PREFACE

The evening had a crisp, fresh bite to it. It was a freezing, but dry night in Dublin. The streets of the Irish capital were jammed to capacity with Christmas revellers, all moving about doing their Christmas shopping. People–all dressed in their Sunday best–bustled and queued to get into their favourite shops on high street. They wanted to make sure they got the very best of presents for their little ones on this Christmas week. There was a smell in the air; a smell one would only get this time of year: The smell of Christmas.

However, there was one man in the city, who cared not, about the festivities. He had his own plans to carry out on this Holy Week. He was the Reaper

The cold prickled sharply at the Reapers’ face and he watched as his breath formed a dense fog before him. He loved the cold, especially the winter and what it entailed. Winter is when things begin to slow, when animals like bears and squirrels go into hibernation, when leaves do not grow on trees, and when birds have to fight every day for survival. It is when rain and snow fall from the heavens, when some insects cannot exist, and when crops will not grow to feed those who drastically need food.

The name winter comes from a Germanic word that means, "time of water". This concept fascinated the Reaper. Winter also brought about death. However, all life needs death. It brings death to many, especially the homeless who cannot find shelter from the elements, especially the cold. The Reaper has no pity on them, as he sees it as a way of filtering out those who have no purpose in this world; those who have no meaning, no influence on anything; those who are just a hindrance. He also gets off on seeing these people die, on seeing them suffer.

A few years ago, the Reaper had spent some time in Yellowknife, Canada, which he considered a lovely country. He reminisced about when he was there; he would go searching the streets in the morning after an ice storm the night before. The Reaper would walk about and gaze upon the huge icicles that hung from branches on trees, dragging them down under their weight. Some of the icicles were so big that they pulled down entire power lines, leaving the city without electricity. Amazing thought the Reaper, how the cold could do so much damage.

The Reaper would go on a mission to search for frozen statues; people who had been frozen in time, still in the same position they had fallen asleep in the night before. He would find these statues. They could be found lying in gutters and storm drains, where the unfortunate victims had hidden from the elements, but without success. The Reaper knew that their names would not even make the local newspapers. They were nobodies, outcasts, and with no other purpose in life, except to die. Nobody cared about these creatures; it was as if they appeared out of nowhere, and there were no family members, loved ones, or friends around to bury their bodies.

However, as one would die, there would be twenty others to take their place on the streets. It was something, which had spiralled out of control and would continue to spiral for many years. Would there be anything done about this epidemic? No, was the obvious answer. Although there are people out there eager enough to try to help these poor unfortunate souls, the epidemic would grow so fast, it would outgrow the help people could provide, or the assistance any government could offer. Like rodents, the Reaper thought, exterminate them all, before they got the chance to succumb to their frozen inevitability.

The Reaper would love to do the exterminating on behalf of these people and governments, but he just did not have the time. He has his own hunger to satisfy, his own personal missions to carry out, which seemed like an endless spiral of his own.

The Reaper has been doing his own exterminations for many years now. Hundreds have died by his hand; plus, he knows himself, each kill only makes him stronger, invincible, and more elusive. He cannot and will not be caught–he has performed so many exterminations that with every kill, he has learned new ways of covering his tracks to elude ever being caught. New ways of killing, new tricks to aid him in his slayings. The Reaper learns, as technology and science becomes more diverse, and evolves with time.

The Reaper lies in wait for his victim. He waits on tenterhooks, craving to feel the warm blood on to his hands. The smell: he anticipates the waft of the fresh kill, the smell of death, which would be similar to the smell one would get walking into a slaughterhouse. The smell triggers hormones in the Reaper’s brain, which stimulate every nerve ending in his body.

He waits silently, sitting on an empty beer crate between two dustbins. The Reaper shielded by broken down cardboard boxes, of which he arranged in a way that can unfold to one side with little ease and no noise.

Patience is a virtue with the Reaper, a level of patience similar to that of the trap-door spider, a spider that sits undercover and waits patiently on its prey. The Eastern American trap-door spider was another thing the Reaper found fascinating. The simplicity in the way it hunts, he finds amazing. Bearing the scientific name Ummidia aouduini, the spider sits just behind the door it created over its burrow, a door made from grains of sand and bound together with the spiders web. The trap-door spider strikes when its prey comes within range. A strategic attack; a gift granted from many years of evolution.

Similar to the spider, the Reaper is a predator, which has also evolved through time to become the killer he is today. He spends weeks; sometimes, even months of planning his one kill, with every aspect of the behaviour of his victims taken into consideration. Movements, likes and dislikes. What they have for breakfast, dinner, and tea. What side of the bed they sleep on. The Reaper likes to know his victim inside and out. He even tries to meet his target on occasion, to speak with them, to get a brief insight into what their personality is like. Only once though, it is not advisable to overstep that line; for the Reaper had slipped up, on a couple of occasions, and it was not going to happen again; he had learned. He would not want his victim to become too familiar with him either; otherwise, he would not be able to study them, or stalk them.

The Reaper needs to feed his revenge, and killing is what keeps him alive, what keeps him sane in his own mind, in his own twisted world. To him, killing is like what fishing is like to an angler, like what cooking the perfect meal is like to a chef. It gives him pleasure. It satisfies him. In addition, the adrenaline rush, which he gets with every kill, eases his urge, feeds his hunger; but only for a short while, until his dreams tell him it is time to go to work again. A new frenzy would cement itself deep into his mind. Time to kill, time for fresh blood, his thoughts would tell him. Like a lioness which lies sleeping under a tree in the shade from the mid-day sun, but like the lioness, when the Reaper gets hungry–he would go on the hunt for a kill.

As he sat in wait of his victim, the Reaper picked at his brain, every item of information he had gathered on his victim–he scrutinised. He went through everything in his head to make sure he had planned this ambush, with the utmost precision. The Reaper does not like to make mistakes, and he cannot afford to either, as he had once before.

On one occasion, he had failed to realise that there was a loved one in the victim’s life, a soul mate, which the Reaper had not observed when he was stalking her. An element he had not considered. Something he should have, however. A simple stupid mistake, he thought. For it was the love that man had for his victim, which was the downfall of the Reaper on that particular occasion. The Reaper swore he would never make that mistake again, and vowed to get his revenge on that man: the one who had taken so many kills from him.

The Reapers mind continued to wander, and he forced it to stop, as for now he had to concentrate on this kill and this kill alone. For it was nearly ten after nine and the Reaper was expecting his victim to walk past the trapdoor to his burrow at any minute.

Barbara Smith was taking night classes to further her studies. As she could not afford to put herself through college, she worked in a small hair salon during the day, doing women’s hairdressing. Barbara’s Aunt Christine had forced her to do hairdressing classes as she was growing up. Barbara did not like the hairdressing, but it took care of the bills and also paid for her studies, so she put up with it. In addition, deep down, Barbara was grateful to her aunt for making her do it.

Three months before this night, the Reaper dreamt about Barbara, and learned through his dreams where and how to find her, like a hitman, who receives a profile on his target.

On 12 November 1989, the Reaper set off to Ireland from Alghero, Sardinia. It had not been long after he had killed in Sardinia, when he had his calling for Barbara Smith. A dream had given him signs on how to find her, and where to look. Though the dreams did not tell him exactly where she was, it gave him clues to where he might find her. For example, he would see clues in his dream as to what country and city his victim lived in. He would also see the name of a prominent landmark or shop or somewhere the victim would visit often. The Reaper would then begin his search there, hoping to locate her. However, on this occasion, the Reaper felt luck was on his side, as five days from landing in Dublin City, as he walked down O’Connell Street, about to start his search, Barbara found him.

Barbara had been late back to work from her lunch break. She had spent too long talking and joking with her friends that she had forgotten to keep an eye on the time. She was sprinting down O’Connell Street, ducking and diving, dodging other foot traffic as she ran. Suddenly she bumped into the Reaper. Barbara stumbled and fell flat on her ass.

The Reaper quickly turned to pick her up. He noticed, as he held out his hand that she was a very attractive young girl, nice brown eyes, and sallow skin with high cheekbones.

Barbara gratefully took his hand, not knowing that the same hand would be taking her life in the near future.

The Reaper pulled Barbara to her feet.

"You need to be more careful or you could end up hurting yourself," said the Reaper.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you. I am just late back to work. I’m sorry," explained Barbara, as she dusted herself down.

The Reaper smiled warmly.

"You’re okay; just be more careful in the future."

"I will, thank you," replied Barbara.

Barbara was soon on her way again, another mad dash to get back to work.

The Reaper smiled to himself. He could not believe his luck. The chances of running into our target so soon must be hundreds to one, he thought. Nevertheless, there was no time for thanking his blessings, and the Reaper knew that, so he immediately started his pursuit.

The Reaper followed Barbara to a small hair salon on Dorset Street Upper, keeping his distance, as not, to alert her. She had seen his face when he helped her from the ground and it not being that long ago–Barbara would recognise him immediately. The Reaper then found a small café called George’s, five doors up on the opposite side of the street to the salon. He sat there until six that evening and followed Barbara again when she left and made her way to her night classes on Queen Street. He watched, as she stopped, grabbing a bite to eat in McDonald’s on her way.

Her class lasted two hours finishing at nine. Barbara then stood outside and talked with friends from class for ten or fifteen minutes before making her way to a small town house on Meath Street, across the River Liffey. It took twenty-five minutes for that journey, and the Reaper took notes for every minute.

The Reaper had learned a lot about his victim, and it was unusual that he could gather so much information so soon after locating his target. Generally, it would take a week, sometimes two, of stalking his victim before he could draw up a brief outline of their movements.

Barbara repeated the same process of going to and from her work, then onto class every night Monday to Friday. The Reaper just followed and watched. He even had lunch every day in the same small café Barbara met with her friends. He disguised himself as a businessperson sitting a few seats down from her, reading the daily newspaper. Barbara never paid any attention to him, as she assumed he worked in one of the many office blocks, which engulfed the area close to the café.

The Reaper also learned that Barbara lived alone, with no loved ones. This surprised him, as she was a very pretty twenty-eight year old brunette, with a good sense of humour, and well liked by her friends. Some of them would even invite her to come spend weekends with them and their family down the country, but Barbara all ways declined that offer.

Barbara left the City at the weekends by herself to travel down the country to a small village in the Midlands. Lanesborough on the River Shannon, a nice picturesque village with plenty of tourists moving around, which suited the Reaper when he had followed Barbara there. He did not look out of place among the tourists, like he would in other small villages in Ireland, where people all ways wanted to know who you were, and where you were from. The Reaper felt that people should mind their own business, but that was like telling a dog not to bark. The dog would just ignore you, as he would not know any better.

One day the Reaper followed Barbara to a small graveyard just outside the village of Lanesborough, where he just sat, and watched.

Saint Mary’s was the name of the church, and the graveyard was set in the grounds. A typical parish community, similar in fact, to every other parish community in the country–they were all the same.

When Barbara had finished doing what she had to do there, she left.

Then the Reaper, with his curiosity getting the better of him, had to have a look at the gravestones which Barbara had been standing and kneeling in front of. There he learned that her parents had died together when she was just a child, and the reasons to their death, unknown to the Reaper.

Barbara spent the weekends with her aunt. The house was situated on a small plot of land, in the centre of Lanesborough. The house was small but looked cosy, and smoke puffed from its chimney. It had a thatched roof, something that was slowly becoming outdated in Ireland. Barbara’s Aunt Christine had raised her since the passing of her parents. On a Saturday night, Barbara would socialise in the local public house close to her aunt’s home. All residents in this small village seemed to like Barbara too, and the Reaper concentrated on making sure Barbara had no romantic ties with this place. He had to be sure there was no loved one that could jeopardise his slaying, a precaution which unfortunately, he had to take.

It was time. Time to feed his hunger. At any moment now, the Reaper was expecting Barbara to stroll on by, give, or take five or so minutes. She could have stopped to talk to friends or grab something to eat on her way home, which she sometimes did. The Reaper planned his ambush with the utmost precision and was not about to jeopardise it.

He readied his knife in hand; the same knife, which had taken so many lives before. It was his trusty tool in his slayings. The knife was a stainless steel object with a wooden handle covered by leather; it was thirty-six inches long, with six inches dedicated to the handle. The back of the blade had a serrated edge, and the front, as sharp as a razor; it could slice through the toughest of leather with little ease or effort.

Barbara turned the corner on to the street where the Reaper lay in wait. She didn’t have a care in the world, as she bounced along listening to her favourite artist (Michael Jackson), humming along to the music, unaware of the evil that lay in wait for her. Barbara stopped two metres from the Reaper to adjust the earphones in her ears. She cursed the damn things, as she tried to unravel the leads.

The Reaper watched patiently through a small hole, which he had made in his cardboard.

Then he finally took his opportunity to strike. The Reaper pulled back the cardboard with his left hand so swiftly and silently not even an owl with its sensitive hearing could pick up on the noise it made. Concealed in the darkness of the shadows between two streetlights, he sprung forward toward Barbara. The Reaper was on her in seconds, she did not stand a chance. He caught her with his left hand across her mouth to mute her screams. Then pulling her back, his thumb jammed into her left eye.

The pain which Barbara felt pulse through her eye, was excruciating. She tried to claw at the Reapers hand, but it had little affect.

The Reaper had no real worry about her screaming, as he knew this slaying would not last long enough for Barbara to shout for help.

The Reaper looped his right hand out around Barbara’s waist and thrust the knife deep into her abdomen–just below her rib cage, on the left of her body–with serrated edge facing inwards. In a quick pull working downwards, the Reaper sliced open her stomach spilling her guts on the street.

Barbara tried to cry out, but could not. She hazily gazed down at the cobblestones below her feet. Barbara could not believe what was happening. She really began to panic now–it was not the most pleasant sight, seeing her intestines lying on the ground in front of her.

Just as quick as he had cut her open, the Reaper raised the knife to her throat slicing it from left to right. The warm blood gushed out and down onto the back of his hand. He tilted his head back in ecstasy; it felt like warm water flowing from a tap, that it was so satisfying.

When the Reaper was sure Barbara had given up the struggle, he let her go, and Barbara’s body dropped to the ground with a thump.

The whole bloody ordeal had lasted just ten seconds.

The Reaper looked down, just staring at Barbara Smith, as her energy, her life, drained from her body. He also had another agenda, he wanted to make sure she got a look at him, to see the person who had done this to her.

Looking into the Reapers eyes, Barbara recognised the man standing over her, a memory not of this lifetime, not even from when she had bumped into him on O’Connell Street, but from many years ago, from a different life.

Barbara could do nothing now, as her life slipped away, she was drowning on her own blood. With one last painful grasp for air, Barbara died.

It was now over. The carcass of Barbara Smith now lay in a heap at the feet of the hunter.

Blood pooled under and around Barbara’s dead body. Steam rose from the open wound in her abdomen. Every few seconds her legs would give a jerk and a small twitch in her neck. The Reaper watched, probably just nerves, he thought.

The Reaper knelt down on his right knee in front of the lifeless body of Barbara Smith, so young, so beautiful, he thought. Things could have been so different. If you had just left things, you did not understand to leave well enough alone. The Reaper tilted his head back surveying the surrounding area and licking the blood splatter from his lower lip in the process.

All was clear.

He then turned his focus back to the girl on the ground.

"We shall meet again," he said in her ear, as he ran his hand over her eyes to close them.

The Reaper never even blinked. His heartbeat had never even fluttered during the slaying. He was a cold blooded, cold-hearted killer, a natural. A natural born killer.

The Reaper then stood to go on his way. He was pleased with his slaying, thinking to himself, this has to be one of our better-planned killings, and we could not be happier.

Suddenly a voice spoke from a few metres behind him.

"Hey, are you okay man? Is she okay?" asked the stranger.

The Reaper stopped dead and looked straight ahead in front of himself. He then turned slowly thinking, how is this possible? There was nobody around just a few seconds ago.

The Reaper turned to see a man standing the other side of the street.

The Reaper was not sure how much this man had seen, but he was not taking any chances and had to think fast.

"No, help," said the Reaper in a feeble tone, as he began to limp toward the stranger, letting on that he had been hurt, but also unaware to the stranger–concealing the knife up the sleeve of his jacket.

The man was in his thirties, a lot bigger than the Reaper, and this fact, the Reaper did not like. The Reaper preferred victims smaller and weaker than him, and did not like to be getting into situations where he felt he was at a disadvantage. However, he decided he had to do something about this. The Reaper bowed his head as he got closer to the Good Samaritan, but also had to try to conceal his face because of the blood splatter on it.

When the Reaper got within two feet of the Good Samaritan, he raised his head and stared him in the eye. Without warning or hesitation, the Reaper swung his right arm, jamming the knife into the unsuspecting strangers’ left temple, piercing his right.

Two seconds, the man was dead. His body hit the ground with a thump. He had saw nothing coming. He did not even feel it. The Reaper again showed no emotion. Although it was not as satisfying as Barbara’s kill, it was still a kill.

The Reaper turned from the lifeless body and cleaned his knife in his sleeve. He had a look around to see if there was anyone else in the vicinity, and also to make sure he had left nothing behind him that could lead the police to him. When satisfied, he went on his way, walking the direction Barbara had just come a few minutes earlier.

"You got sloppy John," said the Reaper, talking too himself.

There was silence for a few seconds, as he continued to walk.

"What could I do? I couldn’t leave him alive," said the Reaper, turning and looking back up the street, he had just walked off. "I wasn’t sure how much he had seen."

"John, that could be our downfall right there. You didn’t pick a secure enough location."

"Well, it won’t happen again. Lets just hope nothing comes of it."

"John, I think I’m going to have to take control of things again for the next one, okay."

"Okay … sorry Charles."

"Don’t worry about it John, we all make mistakes."

"Yeah; I suppose we do."

Contact me if you would like to know more, at martinmc002@yahoo.co.uk . And if you would like to purchase an Ebook of the full book priced at only €5.99, email me (to the above address) with the word Ebook in the subject field of the email and I will happily send you the instructions for purchasing. Only paypal used for payment, as it is secure, sorry for any inconvenience caused. Thank you.

 Martin McEnereney/Máirtín MaC Eirne(Irish name)