The Hanging

I tell this tale based off of gathered information from persons who experienced these events and my own personal observations, piecing together all that I could, to the best of my ability.

            What drives a man to do the unthinkable?  Or, since man has thought it, is it really unthinkable?  Is the murder of another human being really as horrible as many make it out to be?  Let us venture into the life of a murderer and see for ourselves just how horrible murder is.  But I must warn you; you are about to enter into a twisted world of evil.  Evil that is so demonic and vile that those with a faint heart may not wish to continue to read this story.

            It was a dark and dreary day.  The wind was blowing ferociously and the rain poured forth from the dark and foreboding clouds.  The buildings were dark and bland looking.  They were made of red bricks that had collected dirt and grime over the years, so that they now looked black and gray.  The rain gutters on the buildings were all clogged up and water poured over the sides.  The cobblestone streets were littered with trash and large puddles filled the numerous potholes.  It was a dull city that was stuck by poverty and crime.  Here is where the foulest of all crimes is most often committed…murder.

            A tall man walked through a narrow alleyway.  He was dressed in thick leather boots, dark pants and shirt, a long traveling cloak, dark gloves, and a top hat.  He was a shady character indeed.  Had I been there in person I would have followed him.  Sadly, I was not there in person, but am only here, writing this story down on paper.  So as the man walked along the stone walk he glanced over his shoulder constantly, looking around in every direction, making sure he was not being followed.  The alley he was walking in came to a stop on the edge of a main road.  The man looked to his right and to his left.  There was no one in sight.  The sound of glass breaking was heard and the man jumped ever so slightly and once again glanced over his shoulder and all around him.  There was nothing.  Not a living soul was in sight.

            So he continued.  He crossed the street quickly and went into an even narrower alleyway.  This alley was even darker and dirtier than the last, thought the man did not seem to care.  He was wet and very cold, and simply wanted to get to his destination, or I can only assume.  Most people would wish to get out of the rain, unless of course you are a snail or a duck, creatures that seem to love the rain.

            The man walked along the alleyway until he came to a back door in one of the buildings.  He knocked on it three times, and then stood back and waited.  As he waited he stared at the plain wooden door, then at the dirty bricks of the building, then back to the door.  He began staring at the door intensely, as though something immensely interesting was there.  No one answered.  After several minutes he stepped up to the door once more, and knocked three more times.  This time there were footsteps behind the door.  The footsteps stopped.

            Click.  That was the first lock.

            Click.  That was the second lock.

            Click.  That was the third lock.

            Click.  That was the hammer of a gun being cocked.

            The man stepped to the side of the door, drawing his own six-shot revolver from inside his coat.

            “Who’s there?” called a voice from inside.

            “It is me, Ambrose,” said the man in the cloak.

            “Oh, Ambrose, you gave me quite a fright!” returned the voice from behind the door.

            “Well are you going to let me in, Henry?” asked Ambrose, “Or are you simply going to let me drown out here?”

            “Oh, yes, of course,” said Henry.  There was one final click and the door was swung open.  In the doorway stood a short elderly man with a small amount of short white hair on his head.  In his right hand he was gripping a cane and leaning on it for support.  In his left hand was a small two-shot pocket pistol.  Ambrose stepped inside and Henry shut the door and began securing the locks.

            “Why so many locks?” asked Ambrose watching the old man as he fastened a bolt.

            “To keep him out,” replied Henry.

            “Oh, Henry,” sighed Ambrose with a small smile, “you needn’t worry about him coming after you.”

            “And why not?”

            “Because he prefers to kill important people…that is…people who are well-known in the community, like political figures and rich people.  No offense to you of course my dear Henry, but you are hardly rich or even well-known to the community.”

            “I suppose you have a point, but you can never be too careful.”

            “Hardly.”

            “To what do I owe the honor of your visit Ambrose?”

            “Well, Henry, I came here simply to see how your health is.  You’ve been so frail these past few months.”

            “Well naturally of course, Ambrose.  I am an old man.  I am ever so slowly deteriorating.”

            “Are not we all?  Even I am beginning to feel my own age.”

            “You are but thirty years old Ambrose, whereas I am close to eighty.”

            “Still, I am beginning to feel tired all the same.  But I did not come here for that, only you.  Is there anything I can do for you, anything at all?”

            “Nay, my good friend.  There is nothing you can do for me now.  As I said, I am simply an old man, and it is only natural for me to be wasting away the way I am.  Tell me, how is your work going?  Are you any closer to catching that beast?”

            “I am afraid not.  We’ve come close to catching him several times.  Just last week a young man named Ian almost caught him.  We were in pursuit and losing ground.  Up ahead I saw the young man tackle the killer to the ground but as we approached the killer kicked young Ian off him and continued on.  We shot at him, but these blasted pistols can’t hit a blessed thing past a few dozen feet.  Whoever he is, he’s strong and agile, and knows his way around this city very well.”

            “Do you know why he is doing what he is doing?”

            “Well like I said, he goes after important people.  Anyone who has a lot of money or is politically important is a target of his.  He’s killed three city board members already, as well as five other well to do citizens.  Just last week he killed that nobleman and his poor wife, do you remember?”

            “All too well.  He did it in such a gruesome manner as well.”

            “Yes, I think he takes pride in what he does.  The more awful and horrendous he can make a death, the happier he is.”

            “What do you think of his work?”

            “I think it’s the work of the devil, that’s what I think.  I swear he’s possessed by a demon!  He’s an absolute mad man he is!”

            “Mad man?  I wouldn’t call him a mad man.  I think a mad man would not be as methodical and acute as this man is.  To me a mad man would be someone who goes around killing as many people as he can while running.  This man doesn’t really run…he kills many yes…but he does it in such a way…it is too clean if you catch my meaning.”

            Ambrose stared at Henry thoughtfully.  They stared at each other for a few more moments then Ambrose stood up.

            “Well whatever he is, he’s certainly evil.  I’ve got to get going, Henry.  You take care of yourself alright?”

            “Of course, Ambrose, of course.”

            “Oh, and, Henry,” said Ambrose, “what happened to your head there?”

            “Oh,” said Henry waving his hand in front of his face, “just bumped it on something.”

            Ambrose walked to the door with Henry.  Henry unbolted the door and Ambrose stepped outside into the dirt streets once again.  He set off back the way he came, back towards the police station, where he would learn some gruesome news.

            The building inspector walked up to the abandoned home and knocked on the door.  He did not know it was abandoned.  If only I had been there I could have told…but alas, I was not.  I am still here, simply writing these words down on paper to tell you the story of the murderer.

            The door opened and the building inspector stepped inside.  There was no one there, just an empty foyer.

            “Hello?” he called.  “I received a letter today asking that I come to this address to inspect this building.  I can tell you right now it seems terribly unsafe!”  He paused and looked around.  Floor boards creaked and he could hear mice running around in the ceiling and floor.  There was no reply at first.

            “I am upstairs,” came a voice from, well, upstairs.  The short, plump building inspector looked up the staircase suspiciously, but then then began to climb the stairs one at a time.  Being as he was, to be frank, fat, he was breathing heavily by the time he reached the top of the stairs.  He bent over, rested his hands on his knees, and began to catch his breath.  He wheezed and sputtered for a few moments then straightened up and looked around.  Before him lay a hallway lined with about a half dozen doors.

            “Hello?” he shouted.

            “In here,” said a voice as the door at the far end of the hallway opened.

            “Umm,” said the inspector, “why don’t you come out here and we can talk.”

            “No,” said the voice calmly.  “I want to show you my biggest concern in here.  Come in here please.”

            The inspector thought for a moment.  He put his hand inside his vest and gripped the handle of his small pocket knife.  He had gone to a house call before where there were three men lying in wait to mug him. They beat him, stole his wallet, but were then caught by two police men that happened to be walking by outside.  The short inspector had hated doing house calls ever since then, and was now very cautious every time he went to one.

            He approached the room slowly.  As he peered around the doorway he saw a fully decorated room.  There was a large four-poster bed with drapes around it.  There was a nightstand on either side of the bed.  On the opposite side there was a large marble fireplace with a roaring fire in it, perfect for the gloomy and rainy day outside.  In front of the fire were two large and squashy red armchairs.  The inspector stepped into the room and approached the armchairs.  He thought the speaker was in one of them.  As he reached them he heard a creak from behind.  He spun around in alarm just as the door clicked shut.  Standing in from of the door was a man with a dark hood over his face.  Two small holes had been cut in the hood for the man’s eyes.  The inspector stumbled backward and tripped over one of the chairs as the hooded man locked the door and threw the key to the floor.  He began to slowly walk towards the frightened inspector.  The inspector crawled back on his hands and knees inching closer and closer the fire place.  He was whimpering in fear.

            “P-p-please,” he stammered, “p-please d-don’t kill m-m-me!  I’m a no-nobody!  Y-you d-don’t want to-to k-kill me!”

            “If I didn’t want to kill you,” said the hooded man in a deep raspy voice, “then I wouldn’t have led you here.”

            “What d-do you w-want?  I’ll g-g-give you a-anything you w-want!”

            “Money?”

            “Yes of course!  Anything!”

            “HA!  I do not want your money you fool.”

            “Then w-what do you w-want?”  The hooded man stopped walking closer.  He stared at the inspector on the floor.  The inspector stared back at him, into the hooded man’s evil red eyes.  There was silence for a moment.

            “Your blood,” said the hooded man.  He again began to walk closer and closer to the inspector who began to shriek hysterically.

            He crawled further and further back until one of his hands landed in the fire.  He cried out in alarm, but then got a sudden idea.  He picked up a burning log and, ignoring the pain in his hand, stood up and swung it violently at the hooded man.  The hooded man stepped back, but too late.  The small inspector caught the hooded man with log on the side of his head.  The hooded man let out a howl of pain, but again began to advance upon the inspector.  The inspector swung again, but this time the hooded man grabbed the log with gloved hands and yanked it out of the inspector’s hand.  The hooded man threw the log to the ground.  Then he drew a wooden police baton from his cloak and knocked the poor little inspector out cold.

            The inspector woke up on the four poster bed.  He was tied to it, each limb tied to one of the posts.  His head was pounding with a headache and his vision was slightly blurry, but he looked around the room in search of the hooded man.  The man was standing at the end of the bed simply watching the inspector.

            “What are you going to do to me?” asked the frightened inspector.

            “Guess,” said the man.

            “Kill me?”

            “How on earth would you come to that conclusion,” said the man as he laughed.

            “Do you want to know exactly what I am going to do to you, sir?” asked the hooded man.

            “W-w-what?”

            “Well first, I am going to slowly cut off each of your fingers and toes.  Then I am going to cut off each of your limbs.  If you have not bled to death by then I’ll finish you off by beheading you.  I hope for your sake you bleed out before then because cutting one’s head off slowly with a shaving razor can be extremely painful…or so I imagine.”

            “Y-you’re joking aren’t y-you?”  There was a long pause as the hooded man and the building inspector looked at each other.

            “No.”

            Ambrose arrived at the police station and was immediately swooped down upon by multiple police officers.  They were all speaking and trying to be heard over one another that Ambrose could not hear any one of them.  He shouted for silence and then told the sergeant to speak first.

            “Captain Ambrose,” said the sergeant, “we had a man come in here an hour or so ago saying he heard awful screams from the building next door.  We sent a couple of officers to check it out and what they found was not pretty!”

            “Well, what did they find?” asked Ambrose.

            “They found the chief building inspector, Mr. Robert Andrews,” said the sergeant.

            “And…?” Ambrose said waiting for more information.

            “He’s dead,” said the sergeant, “he’s chopped up and tossed around like a salad.”

            “I see,” said Ambrose.  “Did the police stay there?”

            “Yes, sir.  We also sent a few more out, to secure the crime scene.”

            “Good,” said Ambrose.  “I am going to go out there myself to take a look.”

            Ambrose walked along the dirty streets with two other officers.  Some people were looking out of their windows at them.  The citizens had obviously heard what had happened.  Word travelled fast in that city, especially when it came to a murder.  Had I been there I certainly would have been telling people the news, not as gossip, but as a warning for people to be more careful.  The murderer had struck again, in his same gruesome fashion.

            Captain Ambrose and the two other officers arrived at the building and made their way up the stairs and into the room that was the crime scene.  I would describe the crime scene for you, but my words could not it justice for two reasons.  For one, I was not actually present, and the scene has only been described to me by others who did see it.  Secondly, it was so gory and sickening that words cannot describe the horror that Ambrose and the other officers beheld there.  They called in a team to clean the room up, and poor Mr. Andrews’ body parts were bagged and brought to the morgue where they would most likely be burned and turned into ashes.

            As Ambrose and the police were walking among the house looking for any sort of evidence, the man in the hood stepped out in front of them.  He held a long bloody knife in one hand, and a six-shot revolver in the other.  He began laughing manically and then raised the gun and began shooting at them.  One of the officers was killed, but Ambrose and the other man ducked behind some hall furniture just in time.  Ambrose pulled out his gun and returned fire, but the hooded man had already fled.  Ambrose and the other officer ran after him.

            “You’re not getting away this time you monster!” shouted Ambrose.

            They saw the hooded man slip into a room and they followed him.  When they entered the room he was on the windowsill and next thing they the hooded man had jumped from the window to the streets below.  As he landed one of his legs broke and he crumpled on the ground.  Ambrose and the officer raced back down the stairs and out into the street below.  The hooded man was lying on the ground, laughing like a mad man still.  The bone protruded from his leg and blood dripped from the flesh wound.

            “You screwed up this time,” said Ambrose as he walked up to the man, gun pointing at his head.  “Now we’ve got you.”

            Two days later the jury had found Henry Jacobs guilty of the murders of nine people.  He stood on a platform in the middle of the woods, surrounded by dozens of people who wanted to see this man hanged.  What most people were amazed at was that he was an old man.  He looked to be in his late seventies at least, yet he seemed to fit and strong.  He gazed out into the crowd, at no one in particular, until Ambrose walked forward.  Henry stared at Ambrose with a wicked smile on his face.  Ambrose looked back and shook his head sadly.

            I do not know exactly how Ambrose and Henry knew each other, but I do know that they had been very good friends.  I myself once had a very good friend who turned out to be a donut thief.  He stole donuts almost every day, not for himself, but so he could feed the bits of sugary bread to the pigeons in the park.  You never really do truly know a person, no matter how close of a friend they might be.

            It had been discussed in the court, evidence had been provided, and Henry had finally confessed, and he had been sentenced to death.  Earlier in the day Henry had murdered the poor inspector Robert Andrews.  Then he went back to his house just as Ambrose came to visit him.  By the time Ambrose and Henry’s visit was over, and Ambrose got back to the police station on the other side of the city, Andrews’ body had been found.  By the end of the day, the murderer had been caught.  Some were still puzzled and felt uneasy at how easily Henry was caught.  Even Ambrose himself felt something was wrong with it.  Several times before they had tried to catch the murderer, and none of those tries had succeeded.  Yet now, Henry was caught so easily, it almost seemed as if he wanted to be caught.  This fact only made Ambrose, and everyone else, more uneasy.  However, they went ahead with the hanging of Henry Jacobs all the same, wanting to get it over with as soon as possible.  It was the fastest court case the city had ever had, and it was the fastest hanging it had ever had.  Henry wasn’t even allowed to speak.  The executioner stood up on the platform and pulled the lever.  Henry Jacobs’ body fell down like a sack of potatoes, and swung from side to side.  Everyone heard the loud snap of his neck breaking.  He was dead.

            The crowd began to disperse.  Ambrose stood for a moment staring up at the dead body of his former friend.  Again he shook his head and then turned to leave.  Everyone was now gone but the executioner, and myself.  Though no one else knew I was there.  I was hiding in a thicket of bushes near the platform where the hanging took place, and had a clear view of Henry Jacobs’ body.  When the executioners back was turned, and when everyone else apart from myself was gone, Henry Jacob’s eyes opened back up, glowing redder than ever, and his lips twitched upward into a smile.

THE END