“Give us one reason not to gut you like the pig that you are.”

“I did not kill him. I told you several times already, I found him as he is now; Dead… lifeless…”

“Bullshit! His blood is all over you.”

“Keep yourself calm. We’ll let the police do with him what they wish. There’s no need for us to become the accused.”

“Yes… they’ll lock you up forever. They’ll lock you up for killing my son!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The memories… they haunted me every moment of my life. The accusations and the questionings held nothing over that which was burnt into my brain. It was like a disturbing image that you come across while searching some internet website. After finding it you look away for a brief second, and it is in that brief second that you determine whether you’ll take that foolish glance that embeds that image into your mind or just close the website and remain unscathed. Unfortunately, I took the first route, and instead of just an image… I got a full video. Choppy replays of breaking off from my leisure stroll to respond to the child’s scream; a short break in the film and I’m staring into the murdered child’s eyes over and over again.

It didn’t end with just the gruesome replay. No, a lucky man would get only the memory; but I was treated to real images of the boy walking about in my jail cell. He would stare at me as if he pitied me, and after a short staring contest, he disappeared. The boy’s ghost returned time and time again, almost as if to torture me… as if even the dead boy believed me to be his murderer.

Torture was never his intention, though. I could see it in his eyes; Three weeks after I was sentenced to life in prison, I learned of the boys intentions. Unfortunately, I and the rest of the town found out the hard way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The young girl lay sprawled over the edge of her bed, blood dripping from her mouth to the forming puddle on her hardwood floor. Her eyes were opened wide, and in them was a look of sheer terror; the same look any person would give after suffering the death she had.
A steak knife impaled her throat from the front and jutted out the back of her neck in a mess of blood and frayed skin. When her parents came home to find her laying over a puddle of her own blood, murder was their verdict and the babysitter was the criminal; but after the arrival of the police and the questioning of the babysitter, suicide became the more probably answer.

“It makes no sense.” The mother of the girl sobbed to the chief of police. “She was never sad… she was too young to understand suicide.”

“The age for suicide drops more and more these days, ma’am. There’s no telling whose going to fall victim to it.” Chief Anderson leaned in towards Molly Thatcher and looked into her eyes. “The sitter’s story is too solid. She was seen at your neighbor’s house from 8:30 p.m. to 9 p.m., the precise time your daughter died. And without sign of a forced entry or even a struggle, there’s nothing else we can go on.”

“Your daughter’s fingerprints were all over the knife. The only other prints in the room were yours, and you both have solid alibis.” Officer Trall spoke up, patting Gary Thatcher’s shoulder gently.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The investigation behind the death of Darlene Thatcher lasted three months before the book was closed and stamped ‘Suicide’. Thatcher’s death matched that of the boy’s almost identically, except the little boy took the time to dig a flathead screwdriver into the front of his throat.

The boy’s death was the beginning of a long strain of child suicides. It took seven adolescent suicides before a psychiatrist in the local high school raised his hand and announced that there was a problem amongst the youth of today.

After the problem was finally recognized, every child in middle school was checked. Their parents were questioned and they were questioned, and some were even lucky to have home visits.

After the “investigation”, it was declared that there was nothing wrong with the children of this town. Boy, were they wrong…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Danny Boyle threw himself up against the wall, his tiny body falling to the ground in a heap of sweat and blood. As he picked himself up from the ground, he drew the butcher knife that he had stolen from his kitchen. Dragging himself to the edge of his bed, Danny leaned his head back and, in one fluid motion, jammed the large knife into his thin neck. Danny stumbled forward, his hands wrapped tight around the grip of the knife. With one final gargle of blood, Danny stumbled against the foot of his bed and fell forward, his hands draping over the edge of the bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“When they found the Boyle kid, Mr. and Mrs. Boyle took their own lives. Nobody is entirely positive whether the parents had a hand in the child’s death, but the lack of evidence against the parents left Danny’s death to be filed under suicide.
The closed-mindedness of the police left me to shake my head. Danny being the seventh death of this nature, I started to realize that there had to be someone committing these murders. Someone or something.

I spent the time in my jail cell researching the history of the small town. Outside of a few sporadic deaths caused by momentary lapse in sanity, there wasn’t anything within fifty years that matched the style of these murders. In fact, the death of a child was almost unheard of until these occurrences started. There was a sick force at work… and I knew I was the one that would have to stop it; but I couldn’t. Not from my jail cell. Not even with the aide of the boy’s ghost.”

The same night of the Boyle murder, I dreamt…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Give me one reason not to gut you like the pig that you are.”

“I did not kill him. I told you several times already, I found him as he is now; Dead… lifeless…”

“Bullshit!”

“Keep yourself calm. We’ll handle it from here, Mrs. Jayle.”

“Yes… they’ll lock you up forever. They’ll lock you up for killing my son!”

“I didn’t kill him. I was out jogging when I heard the scream from your house. Seeing no-one was home, I decided to do the right thing and see what the fuck was going on.”

“Harry, have you gone insane?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I awoke that night in a cold sweat. There was something about the dream that didn’t seem right. There was more to it than what I remember from the murder scene. The boy’s body was still there, as was the mother and myself… but the father. The father wasn’t there, and standing in his place was a police officer, his gun aiming at… me.”

“That day I had the dream, I heard of another death. Seven year old Marla Swanson killed herself with the aid of a box cutter. How a young girl could shove a box cutter through her neck seemed unbelievable. That night I dug deeper into the history of the town, going back as far as recorded history would allow me.
… I found nothing."

“That’s because there was nothing to find, Harry. The suicides that you speak of were not suicides; they were murders, murders that you committed nine years ago.”

“What? Who are you? What are you doing in my jail cell!”

“You aren’t in a prison, Harry. You’re in an institute. You’ve been lying in the same bed for over five hours and for two of those hours, you’ve been telling me, you’re doctor, of the mysterious suicides of eight adolescent children.”

“No… no I was in my jail cell. I was… I am trying to find the answer. I’m trying to save these children.”

“Harry Jayle, you committed the murders of nine children nine years ago. Danny Boyle, Darlene Thatcher, Marla Swanson, and your son, Jim Jayle, all amongst those nine.”

“No. No. No. NO! I found that kid. I found him lying in his own blood and I tried to save him. I was convicted for his murder. I was the accused, but I’m innocent; and to prove my innocence, I’m going to put an end to these murders.”

“The murders have stopped, Harry, since the moment your wife found you standing over your dead son. He was the last to fall victim to you.”

“I found him… I found him dead!”

“No Harry. You killed him. Your mind has taken the truth and spun it around to form a story that you would believe was reality.” Doctor Westlin shook his head and looked away from his patient. “You’ve been here for nine years, Harry. And every year you start to believe the same story… but for what purpose? Is it to give you a purpose… or is it to just drive you mad.”