Blind Man’s Confession 
Frederick Greenhalgh

This is Frederick
Greenhalgh’s debut story in
Blue Murder Magazine. We
think you’ll enjoy his
twisted little tale.
©Copyright 2001
Frederick Greenhalgh
He never told me his name.
Ankle-deep in mud, blood everywhere, gun against my skull, and
he couldn’t extend the simple courtesy of introducing himself. It
would’ve made the pelting rain a little more bearable. Instead, all I
received was the pain - pain, and the deep, unsettling feeling in my
gut.
It all started with my car careening down a backwoods forest
road, late at night and raining. My pulse quickened as I skidded
around each corner, each time gripping a little less, losing a little
more control. Possessed and a little frenzied, I kept at the wheel,
defying my mortality for a little while longer. But one corner was a
little sharper, the road a little slicker, the other car a little more in
my lane.
I slammed on my brakes and twisted the wheel, but it was too
late; in a roar of screeching metal and exploding glass, the two
massive hunks of metal collided. It was something like magic, I
expect. I felt like Houdini when dealt the blow that consummated
his mortality; I was immediately airborne and feeling angelic.
Angelic, that is, until I slammed into November water. The force of
the crash propelled me beneath the surface of the lake, like a
trapeze act gone horribly wrong. I felt alive, that I’ll say. But I was
also as scared as hell.
I didn’t know which way was up. I writhed in the water like a
fish does on land. My lungs soon emptied, and I fought the urge to
gulp in cold water. I felt desolate and hopeless for a single moment.
I didn’t want to dodge death’s claws once only to dive into its
mouth and drown there.
Then, a sign.
A bolt of lightning overhead - or to my side, it doesn’t matter -
caught my eye. I oriented myself and struggled to the surface as
best I could. I’m not a good swimmer, but desperation can do
incredible things to a man. Numb but elated, I burst over the
surface and gasped sweet air.
For just a moment, I saw an image from a dream. It was a tall
dark citadel with bats whispering around the tower. Despite the past
moments, my mind extinguished all else and focused on this image.
Then, it was gone, leaving only the cold water and the dreary night.
A roar of thunder, like a falling bomb, sounded overhead. I began
to swim for shore.
I made it back. I don’t know how many men could have done
the same, but I knew I couldn’t have done the same the day before.
But something was within me that night. Something foolhardy and
daring. I doubt I’ll ever see that again. But for that night, I was able
to swim back. I shook off some of the cold as I scrambled up the
muddy bank.
The accident scene was a streak of littered glass and bent metal.
The other car, night blue, pinned my car against a bent oak. My
pulse hammered. I should’ve noticed before. Written on the side
was:
Hookland Police Department: To Serve and Protect
I probably hit the only cop car in town. I was ready to turn
around and run. Somewhere out in the black forest around me,
there must have been an escape. There must have been a way to
run away from the horror. I didn’t find one. I didn’t want one. I had
to know what happened to the driver. I bit my lip and continued.
You’re shaking your head. You do the same thing when you
watch a horror movie on your monochrome television. You want
the victim to turn back, to conquer their curiosity. Turning back is
impossible. Curiosity is, ultimately, what kills cats and men alike. I
was willing to sacrifice a lifetime of banality only to satiate this one
invasive need.
I was only a few feet from the cab. I glanced more at my maimed
car, crushed under the weight of a stronger vehicle. I had washed
that car by hand at least a hundred times. I lost my virginity in it.
Now, it was gone, like footprints in a snowstorm. I sighed and
turned back to the police car, my heart a churning mess.
I opened the door.
The blank glow of lightning illuminated the remnants of the illfated
driver. I turned quick, but the horror of the scene lingers with
me. It wasn’t the blood or the mangled body. It was the look in his
eyes. Fear was the only thing that man felt when he left this world.
It was a fear so deep, so cold and numbing, and so much like what
I felt that next moment when someone tapped me on the shoulder. 
I couldn't turn. My body temperature must have plummeted a
good ten degrees. This was a fear no humans should feel. This is
the fear that watching a gripping horror movie brushes on, snickers
at, wets your mouth with. The real thing is enough to tear the
foundations of your very soul and leave the stuffing to the dogs.
That’s what I felt when I realized I was not alone in that black,
lonely night, fifteen miles from the nearest house, a mutilated police
officer just in front of me. There was no reason that another person
would be here, unannounced and subtle like the touch on my
shoulder had been. No reason at all, unless that person came with a
purpose.
"Nice work you did there, friend, I couldn't have done a better
job myself," came a croak from behind.
I answered with silence.
He answered for me. "So I've scared the poor boy. I'm sorry,
friend, but I couldn't let my ruse fall until I was quite sure of your
intensions. This really was an accident, and through some twist of
the fates, it seems someone up above wants to see you live. So be
it, I'm not one to fuck with god."
There was a click from behind, and the feeling of a cold and
perfect circle pressed against my skull. I should’ve noticed that the
officer’s gun was gone. Now, with a single muscle contraction all of
my hopes, dreams, thoughts, and passions would splatter against the
car in front of me.
The voice continued.
"Though I will be forced to step on his toes if I must. I owe you a
favor. A man like me doesn’t appreciate captivity. So, I'm giving you
the next 60 seconds to give me one good reason why I shouldn't
pull this trigger and make sure that my tracks are covered
indefinitely."
A man dying of cancer doesn’t fear for his life like this. I blurted
off the first things that came to mind: I said I had a family, a
girlfriend. I said I was a decent man and that this was all an
accident and that I didn't mean to be here and that I just wanted to
go for a ride this one night and instead of being warm in my bed I
was now standing aching in the rain with a gun to the rear of my
cranium. I said I’d submit to god, go to church and all that. I said I
just wanted to live. The man reacted to none of my words.
Then there was another sound, the whining of a diesel engine
slowing to a stop.
The gun moved from the back of my head as the unseen figure
said: "There’s more than one bullet in this gun, if you move an inch
I won’t let you name another reason."
A voice from a gruff man, weary from the road, came from
behind. He yelled out the trigger words everyone experienced with
accidents yells: "Is anyone hurt? Can you move? Have you called an 
ambulance?" or sometime like that. The gunshot blended into the
sound of thunder.
The rain came down that moment like it had never come down
before. I hardly felt the rain anymore. I heard the boots of the
figure grind gravel against asphalt as it turned to me again. I said
the last desperate thing I could think of:
"I won't tell them anything. ‘I never saw a thing’, that’s all they’ll
know."
There was a moment of hesitation, and then the voice returned.
"An acceptable answer, finally. You’ll have your wish."
My muscles relaxed. Finally, the nightmare was over. The man
wasn’t merciless after all. Hell, I didn't even know why he was
there, but it didn’t matter to me. I felt a twinge of guilt for the two
corpses being soaked in the unseasonable rain, but my own selfish
freedom was more important. Death had lashed at me too many
times already that night; I wanted to get home, get some sleep, and
get the nightmare behind me. A foolish thought.
The man grabbed me and dragged me backwards through the
mud. I struggled with what strength I had, pulling forward and
batting at his arms. I grasped desperately at the spreading mud, but
I couldn’t get a hold of anything. This man was stronger than I. I
felt sick and tired, wasted and cold. I tried to struggle, but my body
grew limp. I fought a moment more before fatigue set in, flushing
the other feelings from my body. My eyes shut.
Somehow, I awoke. The sun had been beating on me for some
time. I smiled, I think, and tried to open my eyes when the horror
of the night before returned. I could not. My eyes burned, but it
wasn’t the sun. My stomach churned, sick, as I realized beauty was
gone.
I must have sat there for hours in that stunned silence. Eventually
I heard men yelling and the howls of sirens. I threw up watery bile
before falling unconscious again. I woke in a starched bed with the
hum of hospital equipment. I felt like I had bathed in hot coals. I
asked where I was.
It was then that I learned that I could never sing again, or kiss
like I used to. The same burning in my eyes was in my throat, and
only a hoarse gurgle came from the mouth that tried to speak. It
seems the villain I met there in the night was either very literal or
very wry. Thank God I’m a writer.
They explained things. The man had spent hours sewing stitches
in my eyes and tongue; amputation was the only way to prevent
infection. No one felt like pressing criminal charges, but they
needed some sort of answer. They told me they’d let me go if I
wrote down everything I could about the night. They knew a little.
The driver of truck was a sheriff from a small town transporting
the elusive killer he had caught earlier that evening. He was driving 
alone, nervous, and very afraid of the beast held in the cage behind
him. The killer wailed, the driver turned, and the dominoes began
to fall. The rest they hoped I could tell them.
The killer even left me a note, I hear.
"I fulfilled my part of the bargain, instituted a - clause - so that
you would fulfill yours. I haven’t taken that much away from you.
At least you can still feel."
Criminal sketches say he looks a whole lot like me, but they don’t
know his name, either. His is a presence that you notice, that you
identify right away. If you ever meet him on the road, tell him that
you read a confession from the blind man. Tell him you’d like to
know his name. Tell him this:
I should have known not to fuck with god.