The Old Man
By Mandika Turudic
Part I - Wade William Wilson
Wade William Wilson stood as a vestige of a vanished age, a man who had seen more than his fair share of hardship and pain. His face was etched with deep lines that mapped out the journey of his tumultuous life, a silent testament to the battles he had fought and the scars he had earned. He moved with a deliberate slowness that spoke of a body worn down by time, yet his eyes remained sharp, hinting at the fiery spirit that still burned within him. His house was a small, unassuming structure, in a quiet neighborhood where the only sounds that pierced the silence were the occasional cries of distant children and the rustling of leaves in the trees that lined the street.
Each morning, Wade followed a meticulous routine. He would rise with the sun, shuffling his feet across the cold wooden floors, and make his way to the kitchen. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeated throughout the space as he poured himself a steaming cup. It was a simple pleasure, one of the few that had remained constant in a world that seemed hell-bent on change. Without fail, he would then reach for the bottle of rum that sat stoically on the shelf above the sink. He'd pour a generous helping into his mug, watching as the dark liquid swirled into the coffee, creating a murky brown concoction that steamed in the early light.
The newspaper, yellowed and slightly damp from the morning dew, lay folded on the porch. He picked it up with a grunt, the plastic crinkling in his grip as he carried it inside. At the kitchen table, surrounded by the comforting scents of his makeshift breakfast, he unfolded the paper with a sense of ritual. His thick, calloused fingers danced over the headlines, skimming over the stories of a world that no longer had a place for men like him. The news of the day was a blur of names and places that held no meaning, a cacophony of voices that shouted for his attention but never quite captured it.
The kitchen was a time capsule, untouched by the hands of modernity. The table was scarred from years of use, and the chairs creaked in protest as he sat. The walls were adorned with fading photographs of a lifelong past; a life filled with faces that now stared back at him with the empty gaze of forgotten memories. His eyes lingered on one photo in particular, a young woman with a smile that could light up a room. It had been years since he had seen that smile, and yet it remained as vivid in his mind as the day it had been captured on film. The paper crackled as he turned the page, the sound voyaged through the stillness of the room.
The obituaries caught his eye, as they often did. He read through the list of the newly departed, searching for names he recognized. It was a macabre habit, but one that had become a part of his morning routine. He felt a strange kinship with these strangers, knowing that soon enough his own name would join their ranks. His hand trembled slightly as he took a sip of the spiked coffee, the warmth spread through his chest and briefly chased away the chill that seemed to have settled there permanently.
His thoughts drifted to the night that had changed everything. The night he had buried his past, along with his youth and the last shreds of his humanity. The details were hazy now, obscured by the fog of time and the endless bottles of rum that had followed. But the pain was as sharp as ever, a constant reminder of the price he had paid for survival. He had been a soldier then, a pawn in a game played by men with more power and ambition than sense. The battles he had fought had been brutal and unforgiving, leaving him with a legacy of blood and lust and an overall lust for blood.
A sudden knock on the door startled him out of his reverie. It was rare for anyone to visit him so early in the day, and the unexpected sound sent a jolt of adrenaline through his aging veins. He rose slowly, the chair groaning as he stood. His hand hovered over the knob; his heart pounded in his chest. The world outside had forgotten him, but had something, or someone, finally come to claim the debt he had so long evaded? He took a deep breath, the scent of his rum-laced coffee still lingering in the air. He pulled the door open with a creak that seemed to echo through the years.
The sunlight was blinding, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. On the doorstep stood a young girl, no more than ten years old. She looked at him with a mix of curiosity and fear, her eyes wide and innocent. In one hand, she clutched a bouquet of wilted flowers, and in the other, a folded piece of paper. "Are you Mr. Wilson?" she asked in a small voice. Wade nodded, his mind racing. What could this child want from him? He took the paper; his trembling hand almost dropped the flowers in the process.
The note was simple, yet the words sent a shockwave through his very soul. "If the blue meanies are going to get me they’d better get off their asses and do something." The girl's eyes searched his face for a reaction, but he remained stoic. He had left that part of his life behind in the dust of forgotten wars and lost causes. But as he stared at the paper, he felt a flicker of something he had not felt in a very long time: an urge. As he held the piece of paper in his hand, he looked up to find there was no girl on his porch or near his house. At his age, these things were bound to happen, he thought to himself. Without another thought, he mindlessly shut the door.
Part II - If You’re Going To San Francisco
His kitchen was a shrine to forgotten moments. The wallpaper, a faded pattern of corn husks and daisies, something from a past Wade had tried to leave behind. A single bulb cast a yellowish hue over the room, illuminating a tableau of dusty photographs and half-empty rum bottles. He plopped into the kitchen chair, clutching a bundle of wildflowers that might very well have been pilfered by a poltergeist, while memories draped themselves over his shoulders like a cloak that tickled and weighed him at once.
He slid open the nearby drawer and upended its contents onto the table with a clatter. Amid the scattered remnants of a life half-remembered, his fingers found an old black-and-white photograph. The edges were soft with age, worn thin by the passage of countless years. It was Betty Lou Jensen, captured in a moment of youthful light. Her smile radiant, untouched by the shadow that would follow. That brightness stood in cruel contrast to the lifeless figure he had left behind on a gravel turnout all those decades ago. Her eyes in the photo seemed to lock onto his, filled with a silent, unrelenting accusation. And somehow, even after all this time, the faint trace of her perfume: sweet, floral, heartbreakingly innocent; rose like a ghost around him, refusing to be forgotten.
His eyes flicked to the clock: 11:00 a.m. The numbers, though innocent, stirred a dark recognition of another hour: 11:00 p.m., the moment etched into his bones, when David Arthur Faraday and Betty Lou Jensen had drawn their last breaths on that cursed night in ’68. With each passing second, the tick of the clock grew heavier, more deliberate, like a hammer driving nails into a coffin inside his mind. A chill crawled up his spine as the room seemed to tighten around him. He couldn’t shake the sensation of unseen eyes fixed on him from darkened corners. It was as if the very walls remembered and were waiting for the truth to crack through the life he had so carefully constructed; one secret at a time.
He rubbed his temple, trying to dispel the pressure mounting behind his eyes, but the ticking only grew louder, more insistent, like a metronome for past deeds he wished he could relive. A floorboard creaked behind him. He didn’t turn. He wouldn’t give the shadows the satisfaction.
"You’re imagining things," he muttered under his breath, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. The silence that followed seemed to mock him. He had lived decades crafting normalcy from lies, each day a careful performance. But now, as the hands of the clock circled back toward that ghost of an hour, he couldn’t help but wonder if time itself had come to collect.
He drew in a slow breath, letting the familiar scent of coffee fill his lungs, a small comfort in an otherwise restless morning. But the warmth it offered was fleeting, unable to thaw the cold that had settled deep within his bones. With a weakened hand, he set the photograph back down, then gently slid it away, as if even its presence on the table was more than he could bear.
The distant drone of an old sitcom drifted from the television in the other room, its dialogue too faint to follow, just a soft echo of canned laughter and meaningless chatter. He poked absently at his breakfast; appetite lost to the images crawling in his mind. Betty Lou’s lifeless body appeared behind his eyes once more, crumpled in a pool of blood and broken innocence. The dead laughter from the TV cut through the soundless moment like a cruel joke, a grotesque counterpoint to the cries that had once pierced the night. He could still hear David’s desperate, ragged breaths, each one a futile fight against the inevitable, each one a sound he would never forget.
****************
"You gotta keep an eye out for fireworks tonight, Darlene," Michael Mageau said, peering through the windshield of the car, his voice filled with excitement.
"I heard they're supposed to be epic." Darlene Ferrin, her blonde hair framing her smiling face, glanced at him.
"I'm more of a quiet night person, Mike," she replied, her voice a gentle tease. "But I'm sure the show will be worth it."
Their laughter filled the car as they rolled into the nearly deserted Blue Rock Springs Park. It was a typical Fourth of July in Solano County, families had already staked out prime spots for the fireworks, leaving the couple to claim the park’s quieter corners for themselves. The headlights sliced through the darkness, shining a fleeting light on the empty swings gently swaying in the warm summer breeze. They sat together in the stillness, wrapped in the soft glow of anticipation and the distant crackle of early fireworks bursting in the night sky.
Now and then, a passing car’s headlights briefly bathed the couple in cold light before vanishing into the night. The only other vehicle in the parking lot sat a few spaces away, silent, still, and seemingly abandoned. What the unsuspecting couple didn’t realize was that nearby, a young and resolute Wade hid in the vicinity, silently absorbing their playful, flirtatious exchange.
The night hung heavy and still, charged with a quiet that fell almost electric in nature. Michael leaned in closer to Darlene, their words fading into a comfortable, shared silence. Above them, stars flickered like distant candles, while the park’s darkness stretched around them, an inviting contrast to the soft glow of the city lights far below. Suddenly, the sharp screech of tires on gravel shattered the calm. The car that had sat idle earlier roared to life, its headlights stabbing through the night as it skidded to a stop just behind them. Michael’s body stiffened, his hand moving instinctively toward the door handle, ready for whatever might come next.
"Just kids, probably," Darlene said, trying to soothe his nerves. "They'll leave soon."
The car's engine rumbled, the bass thumping in time with their racing hearts. The headlights remained on, breaking through the rearview mirror and into their eyes.
"Maybe we should go," Michael chirped, his grip tightening.
Before Darlene could respond, a figure emerged from the night, the beam of a flashlight cutting through. The cold metal of a gun glinted in the artificial light, and Wade approached the car. The air was tense, their breaths shallow and quick.
"Don't move," Michael whispered, his voice cracking with fear. "Just don't move."
But the figure didn't hear, didn't care. The first shot rang out, shattering the tranquil night into a raging chaos.
The window beside Michael's head exploded inwards, showering them with glass. Darlene screamed, her hand flying to her face, as another bullet tore through the fabric of her seat, embedding itself in the metal frame. Michael's body convulsed with the impact, his eyes wide with terror. Young Wade paused, the muzzle of the gun smoking as he stepped closer, the flashlight now aimed at the ground, painting a circle of light around the car. Time seemed to slow as Michael watched the man's figure loom larger, the barrel of the firearm pointed directly at him.
The final two shots rang out, the explosive sounds muffled by the ringing in his ears. And then, nothing. Just the distant sound of fireworks and the heavy silence that follows a storm.
Michael looked up at the stars, now indifferent to his plight, and whispered Darlene's name. The footsteps retreated; the car door slammed shut. The engine roared to life and the tires peeled out, leaving him alone.
Wade recalled this memory as his biggest mistake leaving Michael alive. He was sure he would’ve gotten him caught, fortunately for him, his description of the events was always too fuzzy to implicate Wade.
****************
The digital clock on the microwave flipped to 2:00 PM with a silent click that seemed to echo through Wade's empty house. The sun painted a square of yellow light on the kitchen floor, hinting at the warmth outside. He was a man who had seen more summers than he deserved, and he knew that. He shuffled towards the fridge. His eyes fell on the almost empty peanut butter jar, and his hand hovered over it with a sigh that was half nostalgia, half resignation. With a twist of his wrist, he scraped the last dollops onto two slices of toast. A smear of grape jelly followed, and the sandwich was complete. The thought tiptoed in, that a man of his age had no business with such grub, but he waved it off with all the concern of a cat swatting at dust.
"Alright, Wade," he murmured to himself, "you've got this."
He grabbed the small bag of stale bread, the remnants of a loaf from the week before, and placed it carefully beside the Tupperware containing his picnic lunch. The bag of trail mix was already sitting there, a beacon of hope for the afternoon's snack. He looked around the kitchen, spotting a juice box on the counter that had been left there. It was grape flavored, his favorite, and it was the perfect addition to his picnic. A further sign, perhaps, that time itself drives us to retreat into the padded comfort of our younger days.
He slid into his comfortable shoes and picked up the small bag with the picnic. The neighbourhood was quiet, save for the distant hum of the neighbor’s lawn mower. It was a familiar sound, a symphony of suburban afternoons that had played for decades. With a gentle tug, he closed the door behind him and stepped out into the brightness.
The sidewalks were mostly empty, except for a mother pushing a stroller and a young couple walking a hyperactive dog. Wade nodded to them, his grip tightening around the bag as he made his way to the park. The anticipation of the afternoon's tranquillity filled his chest with a warmth that no cup of tea could ever replicate. The park was his sanctuary, a place where he could sit and watch the world go by without the weight of his past on his shoulders.
He approached the park's iron gate, and the sound of children's laughter grew clearer. He recalled the dark threats he had once hurled about wiping out busloads of children. Though he had always harboured a deep loathing for them, he had grown adept at concealing his contempt, quietly watching those troublesome little creatures wriggle through life like unwelcome pests.
The cut-grass tang waltzed lazily on the breeze, entwined with the sweetness of flowers just waking. It was a simple joy, one that he cherished. He knew that beyond the gate lay the lake, a shimmering mirror of blue that reflected the sky. And around the lake, the birds would be waiting for him. They always did. Much like his victims always awaited their fate.
He took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, and pushed the gate open with a familiar creak. The park was a canvas painted with green grass and blue skies, and he was ready to add his own stroke of existence to the scene. The path to the lake was a well-worn tapestry of concrete and memory. Every crack, every curve, held a story from his life. Lately he spent more and more time in the past than he did in the present. He replayed these moments in the movie theatre of his mind. Beneath the rose-tint of remembrance lurked something sour, the fondness itself as feeble as a plaster on a snapped leg. All pretence, no flame.
He reached the lake's edge and no sooner the first bird appeared, a sparrow with a hopeful chirp. Wade pulled a piece of stale bread from the bag and offered it up. The sparrow took it, and soon, more birds arrived, creating a flurry of feathers and song around him. The bread didn't last long, but the joy on their faces was worth more than any meal. Odd as it sounded, Wade half-felt like Snow White in a Grimm’s tale gone skew-whiff, surrounded by simpering beasts that seemed all too eager to prance and warble for him. Except, of course, this Snow White was a greying grouch of a man with urges best bricked up and forgotten.
He sat down on his favorite bench, the peeling paint a testament to the years of his visits. The sandwich was next. The peanut butter and jelly oozed out slightly as he bit into it, the flavours melding together in a dance of sweet and salty. He chewed slowly, savouring the taste that took him back to a time when his biggest worry was whether to have jelly or honey on his toast. The juice box was a delightful surprise, the grape liquid washing down the bread with a sweetness that brought a smile to his lips.
Little humans giggled as they chased each other, a couple held hands on a leisurely stroll, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked a greeting. He felt like a spectator, a silent observer. He took another bite of his sandwich, the bread crunching under his teeth, and watched as the birds continued their choreography. The day was undeniably beautiful, one of those rare, golden afternoons he instinctively knew would linger in his memory. It carried the same charged stillness as another day etched deep in his mind: September 27th, 1969. That day, in a quiet corner of Lake Berryessa, he had taken great satisfaction in leaving a permanent scar on two young lives: Bryan and Cecilia. Unfortunately, Bryan lived to tell the tale, but it wasn’t all bad. Through the boy’s story, Wade had been cast into infamy, a brand he wore like a scar and some secret part of him delighted in its sting.
As they stepped upon the lake’s threshold, the young ones felt their lungs tighten with awe. The water glistened like a sheet of mirrored silver, and the trees whispered overhead. They found a spot under a spreading oak, the shade providing a welcome respite from the sun's embrace. Bryan Hartnell and Cecelia Shepard unpacked their picnic, a simple affair of sandwiches and fruit, but it felt like a feast in the grandeur of their surroundings. The only sounds were the distant calls of waterfowl and the occasional splash of a fish jumping for an insect. They sat side by side, their laughter mingling with the serenity of the lake. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, a memory they would cherish forever, or so they thought.
Little did they know that their idyllic evening was about to take a turn that would forever be carved in the annals of terror. Enter Wade William Wilson.
The peacefulness of the lake was shattered by the sudden sound of twigs snapping underfoot. They both jolted upright, their eyes darting to the source of the noise. Wade emerged from the woodland, tall and imposing, clad in a medieval executioner's hood and a cape made from what looked like a crudely stitched together piece of cloth.
He was carrying a knife, and in his other hand, a gun. He approached them with a disturbing calmness that froze them in place. Their laughter died in their throats as fear gripped them, tight as a vice.
"You two," he spoke in a chilling, hollow tone. His voice was muffled by the mask, yet it carried a strange authority that demanded obedience. "Lay down on the ground, face down." Bryan and Cecelia exchanged panic-stricken glances. They knew this wasn't a prank, not with the cold steel glinting in the sunlight. They complied, their hearts hammering against their ribs.
The man bent down and began to tie their wrists together with a rope that felt rough and unforgiving against their skin. His movements were swift and precise, as if he had done this before.
"What do you want?" Bryan's voice quivered with fear.
"Your lives," Wade replied, his voice eerily calm.
The assailant stood over them, his shadow a dark pall across the picnic blanket. The sun, which had once been their ally, now cast him in a terrifying silhouette. And with that, the nightmare began. The man's blade sliced through the air, finding its target in Bryan's back, the first of eight brutal stabs that would leave him fighting for breath. Then he turned his attention to the girl, his knife flashing in a frenzied dance that delivered sixteen agonizing wounds.
The pain was indescribable; each stab a white-hot ember searing into their very souls. They screamed, pleaded, but Wade was unmoved, his eyes cold and empty behind the mask.
He finished his assault on innocence abruptly and wiped his knife clean on the grass. He took a few steps back, watching them writhe in agony. With one last, lingering look, he disappeared into the woods, leaving them alone with the horror he had brought into their lives. The world grew fuzzy around the edges as the blood seeped from their wounds, soaking into the earth. Their cries for help seemed to be swallowed by the very air itself. The serene beauty of Lake Berryessa had become a battleground, and they were the unwilling combatants in a war they never knew existed.
A deep, almost intoxicating wave of nostalgia swept over Wade whenever he thought back to that era. The late 1960s had not merely marked a period of upheaval and awakening for America; they had stirred something within him as well. While the world marched, protested, and transformed, he too had been reborn in his own quiet, demented way. It was a time when everything felt raw, electric, and unfiltered; a time when the mask he wore began to feel less like a disguise and more like his true face. The chaos of the age hadn’t unsettled him; it had invigorated him.
While he sat in the warm embrace of the afternoon sun, he allowed his thoughts to drift: to faces, names, and final moments long buried in the folds of time. Some of his victims had been traced back to him in whispers and theories, while others remained ghosts with no tether to his name. There was a peculiar thrill in that anonymity, a private satisfaction he savoured like fine wine.
He often compared himself to Jack the Ripper, not out of vanity, but in admiration of a shared brilliance. Both had danced with the macabre, leaving behind horror and riddles, and yet slipped away untouched. That clever elusiveness, that invisible mastery, stirred a flicker of excitement in his chest even now. To exist without a name, to kill without consequence; it was, in his mind, a legacy few could claim.
Part III – The Puzzler
Wade's hands trembled slightly as he carefully placed the final piece of the puzzle into place. His eyes, once sharp with youthful vigour, now squinted behind thick-rimmed glasses as he examined his work. The picture on the box had been a challenge, a sprawling metropolis at dusk, the buildings' lights just beginning to twinkle in the gathering darkness. But he had conquered it, as he had conquered so many puzzles before.
The room was a testament to his meticulous nature; shelves lined with puzzles completed over the years. Each one had been arranged by difficulty, with the most challenging ones displayed at eye level. Above the fireplace, a particularly intricate depiction of a Renaissance painting took pride of place. The colours, once vibrant, had faded slightly with time, but the details remained as mesmerizing as ever.
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway was the only sound that pierced the quiet solitude of the house. His wife, Margaret, had passed away five years ago, leaving him with nothing but spectres and his puzzles. He took comfort in the methodical nature of the hobby, the way each piece fit together to form a cohesive whole, much like the meticulous planning of his former life's work.
He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his rum and coke, feeling the chill of the ice cube against his lips. It had been a long time since he had felt that rush, that thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of a job well done. Now, his days were filled with the gentle clink of plastic pieces and the muffled hum of daytime television. Tonight, something was different.
The news had been playing in the background, a dull murmur of tragedies and scandals that he usually ignored. But today, something caught his attention. They were speaking about a string of recent killings, each one more gruesome than the last. The city was on edge, and the police were desperate for leads. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of sentimentality. It had been decades since he had last donned his mask, but the game was calling to him once more. Unfortunately, the years have claimed his strength and what he could do as a young man, he now could only fantasize about.
He pushed himself to his feet, his knees popping with the effort of standing. His body was not as spry as it had once been, but his mind remained sharp as a tack. He shuffled over to a dusty bookshelf in the corner, his eyes scanning the titles of each book as if searching for a hidden message. His fingers paused at a leather-bound volume titled "The Complete Works of Shakespeare." With a knowing smile, he pulled it out, revealing a secret compartment behind it. Inside lay a tattered envelope, yellowed with age, filled with newspaper clippings of his past exploits.
He pulled one out at random, reading the headline with a mix of pride and longing: "ZODIAC STRIKES AGAIN!" The article detailed one of his many kills, a young couple found in their car at a lovers' lane, their lifeless bodies arranged in a macabre dance. The cops had been so close that time, but he had always been one step ahead. His heart raced as he traced the outline of the Zodiac symbol he had so carefully carved into the dashboard, a signature that had taunted the authorities for years.
The puzzles on the shelves seemed to watch him, the pieces of the cityscape reflecting the dim light of the setting sun. He knew that the darkness was coming, and with it, the urge to leave his mark on the world once more. The Zodiac was not just a part of his past; it was a part of who he was. And as he tucked the clipping back into the envelope and closed the compartment, he decided. The game wasn't over yet. It was time for one more round.
Part IV – This Is the Zodiac Speaking
With surprising agility, Wade moved to the back of the house, his footsteps muffled by the worn-out carpet. He unlocked a heavy oak door that led to a room that had remained untouched since the day he retired from killing. His heart quickened as he stepped inside, the smell of dust and old leather enveloped him. In the corner, his costume lay draped over a chair, the mask staring back at him with its empty eye holes. The sight of it brought back a flood of memories, each one more vivid than the last.
He moved toward it slowly, his fingers gliding over the familiar texture with reverence. The moment had come to wear the mask once more, to summon the intoxicating rush of power that always followed. With practiced care, he dressed piece by piece, ensuring every detail was precise, every stitch aligned. The leather clung to his aging frame like memory itself; tight, unyielding, and steeped in history. It was more than a costume; it was an identity resurrected.
He inhaled deeply, the scent of old leather and something darker filled his lungs. He pulled the mask over his face and the weight of the years seemed to lift. In that brief, electric moment, he was no longer old. He was legend. He was shadow. He was immortal.
In the mirror, a ghost of his former self stared back at him. But the eyes that looked out from the Zodiac's visage were not those of a tired old man, but of a predator reborn. He flexed his fingers, feeling the strength return to them. The world had forgotten him, but he would not let them forget the fear he brought. Tonight, he would remind them all who the Zodiac was, and why they had once trembled at the mere mention of his name.
The air outside was crisp as Wade stepped into the night. The stars twinkled above him, a silent audience for his grand return. He had a plan, a masterpiece that would make his past kills seem like mere doodles. It had been decades in the making, and he had been patiently waiting for the perfect moment to unleash it. As he disappeared into the darkness, the hiss of his laughter danced on the wind, a chilling symphony that promised a bloody crescendo.
"I like killing people because it is so much fun. It is more fun than killing wild game in the forest, because man is the most dangerous animal of all. To kill something is the most thrilling experience. It is even better than getting your rocks off with a girl. The best part of it is that when I die, I will be reborn in paradise and all that I have killed will become my slaves. I will not give you my name because you will try to slow down or stop my collecting of slaves for my afterlife"
July 31st 1969, The Zodiac
THE END
© 2025 Mandika Turudic. All rights reserved.