Ann's Spring

By Claudio Hernández

Peter has an erotic dream and wakes up dripping with sweat from every pore.
Sheriff Burt calls him and tells him that a friend of Ann's has been found murdered, lying on some flowers.
The body shows few signs of violence and only one detail, her neck is cut like the stem of a flower. Her eyes, open, look at the sky with the only hope of dying in peace.
In Boad Hill the nightmare has returned again, but this time it is not Jack Feet of Feathers, nor any imitator. This time there is insanity over the bodies that will appear throughout the spring of roses, as Sheriff Burt Duchamp calls it, who once again resorts to the power of Peter to clarify the deaths. Peter's "glow" sees love, madness and obsession in every murder.
The face of the killer -at first- is that of Ann, his beloved in secret, but who is gaining ground in the difficult art of love. However, he knows it can’t be her. Therefore, he never names her. When they are finally together, as friends, he tells her the following; I know what you need, and then I know it’s not you.
Peter’s gift plays on him now, bad tricks, seeing himself as the new killer since, he has some intimate clothing of all the victims in the drawers of his bedside table in his room.
The friendship with Denny grows and he comes to confess that he sees himself lifting a scalpel straight at the neck of young women, closer to his age than high school students.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Mar 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071534779

Book preview

Ann's Spring

Claudio Hernández

First eBook edition: January, 2018.

Title: The Spring of Ann

©  2017 Claudio Hernández.

©  2017 Cover Design: cokacoka  deposiphotos

––––––––

All right reserved.

No part of this publication, including the cover design, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, chemical, mechanical, optical, recording, on the Internet, or photocopying, without the prior permission of the publisher or author. All rights reserved

This book is dedicated to my wife Mary, who puts up with me every day, my childhoods, like this one. And I hope it never ends. I have already written many books and in each one of them I leave my mark between the letters.

The beginning

The first rays of the sun dazzled the Daisies, Dahlias and Hydrangeas among other species; forming the melting of the frost of that morning of the first week of spring, which slipped, in the form of drops, stem below.

The fingers, twisted and looking at the blue sky of that dawn, protruded from the flowers, crying out to be seen. It was Amelia, and she didn't go to New Academy High School in Boad Hill. She was the best friend of Peter's platonic love; the one of brightness. Ann's best friend.

And she was dead. Eyes wide open and drops of frost melted by the rays of the sun, caressing her cold, whitish cheeks.

1

He woke up suddenly, his whole body sweaty and his cock like an iron bar. His eyes were glimpsed strangers without his glasses on. In one corner of his mouth was born a slight rictus. With his cheeks illuminated by the rays of the sun that penetrated through the window like the spotlights of powerful flashlights, he smiled lewdly and recalled the erotic dream he had of Ann. He gave her a good review, as his heart gasped beneath his chest.

––––––––

She was full, lying on the bed, completely naked and with her nipples erect, pointing to the ceiling, while her smile covered the whole face. Beyond her everlasting, fleshy, moist lips. Peter had already taken off her panties with trembling hands, while she had taken off her bra; now she was on the floor like a wrinkled and forgotten paper. The room was warmed with the heat produced by their ribbed bodies and gasping breath. The white bulb hidden inside a lamp in the center of the ceiling illuminated their eyes, which seemed to glow like diamonds. They were replete and trembling like little sheep about to discover their destiny; the hot stable. The air was dense and dry. It was hard to breathe because it was almost sticky. Their bodies began to sweat through all the pores, and hers; Ann, also emitted a fragrance of a caramel perfume. And Peter was happy. His glasses were on and his cock was erect. He approached her modestly but rather excitedly. Ann's legs opened at the end of her long legs. The groins and in the middle, her wet sex.

She smiled and then laughed. He too and his hands leaned on the mattress, bordering her and caressing her buttocks with the skin of her legs until the cock stopped at the exact perimeter. He felt her flow smeared on his glans. He laughed and through the open window a gust of warm air entered like the illusion of arterial fires shining in the sky. However, the warm air caressed their bodies, which were already caressing each other. Every touch. Every smile. At last he had her, Peter thought as he began to penetrate her gently. Her head cocked next to a gasp that escaped from her mouth in response to the pleasure she was feeling at the time. He pushed a little more. His balls were like stones; with intense pain, but gratifying. She groaned again and he pushed more and more until he entered her and reached with his tongue one of the nipples that had hardened and changed color. Very dark pink. Maybe brown. Maybe bluish. She gasped again when the tongue fiddled with the nipple. Gently, she closed her teeth until she caught the nipple. Ann moved her hips and carried her hands to her long hair washed out at that time. Her eyes closed. Her eyelids hid her eyes in a light color; bright. And then he approached her open mouth and her lips rubbed against hers, as she moved rhythmically in and out. His wet lips excited him greatly. He pushed faster. He felt chills as he kissed her. She did not stop moving her head, but looked for her fleshy lips, while penetrating her with more frenzy. Faster and faster, until he felt something dense running from his testicles to the end of his cock. He ejaculated and she screamed with pleasure. Then she had woken up.

What if it were true? -he whispered, looking at the window with his eyes half closed.

He wanted to remember again, but the ringing tone of his mobile phone, which rested on the clean surface of his bedside table, brought him back to reality. He had had an erotic dream and now he was with a hard cock and the phone vibrating with haste.

His left hand reached for the phone. He looked at the screen without the glasses and something blurred he said; Burt.

His thumb landed on the touchscreen and took off the hook.

-Peter! I need you again, boy. -There was a short but ominous silence and Burt's voice added, What were you doing the four times I called you? It's ten o'clock in the morning.

Peter couldn't answer.

Burt's voice was still evoking on the loudspeaker of the telephone that was detached from his ear, but he heard something; we have problems again.

He looked at his dick and saw that it was covered with opaque mucus and was already flaccid.

The day had begun for him.

And spring.

That wonderful time of year.

Burt speaks, said Peter gluing the phone back to his big ear.

And it all started all over again.

2

And what do we call this one? Burt Duchamp barked retouched his mustache. Jack Feet the third?-That didn't stick and he knew why. He stopped for a moment in the breeze of that morning of the new spring.

Jack Hodge had the corners of his lips bent, as if he were about to explode in a giggle. What seemed most likely to explode, however, were his gases in the intestine. He held on firmly and a sour face was drawn on his face for a moment. Then his lips formed a smile and his eyes shone beneath the felt hat. It rested on the hood of the patrol car. By now, he thought, he was used to seeing too many corpses in a quiet city where nothing ever happens. Like the uncertain cold winter or the rainy autumn, a voice shouts inside him. Then his features take over from wisdom. Seriousness.

We don't know anything, sir. I believe, in my humble position. -He opened his hands like a priest before praying in front of the grave in the cemetery.

It's too early to give a nickname to the murderer. Maybe it could be an accident...

And your mother is banging your dear neighbor! -said Burt. I'll do as I please! Have you seen his neck? -He pointed to the poor woman who was still with her eyes open.

Jack shrugged. His face was now a poem, and the mischievous chuckle had evaporated with the rays of the sun.

Well... Clearly he has a good cut on his neck. He must have cut himself with something very sharp. Something sharper than a kitchen knife...

Cut? You mean, was he cut? -Burt cut him down by now putting a stick in his mouth, which he had taken out of the hunter's pocket. He would have wished that stick had actually been a cigarette.

Excuse me, sir, I wasn't...

paying attention? -Burt cut him off again, taking his hand to the felt hat this time, to put it on his head. A kind of mania that had persisted in him since he had lost his family. I should kick your ass and send you to hell, he muttered.

Lloyd Chambers wanted to laugh, but he held back. He was beside Burt, out of sight. His long, eclectic, stooped body was the closest thing to a dark raven.

As they behaved like children, Amelia's now glazed eyes seemed to be watching and begging for help. Burt spat out the worn toothpick that moments before played between his teeth. Behind the toothpick followed a sputum projected like pellets. The toothpick and the sputum were lost among the flowers. Richard Priest, the new one, who was no longer so, was watching the way of the toothpick. Without framing his eyebrows and leaning against the top of the door of the patrol car, he now turned his gaze towards the flowers, which were already practically dry. The frost was gone and with it, the drops.

Spring of roses, Burt suddenly said as he took a deep breath.

Sir, there are no roses here, said Richard passively.

Somewhere there will be roses. Don't worry about that now. -Burt looked at him with a serious