Free Hellbound: The Tally Man by David McCaffrey Page A

Therefore, I would strongly advise you don’t try to make the door. Stabbing someone in the back is so…uncivilised.” His voice was playful, yet menacing as he continued scanning the area. Opening the drawer behind him, he smiled before grabbing the knife and closing it again.
    Obadiah returned to his seat, not at all surprised to see her still sat there. She could have possibly made it, if she had seized the moment.
    Coulda, woulda, shoulda, he thought, playfully pricking the ends of his fingers with the knife as he looked upon her.
    He had to admit, the smell of her fear was exhilarating. He hadn’t experienced it in so long, not in such a raw, unbridled fashion. Tears silently streaked her face.
    “No crying please. It’s a waste of suffering.”
    Susan sniffed repeatedly before finding her voice. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
    Obadiah simply smiled, his eyes appearing to glint, despite the absence of any direct light. His expression caused Susan’s breathing to become more rapid, as though suddenly deprived of oxygen. The realisation of what was about to occur was the most surreal sensation she had ever experienced.
    “Please…I’ll give you anything you…”
    Already bored, Obadiah’s hand snapped out like a coiled snake. The knife he held swung in an upward arch, effortlessly slicing through the soft of her neck. Susan gasped quietly before the blood began to flow freely from the now gaping wound. Her eyes developed a peaceful, distant gaze as her head slumped down to rest on her chest.
    Obadiah wiped the blood that had splashed his face with the back of his hand. The coppery smell of Susan’s blood slowly filled the air. Whatever the reasons for his emancipation from Absolom, why had he been returned here - to the place where his torture had begun? The country, never mind the town, was a constant reminder of who he could have been if his childhood circumstances had been different. Had he been destined to become this way, or did his father take a child and manufacture a monster?
    He was saddened that the two souls he had liberated so far could not be part of his now absent tally. Obadiah found himself wondering what Dr. Franklin would have to say concerning this disappointment. At the time, he had found it amusing, though interesting, that someone would want to devote so much time and effort trying to understand what made him tick. Franklin had believed Obadiah was a loner, suffering from a narcissistic personality disorder with the potential for explosive violence that could all be linked back to his childhood. Obadiah didn’t doubt any of that. But as far as he knew, Franklin had missed the one key understanding that made his crimes special. Obadiah Stark had killed for no reason more complicated than he chose to. His liberation from Absolom had not changed that aesthetic.
    He looked at Susan’s motionless body for a few moments with an expression devoid of emotion, wondering how long it would take for someone to find her before moving towards the door and stepping outside, the knife in his hand.
    The sun appeared to be maintaining its persistent campaign of attempting warmth through the cold chill. The wind had risen slightly, stirring the leaves on the trees, the current ignorance of Obadiah’s campaign of horror ensuring the morning remained as motionless as a painting.
    Here, Obadiah was obviously an unknown quantity, his history unrealised by the people living in the place he was born. That, compounded with his lack of understanding about his purpose here, did not sit well with him. He had been ready for death, had prepared himself, and someone had stolen it from him. Therefore, by his reckoning, he didn’t really have anything to lose. He hadn’t wanted a second chance. After all, you only felt guilty if you thought you had done something wrong.
    His mind focused, he decided that if he couldn’t understand this place, he was going to make damn sure it understood him. Denying