A Short Story by O.J. Richards
25 June 2024
© O.J. Richards 2024
There was so much blood coming from under the door that Mr. Williams knew he had
no choice but to smash it down. Leo Williams was the electrician of a respectable
apartment building in Manhattan’s Soho district. It was a job he was good at and had trained
as an apprentice in the district. He had a good relationship with the tenants, and this was the
first time he could ever remember there being an incident.
It had been a quiet day and he had seen Mr. Drayton, who worked as a police inspector,
arrive from work only an hour earlier and there was no cause for concern. But now, as Mr.
Williams was doing some routine electrical inspection throughout the building, he saw a
small pool of blood leaking out from under Mr. Drayton’s front door.
“Mr. Drayton!” He screamed, “It’s Leo Williams. Please open the door, sir!”
He knocked and screamed for Mr. Drayton, to no reply. He knew it was time to get the door
open, so after trying the doorknob one last time, he stepped back and gave it a few hard kicks
until the door swung open. The pool of blood that had built up around the bottom of the door
was now openly spilling out into the hallway. Mr. Williams quickly stepped over it and into
Mr. Drayton’s apartment.
He began to gag almost immediately. There was blood splatter on every wall and the ceiling.
Mr. Drayton’s body was on the floor in a pool of blood. There were deep stab wounds all
over his body, especially in his head and face, and his eyes had been cut out of their sockets.
Mr Williams was on the verge on running to call for help when he noticed a small envelope
placed on Mr. Drayton’s chest. It was positioned at an angle as to not get blood on it. Mr.
William’s wanted nothing more than to run downstairs to the lobby and call the police. But
instead, almost out of instinct, he picked up the envelop and opened up the letter. It read:
March 15, 1941
To my next, undeserving victim, to whom this certainly concerns:
I am, what the papers like to call - The Minute Murderer. This title I
reluctantly accepted as I do not like being called a ‘murderer’- it is such a
lazy word! I prefer to think that I merely meet my victims. And if you are
the first one to read this letter, you have chosen for us – to meet!
Going forward, on a day of my choosing, I will give you one minute, just
one. Before our meeting begins, its violent conclusion will be projected
before your eyes, and I allow you to observe your dead, agonised corpse
for one-minute and fully absorb the horror as I arrive. And shortly
afterwards you will be dead in the manner that I have just shown you.
Why? Why would I do this, you will ask? I am a cruel man - more a
monster, I like to think. I take no pleasure in justice and have no time for
fairness. There is no discussion of your good character and no
consideration of your fine qualities. I despise you for no reason and wish
you only misfortune. In the coming future I shall watch with great pleasure
as you spend the rest of your nights fearing the darkness from which I
come and contemplating the arrival of our meeting. It will drive you to
madness and despair, and I will take residence in your thoughts as I slowly
choose which minute to end your life.
I give you no option in being my next victim, and I await our meeting
with great anticipation.
Yours Hatefully.
The Minute Murderer.
Mr. Williams read the letter and immediately recognised what he was reading. The Minute
Murderer was an urban legend in New York City. First recorded in the 1820’s, with all the
killings happening only in the five boroughs. There had been eleven murders in total; all
violent, bloody affairs, and all with a letter attached addressed to the next victim. There had
been many theories put forward: some saying that the killer is a ghost, or some kind of
monster with Telepathic abilities that shows its victims their death before killing them.
However, some observers said that was impossible and that each murder was a copycat as the
crimes had been committed years apart in a period of over one hundred years. The biggest
sceptics denied that the killings were even connected and laughed off any mystical powers as
a simple ghost story.
Mr. Williams read the letter a few times before dropping it in the blood and running down
to call the police. The murder was investigated, and Mr. Williams was even a suspect for a
short time, but eventually it was classed as unsolved, and the case was abandoned.
Afterwards Mr. Williams left this job and enlisted in the army and after 1941 was sent to fight
in The Pacific. Upon his return from the war, he settled in Brooklyn and had a job selling
electrical supplies.
But he never forgot what happened in Soho, and indeed, he struggled mentally from both
the memories of the letter, and those of the war. Mr. Williams was a good, loving man, but he
was erratic and regularly distracted, and even his closest friends could not make sense of his
crippling anxiety. Just as the letter said, he lay awake at night, seeing movements in the
shadows and his heart was pounding every time he walked into a room alone. His fears and
nervousness led him to turn to drink for comfort and his behaviour often became overbearing
for his wife and two children. But despite his problems, he worked hard and did his very best
to provide, and his family stayed together, but only just.
Twenty-one years went by since the day of the letter. It was the day of his eldest son’s
wedding, their little house in Brooklyn was beautifully decorated for the festivities. The
wedding was beautiful, and the ceremony went off without incident. There was a reception at
their house and the wedding party gathered on the lawn on that beautiful summer’s day. At
the end of the day, Mr. Williams wanted to share a cigar with his two sons, and so he went
inside the house and to his office to fetch them.
When he walked in the office was covered with blood everywhere. The walls, ceiling and
floors had long lines of blood splatter cast around. The years of built-up tension caused him
to recoil in horror and he saw himself lying on his desk. His arms and legs spread out and his
head was missing. His head had been crudely hacked off his shoulders and was lying on the
floor. His eyes were wide open with terror and his mouth was wide open, and one of the
cigars had been placed loosely between his lips.
Looking back to his body, there were cuts and slashes all over. There were so many cuts
that it had almost torn the clothes off his body completely. His abdomen was turned inside
out and there was so much blood it was almost impossible to see his desk, everything was
just a dark red. The only thing that was not covered in blood was the letter, the small cream
envelope he opened himself once, intended for the next victim. The letter was positioned
carefully to avoid staining it with blood. He remembered back to the letter, and he looked at the clock on his wall. Thirty seconds
had gone by.
Tick-tock-tick-tock.
He glared at the clock hands quickly moving its way around to the top of the clock.
Tick-tock-tick-tock.
Ten seconds and he knew it was over. In these last precious moments the only thing he
could do was say a prayer that no-one from the wedding would discover his body and open
the letter.
Then before he knew it the last second went by and the office changed before his eyes: his
mutilated body, and all the blood was all gone. His office was back to being the clean, neat,
room with three cigars waiting on his desk.
But he saw now that he was not alone. He could see the figure standing in the doorway
behind him via the reflection of his window. He slowly turned around and looked at the
shadowed figure. He could not see its face, he wasn’t even sure there was a face. There was
just darkness and shadow with nothing reminiscent of anything living. The shadowed figure
wore a fedora hat and a long trench coat which from its sleeve there protruded a long, shining
dagger.
Mr. Williams had a gun; a small snub-nosed revolver hanging up on his coat hanger behind
him. He was tempted to reach for it, but he figured it wouldn’t do much good. He knew his
minute was up and the meeting was about to begin.
The End.
Comments