The Terror View: Visions Of A Killer, page 1
The Terror View
Visions Of A Killer
Reina Torrence
Blue Diamond Publishing
© Copyright 2022 by Reina Torrence
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and businesses are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The contents of this book may not be reproduced, duplicated, or transmitted without direct written permission from the author.
Contents
1. Stormy Times
2. Old Friends
3. Man Down
4. Psychic or Psycho?
5. No Comment
6. Dream Come True
7. Questions
8. Grieving Widow
9. A Friend in Need
10. Police Hunt
11. Sibling Rivalry
12. Hello Baby
13. Born Again
14. Developing Skills
15. Game Over
16. Square One
17. Closing In
18. Move Closer
19. Cutting Bonds
Chapter one
Stormy Times
Thunder rumbled. Lightning arced through the dark, steely skies as though, in any given minute, fire would fall through the cracks, burning cities and villages, man and child, and all animals alike, till only ash was left. It was gory, almost like it'd be incessant. Never-ending. Bloody. And the insane sounds, coupled with the cold that violently tore through all of Georgetown, Connecticut, wasn't the only thing the people of the city had to fear. This was why Kayla, feeling numbed by the cold under the duvet in the master bedroom, didn't like science fiction. She's harbored a sordid distaste, perhaps, even a hatred for it since she was a little girl.
As a child, it was all she would watch when the television came on. Because her father, a rather insatiable lover of the genre, thought he'd raise her to be as he was or thinly close. For him, raising an adopted child was a last resort to being a father, and he'd rather die than have her grow into a woman totally unlike him. Creating a connection between father and daughter was a must for him, even if in his own sick way. Kayla had her reservations, of course, until it happened that some of the science fiction films she'd watched became too intense regarding violence, absurdness, and consequent death. It was her version of horror because she didn't like what she was watching, but mostly because she was being forced to.
Now, twenty-six-year-old Kayla, trying so hard to sleep in her warm room, couldn't shut her ears off to the thunder determined to deafen her ears. Just stop! She thought, but the Georgetown weather had thoughts of its own. And at that moment, it was probably thinking: But oh, Dear, I'm only just beginning. With her mind a jumble of wild thoughts, she imagined aliens falling through the skies as the thunder growled like a savage Lion King, twisting the fate of the world into a hell none could survive.
Kayla, realizing the futility of trying to sleep through this bad weather that always brought back relics of an uncomfortable childhood, finally rose to a sitting point on the bed, threw the sheets off her, and got off the bed. She was barefoot, but that was no problem because the engineered hardwood floors were heated. If only the whole house was soundproof, too, then the excesses of this nightmare would be easier to condone.
She could see clearly into the wild outside because the lights in her room were out, and the large glass window graced her with an all-embracing view. From this vantage, the house panoramically unfolded as a masterly indoor-outdoor landscape, one thing she so much loved when she bought the house for a million dollars last fall. Right now, though, she wasn't enjoying the view as much. Not when in the world right before her, death was, in Emily Dickinson's words, stopping for people who wouldn't stop for it. Senseless crime was on the loose. Prior to a few months ago, the police departments had been battling cases involving police brutality and cold human trafficking. But now, a series of murders in neighboring cities were leaving the police so many trails to follow to apprehend the killer or killers perpetuating them.
Except they always hit a wall—so many dead ends.
Kayla slowly retreated from the window, heading for the door while still barefoot. The house was warm, large, and dead silent. For a four-bedroom house, six baths, a large chef's kitchen, a basket and tennis court, as well as a garage capacity of eight cars, Kayla shouldn't be living alone. But the solitary confinement she subjected herself to was by choice. Not because she feared she might fall victim to some murders on the loose or some fantastic aliens whatsoever, but because she felt the most peaceful being by herself. An agoraphobic woman who lived alone, a hermit in her Victorian Georgetown home, all she'd often do was watch true crime shows and documentaries as opposed to science fiction. And she'd peek out at neighbors' houses, just watching them, learning about them, all from the safe distance of her home.
She got to the kitchen, made herself a warm chocolate drink, and proceeded to the living room, where she'd earlier left her laptop. She took one long sip, carefully placed the mug on the glass table, and opened the laptop. She switched it on, the strong light of the screen making her narrow her eyes, given her eyes had already adjusted to the darkness. She quickly dimmed it.
Kayla typed in her password, a seventy-one-character sentence that was also her favorite line of poetry: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the road less traveled by. After keying them, she waited a few seconds for the system to boot. It was at that point that she saw what time it was on the taskbar. 2:02.
"Damn it!" She muttered, sighing impulsively. "And I thought daybreak would come sooner."
One more sip of her chocolate drink, and she went online to check her news feed. Reclining on the couch in the now dimly lit living room space, she waited anxiously, hoping for goodness sake no more bad news was there for her avid consumption. It was almost unbelievable that many law enforcement agencies in different cities were all coming to dead ends trying to solve the murders. Who knew that that much mistrust in the agencies would be birthed in such a short time? Not Kayla, sitting there gloomily with the warm mug in hand. Her big, fetching eyes glared at the screen.
Often, things like this thrilled her. But now, while they still did, they scared the living hell out of her.
"Load, dammit!" Kayla said, her eyes still on the screen. The latest update on the site was a day old. That can't be right, she thought. Something must be going on with the Wi-Fi.
Trying again, feeling atwitter with speculation, the page finally loaded. And right there, before her big, watery eyes, the proper latest news was displayed. She placed the mug down carefully, reading the headline aloud: The First of the Cold Killings Hits Georgetown as of Three Hours Ago.
Chapter two
Old Friends
Three hours ago? Kayla thought. She knew, for an indisputable fact, she was special. Unlike any other child, as far as she could tell. Many factors accounted for this conclusion she'd drawn and which she'd grown to forcibly believe. This included being extremely smart, impulsive, overly curious, headstrong, and even very sensitive. But what freaked her out the most was her ability to see the future, bloody dreadful futures. Ones she didn't ask for and ones she wished she’d never seen.
Kayla, sitting right there in the dark, felt an aura of fear come to engulf her, for she'd seen the headline of the death she'd just read in her vision. It was the very vision, or say, nightmare, that smudged her awake to the boisterous tempest of the rains and thunder.
"It's happening again!" Kayla mouthed, her breathing uneven, her mouth running dry. She reached for the mug and gulped down the last of the chocolate drink. For months now, she'd been seeing these visions, these dreams of people dying—actually, of people getting murdered. By whom? She never could see. They were somehow limited to the sight of the victims. Wanton, indiscriminate murder, Kayla thought, her heart beating totally out of rhythm. Seemingly random, surreptitious—each one extremely violent. There were no explanations whatsoever, and there seemed to be no apparent reasons.
In total, Kayla had seen about eighteen murders. All of which, after she came to understand what it was she was seeing, happened only hours after she'd seen them. Sometimes, minutes. Some sick premonition, never able to see the killer, only the living beings turned into corpses. This was no gift, Kayla believed, but a curse, a burden of guilt of being unable to do nothing to stop the killings.
Only hours ago, while she turned and turned in the bed, the Georgetown death brewed on her mind. It made her numb, afraid of what could possibly happen. When this began, she'd thought it was merely some nightmares, somewhat stemming from how much true crime she'd been watching. But now, she knew better than to think such. This was real. This was terror. These were crimes appearing in her mind before they happened. Feeling unable to shoulder this alone, Kayla had for some days now pondered the advisability of speaking to the police about her visions—let them in on the secret so they'd deploy resources in a bid to stop the deaths.
Because one thing was definite: these victims weren't sexually assaulted. There were zero attempts to rob them of their valuables, and they didn't even know their killer. A month ago, in her nightmare, a young couple were making out in their car when a man popped out of nowhere and shot them point-blank. Hours later, in a coffee shop, she saw the exact same thing in the newspaper. In every other vision she'd
So, who was killing all these people? And why? It seemed to her like a vast black hole. A huge void. There was no way sitting on this—secret—would do any good in solving the extreme violence occurring between strangers.
Kayla rose abruptly and headed for her bedroom, knowing telling the cops about this might make her out to be some kind of nut job, but she didn't care. I'd rather be seen as crazy than watch all those people die when I can stop it.
By the time morning came, sleep hadn't met Kayla's eyes since she'd woken very long ago—not when the fear that was lying comatose in her could be cut through with a butter knife.
She took a quick shower, slipped into jeans and a baseball hat, then sped to the kitchen, where she had scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. Washing it down with a chocolate drink, she stormed out of her house for the first time that fortnight, driving a silver convertible car.
As she drove, all she could think about was how the police would take this intelligence she wanted to share. Given their usual skepticism and, perhaps, intuition to view one as guilty until proven innocent, Kayla felt even more scared just driving toward the station. A sudden thought hit her. And she acted on it, taking a sharp left off the road that led to the station.
Forty-five minutes later, she was on the Portland Hill road just slowing down on a roadside property belonging to Jeff, her ex-boyfriend, with whom things had quite ended badly about a year ago. Please be home! Kayla parked on the driveway and stepped out of the car, vestiges of memories gushing back into her head regarding the last time she was there. It'd been very bad. And she didn't want to think about it. This was way too much to handle alone, and only Jeff could she trust despite their having fallen apart. The plight of a very lonely woman, Kayla thought, it's quite problematic when the man I can still trust is the one that I've badly ended things with and who I haven't spoken to in a whole year.
She neared the gate, rang the bell, and waited. A second later, a voice crackled through the station’s sound system at the gate. It was Jeff'.
Kayla took a deep breath. She then swallowed.
"Who's there?" He asked. Shifting nervously, Kayla uncomfortably pulled her hair back and looked toward the camera.
"I know you can see me, Jeff. Kayla."
The response was silence, too much silence that even made Kayla almost regret coming. He must be processing, Kayla mulled.
"Jeff," Kayla called, "open up. Please!" There was still zero response. At this point, Kayla felt like a fool. But of course, over the last forty-five minutes, she'd foreseen such a contingency. This shouldn't be much of a surprise.
"It's very important. I wouldn't be here if—"
"Unless it's a matter of life and death, Kayla, please get back into your car and leave!" Jeff yelled, his baritone voice having the sweetest lilt you've ever heard. "How could you show up here like that? After—"
"It is!" Kayla said immediately, "It’s a matter of life and death, I swear!"
A few more seconds of awkward silence passed, and seconds Kayla spent knowing Jeff was again taking a moment to process everything. She felt anxious, hoping for Georgetown's sake that he wouldn't let his anger get in the way of possible salvation. Don't shut me out, Kayla prayed, and seconds later, the heavy electronic steel gates remotely controlled from the inside started to move.
"May I offer you coffee?" Asked Jeff drily, not making eye contact when Kayla waltzed into the main building. He was in his usual sports shorts, shorter than they should be, exposing his fine, hairy legs Kayla could vividly recall playing with. She tried not to look at him too much. That'd be weird, she felt, everything else around the house looking almost the same except for one thing: Jeff had installed a minibar. Her eyes went wide in shock.
"You've been drinking?!" She blurted out before she could take any of it back. Jeff turned at her sharply.
"Why the hell are you here? To mother me?"
"I-I'm sorry," Kayla said quickly, swallowing, "I just thought you'd quit drink—"
Jeff quickly interrupted. "Do you want anything to drink?!" He sounded like he was forcibly trying to be courteous instead of offering something from the generosity of his heart. But of course, Kayla didn't sense this at first.
"Uh, a chocolate drink will be fine. Warm."
Jeff chuckled. "I threw all of that stuff out when—"
"When I moved out," Kayla said softly, sauntering toward the couch. She fell into one. "I'll just have coffee. Or not—" She glared at the mini bar, her eyes studying the labels of alcohol neatly arranged. "Pour me something strong. Vodka. My advice? Pour yourself a glass, too."
"You'll not tell me what to do." Jeff headed for the bar. Moments later, he returned with a glass of vodka and placed it before Kayla. None for him. She took a sip and frowned. The bitterness made her tongue the one organ she could at that moment cut out of her mouth.
"This shit is stronger than I remember it being," Kayla said, "I haven't had it since that time we went out to Gerhardt’s party on Long Island—"
"Cut the crap, Kayla!" hollered Jeff, sitting at the edge of the table right before her. They were sitting quite close, and yet, the energy between them was undeniably negative. It didn't matter to Kayla as long as her message was successfully sent across and was finally received.
"I've been going through some stuff lately…for the past few months. It's—uh, very weird. Promise me you'll keep an open mind. Can you do that?"
"I'm not getting back together with you. I—"
"Don't flatter yourself, Jeff. This isn't about you and me. It's way bigger, way bloodier, and way over our heads than that of the entire messed-up city! I'd appreciate you dismissing whatever voices in your head are telling you could be the reason I'm here and just hear me out." Kayla paused for emphasis. Jeff looked mortified. She could tell he had suddenly become nervous because he looked unperturbed, very unmoved, and that was his reflex defensive action when he wanted to hide being nervous. That much Kayla knew.
"I don't wanna be here," she added, "But your father was once the chief of detectives in Georgetown and your step-sister, Stephanie, is also on the force. You know things regarding law enforcement, crime, and the many processes they take in solving them. That makes you the best person I can talk to. W-well, aside from the police, because I want—I need to test the story on you before the police hear of it."
"The story?! What did you do?" Jeff said, the accusatory tone in his voice hard to miss. Kayla cast him a dark, cursory gaze and clutched the glass of colorless liquid sitting next to Jeff on the table. She took a soft sip, blowing air into her mouth after gulping it down.
With her newly found courage, she said to him, "You see the murders being reported all over the news?" Jeff nodded obscenely. "I see them. I see all of them. In visions. Before they happen."
Jeff didn't react immediately. He just sat there, now making proper eye contact with her, as though searching for signs that Kayla, the woman he'd dated for three years and hadn't spoken to in the past year, didn't just come to his house after escaping a psych ward. Kayla stared back at him intently, the mere feeling of having said that relieving her of a huge burden.
"Are you going to say something?" She asked seriously. Jeff looked absent.
"Wait," he said and chuckled, "you're serious?"
"You think I drove all the way here to kid with you?"
"Nah, I'm just trying to wrap my head around this. You see visions?"
Kayla took another sip of the drink. "I wouldn't say I see visions, 'cause that'd mean I see everything or anything. But I only see death hours before it happens. Around two-three this dawn, I saw the news headline of a murder happening here in this city. The same kind that's been happening in neighboring cities and which even the FBI isn't able to solve. And guess what, I—"
"You saw it. In a vision. Before it happened?"
Kayla nodded. But she couldn't help but feel there was still a degree of skepticism in his utterance.
