For Jonathon Muvarro, peeling off the face was always a challenge. If the victim was still alive, he needed to make sure that she was strapped down. If not, there would be trouble, because they’d flop around like a fish out of water.
Monica was doing that right now.
Poor thing. Thank goodness for the leather straps that tied her down on the metallic surgical table, he thought.
She screamed in wretched pain, filling up the room in the cabin with her voice. No one could hear her; the place was in the middle of nowhere, off the beaten path from any vehicles that might pass by.
Originally, Monica had been gagged before being brought here. Right after Jonathon was able to get her to pull her car off the road by honking and flashing his lights. And he really didn’t even give her any time to step out of her vehicle, either, before he was beside her window in a flash, holding a rag full of chloroform over her nose and mouth.
She was out like a light.
Just like that.
In the beginning, whenever he would capture a victim, he had made the mistake of punching them a few times in the face to startle them before applying the chloroform. Jonathon found out that hitting the victim with his fist only left bruises. He wanted his trophies to be perfect. Not messed up. Because if you peeled away the face away while it was still bruised, there was no way that it would heal.
Obviously, since it wasn’t attached to its host anymore.
Jonathon even tried to apply makeup to the skin, only to find that it would crust up and fall away like dust.
So, that was that.
Monica’s pale skin was stretched over her muscle and bone starting from the chin, moving past her nose, and over her eyes.
At times Jonathon had to use the scalpel to help the operation along, in order to tear away what was needed to free up the flesh.
Sometimes, it took time.
Other times it did not.
By now, though, he felt as if he had mastered the craft. When he had started, it had been messy with only tearing away pieces of the skin, instead of the whole thing all at once.
Oh, well, perfection takes practice.
Though, being the gentleman that Muvarro was, he covered up everything from the throat down with a white sheet. So Monica’s nakedness was hidden.
With one yank, the pale flesh of the young woman’s face, which still bore a few freckles from birth, was peeled away from the muscle and bone.
Monica screamed, her voice bounced off the walls, filling up the air in the room; her raw face was exposed, the color not really matching her blue eyes, and saturated in the color of crimson.
Monica’s face was now at the top of her head, not quite away from the cranium — yet. Wet blood dripped down, leaving spots on the hardwood floor.
Well, I’ll just have to clean those up.
There was another pull, another yank, as the rest of Monica’s face was completely peeled away from the top, taking the whole entire scalp, blonde hair and all.
The young woman’s head and face was soft, meaty, bloody.
“That’s very good, sweetness! I’m so proud of you!” Jonathon told her, but she couldn’t hear him as she drowned his voice with her cries.
Jonathon walked over and laid Monica’s face on a metal table. He’d have to work on it soon so it wouldn’t dry up. Then he walked over, stood in front of her, stretched out his arms, palms open.
“I must welcome you to the Church Of Yamaraj.”
Monica shook her faceless head back and forth, spraying blood on the walls and floor and soaking her white sheet.
“All are guaranteed to leave with no sin. Yamaraj always forgives, child. He’ll forgive even you, Monica. So don’t you worry since you don’t have your pretty face and your pretty blonde hair any more. I pray that you are still a virgin when you meet Yamaraj standing by the big oak tree in the Graveyard of Remains. I do pray that you are.”
Muvarro withdrew a pistol with a silencer, clicked off the safety, and shot her in the head.
Such a shame that he had to stop them from screaming...
* * * * *
Later, Monica’s face was fixed up and placed over the face of a mannequin like a mask, while its body was clothed in a light blue dress; one of many who sat in the pews of Muvarro’s church that he had built onto the back of the cabin, minus any windows.
Who needed windows to look out at the world when Yamaraj himself sat on a black buffalo in a large picture at the front of the church? Muvarro thought.
He placed the mannequin that wore Monica’s face in the front pew, and decided to go to sleep.
Tomorrow was Sunday, the day of Sabbath, and he wanted to feel his best.
He wanted to look his best.
* * * * *
Monday came. Muvarro found himself sitting in the parking lot of the Mini-Mart. His mind reflected back to Sunday. He still felt worn out. His muscles ached, his throat was raw — but the Word was delivered.
Sweat had soaked his backside as he preached to all ten mannequins who wore the faces of dead women that sat face-forward, devouring the scripture of Yamaraj.
Afterward, the preacher was very pleased at the outcome.
The lady who he was scoping out slipped outside in the daylight and went directly to her car. She opened the hatchback, put the groceries in, slid behind the wheel and took off.
Jonathon followed.
The woman’s car drove down I-61 and headed toward the town of Deputy Point, only five miles away. Fields and wooded areas sat on both sides. Most days, the road was vacant; not much traffic around. Today it was a bit busy. Jonathon wondered if he would have to turn around and go back.
He didn’t, though, and the closer that he drove toward Deputy Point, the less the traffic there was, which was beginning to work out nicely for Muvarro.
Things were falling in place like a puzzle.
And it really delighted him to see the woman turn left, toward Hampshire, not far from his secluded cabin.
The evening slipped in and the sunlight was being pushed out, ready to rest before rising again in the morning.
When both cars passed the old gas station that had gone out of business years ago, Jonathon made his move. He drove up close to the back of the woman’s car and flashed his headlights and laid on the horn.
At first, she didn’t respond; then she pushed down on the accelerator and sped up. Jonathon had to whip his car over into the other lane, hoping that another car or truck wouldn’t suddenly appear, and drove up beside her.
“Hey!” he yelled. “There’s something wrong with your back wheel!”
The woman’s eyes were as wide as half dollars.
“Hey! Your tire back there,” he pointed, “is wobbling.”
She rolled down her side window. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Something is wrong with your wheel! It’s wobbling!”
Her eyes seemed to widen even more and she pulled off onto the gravel-covered shoulder, stopped and got out.
Jonathon slowed up, pulled in behind her, stopped and shifted the transmission into park. He reached into the glove compartment and retrieved the rag and chloroform, then got out.
She was already out of the car, bent down, looking at her back wheel. “What’s wrong with it?” she asked, not looking at Jonathon.
Taking a quick look both ways, up the road and back, Jonathon soaked the rag and went after his kill.
She turned her head just in time to see him reach out to cover her nose and mouth, and reacted by kicking his shin. Hard. She scrambled off to the other side of the road as the woods swallowed her tall, slender frame.
“Damn!” he spat, getting up off the pavement, rubbing his wound, and he took off after her.
The trees were still wet from the rain that had poured earlier in the day, soaking the ground for over an hour. Fallen wet leaves added to the mix as Jonathon’s feet slapped the woodland floor as he ran. The crickets spoke out of the darkness, their voices rising and falling like waves in the ocean.
Further he ventured into the woods, trying to locate the woman, the dark seemed to close in as if it was ready to hold him as prisoner until daylight — or so it seemed to the killer; because he was not fond of the dark, reverting all the way back to the time when he was a kid. To this day, Jonathon still needed some form of light to sleep by.
Back then his parents assured him that there was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing under the bed; nothing in the closet; nothing that would devour him. But he wondered about that.
Nightmares would haunt his sleep, showing him visions of something waiting silently in his closet with red eyes, slits in the dark, waiting silently until little Jonathon would fall asleep and slither out and move across the floor by his bed, reach up, slide a cold, wet tentacle around his ankle, jerk him out from under the blanket and back into the dark hole of the closet.
He hated those thoughts. He wished he could bury them for good. He wished he could wash his hands of them. He wished—
Snap!
A branch snapped somewhere in the darkness, between the trees, startling him, pulling him away from his thoughts.
Snap!
Jonathon heard it again, but could not locate exactly where the sound came from. He looked back and could barely make out the two cars across the street. And he hadn’t actually realized how far he had traveled into the woods, until now.
Darkness flooded everywhere: more sounds of the insects were heard; a small breeze blew and caressed his cheek; tree limbs swayed back and forth; and he could have sworn he saw a shadow move.
He knew he had messed up. He did not get to the woman in time to make her sleep a while; so, here he was, in a mistake that he needed to fix.
Quick.
Great god Yamaraj would not be pleased.
He looked left; he looked right. No sign of the girl.
Jonathon wondered if he should go back to his car or try to explore more of the wooded area. If he went back to his car or hid out close by, say, behind a tree, he may be able to jump out and snatch her. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to punch her.
Remember, he thought, the trophies needed to be perfect; not messed up.
When he turned around and scanned the area for a tree to hide behind, he felt a thump over the head.
And no more.
* * * * *
Jonathon woke up and couldn’t move. Except for his head.
His eyes looked at an upside-down face — the woman’s. They were in his cabin and the picture of Yamaraj sat flat against the wall in front of him.
Oh, god Yamaraj, if you can hear me, he began to pray.
“Wake up, sleepy-head! Rise and shine!” The woman’s voice spoke as if she was talking to a child. “It’s time to get up, Mr. Muvarro. Time to show your bright eyes to the world.”
“Wh-what’s going on? Wh-why am I h—” Jonathon mumbled.
“Shhhhh!” she said. Her finger touched his lips and he could smell strawberry lotion. “Now, be a good boy for me and, of course, god Yama.”
“Yama?” The side of Jonathon’s head throbbed and pulsated with pain. His ear felt warm and wet from the wound.
“Yah-mah.” She came around to the foot of the metallic surgical table. “You know, silly, your god. Our god.”
“Our god?” Jonathon’s mind drew a blank. What was really going on here? What has this woman done to m—
“Our god, Mr. Muvarro. Him!” She pointed a finger at the picture.
“That’s Yamaraj. Not Yama.”
“Oh, I must detest that, Mr. Muvarro. He goes by both names — and a few others. He is the Lord of Death, Mr. Muvarro. I just like callin’ him Yama for short.”
He had never heard Yamaraj called that name before. “Are you sure? Look,” he shook his head, felt more pain crawl up the side of his head, and wet his lips with his tongue, “get me out of here!”
“Well, if I could, I would.” She closed her hazel eyes and ran a hand through her long dark hair. Jonathon thought that the skin on her face would be soft to the touch. If only he could touch the flesh... he wiggled his fingers even at the attempt.
“But,” she sighed, “I can’t, Mr. Muvarro. You have been chosen!”
“Chosen?”
“Yes. Chosen! Isn’t it great!” She smiled, let out a chuckle — more like a squeal — and ended it with a sad expression. “Wish I could see Yama.” Her bottom lip stuck out. “Maybe someday, though.”
“You were supposed to be the chosen one ah, ah... What’s your name?”
“Mary!” She brightened up like a light bulb and her hazel eyes filled with delight. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. I knew that you were going to try and get me... but when Yama came to me in a dream the other night and gave me a sign, well, it’s like it came to life or something. I dreamt that I was standing in front of you, like now, and talking the good talk. The Word of Yama.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, silly, I remember talking to you in my dream for a while and,” she walked over to a counter, “held this in my hand,” she grabbed a scalpel, “and when I pressed it against your chin I felt the warmth of your blood spill, like this...”
“Wait!” Jonathon cried out. “Why me? Why would Yamaraj—”
“Yama—”
“Whatever! Why would our god do this to me?”
“Well, you see, Mr. Muvarro, there are no men in the congregation. Only women — ten to be exact — and it is time to welcome men into our family. Don’t you think?”
“I—I suppose. But why can’t I carry that out myself?”
She laughed. “Mr. Muvarro, you are soooo silly! I can get a man faster than you could go out and bonk him over the head and drag him back here. As you can tell, I’m a girl. Correct?”
“Yeah, bu—”
“And I think that I can trick a guy to be sacrificed for Yama.”
“Do what? I don’t know about that, Mary. I think that I can carry out this request just fine!” Even though he pleaded with this new serial killer for Yamaraj, the pain on the side of his head matured more and more. “And I think that—”
“Now. If you hold very still for me, Mr. Muvarro,” she said, cutting him off, “we have a mannequin waiting for your flesh.” She stood above him and stuck the blade under his chin, ever so carefully.
Mary’s first kill was a little rough, sort of in pieces while she worked. The screaming didn’t seem to bother her either; rather, it excited her. Yes, it was time for men to become members.
As many as she could retrieve for her great god Yamaraj.
Married to a woman who keeps him chained up in a room so he won't try and escape from home and turn his fiction into reality, Brick Marlin silently resides in the Ohio Valley. He is an affiliate member of the HWA and is the author of many short stories and three books. Feel free to visit www.brickmarlin.com.
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