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The Musical

by Frank

The following is a piece of writing submitted by Frank on March 23, 2010
"This is a story of a psycopathic serial killer with a crime filled past on a killing spree and one deluded dectective"

Prolouge: Harmonica

Prolouge: The Harmonica
Its a whining night.
A Cold, fresh, sterile night in the outskirts of a forest, another night of black water and bright flashing lights in the distance.
Just another night.
The air smells like rotten wood and fish, and it seems to pulsate with the wind, in the distance someone is playing the harmonica. Soft notes.
Rodrigo steers his whitewashed Scarab speed boat into the harbour while Javier and Fernando leap aboard the dock. Rodrigo smiles, they have made it safley across once again. His two brothers tie a thick rope around the stern then around a pole while he shuts off the engine. Although they are safe, still they fear. In their business they must always fear.
Notes, soft notes waft from the distance.
The year is just begun and the city is cold and dark.
The kind of place they've docked is a small warehouse next to the shore. Its dark and far away from any kind of society save a few fishermen and rich kids with yachts'. Thats why its perfect for Rodrigo. The boat is now secure and they can begin the business they came for.
Fernado and Rodrigo begin to hand Javier a small cardboard box , while he stacks it next to thier luggage looking occasionally behind his back. Lights from other boat are seen in the distance.
Flashing lights.
Bright dead lights.
The three are not alarmed when another boat pulls up beside a warf, in fact they are comforted, for the man whom drives it, Jason Nesbit by name, is a policeman.
On their side.
He inspects all the happenings and is pleased, well pleased, after all 10% is a fine sum. The plump officer sits on the edge of the warf about thirty feet away and keeps his eye out for anything suspicous that might be a hinderance while all the time keeping his hand snug against the .38 service revolver pressed to his hip. The keen grey eyes scann everything in front of him. In the back the Mexican brothers work hard. But his problem is that he keeps his eyes on the things in front of him, not, as fate and careful planning would have it, behind. He doesn't hear the swimmer, swimming slowly and stealthly behind him, the glarring swimmer with a knife in the water, no, he looks to his troubles ahead, and it is the last mistake he made.
Yes sir, don't look behind you, consequences are not there,
Keep your eyes on your trouble and the wind out of your hair,
For I in my prowess and might shall keep them safe with me.
The brothers stop their work at the sound of a spash. Ripples pulsate all around the warf, but their man is not to be seen. And a certain silence has come over everything.
But the soft clear notes of the old harmonica are heard.
From the dark two loud muffled yet sharp sounds are heard. There is a wet smack as Javiers head turns sharply to the right from the impact of the bullets. He crumples to his knees then falls into the water while blood sloshes from the head wound. Fernado curses in Spanish and reaches in his pocket for the .22 automatic pistol kept there. Another two muffled shots are heard and he is flung against the windshield spraying blood onto the steering wheel and seat.
Rodrigo is left.
His feet have turned to ice and his forehead throbs while his pulse rises.
Watch out boy, his mother said to him once, one of these days all your sins are comming back down on you.
One of these days.
Rodrigo kneels and fumbles in the darkness for Fernandos gun. He feels the blood and the cold fleash as he looks for the pocket.
Then he hears it.
A soft swishing sound of wet shoes, of someone walking behind you. Someone who knows who you are and what you've done. Rodrigo doesn't dare look behind him, there is still hope.
But that hope ends with the killers first words.
"Can you sing?"
Silence as the Mexican stops struggling.
"What?" he croaks, "What do you want from me?"
"You heard me well enough, can you sing?"
"I sing well, I know how the congas and the guitar..."
"Very good," the soft sick voice of a tormented soul says behind him, he feels a gloved hand on his neck "You see, I'm quite the musician myself and I have prepared a lovely little piece for you."
Thats when Rodrigo heard the flick of the switch blade.
Run away, what are you running from, I'll be there where ever you go.
Run, Rodrigo, run far, far away.

The following is a piece of writing submitted by Frank on March 25, 2010

Chapter one part one

Its daytime now.
She opens her eyes and immediatly shuts them again, then slowly reopens once again to let the light gently probe her eyeball. The shutters are open, she thinks, Gary is up. And indeed he was, for there at the door he stood with two cups of strong smelling coffee in hand and a smile on his face.
The first day of their vacation had officially begun. She sat up in bed and accepted the mug, my did he use cinamon? She could clearly smell the cinamon, he must have been up very early.
"How did you sleep?"
"Good, its all so peaceful out here." From where they lived in their apartment that was constantly hounded by noise from nearby traffic, this summer cottage was so peaceful, or so it would seem.
"What do you want to do taday?"
"Jeff says there's a shotgun in the shed, I want you to teach me how to shoot," a smile, "You do know how to shoot, don't you Gary?"
Gary sat a little upright and cocked his head, "I gues I can't remeber last time I fired a gun."
"I can, this last New Years."
"Then theres a reason I can't remeber." He laughed, "Did I hit anything?"
"Since you were actually aiming for the stars I think it would be fair to say no."
They both laughed.
There was a pause as they both looked out the window and saw the lake, no ripples, no waves, no people, just silence and calm.
"I know what I want to do," she suddenly piped up, breaking the surreal silence, "I want to go boating!"

An hour later they were paddling out to the middle of the lake. Gary was doing most of the rowing as she had insisted but was working up no sweat. She found it a perfect time to lie back and listen to nature. In the boat there was cheese and wine which they had packed beforehand and now and then picked on. He was in the midst of saying one of his high school stories when he let out an unexpected shreik.
For what he saw would change the world for the next week.
She sat up and looked at him, his face had drained of the blood and his eyeballs were suken to the back of his head.
"There!" he pointed a finger to behind her back, "There."
She spun around and also gave a start.
They had floated to a warehouse with the door open and a boat tied to a post. Splattered against the window and all over the side of the boat was blood. Two bodies were laying side by side, both facing up and looking at the ceiling. A half open box was on its side and a thin line of white powder was spilt along the deck.
They both were stunned for a moment, as if they had entered a dreamscape and now found themselves lost in it.
"My God..."
He paddled the boat foreward and got a closer look. The two bodies were indeed murdered. He finally shook his head and turned to his fiancee.
"Honey, call the police."
She turned to him.
"This is a murder scene, dammit, just get on the phone."
She was shock and looked at him with her big blue eyes, "Who killed them?"
"Who killed them? Listen to yourself for a moment, will you! The police will find out; now call them."
At last she pulled out her Blackberry and dialed. He steered the boat closer and lept aboard the dock.
Who killed them?
Who indeed.
He knelt closer and took a look at the tied ones eyes. And it just so happened those eyes were starring back at him. The eyes were scarred but not shocked, as if the victim knew what was comming and had given in to it.
Those dead, grey eyes.
In the back he could hear her talking.
"Where do you say you are?" a man on the other end asked her.
She told him and shut the phone off.
"The cops are on their way."
"Lets get out of here, this place creeps me out."
And though that was the only contact with the case that the Landons had, the glowing dead eyes of Rodrigo Sanchez would forever be burned in Garys memory.
For that was how the whole mess began.

The following is a piece of writing submitted by Frank on March 26, 2010

Chapter one part three

When the police arrived the Landons were already gone. They had fled the place in hope to salvage the rest of the morning. Someone else (an elderly african-american woman whom had been taking a walk) had also stumbled upon the dead bodies and had a mild heart attack. The police had arrived with weapons drawn and scourged the area.
No one suspisous had been found.
In fact; besides the unlucky couple whom had found the bodies no one else was seen in the area.
Officer James Swanson had called for a team of divers to search the waters. While he waited he also told a squadron to search the lake for any boaters. Two yatchets were found one containing a couple on honeymoon and the other containing a handful of unconsious teenagers.
On both boats no weapons had been found.
Swanson was not happy, the killer/killers were out there somewhere and not on his watch would someone get away with this.
He desperatly hoped.
The waited for longer while searching for bodies. A gun was found half way out of the pocket of one, a automatic .22 pistol which was just as soon put in an evidence bag. Where were the divers? Swanson was sure something was in the water. Another squad car arrived carrying the couple who had first been there. The couple was clearly not pleased at there happy vacation being runied by something as bad as "Dead People". Swanson tried to calm them down and get a few questions in, but the girl kept on asking "Have you found the killer yet?" and "Are you going to find him, its your job you know."
Swanson, poor soul.
"If you would calm down, ma'am, and let me ask you a few questions maybe I would be able to catch the killer."
Then the husband started to rave.
"Im going to have nightmares about that!" he yelled in Swansons face, "Why can't you guys catch him?"
Swanson quickly dismissed them when another car arrived at the scene.
Finally the divers, time to get somewhere.
But when the divers found another two bodies, one of which was a policeman, and another two guns, he called in the detectives.
And, of course, sent the happy couple on their way.

The following is a piece of writing submitted by Frank on March 29, 2010
"Don't read this until you have read the others, most obviously."

Chapter one Part five

He was used to getting up at odd times in the night, but this new time was weird. The phone was ringing. He lumbered out of his sheets and reached for the phone, his hand flailed around the desk knocking over a few pens and pads but at last he had it.
"Hello, Karl Gremlin."
"Mr. Gremlin? I love the name, always have, tried to make it my name once."
Karl took the phone away from his ear for a moment, the voice at the other end was weird. It was cold and creepy, the kind of voice that stops a car, or kills a bunny when it speaks. The kind nature holds its breath for.
"Mr. Gremlin, do you know how Mussolini died?"
"Who am I speaking to..." Karl reached over and tried to find the button to record.
"Oh, I wouldn't do that if were you, I wouldn't record this conversation."
"Because, dear Karl, if you do this little talk is over."
Karl looked out the window, it was still dark outside, and a look at the clock confirmed.
"What do you want to talk about then?"
"Do you like the look on a dead mans face? I know I do, its kind of blank and when you wait a little while it turns grey, but the mouth is slightly ajar so you know you've scarred them... I guess I like scarring people, don't you? Course you do! You write horror books and don't tell me its for the money..."
"Seriously, who are you." Karl was wide awake now, his eyes instinctivly looked behind him.
"Now now, my dear fellow, I can't tell you. But what I can tell you is very important. Do you remeber where your summer cottage is?"
"Yeah, I should be there right now."
"Well, if you do go there, look to your neighbors on the left and you find something very wrong with them... you see, they're all dead!"
"What kind of messed up prank call is this? I'm gonna find whose calling and when I do..."
"No, friend, you're not going to find whose calling, see, the police can't even find whose calling, because I, in my might and prowess, I the Red Composer, killed them."
With that the phone line went dead.
The wind whistled in the window, and he heard some crickets chirping, and the ever ticking of the clock kept steadily on.
Karl lingered for a moment, looking into the receiver and began to shudder. A psycho, was all he could come up with when he thought about it, a psycho, the problem was if he was telling the truth. Karl didn't think of most prank callers who called him, saying they were the monsters from his books, that they were comming back to haunt him.
But this one sound sincere.
He stood out of his bed and headed for the shower, his mind now fully ocupied. He remeber the first time he recieved one of those calls, how he got scared out of his mind by a man saying that he was "The Slime" from his book "Redemption." But the second time didn't even phase him, and they hadn't since then...
He turned on the hot water in the shower.
But this was so different, the man sounded positivly crazy. Could he have escaped from a hospital? Could he have be born nuts?
Whatever the case, he told himself, he was going to head down to his very own summer home.

Karl Gremlin had been born to a fairly rich family. He made a few friends in school and love to ride bikes and play baseball, just like most kids. But one Saturday night, while sleeping over at a friends he had a life changing expeirience. They had been talking about scary things, while eating stolen candy, and he had talked for a full ten minutes of his fear of ghosts. Ghosts, Karl had whispered, could come out of your closet, they could come out of your shower, they could come out from under your bed, they always were watching you waiting for they're time to strike.
He knew.
But his friend, Jimmy, had shaken his head. Ghosts were not real, they would go away at a prayer or sign of the cross or silver (or was that vampires, Jimmy wasn't sure) but in any case they could harm you.
The real scary things, he said, were crazy people.
Somethings are better left untouched, somethings are better left unsaid, but not psychos. They kill people for fun, they do things that they don't even understand.
Karl believed this and from then on he stayed wide awake at Grammas.
See, his Uncle Jim was very crazy. His uncle Jim talked to people that weren't there and sometimes would go into "fits" that made him talk funny and waves his arms and legs.
And thinking about it later, he was always scared of uncle Jim.
In fact, Uncle Jim inspired his first and Bestsellling Novel...

The wheels of the car came to a slow stop a as he arrived at his house. Things would be alright, he told himself.
But just in case they weren't he had brought his camera.
"I like looking at dead people," he remebered.

The following is a piece of writing submitted by Frank on March 31, 2010
"This book is going to be like something from Thomas Harris, though nothing of the same merrit."

Chapter one Part Seven

It was a long time ago, he should have forgotten by now, but that helpless face and those big bright eyes... they would never leave him.
He never even remembered his dreams, and maybe this was a good thing, for, being in the line of work he was this could pose a problem mentally. There was a time long ago when he used to see a psycologist about these things, these flashbacks, but then they stopped and he went back to normal again. But before then he used to stay up all night thrashing and sining dead songs to himself, crying and wailing before he was sedated. Now all this had been nulled.
He was sane again.
Eddie Jefferson awoke and sat up in bed. There was silence around his room and as always noise from down in the kitchen. He closed his eyes for one more minute, then upon sudden impulse he leapt out of bed and onto the cold floor.

"How did you sleep?" Katy asked and shoved a plate of pancakes his way. He grunted his thanks and was silent. Soon his kids would be up and all hell mine as well be raised.
Mine as well, being the case, with anything for his kids.
"I didn't dream, so I suppose thats a good thing."
"Of course its a good thing, as much good as that shrink was doing you, we had to fast some important things, we're not that rich."
"I'm crazed, that doesn't help the matter."
She touched his hand and fluttered her eye lids, "You never were crazy, you were once a freaking psycho, but now your my husband again."
He loved her, but he never really liked her.
It was then that his breakfast was ruined. Stairs creaked and two of the loudest voices were heard runnning down the stairs, how did he like the pancakes, his head seemed to split with each step they took.
She smiled and winked at him.

It was a half an hour later. He was washing the dishes and wishing there was a cold beer handy when.
And as fate would have, little in this world is accomplished without fate, the phone rang.
Katy stopped kneeling on the floor with her kids and picked it up.
"Hello?... Hey Manson... He's right here..." she swiviled on her feet and looked him in the eye.
"Its for you."
Murder is easy, said Agatha Christie once.

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