In My Father's Basement

by T.J. Payne

Was this the beginning of twenty years of taunting letters being sent to the police?

And yet, the doctors and nurses didn’t seem to be seeing anyone. They clustered together in the ER waiting room, expectantly staring out the sliding glass receiving doors.

This novel is a comment on the stardom given to serial killers

Instinctively, Jeffrey held up his phone and began recording the scene.

The patient passed directly in front of him. Jeffrey zoomed his phone in on the man’s hand—he was handcuffed to his own gurney. Then he panned over to the man’s face.

One of Jeffrey’s buddies had dressed up as that man for Halloween.

“Mom, that’s Handyman,” he said, a sense of astonishment in his voice.

Jeffrey’s mom let him film. She didn’t say another word.

Although he had promised that he would be able to come home right after the incident, Joan was skeptical.

She wanted details. Visuals. Graphic visuals. Did he scream? Did he cry? Did he beg? Was there pain? Joan had to know.

She needed a good ending to her movie/Handyman killed her relative? What kind of killer is she

I started at a law firm there before I moved back home to Portland. As much as I loved New York, Portland felt like a better place to raise a family.”

“Yes, but he won’t get through. I’m going on a long vacation. He’ll find my phone is off and my offices are closed.”

“It’s a good intuition to have. Always listen to it. Never, ever, ever ignore that voice. You’ll tell yourself, ‘Oh, I’m just being paranoid.’ Or, ‘I hate to be rude.’ Don’t. Keep yourself safe. Will you do that? Will you promise me that?”

That’s what Elizabeth would have done. And Joan liked to think that she saw a bit of Elizabeth in Lauren. Although, Joan tended to see a bit of Elizabeth in every good person she met. She wasn’t sure if this habit was a way to keep Elizabeth’s spirit alive, or a way for Joan to be haunted by The Handyman, and what he took, forever.

She had gotten as much revenge as she could have. And yet, she was troubled by the fact that she felt nothing. No relief. No satisfaction. Just weariness.

“She wouldn’t… She said she was with Becky… They were studying… She wouldn’t lie… She wouldn’t do this… She wouldn’t sleep with you… She would never sleep with someone like you…”

There wasn’t anger in his frame anymore, just purpose. He calmly strode up to Isaac and towered over him. Isaac put his hands up. “No. No, Teddy, I—” “You raped her.” “I swear to you, I didn’t.” “That’s why she lied to me. She was ashamed. She was scared of you.”

A sad realization seemed to wash over him as he held it. He nodded his head, accepting the inevitable. “This is for the best. The world is a better place today.”

Isaac threw himself on top of her, using as much of his weight as possible to hold her in place. She scraped and clawed at him, but he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Not outside his body and not inside. All he could feel was the overwhelming urge to have her limp and silent.

He wished he had a U-lock to secure Lauren’s neck to the door handle. He wished he had a basement prepared where he could chain her up. He wished… he wished… he wished…

Elizabeth had never loved Walter, but Lauren did love Isaac. She loved him, right? Had she said that? It didn’t matter. He felt it.

“Good shot of his face there," he said mostly to himself. "I like how the angle is such that you can see the ear, or at least the bloody gauze on it. That red really pops. The most interesting part is how much fucking security they got here. We got prison guards, police, hospital security… Jesus Christ. He’s a seventy-year-old unconscious man. Do they think he’s gonna rip out of those restraints and start biting people’s faces? Still, it’s a good final shot. It makes him look scary and important. We can draft off this with our own stuff. How much did they pay?”

This wasn't about grooming a daughter or starting a family. It wasn't about teaching me a lesson in respect. It wasn't about righting the wrongs of his life. It was about him. It was always about him. He hurt people because he could. Because he wanted to.

The boy would amount to nothing, and so would Walter's legacy. Oh well. Such is life in this house.

“It’s been a week. That dog’s gone.” “But—” “Don’t get attached to things, boy.”

Walter swatted them away, shielded his eyes, and glanced down into the hole in the earth. There lay Buddy. Right where Walter had left him. It had been only a week ago when Walter had stepped into one pile of his shit too many. It always infuriated him. Dog shit had a way of adhering and compacting into every crevice of the tread of a shoe. When he had felt that slimy sludge of a fresh turd compress under his foot, and then smelled its scent waft up, a rage bubbled up within him. He took out that rage on the nearest creature.

Although, the more he looked down at the dog’s body, the more he realized that he felt nothing at the sight. Just emptiness. The same feeling he had about the boy moving out.

He used to wonder if it was a good memory or a bad one. Was he capable of determining the difference anymore? He had spent hours, days even, debating what it meant about his own psychological makeup. How did he truly feel about that moment?