The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

My Guilt Has No Face
by Naching T. Kassa

It’s been 632 days since the accident. Tomorrow will be 633.

I’d had my license exactly 11 days when I hit him. I didn’t see him in the street. Didn’t see him with his dog. The dog lived. He did not.

Everything about him is burned into my memory. His name was John Roper. He lived at 23 East Hawking Street with his dog, Harry. His wife, Miriam, had died a few months before. She’d been murdered.

No one knew who’d done it. John had been at work. He wasn’t allowed to use his phone there, so he’d never received her call begging for help. If she’d called 911 instead of her husband, she might have lived.

There were eyewitnesses. All of them agreed the man had worn a mask. It was white and it smiled, just like the one in Ancient Greek Theater. The one they call “Comedy.” They’d seen him leaving John’s house in an old beater, one that looked as patchwork as Frankenstein’s monster. You’d think the thing’d be easy to find, but it wasn’t.

John was never the same after Miriam died. They say he went a little nuts, kept walking the streets with his dog, looking for her murderer. He zoned out most of the time. More often than not, he’d walk into traffic. Everyone said it’d be the death of him.

Do you know what I was looking at when I hit him? I haven’t told anyone about this. I don’t think they’d believe me.

There was a man standing on the opposite side of the road. He was wearing a mask. A white smiling mask. I’m sure Mr. Roper saw him. That’s why he ran out in front of me. If I hadn’t snuffed out Mr. Roper’s life, he would’ve had him.

Things got really hard after the accident. I started having nightmares and panic attacks. My schoolwork suffered, I lost my job. And forget driving a car. My sudden fainting spells ended that.

Only one thing saved me. Harry.

Harry was a funny mutt. I didn’t know much about dogs. And, for some dumb reason, I thought he’d hate me for what I’d done. But he didn’t. He became attached to me. And, because he didn’t have anyone, I took him in.

Every time I felt sad, Harry would do something funny to cheer me up. Every time I had a panic attack, he calmed me down. Harry was always there. Always with me when I needed him. He was even there when I started hunting the man in the white mask.

I knew I had to make it up to Mr. Roper, and the only way to do that was to find the man who killed his wife. So, I started walking around town with Harry, looking for him.

Three women have died since we started our search. All of them were home alone. All were allowed to make a phone call to their busy husband. All were strangled while leaving a message.

I think the killer knew the husbands. I think he does this to hurt them. Maybe, they pick on him, and this is how he gets back at them. He likes control. He needs control. And the mask, it gives him control.

It’s taken 632 days, but we’ve finally found him.

He’s standing across the street from us. His mask is smiling.

I’m going to catch him this time.

It’s dark and foggy out here. I see him, he’s beckoning me. I want to go, but Harry won’t let me. He’s got my pant leg in his teeth.

The man in the mask is taunting me. He’s coming closer.

The car comes out of nowhere.

Brakes screech, and the air is filled with the smell of burning rubber. There’s a sickening crunch when the car strikes.

I lay on the pavement. There’s blood. So much blood.

But it isn’t mine.

Harry licks my face. The mask lies cracked on the pavement. It’s been one day since Mr. Roper was avenged. Tomorrow will be two.

.

Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

 

More from Naching T. Kassa:

Sherlock Holmes and The Arcana of Madness: A Horror Mystery

Discover the untold mysteries of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in Sherlock Holmes and the Arcana of Madness, a trilogy that unveils three captivating cases intertwined with the mystical allure of tarot cards, designed by the renowned, yet infamous artist, Richard Dadd.

A collection of manuscripts, meticulously penned by John H. Watson M.D., is unearthed in 2019 amidst the restoration of Broadmoor Hospital, found inexplicably in the grave of Richard Dadd. The manuscripts’ concealed journey and their remaining unpublished raise a myriad of questions, enveloping them in a veil of mystery.

Available on Amazon!