In The Arms of Nightmares

By Robert Dean

Behind the black and white snapshots of VE-Day celebrations and after the roar of the swinging trumpets dies down, a madman hunts his prey. Arthur Reilly hears jazz when he kills. Bebop is his sound of murder.
He sees souls exit bodies and can speak to them. Louie Armstrong, the sparkling voice of God. Miles Davis is the blue-toned growl of the devil. After being visited by a murderous angel, Arthur is set on a path of destruction with one goal in mind: get out of town and go where passion birthed music and murder, the one place that will set his soul free: New Orleans, The City of the Dead.
Until then, his life is a mess. His drinking is out of hand. Chloe, the dead French girl, continues to haunt him. Arthur’s mind is an abstract gallery of death and music—but where deviance reigns, his genius is awakened. However, as head chef at the best restaurant in town, it’s hard to keep out of the bright lights of high society—and it’s even harder to kill unnoticed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: May December Publications
• Release date: Apr 7, 2012

Book preview

In the Arms of Nightmares

Robert Dean

Cover by Shawn Conn

In the Arms of Nightmares

SMASHWORDS EDITION

©2012 May December Publications LLC.

The split-tree logo is a registered trademark of May December Publications LLC.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or May December Publications LLC.

Dedication

For William E. Hilliard,

The quiet solider.

Acknowledgements

Massive thank you’s to my wonderful parents, which never for a second wavered on my insane decision to become a writer.

I do this to make you proud.

Thanks also to Lela Gwenn, Tim Grace, Rob Brode, Nandi and Julie Baier.

To Denise and Todd at May December for taking a chance on me, and continually pushing the limit.

Lastly, if this book could have a second dedication it would be to Buzz Schmidt.

He’s proof that with a teacher’s encouragement of a skill, they can change a student’s life forever.

Contents

The Infancy of Decay

Cursed

With my Firery Sword I Shall Strike all Those Below me

I Do Not Belong Here

The Essence of a Memory can Spill Like InkFrom a Lovers Letter to Noone

Thank You My Friend, For Your Flesh

Where Hope is Buried and Burned

In the Arms of Nightmares

Through the Eyes of the Undead

Tell Me a Secret, and I’ll Tell You a Lie

Everything I Know is Wrong,

The Journey

Murder is My Muse

First Taste

Lagniappe

Where Blood and Desire Meet

There Are No Songs in Heaven

Crimson

The Blurred Line Between Human and Animal

Liberate Ex Infernis

A Reckoning

Drowning in Flames

The Great Noise

Chess, Not Checkers

The Shape of Murder to Come

1

The Infancy of Decay

A sly smile snuck across Arthur Reilly’s face; the kind of smile a boy gets seeing his father’s naked lady books for the first time. A dirty little secret.

Cruising down a familiar alley in a not-so-good part of town, there she was, a poor man’s Marilyn. A tangled mess of platinum blonde hair and eyes so dark, they lacked clarity of discernable pigment. She was built like a fuck machine, but resembling a desperate angel who had slipped off a cloud and landed in this wretched alley amongst loveless whores and junkies.

This is a seriously nice car, mister, she said with admiration and a bit of envy as she slid into the seat. The heavy door slammed behind her.

Thanks. It’s my pride and joy. I love this car, he answered truthfully.

What are you, some kind of politician or cop or something?

Me? Nah, I just know how to save my money and buy nice stuff.

Looks like it. My pops used to own a body shop when I was younger. Always had a thing for nice cars.

Veronica listened with uncompromising attention to the low hum of the engine as the car cruised the streets. Pulling up to the motel, Arthur noticed the rank smell of piss as he opened the door.

Gotta love this fucking city, he said, crinkling his nose at the stench.

I’m used to it, trust me. Beggars can’t be choosers, she said, stepping over a broken bottle. Trash was everywhere, clogging the sewers, adding to the gumbo of disgusting odors.

Two foul men sat on the corner drinking and smoking reefer in between shouting at one another. The motel was seedy with a hint of overdose growling in a vomitus décor.

The sign read HOTEL LE MOYNE in faded, red-pink letters. It was the usual discount model with the rooms on the outside and a concrete walkway that joined everything. The front office was around the corner and down a bit.

Arthur started to imagine a person who worked at the desk at this hour in this neighborhood. It made his skin crawl to think of all the filth. He may have done unsavory things, but at least he was clean.

They passed two misfits from the corner with their catcalls about sex followed by a roar of laughter. He could smell their offensive stenches and see their rotten teeth hanging in their mouths. As she led the way, his eyes never left her ass. He watched her muscles—her cheeks moving left and right. She pulled out her key from her purse, the kind with an oversized plastic medallion on the end. The room was gloomy and looked like hell. The walls looked painted with shit. Instantly, he noticed the smell.

Someone covered up the scent of vomit and rancid piss with bleach, and then covered that up with a cleaning spray and flowery perfume. Arthur threw the blankets off the bed. In no way was he touching those with his naked body. He looked over at his new friend and felt her womanly curves. Whispering in her ear, he licked the back of her neck. He could feel the tiny hairs tickling his lips.

She wrapped her arms around him, her fingertips sliding down the back of his shirt. She kissed his hand as he took off her white Monroe knock-off dress. With one pull at the neck, it fell to the floor. Black lace with matching stockings, she could have been a Hollywood heartbreaker.

When he finally entered her, she let out a whimper of pleasure. The room spun with excited intensity. It wasn’t just sex. It was an exorcism. He fucked her like a whore should be fucked. Unlike a lonely man who needed the companionship, Arthur excelled in the art of women; A good looking underachiever that found his way inside plenty of panties with a well rehearsed smile and even more effective set of credentials. As the sex grew nastier and wetter, he drilled away like a miner deep in the Columbian caves searching for precious metals.

You’re so good. Oh my God, fuck me. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop, she cooed into his ear while nibbling it. She seemed to love ear lobes.

She rocked her hips wildly and with reason. They both screamed in unison while their bodies collectively reached the top endorphin limit. When it was over, he laid still. Motionless. Staring into a void.

I don’t know you, but I want to… You’re different, she whispered. He only could smile and roll over on top of her. The second time was just as enjoyable as the first.

It was rare to meet someone, and get their sexual rhythm so well, so soon. When he finished, he let out a scream as he came all over her chest.

Daddy, you’re too fucking good. She smiled, wiping her body with a motel sheet.

Thanks. I try to get my money’s worth. Two orgasms in one night, not too shabby, I feel like I’m back in high school.

I think you got every penny my pussy could give.

Arthur’s heartbeat soared. It had been a while since he had met a hooker who loved to fuck this much; no one really likes their job. The motel room had a new odor to add to the already disgusting mix: sweat and sex.

Arthur stared at the ceiling and wondered how some of the more nefarious stains had made their way up there. Pulling a cigarette out of her abused soft pack, Veronica held one out before his dazed glare

No, thanks, those things will kill ya, he said, turning up his nose.

They sat in a tired silence while her indigo smoke danced through the air until eaten by the spinning overhead fan. Drained liked the junkies outside that began to dissipate into the night.

His body was numb; she knew how to earn those dollars.

Her skin tasted so fine. So pure, as he kissed and touched it. He had to have a taste. His mouth was salivating. He went over the details of the situation. Even though the room looked like the second portal to hell, it couldn’t be done on the bed. Beds are never a convenient spot for cleaning and gutting. Mattresses can soak up a lot of fluid, but the workspace can get immensely messy. Humans contain a lot of blood. A. Lot. Of. Blood.

The smell of intestines, bile, piss, and shit are not pleasant. If one those areas get hit and ruptures, forget it; the room essentially needs to be burned.

He had to do her in the shower. Showers have running water, which easily cleans blood along with keeping the stink down that is if a nasty bit is in fact, hit. Showers are easy to clean and bathrooms are usually full of last minute options for aide.

He felt her go down on him again as he drifted off to sleep. After a short nap, the plan was now in effect.

Baby, lets take a shower. Together. It’d be great to wash your body. I want to take care of you, every inch of you. I want to scrub those titties, and soap up your pussy. Never know, might make me hard again, and want to fuck you. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree.

Oohhh! That’d be so nice. You’re so soft to the touch. I’d love that. Three fucks in a night. I should be charging triple.

Well, you’re not. We’re working by the experience, not the hour. Get your cute ass cleaned up. Maybe, if you get lucky, I’ll give you some shower love, he said.

Shower love? For little ol’ me? she cooed, in her best Betty Boop.

She sat up, and wiggled her tits in front of his face as a tease. He gave them each a lick just to continue their game. Like a sucker, she bought it; hook, line and sinker.

First, he had to look around and check the location. Getting out of bed, he kissed her on the forehead, and walked a few feet to the bathroom. Gotta pee real quick.

Stepping into the bathroom, it was more of a disaster than the bedroom. No bigger than the trunk of a car.

Back in the room, Veronica sat at the edge of the bed looking at her own reflection in the mirror. Posing like some kind of B-rate starlet, her body was glimmering. Noticing that he had seen her, she turned a lovely shade of maroon. It’s hard to embarrass a hooker. Leaning against the doorframe, he pointed a finger like a gun toward her.

You get in there first. I’ll be in, in a minute or two. He pulled the trigger.

She smiled, looking at him with almost a matronly adoration. Men professed their love on a daily basis, but he didn’t need her, and she knew it. His ego and confidence only made her want him more.

Offering a smile and rubbing her fingers through his greasy, post-sexed hair, she kissed him. Hookers never kiss their clients.

His skin crawled; kissing a hooker was downright revolting. Imagining how many cocks had been brushed against her gums during her work week was enough to solicit gallons of vomit. Arthur made a mental note to make sure to brush his teeth extra hard when he got home.

The sound of the water crashed against the shower wall. He waited a few moments to start. His eyes shrank to snakelike slits. Quiet, like a house cat, he crept to his pants, and pulled out his knife. The stock was bone, solid as anything, finely tipped with ridges in the base to penetrate deeply. The door to the bathroom was wide open.

Baby, where are you? I’m getting lonely in here. I thought you were going to wash my back? It’s so sore from the way you loved on me tonight. I need you again. You better not be thinkin’ about running out on me!

Pulling the curtain back, she stood, wet and more beautiful than ever. Soapsuds slid down her curves. He loved the smell of a wet body. Veronica’s piles of prostitute-clown makeup were off, and she still looked perfect under the running water. The beads of falling water reminded him of tears she probably had shed after all of the failures that had led her to this point.

He had to take a step back, and collect his cool. For the first time there was internal strife. This never happened. It was new and uncomfortable.

Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost or something, she said.

Yeah, I just had a weird hot flash. I haven’t been feeling good today, he lied, pacing the carpet.

Awww, I’m sorry, sugar. Come in here and let me give you kisses. I’m good at giving kisses, and I like being your girl for a night. I really do. You’re different, I like that.

Back in the bathroom, her bee-stung lips pouted when he looked at her. Naked and embarrassed, he looked like a silly scribble of a child, not a veteran killer. She reached her arms out to him. Shower love.

Baby, c’mere and let me kiss you for a little bit. I’ll make you feel good. Then…after, let’s go eat some food or somethin’. I’m hungry. What ya say we go to a diner and talk? We’ll get to know each other and everything. Tonight was on me if ya get me a cup of coffee and maybe an egg or two. Whadda ya say? I know I’m not the suburban housewife you should have, but I’m not so bad once you get to know me. Her lips turned up at the corners as she spoke.

Anyone in their right mind would have fallen in love. Her breasts alone would have pacified the most insane. Stepping closer to the beautiful, naked woman who held her arms out toward him, Arthur smiled. The music started.

He leapt into the shower at top speed. His blade sailed into the wet, perfect flesh of Veronica the prostitute. The first stab hit the neck, ripping open a main artery, followed by the back and kidneys.

Trying her hardest to scream, he held his hand over her mouth while her body went into shock. Horns blazed inside his head while she fought against his body weight. Spastic drumming with off kilter, evocative rhythms roared as Arthur slashed and gutted.

The same beads of water that enchanted him, now mixed with her blood, and together they flowed down like the petals of a broken red flower after the rains.

As the life drained out of Veronica, the music softened, changing course with the waves of water that helped clean as he killed.

Every downward thrust moved like an opera. The golden voices of a tenor and soprano reaching their highs as his blade jumped with excitement. Slash by slash, the ringing sounds of La Boheme echoed inside Arthur’s head, his blade his baton.

No different than slicing into a fresh piece of fruit, the blade dripped with bodily juices, just the same. Veronica’s once beautiful body was now ugly with cuts and stab wounds, coma-white, just another nameless body, another dead Jane Doe. The smell of death permeated the bathroom; yet another scent to add to the already abysmal stench of the Hotel Le Moyne’s guestrooms.

Arthur wondered about the day in the life of a maid at a place like this. Show up to work, make the beds, and hope to not find a horrific scene when they opened an empty room.

Work here too long, you could lose your soul.

He knelt down to get a closer look at Veronica. Placing lips to the flesh, he began to suck on her neck like a matinee vampire. Veronica’s dead body sparkled in the light while the death bruises formed where his knife went inside of her. The clumps of dried blood in her hair turned him on. Her nipples stood erect, postmortem. Her vagina had not lost any moistness, either.

Something in the copper-toned smell of human plasma splattered across his body sent lecherous waves through him as he ran his hands across the fleshy acreage. Arthur had no choice but to make love to her again.

Adjusting the deceased at a suitable angle amongst the tiny bathroom’s dimensions proved to be a challenge. The weight of a lifeless human body is substantial, coupled with the cabinetry and toilet; the whole process is obstacle laden.

Once he was happy with the placement of the body, Arthur attacked with the same ferocity as he had moments ago with his knife. His knees pressed hard against the ice-cold tile as he pumped himself into her lifeless husk.



After his sexual emotions got the best of him and regained composure, it was time to attend to the task at hand: the dissection. Cutting up a person is an extremely precise science. The average person doesn’t have the knowledge or know-how to skin and cut up a body. It takes years of training and a meticulous precision.

He looked her body over, like she was livestock and he was a butcher. A series of charts popped in his head; the ones that labeled the sections of the pig or cow by which part of their body provided the best meat.

Since Veronica was in shape and had relatively no prior bruising or scars, this was a splendid kill. Like a master painter, his cuts and slashes floated through the rubbery veins and coarse muscle tissue.

He decided upon five choices:

1. The left rib section: Enough meat to enjoy a lean meal without too much fat intake but perfect for those on a diet. Rub with herbs and spices and slather in barbeque sauce.

2. The right buttock: With an ass like hers, it would provide enjoyment pre- and postmortem, grilled to a medium rare with a lime-cilantro marinade, served with some icy beers for a lunch over the newspaper. Hopefully, when he cooked it, it would be a sunny day. It sounded like a perfect patio-style lunch.

3. The liver: This would be a rainy day dinner. It was the only internal organ worth dealing with. Everything else proved too messy. Possibly serve it with lima beans or a sandwich.

4. The lower right calf: Seasoned to perfection, marinated until it was tender enough to make a hearty Texas style chili. Served with crackers and imported beer.

5. The left thigh: Steak meat, with a sweet corn mash and baked potato.

Veronica’s meat had to be wrapped up. Walking out of a motel with handfuls of bloody chunks of human flesh is a surefire way to draw attention. Arthur slipped into his slacks and ran down the ugly concrete steps to the corner store just down a little from the motel. The old son-of-abitch behind the counter looked as grizzled as a person could get, rough and raw like a tired monument to misery. A non-filtered cigarette dangled off his bottom lip. He spoke to another equally ancient man sitting on a milk crate with a bottle in a brown bag between his legs. It was obvious that the clerk wanted nothing more than to make the sale and get Arthur the fuck out of his store.

As Arthur dropped the price of the paper into the old cashier’s paw, he noticed the pistol inches from the register—World War One era—and it could easily blow a chasm into anyone’s skull. The cashier smiled as he tossed the money into the till.

"Anyone stupid enough to rob me has a one way ticket to the morgue. I fucking dare one of these punks to try and rob me. I double-dog fucking dare ‘em. Lousy sons of bitches just fuckin’ hang around day and night not doin’ shit. I work, motherfucker.

I own this place, and when I’m dead, my grandkids are gonna have something because their old man’s daddy was a worker. Not like these punk pieces of shit who hang around here. Where the fuck was they when the Nazi’s were butt-fucking the world, huh?

Arthur chose not to say anything about his involvement in the war. It was easier that way; it always was in times like these. Had he mentioned his time spent in the Philippines, it would have gotten uncomfortable, quickly.

They were on their momma’s tit. That’s where. World War-fucking-TWO, man. I served this magnificent nation when we fought the Kaiser. I’m a fuckin’ vet, and do these punks care? No, sir, one of these reefer-smoking assholes come near my shop without an extended dollar in their fist, I’ll blow their fucking heads clean the fuck off. You can count it on. Here’s your paper, buddy. And put on a fucking shirt, Tarzan. Fuck do you think you are, in the movies? People around here wear clothes when they go to the store. Even the fucking punks who hang around.

Arthur looked down, forgetting he was shirtless and covered in blood. The old man must have been too drunk to notice or care. His breath did reek of cheap vodka mixed with pulpy orange juice and stale cigarettes. Then again, knowing the location, it was not entirely implausible that he was just used to seeing such a thing.

Back outside, Arthur paid attention to his immediate surroundings. No cops and no thugs. It was cool to go back to the motel. He gripped his blade in anticipation of someone approaching him. The path was relatively clear aside from a hobo sleeping on a far set of stairs.

Honey, I’m home! he called out. When finished wrapping up Veronica’s meat, Arthur looked at her.

The long stab wounds felt like little racetracks and his fingers, the ponies. It was time to get to work; cleaning up with minimal tools is no easy task.

On hands and knees, Arthur scrubbed the bathroom while the water from shower poured down onto Veronica’s lifeless body. All traces he was here, aside from the dead hooker, were in a garbage bag or down the drain.

After getting cleaning himself up, Arthur went on to make the bed and clean the rest of the room. Stripping off the sheets, he took them with him. With a flick of the switch and the click of the door behind him, he walked off into the night.

2

Cursed

Dark images blared across Arthur’s retinas as he lay in bed listening to the falling rain. In slow motion, he recalled a time driving on a particularly sunny afternoon when he came across a homeless man. While others rolled their windows up and sped ahead, Arthur’s blood boiled at such pollution being near his home.

The vile man looked as if he had been homeless since the Depression. Just another useless piece of shit when there were plenty of jobs created during the war. His clothes appeared to not have been washed in a long, long time. The look on his face was a total loss. Passing the third grade must not have been pivotal, or necessary because the sign around his neck looked down right pathetic, a retarded child could have drawn it better.

It read:

poor pleaz help ol’ top down on luck

A relic of the past, another man kicked in America’s shit pile for years with no chance of getting up. A man so dirty and miserable; just like his spirit, the bum was the living image of failure. Similar to the Jews seen after the war; his skeletal frame looked ridged and repulsive. His clothes hung off his body, as if at one time, they did fit. Arthur pulled over and rolled down the window.

Say, buddy, what are you doing over in this part of town? Arthur asked.

I just kinda wandered over thisaway. I’m down on my luck. Ya got some change?

The man’s grisly breath almost made Arthur vomit.

It smelled like rat cheese that had been lying in the hot sun for months and then washed down with diarrhea.

Why don’t you hop in, buddy? I’m a cook and I’ll fix you something to eat. I’ll drop you back toward the city and, you know, away from here, Arthur said, pretending to care about George’s personal plight.

The man stared at him, contemplating his offer.

You’re not some kind of queer or nothin’ who wants to fuck, are ya? I don’t swing with the fellas that way. I’ve got a good sucker punch, if you’re lyin’. I’ve had a lonely night or two in my day, and I still ain’t gonna lay with another man. The bum’s rank breath streamed into the air like the feces falling out of a dogs ass.

Do I look queer? Arthur asked. "If