Horror Mansion: Short Stories

Thirteen - Killer Jim

It was a heat wave.

The desert sun beat down on Jim as he lifted the hood of his 1979 Chrysler Lebaron. He had specifically taken Route 138 to avoid encountering other vehicles, drivers, and witnesses, but now that he was standing in the sweltering heat and staring at a smoking engine, Jim was seriously regretting his decision.

He had been only an hour away from Las Vegas when the Lebaron started overheating. The car had been acting funny on the highway, but it wasn't hazardous until the serpentine belt snapped. The smell had been unbelievable. Hot burning rubber was among Jim's least favorite scents, along with rotting flesh and his own body odor.

For that reason, this automotive breakdown was about to be the ultimate trifecta of abhorrent stenches. Jim mopped his brow with a purple satin kerchief that otherwise lived in his lapel. He was dressed a bit nicer than usual today because of plans to play a little black jack in Vegas once the body was delivered. He figured there's no sense in wasting the night on a long drive back to Los Angeles. He was feeling lucky, or he had been until now.

Jim looked at his cell phone. There were too few bars to get a good signal. It amazed him how much he relied on technology to accomplish even the simplest tasks. Yet the more important deeds in his life didn't require it. Like taking a human life. As a last ditch effort, Jim had sent a text message to "the drop" in Vegas about an hour ago, but knew they weren't going to like having to drive out into the desert to make the exchange. What's worse was that they'd likely cut his fee, something Jim couldn't afford.

The steam had dissipated from the engine, so Jim lowered the hood and walked around to the back of the Lebaron. He checked his wristwatch. It was a little after 3:00 p.m., which indicated to Jim that relief from the heat was still hours away. Glancing over his shoulder to confirm no cars were coming, he selected the trunk key off his key chain then cautiously unlocked the trunk. These old models didn't spring open like the post '84's, so Jim muscled her up.

As expected, the stench was foul. He pressed his handkerchief against his nose and mouth as he glanced over the source of the smell. It was the body of a 45 year-old woman. Her nails were carefully manicured and her hair had the kind of sheen and texture that came with a recent trip to the salon. She was dressed in a peach toned business suit that had more sensual flair than the ensembles featured in a Vogue magazine. Her flawless pearl white neck had two diagonal slashes, each running from the clavicle up to her ears. The blood had drained out of her. This was how Jim did it. And he liked doing it.

Her name was Kate Davenport. Jim had a policy to reject outright any contract that involved killing a woman or child, but Kate became the exception. According to the fellas in Vegas, Kate had been one of the most feared leaders of Eternal, a violent underground cult that aimed to reach immortality by drinking the blood of innocent children. The Feds had been watching Eternal for years, but couldn't get enough on them to proceed. Kate finally tortured and killed the wrong child. That kid was the child of a very powerful someone in office, and that's where Jim came in. In the business of contract killing, he was considered the best, and only did jobs for the upper echelon of society. If the Feds couldn't put a man behind bars, they called Jim.

Looking down at her body, Jim wanted to spit on her, but she wasn't worth it. He turned away, while reaching for a pack of smokes. Rippling heat waves distorted the flat landscape of endless desert. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag.

All of a sudden, two hands grabbed Jim from behind. Horror cut through to his very core. It was Kate. Her fingers, hard as stone, pressed into the front of his neck, crushing his windpipe. He gasped for air, the smoke from the cigarette slowly escaping his nostrils as panic flooded through him. He grabbed her hands. He tried to tear them off, but all he managed to do was trap her decomposing flesh under his fingernails. Jim needed air. He twisted and writhed. If he shook hard enough she'd lose her grip. Just as Jim got a decent grasp of her right forearm to fling her off, her mouth bared down on his neck. Terrified that she would sink her teeth in, Jim grabbed her by the hair and threw her off of him.