Once Upon A Blu Moon Pt 3

 

 

Once Upon A Blu Moon

 

by

Macke Snow

 

 

2:46 a.m.

 

                “Are you sure this is where he lives?” I ask, looking up and down the street skeptically. We were on Laughlin Lane, one of the tamer streets in town. I found it very difficult to believe that a psychotic killer lived anywhere on this street. I didn’t want to believe it.

                “Positive,” Ron answers. “This way.” He points toward the end of the street and starts purposefully walking toward it. I reluctantly follow.

                “How far away is it?” I ask, peering down the long street.

                “Quite a ways,” Ron answers. “The address is 999. We are in the five hundreds now.”

                I sigh, anxious to bring my sister’s killer to justice, and hopefully introduce him to a nifty little jacket that would let him hug himself all day, in a padded white room.

                “So…” Ron says slowly. “What were you doing so far away from the party anyway?”

                I gape at him. “My sister was murdered!”

                “What was she doing so far away from the party?” Ron asks.

                “I don’t know! Zack, her twin brother, came complaining to me that she had snuck off to get more candy with some ‘big scary guy’. Naturally I went off to find her.” I say, kicking at some loose gravel in the street.

                “How did you know where they had gone?” Ron whispers, kicking the stone back to me.

                I kick the stone back to him and shrug. “Zack saw them head down Kreaky Ave. Everyplace but the graveyard was locked up tight.”

                “And when you got there?” Ron asks, kicking the stone back my way.

                “I was only able to find them because of Clair’s screaming,” I whisper, ignoring the stone and stopping as vivid memories begin to flash in front of my eyes.

                Ron stops short and turns to face me, a look of shock plain on his face. “Wait, you saw…” he trails off, unable to finish the question.

                I nod as a tear escapes the corner of my eye. I wipe it away furiously. I couldn’t cry. Clair’s killer wouldn’t be stopped by me crying.

                “Oh my god,” Ron whispers. He moves to stand beside me and hesitantly wraps me in a comforting hug. “I’m so sorry.”

                A sob escapes my throat and I wrap my arms around him, grateful for the support.

                Rom murmurs something into my hair.

                I sniffle and look up to find him staring down at me, gray eyes stormy.

                “What?” I ask.

                He shakes his head. “Nothing. Come on, let’s go.” He grabs my wrist and continues to walk to the mysterious 999 Laughlin Lane, pulling me alongside him.

                “So… What were you doing in the cemetery?” I ask, attempting to fill the awkward silence.

                Ron says nothing for a while, and we walk in silence before he finally answers. “I was visiting my mother’s grave.”

                “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I whisper.

                He shakes his head and chuckles. “You don’t know how tired I am of hearing that.”

                I say nothing, taken aback by his comment.

                “This is the night she died you know,” Ron says, glancing up at the moon. “There was a blue moon then too.”

                “Really?” I ask, glancing up at the moon. “How long ago was that? If you don’t mind my asking.”

                “Ten years ago. I was only eleven,” he sighs.

                “What happened?” I whisper, walking closer to him.

                “She was murdered,” Ron peers down at me. The smudged paint on his face gives him a ghostly pallor. “Much in the same way as your sister actually.”

                “Wait… The same guy that killed your mom killed Clair? Why hasn’t he been arrested yet?” I cry.

                “Who knows?” Ron murmurs. We turn a corner as Ron not-so-subtly changes the subject. “So what kind of boyfriend lets their girlfriend run around in cemeteries on Halloween night?”

                I chuckle at his bluntness. “I don’t have a boyfriend anymore. He was too pushy, too……flat.” I sigh, disappointed by failure to explain why I had broken up with my ex.

                “Flat?” Ron asks, peering at me curiously.

                I shrug. “He didn’t have any character. What you saw was what you got. He was an all-star baseball player, full of himself, and always trying to get me in bed. He didn’t have any emotion, any depth.”

                “Depth.” Ron says.

                I nod.

                “And your looking for someone with a lot of depth for a boyfriend?”

                I shrug. “It would be nice. Someone with depth can do things that are unexpected. They can come up with surprises. With Jake it was always the same old thing. Take me to the movies, try to make out in the back row, then go out to eat. If he really wanted to get laid, he would buy me some flowers and take me to a fancy restaurant.”

                “You don’t like flowers?”

                I shrug. “Every girl likes to get roses from her significant other. But when you get them every Saturday night, they kind of lose their meaning.”

                “You’re very strange, you know that?”

                “Said the grim reaper to Mary.”

                “Touché,” Ron laughs.

               

3:03 a.m.

 

We stop in front of a normal, suburban home. I glance at the address and groan. Ron confirms what I had already discovered.

                “We’re here.”

                “Yeah,” I sigh.

                “So short of just charging in there, what’s your plan?” Ron asks.

                “Uhmmm….”

                “You didn’t have a plan?”

                “It’s three in the morning! I am still suffering from post-traumatic stress! Give me a break!”

                “Okay, okay,” Ron holds his hands up defensively. “How about you sneak in, and apprehend him, then find your evidence, proof that he is a psychopathic killer, then call the police and have him arrested. They will arrest him, and send him to Astonn.”

                “Ashtonn?” I ask.

                “The mental asylum in town.”
                “How do you know that?”

                Ron shrugs and starts up the stairs. “So are you coming or not?”

                “Wait!” I cry, running up the stairs after him. “Why do we have to find evidence? Can’t they just do a blood test?”               

                “I’ve been thinking about that, and I realized that that wouldn’t work. He drank the blood, he didn’t inject it into himself, so it would never have entered the bloodstream.”

                “Then pump his stomach!”

                “That wouldn’t work either. While police are allowed to take your blood forcibly, they are not allowed to pump your stomach. Besides, his stomach acid would have killed any blood cells.”

                “Then what? What can we possibly do to prove that he is a psycho?”

                “Proving he is a psycho would be easy,” Ron says. “You want to prove he’s a killer.”

                “Okay then, what about trophies?” I ask, pondering. “Don’t most killers keep trophies from their victims?”

                “Not if they’re smart.” Ron mutters.

                “Even the smartest people slip up. You said he killed your mother?”

                “I said she was killed in the same way. Doesn’t mean it was the same person.”

                “It’s a very… unique method of killing. It’s probably the same guy. So he’s probably been doing this for a long time. So he’s bound to have gotten sloppy.”

                Ron shrugs. “If you say so.”

                “I’m positive of it. If anything we may get lucky and he could still have that cup or the knife.” Ron opens his mouth to object, but I hold my hand up, stopping him. “I know, I know, he’s probably cleaned it with bleach or something, or disposed of it.”

                Ron smirks. “You know me so well already.”

                I grin, and playfully punch him in the arm. “Oh shut up.”

                “Ready to go in?” Ron asks, gesturing to the front door.

                “Let’s go bust a killer.” I say, climbing the rest of the stairs after Ron.

                Ron opens the door and steps in, gesturing for me to follow.

                I take a deep breath and follow him into the house. I step further into the living room, for that was where we had entered, and look around. The house looked normal. Perhaps a bit cleaner that the average home, but if the killer had evidence, he would do his best to hide it, and keep anything from falling in a corner to be found later. Ron pulls the door shut and I hear the latch click.

                “So where do you think he would be?” I whisper. “In his bedroom?”

                Ron shakes his head. “I would suggest we look in the basement first, perhaps find his trophies?”

                I nod, “Good idea, now we just have to find the basement.” I glance around the living room, but see no stairs. Glancing back at the door I realize that Ron was gone.

                “In here,” he calls. “I found the stairs.

                I follow his voice to the kitchen and see him standing at the top of a staircase.

                “You ready?” he asks. I swallow the lump forming in my throat and nod. This was for Clair.

                We descend the stairs, Ron leading, me following.

 

4:12 a.m.

 

                “There’s nothing down here,” I groan. We had looked everywhere, in every nook and cranny, and had yet to find any morbid trophies, or a secret room.

                “We just haven’t looked hard enough,” Ron says, he leans against a table, and brushes his hand back. His hand knocks against a silver candle stick, and the wall groans.

                “Ron you found it!” I cry, rushing over to the wall. A small doorway had opened, that led into a small room. The room was lit dimly with a lamp in the corner, and a form was huddled over something on the desk.

                The form straightens and fury flares in my chest. It was the killer, no doubt about it.

                “Ron, my boy, come help me with this,” the man growls.

                My jaw drops and I turn to stare at Ron, who was slowly ushering me into the small room.

                “Of course Father.”