You're looking kinda lonely girl
Would you like someone new to talk to?
I'm feeling kinda lonely too
If you don't mind can I sit down here beside you

Dr. Hook (Sharing the Night Together, 1978)


Lincoln sat in front of the TV, his hands in his lap and his chest throbbing like an abscessed tooth. When he got home, he turned all the lights on, but something about lit, empty rooms seemed wrong so he switched them off again, plunging the house into darkness. Even having the television on felt strange; he didn't want to be entirely alone, so he ignored the eerie sensation but compromised by turning the volume as low as it would go and still be audible. On the screen, the ABC Thursday Night Movie showed watched but unregistered, the actors playing to an apathetic and preoccupied audience of one. He tired to lose himself in the lavish sets and meandering story, but the girl dragged him back kicking and screaming, a mischievous little smirk on her lips and wicked fire smoldering in her eyes. Come play with me, Lincy, you know you want to.

He did, God, he did; he'd never wanted a specific girl more. During the winter of 1972, when his lust was at its highest, he had no one person to train it on, it dispersed in shafts between every girl he met like light through a prism. Now, fifteen years later, he had her, a single object to beam his lust and hatred into. He stole a furtive glance over his shoulder, as though he'd be able to see her through the walls and night separating them, and wondered what she was doing. Taking a bath, maybe, her firm, young body covered in dripping suds; or maybe she was playing with herself under the covers, petting and fondling her pink core until her toes curled and her face burned. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Sharp anger cut through him and he sucked a shivery breath through his nose, trying to calm himself but in vain. That little slut was doing this on purpose; she knew he couldn't control his urges. He didn't know how, and as his passion grew, he didn't care. She was intentionally trying to make him fall - everything she did, from strutting past him to riding her bike up and down the sidewalk was deliberately done with the end goal of him grabbing her by the arm, throwing her to the ground, and savaging her.

And the most tragic thing about it was this: She would like it...but she'd tell anyway; girls and women were teases and temptresses, and lived to wreak mayhem in the lives of hapless men. If he forced her to the ground, wedged his knees between her thighs, and slammed into her, she would pant, moan, scream, and cry in exactly, then the moment he turned his back, she would slink off to her parents with false tears in her eyes. Mommy, Daddy, the bad man next door did dirty things to me. Behind her mask of white-faced anguish, she would smile.

Evilly.

She was beautiful, though, her eyes bright, her freckled face smooth and girlish, her neck kissable and her tiny breast buds just enough to fill his palm. She'd gasp into his mouth when he tweaked her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, her working tongue pausing as sensations spread through her body, then moan when he wrapped his lips around it and brushed it with his teeth. If he bit down, she'd yelp and arch her back in erotic pain, and maybe beg him to stop, which would only urge him on. He would dig his nails into her shoulders, shove her back, and climb on top of her, then…

God, he wished Mom was here, wished anyone was here; company would push the thoughts back and keep him in check, which is why when he got home, he called all of his sisters and told them about her stroke, stretching each conversation out as long as he could to occupy his time. He knew with dread certainty, though, that he would eventually reach the end of the line and be alone with his demons again, and when he hung up with Lily, he was, and before long, they began whispering to him, giving him dark advice, begging him to do terrible things.

They wouldn't hold sway for long; Lori was driving up in the morning, so he only had a few hours to wait. Surely he could make it through one night.

Or could he? The girl ravaged his mind, nesting in the folds of his brain like a flesh-eating parasite. She massaged his frontal lobe and transferred awful visions to him as if by magic. Now she was unconscious, her body jerking limply as he fucked her - maybe she was dead, maybe she wasn't, he didn't know, and that excited him so much he squirmed.

Presently, he shook his head and pressed his hands to his temples, his eyes squeezing shut and his teeth grinding roughly together. Visions of her naked and sobbing danced mockingly through his mind, her hands tied behind her back her, her body folded and her ankles touching her ears. Through her tears, he saw wicked delight - she was calling him to dash himself upon her rocks and HE WAS LISTENING.

Making a fist with his right hand, he rammed it into the side of his head, stars and whorls exploding across the backs of his eyelids and red pain igniting in his skull. He did it again, this time with the left, knocking her out of his thoughts and back to the hell from which she came.

It didn't work. She clung to him like the stench of the grave, her nails deep, her teeth chewing, her hips rocking, and her sickening heat rubbing his body. He got to his feet and started into the kitchen, not knowing where he was going or what he was doing but needing to be up and moving, she couldn't get him when he was moving, he was safe, outrunning, not a sitting duck. At the threshold, he spun and went in the other direction, images coming faster like flip book animation. Her on her bed, prone and bound, her panties shoved into her mouth; her shaking with fear; her laughing cruelly as the police dragged him off.

Lashing out, he kicked the end table next to Mom's chair; it jumped off the floor and fell to its side, spilling its contents across the carpet: Reading glasses, a mug, the latest issue of The Weekly World News folded in half and sat down with the expectation of being come back to. He kicked it across the room and whipped around, his breathing coming in gasping pants and hot rage clutching his chest.

Mom needed him. If he went over there and...did something...to that girl, she wouldn't have him. He'd be in jail and God only knows what would happen to her. If the doctor was right and she was partially paralyzed, she would need constant care. Who would give it to her if he went back to prison? No one, that's who; they's shove her into a dirty, overcrowded state run nursing home and forget about her. He refused to let that happen.

In the kitchen, he went to the fridge, but diverted at the last second and crossed to the back door like a man being lead through a nightmare. Cold moonlight fell through the segmented window panes, and Lincoln stood transfixed in its glow.

He could be careful.

He could go over, slip in through a window, and creep up the stairs, quiet as a shadow; he could take her, and when he was done….

A shiver raced along his spine. He saw her lying in her bed, her eyes wide and staring, one arm jutting over the side, fingers curled like the legs of a dead spider. He darted his gaze down, and startled when he saw the blood splashed across her chest and the pink comforter as if thrown from a bucket.

Horror pooled like slime in the pit of his stomach…

...and liquid fire filled his erection.

He licked his dry lips and looked around as if for help, but he and his demons were alone.

They would know it was him. He would be the first person they came to.

Even so, he drifted across the kitchen like a dream, partly against his will, and reached out, his arm too long, his hand wide and clumsy. A drawer opened, and his fingers closed around cool metal. He held the knife up, moonlight glinting off its steely edge. He looked at it for a moment, dazed, then to the door.

He'd worry about that later, he decided.

Holding the knife tight, he went to the back door, eased it open, and slipped out into the night, a warm breeze caressing his fevered face like the touch of a ghostly lover. The moon kept indifferent watch, an all-seeing eye wrapped in thin, ragged clouds and hazed with humidity. Crickets conducted a languid nocturne and the wind whispered in the treetops, imparting great and terrible secrets that would drive one to madness if only they listened closer. Lincoln pulled the door closed behind him and crossed the porch, weathered planks creaking under his timid tread. The house next door hoved into view, and his eyes went instinctively to the darkened second story window behind which his angel - and his demon - lurked, perhaps watching with infernal satisfaction, luring him as an angler lures a flopping fish. He gulped and clutched the knife tighter. It could have been his imagination, but he could feel her presence twisting around him like a second skin, peppering phantom kisses across his cheeks and running spectral fingers through his hair. His loins twinged and his teeth brushed his lower lip even as pulsing hatred swelled against the walls of his spirit.

In that moment, he decided, consciously and aloud to himself, that he was going to kill her.

Standing there in the shower of moonlight, he gazed steadily at the inky pane and attempted without success to formulate a coherent plan, his mind wandering off track into fantasies of what he would do to her once they were alone. The last he knew, it was just after eleven, which gave him hours; he could take his time, touch and lick every inch of her body, dress her up like a living doll, a doll that existed solely for his pleasure. Between bouts of violation, he could paint her nails and brush her hair, letting his nose linger over her locks and her skin, deeply inhaling the pungent scent of girl while his fingers kissed her tiny breasts and her soft, squeezable throat. He saw her in socks and panties, dresses hiked up her stomach and nothing at all, her body laid bare before him.

He couldn't stand it anymore; he was going crazy; his body smoldered; his mind ached; he had to have her.

Coming back to himself, he went down the stairs, the last one bending weakly beneath his foot. Tall brown grass brushed the cuffs of his pants as he crept toward the neighboring house, falling reflexively into a half-crouch and threading through the brush like a soldier in in the jungle, the quiet rustle of his passage masked by the crickets and the wind. His heartbeat sped up as he closed the distance, and his erection thundered for release, to be sank into hot, strange, young flesh. He remembered the feeling of the Myers girl and sucked an intake of breath through his teeth. So many times over the years he jacked off in his bunk while stoking the memory like a dying fire; the smell of her hair, the sound of her tears. She fought at first and tried to crawl away, sobbing hysterically and clawing at the dirt, but he dragged her back with an animalistic grunt, thrust his knees between her legs, and forced her thighs apart, her ass spreading to reveal her pink middle, a whiff of her perfume musk wafting into his nose and throwing a primal switch deep in his brain.

He didn't remember much after that, only her on her knees and holding tufts of grass in her hands, weeping hysterically as he slammed into her, ripping through her hymen and battering her tender cervix. Her passage narrowed around him as if trying to crush him for daring to enter, and when he swelled with his climax, she howled in pain. During the trial, they said she was torn, bruised, and ruptured in multiple places, and that she would probably never be able to enjoy sex without physical discomfort. He took perverse pride in that fact: He marked his territory, made her his, and ruined her for all men who might come after. She would forever belong to him, and so, too, would the girl next door.

Reaching the side of the house, he slithered along the wall toward the living room window, his body flattening against the vinyl siding. When he got there, he knelt in the soft earth and looked suspiciously around; the night was alone, the street empty, the surrounding houses dark. He huddled close to the wall nevertheless, making himself smaller, harder to see. If a car passed, its headlights might reveal him. He had to be quick.

The girl was waiting.

Calling.

Beckoning.

He pushed up to his feet, rising above the sill, and froze in terror. A face stared back at him from the glass, its features contorted inhumanly and its eyes wide, seething pools of black. His jaw fell slack, and the thing opened its yawning mouth as if to suck out his soul. His heart leapt into his throat, and he fell back a step, a shocked gasp bursting from his constricted throat. The thing matched his movement, fading into the shadows, and the nightmarish realization struck him that the monster...the appalling, abhorrent apparition…

Was him.

His depraved lust, his rage, his loathing, all fled away from him, and in their place came drawing horror. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he swung around, running from what he had become, his mind bending and sobs escaping his throat, trailing behind him like the mournful lament of a damned spirit. He stumbled up the steps, tripped, and landed hard on his knees, then pushed up and fled into the house, slamming through the door just as the dam burst and he began to weep, his hands flying to his face to hide his disgusting countenance from the world. His knees grew weak, and he dropped to his butt, his back against the cabinet and his knees pressing to his chest.

He didn't want to be a monster! He didn't want people to hate him! He wanted friends and a place in life, not to know that he was always an outsider. It wasn't fair! It wasn't! He prayed so hard for these feelings to go away, and for a while they did, but look at him now, this close to killing someone and going back to prison, and for what?

That dirty thing between his legs, the source of all his problems. From the moment he hit puberty, it was constantly pumping poison into his blood, clouding his judgement, torturing him.

A snatchet of Bible verse came to him, and his stomach turned.

It was the only way...the only thing that could possibly free him from the millstone 'round his neck. He blinked his tears away and peered through his fingers.

Shimmering in the light of the moon like the surface of a placid pond, the knife lay next to him.


Chandler Briggs held the gun in his hand like a talisman, his index finger stroking the trigger guard and his thumb brushing the grip. Its weight was warm and comforting, its shape right. He carried a half dozen guns over the years, but none fit in his palm like the Glock; it was almost as though it were made for him and him alone.

He didn't know how long he sat behind the wheel before getting out, but it was long enough for his nerves to burn off some of the booze in his brain and leave him relatively sober. His murky thinking cleared, and he realized just what he was about to do.

Murder.

The act itself did not bother him, even as it pertained to Mrs. Loud, a comparative innocent, but the prospect of slipping up and being arrested did. He had a wife and a daughter at home, both of whom loved and needed him just as keenly as he loved and needed them. Walking into that house and wasting the Louds would jeopardize everything he held dear, and potentially hurt the very people he sought to protect.

Evil like Lincoln Loud could not be allowed to flourish, though, for evil is not content to rest on its laurels, it must always be at work. The court system let him out on the street, and legally, there was nothing he or anyone else could do until he did it again. How's that for justice? Letting a known menace run free and acting only after the damage has been done. He hadn't broken any laws that Chandler was aware of, but he would.

It was up to him to stop it before it happened. It fell to him to stand between Loud and the children of Royal Woods.

Closing his eyes, Chandler bowed his head over the steering wheel and prayed that he would be strong and do what needed doing, even if it meant beating an old woman's head in with the butt of his gun and suffocating her with a pillow. Especially if it meant beating an old woman's head in with the butt of his gun and suffocating her with a pillow. He prayed that he wouldn't be caught, and that if he was, the jury would be staffed by moral, upright Americans, and not communist fuckwad liberals who hated unborn babies but loved convicted killers. When he was done, he tapped the barrel of the gun to his forehead, then to the center of his chest, then to each breast in a rough cross. Head, chest, booby, booby, they used to say as kids, giggling and blushing because the word booby was dirty.

For some reason, an image came to mind: Jordan in her confirmation dress. She was fourteen and beautiful with blonde hair and crystal blue eyes that made your heart stop when they looked at you. That was the day he asked her out for the first time - he pined from afar for two whole years, too shy to approach her as more than a friend, but seeing her in that dress and standing proudly at the altar, her hands behind her back and an elfin smile on her lips, decided him...he would make her his girlfriend or die trying. He approached her after the ceremony, shaking and coughing, and blurted Will you go to the movies with me? They'd been friends for years and often did things together, but there must have been something in the air, because she blushed as she shrugged and said sure. Two days later they saw The Ghost and Mr. Chicken at the Palace Theater, and at one point, her hand crept into his and their fingers weaved together, sending his heart into the stratosphere and his head into the clouds. Nothing, not even their first time together, felt as good and satisfying as holding her hand.

That was the year I Think We're Alone Now by Tommy James and The Shondells was all over AM radio, and to him, it was always their song - they were two kids running just as fast as they could, holding onto one another's hands, the only sound the beating of their hearts. Every time he heard it now, he smiled wistfully to himself and remembered a simpler time, a time when they had to hide what they were doing when they were alone.

He opened his eyes in the year 1987, two decades later, and the world was different, colder, bleaker, the streets dirty and the warm, sepia-toned hues of 1966 given way to the harsh fluorescent sting of the present. The world was not perfect then - the war in Vietnam was heating up, Civil Rights marchers were being sprayed in water canons, and a man with a rifle took up position in a bell tower in Texas - but it was a whole lot fucking better than it was now.

As the poem says, the center cannot hold; things fall apart.

Yeah...not if he could help it.

He threw the door open and got out into the night. A warm breeze redolent of freshly cut grass blew over him, and shafts of moonlight filtered through the trees lining the street. Shoving the gun into the waistband of his pants, he went to the trunk, took out his keys, and opened it. He swayed slightly as he rummaged around for his tools, finding first a long handled flashlight then, next, a small black case with a zipper. Inside was a set of lock picking tools he swiped from the evidence locker - never knew when they might come in handy. He jammed it into his back pocket, held the flashlight flat against his leg so no one would see it if they happened past, and glanced around. The street stood empty, the sidewalks deserted.

A siren rose in the distance, and his body went rigid - in a flash, he was kneeling over Deke again, trying desperately to keep him from slipping away.

The spell broke just as suddenly as it came, and he was back in the moon dappled shadows, his heart throbbing and his stomach spinning. Ahead, 1216 stood dark and foreboding, like a vampire-haunted castle high on a craggy Transylvanian mountaintop. Chandler stared up at it with a rush of trepidation, then forced himself to cross the street, the soles of his shoes clicking forlornly on the blacktop. On the other side, he glanced around once more, then started up the driveway, ducking low and hurrying to the car facing the garage, slipping behind its cover and kneeling next to the back passenger tire. The best way to go in, he figured, would be the back door; better than climbing through a window and tripping up. He wasn't as drunk as he was when he arrived, but he still wasn't steady enough to pull off a perfect entry. He didn't know the layout of the house, but he'd been in a few like it, and if he was lucky, there would be a set of backstairs leading from the kitchen to the second floor, giving him more direct access. He'd have to find Loud's room by trial and error, killing whoever he came across.

It was just Loud and his mother, right? He tilted his head to the side and tried to remember - he saw the paperwork the court filed on the pedo's behalf, and it specifically stated the number of occupants in the house. He thought it was just them...hoped it was.

His heart twinged when he imagined coming across a child.

What would he do then?

He didn't know what he'd do, and that sent an electric ripple of fear through his chest. He could never envision himself harming a child, but if he encountered one, one old enough to tell and describe him to the police, would he really let them live?

His mind went to Charlotte, his little girl, to the day she was born. Someone (his father? A guy at the station?) told him when your baby's born, you're gonna cry like a woman. He blew a dismissive raspberry and waved his hand...metaphorically speaking. The last time he cried, he was ten and wrecked his bike, flipping over the handlebars and tumbling along the pavement like a rag doll - it was a bad spill and if it happened to him today, he'd probably cry again. As a man, he was not emotional or sentimental. He reckoned he'd be happy and proud when Charlotte was born, but literal tears? No way.

Then he held her for the first time, a small, pink, wrinkly thing swaddled in a white blanket, her eyes big, dark, and filled with wonder...and he cried with unashamed abandon.

No, he couldn't hurt a child, even if it meant being fingered and taken away from his own child. There shouldn't be one in there though, even as a guest.

He hoped.

Gripping the flashlight tighter, he broke from cover and darted around the side of the garage, his feet kicking through tangles of dry grass. At the corner, he leaned against the wall and peeked his head around, scanning the moonlit backyard for any signs of life and finding none. Emboldened, he slipped around the corner and hurried to the porch, ducking next to the stairs and craning his neck to the see the back door. No lights shone in the kitchen, suggesting Loud and his mother were both asleep.

As he gazed at the door, he started to have second thoughts. Once he crossed the threshold, there would be no going back, he'd be committed. He asked himself, again, of he could really go through with it, and like Pharaoh in the Bible, his heart hardened, which he took as a sign that he could.

Still crouching, he slunk around and crept up the stairs, his heart slamming in his throat. A board creaked beneath his foot, and his breath caught. He paused, waited for a light to snap on or a cry of alarm to go up, but none did, and he continued, moving across the porch with ethereal fluidity, like a man in a dream. He pressed his back to the left of the door and leaned over to peer in; a shaft of moonlight lay along the floor in a narrow bar. He reached for the handle and tried it.

Unlocked.

He swallowed, pulled the gun out of his pants, and pushed the door open, old hinges moaning in low, cemetery tones. He went in, closed it behind him, and clicked the flashlight on, the beam cleaving through the darkness, dust motes swirling like wind-driven snow. He crossed his hands at the wrist, aligning the barrel of the Glock and the light, and listened intently, straining to hear over the crashing of his own heart and the ragged sound of his own breathing. He heard nothing, then swept the kitchen, the white shaft gliding along a wall, cabinets, a coffee maker, the sink, a microwave oven, then the archway to the dining room.

A whimper stopped him cold. It came again, and he jerked the light down and to the right. When he saw what it divulged, his heart stopped.

Loud sat on the floor, his back against a bank of cabinets and his legs splayed before him in a V; his head lolled to one side, face clenched in pain. Chandler's eyes traveled from the pedophile's sweaty countenance down to his heaving chest, then, finally, to his lap and the horror therein. His pants were around his knees, and blood gushed from a gaping wound between his hips, smearing across the floor like spreading ink. Something lie next to his leg, and when Chandler realized it was a severed penis, a shock of revulsion struck him like a closed fist to the chest, knocking the air from his lungs with an umph.

The handle of a knife rested in Loud's palm, the blade slick with red. Loud panted for air, slowly turned his head, and opened his eyes; they shimmered with misery and his features bunched in agony.

Numbness, like he felt that afternoon, spread through Chandler. He crossed to the wounded man, knelt, and stared at him, the light reflecting on the silvery tears streaking down his shadowy face. It was clear what he did and why, and for the first time in his life, he felt a tiny measure of respect for the pedophile.

Then he thought of the Myers girl, of how she was so brutalized she could never have children, never experience the joy of giving life and holding her baby in her arms the way he held Charlotte, and it was gone.

He reached out, closed his hand over Loud's, forcing the injured man's fingers around the hilt, and guided the blade to his neck. Loud stared beseechingly into his eyes, searching for understanding and sympathy that was not there. "Now cut your throat."

Loud's eyes widened with fear.

Chandler leaned in, his hot, boozy breath breaking over Lincoln's nose like the rank heat of a crematorium. "Do it," Chandler said, his voice low and menacing. "You're a monster. You deserve it."

It was true, he was a monster, Lincoln realized that when he glimpsed his reflection in the window next door. He was evil, cursed, a demonic creature in the guise of a human being. He was unloved by everyone except his mother, and he'd caused her so much grief over the years, fifteen years of constant worry and longing. The only person who cared about him and he hurt her.

A wave of nausea lightheadedness came upon him, and hot, stinging pain throbbed through his entire body. He felt woozy and sick...sick to his stomach, and sick of the neverending torment, sick of hurting his mother, sick of not being normal.

Sick of being a pedophile.

Chandler held his hand, the serrated blade of the knife biting into the soft flesh of his jugular. His face was hard and cold, cast in shadows. Lincoln swallowed and closed his eyes, shutting out the terrible sight, the result of his crimes and their impact on the world made manifest.

"Do it," Chandler hissed, "do the world a favor and die."

Lincoln's tears came faster. He did so much wrong to so many people, doing this one small thing, a quick and single flick of the wrist, would atone. In Japan, he read, men who have been dishonored disembowel themselves with swords to regain their lost respect. Lincoln lost respect for himself twenty years ago, and everyone, including, he imagined, his mother, lost respect for him in 1972.

He thought of Mom, of his sisters, none of whom wanted to talk to him, like he was a disease. And after what he did to the Myers girl, could he really blame them? He didn't just hurt her, he enjoyed hurting her.

Chandler was right.

He deserved this.

Gulping, he squeezed his eyes closed, tightened his grip on the knife, and took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come.

In the darkness, he saw every suspicious stare, every dirty look, every brow-knitting scowl of hate. He could have been normal, he could have controlled his urges, he could have had a good job, a family, could have been someone. Instead, he threw it all away because he was selfish.

But not now...not ever again.

He bore down on his teeth, sucked one final breath, and jerked the blade across his throat. Flesh tore, blood spilled down the front of his shirt in a torrent, and suddenly, he was sleepy, warm fog filling his head and his muscles relaxing.

Chandler let his hand fall, and the last thing Lincoln heard before he slept was the knife clattering to the floor.


This is not the final chapter. I have a very short epilogue but I don't know whether I should go with it or write something else, therefore, I'm enlisting you, the reader, to help me decide. In light of what happened in this chapter (Lincoln essentially admitting that he enjoyed hurting little girls and not just having sex with them), how do you feel about Chandler? Should he get away with what he did, or should he be nailed?