Beginnings are difficult. Of all the things Charles had learned through his life, it was this fact that rose above all others. As he stared at the blank text document that would soon become his newest work, his atrocious handwriting prevented a written manuscript, his mind raced. Ideas rushed back and forth in his brain, none getting quite to where they needed to be, but all compelling.

His method of writing was non-traditional, to say the least. He rarely had an outline in mind when he began writing, instead letting his hands feel out the words, much like an artist with a blank canvas. Even the title came late in the process, but after the editors got their grubby hands on it you could hardly tell with the finished product. Let them change what they want, it wasn’t his name on the book anyway. Such is the life of a ghostwriter.

He leaned back in his office chair, the springs gently squeaking as he looked out the window at the lush forest that surrounded his home. The pair of bluebirds that had nested in his juniper tree were at his feeder, cheerfully indulging in the mix of seeds and mealworms alongside several other visitors. Their songs mixed and harmonized into an all around pleasant drone. Absolute serenity.

He sipped from his mug, the steaming hot rich coffee mingling with the cream and sugar he had liberally added on his tongue, and he smiled. He would get no work done today, not this work at least, not yet. He saved the empty document by habit and gently closed his laptop, the latch clicking softly. He rose to his feet taking his mug with him, and made for the door to the porch.

The crisp clean air raced to meet him as the door squeaked on its hinges, a familiar and comforting combination for the senses. He breathed in deep, enjoying the peace and quiet, for he knew it could not last. Nothing ever did.

“Oh well,” he said with a sigh and descended the creaking wooden steps. He made his way across the property to his workshop, taking his time, appreciating the mid-morning calm of the forest. He adored Wyoming, so much space and so few people. Only this far into the foliage could he truly work in peace. He produced his keys from his pocket and undid the locks on the heavy steel door, sliding it aside on its track once it was free. He flipped on the lights and closed the door behind him, securing the locks and deadbolts. You can never be too careful, he had always thought.

His tools and equipment sprawled before him; his forge nestled in its corner, his belt sander pushed against the workbench where he applied the fine touches to his pieces, and the six hundred pound anvil, his pride and joy, standing in the center of it all. Any blacksmith worth his salt needs an anvil at least twice his weight, and this one was thrice and then some. But he walked past them all and stood in front of his display, the knives and axes he had finished arranged neatly, all ready for sale, and only waiting on a buyer. He pushed gently at a wooden board behind the rack, undoing the latch that held it closed. It swung open, the blades jingling quietly and the hinges moving silently, to reveal his magnum opus, his masterworks.

An ornate wooden case lay behind the secret door, two feet wide and three feet tall, with four velvet lined shelves and a glass door. On the shelves were thirty nine bone handle knives, evenly spaced and all beyond beautiful. He opened the case and gently, ever so gently, retrieved one of the knives, second from the top, third from the right, taking the utmost care not to smudge the perfect blade.

He examined the work of beauty, feeling the smooth bone that comprised the grip, letting his fingers run over the pits and divots, the perfect imperfections that made each one unique. This one has been inscribed ‘H.K.S’ at the base of the blade, the pommel and hilt inlined with gold in floral patterns. He had been particularly proud of how this one turned out, but of course he could only take so much credit. The material was everything, and he only gave it its shape, sharpened its edge, polished its blade.

He put it back in its place just as gently as he had removed it and closed first the case, then the secret door. He checked to make sure all the knives on the rack were in their proper places, took a sip of coffee, and went to the belt sander. He had modified it with hydraulic-powered retractable wheels, for ease of movement, activated by a pump lever in the corner of the mechanism. An unconventional addition, to be sure, he even had the design patented. It would earn him a killing if anyone else ever came up with it. He moved the sander aside with relative ease, placing it back on its base several feet away.

He went back to the workbench and grabbed the under rim. He lifted that half of the table a few inches off the ground and pushed the table two feet forward, releasing the load with a soft grunt. He faced the wall and pushed open one of the boards, revealing a lock, for which he had the key. The mechanism whirred briefly, there was an audible clunk, and a section of the wall swung open on unseen hinges revealing a lit stairwell. He descended two steps, closed the door behind him, and continued his descent.

It was a sixteen feet by twenty room with plain white walls, there were several bins stacked up along the far wall, and to his left was a very large kiln. He had built it himself, and it was by far one of his finest works. A simple eight feet by ten brick box, five feet tall with a retractable rolling tray at one end. The long wall faced outward, and featured a specially made, extra thick heat-tempered window. It had cost him an arm and a leg and required an unbelievable amount of research. There were only a handful of companies that produced the material, and thankfully it came with a lifetime warranty.

The window was the most important part.

Opposite to the kiln was a heavy steel door, triple locked, triple dead bolted, and twice bared and locked. It was a bit much, to say the least, but overkill is better than under, Charles had always thought. He began the methodical process of undoing them all in the same order he always undid them; first the bars, then the deadbolts, then the locks, savoring the music of the well-maintained mechanisms.

Once all was ready, he stood in front of the unlocked door, feeling the pressure build inside him. He knew what must be done, what must always be done, and he was all too willing to do it. He felt when the time was right, like a switch flipping in his brain, and he smiled. He gripped the handle with a terrible strength, and pushed it open on its silent hinges.

It opened to a room of identical size to the one adjacent, but much more well-furnished. The walls were lined with racks and displays, filled with an expansive collection of tools. There were saws, knives, axes, trimmers, power tools of every use, each and every one polished, sharped, and ready to set to work. His eyes drifted across the room, his heart swelling with joy at the gleam of the sharp edges, the perfect, murderous sheen to each of them.

His gaze shifted to the table in the center of the room, and the unconscious man strapped to it. The man was naked, his possessions neatly stored in a bin in the previous room for processing, with leather straps holding him down at the wrists, ankles, neck, forehead, and waist. Charles made his way to the small refrigerator in the corner, retrieving a pre-filled syringe from inside. He pushed the plunger, forcing out a small amount of the drug along with any air bubbles. He gently flicked the needle, just as he had seen so many times in tv and movies, and injected the man with the drug.

Almost immediately, his eyelids began to flicker open. He grunted softly, stirred from his chemical slumber, and tested his limbs, finding them restrained. He quickly realized the predicament he was in and began to struggle, looking around frantically. When his eyes landed on Charles, he froze.

“It’s Daniel, right? Daniel Weldt?” Charles asked with a friendly smile.

Daniel gaped at him, completely baffled. “Yeah…” he said after a moment, his voice dry and scratchy, “Where am-”

But Charles cut him off, “Look around you,” he said, strapping on an apron, fresh and white, “I’m sure you’ll get the idea.”

Daniel did just that, and his eyes grew wide. He screamed at the top of his dehydrated voice, jerking madly at his restraints, devolving into a violent coughing fit, his stomach knotted up with his spasms. He quickly calmed, catching his breath. He inhaled deeply and laid his head back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“See?” Charles said. He had donned goggles and gloves, both fitted, as well as a black rubber apron over the white cloth one beneath. “I knew you’d get it.” He leaned over Daniel, looking down at him with that same friendly smile.

“Why are you doing this?” Daniel’s voice was raspy and raw, and he looked up at Charles with eyes filled with fear.

“Because there’s a hole in my soul that I can’t fill any other way. We all fill that hole in different ways; golfing, gambling, faletteling,” he raised his eyebrows significantly at Daniel, “drinking.”

Daniel blinked a few times. “What?” He rasped, “golfing? Is this just a fucking hobby to you? Are you seriously going to kill me because you’re bored?”

“I mean…” Charles said, looking up at the ceiling, “Kinda. Your wife also paid me fifteen thousand dollars, so there’s that.”

“What?” Tears were already welling in Daniel’s eyes. “That’s a lie. That’s a fucking lie!” He shouted, jerking once more against his restraints.

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Charles smiled sadly and looked at the man earnestly. “You’re right, that was a lie. I apologize.” Daniel seemed confused, but he calmed. “It was actually seventeen thousand, I just like round numbers.”

“Bastard!” Daniel barked, “Fucking bastard!” He raged at his bindings, the buckles that held him tight jingling, the leather creaking with effort. His hands and feet flapped wildly in their limited movement, his knees and elbows bending and straightening, snarling meaningless curses, almost frothing at the mouth. Charles moved to the head of the table with two purposeful steps, looking down at Daniel's face, upside down to his eye, who was still yelling unintelligibly all the things he wanted to do to Charles.

But Daniel was the one on the table.

Charles gripped the sides of the man’s head, forcing Daniel to look him straight in the eye, his body going instantly limp, his profane monologue cut off mid curse.

“That’s enough of that,” Charles said in his cold voice. Not the voice of the writer, not the voice of the handyman, the voice of who he really was. He gazed into Daniel’s eyes, neither of them blinking, and he could tell Daniel felt his intentions, and Charles felt his fear.

“You will not leave this room alive,” Charles said, enunciating clearly and crisply, “that is foregone, an unchangeable fact. It isn’t your fault. Hell, it isn’t even your wife’s fault, the money was more of an excuse than a reason.” He leaned in closer, his hands still on Daniel's head, dropping his voice to a horrible whisper. “The fault is all mine. And so are you.”

Daniel's breath shuddered in his lungs, he was shivering and sweating all at once. “What are you?” He rasped with his trembling voice.

Charles smiled wide, his teeth shining like a polished blade. “I am a craftsman, and you are my material.” He released Daniel's head from his iron grip and let the man continue to stare in terror. Turning away from the frightened pile of meat and bone, he moved to the nearest wall of tools, fondling the handles of the assorted tools gently, his fingers running across the hammers, the saws, the axes, the awls, the can openers, the oversized pair of nail clippers, the shovel with the broken handle and sharpened edge, the set of metal pipes he had turned into tetanus-fueled nightmares, even the pizza cutter, which he found was excellent for making deep even slices along the flesh. He looked over his shoulder at his material, enjoying the heightened terror on its bound features, relishing the experience.

“If you have a preference,” Charles said, “let it be known now.” The thing on the table only stared in horror. Charles turned slowly to face him fully. “I assure you, you don’t want me to choose for you,” he said while fingering the rusty pair of pliers he left on the nearby bench for just the purpose of terror. He would never let a tool oxidize without good reason.

The pile stared at him for a moment, until Charles watched its eyes drift away to the tools, restlessly and pointlessly searching for the least horrible of a hell of options, every choice seeming worse than the last until its eyes settled. Charles followed the things gaze and smiled even wider at the black steel cleaver, hanging from its hook like bait for a massive fish of prey. He took the wonderful tool from its rightful place, the imprint of the beautiful implement remaining in its place, a slightly less faded shape on the wall, and weighed it in his hand. It was familiar, one of his personal favorites, and fortune could not have favored him with any better tool for the job.

Charles loomed over his material with a smile like an open grave, savoring the regret in its eyes. There were no good options for the thing, and the choice made it worse. That was the point. He raised the cleaver and the thing on the table screamed as it came down, severing it’s left hand at the wrist in one clean cut. The thing stared in shock, then cried out with new resolve as its lower arm waved around, wildly slinging blood as the hand stayed next to the loop of fabric that had bound it.

Charles couldn’t help but laugh. It brought to mind a puppet show he had seen as a child that featured a talking chicken. He imagined this was what it would look like if that chicken had its head cut off. The thing screeched in agony. Some of them petered out quickly, but this one seemed to have strong lungs, somehow reaching new heights.

Charles moved to its right side and chopped into its arm above the elbow, sinking deep into flesh, but was stopped by bone, and the thing made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp. He chopped again. And again. And once more, finally breaking through, leaving nothing but a shred of gristle between the two portions. One more chop separated them completely, and the asymmetrical thing flailed its stumps, splattering blood over several of the tools. Annoying, but not worth fretting about. He grabbed the severed forearm and undid the leather strap, freeing the portion of limb. After its most recent bout of screaming finally calmed, Charles caught its eye, his smile as large as ever, and waved with the forelimb. The thing screamed with a renewed horror, and Charles felt glee.

Charles tossed the forelimb over his shoulder and sauntered to the foot of the table, and that of his material for that matter. The thing was still mourning the reduction of its reach, waving its freed limb-portions wildly, quickly running low on energy as well as blood, the flow slowing at a similar rate to that of its spasms. Eventually it stopped, its chest heaving as it stared upward, any sign of humanity lost in the unbearable pain it was in. Exactly what Charles was waiting for.

Since the thing finally stayed still, it was nothing to position its foot properly, the toes standing straight upward. He gave it a second to make sure it would stay in place, and sunk the cleaver deep into the foot, landing between the second and third toes, roughly down the middle with only a sliver of the third toe caught by the blade. The thing resumed its struggle, trying to scream, but only giving a wet gurgle. “Hold on,” Charles said, getting a firm grip on the handle with one hand and the tip of the cleaver with the other against the thing’s meager kicks. He smiled, and pushed downward with all his strength, forcing the blade an inch deeper, prompting a high squeal from the thing.

Charles kept pushing, splitting the foot in twain inch by merciless inch, only letting up once he reached the ankle. He let the blade go, content it wouldn’t go anywhere as stuck as it was. He retrieved a wooden mallet from the workbench and replaced his grip on the cleaver. He smashed the mallet onto the back of the blade, cutting into the things shin. He brought it down again and again, forcing the beautiful edge into flesh and bone. His forehead shined with sweat from the exertion, but he did not slow, not for an instant. The wonderful tool sank deeper and deeper into the thing's pathetic leg, until it gave way all at once, the blade meeting table as it exited the leg and completed the division, the foot split down the middle.

Charles looked up at the things face, but the eyes were closed and it’s features slack. He frowned and jerked the cleaver out of its nestling of ankle, making a sound like a biological hydraulic press. He slapped the thing hard, and it did not respond. He slapped it again, leaving handprints of its own blood on its cheeks. It did not stir until the fourth slap, and its eyes opened only a hair, but enough for Charles to know it was aware. He smiled again.

“Please…” the thing wheezed, “please…” repeating it over and over with every ragged breath. Charles leaned in close.

“Don’t worry,” he said, the cleaver held high, “it will be over soon, then you can rest.” He was sincere, as sincere as he was capable. The thing seemed to understand, and even seemed to smile with relief. Any amount of pain can be bearable if one knows it will end, and for the thing on the table, the end was coming soon. The drums swelled in Charles’s ears, the power coursing through his veins, the pressure building and building, making his head feel about to burst, but not in pain. He was on the brink of release, of relief, of peace. This was the only way. This was who he was. This was what he was. And he didn’t want it any other way.

With a smile on his face and joy in his dead heart, he brought the blade down on the things neck.

Charles breathed deep as he sat in front of his lit kiln, staring at the flames through the heat-resistant glass as they danced across their fuel. This was always his favorite part; the processing. The important parts had already been removed, namely the two femurs that used to keep mr. Daniel Weldt upright, and they sat in a pot of water to the side, boiling away any remaining traces of blood and gristle while the rest of him scorched in the kiln.

This one had not been as satisfying as many of the others, but Daniel’s wife, a delightful woman named Henrietta, had been very clear about what was to be done to his hands. She had loved him deeply for a very long time, and he seemed to feel the same way. They were high school sweethearts, together for almost twenty years, married for twelve since a year after they both graduated college, with a daughter to come within another year. It was about that time Henrietta realized what Daniel had loved most about her.

Her youth.

According to Henrietta, he had been molesting their daughter for close to two years, after downing half a bottle of tequila two or three times a week. Charles hadn’t bothered confirming this with Daniel, it wasn’t any of his concern. He didn’t feel a sense of justice in his actions, there were many before that most would consider innocent, and many that were anything but. He didn’t see Daniel as worse than himself by any means, but he also knew he wasn’t better than Daniel. They were simply monsters of different breeds, beasts of different prey.

Pedophile. Killer. One ruins lives, one ends them. If one crosses those lines, Is it acceptable to cross those lines upon them? To kill the killer? To rape the rapist? Is it a righteous act to visit wicked things on the wicked? Can a killer atone for their sins, simply by killing the right people? By killing enough people?

Charles sipped his fresh cup of coffee. This was the exact headspace he had been after. It had taken most of the afternoon, but with this project done, he was ready to tackle the next one. He had been commissioned for a murder-mystery, a genre he rarely dipped his toes in, but his mind raced with ideas.

“A conference… at a planetarium…” he murmured quietly, “the speaker gives a presentation, directs everyone to look up and listen to a recording, and when they look down they find him dead. No, find her dead, people care more about a dead woman. Strangled… with a scarf… in the middle of summer.”

Charles smiled and took another sip. The kiln should have all the remains incinerated in another hour, and once the gas was cut off he would put on another pot of coffee and use his extra-large mug. Once he started this manuscript, he would not stop until it was finished. It was the only way he could write, he had never been any good at leaving projects half done.

He leaned back in his folding chair, relaxed and content as something gave within the Kiln. The flesh around the head had burned away, and the skull tilted to one side, freed from the vertebra. It stared out through the glass at Charles, traces of the goo that had once been eyes leaving pallid tracks down what had once been a face. The eternal tears of the damned, the sorrow of the inferno.

Beginnings are difficult, that was a given, but Charles had always had the knack with endings.