The Vexatious Voice

It was not my fault. Whatever anyone tells you, please know that it was not my fault. It was not my intention to harm anyone. It was not my intention to cause so much pain. To speak truthfully, it was not me who did it. I know what the reports say, and the rumors that have been circling around since that night, but it was not I who committed the crime. I was not in the right state of mind and surely it is wrong to blame me for such a thing. It was my body that did it, but not my mind. The blood was on my hands, but not my conscience. Please, before we move on, just know that much. It was not my fault. It was not my fault.

It started a month before that night. It started the very moment I laid my eyes on her. A mutual friend was throwing a party, a masquerade. And while I never saw her entire face that night, I knew it was beautiful. While we barely spoke a word to each other, I knew her voice was soft. I knew her laugh was high and light. I knew every word that came out of her mouth would sound intelligent. Whether it was the alcohol or the ambiance that drew me to such conclusions, I will never know. All my thoughts that night became focused on her. Like that night many days from then, I was not in the right state of mind. Love can make people do crazy things, dear reader. And so I insist, yet again, that none of this was my fault.

I will not waste either of our time explaining the romance the entire romance that ensued. All you need to know is that there was one. It was quick, and fleeting, and no matter how much I tried to convince myself I knew from the very first week that it would never last. We both knew as much, but still tried anyways. Looking back on it now, I was more invested in trying to salvage it than her. I was the one more in love. There was always a nagging voice in the back of my head telling me that she did not care about the whole thing at all, but I always suppressed it. I was always able to convince myself that everything in that moment was fine. That we only needed to worry about it one day at a time. So when people try and convince you that I hated her and that that was my motivation for what I did, do not believe them. It was not my fault. I did not start anything. It was not my fault.

I was walking her back home one evening, after a lovely picnic, when the storm hit. One moment the sun was shining and the skies were clear; the next moment there were dark clouds, crackling with thunder like a yule log in a fireplace. I dropped the picnic basket and we began to run to the nearest home we could find. We did not even bother knocking on the front door of the mansion, we just ran right in. It was dark, and large, and rather ominous. She was more frightened than ever, and I was more bewildered. How long had this mansion been here? Who owned it? Was there anyone living there? Why was the door not locked?

“We cannot stay here,” she insisted, a hand on the front door, posed to open it and make another run for the next house.

“Surely you are not suggesting we run back outside?” I asked, incredulously. “It is much more dangerous out there than in an old house,” I laughed.

“Something does not feel right,” she replied, quietly. “It is too quiet.”

“Maybe everyone is hiding in the basement or cellar, taking shelter from the storm.”

“Or maybe no one lives here.”

“It will be fine,” I insisted, taking her hand off of the door knob. “Trust me,”

And she did. Why she did not leave right away, I will never know. Why she did not continue trying to convince me to leave, I will never know. But she gave in. She clenched my hand and nodded her head, and she never spoke another word about how she desperately wanted to leave. Why I did not just listen to her, I will never know. Something about the mansion captivated me entirely. Something told me I had to go up the stairs. Something told me I had to visit the kitchen. Something told me I had to look at the basement. Something told me no one was here. Something told me it was better than the storm. It was not myself that insisted we stay. It was not my fault.

You will think I am mad when I attempt to clarify that this was actually not something, it was someone. It was someone else’s voice inside my head thinking for me. It was someone else’s voice clear as a bell that told me to stay. It was not a voice I had ever heard before, yet it sounded so familiar. It was a commanding voice that one could not just say “no” to. It had a way of convincing me to do things by just a few words. I assumed my companion could hear this voice too, so I said nothing of it. I assumed if she was not hearing the voice, that it would scare her completely and make her run off, so I said nothing of it. I quietly listened to it, and agreed within my own head. It was simultaneously a most surreal and terrifying experience. I had no idea who the voice belonged to. It told me that I would soon find out and to be patient. So I was patient. And so I insist yet again that it was not my fault.

She was constantly shaking. She was constantly hanging on my arm. She was constantly biting her finger nails which for some reason really began to get on my nerves. She would whine whenever I wanted to explore a room upstairs. She would never go in them, and she would never let me go in either. I tried to convince her that everything would be okay. That there was no way we would disappear into a room never to see the light of day again. Nothing worked until we stumbled upon the library. I knew how much she loved reading, and so thankfully after about ten minutes of contemplation, she agreed to settle down with a book. But only if we could light all of the candles in the room. So we searched the mahogany desk in the corner of the room for a box of matches, and thankfully we found one in the first unlocked drawer. I carefully lit all five candles for her, making sure the room was well lit for her to read and see what was going on. I closed the drapes as securely as I could so that she would not get disturbed by the flashed of lightning. I told her I would keep the door open so she could see what was going on and hear me if I needed help. I did everything to make her as comfortable and safe as she could possibly be. A sign of a compassionate lover? Perhaps. But, unfortunately, this was not my doing either. The voice had told me where to find the library; the voice had shown me what drawer the matches were in; and now the voice was calling for me to go downstairs.

And who was I to refuse? I had no idea what this voice was capable of, and what else did I have to do? I was not going to be content simply reading as we waited for the storm to pass or for another couple to stumble into the mansion. I would never be able to sit still for so long. So I went down into the kitchen. It had gotten darker since the last time I looked out a window. The rain was pouring down ever harder than before. It sounded like hail bouncing off the windows and roof. The lightning lit everything up in a most beautiful way. The voice told me to pick up the butcher’s knife conveniently left out on the counter. Of course I still had some of my own mind left and asked why. What would I need it for?

‘For protection,’ the voice insisted.

‘From what?’

‘The better question is: from who?’

‘From who?’ I asked again, picking up the knife and flipping it over in my hands carefully as I contemplated whether or not to carry it with me for the rest of my exploration. But the voice did not answer. For one of the first times since I had entered the mansion, it was completely silent save the thunder and rain. It unfortunately did not last long.

‘Her.’ It said after a few quiet moments.

‘Who?’

‘She’s not upstairs reading. She’s getting ready to leave. She’s getting ready to leave this house and leave you. She’s been planning on leaving for quite some time now. You cannot let her leave yet,’ it replied, begging me to go back upstairs to the library. ‘She is getting restless, you have to put an end to it.’

But I had tried everything already! I had tried in every possible way to convince her that it was safe, that there was no need to leave this mansion. I had tried in every possible way to make sure that she did not leave me. I had tried in every possible way to make sure that she was content with the choices she had made and would stay. Why would she do this now? Why would she leave now, in the middle of the thunder storm, in an old dilapidated mansion? Where was the logic in that? What had convinced her? Was it another voice, not unlike the one in my own head?

All these questions and more ran through my mind as I slowly made my way up the stairs. If she left the mansion, there was no need for me to stay here either. Could I just leave? The voice said of course, but told me there was more to explore. It told me that I should stay, whether she did or not, just to see what else the mansion had in store. I could talk to her, I could read with her, we could find a bed and take a short nap. There were many more ways that I could try and convince her to stay in the mansion with me. The voice kept insisting that they would never work, but what little of my own conscience I retained at that point was telling me to at least give them a try.

The voice kept telling me that she had been planning on leaving for a long time. That she never meant to stay for as long as she had. That, if even she had loved me at one time, no longer felt that way. It kept telling me that she had another lover she was planning on running away with. She was planning on telling me at lunch, but the storm had hit as soon as she was about to say something. The voice kept insisting that she was only using me for money, for status. My conscience kept insisting this was not true, and with every exchange between the two my conscience grew quieter and quieter until I could no longer hear it at all.

So please understand, dear reader, when I tell you the events that followed, know that it was not I who conjured the plan. By the time I reached the top of the staircase I knew what I had to do. A shiver ran down my spine and the lightning hit the closest it ever had that night. Off in the distance I thought I heard a tree fall and crash, but I knew I had no time to get sidetracked with such thoughts. I found my way to the library with such ease one would think I had lived in that mansion all my life. The door was still open, all of the candles were still lit yet slightly lower now, and there she was. Sitting in the same arm chair, with the same book. She was still biting her finger nails and humming to herself in between each bite.

“You almost scared me half to death!” she nearly screamed when she finally noticed me in the doorway. I had been standing there for a few minutes, simply watching her, the butcher’s knife behind my back.

“So sorry, love,” I chuckled, stepping into the room. “How are you?”

“Fine.” She nodded her head before biting yet another one of her fingernails off again.

“Would you stop doing that?” I shouted. “You have been biting your fingernails all night and not only does it make the most unpleasant sound also is one of the most unladylike things I have ever seen! I do not care if you are scared or nervous, just find another way to cope with it!”

“What are you yelling for?” she asked, getting up for her spot in the armchair, matching the volume of my own voice. “You have no right-“ her words were cut off by boom of the thunder and the swing of the knife. Her words were cut off by a gasp as she realized what exactly was happening, but it was too late. Her head tumbled onto the floor, her body falling immediately afterwards.

Now one would think after such traumatizing events one would realize their mistake and immediately regret the decision. Immediately fall to the ground in tears and angrily ask whatever deity he prays to why they would allow such a thing to happen. Now of this happened in this situation. The voice that had convinced me to chop off her head, had also convinced me that it was okay. That she had gotten what she deserved, and that I had done the right thing. So when I chopped off her head it felt as if a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Or, to put it in a different perspective, the voice felt as if a giant weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. I told you it was not my fault. I told you I honestly had nothing to do with it.

Those candles were what ruined it. The candles that I had insisted on lighting the library with ruined everything. I know now that either I would have stayed in the mansion and lived happily by myself, or I would have found a way to leave and mention nothing about the murder. But no, it were the candles that ruined all of that for me. The candles, the blowing drapes, and pesky neighbors. In the heat of the moment it had never crossed my mind. The storm was so terrible who would be out and about or even near their window at this time of night? Who would look into the windows of an old, run down mansion?

Immediately after the initial cut, which was quite impressively done in one fatal swing, I proceeded to heave her body up over my shoulder and take her head by her hair. The blood did not bother me, the voice reassured me that I could always wash it out or if that did not work there was sure to be clothes somewhere in this large house. I made my way back down the giant staircase and noticed that the rain was lighting up now. Sure, it was still thundering and lightning, but not as frequently. The rain drops not falling quiet so hard. My legs moved me into the kitchen where I placed her down on the large wooden counter in the middle of the room. The butcher knife was still upstairs, and the voice cursed me for not remembering it. There were plenty of knives in the kitchen, I insisted before apologizing.

The voice ordered me to grab another and start chopping her up limb by limp. Of course my body complied. Something in the back of my brain told me to stop, but something right next to it told me that I was in too far anyways. So there I was. My body taken over by the voice; my mind torn between trusting itself and this not so foreign invader.

‘You must be getting hungry,’ It was not a question, but more of a statement. In that instant I felt my stomach growl. The last time I remembered paying attention to my stomach was during our picnic which seemed like just a few short hours ago.

‘I could eat,’ I shrugged in reply to the voice as I continued to chop up the girl. ‘Is there food in this house?’ It seemed as if the voice knew everything else about the place, so asking it this sort of question seemed appropriate.

‘Not that I know of,’ it replied instantly. ‘There are cooking supplies. Breading, oil, pots, pans,’ the voice continued listing off common kitchen ingredients as I finished up the chopping. ‘Do you know how to cook?’

‘No.’ was my reply as I put the knife down on the counter and stood back, admiring the work I had done.

‘Never too late to learn,’ the voice insisted before showing me out of the room and across the foyer to a small closet. Inside I found a pair of clothes fit for a butler. I would have laughed at wearing such clothes before, but the voice convinced me it was better than my blood stained attire at the moment. So I changed and threw my stained clothes back into the closet.

For the next ten minutes I continued to open every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen, looking for just the right tools and just the right ingredients to make something to satisfy the growing hunger. All the while the voice talked me through everything I needed to know. Everything I needed to find and everything I would need to do. I would prefer not to go into too much detail about the cooking. I cannot remember everything correctly and I personally hate to relive it. To know that I was capable of such things. To know that something was able to convince me to not only kill, but to eat the woman I loved is unbearable. It was not my fault.

Please just know that, again, it was not my fault. I implore you I had no intentions of eating any part of this woman. I had no intentions of turning the tiniest part of her into a most delicious appetizer, for I was interrupted before I could move on to the main course.

Just as I was placing a tray of the hors d’oeuvre on the living room table with one hand, a goblet of enchanting blood in the other, there came a knock on the door. I froze in my spot, and waited for either another knock or the voice to tell me what to do. The first thing to happened was another knock on the door, this time more urgent, more quickly, more forceful. My head was silent, save for the tiny portion that was telling me to open it. So, not thinking entirely clearly, I went over to the door, put a smile on my face, and opened it up to three men.

“Good evening,” I smiled widely. “Please, come in, come in, who knows when the storm will pick back up again,” I ushered the three men inside. “May I ask what you are all doing here?”

“We are detectives from in town. We were summoned here by a neighbor who had some concerns. Who are you?” the man who knocked on the door asked. “What are you doing in this house?”

“Uh, I am not quite sure what you mean,” I let out a soft laugh.

“What he means is that nobody has lived in this house for ten years,” a smaller man raised his voice.

“The last time this house had anyone in it was for my sister’s husband’s funeral. I remember, I was there.”

“You must be cold from the storm, please, the living room is much warmer,” I motioned for them to follow me. “Would you like something to eat? Something to drink?” the men sat down at the living room table.

“No, thank you, sir,” they all replied, shaking their heads. “We would just like to know what you are doing here, and how long you have been doing it.”

“Well,” I started, searching frantically in my mind for the voice. Surely it had not abandoned me in my time of need! Surely my own conscience would resurface in a timely manner if it had. “I was walking home earlier today when the storm hit, and instead of risking my life I slipped in here. I was quite surprised to find the house unlocked, to tell you the truth.”

“Our friend here tells us you had a woman with you,” the first officer replied. “Where is she?”

“A woman?” I titled my head to the side before taking another sip of my drink, trying to act as calm and casual as possible, though fearing I would begin sweating bullets any moment. Where was that damn voice when I needed it? “I am not quite sure what you are talking about.”

“I saw her, in the library upstairs,” the smaller man started. “The drapes were blowing about due to the poorly closed windows, and the candles were something out of the ordinary.” He nodded his head quickly. “There have not been any candles in any of these windows in ten years, I guarantee you that. The moment I saw her I tried to convince myself that there was nothing there, that it was just my mind playing tricks on me. But I looked over again, a few minutes later, and suddenly she was no longer there. But I saw you,” he pointed an accusatory finger right at me. “I saw you staring down at the ground, and what looked like a knife in your right hand.” It was not me who did it! It was that damn voice!

“I am left handed,” I shot back. “I have not been upstairs. I simply made my way to the kitchen to find something to eat and somewhere to sit.”

“There was never wine in this house. My sister would never allow it,”

“I was on a picnic before the storm hit, I brought it from there.”

“A picnic with a friend of yours?” he raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps a woman?” the rain had begun to fall a little harder now.

“By myself. Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you I enjoy taking myself out to the fields for a picnic every once in a while. It gives me a way to clear my head,”

“Then you will not mind if we take a look around? Only for a few moments, and then we can either all wait out the storm together or we can escort you back home,” the second detective spoke up.

“Be my guest,” where was that damn voice! I had no idea what to do in a situation like this, but I was sure the voice did. I knew I had to keep them away from the kitchen, buy how? I was practically paralyzed in my seat as I kept the smile on my face and the glass in my hand. “Check the library if you insist. You will find there is no one up there and nothing out of place,” I had blown out the candles, had I not? The voice would know these things. Where was it?

Thankfully they all went upstairs together to look at the library. As soon as they reached the top of the staircase I sprang from the table and ran as quietly as possible to the kitchen. I had to get the body out of sight. I had to clean up the blood. I had to do something since that voice had left me to myself. The rain was pouring harder now, and the lightning had gotten closer, the roar of the thunder louder. I put the goblet down on the kitchen counter and opened up the largest cupboard. I began shoving her into the confined space, arm by arm, leg by leg. The torso was the hardest part to fit into the cupboard, but I managed to do it.

I heard something upstairs and stopped in my tracks. It sounded as if it had come from the library. My heart felt as if it was going to burst out of my rib cage it was beating so hard and loud. I waved it off as a book falling to the ground and got back to my work. I needed towels to cover up the blood on the counter. I need to find a place to store the head! I could not leave it in the sink. I picked her head up by the hair again, and shoved it into the closet drawer I could find. It would not close! Her head was too big! The drawer was too small! Where could I put it?

I had to find towels first. I had to cover up the blood. But where were the kitchen towels? Where were the dish towels? Where was anything that could help me cover up and absorb this blood? That damn voice would know. I wracked my brain and tried to remember when it had made me open up all of the drawers and cupboards to see if there were any in the kitchen. I began opening every drawer again, as quietly and quickly as possible. Thankfully it only took four drawers to find the one dedicated to towels. I took all that were in there, even though they were old and filled with holes and dust, and began throwing them onto the blood soaked table. I had no time or towels to bother with what little blood was on the floor or on the sides of the cabinets. The last towel in my hand I threw over the drawer the head was stored in. As soon as that was done I picked up the goblet again and ran back to the living room to resume my place at the table.

As soon as I had sat back down at the head of the table I heard the men coming down the stairs again. “Did you find anything?” I asked, hoping the same smile that had found its way onto my face earlier was there again.

“You said you were in the kitchen, correct? To find some food?” the first detective asked. They did not wait for an answer, they just continued into the kitchen. I got up again, wiped off the sweat I imagined was surely on my forehead with the back of my hand, and made my way into the kitchen to meet with them.

I tried to control my breathing. I tried to control my pores. I tried to control my voice, my actions. They were so close to finding out what that voice had done. And surely they would blame it all on me. Where was that voice? It would know how to keep me calm and collected. It would know how to convince these men that nothing had happened. If anything was my fault in this situation, it was the fact that I had not hid the evidence well enough. It was that I had no idea what I was doing, what I had done, and what I had to do. It was never my fault.

They began opening a few drawers and cupboards here and there. The lighting was poor so they could not see the blood against the wood. They passed over the drawer with her head in it. They steered clear of the cupboard full of body parts. They were almost about the leave, having not found anything, when it happened.

A drop of blood fell from the cupboard.

I winced in pain at the sound. For some reason it was as if the noise was amplified over a thousand times. Had the detectives heard it? Had they seen the blood drop onto the counter? Had they noticed my reaction and decided to investigate it?

Sure enough, the small neighbor saw me wince. He looked over at the cupboard my eyes were locked on and crossed the room over to it, examining the spot the blood had fallen to on the counter and looking up at the handles. He glanced over his shoulder at me, at the detectives he had brought along with him. He took a deep breath as he reached up and put his hands on the handles, took another deep breath as he opened up the cupboard.

“NO!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Damn you!” I fell to my knees as the limbs fell from the cupboard. I was not cursing the man, but the voice that had abandoned me. “Why?” I asked into the air, to anyone, to everyone, trying to find that voice. “It is not right!” I shouted again as one of the detectives seized me while the other went to help the neighbor. “I was not my fault!” I shouted over and over while thrashing about in his arms. “It was not my fault!” I insisted until I was out of breath.

It was not my fault. It was that voice. It was damn voice that I have not heard since those damn detectives knocked on the door. It was not my fault. Has this tale convinced you of that yet? Please say that it has. I do not know how much longer I can stay in here. It is a surprise that they allowed me this much time and paper to write this down for you. Please, dear reader, it was not my fault. I promise you it was never my fault. It was not my fault.