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  A Tortured Soul

  L.A. Detwiler

  Published by L.A. Detwiler, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A TORTURED SOUL

  First edition. August 11, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 L.A. Detwiler.

  ISBN: 978-1393809807

  Written by L.A. Detwiler.

  Also by L.A. Detwiler

  The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

  A Tortured Soul (Coming Soon)

  The Christmas Bell: A Horror Novel (Coming Soon)

  The Christmas Bell: Rachel's Story (Coming Soon)

  Watch for more at L.A. Detwiler’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By L.A. Detwiler

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three | 10 hours later: Tuesday Morning

  Chapter Four

  Night One

  Chapter Five

  Night Two

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Night Three

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Night Four

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Night Five

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Night Six

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Night Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two | Richard | Last Wednesday

  Chapter Thirty-Three | Sheriff Barkley

  Chapter Thirty-Four | Crystal

  Night 51 | Prisoner #312 | Smithfield Correctional Facility

  Night 354 | Prisoner #312 | Smithfield Correctional Facility

  Acknowledgements

  Further Reading: The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

  About the Author

  To my husband

  Author’s Note

  This book is extremely dark in its portrayal of domestic violence. It is uncensored, gory, disturbing, and upsetting in the way it approaches the subject. It was important to me that I didn’t censor Crystal’s suffering or sugarcoat what abuse can look like. I wanted to portray the true horrors of domestic violence in a way that will hopefully get readers talking. I hope that Crystal’s story in the following pages upsets you. I hope it makes you frustrated that there are women and men who endure this kind of suffering. I hope that it stirs you to want change and to stop asking: Why didn’t they just leave? I hope it helps you empathize a little bit more and to want justice for survivors.

  I am not a survivor of domestic violence. The story you are about to read is completely fictional. However, there are monsters like Richard out there, both in male and female form. I hope this story makes you think about their victims and about what our world can do to stop monsters like Richard.

  If you or a loved one is affected by abuse or needing support, be sure to call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233. If you cannot speak safely, you can also log onto thehotline.org or text LOVEIS to 1-866-331-9474.

  ‘Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.’ ~Edgar Allan Poe

  Prologue

  I rock myself in the dusty room, the sunlight filtering through the blinds as dusk settles on the horizon. The splatters of blood on my T-shirt beg for me to change, but I’m too tired. How do you get this much blood out of fabric? How will I clean up this mess?

  I sit in the bed where this swirling spiral of decay began. It was supposed to be a hopeful day, a day to rectify what remained of my life. Instead, it had been the day that incited the beginning of the maniacal end.

  All good things come to an end—but what about the bad? The depraved? Do things of malice also come to a finale, or do they just continue on their merry way, torturing the downtrodden, the damned? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything at all. Maybe I never did.

  My eyes are heavy with exhaustion, the turmoil of the past week plaguing me. Has it only been a week? Only seven days since the Crystal Connor I once knew transformed into a being I hardly recognize? Has it only been a week since the sins of my soul burned in anguish, filling me with a regret I can never reconcile for?

  The Bible sits on the nightstand in its familiar spot, opened to the last page I read. The bookmark rests against the splayed pages, a visual reminder of all I’ve messed up. It may as well be a sign from God—I’m doomed. I hit my head against the wall, terrified to fall asleep. I can’t fall asleep. I know what’s coming if I give in, and I’m not strong enough tonight to let that happen.

  Tears fall. I rock back and forth like I have so many times. If I close my eyes, I can feel the weight of him in my arms, see those chubby cheeks, and remember what it was like to clutch him to my chest. I wish I could hold him once more.

  And then, I hear it. My eyes bolt open, my heart surging with disbelief. It can’t be. There’s no way. But yes, as I silence my breathing and will my pounding heart to be quiet, I’m sure I hear it. Softly, in the distance, I hear the sounds of muffled cries, of screams, of him needing me.

  I suck in a deep breath, maybe the first one in ages. The cries I’ve craved resonate through the house, a welcome melody in the midst of stunning sorrow. It isn’t too late. He is crying. My heart leaps to hear the sound I’d so desperately wanted to hear all this time. I rest my head against the wall, feeling like maybe all will be okay. I sit, listening to the cries, the sound calming my soul instead of grating on my nerves. I’m so happy to hear his shrieks.

  After a few moments, I’m not tired anymore. I stand from the bed, clutching at the locket around my neck, the familiar piece of soft hair inside. I don’t have to open it to know it’s there. I can feel him close to me. It soothes me to know he’s near, even after all that’s transpired. I cross the floor and peer out the window, studying the tree line I’ve seen so many times. At first, I couldn’t look out there. The memories were too real, the scene too fresh. But things are different now. I’m different. I glance out into the fading light, perusing the edge of the forest. The darkness is macabre in a way that’s familiar but eerily unsettling. I’m accepting of it, though. I’ve come to learn that life is sometimes meant to be uncomfortable.

  But just as the cries are quieting and the silence of the house pervades again, I catch a glimpse of something that delivers icy, sheer terror to my heart. The peace that reverberated within is now shattered, a chill spreading like a virus in my veins.

  ‘No. No. No,’ I plead, shaking my head. My fingers clench into fists, trembling.

  I put a hand on the window after unfurling my fingers with great effort. My trembling digits feel the grimy glass. I should be embarrassed about the thick layer of dirt. How long has it been since I’ve washed the window? Despite my fear, I can’t help but wince at the crud, the scratchy filth irritating my fingertips. It’s like I believe touching the cool, defiled glass will snap me back to reality. It will save me from what I saw. Certainly it wasn’t . .
. It couldn’t be . . .

  Like a sign, though, it appears again, right in the tree line, an angry, vicious sight that sends terror pulsing through every single one of my limbs. I bite my lip so hard, I taste blood. I devote my energy to steadying my breathing as I try to look away, but I can’t. My gaze is cemented on the spectacularly petrifying sight before me.

  I know what that means.

  I know that he’s almost here.

  And I know that I am, in fact, condemned, body and soul.

  Chapter One

  Forkhill, Pennsylvania, USA

  I first realize that something is horrifically wrong when the only screams filling the bedroom are my own. Shouldn’t there be cries? Isn’t that what happens? I’m too exhausted to move, fearing death might be upon me. Still, the question swirls, the terror slicing into my chest. I don’t hear any cries. Why aren’t there cries?

  Weakened as I am, I manage to inch upward onto my elbows and peer at Sharon, the woman who lives near one of the bars in town. She once worked as a midwife, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. She is a far cry from the professional appearance and demeanor one would expect from the title. I glance over as she holds the baby in her arms. I wait for the cry, anticipate the joyous announcement of the sex of the baby I’ve been eagerly awaiting for nine months—really, for years. My miracle baby.

  But the proclamation doesn’t come. Sharon turns to me, her face wrinkled from too many cigarettes and too harsh a life. She is stoic as her eyes meet mine. She shakes her head gently, and I almost think for a moment I’m mistaken. All will be well. She’ll saunter over, hand me my precious child, and congratulate me. She’s just tired from the long day, I’m sure. She’s just moving slowly.

  It isn’t the case, though. The congratulations never comes. Instead, I see the funeral dirge in her eyes. I hear it in the words unspoken between us. I splinter, right there.

  ‘No,’ I bellow into the murky, stale air that’s tinged with blood and sweat. ‘No.’

  I’ve already cried out all of my tears in the past hours as I labored, unsure if I could survive such a draining event. I hadn’t been prepared. I hadn’t known how hard it would be. Still, I’d muscled through, knowing that all would work out. God would give me the strength. I would survive, give birth to my own miracle, and finally fulfill the purpose I’d been seeking. But there were other plans at work, I realize as Sharon silently shakes her head once more in confirmation, studying me over the bluish lump of flesh that isn’t moving or crying.

  ‘No,’ I utter again, shaking my head violently, trying to sit up further. It’s as if I believe the single word can combat reality. But words aren’t magic wands. Denial of a fact doesn’t make it any less real or true, and I certainly don’t live in wonderland.

  ‘I’m sorry, Crystal. Sometimes this happens,’ she croaks, still holding my baby in her arms.

  I want to scream at her, to yell that she’s wrong in so many ways. I want to tell her that she must be mistaken, that God wouldn’t do this to a woman like me. I haven’t been perfect, it’s true. But I’ve been good, overall. I’ve believed. I’ve prayed. I’ve sacrificed. This can’t be happening. The thought relentlessly pounds into my head. It can’t be. She must be wrong. I shake my head wildly as she cautiously ambles closer.

  ‘Crystal, I’m sorry. It’s no one’s fault.’ Her voice, weathered from cigarettes and age, cracks as she speaks. It isn’t comforting, but I guess, in fairness, no voice would be at this moment. As she approaches, tears flood my eyes. I’d thought they were all gone, but they resurface to greet the morose occasion. She saunters closer, holding what was supposed to be my precious gift in her arms.

  ‘No. You’re wrong. I know you’re wrong,’ I plead, with whom, I don’t know. With myself? With the baby? With the woman we hired as a midwife? With God?

  ‘Do you want me to get Richard?’ she asks as I clutch the worn quilt to my chest, pulling it close. I stare at the blood-soaked shirts at the edge of the bed, and then glance around the tiny room that is in a state of complete disarray. I need to tidy it up. It won’t do to have the room be such a mess, I think, shoving aside the facts I simply can’t face.

  ‘Crystal, do you want me to get him?’ Sharon prods again, and I turn my gaze from the shirts and the sheets that need washed back to the woman beside me. Richard. Where is he now? What will he say? He must be in the garage. He’d said this wasn’t his scene, that this was all on me. Terror settles in as I realize it was all me—and it’s all my fault. He’s going to say it’s all my fault again. And maybe it is. Suddenly, I just can’t breathe. I begin to shake uncontrollably, a chill rattling through my body once more.

  ‘Maybe we should get you to the hospital,’ Sharon suggests, a warm hand touching my forehead. The same hand that was just touching my baby. I slink away from her blood-stained fingertips, her dry, cracked skin that scratches against me.

  ‘No. No,’ I say over and over. The word is stuck in my throat, and I cough it up like a loose piece of phlegm that just keeps catching on the way out.

  I don’t want a hospital. I don’t want Richard. I want the baby, the one who was supposed to be mine. The one who was supposed to bring purpose to my life.

  ‘Do you want to hold him? Sometimes that helps in these situations,’ she says, coming closer, still cradling the newborn.

  ‘He? It’s a he?’ I ask, a smile coming to my face. It’s a he. Gideon. My sweet Gideon is here. Richard will be happy. He preferred a boy, a child he could teach to be a man. I knew all along it was a boy, had prayed for it even. A boy could make Richard happy. Our son would be something we could take pride in. He would make everything worthwhile.

  Gideon Connor. He’s here. My life is complete. Sharon has to be wrong. He’s not crying, but that’s okay, isn’t it? My child is simply a sweet, sweet angel. He’s a good baby already. He’s calm and happy. That’s all. He was so good these past nine months. Even in the last few weeks, when things were supposed to be difficult, I’d enjoyed the pregnancy. He never even kicked me or made me uncomfortable.

  I look into the hazel eyes of the woman standing beside my bed once more. I take in her pale, craggy face and the dark circles that accentuate her deep, craterous crow’s feet. My gaze dances over her face, following the lines and crevices with meticulous attention to detail. I follow a crease down her cheek, my eyes stopping on her wrinkled lips. Suddenly, I can’t stand looking at her. I feel uncomfortable with her here, unhappy. I knew Sharon was a bad idea when we hired her, but Richard insisted that we couldn’t afford a trip to the hospital, not without medical insurance. The garage has been doing okay, but he still thought it would be too expensive. And even if the garage had been doing well this past month, Richard insisted there were better things to pay for than a crooked doctor who would just steal all his hard-earned money for nothing.

  So Sharon had seemed to be the best alternative. Richard knows her husband from the bar. One thing led to another, and suddenly Sharon, who had worked as a midwife a few decades ago, was the woman in the room with me with her too-bright hair and leathery skin, helping me to see the miracle through. I’d been a little nervous at first, but I assured myself it would be okay. We were in God’s hands, and he would provide. He would endow me with strength. Like Mary in the stable, I’d give birth in the back bedroom, the stale scent of cigarette smoke and four-day-old trash in the kitchen reminding me of my humble roots. But it hadn’t mattered. All that I cared about was that soon, I’d fulfill my ultimate purpose. I’d hold my baby, the true love of my life, for the first time. And here we were. Sweet Gideon had arrived. I’d done it.

  ‘Let me have him,’ I say, swiping the tears away, half-delirious from the trials of birth but half-exhilarated from the fact that I am a mother now. I’ve achieved my goal.

  ‘Crystal,’ Sharon says sweetly, and her eyes tell me exactly what she’s thinking. She pities me. Stupid woman. What does she even know?

  ‘Give me him,’ I demand, the need to hold him agai
nst me trumping my typically polite nature.

  ‘I really think you need to go to the hospital. I mean, I can clean you up, but with all things considered, you might need a professional,’ she notes.

  I’m done playing nice. Flinging the scratchy quilt aside, I reach up and snatch at my child, desperate to cling to him. She obliges, releasing her grip on his body and helping to place him on my chest. The weight of his body in my arms fills my heart, love surging for a child I’ve known for nine months. For those months, he was growing inside of me, consuming me, filling me. He was everything. I look down into his face, though, and feel the skin. Aren’t babies supposed to be warm? He is supposed to be warm. He is silent, his face not the angelic, sweet, content smile of a newborn, but an apathetic, frozen look of a baby who never took a breath. His color is wrong. The coldness of his skin is wrong. Everything is wrong.

  My breathing heightens. ‘What did you do? What did you do to him?’ I protest, staring at Sharon as I stick to the baby who has no life in him. His limp body flops against my chest, his limbs hanging at odd angles. I beg him to breathe, plead with him to come back to me. I can’t lose him. Not him too. This can’t happen, not now. Oh, God, why? Why have you forsaken me yet again?

  ‘Please, no,’ I shriek, as Sharon frantically tries to calm me down. She reaches for Gideon, but I won’t let go. I snuggle him tighter against my chest and cradle him in the bed. Back and forth, back and forth. I rock him just like I’d pictured so many times. All those months in the rocking chair in the living room, I’d look out the window and picture our lives together. I’d give him the unconditional love he needed. We’d spend so many years together, growing and learning and loving and laughing. He’d be my sole reason for existence. He already was everything to me from the moment I realized I was pregnant. I’d give everything for him. But it wasn’t just because it was my job. It would be because it’s what I wanted more than anything else. I wanted to give my love to him. I wanted him to look to me for love.