The killer sat back down at the table. He held up the timer in front of her and rotated it in his hand, as if examining such a device for the first time. “I love these things,” he said, looking deep into her eyes,as though she was his oldest friend. “I have to admit that I am completely fascinated by any device that measures the concept of time. Strange, isn’t it? I mean, time is such an elusive and fluid thing. And yet, we design devices to put this grand concept into a nice, neat little box that we can understand, measure, and assign value to. Time is ever flowing and changing around us. It’s the fabric of the universe, and we are nothing—only single drops in the grand ocean of time.
“I also love that time, in regards to personal perception, is completely relative. For example, as you sit there in terror with a knife stuck in your hand, time feels as if it has slowed to a crawl. But as I sit here in great enjoyment of the moment, it feels as if time is slipping away at an amazing pace. It’s all relative, but that’s what is so interesting about this device.”
He held up the baking timer. “No matter how the passage of time may feel to a person whose perception is altered by their situation, this device is constant. In all actuality, the seconds count down on this device no faster or slower based upon who you are, and that’s something else I love about time. It’s fair. No matter who you are, what you’ve done, or how much money is in your bank account, time passes the same for us all. And sooner or later, it will catch up to every living thing on this planet. Time is the greatest killer of all.”
He placed the timer on the tabletop in front of her. “So, in honor of this most interesting device, the little game we’re going to play is a fight against the clock for the both of us. We’ll call this game…
The Theory of Relativity
. First of all, I’ll set this timer to six minutes. Then, I’m going to let you go hide somewhere in the house. While you’re hiding, I’m going to sit here at the table and watch as three minutes worth of time counts off the timer. After the three minutes have passed, I’ll have three minutes remaining to find you. If I find you within that time, you will die a death more horrible than anything you’ve ever imagined. If you manage to elude me and the timer reaches six minutes, then I’ll leave you unharmed, and you’ll never see me again.”
Ackerman stood and picked up a dishtowel from the counter. He moved to one of kitchen cabinets and removed two glass cups. Her eyes followed the madman as he put the cups in the dishtowel, closed the towel tight, and smashed the glasses within, leaving a towel full of broken glass.
He turned back to her and continued. “But before we play, we need to establish some rules for the game. Number one, you must remain inside the house.” Ackerman walked to the back door and sprinkled some of the glass shards in front of the exit. Once finished, he moved down the hall toward the front door.
While her attacker was out of the room, she stiffened her resolve and grabbed the knife that pinned her in place. She wiggled it back and forth slowly, but each movement caused her great pain and forced her closer to the brink of unconsciousness.
She could hear the killer approaching, his footsteps growing in volume as he grew nearer.
With her heart thudding violently in her chest, she intensified her efforts.
If only I can free the knife, I can stab the killer before he knows that I’m free
.
She rocked the knife back and forth, desperately trying to release it from the grasp of the table’s thick wooden top. She was not a weakling, but she was not a strong woman either. Her wounds, both physical and emotional, had sapped any strength that she did possess.
Each movement of the blade severed skin and cut nerve endings, sending sharp, shooting pains up her arm and down her spine.
The killer was now in the hallway just outside the kitchen.
She steeled herself for one final effort, and with every ounce of strength that she had left, she yanked up on the knife. She felt sweat running down her forehead from the exertion of her efforts. The streams of sweat and tears coalesced into one. The knife moved up slightly.
She continued her efforts, but it would not budge a millimeter farther. It was of no use. The knife was secure, and her traumatized muscles could not remove it.
Ackerman reemerged from the hallway and eyed her like a parent who had found their child with a hand in the cookie jar. He walked over to the table and stood over her. “You see, darling, a knife is kind of like a band-aid. You just have to rip it off.”
With a quick movement, he grasped the knife and pulled it from the table and out of her hand.
The trauma almost overwhelmed her. Cold tendrils of pain shot up her arm. She could feel her vision tunneling down into unconsciousness, but she fought to remain awake. She shuddered to think what the psychopath might do to her while she slept.
“Okay, back to the rules,” Ackerman said. “As I was saying, you must remain inside the house. That’s why I sprinkled the broken glass in front of the exits, so you won’t be able to slip out without me hearing you. Rule number two, no trying to call for help. I’m not going to cut the phone lines, but I think we both know that no one will arrive in time to make a bit of difference. Your only real chance of survival is me not finding you within the allotted time. If you break the rules, it’ll just give me more time to find you. All right, now that we’ve established the ground rules, let’s begin.”
Ackerman sat down, twisted the timer to six minutes, and placed it back on the table’s mahogany top. She stared at him in confusion. She couldn’t comprehend that this was actually happening.
Ackerman raised his eyebrows. “You better get going,” he said. “Time’s running out.”
~~*~~
Maureen leapt up and ran from the kitchen. She fell over a small table in the hallway and crashed to the floor. She popped up, caught her breath, and willed herself to be calm.
I have to think clearly if I’m going to make it out alive
. She grabbed a cloth from the small table and wrapped it around her bleeding hand. With her wound contained, she collected her thoughts and contemplated where to hide.
As she moved from room to room, the spaces of her own home looked as dark and alien to her as the surface of a distant planet. She racked her brain for a spot where the madman would never find her, but she could think of none. And, as the killer had stated, time was running out.
Then, an idea for the perfect hiding place burst into her mind—a spot where she would be concealed and the killer would never notice her.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, she moved up the front stairs. With each step, the stairs issued loud creaks in protest to the placement of her weight. She had never noticed how badly they squeaked before that moment, but she had also never felt the need to sneak through her own house. Every time that her foot fell upon one of the stairs, it issued a moan and pop that sounded like nails being driven into her own coffin. After moving a quarter of the way up, she dropped all attempts at stealth and bounded forward.
Once on the second floor, she resumed her attempt at discretion and tried to mute each footfall. The boards of the hallway creaked, as well, but not nearly as bad as the stairs. She moved down the hall to her bedroom with at least some feeling that the killer may not have been alerted to her exact location.
She turned the knob, entered, and shut the door behind her. Once inside, she stood on her bed and reached up to the ceiling where a concealed panel could be pulled down. A fold-out ladder used for easy access to the attic sat atop the panel.
She climbed up the ladder and pulled the panel shut behind her. In order to conceal the attic entrance, for aesthetic purposes, her late husband had covered the panel with drywall in such a way that only a tiny seam and a thin pull chain would alert anyone to the panel’s presence. She prayed that the killer wouldn’t notice.
She had no real reason to think that he would leave after the time had elapsed—
but what choice do I have other than to believe that he will?
If the madman didn’t play by the rules of his own game, then only a miracle could save her.
~~*~~
Maureen lay motionless on the attic rafters. She searched her mind for something that she could use as a weapon if the killer discovered her hiding place, but the attic was almost empty. The only item contained in the small space was a large trunk in which she had placed many of her husband’s belongings after he had passed on. It mostly contained old clothes, photo albums, picture frames, home movies, and other assorted keepsakes. She thought about breaking the glass on one of the picture frames, but that would alert the killer to her position. And she wouldn’t know how to use a makeshift knife, even if she had one.
She wondered how much time had passed. It felt like an eternity. She quieted her breathing and waited.
A few seconds later, she heard a sound that conjured images of a freight train tearing through the house. She knew the source of the sound, however, and it wasn’t a train. The sound was that of a man running at full speed up the stairs and down the hallway.
She heard the door to the bedroom, only a few feet below her current position on the other side of the ceiling, slam open with a loud crash.
Her heart thundered. She couldn’t breathe.
How has he found me so soon?
She bit down upon her knuckle with crushing force in order to keep from issuing a sob or a scream. She trembled all over and felt colder than she had ever been in her entire life.
She prayed for God to save her, or at least make her death quick, but then she reconsidered her prayer when she remembered that God doesn’t make life easy for his followers. He merely gives them hope that through faith, a greater plain of existence can be attained. Upon consideration, she changed her prayer and prayed instead for strength, something that with God’s help she had found at many difficult points in her life.
She tasted a strange, coppery liquid in her mouth and realized that she had drawn blood from her knuckle. At this point, it hardly mattered. She bit down harder and tried to lose herself within the pain.
With a creak, the killer pulled down the panel and said, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
She heard him unfold the ladder and begin his ascent toward her.
Tears flowed like rain down her cheeks, and she realized that she didn’t want to die. There were many times after her husband was taken that she had wished to join him, but now, all she wanted was another chance to live.
In that moment, the realization that once again she had wasted the time she had been given engulfed her mind. When her husband had been alive, they had squandered their present on the hope of a better tomorrow. But after his death, she had not found a greater appreciation for life. Instead of devoting herself to some pursuit or enjoying all the time she could with her children and grandchildren, she had spent most days moping around the house.
In that moment, she cried out to God for one last chance.
Then, like a lightning strike on a clear, blue day, a thought struck her with great force. A possible hope for salvation sprang into her mind, and she leapt into action.
She grabbed hold of the large trunk containing her old memories, and using all of the might she could will into her muscles, she hurled it down the stairs and onto the ascending killer.
~~*~~
Maureen peered down into her bedroom and saw the madman sprawled out on the floor, his eyes closed. Nearby, the trunk lay on its side, its contents scattered. She could see a small rivulet of blood on the man’s forehead, and she hoped that he was dead.
Her only thought was of escape. If the killer was merely unconscious, then he could awaken at any moment and finish what he had started. She needed to get as far away from the house as possible.
With cautious steps, she descended. The killer’s limp body lay at the foot of the ladder. She would have to move over him in order to reach the doorway and freedom. She reached the bottom rung, took a deep intake of breath, and without exhaling, stepped over the killer. She took great pains in her movements, so as not to touch the man or even disturb the air around him. She didn’t want to take any chances of awakening the sleeping monster.
As the killer had stated, time was relative, so it felt to her as if the climb down the ladder had taken minutes. In reality, she knew that only a few seconds had elapsed.
As she cleared the madman’s body, she released her held breath. She reached out for the door and began to turn the knob. Before she could do so, a hard blow slammed her from behind and stole the air from her lungs.
A silent scream came from her mouth, but only God could hear it, since she had no air to propel it beyond her mind. In her head, however, the shriek was deafening.
The killer spun her around and smashed her against the wall. The blade of his knife pressed against her throat with enough force that she could feel it slicing slowly into her skin.
Terror overwhelmed her beyond the point of rational thought, and she couldn’t even comprehend the need to fight back.
She felt Ackerman’s hot breath on her face as he said, “Found you.”
Behind the serial killer, a buzzing sound filled the bedroom. The baking timer lay on the floor where the killer had dropped it, and the device was going off.
Ackerman turned to look at the small device but kept the knife firmly in place. He turned back to her and stared deep into her eyes, as if trying to invade the soul that dwelt within. “Time’s up.”
The dream always started the same. With the darkness, came memories and pain. Every night, Marcus Williams found himself trapped in a prison without walls. His recollections painted a dark portrait that didn’t simply reside somewhere deep within his subconscious. He had seen it with his own eyes. The world of his memories and the setting of his nightmares had left a stain on his soul and blood on his hands—neither of which could ever truly be washed away.
Like countless others before him, he had begun his career as a young police officer with a head filled by ideals like
justice will prevail and good always triumphs over evil
. It didn’t take him long to discover that the old cliché of justice being blind was fairly accurate, and more often than not, evil was better funded than good. He had sat on the outside, looking in on a world fueled more by money and power than by the long-forgotten concepts of honor and virtue.