Unknown Possession

Elaina Schilt and Alessia Passoni

The body crashed to the floor, blood oozing from the head. He pulled the knife out of the abdomen, smearing the excess blood on my shirt. He looked at the man’s fixed face, watching the life disappear from his eyes as his body went cold. As his thoughts consumed him, he found himself unconsciously mumbling, “I won’t stop until it’s done.”

The ringing of the sirens echoed through the air as the police cars pulled up to the dark and empty house. The blue and red lights flashed across the front of the house. The investigators entered the house. A man lay on the floor, several stab wounds covering his body and a puddle of blood pooled around his head. Garbage littered the floor, empty beer cans sat on the counter, and dozens of cockroaches scurried into the darkness as the beams from the officers’ flashlights shined across the living room.

“The body’s still warm,” observed one of the investigators. “This must’ve been recent.”
“Listen up, everybody,” the sheriff thundered, “Look for any signs of evidence around the house. Search it top to bottom!” The team split up and searched the house.

“We’ve searched the entire place, boss,” the deputy, Hect, stated to the sheriff. “There’s little to no evidence here.”

“Thanks, Heck. Whoever did this covered their tracks well,” the sheriff observed.
Back at the police station, Sheriff Joe made his way to the conference room, placing his cup of lukewarm coffee on the hard wooden desk. His head pounded as he collapsed.
He woke up and found himself lying on the conference floor. Beep, buzz. His radio was alive. Looking down at his shoe, he noticed a small drop of blood.
“We found another body,” the voice on the radio said. “Sheriff, are you there? Over.” Words flew over his head like clouds – he was still disoriented. Finally having the motivation to stand, he gathered himself.
“I’m on my way,” he grumbled into the radio. “Over and out.” Walking to his car, he dropped his keys on the ground in front of his tire. He bent down to pick them up and noticed a husk of corn caught in the wheel. I wonder how that got there, he thought to himself. The tires of his old, beat-up police car skidded over the loose gravel. He followed the dirt road into the field, rows of corn towering over him.
The sun began to sink below the horizon line, and dusk settled over the town. He came up on the ambulance pulled off on the side of the road. He stepped out of the car, his black boots making contact with the cold, damp ground. A stretcher containing a closed body bag was being carried toward the ambulance, its lights flashing.
“So, what happened here?”
“We’re not sure, but the time of death is believed to be three hours ago. Same pattern of injury as the last one. We searched the place, but we found no additional evidence,” the forensic analyst informed him.
“Wow. This is the second one in two days,” the sheriff said shakily. “They’ve gotta be connected somehow. Well, I guess we’ll finish this up in the morning.”
The sheriff returned home, kicking off his boots on the front porch, as he closed the rickety screen door behind him. He made his way toward the living room, where he fell onto the old corduroy couch, drifting off to sleep.

He was pulled to the floor, his eyes transforming to a murky gray. He grabbed the razor sharp knife as his force met the innocent victim. One two three. Over and over again. Adrenaline ran through his veins. A scarlet red stuck to his hands. The screams dissipated within seconds, as the life faded from the body.

The sheriff awoke, panting and covered in sweat. Jolting from the couch he dashed to the sink and splashed water on his face. A mixture of fear and shock turned his face ghostly white, as the feeling of guilt began to consume him.

He grabbed his worn leather suitcase and threw it onto the bed. He furiously began pulling clothes from his dresser and shoving them into the bag. He jammed the overstuffed suitcase into the cab of his truck and jumped into the driver’s seat. He floored the gas pedal and made his way down the rough old road, as a cloud of dust trailed behind him.

“Sheriff, where are you?” a voice on the radio blurted. “Are you coming in today? We need your help with these cases.” Ferociously snagging the radio from his belt, he hurled it out the window. He breathed a sigh of relief.

The gas light on the dash blinked incessantly, forcing him to pull off the highway into the nearest gas station. He frequently glanced around at his surroundings out of paranoia, fearful that someone would eventually have figured out what he had done.

He went into the gas station to pay. The dim lights buzzed overhead; the grimy and rundown building was abandoned other than the young cashier. Reaching into his pocket to grab his wallet, he started towards the counter.

“What pump were you at?” the cashier asked.

“Uhhh, number three,” the sheriff replied, handing a wad of cash over the counter. He felt the paralyzing feeling coming over him once again, and he began to run to the gas station bathroom.

He slammed the door behind him, immediately before he collapsed onto the hard, tiled floor.
Where am I? He thought to himself. What happened? He awoke sprawled out in the driver’s seat of his truck, the wide door open. There was no one in sight.

Feeling disoriented and lost, his mind brought him back to that moment, as he passed out, his head falling onto the steering wheel. He saw himself coming out of the bathroom, his eyes that same disturbing shade of cloudy white. Awakening once again, he looked around in terror. Could it possibly be? he questioned.

Terrified and overrun with apprehension, he rushed back into the gas station. He hesitantly peered over the counter, and there he saw what he had done.

The young, innocent cashier laying face down, motionless, on the floor, blood pooling around the body.
“What have I done!” The sheriff shouted, falling onto his knees. “What have I done!” he repeated over and over again, holding his head in his hands, crying.

He got up slowly, turned toward the counter, and grabbed the phone. He dialled 911.

“Hello. Yes,” he started, shakily. “I am reporting a murder off of Highway I-90 at the Marathon gas station.”

He hung up the phone, slamming it into the cradle. He bolted for the door, and jumped back into his truck.

He got back onto the highway, and continued his drive, panic was setting in, as he began to wonder what would happen to him. Unsure of what to do or where he was, he just kept going on down the road.

As night crept in, he began searching for a place to pull off for the night. He glanced at the road sign, and saw that there was a motel at the next exit in a few miles. That would do.

He pulled off of the highway and into the motel’s parking lot. He put his truck into park and stepped out onto the pavement.