Free The Black Chronicle by Oldrich Stibor Page B

Bravo nut job. You just earned yourself a restraining order.
    “There’s a reason you’re attracted to death Mary. There is a reason why you feel most alive when you are scared or witnessing suffering.”
    The man continued getting closer to the camera, keeping his mouth hidden behind his gloves all the while he spoke, “You know this is all a dream. It’s Maya, as the Indians call it, and you’re just trying to wake up.”
    She made a mental note to Wikipedia “Maya” once this was done.
    He then walked over to the person in the wheelchair. She could see this little production going downhill from there. He would remove the hood and maybe use a cheap prop knife to pretend as though he was cutting his prisoner’s throat. You could even get ones which left a streak of faux blood behind when you pressed it against skin. Or maybe, if they were true slasher film makers, they had forgone that purchase altogether and instead were just going to go with a good ole’ fake strangling.
    As the Mister character got to his captive he turned towards the camera one last time and his closed mouth spread into a Cheshire grin that made Mary’s skin crawl.
    He removed the hood and Mary’s life was never the same again.
    The girl in the wheelchair was her, niece Cindy.
    Mary gasped, struggling to pull the air back into her shocked and deflated lungs.
    Cindy began to cry, which only made Mister chuckle, as though he’d found it cute.
    “Shhh shh shhh, my baby. We haven’t even started yet,” he said stroking her hair soothingly. “Say hello to your auntie.”
    And that confirmed it. It was definitely Cindy, her little sister’s daughter. It was clear by the petrified look on Cindy's face that this was no joke. She tried to remember when she had last spoken to her but before she could recall the memory, the man who she knew then was the real Mister, pulled a pair of scissors from his pocket and cut off Cindy's robe. Once she was completely exposed he then produced a pair of pliers from somewhere off-screen.
    “Oh no, oh no, please don't,” Mary pleaded pointlessly.
    Cindy began to cry as Mister snipped at the air around her face with the tool.
    Mister latched onto Cindy's lip with the pliers and slowly pulled down on it until it tore and bled. Mary looked away, feeling the urge to puke slowly crawl up her throat like a rodent being smoked from its hole. She vomited painfully on the coffee table and when she looked back to the screen Mister had released Cindy and seemed to be admiring the red and swollen mutilation left by his handiwork. Cindy's shrieking changed into a low and guttural groaning.
    “Shut up!” Mister screamed and backhanded her across the face, causing her to recoil so sharply from the blow it looked as though it had nearly broken her neck. She slumped over, her eyes unfocussed and fluttering. “That sound is disgusting…Never…make it…again.”
    Mister then took a moment to compose himself before turning back towards the camera and covered his mouth again as he spoke.
    “This is all for you Mary. It's a gift. I know you don’t understand yet, but you will. All medicine leaves a bad taste in your mouth, my love. So these things must be. But it will all become clear in time. If you go to the police. If you tell anyone. I will kill her. I will kill her in the most creative and painful way I can think of. And trust me. I will know. I know more then you could possible realize…I’ll be seeing you.”
    And with that he reached towards the camera as though he were reaching straight for her throat. The recording stopped.
     

CHAPTER 9              
     
                  Mister saw the contents of this world, its people, places, and things, as being much like the icons on the desktop of his computer. They were shortcuts, so to speak, to something more real, more purposeful or useful that existed within the physical representation of the thing itself.
                  A tree