The Online Profile of a Serial Killer

Posted on *date blocked* (Fifth Post)

My throat is sore from the dozens of cigarettes I smoked on the four hour drive littered with stops at coffee shops and service stations. We are minutes away from my cottage, driving the used Civic up a dirt road through the forest. The road is much narrower than in my memory. A thick ceiling of tumbling clouds hovers above, and a cold chill blows in through the vents of the car. The road winds and drops into a mud pool and I'm worried we might get stuck but we don't. The forest on either side of the road is still thick and green with only some accents of orange and yellow. There are blackberries on the bushes that lined the road, ripe and dripping with juice, and a couple of crows are gorging on them.

The road grows thinner the deeper we drive, until I see a opening in the tree tops ahead, bright with sky light. In the opening squats a low cottage with white chipped paint, three steps down from a driveway that loops around in a circle in front of it. A large bony vine clutches at the cottage, as if clawing down the roof. Beyond, a hill slopes down to a lake. There are some pine trees, cedars, and ragged birches.

I park in the looping driveway. Stepping out onto the gravel, I walk up against the cottage window to peer inside and see the kitchen, and then the living room, and then the large window facing the lake.

Uncle said the keys were in the same spot inside the small bin hidden in the shrubs against the cottage. Finding the bin, I lift the lid and see a coiled up garden hose that is now a whitish color, and a sprinkler stained with lime. I inspect the bin for insects or mice but see none, just cob webs and an old hornet nest now vacant and hanging from the lid. On the inside wall is the nail, now dark with rust, and the steel key hanging from it.

The lock on the front door is stubborn at first, the key seemingly too large for the keyhole, but I manage to wiggle it through. Taking my first step into the cottage as an adult, I enter the kitchen, and the smell strikes me -- the relentless smell of musky aging wood that hangs like a thick blanket smothering everything. Hundreds of shining specks of dust float in the sun rays from the window. I flip the light switch on but nothing happens. Opening the fuse box cupboard on the wall, I flip a switch there and the light bulb in the kitchen ceiling turns on with a tiny popping sound.

I rummage through the drawers of the kitchen. The bottom drawer has rope, tape, and two boxes of bullets labeled 7mm-08 Remington. Under the sink is a pail, an old kerosene lantern, and an opaque plastic jug filled with clear kerosene.

In the living room is a wood stove. A few feet away from the stove is a shelf overflowing with books. Some loose single books rest horizontally on the top of other books stacked vertically. At the very top of the book shelf, almost touching the ceiling, there's a black muzzle of a rifle sticking out over the edge. It was Dad's oldest rifle, and I don't remember ever seeing it moved from its spot.

"Where's the broom?" Marie places her duffle bag on the kitchen table and I point at the closet. Marie sweeps the hardwood floor, whistling, as I stare out into the lake from the back window.

Cobwebs infest the door handle leading to the back porch, so I ask Marie to wipe it with the broom and she does. I pull open the heavy wooden door and push open the screen door leading onto the porch. Stepping out, the old planks creak at my feet, and Marie follows me with the broom, pushing dead leaves off the red painted deck. The porch wraps around the back and west side of the cottage. I saunter around the corner and look into the dense forest climbing slightly up hill. The dirt path that once lead deep into the forest is covered with thick grass.

"There it is," I whisper to myself. Marie hears me.

"What is it?" she asks.

I peer deeper into the dense woods of oak, maple and birch – the forest floor dark under a canopy of orange tinted leaves above.