Halloween Story
I sat down at the table. Boris entered, smiled broadly at me and sat opposite. It was the first time I ever saw him smiling.
"I'm so glad you came," he said, and continued, "I want to tell you a very important story of my life that I have never told anyone. Now I'm thinking about that event all the time.”
“It was 2 years ago. I was still in the second year of the veterinary department, you know. I often worked in a vivarium and I loved all those little animals.
For several years, I was interested in fine arts. In my childhood, I drew with a pencil. That's all. Even though I did not know how to paint, I decided to paint a picture. I bought a huge canvas, pulled it on the frame and bought oil paints. I also bought a book about how to paint with oils. I learned to combine colors and began to paint. There is the only picture I made in my life, and it took almost two years.
On the summer vacation, I went to the art museum. In the museum, I saw a beautiful girl, a brunette with large black Owl eyes, perhaps a student or a schoolgirl. She was of medium height, wearing a bright colorful skirt and white blouse. She was delicate, and the wide belt of the skirt emphasized her slimness. It seemed to me that she did not weigh anything, just a feather. I spoke to her. She was an encyclopedia of painting. She knew artists, manners of painting, artistic movements. She could say something about almost every picture.
I began to question her. She had just graduated from the Pedagogical Institute and was assigned to a small southern town to teach mathematics at school. She went there to find an apartment. Now she was returning home. She had several hours between the trains, and she decided to visit the museum.
I realized that this is an ideal case. I told her about my painting and asked her to come with me, see the picture and give her opinion: "I live nearby. You'll look at the picture, then I'll take you to the bus stop, and you'll have an hour before the train leaves.” She agreed.
I lived in a studio apartment. The picture hung on the wall opposite to the entrance where everyone who came in immediately saw it. At the top of the picture was a very beautiful carved door leading to the house. There were 5 brick steps leading to the door. Each of the steps was bent upward as if it was a wave. And these five waves went down to the road covered with brick. On the sides of the road grew flowers. Instead of using a light brown brick color, I painted the steps and the road a dark red blood color. These were bloody waves, merging into the river below.
My companion, seeing the picture, opened her eyes wide, and I saw that the picture made a strong impression on her. She stood without moving, staring at the picture.
I went to the bathroom, but could not find the chloroform. I did not know what to do. Then I opened the storeroom, took the hammer, and went to her. She turned to me and smiled. Instead of hitting her, I handed her the hammer and said: "Hold on, it's to defend yourself from me."
She smiled again and took the hammer. I was shocked. I changed my mind in an instant. It was so fast I did not even have time to think.
"Well, shall we go, then?" I asked the girl.
At the exit, the girl gave me the hammer, and I put it at the door. When we reached the bus stop, we said goodbye.
It happened to me before to act so fast I didn’t have time to think. Once I was driving a car and saw an old woman on the crossing. She walked slowly, but she had time to reach the other side. I did not slow down. But the woman changed her mind and went back. At the very moment I drove up, she was just in the middle of the crossing strip on my side. I did not have time to slow down. I would have killedher. It would have meant prison for many years. In an instant, my car flew to the sidewalk. It happened automatically before I had time to think. No one was on the sidewalk at this time. I leveled the car, drove down the sidewalk and went on not even looking at the woman. I was glad that I did not kill her, and will not be jailed.
That is the story! "
The guard said the time was up.
I sat down at the table. Boris entered, smiled broadly at me and sat opposite. It was the first time I ever saw him smiling.
"I'm so glad you came," he said, and continued, "I want to tell you a very important story of my life that I have never told anyone. Now I'm thinking about that event all the time.”
“It was 2 years ago. I was still in the second year of the veterinary department, you know. I often worked in a vivarium and I loved all those little animals.
For several years, I was interested in fine arts. In my childhood, I drew with a pencil. That's all. Even though I did not know how to paint, I decided to paint a picture. I bought a huge canvas, pulled it on the frame and bought oil paints. I also bought a book about how to paint with oils. I learned to combine colors and began to paint. There is the only picture I made in my life, and it took almost two years.
On the summer vacation, I went to the art museum. In the museum, I saw a beautiful girl, a brunette with large black Owl eyes, perhaps a student or a schoolgirl. She was of medium height, wearing a bright colorful skirt and white blouse. She was delicate, and the wide belt of the skirt emphasized her slimness. It seemed to me that she did not weigh anything, just a feather. I spoke to her. She was an encyclopedia of painting. She knew artists, manners of painting, artistic movements. She could say something about almost every picture.
I began to question her. She had just graduated from the Pedagogical Institute and was assigned to a small southern town to teach mathematics at school. She went there to find an apartment. Now she was returning home. She had several hours between the trains, and she decided to visit the museum.
I realized that this is an ideal case. I told her about my painting and asked her to come with me, see the picture and give her opinion: "I live nearby. You'll look at the picture, then I'll take you to the bus stop, and you'll have an hour before the train leaves.” She agreed.
I lived in a studio apartment. The picture hung on the wall opposite to the entrance where everyone who came in immediately saw it. At the top of the picture was a very beautiful carved door leading to the house. There were 5 brick steps leading to the door. Each of the steps was bent upward as if it was a wave. And these five waves went down to the road covered with brick. On the sides of the road grew flowers. Instead of using a light brown brick color, I painted the steps and the road a dark red blood color. These were bloody waves, merging into the river below.
My companion, seeing the picture, opened her eyes wide, and I saw that the picture made a strong impression on her. She stood without moving, staring at the picture.
I went to the bathroom, but could not find the chloroform. I did not know what to do. Then I opened the storeroom, took the hammer, and went to her. She turned to me and smiled. Instead of hitting her, I handed her the hammer and said: "Hold on, it's to defend yourself from me."
She smiled again and took the hammer. I was shocked. I changed my mind in an instant. It was so fast I did not even have time to think.
"Well, shall we go, then?" I asked the girl.
At the exit, the girl gave me the hammer, and I put it at the door. When we reached the bus stop, we said goodbye.
It happened to me before to act so fast I didn’t have time to think. Once I was driving a car and saw an old woman on the crossing. She walked slowly, but she had time to reach the other side. I did not slow down. But the woman changed her mind and went back. At the very moment I drove up, she was just in the middle of the crossing strip on my side. I did not have time to slow down. I would have killedher. It would have meant prison for many years. In an instant, my car flew to the sidewalk. It happened automatically before I had time to think. No one was on the sidewalk at this time. I leveled the car, drove down the sidewalk and went on not even looking at the woman. I was glad that I did not kill her, and will not be jailed.
That is the story! "
The guard said the time was up.
"I want to live! My father is to blame!"- cried out, Boris.
We got up, and I left. Then I realized I had not asked him the questions for which I came. I wanted to ask how he chose the girls, and whether I was on his list.
Boris was a serial killer. For the past three years, several students have disappeared. They simply vanished and no one knew anything about them.
The city lived in a black mist of fear and suspicion. The guys joked, they called and with changed terrible voices would say something like:
Boris was a serial killer. For the past three years, several students have disappeared. They simply vanished and no one knew anything about them.
The city lived in a black mist of fear and suspicion. The guys joked, they called and with changed terrible voices would say something like:
"Hello, I'm a murderer. I saw you yesterday; you're so attractive. I just dream of meeting you.” And then there were proposals for the meeting place - in the library, in the park, near the cinema.
The girls, meeting in the morning at the lectures, said to each other:
"You know, the killer called me."
“- And me, too, and me too,” - said other students.
Then some guys confessed that they called, in jest.
“Wow, that's a joke! Stupid!”
I also received such calls and all the time I lived in horror; in terror. I thought I was crazy. I was afraid of my shadow.
After some time, the police figured out who was the killer. He came to almost all student parties. He behaved with restraint and dryness, did not talk to anyone, did not take care of any of the girls. The militiamen wrote down all those whom the disappeared girls knew, and Boris was on all the lists. He was followed and caught when he was ready to commit a crime.
He usually waited at the library, when some familiar girl would come out. He invited her to the cinema. On the way, he discovered that he did not have any money with him. He said that he lives near here, and will be happy to go home to get money. The girls used to say that they would pay and he would give them money later. But he never agreed. When they visited his apartment, he went to the bathroom, took a swab with chloroform and pressed it to the girl's face. When she no longer moved, he raped and killed her. His father helped him get rid of the body. Boris and his father were tried and both sentenced to death.
As the investigation later established, Boris's father in his youth was also a serial killer. He killed four girls in our city. At the scene of the crime, he left fingerprints but was not found, because he had not previously been arrested and the police did not have his prints. Then he went to a small town, got married and had three sons. Boris was the oldest. Father severely beat his wife, and she divorced him. He returned to our city, got a job in a meat-packing plant and took Boris to his place.
Boris had a mental problem. He never had friends at school or at the university. He was always alone.
I often saw Boris at the parties, but never spoke to him. I could have been one of the disappeared girls. This idea haunted me day and night. I asked one of my friends, whose father held a high position in the police, that I be allowed a meeting with the convict. After some hesitation, her father agreed to permit me a short visit. I wanted to ask Boris those two questions I just mentioned.
Telling the story of the girl from the museum, Boris wanted to tell me that somewhere deep in his soul he was a good person. He did not kill the girl because of an unconscious impulse, although, as he said before, she was an ideal victim. She was not from our city and search for her would be at a distance of hundreds of miles from her home to a new job. The probability of finding her was practically zero.
Was there really something good in the depths of his soul? Hard to say. Maniacs usually kill once every few weeks or months. Between murders, they accumulate evil energy for the next crime. Perhaps, then, in the museum, Boris was not yet ready to kill.
When he was leaving, he said that his father was to blame for everything. Of course, the father was to blame. He helped his son get rid of corpses. The father could give the son a criminal gene if it exists. But the criminal gene was not inherited by Boris’ two younger brothers. After the execution of Boris and his father, the brothers changed their surname and went to other cities. They lived a normal life, worked and had families.
And Boris said that he wanted to live; he really wanted to live. But those girls whom he killed also wanted to live.
And I wanted to live. When I heard that all the missing students were blondes, I was seized up with a sharp alarm. I had rich, light, long hair to my waist. I was very proud of my hair and often changed my style - laying a braid around my head, or collecting hair on the back of my neck in a big heavy knot, or plaiting braids. And it turned out that my pride contained a great danger. After consulting with my parents, I dyed my hair dark. I felt humiliated, as if I betrayed myself.
After the meeting with Boris, I went to the hairdresser's and asked to cut off my dyed hair and shave my head. Later I realized that in life there are times when under the pressure of circumstances, people are forced to change against their will not only color but also work, home, friends, and sometimes even thoughts and beliefs.
