Dear Readers,

Here we go again with another short fiction, and this time I’m offering up a bit of horror. Heartless was a part of an anthology called A Stitch in Crime. I’ve done some small edits, but it’s the same story, told in seven parts.

The Great Chicago Fire of 1871 destroyed 300 lives, 18,000 buildings and left 100,000 residents homeless. It seemed a perfect backdrop for a thriller, so for this reason, I chose to set Heartless in this time and place. I was also interested in exploring the Victorian period with its strict social codes. How macabre it was to have someone carving up and creating wax figures from young girls in a time when an unmarried couple could not travel in a closed carriage together, and the word “leg” was not permissible in polite conversation.

I know some readers prefer the whole enchilada, but the truth is I need some time to work on other writing projects. I create my stories the old-fashioned, human way without AI.

Heartless

October 6, 1871

Journal Entry

A swath of pale pink paint across her cheekbones, and her face glowed with vitality. Her eyes glistened in the light of my workroom. As I write this, I roll my head to ease the strain across my shoulders. Months of intense labor, and still the final touches remain undone. I can’t believe I began a new project tonight as well. I didn’t plan to, but I couldn’t resist. She was unexpectedly accessible and a perfect match for my needs. So, despite being exhausted, I had to clean the knife before returning it to the tool chest, then wash every surface until all of the dark fluids drained into the hole at the center of the sloped floor. I hadn’t needed the metal pot tonight, so at least I didn’t have that to manage.

My last chore was checking the ice storage to ensure everything was in order there. I’m smiling just recalling that moment.

Tonight, I spent hours longer than I planned, and I would have been late to the dinner party if I hadn’t pulled myself away immediately. So very hard to do. When I’m not quite finished, I hate to leave.

With great reluctance, I drew a soft blanket around her shoulders. Before dousing the light and pulling the door behind me, I glanced back. I’m eager to dress her in the gown, and I must restore her hair straight away. It looks so alluring curled around the nape of her neck. I’ve named her Alexandra.

Morguefile Image

#

Police Headquarters

Detective Scofield paced in front of his desk. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

Sergeant Hawkins, clutching papers behind his back, only blinked, but perspiration beaded along his upper lip.

“When did this report come in?” Scofield demanded.

“Last night, sir.”

The detective halted and faced the sergeant. “And nobody notified me.”

“You were not”—the sergeant cleared his throat—“on duty, sir.”

“Blast it, Hawkins. I made it clear to fetch me immediately when a new missing person report came in. Young girl. Kenwood area. How did I not make that clear?”

When the sergeant didn’t answer, Scofield waved off the next angry words ready at his lips. “Never mind. Too late. What do you have so far?”

The sergeant handed the papers over and stepped back, silent.

Scofield read and hummed under his breath the way he always did when he was riled and thinking. “The same time. Almost the same place. From this description, the vanished girl could be related to the others.” This time his voice was low and dangerous, and he flicked the paper with his finger. “Is she related?”

“Don’t know yet, sir.”

“Then go and find out!” The commissioner would have his head if another girl were lost, and he hadn’t determined what was happening to them.

Next week, Part 2

I like to write a bit of horror once in a while. Tantsa is a story that I’ve made free to readers. Just let me know if you’d like to read it, and I’ll send you a PDF.