The Butcher - Part 2
a short horror story, continuing where Connar's investigation left off...
No matter how many times Connar scanned the photo of the man with the meat cleaver, facial recognition could not find a match for the suspect. It was as if he simply did not exist.
Or maybe the image was too blurry.
So Connar decided to make the image public, hoping to find a match from the community. But nothing came of it.
All of the speculation online was that Connar should be investigated for doctoring footage. That he was the culprit. Why else would the case remain unsolved? Many thought he was the one killing the children.
Obviously, there was no evidence for that. The community was angry, heartbroken, and hopeless. They turned their anger and blame on him, the face of it all.
The school closed permanently that winter, left abandoned. Mr. Doris did blame him, leaving several nasty voicemails with colorful language. Apparently, no real estate or company wanted the land so the school wouldn’t even be sold or demolished for something else. It would be a ghost town …
Connar lost his job in January. Nothing had come of the case, and his credibility was ruined. Nobody wanted to hire a private investigator that had failed twice.
In his newfound spare time, Connar took to researching, digging through archives to see what he could find.
When the summer rolled around, he’d stumbled upon something gold.
“Local Pig Butcher Murders Brother” read the headline in the local paper from nearly a hundred years ago. “Jacob Reedman, owner of Reedman’s Butcher Shop, murdered his brother John and niece Ruth two days ago. Jacob is currently a missing suspect and the police urge anyone with tips to report them.”
Connar sat up, a bolt of recognition running through him. The fuzzy black and white photo of the brothers on the front of the paper had the same large man with meaty forearms and a round head. The Butcher from the CCTV footage.
The pieces connected and he stood up, staring at his large corkboard. Yes, he knew he looked exactly like that one meme, but it didn’t matter.
The technology issues, the floating, the magically appearing cuts, the lack of physical evidence …
The serial killer was a ghost. A ghost of a man from nearly a hundred years ago.
Connar sat back in his chair. When he did, something else caught his eye. Behind the two brothers on the farm, was a smaller version of the tree. The same exact tree that was at the school.
The ghost was connected to that tree, to that land. Connar checked the date on the newspaper: October 31, 1927. Halloween.
The Butcher had killed his brother on that day, probably in that exact spot. While Connar didn’t know much about ghosts, everything he’d researched for months lined up exactly. If he wanted to stop the community from being harmed again, he needed to go back when the ghost would be active again, near Halloween.
---
On October 29th, Connar packed a backpack full of supplies he’d bought: a flashlight with extra batteries, a camera, a notepad, a printed newspaper, a protective charm, an EMF reader, and some incense. He got in his car and drove to the abandoned school, parking in the lot next to the tree.
The sun dipped low on the horizon, lighting up the clouds in dark oranges and pinks. He knew the ghost would be stronger around nighttime. All of the attacks had occurred in the late evening hours.
Connar tugged on his backpack and headed over to the tree. Like before, he didn’t notice much at first. He searched around the trunk and large roots.
“Mister?” A small, quite voice spoke up. He turned to find a young girl, maybe about ten years old. She had dark hair and a pale face, wearing some kind of old-fashioned dress he assumed was a Halloween costume.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Connar said. She was probably a student at the school before it closed. “Playing at the abandoned school will get you in trouble.”
The girl frowned. “No, I’ve come to see my Papa.” She headed in front of him, climbing over the roots of the tree and tugged on something in the ground.
Connar followed her, noticing a cellar door hidden in the overgrown grass. The handle had rusted over and most of it was covered in leaves and dirt. When Connar looked up, the girl was gone.
He realized with a start that she wasn’t a kid in a Halloween costume. She was a ghost. That must be Ruth …
Connar shuffled over, hesitating for only a moment, and yanked on the door handle as hard as he could. It revealed a set of old stone stairs leading down into the pitch blackness.
Connar turned on his flashlight and stepped down into the cellar. It was old and hadn’t been opened in probably a century. Cobwebs hung everywhere, and he had to brush his way through, coughing several times from all the dust and mold.
Ruth reappeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Papa is talking with Uncle,” she said to him. “Uncle is angry again. He hates me.”
Connar wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He didn’t know the full story of why The Butcher had killed John, but he was sure this girl knew. “Why did your Uncle kill your Papa?”
Ruth stared at him blankly as if she didn’t know the answer to that.
He tried again. “Do you know that you’re dead?”
She didn’t answer again, instead turning away from Connar and heading down the dark path. He sighed and followed her. It wasn’t a long pathway before the tunnel opened up to reveal a large cavern surrounded by the huge roots of the tree above them.
Inside the cavern there was an entire hidden room, complete with an old table and chairs, a cot for sleeping, and an old grandfather clock in the corner, forever stuck at 10:15pm.
A few candles on the table and on the wall flickered to life with flames when he stepped past the threshold, as if the ghosts sensed his presence.
Connar heard two men arguing, but neither of the apparitions were visible yet.
“You don’t have to deal with the stink all day! You get to work in one of ‘em fancy machine factories!”
“It’s not like that’s good work either. At least you get to raise the animals.”
“And then slaughter them! You don’t know what it’s like to feel the knife in your hands, cutting into the raw, bloodied flesh of a once living animal. Snapping bones in half. The crunching and squelching and wails, the warm, wet, sticky …”
“Papa?” Ruth appeared again.
This time, Connar could see the ghosts. The shorter, stocky man from the newspaper with the same dark eyes and hair as the little girl. In front of him stood the tall, large man. The Butcher. He held no weapon yet.
Ruth over to the shorter brother’s side. “Papa! Look what I found!” She showed him something that Connar couldn’t see, but John was looking right at Connar.
Both brothers turned to Connar. His heartbeat quickened, palms growing sweaty. He put a hand over the protective charm he’d brought in the hopes he wouldn’t get attacked.
“You brought the little detective,” The Butcher said, voice deep. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You … have?” Connar stammered, unsure if he was actually safe. This was a ghost that could easily kill him like he had all the others.
The Butcher crossed his arms. “It’s about time. Took you, what, three years to get down here?”
It was indeed the third year. The fact that The Butcher knew that but Ruth didn’t scared him more than anything.
Connar struggled to get any words out, fear clouding his mind and judgment. He gulped. “I didn’t think … I didn’t think ghosts were real,” he admitted.
“Silly detective. I’m very much real. Them? Not as much.” The Butcher gestured over at Ruth and John. “They’re still stuck in the same time loop. I broke out.”
Sure enough, while the younger brother and his daughter had interacted with Connar, they seemed unaware of the passage of time, repeating lines on a broken record. John was telling Ruth that the flower she found was pretty but she should leave.
Connar stared at The Butcher. “Why are you killing the elementary kids?” He was still a detective, ghost or not.
“Because that’s what I do. I’m a butcher. I slaughter animals,” he said simply. “I got tired of repeating the same cycle.”
Connar fumbled in his backpack for the newspaper. “It says you murdered your brother and your niece. Is that the cycle?” He held the paper out to the ghost.
“You’re the detective.”
The paper fell to the floor as The Butcher stepped closer. Connar stepped backwards, a hand on his belt where his gun rested. “What do you want with me?”
“I want you to watch. Take a seat. You aren’t leaving yet.” The Butcher spoke and the roots from the tree shot out, flying at Connar. They wrapped around his arms and his legs and dragged him across the dirt.
Connar cried out in shock and pain when the rough roots and dirt scraped his skin. He was pulled into one of the old chairs and tied up. He struggled against his binds to no avail.
“Let me go! You can’t hurt me! I brought a blessed charm,” Connar yelled.
The Butcher laughed and pulled his meat cleaver out. “Those charms? Meant for lower level ghosts. I’m a fully self-aware poltergeist. I can very much hurt you however I want.” To prove his point, he swiped at Connar and missed, except for a small nick on his chin. A dribble of blood swelled at the point and Connar’s chin stung.
Maybe coming here by himself without a plan or backup was a bad idea.
“What do you want me to watch?” Connar said, his voice betraying all the fear and pain in his body.
“The loop. You can write about it. Maybe that will break it,” The Butcher said.
Connar frowned. The ghost wanted him to break the cycle, doomed to repeat the same events over and over again. “I don’t think—” But it was too late, The Butcher’s form flickered and then appeared in front of his brother.
The argument from before repeated exactly how it went before, with Ruth interrupting halfway through.
The two adult ghosts stared at her, John gently urging his daughter to leave. The Butcher heaved his cleaver and swung at his brother. Blood splattered across the ground. Someone screamed.
Ruth staggered, pitching forward and falling on the ground. Connar realized with a deep horror in his bones she had protected her father and took the brunt of the injury. The girl’s ghost vanished and the brother screamed, going to attack The Butcher.
The Butcher dodged the first punch. “She deserved it. If I don’t get to have a family, you shouldn’t either.”
“Listen to yourself, that doesn’t make any sense!” John snapped back.
“My son was born stillborn and my wife died right after! You have a daughter and a healthy wife. It’s not fair. All I do day in and day out is kill the pigs. No family, nothing.”
“Jacob, I’m sorry. I really am. I ran the funeral for your family. I cared so deeply. You saw me crying,” John said, grief heavy in his voice.
Connar tugged against the vines and roots of the tree. Without the poltergeist’s full attention on him, his bindings were easier to move around in. He slowly began to untangle them.
“You never cared after that day! Spent all your time with your family and didn’t check in on me.” The Butcher stepped forward, his cleaver flashing in the air. John cried out when it hit true, the weapon lodged deep in the muscle and bone of his arm.
Connar had no idea how to break this cycle. The events he was witnessing weren’t real anymore. They had happened a century ago. But the pain, the memory, and the energy here were so intense that the wounds of John and his daughter looked real. Real flesh and bone. He’d seen some awful murders, but always after they’d happened. Never in real time.
John sobbed. The Butcher yanked the cleaver out, causing a fountain of dark, warm liquid to spray everywhere. “Goodbye John,” he said. With another swing, The Butcher killed his brother.
Connar wiggled out of his bonds and stood up from the chair, heading for the exit.
As he did, the ghosts began to repeat the same scene, beginning with the first argument. He stood at the threshold between the main room and the tunnel. Connar froze when he saw them, lining up in the tunnel.
Children. More specifically their ghosts. All the kids The Butcher had murdered the past few years, plus others he had killed over a century ago.
They looked at him, but didn’t speak like Ruth or John could. They didn’t have the same capacity or energy. An idea formed in the back of Connar’s mind. He stepped aside and did something either brave or silly.
“I invite you all in,” Connar said to the children’s ghosts.
Their forms flickered, but they walked into the room, filling it up with dozens of children.
The Butcher looked at them and then at Connar. “What did you just do, little detective?”
“Breaking the cycle for you,” Connar said. “They get their revenge, you get your end.”
The Butcher’s eyes widened and he stumbled back, hitting the clock. “No. That wasn’t the deal!” He swiped at the children’s ghosts with his cleaver, but they weren’t real anymore. He couldn’t kill them twice.
A cold wind howled through the tunnel into the room. The flashlight on the ground flickered and the candles blew out. Connar’s hair stood on end, goosebumps rising. The energy built up in the room, the children’s ghosts demanding revenge on their murderer. Collectively they overpowered the poltergeist.
The Butcher cried out as his form flickered. The children got closer and closer until The Butcher was ripped out of existence.
His cleaver clanged against the stone floor.
The ghosts—children and family—and the energy disappeared. Connar stood there, breathing heavily. He was alone, completely.
None of the ghosts were there anymore.
----
No murders happened that Halloween. Or the year after or the year after.
Connar wrote about the ghosts and how he’d solved the mystery, along with the newspaper evidence to back it up. Nobody believed him, naturally.
Well, except for the ghost hunting community. They welcomed the ex-detective into their top ranks after his articles caught their attention. It was rare that a Hunter met a poltergeist and lived to tell the tale.
That made Connar a mini-celebrity within the Hunter community. But it made him some money writing content, and eventually, getting hired to clear out hauntings.
Most people don’t believe in ghosts. But that’s okay.
Because the Hunters take care of them.
Happy Halloween!
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