at her feet, standing before her husband to let him inspect the goods. A gross routine of belittlement where he told her that she’s fat, disgusting, and unfit before he slapped her around and took her from behind like a dog. She continued to plead while he looked her over. “If I don’t stay and mingle afterward, the likelihood of being granted the incentive I’m trying for is slim.”

“Shut up, slut,” he demanded, walking around her in circles and forcing himself inside of her violently. Once he’d finished reaching his climax, he yanked his clothing back on and grunted at her. “I know exactly why you want to stay late.” He circled again, stopped behind her and roughly pulled her head backward by the hair. “And I know exactly who you want to stay late with.”

“No,” she whispered in a trembling voice. “I swear. It’s my job. There’s no other reason.”

The killer had been watching them for months, and nearly every night it’s the same routine; the man controlled his wife and daughter through fear and violence. The killer had hand-plucked this bastard after a military commemoration dinner. He’d sat outside, across the street in his car, watching closely as dozens of couples and decorated men poured out of a grand hall after their feast. Most of the people were happy and proud, talking to each other with smiles and respect. Those were the kind of people that the killer avoided. He knew from direct experience their courtesy and personal integrity; even granted them the respect they’d earned and very much deserved. But every coin had two sides, and in every full jar one tarnished penny insisted on being isolated from the others. In this case, the bad penny’s name was Edward Smythe.

The killer could tell straight away; he knew the sort too well. Hell, his own father donned the hat of a violent, sociopathic narcissist. Too bad he wasn't the only one in the killer’s life who possessed such qualities, not even close. The Smythe couple's mannerisms rang familiar the very second they exited that building, and the killer spotted it with the precision of an adeptly skilled predator who’d spent years tracking and stalking his prey.

Edward Smythe had held a hunger in his eyes and a fierce grip on the woman at his side. Tight enough that the skin of his wife’s arm had begun to purple under his knuckles, yet he went unnoticed in a crowd. Raquel wore thick makeup to hide her bruises and a downward-cast gaze, clearly avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone. The killer inspected more closely, homing in on the clunky jewelry covering her wrists and ankles completely. He squinted, straining his eyes to observe her more clearly. Sure enough, her ankles were reddened and bruised, likely the result of being bound.

The killer started his car and followed the couple as they drove home for her punishment of enjoying the compliments and attention of her dress, one that Smythe himself had picked out and insisted she wear. His instincts were on point. He parked down the road and flipped off his lights as the Smythes pulled into their driveway in a clean-cut, picture-perfect suburb. They hadn’t even made it completely up the walkway before the man grabbed his wife by the nape of her neck and shoved her forward, nearly knocking her off her feet.

At that moment, the killer knew without a doubt that he’d picked the right man. Stalking someone who’s always in crowded places was easy, but men like Smythe weren’t such a simple task. Luckily for the killer, this suburb had lots of in-and-out traffic; parking was tight and inconsistent. There was an apartment building at the entrance of Smythe's street, and most days he could park on the far east side, granting him a covert place to wait as the couple went to and from work. It had also given him an easy opportunity to window peek nightly with a safe escape for retreat.

Now, after the deed is done, the killer steps over his victim’s body, careful not to dip his feet into the pooling blood. No shoe prints, he reminds himself. The only thing that’s allowed to be left behind, ever, is a small piece of fabric. A smooth, square sample of teal challis, a favorite blend of materials and colors someone close to him adored as much as fresh air. Only the best creations are made of this intricate fabric, and now it’s used as a gross sign of revenge and fury. A hell thrust on only the worst men. The nastiest in this vengeful killer’s eyes—men who deserve their merciless fate. If only the babysitter hadn’t looked outside at the very moment he crossed the patio adjoining the kitchen sliders. The thought of tying up such a loose end nauseates him.

“It’s necessary,” he whisper-grunts while nosing around the room, staring into the faces of Smythe family photos littering the living room walls in symmetrical design. The vague emptiness in their eyes is a sick opposition to their full, fake smiles. “The girl will never stay quiet. I mustalter my pattern. There is no choice but to kill her too.”

Chapter 1 - Origins; The Past

Two noteworthy events occurred in the state of South Carolina in the dreary winter of 1987. The first, a powerful and extraordinary child was born inside the walls of an ill-prepared hospital during the height of an electrical storm so majestic and detrimental, it marked the history books for a small, rural town tucked into the outer folds of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The second, a loving family moved into their new abode, the eastern half of a run-down twin home on Street 211, a cul-de-sac with a stunning view that overlooked Concepción’s water source, Lake Remembrance.

Spanish explorers who’d migrated west from the Atlantic Ocean had founded Concepción in the early seventeen-hundreds. Eventually they’d lost the land to the British, before America formed its own country. A hidden gem, it remained virtually preserved and untouched until the Civil War, when slaves sought protection in many of the mountain’s hidden ridges and cliffs. Over time, more people settled in the area, and it blossomed into a thriving community where inhabitants proudly stood together to support one another and cultivate a promising future. During the Industrial Revolution, the town prospered from the iron ore and gold found beneath the rocky soil and mountains, but they suffered enormously from disease and poor fortune during the Great Depression. Lake Remembrance had always been the area’s place of comfort, a retreat where locals gathered to fondly recall when times were better.

The original Perry family, comprising a father, mother, and three sons, had immigrated to the United States at the end of World War II on a whim. The father, a London manufacturer who’d been visiting the English countryside where his ancestors once lived, announced one brutally scorching summer day, “We need to find a quieter place. Somewhere we can advance our lives. An opportunity to keep our families grounded and focused.”

The Perry family’s friends all nodded and muttered their agreements, yet they feared taking any true initiative or making the first move. It was the patriarch’s wife who volunteered the unexpected support, insisting, “Just do it already. You know that I’m behind you, and our boys deserve the best. Stop whining like a spoiled child, my unconfident visionary. Let's get ourselves to the very place you’re dreaming of. Quit dawdling and lead this family.”

The hesitant man and his friends deliberated on the once great and mighty rural American South, and since the Perrys were keen to find a new home, a transatlantic emigration seemed most ideal. They relocated to the small town of Concepción, South Carolina, where life improved immensely until global war broke out again. When the U.S. dispatched soldiers to East Asia for combat in the 1950s, all three sons were in their twenties. The military deemed their eldest, married with two sons of his own, too ill to participate. Unfortunately, his two younger brothers, both eligible for the drafts, were subsequently killed overseas before the decade concluded, leaving behind a single remaining branch to exist in America. This was the only known Perry offspring to marry and procreate in their new homeland.

Of the eldest Perry brother’s two boys, Owen was the first-born son and Oliver the second. After a traditional upbringing, Owen followed his uncles’ lead and joined the military. They dispatched him to Vietnam shortly before the battles ended. Oliver encouraged his brother to be brave and to protect himself while traversing the foreign lands.

“Our uncles didn’t make it back, but you can,” Oliver insisted before pulling his sibling into his arms the day he departed. “I know you’ll return, you’re too strong not to. Fight hard. Fight so their deaths were not for nothing.”

Owen held true to the promise he’d made Oliver. Blessed early on by placement in minimal combat areas, he was one of the lucky soldiers who survived the harrowing experience with minor long-term damage. When Owen returned home, he desperately needed a change, opting to leave South Carolina in search of a more flourishing future. He found it in Philadelphia, working for a telecommunications company when networking technologies had just risen in popularity. A few years after he settled down, he suggested to his parents and Oliver that they move north to live with him.

“Never.” Twenty-one-year-old Oliver stood his ground, insisting Concepción still had the potential that his grandfather once saw. “I have to stay here. I can feel it in my bones; this is where I belong,” Oliver promised his parents while watching them drive off behind a moving truck full of their belongings.

Owen and Oliver’s parents had jumped at the chance for improvement in their lives, clearly not sharing Oliver’s confidence in the area, especially their mother. All smiles and hope, she marched behind Owen with a hop to her step. Convinced that Owen could conquer the world if he put his mind to it, and because he was determined to make such a substantial change, to take the adventure, the woman refused to bat an eye of hesitation.

While Oliver never traveled overseas like his brother, many of his friends had been drafted and served their country. When they returned home, mere shells of their former selves, Oliver knew he couldn’t leave them behind. He never understood the concept of men fighting to their deaths, countries aiming to destroy each other. “I must help my friends during their recoveries. They deserve my allegiance and support. The internet will be nothing big,” he assured his family. Oliver instead accepted various jobs working in several of the local mines, earning meager wages in the hopes he could prove his talent and climb his way up the ranks.

Several years passed, enabling Oliver to set his friends on a better path and settle into his own. Though he never ventured north to see his family, he led a fulfilling life and embarked on a search for the woman of his dreams. On a warm spring day, a thirtyish Oliver struck up a conversation with a young Latina preparing lunches at a nearby sandwich shop. Upon noticing the magnificent glow hovering just above her from the sun’s rays blasting through the window, he approached and teased the gorgeous creature who’d captured his attention. “Surely that entryway over there,” he began, offering a sweet and innocent smile while pointing to the screen door, “can’t be the pearly gates of Heaven… yet it must be so because you remind me of an exquisite angel.”

The beautiful shop worker of Latina descent had dealt with flirtatious, obnoxious men before, but something about this vibrant stranger felt different, almost exciting, despite his corny come-on. “If that were true, then certainly you wouldn’t have been allowed to cross the threshold. We’re very exclusive up here, you know. White knights need not apply either. We angels know how to take care of ourselves.” After a seductive flip of her long, shiny hair, she coyly shrugged and turned away from him. Upon catching his reflection in the bar’s mirror and noticing his dangerous grin and beautiful sapphire eyes staring back at her, she nervously blushed and concentrated on pouring a glass of sun tea.

As the ice cubes cracked and hissed from the still-too-warm-to-drink beverage, Oliver leaned over the edge of the counter and gently tugged on her apron’s drawstring. “I like your wild streak! But I could use something refreshing to cool me off. It suddenly got a bit hotter in here.” He paused, lifting the shirt collar away from his neck and watching the muscles in her back tense at the sound of his voice. “My name’s Oliver. And I can come up with a better line next time… perhaps when I take you to dinner. How’s Saturday night at eight? Casual, but special. I promise to step up my game.” When Nadia swiveled around, Oliver blinked his puppy-dog eyes and held a hand over his chest, crossing his heart to prove his honorable intentions. “Seriously, you truly take my breath away, and it’d be a privilege to spend time with you this weekend. Anywhere you’d like.”

She hesitated before offering the drink to Oliver, willing her hand to stop trembling and the glass to remain in her tenuous grip. When their fingers momentarily interlocked, an intense spark ignited. Physically, a powerful electric current raced through their bodies and penetrated their thoughts; a life-changing connection of unknown magnitude had surfaced. Emotionally, the woman knew instantly she’d found the man she would surely love. It had taken just over thirty years, but finally, he’d arrived.

“I’m Nadia. Today must be your lucky day. I happen to be free on Saturday, and given it is May 11th, my angel number, you’ve got yourself a date, Oliver.” She drank in the full-length picture of the charming man she’d frequently noticed around town. He’d likely have to research what an angel number was, but she appreciated his lack of questioning. “You’re not like those other guys who try to impress me with all their money and fancy cars. I’ve seen you in here before too. Normal. Real. Kind.”

“The type of guy you could fall for, huh?” Oliver smirked before offering his phone number, drinking a long sip of the sun tea, and placing his lunch order. “You can choose my meal.”

After spending numerous weekends getting to know one another, Oliver learned that Nadia’s parents had immigrated from Mexico and previously lived on the West Coast for many years. Due to a falling out with extended family, they’d trekked across the country and settled in Concepción, where Nadia was born just over three decades earlier. Rosalina, Nadia’s mother, had only been seventeen at the time. The couple raised their daughter together until Nadia’s unreliable and itinerant father disappeared when she was six. Rosalina did the best she could as a single parent from that point forward, but with money being tight and no family around, they’d lived a tough life. Even finding the cash to move back to the West Coast near her sister had been impossible, so they made the best of it. Though Rosalina often worked sixteen-hour shifts, she ensured any time with her daughter was extraordinarily special, as if the moon and the stars aligned for them to be together.

“Mija, te amo mas que la luna y las estrellas,” crooned Rosalina to her daughter each night.

Rosalina missed her sister, Nadia’s only aunt, tremendously. Because times were hard financially for both, along with extreme health issues on her sister’s part, the siblings were unable to close the gap physically to be together. While cleaning a large home in an affluent section of town on her thirty-third birthday, Rosalina accidentally toppled down a winding flight of stairs. Days later, she passed away from the injuries she’d sustained in the fall, never having seen her sister again since moving to South Carolina.

Given Nadia hadn’t heard from her father since he’d disappeared, she became an orphan at sixteen. An older neighbor had taken her in for a couple of years until Nadia finished high school and secured her own small apartment. Aside from a few conversations with her distant aunt, Nadia barely spent any time with anyone other than colleagues. When Oliver entered Nadia’s life on the fifteenth anniversary of her mother’s death, she concluded that Rosalina had sent her a gift from Heaven. She reached out and insisted that her aunt come for a visit soon. “I have no other family to introduce to Oliver. Por favor, Tia, my mother is gone. I need you.”

By the end of the year, Oliver and Nadia fell in love, married, and searched for a place to live. Nadia’s aunt made the trip for the wedding, thanks to her son, Nadia’s cousin, and his generous offer to foot the bill. The brief reunion was the happiest time of Nadia’s life, other than Oliver’s sweeping entry into her heart. The goodbyes after the wedding were incredibly painful and poignant for Nadia. For the first time since losing her mother, she’d experienced a genuine family connection and wasn’t willing to let it disappear.

While embracing her aunt, Nadia breathed in the woman’s scent of gardenia and wild rose, earning the wonderful aroma a permanent home in her memory. “Tia, you are so special to me. We cannot let a year pass without seeing one another again. I will visit you soon.”

The beautiful and hypnotic woman whispered several Spanish proverbs their family had treasured over the years. “I will be with you, no matter what happens to me. Now go make a baby with your new husband. This family needs to expand. It’ll be a girl. I know these things, child.”

Nadia glanced at her cousin, lost in the smell of sweet cigar and pine that clung to his body. “Take care of your mother. I worry about her. You too, don’t be a stranger, primo. Thank you for bringing your family to our wedding. And your son is such a handsome little devil. He’ll grow up to make someone incredibly happy one day.”

The week after they left, Nadia wandered around the perfume aisle of their local department store, searching for any sort of body spritz that resembled her much-missed family members’ scents. Although Nadia’s intentions were pure, the balance between races and ethnicities in Concepción was changing, challenging the safety and security of many Latino families who were often looked down upon by the wealthy and arrogant townsfolk. A woman behind the counter watched Nadia intently, certain she would try to steal something.

“Is there anything I can help you find, miss?” the store attendant asked with an increasing doubt in her eyes and fear in her voice. “Seems you’ve been sniffing for some time.”

“No.” Nadia averted her gaze to the floor. “Thank you, but no. I’ve smelled them all, and you’re right. I’ve spent way too much time obsessing. I can’t find an exact match to what I’m looking for. I’ll go.” As she exited, Nadia knew what the attendant had been thinking, but she was too ensconced in family memories to let it hurt. Having Oliver in her life had changed her outlook, and she was eager to move forward with him.

Once the area’s economic depression ended, Nadia insisted it was time to stop renting and that it would be a wise financial move to buy a place with Oliver. Given the declining wealth in the county, legislators had begun grandfathering several local neighborhoods with the ability to divide their larger houses into two separate homes. Each half would still connect via a common wall and split equal backyard rights; it was often called a duplex on a single, shared lot. Nadia rambled on and on for days about the vibe in the western half of a run-down twin home on Street 211 that offered an amazing view of a treasured lake. She frequently remarked how the numbers lined up, highlighting the Angel number 211.

“It’s a number that’s meant to bring peace and balance to life!” she proclaimed, excitement radiating across every curve of her gorgeous face.

With one hand on his hip and the other softly combing over a slight five o’clock shadow, Oliver studied Nadia’s striking features. Her smile seemed as vast as the seas, and the gleam in her eyes practically swallowed him whole. He lowered his shoulders a notch in surrender. Very well knowing that he’d go through with the purchase either way, he wanted nothing more than to listen to her argument and intention for the space.

He swept an arm through the air and teased, “I don’t know, love. I’m not entirely convinced. You’re going to have to walk me through it one more time. Maybe explain this Angel number nonsense to me a bit better.” Oliver had to bite his bottom lip to keep from laughing or showing his true intentions.