Chilling Tales For Dark Nights.
A kleptomaniac is a person who can't help but steal, and they could almost be forgiven
for it.
Me, well, I'm a thieving bastard.
I don't have to steal, I don't need to, but I like to.
I don't have any excuses, either.
An excuse would suggest that I felt in some way guilty, which I don't.
Not me.
If a shop or store doesn't have the right security, or some sod doesn't have his wallet
in his inside pocket, well, they pay stupid tax.
About three years ago, I was taking a walk along the high street when I noticed a new
shop had opened.
It was a small bric-a-brac shop full of the normal old furniture, paintings, time pieces
and old coins you would expect to find in such a place.
Walking in, I noted only one old man behind the desk, and after a few minutes concluded
he was the entirety of the staff.
It was time for me to have a little fun.
I found a small pocket watch, which felt old, cast iron, and almost industrious.
"That will do," I thought, turning to see that the lone shop keep was even kind enough
to have his back to me.
Think about it, here he is.
He's new in town, just opened shop, and won't even acknowledge his first customer.
Well, "His tough luck," I thought, as I pocketed the watch and calmly strolled to the door.
I think the phrase is "blunt force trauma," but I'm not sure.
What I am sure of is that getting a big oak table leg wrapped round the back of my head
was both blunt and more than a bit traumatic.
I was probably only down for a minute or two, but by the time I was back on my feet and
bit more with it, the shop owner was between me and the door, holding the biggest sodding
knife I've ever seen.
"Lad, you wanna make sure you know who you're stealing from before you try.
You put that watch in your pocket in clear sight of my little camera here."
He pointed to where he had previously stood when -- I thought -- he could not see me.
Pointing at the wall, he revealed a security camera pointing right at the spot where I
had pocketed the watch.
"You even walked slow enough for me to turn the camera off and grab something to lump
you with, you silly little git."
I was caught, good and proper.
I asked the shop owner in, I must confess, a very pathetic voice, if he had called the
police.
He replied in a softer voice this time.
"Son, I've got you red-handed and on tape.
Here's the deal, son.
I have a close friend who is the parish priest of the church up at the top of the high street.
What I want you to do is to go to confession.
Tell him not just about today, but about all your sins, and carry out you're penance.
I will call him to say he should expect you there tonight at nine."
The shop keeper, an old, graying man, but being over 6' 5", with a big frame, and also
a massive knife, had given me a pass.
All I had to do was go to confession, tell the priest my sins, and knock out a few Hail
Mary's.
Well, I agreed.
We amazingly exchanged a polite good-bye, and I was out.
Thinking about what happened made me laugh as I walked home.
It had been just under a year since the last time I was caught, and instead of spending
a few months all-expenses paid in one of Her Majesty's lovely prisons, all I had to do
was an evening down at the church.
Nine o'clock rolled around, and I found myself sitting in the small confession booth.
It took priesty-boy forever to begin.
Well, for 10 minutes, at least, I could feel his gaze through the crosshatched partition
in the booth.
I'll be honest, it was a little unnerving.
Eventually, he spoke.
"You may begin when you are ready, my son."
At that moment in time, for some reason, the shop owner's words came to my mind and I decided
to have some fun.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It's been 18 years since my last confession."
At the 20-minute mark, I could tell old priesty-boy was getting more and more inpatient for me
to finish confessing, in vivid detail, every time I had stolen.
I ended at the 80-minute mark, feeling quite content at being able to gloat -- sorry -- "confess"
about all my sins to someone who was duty-bound to sit and listen.
"Is that all, my son?" he spat out in a far less content voice.
"Yes, Father, it is," I replied in a chirpy, smug voice.
"Now, how many prayers is all that gonna set me back?"
I asked.
And, well, mate, that's when it all went a bit mental.
The priest opened the partition and stared at me for a minute or so, eyes squinting and
face screwed up in what I thought was a temper.
He held out his right hand and said, "Take this, my son," handing me a black-stoned rosary.
"Your penance is within these beads and will take you five years."
I laughed, counting that there were 60 beads and what I guessed was supposed to be Jesus
at the bottom.
"So, what, I have to say one prayer a month or 60 prayers a day?
What prayers am I meant to say anyway?
The 'Our Father,' 'Hail Mary,' the 'Glory Be?'"
I asked the priest, putting the rosary around my neck.
Old priesty-boy's face slowly began to unscrew and his eyes began to widen.
His mouth turned from a scowl into a grin and it scared me to my very soul.
The priest, now adopting a sarcastically quizzical tone, said, "'Glory Be?'
'Hail Mary?'
No, no, no, my son.
Prayer has no place here, nor does the virgin mother, the saints, the savior, or the Father."
As the words left his mouth, I began to feel the beads of the rosary became coarse.
I, in vain, tried to remove the now stuck-fast chain.
"The trinity and its angels, and their prayer and their mercy are no longer for you, my
son."
Have you ever felt so scared that it felt almost like a fire spreading up through your
veins from your chest out to your limbs?
The base-line shot of terror that hits you in an instant of shock, but instead of fading,
holds tight its grip on you, almost pushing your blood vessels to burst under the pressure?
Well, that's how I felt.
Fighting the bile coating the base of my throat, I managed to ask, "So, what is my penance?"
The priest coldly put his hand on my shoulder.
"Once a month, you must kill somebody.
And not just anybody; it must be someone who has shown you kindness.
You must kill them and bring me their heart."
Now, maybe my fear hit critical-mass, maybe my survival instincts began to kick in, or
maybe I am indeed just a bastard, but after he told me this, I began to think in a logical
-- sadistic -- but logical way.
I was still scared, but my logical thoughts were telling me I was in no position to get
myself out of this, if the ever-burning feeling on my chest coming from the beads was as immovable
as they felt.
And with that being the case, I thought I'd better get the ground rules for this set-up
clear.
I took a deep, labored breath and began to ask priesty-boy a few questions.
Four questions, to be exact.
My first question was, "What what would constitute an act of kindness?"
The priest answered that it could be anything from a doctor's treatment to a kind word.
My second question was, "Who exactly is the figure on the base of the rosary, as I'm pretty
sure by now that it's not Jesus."
The priest answered, "That, son, is your new lord.
Our lord.
And you would do well to hold him in reverence.
The third question I asked was, "What happens to me if I fail?"
His eyes lit up with sadistic glee as he answered.
"Each of the beads on your chest are, as you by now are aware, are now embedded into your
chest.
They will continue to embed themselves further and further into your chest until they reach
your heart, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you what will happen when they do.
Not to worry too much, my son.
They will take five years to reach your heart, but for every heart you bring to me, one of
the beads will drop out of the chain and out of your chest harmlessly.
The chain and the symbol of our lord, however, will remain.
Harmless, but forever with you.
And, my son, to answer your question -- if you should fail, then you will be before the
lord himself and will have to answer to him.
Let me warn you, my son, our lord has no time for compassion or second chances.
Well, that sure as hell cleared that up, didn't it?
For a minute or two, I stood before the priest and simply wept.
Wept of the hopelessness of my situation.
Cried for my fate.
Hot wet tears ran down my cheeks as I thought of the fate that awaited me, should I fail
in this horrid, hellish task.
After that, though, I think I must have cracked.
I felt hopeless, resigned to my fate, and the only thought left in my head was, "I'm
sure I can make something from this."
With this thought, I asked my last question, "So, if you just want the heart, can I have
the rest?
Their money, valuables, and all that?"
Old priesty-boy smiled and said, "My son, all I want is the heart.
Once I have that, no one will investigate their death or even remember the wretched
soul, so, by all means, take what you want."
The priest gave to me a small wooden box.
The box was ebony and had a latched lock, a red velvet lining, and a plain wooden-handled
knife inside.
My last instructions before I left were that I was to return within four weeks with a human
heart within the box.
The heart had to be cut from the body with this knife and this knife alone.
Old priesty-boy assured me that once the heart was in his possession, then there would be
no repercussions for the murder, and as he stated before, what I did with the human and
material remains were of no interest to him.
The first one was hard.
I had to keep my now counter-productive humanity in check whilst I found someone to be kind
enough to me that would allow me to kill them.
It took me two weeks of thinking and nerve-building to do my first.
A homeless shelter.
I arrived unshaven, clothes ripped and stinking to high heaven.
The man at the desk asked if I needed any help and was more than kind enough to show
me to where I could bed for the night.
I slept in the shelter for three nights, in the stench and the lowliness of humanity's
wretches.
I hated them.
Too stupid or too proud to steal, but pathetic enough to beg at some master's table.
Two days and nights I was there.
That's how long it took me to work out the desk worker's shifts and where he parked his
car.
Two days to work out where he lived; I'm not bad at this.
He was an old, short man; he had such a warm and caring smile.
He folded like cheap lawn furniture when I belted him with the handle of my knife.
He had just unlocked his door and was halfway through the threshold when I did it.
Seconds, it took, before I was inside, door closed and locked behind us.
I kicked him in the jaw first; couldn't have him making noise, now could I?
After a few boots, he passed out, and I got the box open and ready.
I cut his throat and left him to bleed out whilst I searched his house for money or something
to fence.
300 pounds and a gold watch.
Not bad.
Now, if you think anything like me, I'm sure you are thinking two questions, and I will
answer them both.
Firstly, yes, I did leave him to bleed out, so the heart would not be beating and there
would be less chance of botching the removal.
Clever.
Secondly, no, I didn't think to get his ATM card and pin before I cut his throat.
Stupid.
But it was only my first.
I knew better for next time.
The second one.
Again a homeless shelter.
This time I only had to endure the place for one night before following the nice, young
volunteer home.
He must have been in his late twenties; I think mummy and daddy must had been paying
his was for his whole life, because he had a very smart flat that was within walking
distance.
Now, I'm not having a pop at the little git for being a pampered rich kid.
Hell, it meant I got 700 pounds cash from his flat and 2,100 pounds from his ATM card
throughout the week.
This second one got me thinking, though.
No, not about the evil of it all; I've told you, I don't have excuses.
If people don't check behind them when they unlock their door, or don't know how to disarm
a man with a knife, well, they pay stupid tax.
No, it got me thinking that I should be hitting richer people.
What the priest had told me about the lack or repercussions was right.
I'm even still living in my eigth victim's house as we speak, typing this out.
What I had to do was find a way of getting very well-off people to be just a little kind
to me.
Then I could cut out their heart and harvest their wealth.
The answer was easy.
Manners.
People are so stupid for manners.
Its can just be a "thank you" for holding a door open, or getting on the bus with a
crutch and somebody giving up their seat for me, although I'll be honest; bus kills are
not very profitable.
But mainly I hit the big posh hotels, or hospitals; lot of money in hospitals.
Doctors find it hard to refuse helping people.
Doctors are the jackpot. 15-hour shift, follow them home, and they're far too tired to put
up a fight.
I love doctors; so caring, so kind.
So rich and easy and weak, and as pathetic as the rest of them.
You may think I'm a bastard, but you have to admit, I can make the most of a bad situation.
Truth is, now I wouldn't change this life for the world.
I get to steal and kill, and I never have to worry about the law even looking for me,
let alone catching me.
Now I treat it like a job.
But the kind of job you wake up to in the morning and you can't wait to get to.
I love the feeling of cold steel piercing weak flesh, the gurgle in the throat.
And I'm so close to being able to look at the pathetic "why me?"
expression on their faces without feeling hatred for them.
Close, but not there yet.
Now then, I'm nearing the end of my little confession.
I will answer the question that, by now, you must be asking yourself.
Why the confession?
The answer is simple.
Ego.
I am now the words greatest thief...and nobody knows about it.
But anyway, that's my cross to bear.
We mustn't grumble at life's hardships, now must we?
Thank you, by the way, for taking time out of your life to read my little chunk of memoirs.
It was very kind of you.
Thank you.
You have been...very kind.