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THE ART OF DYING

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

The mysterious figure emerged from the shadows of the dimly lit alley and started walking toward her, sending chills up and down her spine. Christine turned and quickened her pace as the figure drew closer. Just then she heard the sound of an approaching trolley and ran out into the street. Without looking behind her, she jumped on board and found a seat. Catching her breath, she settled down for the ride to her job at the hospital. Whatever it was, Christine was safe now. Being in a new and strange city could be disconcerting; it was probably just her imagination playing tricks on her in the pre-dawn hours.

The south side of Chicago is a dangerous place. Every other street throughout the city is dotted with dingy bars, seedy hotels, strip joints and dark alleys where unspeakable things happen. Gordon Peters had a taste for all of them – along with bourbon, brunettes and black silk stockings. 

Most nights Gordon would slither into his favorite bar, The Death Trap, jacket collar turned up and hat low on his forehead.  He’d sit in the shadows on the end barstool, order a bourbon and case the joint; just the usual losers. But Gordon had patience. He’d nurse his bourbon, smoke his Marlboro’s and sooner or later she’d walk in, maybe a secretary working overtime or a bored and lonely housewife. 

About 45 minutes later, she ran in from the rain, shook her damp dark brown hair, headed to the bar and ordered a martini. Glancing around the room, her eyes landed on Gordon, then quickly looked away. She rummaged through her purse searching for her cigarette lighter. He walked over as stealthily as a cat and offered her a light. Removing his hat, he asked if he could join her. she nodded in assent, surprised to see how handsome he was. 

Careful to retain his gentlemanly demeanor, Gordon made himself comfortable. He motioned for another round. They talked for a while; her name was Christine and she had recently taken a job as a pathologist at Chicago General. He was immediately intrigued, wondering how such a beautiful and feminine woman could be comfortable being around the dead all day. Breaking from the norm, he asked if she’d like to get a bite to eat; she agreed.

Dinner was pleasant and afterwards Gordon was ready to make his move. “Look, it’s stopped raining. Let’s take a walk” he suggested. Strolling the dimly-lit streets, he suddenly pulled her into a dark alley and pinned her against the wall. Christine could feel his hardness against her belly. She was unable to move and forced herself to remain calm as she thought “please don’t have a knife”. He pulled a black silk stocking from his pocket and, slowly wrapping it around her neck, began strangling her. The wetness in his pants and bourbon on his breath repulsed her. Gagging, suffocating, Christine’s eyes rolled upward and she slipped to the ground. Removing the stocking from around her neck, he draped it across her face and whispered  “Courtesy of Gordon Peters“. And then he was gone. 

But Christine was not dead; the only way she knew how to save herself was to let Peters believe that he had killed her. As a medical examiner, she knew a thing or two about the art of dying and how to feign death. She stayed perfectly still for a very long time, her head flopped to the side and her unblinking eyes focused on a rock a few feet from her face. Finally, when she felt certain she was safe, she carefully made her way to the street, looking in every direction in case Gordon Peters was lurking about. There were no people anywhere.

Across the street Christine noticed an idling taxi. She scurried to the cab and hurriedly told the driver “Chicago General. And hurry, please.” When she arrived at the hospital, Christine called the police to report the attack. She was told a team of detectives had been looking for this guy since four women were found murdered – all in alleys, all strangled. Now, thanks to her, they had his name, the name of the bar and a weapon. Gordon Peters had been sloppy that night, an oft-made mistake of the arrogant.

The next night as Gordon left The Death Trap, he was unceremoniously picked up by the police. The brunette on his arm had no idea what she was missing. 

NAR © 2023

Fandango’s Story Starter #104

41 thoughts on “THE ART OF DYING”

    1. As always, many thanks, KK. When I was editing this story, I read the phrase “the art of dying” and knew I had to use the George Harrison song. It’s a great piece and perfect for the story. Thanks for sharing your thoughts today.

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  3. Pingback: Pass the Baton — July 2023 – This, That, and the Other

  4. Hi Nancy, I tagged you once again to continue the story for this month’s Pass the Baton blog hop thingie. You did such a good job last month and I hope you’ll do it again this month. But if not, don’t worry about it. Let me know and I’ll tag someone else. You should get a ping back link on this post about 4-5 hours from now when my Pass the Baton piece is scheduled to post.

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  11. I think I’ve read this story somewhere before. 😦 It isn’t so much the story itself, but the way that it’s told that either makes us yawn or shudder!

    You made me shiver and shake
    quiver and quake
    Tremble and jitter
    dither and twitter

    😉

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    1. Yes!
      If you read it before, that may be because I originally wrote this a while back under the name “The Tender Trap”. I resurrected it, reworked it and republished it with a new name; I actually like this one better.
      Good to know I gave you the heebie jeebies and the goosie bumpies! 😉

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      1. I don’t think I read your story before, but the theme of the story in a bar etc. Or maybe I have watched too much “Law and Order” on TV.
        We do like to be scared at times.

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