The Last Serial Killer (Book 1) by Rhonnie Fordham

Author:Rhonnie Fordham [Fordham, Rhonnie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-09-04T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

May 9, 1968

Even in May, England was cold. Especially today.

The wind whipped against my long blonde hair as I followed the eleven-year-old girl. Followed her inside the abandoned house in the heart of these dreary slums. The blue-collar neighborhood a graveyard of broken dreams and families.

1968 was a brutal year. A violent year. My current assignment the latest addition to its growing body count.

But at the moment, the guilt returned. The eternal existential crisis. All those young eyes stayed with me. The kids’ innocence in the face of a loaded gun haunting me like never-ending shock therapy to my senses.

After all, removed from adulthood and their notorious crimes, these were just children. Most of them abused, molested, impoverished. Most of them victims before the evil ever took hold.

I just had to remind myself what they’d become if I didn’t stop them. I was saving these doomed souls after all, giving them an early funeral rather than waiting on that inevitable execution. Because of me, they could be mourned as children instead of monsters. And in the afterlife, they’d now have a clean record for whatever was waiting for us all.

Dressed in tight bell-bottoms and a green Army jacket, I fit right in here in 1968. I wore a red bandana. The outfit complete with the Colt Cobra .38 special I kept hidden in my coat pocket. Perfect for the era.

Through the desolation, I marched on toward that two-story yellow house, past the foreclosed stores. No one else was in sight. No children, no bums.

I made my way inside that drafty old house.

The shattered windows offered no solace from the cold. Neither did the busted-down front door.

Surrounding me were barren walls. There was no electricity, no lighting. I readjusted my glasses in this noon darkness.

The house felt empty, void of all life. Hell, there wasn’t even a cigarette or beer bottle. Not even the homeless wanted a part of this place.

My feet carried me down the hall. I heard nothing but silence save for the creaking, groaning floorboard. And my own pounding heart.

Nervous, I reached inside my pocket. Felt the soothing touch of the pistol.

Still, I wasn’t sure where the girl was. Maybe the target hadn’t seen me. Maybe she wasn’t even here.

Then I entered the long living room. The fireplace was coated by centuries of ashes. The walls were bland, the windows offering weak lighting in this abandoned arena.

I thought I was alone…until I saw a boy lying in the corner. A tiny four-year-old child. Unconscious and helpless. Duct tape tied his wrists. Covered his small mouth. Specks of red stained his golden hair.

The child laid there as if he were on a silver platter. Awaiting the sadistic touch of whoever did this to him. Whoever wanted to kill him.

Chills overtook me. My body went hollow in horror.

Then a wild cry erupted behind me.

Frightened, I whirled around.

That’s when I got my first close look at The Tyneside Strangler: Mary Bell. An eleven-year-old from Hell.

She lunged at me, knocking me to the ground.

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