Tim Baxter was always just a little eccentric.
It was no secret in our small town. Everyone knew everything about everyone, but nobody knew anything about Tim. He moved to Bridgewater in sixth grade and we went through middle school and freshman year of high school together with zero interaction, a surprising feat since we were always close in proximity by alphabetical order. Elizabeth Avery. Timothy Baxter.
I didn’t speak a word to him until we were partnered in tenth grade biology. He was smart enough to do most of the work on all of our assignments - I was more of an English and history girl and therefore a pretty useless partner. But he was terribly shy, always blushing when our hands would accidentally meet over test tubes and textbooks. And he was cute in a nerdy sort of way; tall and skinny with a messy mop of black hair and hazel eyes that always seemed fixed intently on whatever he was doing. That year, I found myself drawn to his quiet intensity.
“What do you think about Tim?” I remember asking my friend Annie in between classes one day, leaning against her locker in the midst of hallway chaos.
“Baxter?” She confirmed, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “I don’t think about Tim Baxter at all.”
I realized this was everyone’s attitude towards Tim. He didn’t have any close friends, at least not at our school, but he was never a target for humiliation or gossip. He was comfortable being a loner and there was an unspoken agreement between everyone else to let him.
Afterwards, of course, they all invented stories. Like the time Jeff Hanna broke his leg during football practice and later swore it was actually Tim who pushed him down the stairs. Or when Samantha Harper said she was walking home at night and saw Tim following her in his car, only driving off when she ran screaming into a neighbor’s house. It’s all lies. Just bored people trying to paint themselves into a tragedy that nobody saw coming.
It rained a lot that fall, casting our town in depressing hues of grey and littering the streets with soggy trails of red and brown leaves. It was coming down hard while I waited for Annie in the school parking lot, cranking the heat in my ancient Chevy Tahoe. As one of the few sophomores with a driver’s license and the only one with her own car, I was constantly carting my friends around like a personal chauffeur.
Hurry up, I texted her.
5 min! Sorry! She replied instantly. Annie had gym last period and she always took forever in the locker room. The 3:15 mass exodus had reached its frenzied peak and I was the only stationary car in the lot.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, I saw Tim Baxter, backpack over his head, walking quickly through a maze of cars towards the sidewalk. I rolled down my window and immediately got soaked in the process. “Tim!” I shouted, barely able to hear myself over the roar of sudden thunder and honking cacophony of students. He kept moving, oblivious, so I beeped twice. He whipped around, squinting to see the source. I waved a hand out the window and motioned for him to get inside before rolling the window back up.
Tim slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut with a quick thud. He was drenched from head to toe. I suddenly felt vulnerable. I had been this close to Tim in class before, but it was different without the harsh fluorescent lights or the presence of our teacher and classmates. Being alone in my warm car in the pouring rain was almost too intimate.
“Hey!” I said, too loud for our close quarters. “Do you need a ride home?”
Tim ran his hands through his slick hair nervously, shaking droplets of water off in the process. “Uh, well, I missed my bus,” He said. “I was just going to walk. It’s - it’s not far.”
“Oh, come on,” I said. “You’re already in my car.”
“Uh, that’s okay, Beth,” Tim said, nervously. “I think it’s letting up outside.”
As if on cue, a flash of lightning lit up the lot and a deafening boom of thunder followed. I couldn’t help but laugh and Tim, reluctantly, smiled back. It was a kind smile and I felt myself getting self conscious again.
“Just tell me where to go,” I said as I pulled out my phone and texted Annie, ETA?
10 minutes. Sorry. Dana is in middle of a ridic story. BTW she needs a ride, she wrote a few seconds later.
Hang out for a bit. I’ll come back for both of you, I texted back, having to retype a few misspelled words due to my shaking hands. After a second of consideration, I added, Giving Tim a ride home. I hit send and quickly put my phone back into the cup holder, not bothering to wait for a response. I wasn’t sure what she’d say to that anyway and, at that moment, I didn’t want to know.
Tim gave me his address as I navigated through the parking lot mayhem. I told him he could put on whatever music he wanted, but he didn’t, so we sat in silence.
When I turned onto his street, a hidden avenue off one of the backroads, I was surprised to see it was a cul de sac lined with identical split-level homes and green, manicured lawns. “Wow,” I couldn’t help exclaiming.
“What did you expect?” Tim asked. Not in a defensive way, but like he was genuinely curious about any preconceived notions I had about him.
“Honestly,” I replied, thinking of Annie’s sentiments from the week before. I don’t think about Tim Baxter at all. “I have no idea.”
He pointed to a house on the right, a glistening number 23 above the pale blue front door, and I pulled up to the sidewalk. An expensive-looking pickup truck was parked in the driveway.
“Are your parents home?” I asked, suddenly hit with years’ worth of curiosity.
“Just my dad,” Tim answered, his eyes on his house. “My mom is… she’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry,” I told him and meant it. I didn’t know anyone who had lost a parent before and I couldn’t imagine what that was like. The closest I’d come to death was a deceased great aunt who I never met. I was dragged to her funeral when I was 10 and spent the entirety of the service folding the program into a paper fortune teller. “She passed away?”
“I...I don’t know,” Tim answered. He turned his gaze to his lap, stretching his hands over his dark jeans. “She’s just... gone.”
“Oh,” I said, dumbly, mentally slapping a hand to my forehead for dredging up the horrible, painful memories of a boy I barely knew. “Sorry.”
“Thanks for the ride,” Tim said quietly. He placed his hand on the door handle, but didn’t make a move to leave. He turned to me, his eyes boring into mine. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“You know,” Tim started, struggling to find his words. “Being...I don’t know, being nice, I guess. To me.”
I felt a pang of guilt in my chest. “I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I replied. “That’s just what friends do.”
That made us both pause. Were we friends now? I wanted to be. But what did that mean? I couldn’t picture Tim and Annie fighting playfully for shotgun in my car, or sharing a booth with our friends at Dalrymple’s after a Friday night football game. I tried to imagine myself tagging along for some of his hobbies, too, but I really didn’t know what Tim did besides ace biology tests.
After a few seconds, he gave me a slow, sad smile and shook his head. “You don’t want to be my friend, Beth. Trust me.”
From the house, I saw the front door open; a figure moved inside behind the glass door. Tim followed my gaze and his expression darkened. He gathered his backpack at his feet and slung it over a shoulder. “See you tomorrow,” he muttered and jumped out, slamming my door. I watched him sprint up the walkway and disappear into his home, the blue front door shutting behind him.
“Bye,” I mumbled to my empty passenger seat. I drove further down to the circle and turned around, driving back up the way I came. As I passed Tim’s house, struggling to see in the rain, I thought I saw a silhouette in the window, watching my moving car before dropping the curtains back into place.
The next day, Tim was late to class. My heart sank when I walked in the room to see two empty stools at our blacktop table. I plopped down, dejected, and pulled my books from my messenger bag, keeping my eyes on the door. The bell had rung and Mr. Goldstein was already five minutes into a discussion about homeostasis when Tim burst into the room, murmuring an apology as our teacher tapped his watch.
“Long time, no see,” I whispered jokingly when he sat down next to me. “I was beginning to worry I’d actually have to pay attention.”
My smile faded when he turned to me. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes burned with a steely indifference that I’d never seen before.
“Do you want to come over after school?” He asked me. It should have been a light question, but it was said like a curt command. There was no affection in his gaze.
“Uh, sorry?”
“Do you. Want. To come over. After school,” Tim enunciated his words like he was losing patience with me. I’d never seen Tim angry or even slightly annoyed before. What could I have possibly done?
“I thought you didn’t want to be my friend,” I joked, grinning again. He didn’t respond. O...kay. “I, uh, can’t. I-I told my mom I’d pick up groceries for dinner tonight.” It wasn’t a lie - I had promised my mom I would run to the store to get fresh vegetables and a jar of sauce - but I was grateful to have an excuse.
“Okay, what time works?” Tim asked in the same tone. “Can you come over after dinner?”
I thought about it. If Tim hadn’t been acting so weird, I would have leapt at the chance to spend more time with him. Maybe he was just nervous? I mean, I’d never seen him talk to another girl before, I doubt he ever invited one to hang out at his house.
“Um, I guess so,” I answered. “I can drive over around 7?”
“No, I’ll pick you up,” Tim said and turned back to face the front of the room. He didn’t speak again until the bell rang at the end of class. “See you at 7,” he said and shot up towards the door, pushing past other kids on his way out.
The only light in Tim’s den came from the blue glow of the television. We were watching the rerun of some insipid sitcom with the volume turned down low. I had done most of the talking since Tim picked me up and brought me over, about 20 minutes before. He would nod silently when I spoke, staying transfixed on the TV, and only give short, gruff answers to any of my questions.
After a few minutes of listening to nothing but the overblown laugh track of the show, I exhaled slowly. “So what are we doing exactly?”
“Hanging out,” Tim answered flatly.
“I see,” I said. I scanned the room, the only one I had seen since entering his house. It was pretty sparse, save for the TV, a coffee table and the couch we were sitting on. The single window on the opposite wall by the door was covered by a thick curtain, one that looked like it would block out all sunlight, even if it wasn’t already dark outside. Two large piles of cardboard boxes were stacked in the corner.
“What are the boxes for?”
Tim glanced at the piles, hesitating before answering, “Garage sale.”
“Oh...cool,” I said. Another potential conversation thwarted. “Did you...want to maybe watch a movie?”
Tim shrugged, but didn’t reach for the remote. This was going to be harder than I thought. We were able to talk and trade laughs in class effortlessly before today. I decided to switch my approach.
“You know, I figured out what you’re doing,” I told him.
Tim jolted, shocked. He whirled around to face me with wide eyes. “What? You - you did?”
I nodded, solemnly. “Yes, I did,” I said. “You’re not as clever as you think you are. This whole thing you’ve got going on is obvious.” I gestured to the TV and then waved my hand around him.
“It is?”
“Timothy, dear,” I said and patted his knee. “You are trying - unconvincingly, I might add - to be boring in your efforts to reject my friendship.”
Tim glanced down at my hand still on his knee and his shoulders sagged as if deflating from an unknown tension.
“But it’s not going to work,” I continued. “You can’t tell me I shouldn’t want to be your friend when we’re already friends. It’s too late.”
Tim placed his hand over mine and grasped it, staring down. When he looked up at me, his eyes were brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry, Beth,” he said.
“I was just joking! You don’t have to - “ I started before Tim leapt off the couch to his feet.
“I… I’ll go make us some popcorn,” Tim announced in a strangled voice. “And then we can watch a movie.”
He moved quickly to a swinging door and I caught a glimpse of his retreating back headed up a small set of stairs to the right.
I sat in stunned silence. What was happening? Was that my fault? I hadn’t meant to pressure him into anything - I just wanted to get to know him better. Clearly, I had stepped over some invisible boundary. He didn’t want me here and I must have pushed him to think he had to invite me.
“Tim, it’s okay,” I stood up and called loudly, hoping he could hear me. “We don’t need to watch a movie. I’ll - I’ll just head home. Thanks for having me.”
I slung my purse over my shoulder and headed for the door. I tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. I looked for a lock on the handle or a dead bolt above it; there was nothing. I distinctly remembered Tim using a key when we first got there; I had walked towards his front door, but he beckoned me to the side entrance of the den, unlocked it and we both stepped inside. Did the door only lock from the outside? That didn’t make any sense.
I was still fiddling with the knob when I heard heavy footsteps behind me.
“Are you Elizabeth?”
I turned in surprise. A man in his mid-40s was standing by the still swinging door. He could only be Tim’s father - he had a mop of black hair cut shorter than Tim’s and he was just as tall, but broader, looking much stronger and sturdier in his clunky, steel-toed work boots. He was holding a bowl of popcorn in one hand.
“Y-yes,” I stammered.
“Sorry about that door,” he said, placing the bowl on the coffee table. “I’ve been meaning to replace the knob. It’s a real pain in the ass.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and walked towards me, thrusting a thick hand in my direction. “I’m Tim’s dad, John Baxter. It’s nice to finally match a name with the face.”
I shook his hand - he had a vice grip - as he towered over me. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up to the elbows, straining against his thick, muscled forearms. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Baxter,” I said and forced a smile while digging in my purse for my car keys. “Sorry, but I do have to go. Should I just use the front door?”
“Call me John,” He said and rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I ask how you’re getting home?”
“Oh, I’m driving my - “ Dammit. I realized mid-sentence that I didn’t have my car. Tim had driven me over in the pickup truck. “Uh, I can just call my dad for a ride.”
“Nonsense! Tim is a gentleman and he can give a lady a ride home,” John said, taking my purse unwillingly from my hand in one swift movement and dropping it on the table next to the popcorn. He sat down on the end of the couch and patted the cushion next to him. “Just wait here. I’m sure he’ll be down any second.”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. So much for my escape plan. The only thing more awkward than forcing an anti-social teenager into a movie night was making small talk with parents. I reluctantly shuffled past him to sit down.
“I have to apologize about my son,” John said and faced me, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I’m afraid he doesn’t have many girlfriends. Or any friends for that matter. You’re the first person he’s ever brought to the house.”
Well, I could have guessed that. “It’s no problem,” I said meekly.
“He said some really wonderful things about you,” John continued. “He’s just not the greatest host. He...to be honest, he hasn’t been the same since his mother left years ago.”
My breath caught in my throat. So that’s what Tim meant by “gone.” His mom had abandoned him.
“That’s awful,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”
John held up his hands and shrugged. “Hey, it is what it is,” he sighed. “I learned to accept it a long time ago. But I don’t think Tim ever really got over it. He’s scared, you know? To let people get too close, to care too much about them, in case they decide to leave. That’s probably why he’s been acting so strangely. I hope you can forgive him.”
Every detail seemed to click into place; I felt so guilty for even thinking about leaving that night without saying goodbye. “Of course,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re a sweet girl, Elizabeth,” John said and smiled. Even in the dim light of the TV, I could see he had the same piercing hazel eyes as Tim. “I understand now why my son is so fond of you.” He reached out, putting one of his enormous hands on my thigh.
I felt my stomach drop, heavy with the sense of unmistakable dread. “Thanks, Mr. Baxter,” I squeaked out.
“I told you. Call me John,” he repeated, moving his thumb in a slow circle over my jeans.
“John,” I said and forced myself to turn my lips up. I needed to go. Now.
“You know, you have such a pretty smile,” He cooed, removing the hand on my thigh to lightly touch my cheek. His hands felt rough and calloused on my face. I bawled my hand into a fist at my side, bracing to land a punch if I needed to. Lonely single father or not, what kind of creep puts the moves on a high schooler?
“I really should be going,” I said and shot up. “My dad is on his way to get me now.”
“I thought you still had to call him,” John corrected me in an even voice. “Sweetheart, I can give you a ride. I really don’t mind - “
“No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, that’s really nice, Mr. Bax - John. But I don’t want to put you out.”
John let out a deep sigh. “I understand,” He said and braced his hands on his knees before standing. “Look, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean anything by it. And I can ask Tim to take you back instead. Just wait one second.”
As he headed to the swinging door, his back to me, I leaned down and pulled my phone from my purse, shoving it into the front pocket of my jeans. He turned to face me immediately after, pushing the door open with one arm and calling up to Tim.
“He’s right over here,” John said, beckoning me over.
I glanced between him and the locked door on the other side of the room. I didn’t have much of a choice. I picked my purse off the table and walked towards the door, my heart pounding in my chest.
I stepped into the next room through the little space that John allowed between his body and the door frame, shuddering slightly when my back brushed briefly against his chest. The room was the size of a large closet or pantry with a broom, mop and cleaning supplies propped up in the corner. At the top of the carpeted stairs to my right, I could see a kitchen, empty except for a refrigerator and another pile of cardboard boxes. To my left, an open basement door revealed three rickety wooden stairs that disappeared into darkness. “Tim?” I called shakily up into the kitchen, swallowing the rising panic in my throat.
“He’s down there,” John said, his breath hot on the back of my neck as he nudged me towards the basement. “Go ahead, honey.”
I peered into the black abyss. It was now or never.
I dug my elbow into John’s stomach and kicked my foot back into his shin before bolting to the kitchen stairs. I had only made it up halfway before he tugged me back down. My stomach slid across the squeaking linoleum floor, my hands outstretched and trying desperately to grab hold of anything, as I was dragged over the stairs. Two strong arms wrapped around my waist and lifted me up, kicking and screaming. He threw me down onto the first basement step, ripping my purse from my shoulder and flinging it onto the floor behind him, tearing the leather strap in the process. He kicked me hard in the back and I yelped in pain as I tumbled down, down, down into the darkness, landing hard on the floor while the door above me slammed shut.
I laid there for a few minutes in agony, my face pressed against the cool cement. I was too scared to feel the full extent of my injuries just yet, but my body was still aching. My head throbbed and I lifted a shaky hand to my forehead to feel a warm, wet wound by my hairline - I was bleeding. I put my hands on the ground and tried to push myself up. Kneeling, I attempted to stand, but cried out at the sharp, shooting pain in my right ankle. I had definitely broken a bone.
I looked around, blinking, and tried to make my eyes adjust to the surroundings. It was pitch black; I couldn’t even see my own hand in front of my face. And the smell was horrible, like rancid, stale flesh. Suppressing the urge to sob, I groped around with my hands, hoping to find something solid to hold onto. My left hand hit something cold and it made a hollow, metallic clang. I worked my way down, running my fingers over something round and rubber - a wheel?
Suddenly, I remembered my phone in my pocket, my mind racing. With an enormous amount of effort, I flipped myself onto my back and dug into my front pocket, clicking the small home button. I had to close my eyes against the immediate brightness. The screen was cracked, nearly shattered from the fall, but I could still make out the icons and battery. No service - of course. I stifled a frustrated scream. I dialed 911, knowing it couldn’t connect. Hadn’t I seen something online before about 911 still being able to trace your call even without service? My parents knew I had been picked up by my biology partner, “just a boy from school,” but they didn’t know where he lived and probably didn’t glance at the truck parked outside our house. I wasn’t even sure if I’d told them his name. I let the call continue and clicked back to the home screen, turning on the flashlight to sweep across the room. I saw that my ankle was twisted at an impossible angle. Trying not to focus on my body, I turned the light towards the stairs and up. From where I was, the door looked like the same one in Tim’s den with no locks or chains on this side. I swiveled the phone to the right to survey the room and gasped.
Unlike any of the near-empty rooms upstairs, the basement was filled. It really was a wheel I had touched in the dark - I looked up at the underside of a gurney. Rows of surgical equipment lined the walls along with power tools. Knives. Saws. A drill. All hung neatly in place and all stained with a faded rust color. A stack of shelves underneath the tools was lined with more than a dozen glass jars filled with varying horrifying contents; a few jars held different clumps of hair in colors from red and blonde to black and brown, while some held...parts. My flashlight caught the glint of something reflective - it was a silver ring on an amputated finger. I dropped my phone and turned my head to the side, gagging and fighting the urge to get sick. Hot tears spilled onto my cheeks.
I picked the phone back up to see that the call had disconnected on its own. But there was one bar! I shuddered and dialed the numbers again desperately. I heard heavy footsteps upstairs. Panicking, I clicked send. There was fumbling above me in the kitchen - John or maybe Tim unlocking the door. Trying to steady my breathing and hoping for the best, I had just managed to slide the phone underneath a stair when the door at the top of the stairs opened and the room was flooded with light.
I rolled onto my stomach and used my elbows to army crawl away from the bottom of the stairs as John clunked down them.
“E-liz-a-beth,” he said in a gleeful sing-song voice. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He was on me in seconds, delivering a soft yet swift kick to my ribs with his steel-toed boot. I whimpered in pain.
“Oh, honey, that ankle looks bad,” He cooed, kneeling down and flipping me over in one fluid motion. He carried a scalpel and was wearing a surgical gown over his clothes. Most frightening of all, I could see no anger or hatred in his gaze, those same hazel eyes that had drawn me to his son - only pure joy. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”
He smoothed my matted, blood-streaked hair off my face, leaned down and kissed my forehead gently. I stared past him, up at the blinding light hanging overhead. I was going to die alone in this basement. I was going to die slowly, painfully and completely alone.
He was in the process of scooping me off the floor when I shouted out, “Wait! Please! Mr. Baxter, wait! Don’t hurt me!” He paused. I prayed with everything I had to a God that I never believed in that someone had answered that phone call, that someone could hear me. Maybe that would be enough to figure it all out and send help. And maybe the call had cut out immediately and I was screaming out clues for a puzzle that no one would ever solve.
“Elizabeth, I’m not going to tell you again,” he snapped, dropping his polite pretenses. “Call me John.”
It all happened very quickly. As he lifted me from the floor like a ragdoll, I heard a sickening crack and I came crashing back to the ground in a crumpled heap. John cursed loudly and sagged over me. Behind him, Tim stood with an aluminum bat raised in his hands. He looked at me, his eyes wide with fear.
“Beth, run!” He shouted as he dealt another blow to his father’s back.
I pushed myself up, almost falling back down at the crippling pain in my ankle. I hopped on one foot over to the stairs and staggered back into the gurney. I noted in horror that it was occupied, a body under a white sheet, with a limp, decaying hand exposed. I crawled up the stairs on my hands towards the door Tim left open, looking nervously at him and his father below.
“You little bastard!” I heard John yell as he caught the bat during one of Tim’s swings. They struggled back and forth as John stood, trying to wrestle the bat from his hands. I moved faster, ignoring the pain, and didn’t look back.
Once I made it safely to the landing, I steadied myself for a limping run through the den. I threw open the curtains of the window and cursed - they were barred. I limped back up towards the kitchen and up the stairs. I navigated through the first floor of the house, room after empty room filled with cardboard boxes and made it to the front door. Mercifully, it locked from the inside. As I undid the chain, I heard thunderous footsteps coming up from the basement. Sweating and fighting sobs, I yanked the door open and fell out into the chilly night. It was raining again. I stumbled over the grass and made a beeline for the nearest house to the right, about fifty yards away. But I stopped cold when I heard someone crashing around behind me, closing in. I would never make it. Not on my ankle. Not with him pursuing me.
I quickly hopped left towards the driveway, only a few steps away. I hoisted myself up onto the tailgate and tumbled clumsily into the truck bed, lying flat and trying fearfully to slow my ragged breathing. I heard the front door open and shut and John’s heavy steps down the walkway.
“Where are you?” He snarled and I heard the wet grass swallow his steps with small gurgles. I heard him draw closer, shut my eyes and braced myself to be found. But it sounded like he was wandering past the truck, most likely into the surrounding arc of trees between the Baxters’ and their neighbors to the left.
I’m not sure how long I stayed like that, crying silently and paralyzed with fear while the rain fell on my bruised and broken body. It felt like minutes. It felt like hours. I didn’t even hear the approaching sirens or the police officers shouting and entering Tim’s house. All I could hear was the deafening sound of my own heartbeat and the pitter-patter of rain on the truck bed. An officer finally found me, peering down into the bed and gasping in surprise, reaching down to extend a hand, calling out, “She’s over here! Miss, are you alright? Miss?”
“Please help,” I whispered. Whether it was for me or Tim, I’m not sure.
It turns out, the call did connect. A 911 dispatcher heard my screams and the ensuing scuffle and sent three squad cars to Tim’s address. They found John wandering through the nearby woods with a bloody bat in hand. When he resisted arrest and toppled an officer, raising the bat above his head, he was shot in the stomach and died that night. Tim was found in the basement, beaten to a pulp, but alive.
John Baxter killed 26 women in the span of two decades. Eight were prostitutes he encountered while he was still in undergrad, then med school. One was his wife. The rest were women of all ages in all different parts of the country. The dead body on the gurney was Tracey Finn, a 27-year-old waitress from New Jersey that he had seduced into coming back to his hotel room. John had used his son to recruit four of his victims, forcing him to play bait as a lost kid looking for his dog at 6, as a boy in need of an after-school babysitter at 9, as a hitchhiking 11-year-old runaway and as a 13-year-old waiting for his ride in a city bus stop. John never chose a girl from the same town and never chose someone from the places he lived. Until he saw me; it had been too long since his last and he just couldn’t resist. He planned to move away with Tim that night. To his neighbors, John himself was always just a little eccentric, too, but they never knew enough about him to figure it out.
These were things I was told afterwards by the news and my parents, in small increments, when the nightmares finally stopped and I felt like I was ready to know.
The victims were all identified by John’s jars...his souvenirs. The rest of the tales were provided by Tim who told as much as he knew to the police. They decided against charging a minor with accessory to murder and attempted murder and instead sent him away to an undisclosed psychiatric hospital for severe behavioral effects associated with child abuse and abandonment. I never got to say goodbye.
That’s when the stories started. Tim was seen stalking through the trees at a girls’ track meet. Tim had tried to kidnap a freshman by the strip mall. Tim called half of the junior class from an unknown number, never saying a word, just breathing in a shallow, raspy voice. The boy we went to school with had been nothing more than scenery, but the boy who got sent away was turned into a killer, molded from his father’s sins and twisted into an urban legend told at sleepovers and around pep rally bonfires. It didn’t matter what I said or what the truth was - that Tim had risked his life to save mine. I watched their version of me morph over the years, too, from the lucky survivor to the poor, untouchable thing ruined by an almost tragedy. I nearly raced across the stage at graduation in my haste to move away and leave them all behind me.
I managed not to think too much about the whole ordeal for years. Until last week when I thought I spotted him at a diner in Virginia Beach. I was there with Annie and a group of college friends for our senior spring break. Sitting on the curb and smoking a cigarette while I waited for the girls to finish their convenience store run and pump gas in the car, I saw a tall man across the street in the big window of the diner. He was heavier than the Tim I knew and his black hair brushed his shoulders as he leaned over a table, loading a bin with dirty plates and silverware. There was a Celtic cross tattoo on his left forearm. I jumped up before he raised his head and hightailed it back to the car. It might not have been him, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.
I always wondered what happened to Tim. I never blamed him for what happened. He had saved my life in the end and I’d always be grateful for that. I hoped he was doing well and I wanted him to be happy. But I never tried to seek him out. I didn’t stop to see his face that night and I never would.
I never wanted to see his father’s eyes again.
Submitted March 26, 2017 at 03:57AM by jesswhatineeded http://ift.tt/2niM3i5 nosleep
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