The Pile

“No,” Tessa said quietly, “Not yet.”

She stared at The Pile, glaring at it. She knew it was judging her. The Pile had waited for her all weekend from the spot on the dining table where she had unceremoniously dumped it. 

But Tessa was covered in blood. She certainly couldn’t deal with The Pile right now. She still had time. It was only 5:00 pm. Sunday wasn’t over yet. She could deal with it later. 

Tessa noticed more blood on the kitchen cabinets. Damnit, she thought. Was that from the stabbing, or the dismembering? 

Either way, getting blood out of the old wooden cabinets was a nightmare. Tessa had been thinking about painting the cabinets. A nice high-gloss white paint would be easier to wipe down and to notice spots she had missed during clean up. But who had the time to paint cabinets? Murder took the whole weekend and she had to work during the week. Cleaning supplies and tarps were expensive! You could only use a saw on so many limbs before needing to buy a new one. 

Tessa looked around at the mess and sighed. She wished she could put down those plastic drop cloths painters used. The fancy killers in movies always used those to protect their spotless apartments. But the movie murderers also had cages or accomplices or enough money to make everything disappear. Tessa had to work a normal job, clean up the piles of laundry and dishes on Friday, commit murder on her own, hide the evidence by herself, and ignore The Pile of Nightmares until it became a real problem. If the old guy at the gas station complained about “lazy Millennials” one more time, he might need to be Tessa’s next victim. 

An hour later, the kitchen was clean enough. Tessa threw away her rubber gloves and stretched, arching her back and rolling her shoulders. You’d think killing would be the hard part, but scrubbing the floor like Cinderella before the ball really sucked. Still, it was better than dealing with The Pile. 

She stepped over Noah on her way to the living room. He was packed in two hunter green tarps, one for his legs and one for the rest of him. He would be easier to move that way, and less suspicious than one human body-sized package if anyone saw her. No one threw away that many oriental rugs.

Tessa felt that she had earned a break and collapsed onto the couch. She clicked on the TV in time for the local evening news. 

“Oregon State Police announced that another body was found on Highway 101 today,” the pretty news anchor said. “This is the 17th dead body discovered in the northern coastal area this year.”

“Only 17,” Tessa sighed, scrolling through her phone. “Maybe if the cops actually tried looking, they would find the rest of them.” 

“Channel Nine’s Anna Hendrickson is reporting live from Arcadia State Park, near the recovery site,” the anchor continued. “Anna, what have you found out?”

“Well Susan,” the reporter began in a bright but serious tone, “OSP is not revealing many details yet. We do know at least one body was found by the side of the highway, and that it was a male. A team is still combing through the area searching for additional evidence. Unfortunately, that means Highway 101 is closed in both directions. Drivers will need to detour with Highway 26 and Highway 53 if they need to travel north or south along this section of the coast.”

“Anna, is there any indication that this incident is related to the 16 other victims we have reported on this year?” Susan prompted. 

“The officer I spoke with earlier was not able to confirm a connection between the victims,” Anna said. “We also don’t know if this most recent victim was one of the missing tourists. But, just based on location, we have to suspect that this may be another tragedy from the so-called Clatsop Killer.”

“A boring nickname is better than no nickname,” Tessa grumbled, still scrolling. 

“I think you may be right, Anna,” Susan said gravely. “We go now to downtown Surfside, where a protest has started outside of city hall. Reporter Thomas Martingale is there now. Thomas?”

“Yes, Susan,” Thomas replied. “I’m in Surfside right now where a crowd has gathered in response to today’s events. Local residents are unhappy with what they feel is a lack of action by police, even after more than a dozen deaths by the Clatsop Killer. I spoke with Cristal Cane, owner of Cane’s Candy shop here in Surfside.” 

 The screen switched to previously-recorded footage of a woman with curly gray hair down to her waist. 

“That lady will catch Hansel and Gretel before the police find me,” Tessa laughed. 

“It’s really scary for us,” Cristal said into a microphone. “17 bodies now. 17! How long can this possibly go on? And they’ve all been tourists. This place is like a ghost town. No one wants to come here because they might be murdered! This community relies on tourism dollars. Are the police going to wait until all the businesses close and all the renters are evicted? Something needs to be done right now. We want the governor here, we want the National Guard, we want the F.B.I. The Clatsop Killer must be stopped!” 

The camera returned to Susan at the main news desk. 

“The Channel Nine News team promises to keep you updated with this ongoing investigation. After the break, we have the latest polling numbers for the Portland mayoral race, as well as where to find the best deals on Halloween costumes this year. We’ll be right back.” 

Tessa shut the TV off before the carpet cleaning jingle could get stuck in her head. 

She tensed, sensing The Pile again. It was waiting for her. Like a bird of prey, keeping still and watching for a meal to appear. Tessa knew that ignoring it was only making it worse. But she knew how badly it would hurt once she picked it up again. 

“Nope!” Tessa told it as she jumped off the couch. “Not yet. I’m not ready yet. I’m busy.” 

Tessa looked desperately around the room for something to do. 

“Damnit. You’re still here?” she glared at the Noah tarps. 

Tessa got moving. She relocated Noah to a temporary location. She reheated vegetarian chili for dinner. She destroyed Noah’s phone, which had been turned off long before arriving at her house. She packed her lunch for tomorrow. She took Noah’s cash and burned the rest of the wallet in the pellet stove. She ordered more catnip for her tuxedo cat, Orca. He was hiding in the bedroom. Orca hated guests, even if they were dead. 

It was almost 9:00. The Pile was emanating a threatening aura. Tessa was running out of ideas. Maybe she could… wash the windows? No, she thought. It’s dark outside. What if someone saw me? 

Tessa knew she was out of time. 

She walked over to The Pile slowly, like it was an aggressive dog she didn’t want to wake up. She got a glimpse of the contents and shut her eyes tight. You are a grown ass woman. You are not going to cry. You can do this. 

Before she could change her mind, Tessa scooped up The Pile and ran to the couch. If she was going to die, she could at least be comfortable. 

Tessa grabbed her favorite purple pen from the end table and clicked it repeatedly, soothing herself. The Pile rested on the cushion next to her. 

Tessa picked up the first essay at the top of The Pile. The writing prompt she gave her middle school social studies class was: Describe the negative impact Christopher Columbus had on Native Americans. 

The essay, a crime scene on which Jaxon had wiped Cheeto dust, began:

Chris Culumbus was cheugy, no cap. He was delulu about India and sus to the indians. The vibes were bad, and so were the blankets. 

Tessa screamed.