Crime, Thrillers & Mystery / The Crimson Hourglass

The Crimson Hourglass

Jack flicked the ashes from his lit cigarette onto the faded brown floor mat, drew the smoke back to his mouth, and blew it into the open car. A hum and a sputter of the engine filled the silence with the sound of grinding parts. A “bang” could be heard from the muffler, showing not only the cars age, but its condition as well. Winter’s cold embrace had gripped the city with a closed fist, and the surrounding ice storm had blanketed the entire area with frost and snow. Pulling the cigarette to his lips once more, he inhaled and exhaled with pleasure as a smile crept across his face. The nicotine from his Camel cigarette gave him a false feeling of happiness in the frigid cold.

Jack wore the mask of a man who had seen much throughout his lifetime, and one who hid it away as best he could. His eyes were underlined with black, and his face’s details gave away his gradually increasing age. Cigarette stained teeth poked out behind the curl of his lip, and wide rimmed glasses settled on the bridge of his nose. The cold ripped into the car, and bit at him without remorse. He pulled his jacket tighter to his chest, and adjusted the heat with a quick flick of his hand. Over the sound of the failing engine, a voice could be heard throughout the speakers,

“This…Brian O’Connor…Evening 10 News…”

The radio cut in and out, making parts of the broadcast impossible to decipher through the static. The snowstorm had caused rolling blackouts across the city, causing houses and buildings to lose almost all contact with the outside world. Static ripped through the speakers again, and a few words could be heard in the near lost translation.

“He strikes ag…two bodies have been found…looks like the work…Crimson Killer…”

He adjusted the tuning knobs with his bare knuckles, keeping his fist tight so the cold wouldn’t rip through the arm of his jacket. He quickly withdrew his hand into his jacket, and the radio flickered to life once more,

“Crimson Killer…believed to be middle aged…brutal and psychotic behavior…physical appearance unknown…”

The radio’s lights flickered a few times, growing bright then dim. Static poured through the speakers as Jack’s hand poked through his jacket once again to help the radio come back to life. He gave up on his useless struggle to hear more of the radio transmission. Only the sound of the old cars engine and his spaced breaths filled the air.

Jack had remembered blizzards like this in his past, and he always found his thoughts drifting off into his childhood. The last time a storm like this had hit the city, his father had decided to leave his mother and never return. From that day on Jack’s entire world was flipped upside down, and at one point he almost never regained his composure. That was nearly thirty years ago, but it was fresh in his mind like the falling snow on the cars hood. So many years had passed, but it still ate away at him each day like a wound that would never heal. Keeping his mind on the task at hand, Jack fixated his thoughts on what he had to do.

Pulling a note pad and pen from a side pocket of his black jacket, Jack began to write down notes about the previous homicides. Jack was a man who paid exact attention to detail and was always searching for clues and possible motive. The Crimson Killer shared that same trait, and this was the reason why the media believed he had not been caught yet. Jack’s eyes showed restlessness, and it was apparent he had been kept awake by the gruesome scenes he had witnessed night after night.

The last victim of the Crimson Killer had died at the hands of a knife. A terrible display of gore and a sickening sense of agony radiated throughout the suburban apartment building the victim was murdered in. A young female, only 25 years of age, was found nearly unidentifiable after the Crimson Killer had stabbed her relentlessly. The most astonishing detail about the Crimson Killer’s victims weren’t the way they had died, but instead the lack of evidence at each crime scene. It appeared as if the killer had gone through the crime scene with a set of forensic tools, or even perhaps been educated in crime scene investigation. This left almost every detective clueless, and even more sickened by the increasing murders they had to investigate day in and day out.

Pushing the rusted car door open with his shoulder, Jack stepped out from his seat and into the snow paved streets. He leaned against the old car and took a few deep breaths before entering his own deep thought. Moonlight illuminated the road, and shadows had been cast across the cities landscape. Jack looked down at his note pad and began to read to himself,

“128 Angelic Blvd.”

Jack laughed to himself at the irony of the streets name and the gruesome scene it shared. He spoke out loud this time, as if he was speaking just to hear his own voice in the lonesome streets,

“Angelic huh? There is nothing angelic about this street. Even fifty years from now the neighbors of this street will remember what took place at this address. God and his angels had nothing to do with the murders that took place tonight. My god, my god, my god…a shadow has fallen over this city, and I am caught up in its darkness.”

He ripped the yellow page from the note pad and placed it back into his jacket pocket. He pushed himself up, surprised how the cold frame of the car burned at his flesh when his skin made contact with the metal. Pulling his jacket as tight to his chest as he could, he started towards the house. He traced his own footsteps in the snow, even as they were being replaced with fresh flurries.

The murder scene wasn’t much different from the twenty or so others he had investigated before. A small, quaint house in the suburban district of the surrounding cities neighborhood filled in the setting. It was almost cliché how the killer operated, as he only targeted small families in the areas outside the cities bright lights. Jack walked up the steps to the house and nearly slipped as he lost his footing on the icy stairs.

“Damn it!”

He spoke through gritted teeth, as he regained his balance and stepped towards the door.

“Its all finally getting to me; I need to pull myself together. Everything has me so fucking worked up its even getting harder to breath through these long nights.”

Before entering the house, Jack took a quick glance at the base of the door and read the welcome mat.

“Welcome to the Iverson’s”

He laughed as he read, and thought once more,

“I wonder if the Iverson’s necessarily wanted to welcome a mass murderer into their home.”

A grin spread across his face as he laughed at his own strange sense of humor. His eyes still focused on the words printed on the mat, and he continued deep in thought,

“I wonder what they thought as a murderer burst in on them so unexpectedly? What thoughts went through their mind as a man appeared before them, a stranger nonetheless, and began to carve into their flesh with his knife? Did the screams that escaped their horrified lips reach the ears of someone who could have saved them? Or did their voices become lost in the shadows of this lonesome street? Did god hear their cries? One day I will stand before God and I will be condemned for my sins, but I only pray he spares me for my audience in the terror that happened here tonight!”

Jacks hands reached the doorknob and he hesitated to turn it. An abnormal sense of calm had washed over his body, and he knew that there was no scene that could shock him. He pushed the door open and stepped into the living room. The house was quite modern in its decoration, if not a little on the tacky side. It had the traditional couch in front of the T.V and various family pictures hanging about the wall, nothing really of great importance. The one thing that did catch his eye though, was a crimson trimmed hourglass that was placed respectably on the highest shelf.
He gazed as the sand fell from the top chamber into the bottom chamber. The sand was almost even. It was almost put out of question that one of the family members had started it considering it had collected dust on it, and it appeared as if it had been untouched for quite some time. Jack realized that this meant the killer had to have been there not long before his arrival! He removed the hourglass from the top shelf, dusted it off, and quickly replaced it where it belonged.

He paced the living room floor looking for more clues. He began to think about his childhood again and how he wished he could have had the type of family that lived in this home. Jack knew it was a ridiculous thing to think about, but as of lately it had been haunting his thoughts more frequently. Every morning he woke up with the Crimson Killers murders fresh in his mind, and the thought of his childhood tugging at the strings of his heart. Jack had never been much of anything his entire life, bus as of recently he was making a name for himself throughout the entire city.
Ten minutes passed and nearly nothing stuck out like the hourglass had. He had almost given up hope for clues in the living room, until he stumbled upon an ashtray on the coffee table. Various menthols littered the ashtray, but one stood out. A recently lit camel cigarette that was easily recognizable to Jack appeared from beneath the ashes, and he plucked it out from the tray. He removed a bag from his pocket, put the cigarette butt in the bag, sealed it, and put it away in his jacket pocket. Jack knew it was time to move on.

Jack walked through the living room, and turned right into what appeared to be the kitchen. His mouth dropped, but he quickly retained his composure as he stared at the three dead bodies of the Iverson family. Blood was splattered against the wall, and body parts were spread throughout the kitchen floor. Dropping to his knee he investigated the only body that wasn’t torn to shreds. A young girl’s blue eyes stared towards him, as if looking directly into his soul, but at the same time fixated on nothing but the ceiling tiles. Her face was expressionless, as was his, and her eyes were dim without the light of life. Stepping back to his feet, he tried to wipe the blood from his knees. Jack spoke out loud, hoping for an audience but realizing he was only talking to the dead,

“She always told me to never disturb her whenever the “uncles” were over. I never did listen, why the fuck didn’t I listen?”

A head rush hit Jack and pain pulsated through his body. Memories poured into his thoughts, his childhood flashing back to him like a lightning strike. He saw in his thoughts the color red, and it washed over him with anger and emotion. Jack tried to take a step back, but slipped on a pool of nearly fresh blood. Crimson covered Jack, and he got up with his head in a daze. The room began to spin and he began to mutter to himself,

“I know the hourglass is the time you spend with them, but why can’t it be with me? Why won’t you notice me? I’m alive, I AM alive. I am breathing still and you shrug me off without notice or even care. I will make you see that I am alive! Do you hear me? I will MAKE you see who I really AM!”

More memories emptied into his head, and he clutched his heart with his hands, bracing his entire body for the shockwaves of emotion that exploded through him like a fireworks show gone wrong. He began to scream to himself, to no one, to everyone. He screamed to God himself, and the darkness that had been cast over the city. Words poured from his lips,

“Why would you do this to me? This is your fault, this is YOUR fault…no…no…no…this is MY fault! All I ever wanted was a perfect family…like the Iverson’s, or the Joneses’, or the Smith’s…just any family but ours. Have you seen those movies? Have you SEEN those movies? There so picture perfect. Dinner at five, dinner at five…”

Jack began to laugh to himself; spit dropped from his lips and ran down his chin. His eyes began to focus on everything red in the room, it filled him with frustration and he screamed,

“You NEVER wanted that DID you? Don’t you lie to me…don’t you EVER lie to me you fucking whore! You never wanted that…you never wanted that…you never wanted me…”

Bright lights flashed throughout the room, and Jack dropped to his knees. An image appeared from the doorway and he stared up at his mothers face. She wore a red dress with her hair pinned up and colored black. Her eyes stared into him, and he felt his heart burn like the fires of hell. He tried to speak but words were lost in his throat, he grabbed at her, reached for, but it was useless. She spoke to him then with only a whisper,

“Son, I will never love you.”

Tears reached his eyes and he reached towards her hand. He grabbed onto her wrist, but in an instant a bright light consumed the room. Jack lowered his eyes, and when he raised them again she was gone as if she had never been there. Red and blue lights flashed through the houses windows, and sirens pierced the air. He stared at the blood on his hands, and laughed to himself one last time

The padding in the room silenced the outside world, and Jack let the cold, bitter loneliness consume him. He spoke to himself now and again, but he found the conversation useless and uninteresting. Jack held a notepad in his hand, but he lacked the pen to write his thoughts. Jack wasn’t allowed a pen where he was, but that didn’t stop him. He pressed his finger into the note pad he held in his hands, and Jack swore he saw the color of crimson pour onto the page. He wrote the thoughts he had locked away into his mind so very long ago.

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