I felt the refreshing breeze on my face, as I made the turn at the corner of the lawn, the riding lawnmower slicing the grass beneath me. It was a nice day, but a hot one. The sweat was pouring off of me, and just as I thought it was time for a break, the town clock struck twelve. I took it as a sign, and turned off the mower, and walked inside. Taking a break is always hard for me, because I love a well-manicured lawn. I looked back at the half-finished lawn with a pang of guilt, but I needed the break, and I told myself that after the break I would finish the rest in one fell swoop.

I kicked aside the rats that were skittering about the front hallway, and walked into the kitchen. I sidestepped the multiple pools of blood, and hopped over the headless body of Mr. Johnson who I had decapitated with a butcher knife sometime late last night. The amount of blood that poured from him was unbelievable. Hence, the dirty floor. I opened the refrigerator, and quickly made myself a sandwich. Turkey on rye. Not my favorite, but it would suffice. I grabbed a Coke and sat down at the dinner table, across from Mrs. Johnson, who’s drowning in her clam chowder precipitated her husband’s beheading. I quickly ate my sandwich and downed the Coke. No sooner had I finished lunch, I heard a loud, piercing scream, coming from upstairs. Ah, yes, the teenage daughter. She must have woken up. Again, avoiding the prone form of Mr. Johnson, I walked into the garage, retrieved my chainsaw, and walked upstairs.

I walked into the upstairs bedroom to find Ms. Johnson tied to her bed, as I had left her last night. She resumed screaming as soon as I walked into the room. I held my finger to my lips, in a shushing motion. She stopped screaming, but could not stop her sobbing. I quickly prepared the saw, checking it had enough fuel and oil, and making sure the chain was properly lubricated. A man is only as good as his tool.

“What are you doing?!?” sobbed Ms. Johnson. “What did you do to my parents?!? Are you going to rape me?!?”

“Well, in order, Ms. Johnson, I’m performing some necessary maintenance on this wonderful machine; as you might have already guessed, your parents are quite dead; and finally, while you are quite pretty, my only interest lately has been in death.” Upon me saying this she again began to scream, and I again put a single finger to my mouth.

“Now, Ms. Johnson, if you scream, you won’t be able to hear my proposal.” She stopped screaming again, a fragment of hope entering her shattered world.

“My proposal is this. I’m going to remove a single arm or leg, of your choosing. If you are still conscious after it is removed, I will let you live.” Again, she began to scream.

“Which will you choose? Left arm or right? Or perhaps a leg? I suggest an arm. There are major arteries running through the legs.” Her screaming went on uninterrupted.

“Ms. Johnson, if you refuse to choose, you will certainly die, and I will make sure it is extremely painful, and takes several days.” This cut her screaming off. She then muttered something that I couldn’t quite make out between her sobs and whimpers.

“What was that?” I couldn’t quite make it out.” said I.

“Left arm.” she whispered, and then began to sob again, her breath getting shorter.

“Ah, a righty, are we? Good choice.” I straddled her body, and cranked the chainsaw to life. Its loud rattle filled the room, drowning out the girl’s even louder screams.

I brought the saw to her arm, and smiled as the machine easily chewed through her flesh and muscle. Blood sprayed throughout the room, quickly covering me, the girl, and the walls in a fresh coat of plasma. As the saw hit the bone, however, I ran into trouble. A loud whining filled the room, as metal scraped against bone. I struggled with the saw, as it grinded through the thick bone at her shoulder. Just as I begin to think that I have to take the saw out and back in for another strike, the metal blades cut through the bone, and quickly ate its way through the back of her arm. Her arm fell, unattached, to the floor, spurting the small amount of blood still in her arm. I looked to see if the girl was still conscious, but it seems the saw’s struggle with the bone was too much for her.

Alas. She probably wouldn’t have lived anyway, as the blood was pouring out of her shoulder like a faucet. I walked out of her room and into the upstairs bathroom, as I was covered in blood, and wanted to wash my face. Blood stings the eyes. I looked in the mirror and saw myself. Covered from head to toe in blood, wearing a white shirt, stained crimson. I looked in my eyes, and saw only glee. A few days ago, I would have considered any of which just transpired totally insane. But all of it changed after that stump removal job.

It was simple enough. I was to remove a large stump from the back yard of the late Mr. Jackson’s house. It seems he had passed away recently, and his granddaughter had inherited the house, and wanted the large oak stump removed. I was hired. Since it was in the back yard, I was forced to do it manually, which basically means chopping the roots up one by one, and using a wedge, slowly moving the stump, and then chopping that into smaller and smaller pieces. As I was chopping the smaller surrounding roots down with the axe, I hit something. Something that wasn’t a root. Something metal. I got the shovel, and dug around the area, until I found a large metal case. Very simple case, but very unique. It looked custom built. I opened it to find a large book inside. Bound in black leather, touching it, I could already feel it changing me. I quickly replaced it in its case and hid it in my truck. I continued to dig up the stump that day, but my thoughts were all aimed at that book, and the black cover that seemed to have an infinite depth. Like you could just step through it, and fall forever.

That night, I opened the book. Thinking back, I cannot remember exactly what it contained. I remember my awe, and surprise, and my feeling of tremendous power, more power than I’ve ever felt. I didn’t sleep that night. I remember feeling like a god.

I went back to the Jackson house, and tried to work. The granddaughter was there that day, cleaning the house. I tried to keep my mind on my work, but the book kept returning to my thoughts. Every time I closed my eyes, I would see Ms. Jackson, slaughtered, crucified, broken, bled, like a stuck pig. These visions began pounding through my brain. Within minutes, the only thing on my mind was murder. Mutilation. Torture. Death.

Mrs. Jackson was lying on the couch in the newly furnished living room when I smashed her pelvis with the sledgehammer. She started to scream, but it was cut short when I dropped the sledgehammer again, square in her chest. I had never seen so much blood. The sledgehammer raised and fell, over and over, until she was nothing but pieces. The white carpet was soaked with her. Bone fragments were scattered across the room. I was surprised at my behavior. But I only because her death had brought me a level of elation I had never felt before. I needed more. More carnage. More death.

I went through the town that night, block to block, house to house, killing all I found. I used hammer and nail, axe and hatchet, pipe and wrench. I went through the town with speed. By dawn, half the town was dead. By ten, the only ones left were the ones I had left alive. All fell. Some begged for their life, like the preacher at the local church. Some offered money, or sex, or even fame, as the local newspaper reporter did. They still died.

I turned on the faucet and rinsed my face, watching the red water circle the drain. I looked over to the toilet, and saw Mr. Johnson’s head staring up at me, his face in a permanent state of surprise, floating. I walked back into the girl’s bedroom and put my ear to her chest. I heard her heartbeat slow, Ba-dom. Ba-dom. Then nothing. Utter silence. The sound of death.

Only a few victims left.

But first, I have some yard work to finish.