England when they used to draw and quarter people and had put their severed heads on spikes and impaled them with sharp sticks.
He read about the Spanish Inquisition, too, and what had been done to the people who they had thought to be witches. They had all kinds of torture devices back then, but the worst one had been called the Iron Maiden. It had been a hinged iron box with razor-sharp spikes inside. They had put the accused witches inside and slammed it shut so that all the spikes stabbed into their bodies. Heâd never read anything so cool. And he particularly loved one book that heâd found in an old bookstore downtown. It told the true story of some crazy lunatic guy that had put his victims in a maze of dark rooms and hallways and then jumped out and hacked them to pieces with a machete. That book had given him cold chills the first time he read it, but he still loved how the victims screamed and ran and were chased around and finally shot in the back of their heads.
That was when he decided he needed to build a Maze of Terror of his own, a place of horrors where no one could ever, ever escape, where he could chase people all day long and watch them through hidden peepholes and trapdoors. It was exciting to think about that and plan for the future. And he knew exactly where he would build it. Way out in the deepest, darkest part of the swamp where nobody ever went, on an island, where only alligators and snakes and nutria rats lived. Yeah, that would be a perfect place. So he began to search the bayous and find secret routes in and out of the swamp from every direction, just in case he ever got caught playing his games and had to run for his life.
It was fun when he stole off by himself. He wondered sometimes if his friends on the team would like to help him, if they, too, had the urge to hurt people and scare the shit out of them. But he was too careful to involve others. He acted the carefree senior in high school, winning games with his friends, dating popular and pretty girls, making his grades, learning to weld and to build houses at his uncleâs construction company, and all the while he was building his own house of horrors, way out in the swamp with the materials he stole from what was left over at his uncleâs building sites. He designed it himself, and it was as complicated and evil as hell, but thatâs what he liked about it.
After he won the football scholarship, he perpetuated his dream, all the while building and planning and scaring people. He began to spend his weekends in the swamp, honing all the scary things, just so. It was during this time that he discovered voodoo and all its creepy rituals. He found the altar by accident, just happened to see the flash of a crucifix, where it was hanging in a tree and swinging in the wind. It was daytime and deserted, and he had never seen a single person within miles of this part of the swamp. It was too dark, too dangerous, and too alligator infested. But heâd heard the beat of drums a couple of times, late at night, and that had spooked him a little.
He nosed his boat onto dry land and waded out toward where heâd seen the glint of silver. There he found the crucifix and lots of other stuff. The altar was fresh. There were all kinds of candles and jars of strange-looking things. Some looked a lot like human body parts. Intrigued, excited, and a little frightened, he held them up to the sunlight filtering down through the cypress trees. One was a human ear in a jelly jar, cut off with ragged edges that fanned out in the formaldehyde when he shook it. Creepy as hell. There was a big bowl of blood, some not yet congealed, and human skulls were sitting all over the place. Many had candles set inside of them, and there were framed pictures of the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ and angels surrounded by clouds and trumpets.
There were little bottles hanging off the trees with unknown liquids in them, but he knew it was probably bodily
He read about the Spanish Inquisition, too, and what had been done to the people who they had thought to be witches. They had all kinds of torture devices back then, but the worst one had been called the Iron Maiden. It had been a hinged iron box with razor-sharp spikes inside. They had put the accused witches inside and slammed it shut so that all the spikes stabbed into their bodies. Heâd never read anything so cool. And he particularly loved one book that heâd found in an old bookstore downtown. It told the true story of some crazy lunatic guy that had put his victims in a maze of dark rooms and hallways and then jumped out and hacked them to pieces with a machete. That book had given him cold chills the first time he read it, but he still loved how the victims screamed and ran and were chased around and finally shot in the back of their heads.
That was when he decided he needed to build a Maze of Terror of his own, a place of horrors where no one could ever, ever escape, where he could chase people all day long and watch them through hidden peepholes and trapdoors. It was exciting to think about that and plan for the future. And he knew exactly where he would build it. Way out in the deepest, darkest part of the swamp where nobody ever went, on an island, where only alligators and snakes and nutria rats lived. Yeah, that would be a perfect place. So he began to search the bayous and find secret routes in and out of the swamp from every direction, just in case he ever got caught playing his games and had to run for his life.
It was fun when he stole off by himself. He wondered sometimes if his friends on the team would like to help him, if they, too, had the urge to hurt people and scare the shit out of them. But he was too careful to involve others. He acted the carefree senior in high school, winning games with his friends, dating popular and pretty girls, making his grades, learning to weld and to build houses at his uncleâs construction company, and all the while he was building his own house of horrors, way out in the swamp with the materials he stole from what was left over at his uncleâs building sites. He designed it himself, and it was as complicated and evil as hell, but thatâs what he liked about it.
After he won the football scholarship, he perpetuated his dream, all the while building and planning and scaring people. He began to spend his weekends in the swamp, honing all the scary things, just so. It was during this time that he discovered voodoo and all its creepy rituals. He found the altar by accident, just happened to see the flash of a crucifix, where it was hanging in a tree and swinging in the wind. It was daytime and deserted, and he had never seen a single person within miles of this part of the swamp. It was too dark, too dangerous, and too alligator infested. But heâd heard the beat of drums a couple of times, late at night, and that had spooked him a little.
He nosed his boat onto dry land and waded out toward where heâd seen the glint of silver. There he found the crucifix and lots of other stuff. The altar was fresh. There were all kinds of candles and jars of strange-looking things. Some looked a lot like human body parts. Intrigued, excited, and a little frightened, he held them up to the sunlight filtering down through the cypress trees. One was a human ear in a jelly jar, cut off with ragged edges that fanned out in the formaldehyde when he shook it. Creepy as hell. There was a big bowl of blood, some not yet congealed, and human skulls were sitting all over the place. Many had candles set inside of them, and there were framed pictures of the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ and angels surrounded by clouds and trumpets.
There were little bottles hanging off the trees with unknown liquids in them, but he knew it was probably bodily
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