DEMENTIA

Chapter 1

The moment I stepped over the threshold into the house, I was overwhelmed by the stench. The
smell of death permeated the air. The dank, putrid smell of rotting flesh had soaked into the aging plaster
and made its home in the cold, damp walls and tattered rugs. You could almost hear the evil seeping up
through the floor boards from the earthen cellar below, desperately trying to free itself from the confines of
its stony prison in eager anticipation of the next victim. The distant screams of anguish and torment echoed
throughout the house as I walked through the front hall into the belly of the waiting beast. What horrors
were trapped inside these walls? These walls that were witness to the atrocities that had been carried out by
a madman. These walls that provided sanctuary as his cold steel blade cleanly split their tender, young flesh
and watched anxiously as their taut skin separated from the sides of his cutting steel, spilling forth crimson
rivers of blood and gore. This was where he had brought her, my beloved Sara.
The abandoned house stood isolated from the rest of the town on a forgotten lot by the Blackstone
River. Just driving by on the deserted stretch of road one would never suspect the house even existed, for it
had been consumed by the surrounding trees and brush that had gathered from years of neglect, leaving the
house buried and forgotten, like the decaying corpse it had become. I knew this place well; he had brought
me here many times before, although tonight was the first time I was really here. However, I was gripped
by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu upon my arrival. It seemed eerily familiar to me, as if I’d walked the
path a thousand times. Every tree seemed a secret, intimate lover and every stone a welcoming friend. I
could only assume that his vivid descriptions from one of our many conversations had manifested itself in
my mind’s eye. What other explanation could there be?
I knew him better than anyone. You see, I’m not entirely without blame for Sara’s death. In fact, I
led him to her. I knew what he had done to the others, and I didn’t tell a soul. I wanted to warn her, but I
was afraid. I was afraid of what he would do to me, I was afraid of being ridiculed, but most of all I think I
was just afraid I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to anymore. Although I loathed him for his crimes, he was
the only one who listened to me and the only one who responded. He always seemed to come to me when I
needed someone to fill the empty, meaningless void my life had become. He provided endless hours of
voiceless communication that I so desperately needed since turning my back on society all those years ago.
He was simply all I had left. My dark and dreary life of solitude had delivered me to the hands of a
psychopathic killer, and now he had made me his unwitting accomplice. If fate would have it, this would be
the night I’d see him face to face for the first time, and I would make him answer for what he did to my
Sara.
The house was exactly as he had described it to me. In the entrance to the living room, to my right,
a spiral staircase led upwards to the second floor bedrooms. Looking up from where I was standing, a
balcony overlooked the living room and foyer. Beyond the balustrade, the fading autumn sun peeked
through the broken windows of one of the many upstairs bedrooms. I couldn’t muster the courage to enter
the living room. My feet turned to lead, and a cold, vice- like grip seized my rib cage, restricting the
expansion of my lungs. I fumbled for the small disposable lighter in the front pocket of my jeans. The
house had no electricity in the house, and the final rays of the waning sunlight would soon dissipate and
leave me engulfed in darkness. That’s what it wanted. That’s when it came to life.
I stood frozen in the foyer. I had come this far, and I knew I owed it to my love to stop this
madman, but I kept replaying the horrendous visions of his macabre acts over and over in my mind. He was
proud of his work; he described it to me impeccably, relishing every detail as if he were reliving the
excitement and passion he felt as he ripped through their flesh and watched until the final breaths slowly
expelled from their curling lips. It had become a sort of ritual for him, a cleansing, if you will, to recount
his gruesome tales to me. Sad though it seems I was compelled to listen. I was riveted by his every word,
yet revolted by what they conveyed. He would be here tonight. In our last conversation he revealed the
location of his secret place to me. The last line of the message lingers, hauntingly, in my mind: “Soon,” he
wrote. “ Soon you and I will become one.”