Alright, here’s the expanded version of Orwell’s Demon! I should also mention that several aspects of this story have been…somewhat inspired by the work of Major, over on Gay Spiral Stories, and if you’re familiar with his stuff…it can get pretty extreme. Consider yourself warned.
The room is chilly, and yet, Orwell’s shirt is sticking to his back when he sits forward in the plastic chair, trying to get comfortable, looking around again for a clock, but knowing he won’t find one. How long has he been in here, now? Probably not as long as he thinks he has, probably not even an hour, but waiting feels…excruciating. To his right, there’s a mirror stretching the length of the wall–one way, he assumes. In the TV shows, they’re always one way, at least.
They’re over there, they’re talking about you, about how weak you look, about how it couldn’t possibly be you, Orwell.
Orwell shook his head, and glances at the mirror–he sees something, and the camera in the room flickers for a moment, like a shadow gathering at the edges of the lens, and he yanks his eyes away, back down to his lap. He came here of his own will. That would count for something. Besides, if they knew it was him, they would have arrested him already, before things…had gotten more and more out of his control. He clutched at something under his shirt for a moment, and then let it go, leaning forward, like he was trying to keep something under there from touching his skin, and tried to relax.
On the other side of the glass, was Detective Hurlbane of the city police department, who had been investigating the series of disappearances which had occurred over the last several months. No trace of the men who’d disappeared–four in total–and no bodies or trace of the men had been found. The one connection between them all was the man sitting in the chair–Orwell Englewood. An unassuming teacher of English at a local high school. He was, maybe, five foot four, and weighed close to 350 pounds. He had no prior record, and everyone who knew him had assured Hurlbane that Orwell was a kind, generous fellow–even if he’d seemed a bit odd over the last few months. Then again, anyone who found themselves as the prime suspect in a series of mysterious disappearances would behave a bit oddly.
Hurlbane decided Orwell had stewed enough, and he walked around to the door, and stepped inside. “Afternoon, Orwell. Thank you again for volunteering to come down to the station today and answer some questions about Mr. Piper.”
Mr. Piper, the fourth man to disappear, was Orwell’s next door neighbor. He’d hosted a poker night with some of his friends last Tuesday, while his wife was out with her own friends. His poker buddies had left early, around nine, and when his wife had arrived home at midnight, he was gone–no sign of forced entry or foul play–and he hadn’t been seen since. Orwell hadn’t been at the party, but he had been home, next door. He claimed he hadn’t noticed anything odd during those three hours, but he had no alibi. Hurlbane had a difficult time imagining this short, chubby fellow overpowering anyone…but at some point the coincidences had added up–what he needed was a confession, and he was going to get one.
“Anything I can do to help, although…I don’t know how much help I can be. Like I told you on the phone, I went to bed early that night, and I didn’t hear…anything suspicious.”
“Did you have much of a relationship with Mr. Piper? It seems odd that you’d be his neighbor and not get invited over for a poker night.”
Orwell shrugged. “We…didn’t share much interests I guess. I’d rather sit at home with a good book, than play poker.”
Hurlbane sat down in the chair across from Orwell, and leaned over the table. Orwell avoided his eyes, and seemed…nervous. “That seems understandable. But for someone who likes to sit at home, you have to admit it’s suspicious.”
Orwell didn’t say anything, or take the bait.
“It’s suspicious that of all the men who have disappeared, you’re the only person in the city who knows all of them.”
Orwell shook his head, “No–I didn’t…I told you, I have no idea what that whole…rest area thing was about.”
Hurlbane nodded, “Yes, of course. My apologies. Three out of four then. I just have a hard time imagining that you wouldn’t know something–especially since you were the last one to see one, or possibly two, of these missing men alive and well.”
“I’ve told you everything I know, Detective, I really have.”
Liar. If only he knew the truth. Think he’d like to find out for himself, Orwell?
Hurlbane saw Orwell grip at something by his chest, and wince, as if he were in pain. “Are you alright Orwell?”
He nodded, but the detective could see something had changed about him. He looked…pale, and was sweating even more. “I could just…use a smoke is all.”
“I didn’t know you smoked–there were no ashtrays in your house when we searched it.”
“I only do it outside.”
Hurlbane sat back, a bit confused–but it wasn’t important. If anything, needing to smoke would make him more likely to slip up. “Well, before we talk about Mr. Piper, Orwell, I’d like to review some of the facts of the other men we’ve discussed anyway, just in case you’ve remembered anything else that might be helpful to the investigation.”
“Is that really necessary? I think…I should go, I really need to go, actually.”
Orwell started to get up, but Hurlbane was faster, and blocked him in. “It won’t take long, Orwell. I promise. Now–can we start with Mr. Diamond? The gym teacher. He was the first one to go missing as you know, and your desks weren’t too far apart. In fact, some of the other teachers said the two of you were rather friendly with one another–but you said you can’t recall even one conversation with him.”
I can remember a few conversations with him–and a few other things too. Come on Orwell, you had a good time, didn’t you? With Mr. Diamond and his cock?
Bracken's Corner 