Reviled

By Roberto Scarlato

Deep in the Wisconsin woods, a killer waited patiently. On a cold night in 1999, the notorious Donnie Torr went down in a hail of gunfire. The threat to the town was supposedly eliminated. Now, in 2002, local writer James Dorrell has just purchased a leather jacket at the thrift store. He knows its getting colder, bleaker as the weather grows gray. But what he doesn't know is that the killer lived on, connected to the very vessel of the jacket that James now owns. With the leather fusing to his skin, his thoughts being perpetrated with malicious fantasies, and his sudden habit of sleep walking, James must discover how the killer accomplished such a curse and why he chose James to do his bidding. Better yet, James will have to figure out an ending for this horrifying tale...that might be his own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roberto Scarlato
• Release date: Jul 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386803713

Roberto Scarlato

Roberto Scarlato is an author, blogger and audiobook narrator. He writes speculative fiction, mystery, suspense, thriller, romance, horror and crime. Scarlato grew up in a small suburb of Chicago, where his love of a good story was cultivated by shows like “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” and “The Twilight Zone.” A bibliomaniac from the moment he learned to read, he began weaving together his own tales at an early age.  In November 2014, Scarlato quit his day job. He now writes and narrates full time. He married his high school sweetheart in 2010 and they have a daughter.

Book preview

Prologue

The Ritual

Delilah, the victim in this story’s grim tale, was lying uncomfortably on her own hardwood floors. She was bound and gagged and was sniffling as her stranger in the household was sharpening his tools. It was dark in the room and all Delilah could do was moan incoherently and keep her eye on the phone from across the room.

He stood there, much like a tower of leather, with his long black coat dangling at his backside. He had waited for this moment and took great care in sanitizing and preparing his tools. The electric buzzer he had retrieved from the woman’s bathroom gave a hypnotic hum as he took a glance at her with a grin over his shoulder that could only be described as a package of nails being forced through a hole. His greasy, crimson hair fluttered as he returned back to his tools.

Delilah could remember when she first heard of the murders that were going on in the recent years that she had lived in Wisconsin. She never knew that she would be next. Her mother had always warned her to stay away from dark places as a little girl. Now she was in the darkest place in her whole life; in her own home. She struggled as she tried to reposition herself. Her arm was growing quite numb.

Tears were streaming down as she shifted. Her blue eyes gazed at the phone in the corner of the room again. Hope that he doesn’t notice, she thought. Her beautiful curly black hair was getting in the way of her sight. Constantly, she would have to fling her head back in an effort to push them away. However, one curl would not be easily dismissed. It poked her in the eye and made her squirm.

The hand came up to her eye and gently pushed the curl away as she looked up.

It was him.

She didn’t even hear him walk over to her. This man was too slippery for reality. It was as though he could materialize at will. His sneaky demeanor gave her wide eyes as he positioned her to face him, holding her arms to her chest as he knelt down to her.

That leather jacket.

It was practically smothering her with that rancid stench.

She could smell its sharp odor. It reeked of unclean humanity, of prior murders past.

He sniffed at her for a few seconds before he released the gag.

I can’t imagine what you’re going through, he said with unfeeling eyes. You’re probably sitting here wondering what I’ll say next. For the first time in my life, I have your complete attention. But you don’t really care about my words, do you? The only thing you do care about is if I’ll release you or not. Is that not true?

The woman nodded gently, letting him know that the only thing she did indeed care about was getting out of her own house alive. He stared at her for a few moments, almost as if thinking it over. He looked back at her, his eyes cutting around the corners of his lids. But then he just replied, You know you’re not going anywhere.

This angered the woman. For a few brief seconds, she felt like she had the courage of a rattle snake as she saved up a big one and spat in his face. The saliva smacked across his lips.

He did not move.

Didn’t even blink.

She cringed to receive a smack from him. But, when no smack came, she opened her eye back up, she could see his tongue curling around his lips, licking the saliva that she had spit at him. Sick fuck, she thought.

Her tan, smooth skin began to turn red with frustration as he proceeded to gag her again, held her down, and let the buzzer do its cutting. With each buzz, removing her gorgeous curly locks, of which she had many, she cried in anger. She loved her hair. Why would this maniac cut her hair before killing her? Was he going to kill her? Was this all just part of some deliberately sick prank?

Almost half of her hair was gone now. A few locks were lost under her squirming to avoid the buzzer.

He held the hair in his hand as he stood up. He wiggled his fingers letting them drop down to the floor where he kicked them away. While cutting, practically stabbing and scraping the rough edges of the buzzer into her scalp, making large pathways of stubble, he began talking again. A long time ago, someone of your caliber did the same thing to Samson the strong man.

After he was done, all that was left was a white bald head. The woman was overcome with sorrow. Quite mockingly, he blew puffs of air around her head like a construction worker blowing off the last few traces of timber that he had just cut. No need for the buzzer anymore, so he slid it away from the both of them to let it be swallowed in the darkness.

He knelt down beside her again.

Tell me, Delilah, he said. Are you familiar with the bible?

Delilah nodded her head through a running river of tears. The ground underneath her was becoming damp with sweat and sobs.

Never got around to reading it, have we now?

This made her cry even more. It was true. She did have a bible stored in her closet in a shoebox, collecting years of dust and mildew. It was a gift from her mother. Always a religious woman, mom.

You represent a woman that betrayed her fellow man. You, in turn, will be punished for that woman’s crime.

He stood up quick and fetched his tools. He fastened them neatly on his knuckles and toes. They were glistening gold metal bear claws. Like brass knuckles, only with three sharp points.

Slowly he began to inch towards her, readying to give her a brisk slash across the face. She sniffled and cringed, waiting for the blow to strike her.

The front door erupted in a giant crash. The force of the kick sent the door off the hinges and to the side. The four feet that had kicked it down disappeared in the darkness. Then, six white orbs of light flooded the room, revealing the killer hovered over his prey.

The blinding light made the killer squint. Then, a wall of barrels lifted up out of the pool of darkness, and a half a dozen of them were readily clicked. The police force all had the notorious killer in their crosshairs. Among the boys in blue was a private investigator, a husky, rugged man with a brown fedora and a long tan trench coat.

It was Thomas Wilker.

The killer was amazed at his position. He was entirely at the mercy at these fine boys in blue. He turned his sharp, withering gaze to Delilah. He could see her staring at the cops. Her gag had drooped halfway. Enough for him to see a smile spread across her face of relief. It only took him a few moments to realize that her tears of fear quickly transitioned to tears of happiness.

This did not please him at all.

Earlier that night, Delilah had arrived from a long day at work. She was a local town waitress who was saving up her money to become a cosmetologist. She had since been using various makeup methods to attract the opposite sex.

She felt that she never wanted to leave the house unless she had the bright colors of her free spirit. Passion red lips, blue-glowing shadow eyes, and dark-as-night black curly hair were her favorite attention-getters. She rummaged through the mail and checked her phone messages.

But her routine was interrupted by a sharp noise that she had heard from behind. It sounded like metal scrapping wood. She did not panic. Another thing that her mom told her was to not panic if she felt danger. She taught her well.

She knew that someone was in the house, watching her. She slowly pretended to erase her messages but actually pressed the speed-dial for 911. She pulled the phone slightly off of the resting block. She then went to the kitchen to make it look like she was getting a drink. Once inside the kitchen, she debated whether to snatch the knife and make a run for the backdoor. But she knew that the man inside would surely get her. She thought it would be better to fake that she didn’t hear the noise, pretend to be thirsty, get some water from the fridge, then grab the knife calmly and wait at the side of the door frame ready to stab him as soon as she saw his face.

Her hand trembled as she reached in the fridge for a nice cool drink of water. By the time she lifted her head back up and closed the fridge door, she could see a pair of hands run for her, with a disturbingly twisted face zooming in between them. The face said quickly, Welcome home, Delilah.

The emergency operator heard the scream and contacted the proper officials. The call was still being recorded and traced. Several different sounds were heard over the line. They arrived in this order: scream, shuffling footsteps (indicating a struggle), a lamp breaking, muffled cries, and finally a harsh voice and a slap.

Everything happened quickly after that. The local officials knew who this killer was by his pick in women and the connection with the importance of their names and raced to the location. But not before Thomas had his say and forced himself into one of the squad cars. He tried to bring order to this simple drive and pickup. He knew that these cops were out for blood tonight.

The killer turned around slowly and stood in front of the balled up woman. His shadow was falling behind him, totally engulfing the girl in a dark tower as she stared at the guns between the killer’s legs.

Put the weapons down and back away from the girl, One nameless face shouted.

The killer smiled. He raised his weapons high.

Gentleman, he commented, turning to face them. Allow me to introduce myself, for this is the first time that we have crossed paths. I am the infamous Donnie Torr.

He took a bow in front of all the barrels that were ready to fire. They moved like birds, tracking the killer’s movements. This man was making a mockery of his very grim situation, treating the busted doorway as the audience and the room as his stage. He seemed unpredictable, which was never a good sign.

Drop the weapons or we drop you, yelled another cop.

What an odd statement. You mean you wish me to drop to the floor dead? It seems you men are growing bolder than I had anticipated. That’s very rude for an introduction.

His arms began to come together as he sharpened his claws. Anyone who had ever been a victim of Donnie Torr knew that the minute he sharpened his claws...it was all over.

Just give it up, scumbag. another cop stated.

You men calm down, That must’ve been Wilker’s voice. You will not fire one shot unless otherwise. We take him good and clean. No mess.

This is not a very good first impression, Donnie said, growing impatient.

Scrape-scrape, scrape-scrape.

First impressions are always the most important. he said.

Stop teaching us etiquette, asshole, and get down on the ground! A cop shouted.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

Let me introduce you to my two best friends. They are a couple of really sharp cats. Cut ups, you might say. Quickly, he unsheathed his claws and prepared to charge.

It was all a chain reaction. It took one angry finger to set off one angry bullet. The first bullet hit his shoulder. It started a chain reaction. Once they started, they couldn’t stop.

The first wave of bullets tittered across the assailants’ chest. It was a traveling serpent of bullets that streamed from the floor and stretched upward in a diagonal slant, piercing the roof and ruining the fine shingles. Other rogue bullets aimed for pressure points such as the stomach, the hips, the meat of the thighs, the shoulders and more. It was like a shower of bullets rained against him. The ones that missed busted the glass doors at the wall behind him overlooking the patio.

Time slowed.

Something happened that night that the cops had never seen before. Donnie, who they had never met before that night, was actually taking a few more steps forward, as if he was running into the force of the wind. He was stubborn to stay standing, which encouraged some officers to reload quickly and dish out some more.

One of the officers, through the blasts, could’ve sworn that he saw Donnie’s lips moving, almost chanting something unheard in the massively loud gun blasts. It was like a whisper in a hurricane; unheard.

Thomas screamed for the men to stop. Enough was enough. With each bullet, these men had sealed this murderer’s fate. In their minds, they could see the victims thanking them.

After what seemed like hours, the firing stopped.

What stood before them was a statue, quivering in blood in the dark. The claws collapsed to the floor and blood was raining down on them. Thomas looked on in horror as one of the men shined a light at the shadow and revealed Donnie’s bloody face. A bullet had hit him in the left cheek, smoke was rising from it. Donnie gurgled something and slowly fell backwards like a wooden plank.

The woman, who was under him, like a fulcrum, was screaming for someone to get her out from under this dead man. They quickly rushed to her and drug her out from under the dying man. Blood was covering her exposed legs.

His blood.

Thomas came towards the corpse. He looked at the cops with such hate. They were all a bunch of children with pistols that they didn’t even earn. If they only knew what scars that Thomas had to hide, they would understand that he was a man of patience and not stupid vigilante shootouts. He would have handled this differently if he had been in charge.

Wipe those looks off your faces, you pricks. he said. You think you’re a bunch of fucking cowboys or something? Get her to a hospital and get the coroner in here. It looks like we all got some mopping up to do.

He knelt down beside Donnie. It was the first time he had laid eyes on his face up close. Donnie was completely pulverized, stiff as a board.

Nobody knew what he looked like until now.

This was not the way to handle a pick up, Thomas thought. This shouldn’t have been a blood bath.

Thomas shouted for the coroner. The hand came up without warning and took a hold of Thomas’s hand. Thomas turned around in surprise as the gold blades gouged into the skin and tore it. It caused the hand to pour with blood. It created three jagged wounds.

Son of a bitch! Thomas shouted as he backed away, nurturing his wounded hand, quickly wrapping it with his own handkerchief. His back hit the stairs next to the door leading to the cellar. The last thing he saw, in the flickering lights of the hallway, was Donnie’s satisfactory grin.

The whole room went dark. All flashlights had somehow dimmed simultaneously.

Then Thomas heard him gurgle, Nice to see you again, Thomas.

Donnie laughed for a few minutes until the last thing that he saw was darkness. This was the demise of Donnie Torr’s reign of terror. This is what ended his life so brutally.

And this is where his story begins.

One

Garry’s Journal

October 22nd, 1999

Margaret feels that I need a journal. I don’t really need a journal but she says that it’ll make the time go by quicker. Doctor also says that it’ll be good for my memory. Don’t get the wrong idea; it’s not that I’m getting old, it’s just that I have a tendency to forget things.

If there’s one thing I can’t stand in this world; it’s a slipping memory. I’m not much of a writer, but who knows, I might have some stories to tell later on in life.

October 23

Something odd happened today. A few men walked in carrying another man. He was swearing at them and calling them things like loose cannons and unlawful misfits. He was really pissed. I walked out of the evidence locker in just enough time to see him. I was hovering over by the door. I could see the blood trail that was following behind the poor man. Only caught a glimpse of his bloody hand. When I did, he turned towards me and shouted, What are you looking at? You want a scar of your own? I wonder what the hell happened?

October 25

I just found out the big news today. It seems some of the new recruits are being fined and forced to resign. I heard some talk about a hearing but others told me that it was just speculation. Found out the name of that guy that had yelled at me. I think his name was Thomas Wilkes. Was it Wilkes? Or was it Waker? I think I was invited to some of his Christmas parties, I think. I dunno.

––––––––

5:30 p.m.

Steve brought in a jacket today. He plopped it on my desk and chuckled when I seemed startled by it. It was hideous. It was all torn and scrappy. Some dried blood was stuck to the collar and led in a spider-web pattern down the back. Need something to keep you warm, Garry? he asked. He can be such a jerk sometimes. Told me that the jacket needed to be in section 4 and needed to be locked up tight. I asked why it was so important. I was naturally curious and I’d never thought to ask before. He said he’d tell me later but he said above all, the jacket was a crucial piece of evidence in a case. That’s exciting.

October 26

That jacket was worn by a killer. I just found out today. And not just any killer. I’ve heard about this guy on television. Really gruesome deaths. I was considering moving out of town. Thought it wasn’t safe for me and Margaret. But Steve told me that it wouldn’t be necessary since the guy had been killed a couple of nights ago by some of the boys who had just been canned. As for that Thomas guy, he was rushed off to the hospital. Some say that his hospital room looked like a bed of documents. Even though he was in there, he was still working on getting all those policemen fired. Pissed off a lot of higher-ups but he didn’t seem to care. I personally don’t understand law politics. Some of those men had kids. What’ll they do to support themselves?

October 30

My arm is acting up again. I think I worked up a good knot in it. Not much to do. Seems like this place is getting duller and duller. Does the evidence locker have to be in the basement? I mean, really, they make it out to be some secretly guarded room when really it’s just me and a long line of see-through cage lockers. Sometimes I wonder where all the damn tax dollars go. Certainly not here.

I guess Margaret was right. Time is going by fast when you write it off. Tomorrow I have off, by the way. Thank God for that. Halloween is so spirited. I love handing out candy.

November 2

Today is the day of the dead. A Mexican cop told me that today. I asked what he was talking about. Told him that he had flipped his lid since Halloween was a couple of days ago. That’s the real day of the dead, I told him. He said that the Mexicans celebrate differently. After a talk with him, I came back here. I am bored. Bored, bored, bored. I wish there was more to do. True, I go and get a snack every once in a while but I feel that I need to get out sometimes. It feels so congested in here. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s almost like I can feel that another person is in the room with me. I’ve walked circles around this place. Nobody here in this room but me.

––––––––

6:45 p.m.

Lately I’ve been taking walks around the lockers. Usually I’d be at my desk, reading a book, taking a nap (Don’t tell anyone. Hee hee.), or just writing in you. But my butt gets numb when I just sit there. I figured that I need to walk around. Stretch my legs a little, if you will. I’d walk around and eat my favorite sandwich, peering into whatever the lockers contained. You’d be amazed at some of the things we keep in here. I’ve spotted classified documents, weapons of all sorts, and even a couple pieces of jewelry. They look ripe for the picking. But I’m not going to risk my job. Too important.

November 10

I heard something funny today. It wasn’t a joke. It’s just a spontaneous sound. It must be a bird. There are no windows in here though. Poor thing must’ve flown in an open door somewhere and found his way down here. It’s mainly circulating around Section 4. I could hear it flapping. There it goes again.

––––––––

Same thing. Over and over again. This is getting annoying. Every time I hear it, I go over there, it stops, I sit back down, I hear it again, repeat, etc. I just wanna find the little guy and let him free in the courtyard. He must be stuck somewhere. A vent, maybe.

November 12

That damn sound happened again today. Right when I walked in, it happened. The sound did stop for a while though. It was right in the middle of the day. Nothing but peace and quiet. Then Steve came in to return that jacket. They needed it for testing. Scraped some samples of it to match the pieces left at some of the murder scenes. I handled the jacket with rubber gloves and placed it in the locker again. The minute I sat down, the sound happened again. This damn bird is teasing me.

November 13

The sound is moving faster now. Faster than ever. It makes me feel uneasy. Like there’s a huge hawk waiting to swoop into view and snatch me up. It just makes me anxious. The only time it stops is when Steve or somebody else enters the room. That’s a bad sign. The damn bird has grown attached to me. It’ll only flap when I’m alone in the room. Still haven’t found it yet.

November 15

The last couple days have grown quiet. Now it seems like I miss the sound. But then again, I found something weird. When I came in today, I came with my heavy fall jacket on. I walked in, like always, greeted by that annoying sound, the minute I took off my coat, it stopped. It started again after I put my jacket back on to have a quick smoke outside. Now this thing doesn’t even want me to wear jackets. It flaps disapproval whenever I put it on now. I can’t go the whole month jacketless. I’ll freeze.

November 21

It’s not a bird. It can’t be a bird. It’s making a sound now. No more flapping. It’s whispering to me, even now. It must be some other sort of animal. Is it an animal?

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6:32 p.m.

I listened to the whispers for a bit. They drew me out of my reading of The Invisible Man. Now it’s not annoying. It’s just plain creepy, now. Why won’t that thing just die already?

November 29

The whispers are growing louder with each passing day. They could be hisses, though. There is some piping down here. I told Steve about it and he sent someone down here. The pipes were good. No sound at all. People around here are starting to call me Joan of Arc. Man, I hate that name. They act like I’m crazy, hearing voice and whatnot. But everything happens to me. Nobody ever believes the odd one out. It stresses me greatly to know that. I’m even showing signs of gray hair. Why gray hair? I’m not that old.

December 1

Now it’s whispering and flapping at me. It made me laugh. Somebody ran in to see why I was laughing so hard. I told them that it was because no one has seen the bird yet. He asked what bird. I couldn’t help myself. I gave him the finger. It made me laugh even harder.