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"Can't stop now," he whispered to himself, adjusting his jacket as the cold air wrapped around him like a shroud."No turning back."
He glanced down at the piece of paper clutched in his hand, the list of names written in his familiar, child-like scrawl.Each name represented a life that seemed so much better than his own, and he felt the same burning desire for vengeance that had plagued him since he was a boy.It was a hunger that could only be sated by the destruction of their happiness, one family at a time.
"Juanita Gomez, you're next," Ben murmured, his words swallowed up by the darkness as he moved stealthily toward his target, driven by a need to kill that had become an all-consuming part of who he was.
His boots crunched on loose gravel as he glanced down the dark expanse of the country road.In the distance, illuminated by the pale moonlight, was a cemetery.He couldn't help but smile at the sight of it, feeling a strange sense of comfort in its presence.
To Ben, cemeteries were places of peace and finality, where the dead could rest undisturbed for eternity.Leaving his victims' bodies there seemed fitting to him; it was as if he was giving them an opportunity to join the ranks of the forgotten and be absolved of their sins against him."Rest in peace," he muttered under his breath, imagining Juanita Gomez's name etched onto a cold gravestone.
As he approached the house, Ben took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass.His senses were heightened by adrenaline, making him acutely aware of every sound, every smell, every shadow that flickered across the landscape.He paused for a moment, listening intently for any signs of life within the house.
"Come on, Ben.Focus," he whispered to himself, feeling the urgency of his mission gnawing at him like a ravenous beast.He knew he should be more cautious – blend into the darkness, move silently, leave no trace – but his eagerness for revenge clouded his judgment.
Ignoring the voice of reason in his mind, Ben made his way to the back door of the house.The lock was old and worn, offering little resistance as he carefully jimmied it open with a flat-head screwdriver he had brought from his car.As the door creaked open, he winced at the noise, cursing his own impatience.
Damn it,he thought,can't afford any mistakes.
Stepping inside, he found himself in a small mudroom.He paused again, his heart pounding in his ears as he strained to hear any sounds of movement from within the house.Satisfied that he hadn't alerted anyone to his presence, he ventured farther inside.
The urgency of his need to kill pulsed through him like an electric current, urging him on and drowning out the whispers of caution that tried to slow him down.He was so close now, so close to making Juanita Gomez suffer just as he had suffered all those years ago.And nothing would stand in his way.
He stepped out of the mudroom and into the kitchen.Various utensils hung from a rack above the stove, and family photos adorned the walls.The room held an air of warmth and love, a stark contrast to the coldness in Ben's heart.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, realizing that, in his haste, he had come unprepared.No gun, no knife—not even a piece of rope to work with.But there was no turning back now.He couldn't let his rage subside; he needed to act while the fire of vengeance still burned within him.He'd find something along the way, improvise if needed.After all, it wasn't just about the kill—it was about making them suffer, like he had suffered for so long.
"Focus, Ben," he whispered, steadying himself."You can do this."
With a newfound determination, he crept toward the staircase that led to the upper floor.His pulse raced as he imagined the terror that awaited Juanita Gomez.He gripped the railing tightly, his knuckles turning white as he started to ascend.
Nice and slow,he thought, placing each foot carefully on the steps to avoid any creaks or groans.You've got all night.
As he reached the top of the stairs, he found himself in a narrow hallway.The soft glow of a nightlight illuminated the path before him, casting a warm, yellow light on the doors that lined the corridor.Family portraits smiled down at him from the walls, ignorant of the danger lurking in their midst.
"Which one is hers?"he wondered, scanning the closed doors, trying to decipher which room belonged to his prey.
Suddenly, the sound of a toilet flushing reached his ears.Ben froze in place, his ears straining to pinpoint the source.A door creaked open, and a teenage girl emerged, rubbing her eyes groggily.Her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she wore an oversized t-shirt that swallowed her petite frame.
"Who are you?"she whispered, her voice trembling with fear as she caught sight of Ben."What do you want?"
Ben lunged toward her, but the girl reacted quickly, dashing into her bedroom and slamming the door shut behind her.He heard the lock click into place just as he reached it, and he pounded on the door furiously.
"Open up!"he yelled, his voice a mixture of rage and desperation."You can't hide from me!"
As he frantically searched for a way in, Ben noticed the room across the hallway.It was being renovated, with tools and construction materials scattered about haphazardly.The walls were half-painted, and a ladder leaned against one side.Ben' eyes fell upon a hammer lying amidst the chaos, and he couldn't help but smile grimly at the sight.
"Perfect," he whispered, grabbing the hammer and testing its weight in his hand.It felt solid and powerful—just what he needed to break down the door and get to the terrified girl hiding within.
"Time's up," he muttered under his breath, raising the hammer and taking a step back."Ready or not, here I come."
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Sheila picked her steps carefully as she and Finn approached the remote house shrouded in darkness.The dense forest loomed on either side of the narrow path, casting eerie shadows that seemed to reach for them like skeletal fingers.The only sound was the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant hoot of an owl.
Sheila's senses were on high alert, adrenaline pumping through her veins.She felt certain that Ben Burton, the janitor's son, had to be the killer.Discovering his identity would be no great prize, however, if he took the lives of another family, which was why she was hoping so desperately that he was here, in his home.
Not out hunting.
"Can't say I'm a fan of the place," Finn muttered, his breath visible in the cold night air.
