The Killer Always Calls

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The Killer Always Calls – Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Daylight scarcely penetrated the small grimy window at the top of the basement wall, casting a feeble glow on Daniel Turner’s prone form. He stirred, his body aching from the night spent on a mattress long bereft of comfort. As consciousness took hold, his eyes fluttered open to the familiar sight of decay that filled his subterranean hideaway. The remains of last night’s dinner sat in a grease-stained Chinese food container balanced precariously on the arm of a threadbare chair, its contents a remnant of something once whole.

He rose with a lethargic effort, his limbs stiff and uncooperative. The furniture surrounding him bore the scars of neglect; the wooden legs of the chair creaked as he grabbed it to raise himself to a sitting position, tempting fate with their fragility. Plaster walls, marred by the scrawls of a restless mind, closed in around him, the words etched upon them a cryptic testament to the turmoil within.

His gaze, vacant yet piercing, found its way to the corner of the room that held his dark preoccupation. The “murder wall” stretched before him, a tapestry of revenge woven with names and details of those he marked. Each name, each face pinned under layers of information, was a story waiting to end at Daniel’s hand. The room itself pulsed with the rhythm of his fractured thoughts, the beat-up portable TV broadcasting static as if it were the white noise of his own unraveling psyche.

The old wooden desk, littered with maps and notes, stood as an altar to his meticulous planning. Ragged black wires, remnants of devices once connected to outlets now dead, hung like vines in a mechanical jungle. They swayed slightly as a draft whispered through the cracks in the foundation, as though nodding in agreement with the sinister intent that filled the space.

Daniel’s eyes traced the wires to their ends, left dangling and purposeless, much like the strings of his sanity. Every detail of the room, from the cold concrete floor to the incessant flickering of the naked light bulb overhead, mirrored the chaos that churned in the depths of his being.

And there, amidst the disarray, Daniel stood–a silhouette framed by the dim light, a man whose very existence had become entwined with the shadows that clung to the corners of his hidden lair.

As if animating itself in response to his rising desolation, the room bared its teeth in the form of distorted shadows dancing on the decaying wall plaster. Daniel moved slowly towards the desk, each step an echo of his tortured past. His hand reached out tentatively, brushing against the scattered papers that littered its surface.

The faint trace of ink on his fingertips seeped into his skin, entering his bloodstream with a potent dose of malice. The sinewy names, etched onto varying pieces of paper, pulsated under his touch–alive with the resentment they carried.

His fingers tugged at one name in particular–a weathered postcard showcasing the sun-kissed beaches of Honolulu. But paradise was lost on this relic of a happier time. On its back was scrawled a name that scorched Daniel’s heart with cold fire: “Michael Turner.”

The name plunged him into a maelstrom of memories that gradually pulled him under. He saw his brother’s face, heard his infectious laughter, felt their camaraderie that transcended blood ties…and witnessed once more the crimson tide that had washed away all semblance of familial warmth.

Against this onslaught of remembrance, Daniel steadied himself on the edge of the desk, crumpling the postcard in his grip. His eyes were drawn back to the murder wall–an oppressive pantheon he filled with darker gods by each passing day.

A sudden creaking noise from upstairs interrupted him from his brooding. The sound tiptoed down the narrow stairwell leading to his basement dwelling and whispered through cracks in wood and worn plaster. It was a reminder–a beloved guest–that he wasn’t alone; Madeline, his mother, still haunted the rooms above like a spectral figure ensnared by her own grief.

With a motion that seemed rehearsed yet impulsive, Daniel reached out and ran his fingers over the murder wall. They paused on a particular name, an anchor point in the tempest of his mind. Today marked the turning point, the day when his anger would no longer be contained within these four walls. He felt the tension in the air reach its peak, the electric charge of impending doom igniting his resolve.

Daniel straightened himself up and maneuvered towards the staircase. With every step, he left the underbelly of his world behind. He traded the stark reality of his basement, a testament to his broken spirit, for the delicate illusion of normalcy that teetered on the warped floorboards above.

Ascending the creaky wooden steps from the basement to the kitchen, he left behind the gloom of his plotting ground. The morning light struggled through the kitchen window, but it was as if the sun itself recoiled at the sight of him, casting shadows that danced mockingly across the linoleum floor.

Daniel moved past the aging refrigerator, whose hum was more a groan of protest than a sign of life, and approached the window. His gaze was fixed outside, but it was not the world he saw; it was a canvas painted with his dark desires. The once quaint neighborhood appeared sinister, houses like sentinels guarding secrets he yearned to expose.

The knife he retrieved from the drawer didn’t glint–it absorbed the daylight, its edge hungry and expectant. As he sliced through the bread for his toast, each motion was deliberate, echoing the precision with which he planned to carry out the acts that consumed his waking thoughts.

The sizzle of eggs in the skillet was a static symphony to his ears, the aroma failing to mask the stench of malice that clung to him–a scent undetectable to anyone but those who knew the true nature of evil. It was a breakfast not made to nourish, but to serve as the last semblance of routine before chaos would unfurl.

Daniel’s hands moved with an eerie steadiness as he prepared his next mundane meal, the domestic tasks failing to betray the turmoil that raged within. In the quiet of the kitchen, with only the occasional tick from the old clock on the wall marking time’s passage, Daniel’s plan lay coiled within him like a serpent ready to strike. His movements around the stove were calm, almost serene, but they belied the storm that brewed beneath the surface–a tempest set to break upon the unsuspecting city of Stonebridge.

Daniel carried the plate of scrambled eggs and toast into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table with an unsettling gentleness. Madeline, perched on her faded floral armchair, glanced up from her knitting, a warm smile spreading across her face as she recognized her son’s silhouette against the morning light.

Daniel ate. His toast and eggs were ash in his mouth, their taste obscured by anticipation. Madeline’s eyes avoided his as she took small, robotic bites –whether due to apathy or fear, he knew not.

Madeline had once been the heart of this home, her warmth and vitality filling its rooms. But the losses of both her husband and her eldest son had hollowed her out, leaving her a specter perpetually trapped in the past. Daniel both resented her detachment and felt bound to her by the twisted wreckage of their shared grief.

“Good morning,” Daniel enunciated clearly, knowing well that his words were lost in silence to her. He watched as her eyes, clouded with age, attempted to follow the movements of his lips–a dance of communication they had performed countless times, always imperfect, always leaving more unsaid than understood.

Madeline’s hands paused, the clicking needles silent for a moment as she gave him a look, equal parts affection and inquiry. It was a window, fleeting and fragile, through which he could glimpse the person who once had dreams for her boy–dreams that didn’t include the twisted path he now walked.

“I’ve decided,” Daniel began, articulating each word with exaggerated precision, “to make something of myself.” His voice resonated with a hollow resolve, each syllable a thorn. “I’m going to be someone people won’t forget.”

Madeline’s expression shifted, the creases of concern etching deeper into her soft features. She offered a small nod, but her eyes betrayed confusion, as if sensing the gravity behind his declaration without grasping its monstrous context.

“Remember Stonebridge Uni?” Daniel’s tone sharpened, a blade drawn from a velvet sheath. “The university that turned me away? I’m going to show them. Show everyone what happens when you cast aside a genius like Mr. Daniel Turner.”

What little light in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a dull resignation–a recognition that her son stood on the precipice of something dark, something she could not reel him back from. But then he smiled–the reassuring, disarming grin he had mastered–and the moment passed. Madeline returned to her knitting, the smile returning to guard her ignorance.

Descending once more into the shadowed confines of his basement, Daniel’s heavy tread on the wooden stairs echoed like a harbinger of doom. The air hung thick with the scent of mildew and forgotten dreams as he reached for the phone perched atop the old desk, its surface littered with scribbled notes and faded images of targets.

Daniel dialed the number of the Homicide Division with methodical precision, each tapped number a calculated step in his waltz with destiny. The line clicked and buzzed before a voice answered, terse and business-like.

“Detective Gerrit Molenaar speaking,” came the gruff reply from the other end.

“Detective,” Daniel said, his voice a smooth veil of anonymity, “you don’t know me, but I assure you, you will.”

Molenaar’s derision was palpable through the line. “Who is this? What do you want?”

“Let’s just say I’m an admirer of your work,” Daniel continued, relishing the tension. “And soon, I intend to give you a challenge worthy of your talents.”

“My work? Listen, asshole, if this is some kind of joke–” Molenaar said, but Daniel cut him off with a chuckle that held no humor.

“A joke?” he echoed darkly. “No, Detective. This is the beginning of a beautiful game.”

There was a brief silence before Molenaar’s skepticism returned, cold and dismissive. “I’ve got no time for prank calls, asshole,” he said, irritation sharpening his words. “Don’t waste police resources again.”

Without waiting for Daniel’s response, the detective hung up.

Enraged by the slight, Daniel slammed the receiver down, his breaths coming in short, furious bursts. He snatched a red marker from the desk, his grip so tight it threatened to snap the plastic cap as he yanked it off, and hurled it at the murder wall. It struck with a satisfying thud, leaving a crimson mark across the black-and-white image of Dr. Felix Norton–thus choosing the first victim on Daniel’s list.

In the aftermath of his fury, a chilling calm settled over him. His fingers tapped against the wooden surface of the desk, a morbid metronome counting down the lives of his intended victims: five taps, pause; seven taps, pause; five taps. It was the rhythm of life.

“They will all know my name soon enough,” he mused aloud to the damp shadows.

His gaze settled on the photo of Dr. Felix Norton, the angry red streak now emblazoned across the professor’s bespectacled face. Daniel had never met the man, yet he could taste the contempt Norton surely held for inadequates like him. The arrogance in the tilt of his head, the condescension in his prim smile. This man represented everything denied to Daniel, and for that, he would pay.

Daniel’s hands curled into fists, blunt nails biting into his palms. Rage simmered in his veins, seeking an outlet. With effort, he unclenched his fingers and reached for his notebook. He flipped it open to a blank page, clicking his pen in anticipation.

In meticulous print, Daniel sketched out his plan. He would catch the esteemed Dr. Norton alone, as the professor left his evening lecture. Daniel pictured the scene: the muted lights of the parking lot, the good doctor fumbling to unlock his car, oblivious to the predator lurking in the shadows.

Daniel would come up silently behind, savoring the power thrumming through his limbs. In his mind, he wrapped his fingers around the rope coiled in his bag, its rough fibers alive in his grip. Anticipation tingled through him as he imagined slipping the noose over Norton’s unsuspecting head and jerking it tight.

The fantasy ended abruptly as Daniel’s pen ripped through the paper, jolting him back to the dim reality of his basement. A slow exhale eased the tension in his hunched shoulders. He had work to do if he wanted to kill Norton. Strangling him in a parking lot was too risky. Too many people, too many things could go wrong. There were decisions to be made, tasks to be completed, details to be refined, if this was going to be as pleasing as he hoped.

But he could wait. The pleasure was in the pursuit, after all. And soon, very soon, Daniel would orchestrate a meeting from which the esteemed Dr. Norton would never walk away.