Broken Blurryface

Two: Home

    The night sky is clear and calm, there's a soft breeze blowing through the trees, the sounds of crickets and other bugs chirping throughout the forest. A large cottage sized, run down cabin, deep and forgotten about in the thick woods of the Western Maine Mountains. The roof caving in, the siding peeling from the walls, wild vines taking over entirely. Through the rotting front door, the wooden floor is breaking and stained in every morbid color imaginable. A small bathroom holds a dirty, long-overdue-septic-pumping john. The medicine cabinet mirror above the blood stained and cigarette butt filled sink holds a deep spiderweb crack, in the center is a smear of blood, as if someone had tried wiping it away. In the kitchen, every knife is rusted or bloody, the counter is chipped, stabbed, and cut all over. In a small bedroom, there's a futon, fairly clean, empty bottles of Black Velvet Whiskey, bloodstains on the old carpet, and knife marks all over the walls. On the futon, there sits a man.

    His head is hanging low, his eyes set down, a half empty bottle of whiskey in his left hand, a beaten, bloody knife in his right. A black ball cap is on his head, a bullet hole is clearly visible through the brim. The man is shirtless, his body is pale and strong, but thin and lanky. His arms, chest and stomach have several amateur tattoos, including the words "Broken", "Lying Cunt", and "Smile For The Camera". More noticeable however, is the number of deep, straight line scars covering his torso. At least a hundred different scars, some small, like a razor, others deep and long, like a defending knife. The man raises his head just long enough to take a long drink from his bottle. His hair is shoulder length, dirty, but clearly bleach blonde underneath. His eyes are husky blue, he has a scruffy brown beard, a lip piercing, and a broken heart tattoo on his cheek.

    The man throws his bottle of whiskey against the wall once it's empty, the glass spreading all over the floor. He throws his knife into his bedroom door, the old blade manages to sink over half way out through the wood. Maybe the anger and power in the throw, maybe the half rotted wood, maybe just practice. As the man lays his head on his pillow, the soft cries of a woman can be heard from a room just off the side from his, a gray door with a tarnished silver knob separating the two. Inside this room, a woman can be seen bloody, shaking, and dying from shock and blood loss. Both of her legs have been severed from the knee, one arm severed at the elbow, the other's hand with only the thumb left intact for digits. Her body is hanging from a beam, by rusted razor wire and a heavy chain pulley system. Her voice is clearly hoarse and broken from screaming and crying for God knows how long. As her last moments drag on in agony, her killer sleeps soundly just feet away from her. Underneath the futon the murderer is laying on, the severed, and badly beaten head of his recorded male victim, lay sitting up on the choppy base of the stump of his neck. His jaw hanging half on the floor dislocated, his tongue split down the middle like a snake. The killer snores softly as the night moon shines through his broken bedroom window.

    It's 3:30AM, just over an hour since he dropped off his package to the police station, just over a 45 minutes trek through the dense woods. The shack is completely surrounded by trees and partially overtaken by foliage. You could be 10 yards from it's front door and not know it, and with the help of a few purposefully bent over and broken trees and blended brush, you'd need to have prior knowledge of where the shack is to find it. Unless you're experienced in thick forest exploration and know exactly what you're looking for. It's placement is difficult on it's own to get to, unless you know of the small slight-cut brush trail through a young tree line. All other areas around it are steep, tall boulders, broken and thick tree patches, a dense natural prickly bush patch, and the young but dense tree line, with even denser older woods behind it. With a well hidden path, about 60 yards after the young tree line, it leads in several directions. 2 go nowhere but the woods, 3 turn you into the nearest town, one leads you to a nearby neighboring town, and one, very very light trail, with large trees purposely in its way, leads to the shack's front door. The easiest way to get there, if you know where it is. Everything was in place (other than the faint trail leading to the shack, which has recently been made very difficult to pass) long before our killer found it 11 months ago. For the first month after he discovered it while exploring the terrain of his home town, he was bent on making it near impossible to find, since he stumbled upon it, someone else could. He made sure no one ever could again.
After spending $3000 and 2 full days gathering supplies, for 28 straight days in the woods, he made the innocent old shack his personal hidden house of horrors.

    It started with his closest friend. And only friend. He met him while walking through the local hiking trails, just two weeks after he started his preparation of the cabin. He offered a "fellow hiker" a cigarette and they kept in contact through the internet semi regularly until he offered they meet up again in person. He made up a fake name, fake account, fake job and fake compassion. All through a burner phone and free local Wi-Fi just under an hour's walk away. They met up on the trail once more, this time with nips of Fireball instead of cigarettes. He got him drunk, brought him to the shack where he passed out, and hid in the woods, waiting for his friend to wake up and try to find his way back home. He watched his friend panic, scream for him to come out and help while getting lost, staying yards away, silently. Until his friend sat down for a break, checking his phone several times even though he knew the remote towns had no cell phone signal, so the woods wouldn't either. As his friend held his head and sobbed, he was stabbed 17 times in the top of the head with a screwdriver. He then carried his friends' carcass back to the shack, where he completely mutilated his entire body with a knife, power tools, and a hammer. He severed all the fingers and placed them in mason jars filled with alcohol. The rest of his mangled, bloody body was left in an open grave in the woods, free for any animal to enjoy. That was his first kill. But far, far from his last.