Death in the Closet


Screecht . . . Screeeecchhhttt . . .

He had been doing this for some time with his eyes shut. Since hiding himself in the bedroom closet waiting for his intended quarry to arrive. The hour was getting late. He couldn’t make out the time in his watch in the closet’s darkness. There was growing stiffness in his legs from standing so long. The little light he gleamed from the tiny slit between the closet doors through which he sighted the bed told him it was the onset of dusk. His knapsack containing his other weapons sat beside his feet. His quarry will show—he was certain of that. The information he had of the man was accurate to have brought him here. This hotel suite was his usual resting hole whenever he was in the city. The man conducted his business during the day and enjoyed his pleasure at night time.

Screeehhhhttt . . . Screeeeeccchhhhttt . . .

His knuckles and arm muscles tightened each time he ran the sharp edge of his sickle blades against each other. He didn’t care about the noise they made; the noise was soothing to him. Comforting and relaxing. It sharpened him for the impending blood he was going to spill in this room. It won’t be his blood, but it might as well be his. He was getting antsy. He thought of how long his wait would be before his quarry arrived. Would he return alone or be with company. If with company, how many? He wasn’t worried if his quarry came with company. He was prepared for whatever surprises his quarry might bring with him. He had here in his fists his own brand of death-dealing surprises to dispense. One his quarry won’t ever be expecting. He had dispensed similar treatment to another from whom he had acquired the information that led him here and it added comfort to his mind. His hands felt melted together with the sickle daggers. The daggers were an extension of his hate.

His head snapped up and his eyes came alive in the darkness when he heard a door come open. He stopped what he was doing with his daggers and listened to the chattering voices that just entered the room. He made out a woman’s voice with that of a man—his quarry, no doubt. There wasn’t any other voice in the background beside theirs. He peeked through the slit in the closet doors at the movement of shadows in the room. The lights came on and his quarry stepped into view, standing by the foot of the bed with his female companion. He watched his quarry take off his jacket grabbed the woman’s arms and fell with her on the bed, both exploding in mirth. He watched them grope and fondle each other, neither aware of his presence. He raised his arm to his brow and it came off with sweat. He watched the couple frolic, bidding his time.

Otis gripped the handle of his sickle blades and counted down numbers in his head and then when he was done, eased quietly out of the closet. Neither his quarry nor his woman seemed aware of his presence—they kept on with their kissing, lost to the danger in the room. The bedroom door stood ajar and Otis glanced that way to make sure there wasn’t any other company around. He advanced upon them, holding up his sickle-shaped daggers and determined to use them. His breathing was slow and labored.

His quarry was too busy ministering kisses upon his date’s neckline while she gasped and prodded him along. Her eyes opened with startled fright at the dark figure in the room with them and she let off a shriek while struggling to push her date off her. The man pulled himself up on his arms, startled by her screaming and right there and then, he too sensed danger upon them but it was too late.

Otis came at them and jumped down on his quarry’s back. The man fell back on the woman with his face connecting her nose, making a crunching noise that cut down her screaming fit. Otis raised his sickle daggers then rammed them down on back of the man’s back. The twin daggers tore through the man’s shirt and imbedded three inches into the man’s scapula. The man’s face came up and he let off a loud cry. The woman remained under him gasping and coughing from her bloody nose. Otis twisted the blades, ripping through the man’s scapular trapezius. More blood sprayed the bed and the man was screaming and beating his arms and feet on the bed, wanting to push Otis off him but failing. Otis pushed the man’s head down on the woman’s face to choke off his screams. When he reckoned he had incapacitated his quarry enough, he extracted his daggers off his back, ripping off flesh and bits of his shirt and then he came off the man’s back. Otis wiped sweat off his brow with his arm. He surprised himself with how unperturbed he was with watching the man bleed.


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