Coming November 7
The Demon Series Part 8
Keeper of the Amaarand
Warning: Strong Language
Warning: Strong Language
Fairfield, California, September 9, 1962
“It’s not him. I’m telling you. He’s upstairs in his room.”
Ten-year-old Timmy Jensen sat up in bed. The clock read one.
Footsteps rose on the stairs.
“Mom?” He climbed from under the covers and padded to his bedroom door. Opening it a crack, he peeked out.
“Max? Honey?” She rapped lightly on Max’s door.
There was no answer, and she opened it.
“Max?” She flipped his light on. For a moment, she stood silently in the doorway, and then collapsed onto her knees, falling against the door.
Timmy stepped into the hall. “Mom?”
She threw her head back, her mouth agape, as tears streamed down her face. His father kneeled next to her and took her into his arms.
“Go to bed, Timmy. Your mom can’t talk just now.” His chin trembling, his father bowed his head and closed his eyes.
A knot tightened in the pit of his stomach. His knees shook, and he gripped the door. “Did something happen?”
She screamed, and it was as if an ice-cold shard pierced his heart.
His legs became heavy, his knees wobbling. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. “Mommy…Max?”
“Hey, you’re the brother of that kid who was butchered.”
Tim kept his eyes trained on the register. “That was a double cheeseburger, extra pickles, a large fries, and a…”
“Medium root beer.”
“Right. A medium root beer.” He rang up the order and gave him his change.
He wasn’t much older than Tim. In his late teens, if he had to guess. For some reason, they were always the most likely to blurt out the most inappropriate remarks.
Tim gathered his order and handed it to him.
“That was gruesome, man. What they found of your brother.”
“Do you seriously have nothing better to do, than be a complete asshole?”
The teen pulled up. “What did you just say to me?”
“I called you out for the insensitive fuck that you are. Who goes around announcing the body was found in pieces to a member of the family? What kind of a person does that?”
Tim turned, as his boss came out of his office.
The teen grinned. “Ooo, it looks like someone’s in trouble.”
“Bit difficult to be in trouble, when I no longer work here, shithead.” He took off his hat and apron and tossed them on the counter. “I quit.”
It had been the fifth job that summer, where obnoxious customers would comment or stare and whisper, some even turning around and leaving at the mere sight of him. It had been six years since Max’s dismembered body had been discovered in the cellar of the Starke house, and no one was about to forget it any time soon. After all, how often does something like that happen in a town like Fairfield? Well, that is besides Starke. That no one could determine how he was torn to shreds, and that it happened on the anniversary of Starke’s execution, only added grist to the gossip mill.
It became clear he couldn’t work anywhere serving the public, least not in this town. But then it had been all over the news. So it’s not like he could just up and get a job in the next town over, or anywhere for that matter.
No, he’d just have to come up with another plan.