The Blackout Killer

Rain pelts the window above the kitchen sink. Lightning reveals empty takeout containers near a stack of dirty dishes. The apartment went dark during a stretch of deep thunder, activating a continuous knock at the front door, a knock that sounds as if someone is unnaturally set upon confronting the inhabitant. That inhabitant—nervous, gray-haired Ager Bennett—sits by candlelight at his dining room table, browsing old newspaper clippings. Another Child Slain During Power Outage, Murderer Dubbed ‘Blackout Killer,’ and Blackout Killer Escapes Asylum are just a few of the headlines.

Ager, life-long bachelor and retired locksmith, refolds the clippings and sets them atop a book about phobias, anxieties, and sleep disorders; a book that assures him the knocks aren’t real, that such things are triggered by his paranoia. Regardless, his nerves unravel; they are defenseless against blackouts. So he swallows another anti-anxiety pill—his third of the evening—and begins to jot down his thoughts in a spiral notebook (an often-used distraction while waiting for the calming effect of the medication).

It was thirty years ago this very night, the old man writes shakily, same rundown suburb, same terrifying mix of thunderstorm and blackout.

He pauses to consider the coincidence, then stares at his hands—hands that have done terrible things.

I remember the night well, he continues, my coat dripping with rain as I climbed through the boy’s bedroom window; my hand over his mouth—poor child!—as I woke him to the sight of my gargoyle mask; his reaction, like that of a stunned fish, as I breathed heavy and waved my knife and whispered horrible things into his ear—demonic things, like “Behold the boogieman” and “Scream and I’ll slit your throat!”

It was hellish, unforgivable! For the boy was different than the others—much too frail. He had no friends to speak of, no father figure, a drunken whore of a mother. At seven years old he was broken, unloved, uncared for. Yet, a desperate need to be free of my insufferable fear blinded me, led me to the despicable act of terrorizing innocent children. At the time I truly believed that each of my attacks dislodged a portion of that fear and placed it inside the victim.

Lightning cracks over the apartment. Dishes, utensils, and empty soda cans clink in the thunder. Tonight the blackout, the storm, what he perceives to be an escaped lunatic at the door, all this has fused into a singular anxiety that now asphyxiates his reality. And though his new, stronger medication will soon take effect, banishing the cruel knocks to silence, he cannot, presently, manage to stray from the dining room table; his legs are concrete pillars. So he returns to the writing:

I was a child myself when the fear entered me; when, at the age of seven, a dark, wispy ghoul crawled through my bedroom window and smothered me with its long hair and rank breath, waking me with sharp taps to the forehead—

Years later, a therapist would tell Ager the ghoul wasn’t real, that it was simply a manifestation of his mother’s murder—a murder carried out by his schizophrenic father—and that the traumatic experience had imprinted itself upon his frail being.

After whispering hideous things into my ear, he continues, which it did for no reason I’ve ever come to know, the creature straightened its gaunt black body and thrust out a large butcher knife. This it moved back and forth like a saw as it stared down at me with white, lifeless eyes. I screamed for mother, but she never came—I had all but forgotten she was dead. Then, without a sound, the creature bent its arms and legs, fell to the ground, and crawled out the window like a tarantula.

I shudder to think of it! Yet, this is surely what had led to my insatiable need to frighten children in a manner similar to the ghoul. Little did I realize, however, what I’d done to that one acutely sensitive child—that I’d planted a seed of discord deep within his soul, a growing evil that would plague every subsequent moment of his life. From then on the monster must have developed inside him like some grotesque larva, its toxins filling his bloodstream, poisoning his mind, altering the once innocent character of his soul, until at last the beast broke free and transformed him into a demented lunatic—the Blackout Killer!

Sweat glistens on Ager’s candlelit face, baggy eyes revealing a man in the throes of insomnia. With aching hand he continues to write:

I followed the news closely and analyzed each of the killer’s attacks, his patterns being so eerily similar to my own: the way he stalked his prey during storms and blackouts, the way he went about frightening children with a gargoyle mask. But my god, he killed most of them! Why? I didn’t give him that. That was his own!

Ager pauses to gather his thoughts. Suddenly the knocking, which had gone silent during the therapeutic writing, returns. At first it’s like the quiet, steady drips of a faucet . . . and then the maddening tap, tap, tap of an awful finger against his forehead. Trembling, he clutches at his wiry hair and pleads with the door: “Stop! Just stop-stop-stop!”

But the knocking continues.

So he gets up, shuffles over to the kitchen sink, and peers out the window where lightening reveals wind-blown trees in bluish glow. There he lingers, hunched and silent, his palms pressed tight against his ears. He thinks of his mother’s smiling face, her kind eyes watching over him. But angry children start to bombard his mind like thrown stones, nudging out the angelic presence of his mother. Soon his thoughts mutate, the children now dragging his frail body through a fiery cavern . . . . Meanwhile the voice of anxiety whispers that the mix of storm and blackout will render his new medication ineffectual, and that the Blackout Killer has escaped the asylum to return the portion of fear he was forced to take thirty years ago.

A ghoul suddenly appears at the window and starts punching out the glass.

Wind roars into the kitchen. Ager fumbles along the counter as dishes crash to the ground. He grabs the flickering candle from the dining room table and scampers to the front door, bawling like a child. There his heart pounds against his chest—thump, thump, thump—as the ghoul clambers herky-jerky through the window and drops to the floor. Breaths grow short as he fumbles with the locks. And then, in an instant, the storm softens and the knocking disappears. The medication is finally taking effect. “God, thank you,” he mumbles, eyes glistening. “Thank you!”

But the medication has not dissolved the ghoul.

It now stands in the center of the living room, leaning forward at an awful, unnatural angle and wielding a large butcher knife. Ager drops his candle. Fire ignites the carpet and spreads to nearby furniture. Tears flood the lines of his cheeks. “Mother, help me. P-please, help me!”

And then, for the first time in thirty years, Ager sees them—sees beneath the long wet hair of the ghoul the sullen blue eyes of the little boy, the tortured soul who became the Blackout Killer. When the creature steps forward, the innocent, seven-year-old face becomes fully visible, superimposed over the misshapen head of the ghoul.

“It is you!” Ager sobs, falling to his knees. Flames rise and crack about him. “But what do you w-want with me? Why are you here?”

A knowing look from the boy, and Ager understands.

“No! I-I can’t take it back, I just can’t! I already have so much to bear! My victims . . . those poor men . . . childhoods ruined! It’s all my fault, I know! Dear God, I know! I’ve suffered my whole life for it! Please, you mustn’t—”

With a blank stare the creature jolts forward and grabs Ager by the head, pushing its drooling mouth against his left ear. Indistinct grunts and whispers pierce the old man’s psyche before he is shoved to the floor. Falling to his side, he begins to cackle.

The ghoul, now a naked child, turns and runs back through the hissing flames and clambers out the kitchen window. Smoke fills Ager’s grinning face as he loses consciousness.

Outside, the trees drip quietly; the storm has passed. The kitchen window stands intact and there is no sign of fire. Ager snaps awake. He listens: the door is silent. The medication has numbed his mind—he has no negative thoughts whatsoever, only an occasional spurt of cackling. With glazed eyes he reaches for the still-burning candle, struggles to his feet, and wobbles up to the couch for support.

And then—could it be? Someone is knocking at the door again. Ager pats down his hair, straightens his posture. “Yes? Who’s there?”

No answer.

He cackles involuntarily, throws a palm over his mouth.

It’s just the maintenance man, here to explain the power outage, whispers one of his old therapists. Yeah, that’s who, the self-help book proclaims. See, there’s nothing to worry about, you old fool, confirms the soothing voice of the medication.

Candle in hand, Ager walks over and puts an eye to the peephole. The hallway is pitch black; not a single emergency light or human outline to be seen. A woman whispers his name—a voice not heard since childhood.

“Mother, is that you?” He puts an ear to the door.

In a rush of excitement he unlocks the bolts and pulls off the chains. He twists the steel knob, steps back, lets the door swing wide open. A wall of darkness greets him. He raises the candle, filling the hallway with weak, amber light. There, dozens of children stare back at him. Dozens of children wearing gargoyle masks.

(From the book The Hunchback's Captive and Others)