The Renfield Syndrome by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 46

With his last two kills having taken place outside, Caspian was unable to obtain a rock—previously his weapon of choice. At a loss for an effective weapon, he straddled her again and, wrapping his hands around her throat, pressed with his thumbs until he heard and felt a slight crack. The curved bone beneath his thumbs had fractured, causing the surrounding muscles to swell. She would be dead within only a few minutes as the swelling cut off her breathing. Looking at her face, Caspian saw her pupils dilate as her skin turned a pallid yellow. “That was quick,” the voice said. “I enjoyed that.”

It was time to leave, and glancing around the room, he saw the small child quivering in the doorway. Even if he didn’t remember exactly what he saw, he would always know how his mother died. But in Caspian’s mind, he was now free of her abuse. Looking at the child’s face, he saw himself as a prisoner not only of a mother’s abuse but also of the violent incarceration he now found himself in. But the voice in his head would not let him go, and leaving the cabin, he walked back to his, and driving out of the woods, turned onto the road. His next destination was west. He didn’t have a specific place in mind; he simply aimed the car west and drove.

Leaving the Adirondacks, Caspian headed towards the Great Lakes. The voice in his head continued to monitor both his thoughts and activities, constantly demanding more of what it began calling living meat. Yet, with the coastline of the Great Lakes being so populous, Caspian was able to ignore it, occasionally offering a scolding response.

“With all these people?” he said. “We can’t do this now, so shut the fuck up!” Like a child severely scolded, the voice became quiet as if having a silent tantrum, holding its breath until it got its way.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “We can’t just go around killing people—only the people who deserve it.”

He felt as though the monster inside had silently nodded its head in resignation, agreeing that this logic was less likely to attract attention and those who deserved to die should die.

He drove along route I-90 through some of the most populated cities in New York State, but instead of seeing opportunity, all he saw was trouble. While more people meant more targets to choose from, it also raised the possibility of being apprehended, and prison, he assumed, would be too confining to feed his addiction. Finally reaching Buffalo, Caspian decided that a rest was needed, and turning into the parking lot of a small hotel, he checked in. Unlike the Holiday Inn, this hotel took in far fewer customers, greatly lessening the risk of attracting the wrong attention. Carrying only what he needed, he walked through the double doors and up to the desk. Unlike the Holiday Inn, the desk was unkempt with small insects crawling near his feet. Lifting his foot, he crushed them as the larger ones made a crunching sound against the floor. Signing his name in the register, he took the keys handed to him by the elderly clerk, who looked at him suspiciously, and retired to his room. The room key was just that, a key. It seemed that the age of technology had not yet caught up to the owner of the hotel -- neither had a mop and bucket.

Walking down the hallway, the first thing Caspian noticed was how dark it was. Flipping a switch was useless and led him to believe that there might be an issue with the wiring. This was of no comfort, but he was on the first floor, and in the event of a fire, he could smash a window for escape. His room wasn’t much better, and upon opening the door, the first thing he noticed was a blast of musty air. A window would have to be opened, if only slightly. Setting down what he had brought from his car, he carefully inspected the bed, looking between the mattress and box spring. It wasn’t until he looked at the frame that he discovered something that sent him back to his car. The places where the corners were bolted together were filled with strange brown insects. Prying one out, he watched as it crawled across the floor.

“Fuck,” he mumbled. “Bedbugs.” Recoiling in disgust, Caspian picked up his things, and leaving the room, walked back down to the desk where the clerk waited expectantly. “You saw those bugs, huh?” he said. Facing the clerk, he demanded his money be returned but was met with a finger that pointed to a small sign that read, ‘No refunds’.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” He said. “This place is a rat trap. The lights don’t work, and my room stinks like something I’ve never smelled before.” Refusing a response, the clerk again pointed to the sign. His nonchalant attitude only enraged Caspian as the voice once again rose to the surface of his consciousness.

“What a cunt,” it said. “Let’s fuck him up.”

But a nearly empty hotel was not the best place to take the life of someone so inconsiderate. Fingerprints would be left everywhere, and Caspian’s name was already in the hotel register. He could either stay or leave, and as the day was approaching noon, he decided to leave, refund or not.