A Picture a Day, Keeps the Something Something

One Picture, One Story

The Eastman Ghost


Mike whistled lightly while he gently stroked the hair of his newest victim. He enjoyed whistling while he did his horrid work. He didn’t know why people used such words to describe his deeds. Mike took great pride in the precision of his work. His victims probably never knew what was coming and would be dead before they had a chance to feel fear. He learned his trade from years on the killing floor of the local slaughterhouse. One swift movement and humanely the beasts are put to rest and that’s all his human victims were, beasts. He looked down at the lifeless eyes staring back at him and thought for a moment that he should close the eyelids out of respect, but quickly dispelled the notion. He killed him humanely, that was respect enough. He saved him from fear and compassionately lay him on the floor in a posture of leisure or relaxation. Mike decided he had lingered long enough and began the task of disposing of any evidence of his existence. It was this step that really made him proud. Twenty six victims in and not a single shred for the cops to go on. “The Eastman Ghost”. That was the name the media had given him. Mike didn’t think that it was terribly original, but thought the “Ghost” part painted a nice picture. He chuckled to himself as he carefully cleaned his hunting knife. He loved how it felt in his hand; heavy enough to feel powerful, yet light enough to allow the swift movements needed for his work. He looked lustfully at the blade as it reflected the moonlight that poured in from the full moon that hung innocently in the night sky. He loved working in the fresh air in the heart of the Boreal Forest. The eastern part of the province was so lovely and the long drive back home was always so relaxing. He walked slowly down a wooded path where he changed out of his paper jump suit and carefully folded it and placed it gently in a file folder to be dealt with later. He walked down the path a little further to enjoy the view over one of Manitoba’s many beautiful lakes. He inhaled deeply, gently closing his eyes to best enhance his experience. He exhaled gently and turned to journey back to his vehicle that he always parked at least two kilometres away. He realized that this was when he was most vulnerable as he walked along the seldom used two lane highway with his bloody paper suit in the folder under his arm. All it would take was a motorist stopping to offer a ride and spotting the incredibly incriminating evidence under his arm and he would be forced to act out of aggression and he knew that acting out of aggression always bore grave errors. The thought caused Mike to walk faster than normal, even with the complete lack of traffic and the almost zero likelihood of there being some in the near future.

His latest victim lived on his own in a small, but well kept house only steps from the waters of the Winnipeg River and at least a kilometre from the nearest neighbour and even then, most were cottagers and only came around on weekends. Mike thought it was the perfect victim and relaxed at the thought. He looked down at the bloodied suit tucked in the plastic folder and smiled wide, proud of his latest accomplishment. He couldn’t wait to file the suit in his vault at his home in the southern end of Winnipeg. He always kept his suits. He couldn’t really explain why, but he always kept his suits.

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This entry was posted on January 6, 2014 by in Eastman, Short Story, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , .
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