This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate, but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.

Denver Colorado 1985

The interview room was comfortable. As a rule, Graves didn’t practice trickery. No endless questioning with a suspect in quasi-custody, no bald-faced lies about a witness who didn’t exist, and he didn’t alternate between hot and cold with drastic temperature swings in the interview room. This isn’t to say Quentin Graves never lied to suspects. He did, but not in an interview, especially when he already had an idea of the truth.

The questions went back and forth for twenty minutes or more. After some angst on the suspect’s part, the man broke into a paranoid gibberish for several minutes. Stopping, he took a deep breath and said, “Okay, this is what happened.”

And so, William Mitchel began his bizarre account.

I’ve lived across from the old guy for over a year. At first, I believed he was a harmless retired feller who wouldn’t hurt a fly. However, once I discovered the truth about him, I haven’t been able to sleep from fear for my life. You need to understand who and what this ancient man is. The codger wasn’t like you or me. He wasn’t normal, evil as sin, through and through.

Since learning of what my neighbor was, I have been full of nervous fright. How to tell this, let me be as calm as possible while I relate this tale of depravity and perversion with a clear mind and unblemished conscience. I shall, in due course, show you how I arrived at my solution and prove my actions to be the only ones available to me.

As I said, in the building across from mine lived this old fellow. I guessed he was pushing 75 when I moved into my apartment. For an old dude, he was active, seemed alert, and mobile. After a bit, it became apparent to anyone that the old geezer was quite virile. To be truthful, the man’s physical condition and unusual activities surprised me. You see, he had young women visit him every few days, well nights.

To be perfectly frank, what the old fart did to those girls wouldn’t pass for fatherly love. In truth, my previous statement was, at first, more of a suspicion than a fact. But, think about it, what would a geriatric be doing with twenty-somethings, if not some perversion? It wasn’t long until I hated the old man.

To be candid, I bet you think I’m jealous, go ahead and believe so if you want. It isn’t true. For Pete’s sake, I meet plenty of women and have relationships with those women. As to why I care, I don’t give a tinker’s damn, other than this wasn’t natural. I’ll say this, old men shouldn’t be screwing girls so much younger than them.

Maybe they were call girls, perhaps women he’d met when he was out and about and spent money on them. You understand me, the girls’ way of paying him back for some kindness in the gift of money. Isn’t money the kindest thing you can give a person? Or them paying him back for an expensive gift he’d presented them.

But in all sincerity, he couldn’t be a sugar daddy to three different women a week, every week. Something sick and vulgar in what the old degenerate was doing. On those nights, young women didn’t come to him, the old fart went out and might not come back until dawn.

Many a morning, I’d pass him as I drove from the parking lot to the road.

Oh, my, his smile, he always had a wicked smile. No, not a smile, a smirk. The kind of leer a guy has when he’s done something horrible, nasty. These women show up and spend the whole damn night doing who knows what.

And another thing, he has a spring in his step that no man his age can have. The cane he carried he didn’t use for walking because he had no limp. No, his cane wasn’t for assistance. Most of the time, he swung it around like a majorette twirling a baton.

Speaking my mind, the man was a damn show off, and how some old guy with a cane gets young girls is a mystery. But let me tell you, I found out how, yes I did. After the first six months, I took to spying on him. One night, after midnight, on a night when he didn’t have a girl visit him, the fellow did some satanic ritual. Honest to God, he cut this cat’s throat while he bowed in front of a statue of some devil or demon. I watched in horror, and this atrocity was repeated every week or two.

To be honest, I cannot tell you when the idea crept into my mind. One day, the notion sprang into being, complete, fully formed, and I realized my life and soul depended on me stopping this evil, vile man from his awful use of dark, satanic powers.

After twelve months of watching the devil worshiper, I worked up my courage. Good lord, I had to act when women started to disappear. They’d come over at night, as always, and never leave. The following mornings, he’d lug these garbage bags from his apartment, load them in his pickup, and drive away.

The plain fact is, at first, I couldn’t wrap my mind around what he was doing. Reflecting on his penchant to kill cats as a sacrifice, which he hadn’t done for some time, I realized he murdered the women. The old man offered these girls’ blood to his demon god as a sacrament of his unholy faith.

To be straight with you, I wouldn’t allow something so vile to continue. I set my will to the task. I’m a locksmith by trade, did you know that? I guess you did.

One night, after two in the morning, dressed in black, I snuck from my building to his. Being quiet as a mouse, I worked the lock, which yielded with a faint click in not many, brief seconds. Not wishing to give my presence away, I twisted the knob with slow and quiet precision. Stealth is essential when dark forces surround you.

After some passage of time, moments, seconds, or minutes, I’m not sure I acted. Crouched at the door, I pushed forward, one small inch. Inside was dark as midnight. Still, I couldn’t be sure where the old man would be. So I waited. For five whole minutes, crouching at the door in the darkened hall, I waited. My legs tingled, and still, I waited.

I pressed the door another inch and stood, waiting, watching for any sign he was awake. Nothing, for another five minutes, so I pushed the door a foot and waited.

After ten more minutes, I pushed the door open and tiptoed into the room. Taking as long to shut the door as I had to open it, I breathed easy for a moment. The momentary ease, notwithstanding, my heart raced. The pulsing in my ears pounded as loud as a machine gun.

No light whatsoever was visible inside the room. Not one ray of light leaked through the curtains from the outside. What light there was, a dull glow from a fire alarm, the flickering from the VCR clock flashing from having never been set, offered me no view of the apartment’s features.

I dare not turn on a light. Thankfully, I had a small, adjustable pocket flashlight. Turning it on, having preset it to the tightest beam possible, I made my way toward his bedroom. Being extra careful not to let the light hit the curtains and moved the light in a tight pattern to find my way.

I found the ritual knife, a sharp dagger, and extracted it from its place on a coffee table.

Ever so slowly, I moved. Only one step at a time. Moved my right foot, stopped, moved my left foot, stopped. Taking more than two minutes to travel the fifteen feet to the door to his bedroom. Again, I crouched.

In all sincerity, I feared for my life. Should he wake, he’d kill me, making me a sacrifice to his satanic master. One more time, I turned a doorknob, so slow, so quiet, with such deliberation that more than a minute passed before the latch pulled free from its resting place.