Origen: A True Story Of Evil

Origen

A True Story

Of Evil

Peter j. Perry

with

kathleen elizabeth sumpton

ORIGEN

A True Story of Evil

Story by

Peter J. Perry

Written by

Peter Perry

with

Kathleen Elizabeth Sumpton

Based on the Original Screenplay by

Peter Perry & Geoff Hart

Origen

Copyright © 2021 by Peter J. Perry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-2631-6 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-2630-9 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-2632-3 (eBook)

978-0-2288-5769-3 (Audiobook)

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1: THE CALL

Chapter 2: RESISTANCE

Chapter 3: DIVINE INTERVENTION

Chapter 4: THRESHHOLDS

Chapter 5: SILENCE

Chapter 6: TRIALS

Chapter 7: TRIBULATION

Chapter 8: TEMPTATION

Chapter 9: SIRENS

Chapter 10: MARCH OF DIMES

Chapter 11: PREY

Chapter 12: DEFEAT

Chapter 13: ESCAPE

Chapter 14: DISCOVERY

Chapter 15: ASSISTANCE

Chapter 16: SECRETS

Chapter 17: COURT HOUSE

APPENDICES

INTRODUCTION

Imagine…

You are managing a gym after just graduating from university, working very hard with a staff of thirty and creating a positive atmosphere of energy to motivate and keep members physically fit. Your mission is to create goodwill in the community at the same time as being a role model, because you have an athletic gift. You are an international powerlifting champion, undefeated. As a Canadian powerlifting champion, you become a living legend in your community, with people of all walks of life joining your gym simply to be around your positive vibe.

But in the midst of this tapestry of sports, business, and dating, there is an evil presence that is not quite visible to anyone: The Bedroom Strangler. A serial killer that scales as high as fifteen story balconies, only to discreetly slither into the unlocked balcony doors of women unbeknownst, with the sole intent to rape and murder. He has been classified as the worst serial killer in Ontario history and Canada’s most dangerous criminal ever. The Bedroom Strangler was a member of the gym I was managing. He trained and worked out with me and other members, unbeknownst to us his true qualities. He socialized with us. In fact, I introduced him to a female member friend of mine at a gym party, who he then murdered. The Bedroom Strangler incidentally lived in the same building as this friend, who was his last victim.

As a result of unprecedented tactics by police, I ended up becoming part of the investigation that stopped this evil predator. Over the years, I questioned why I met someone so evil. I questioned God. Eventually, I came to a conclusion by studying the writings of Origen: do we really understand evil? Can evil be much more than a psychiatric disorder?

People are very uncomfortable considering other possibilities. Origen believed that demons can take human form and humans can also be demonized. What follows is inspired by true events. All the names of characters have been changed but many of the events happened, although not all. At the conclusion of this painting of the gym scene, the dating scene, the underground fighting martial arts scene, the powerlifting scene, the bodybuilding scene, the psychiatric scene, and the Origen scene, you can come to your own conclusion: Is there more to evil than what we think? How have we grown to understand evil, through both language and symbolism perpetuated by our surroundings? What, even, is time? Who, or what, represents the greatest way to understand and defeat evil? And, most of all…What is the difference between death and evil?

PROLOGUE

The events in this novel took place between the years of 1974 and 1978, in a mid-sized Canadian city: London, Ontario; a seemingly peaceful small town. London was known then for being a smaller community than it is now at the time this novel is being written in the 21st century. In the 1970s, Canada was built on small communities like London. Before the highways came into effect. A place where no one ever felt the need to close their windows, or even lock their doors. Isolated. Like candlelight amidst darkness. Just waiting for a stiff breeze to allow darkness to descend…

London is now commonly known for being the Forest City, as it was originally built within an actual forest. Cutting down several trees in order to build, if you go to the top of a tall office or apartment building, you can see the trees are the majority of the city space, cascading a radiant view particularly in the fall of green, yellow, orange, and red maples. The term ‘concrete jungle’ takes on a new meaning with the design of such a city. London is also known for its background in dark energy, such as the witches’ line running down Dundas St., its use as a criminal release centre, as well as its use as a test market for new brands, including having the very first McDonalds in Canada, located on Oxford St.

Most infamously, London, Ontario is now known as the serial killer capital of Canada from the 1950’s to the 1980’s. A great book was written recently pointing this out: Murder City by Michael Arntfield. This novel was collected and researched by a dedicated member of the police force, who is responsible for changing the criminal justice system. Had he not spent countless hours investigating cases that were being written off as accidents, many murderers would have been able to continue roaming free, and the spirits of their victims unable to rest in peace. This novel is a story about only one of those killers, who was not only most prominent during the 1970’s, but also perhaps remains Canada’s most legendary serial killer today.

Chapter 1

THE CALL

Candlelight.

The only source of light in an otherwise dimly lit bedroom. Clothes lay scattered along the floor, strewn about carelessly and with little regard to placement. Nothing is where it should be. Nothing is as it seems. Drapes billow to the whisper of a midsummer breeze that sweeps into the apartment from an open balcony, causing candles to flicker shadows across the wall. The shadows appear like a dancing tribe. The light suddenly wavers, disturbed by a dark presence, as it slinks about the room.

An intruder.

Born of malevolence, it remains hidden in shadow. It is not welcome; but it does not care. It has watched; it has waited; studied its prey, and now—all is ready. There will be no more waiting. It located the hiding spot it had picked. Its prey would return, it knows. Since it has been watching her for months now, it knows everything about her. And as it hunkers down low, it can hear in the distance, the low gentle sounds of voices; muffled, but growing closer and its pulse automatically quickens. Soon it thinks… soon …

Soon…

*     *     *

Sierra hugs her red coat collar closer to her neck to ward against a sudden chill in the air. It has been a warm summer day nonetheless, but she has brought a light jacket just in case. She glances over at her date who has been so gracious as to invite her out for a night on the town. He is the typical bad-boy type, and she knows she has a weakness for anyone with a motorbike and a leather jacket.

I had a wonderful time tonight, Corbin, Sierra says, looking down to her feet, shuffling about in her red stilettos. They purposefully match her crimson nail polish and red jacket.

She stands outside her apartment door, her eyes lost in the shadow of her long blonde hair. She is shorter than the man before her, but athletic—and it shows. The summer dress she wears beneath her light jacket brings out the green in her eyes. The very same eyes she can’t seem to take off of this imposing stranger. She gazes deeply at him, searching for answers.

Corbin remains enigmatic and silent. His broad, wind-burned face bares a set, placid look. He is tall, fit, and relatively well-proportioned. He has on blue jeans and his trademark black biker jacket that he wears like a shield. The jacket signifies who he is in many ways. It keeps people at bay, preventing them from discovering that piece of himself he would rather keep hidden. The part he doesn’t want other people to see. The part underneath.

He tries to study her in quick glimpses as they walk together. Corbin thinks if he can get to know the other person faster, he will find a way to block them from getting too close to him before it is too late. His flint grey eyes never remain locked with her own as he desperately tries to hold back the hunger that drives him. That yearning he feels is gnawing at his mind, relentless and overwhelming. They reach her apartment building and he can feel his heart start to race.

His brawny hand instinctively reaches for her own. Her skin is smooth like fine porcelain and he begins to sweat at the thought of her naked. His words come in a slow whisper: I had a good time as well, He manages to say with some hesitation.

He steps closer and starts kissing her neck and left earlobe. Sierra is surprised by the sudden bold move, but she enjoys his hands all over her. Should I invite him in tonight? She ponders. Of course not. But she lets him continue to kiss her for a few moments longer…She wants to feel alive with passion. Escape her reality.

Corbin places his lips over hers and catches a sudden whiff of cherry passion fruit. He runs his hands all over her back, through her hair, all while vigorously holding onto her hips. Then her body tenses up. He feels a sudden resistance moving through her, getting stronger, and it makes him irate. How dare she?

Sierra quickly begins to search for her keys. She breaks the embrace. Lifting one hand away from Corbin, she turns toward the door. Fumbling, she manages to get the door open, and finds herself inside her dim-lit hallway.

That open doorway beckons to Corbin, bidding him to enter.

I forgot to blow the candles out before I left! Sierra exclaims sheepishly. Oops.

No matter, no fires to put out, Corbin says as he steps into the doorway.

Sierra stops him with an outstretched hand: Corbin—, Sierra says, pausing for a brief moment, exchanging uneasy glances. She finds herself taken aback by the sudden flash of anger that crosses his features; just as quickly as it appears, it is gone… Tonight is not a good night, She tells him in a voice that cracks with a sudden inexplicable nervousness. Secretly, she hopes she hasn’t made a terrible mistake by allowing him to walk her to her door. The ones who say they are trying to protect you and keep you safe, end up being the bad ones. Sierra thinks to herself.

Didn’t we have a good time? He asks her, his tone containing a slight hint of mockery and contempt.

Yes, but I barely know you, She tells him flatly.

Corbin flashes her his most endearing smile. Let me in, and we will get to know each other even better, He says.

There is no doubting his charisma. There is a certain charm about him, but she isn’t about to let him talk his way into her apartment. Corbin pushes forward, but Sierra’s back stiffens.

I insist, She proclaims. Her stilettos digging into the wood floorboards.

Further down the hallway, the elevator opens and an apartment dweller fumbles with his keys. A moment of awkward silence follows as they both wait for the young student to disappear into his apartment. Sierra can hear her heart racing. What was originally thrilling excitement has quickly become tainted with apprehension. What if Corbin refuses to leave? The thought causes her stomach to roll over. What would I do then? Should I have screamed to the other person in her building?

I had a good time, She states in her most appeasing tone, But maybe we should call it a night.

Corbin steps back, masking any emotion. He wants to challenge her suggestion, but the door is already closing. As the gap narrows, there is the unmistakable look of fear in Sierra’s eyes.

She has seen through me. Corbin realizes.

There will be no intimate encounter this night. As the latch catches, he can hear the familiar deadbolt locking into place. His failure eats away at him. He has blown it, he knows. He could, however, wait a few minutes; there is always a chance. Always the hope that the door might open, and fortune prevail.

Sierra can still see his shadow beneath her door. He is still standing there. The thought causes her anxiety, making it hard for her to breathe. She is sobering quickly now.

Should I arm myself? She can barely think straight in her anxious state. Her thoughts are lost in a fog of evaporating vodka and gin. Before she can determine a course of action, the shadow moves away from the door and she relaxes as she hears Corbin’s footfalls reverberate down the hall.

*     *     *

The lobby is cold, but it suits his mood. Corbin’s lofty aspirations for intimacy have been dashed. His mind churns. Every alternative he comes up with, he quickly dismisses. He is destined to be alone this night. Making his way to his car, he doesn’t notice the other residents of the building moving past him into the elevator. His mind is numb with failure. Exiting the building, he turns his collar up to the cold chill of the night and makes his way to his vehicle.

Corbin drives away in silence, head bent slightly over the wheel in resignation. He doesn’t bother to turn on the radio, cranking it until the speakers blow in an attempt to numb the emptiness growing inside of him. Instead, he considers going to a bar—but an afterthought tells him that there is no point to that. The bars will close in a half hour. Home is another option—but home is just another form of emptiness; a deadening place filled with silence that pervades everything and holds no promise or reprieve. Instead, he will drive around in circles until the monotony grows wearisome; until he finds something that can help him shake the overburdening failure that overwhelms him. He desires excitement. Something to get his heart pounding; blood coursing through his veins again. I could wait for the bars to get out and pick a fight with someone. Corbin thinks to himself. Fighting is always an option to get testosterone flowing and his heart pounding. It doesn’t even matter if the opponent is bigger or stronger. Nothing matters. Because Corbin knows how to fight dirty.

His thoughts immediately drift back to Sierra. If only she had let me step foot inside her door. I should have refused to take no for an answer. Even now, the smell of her hair and the softness of her skin preoccupies his thoughts and invades his senses. He wants her. Is that why I am driving in circles? He drives past his friends’ building and considers stopping to use the phone. To call her. But he can’t get up the nerve. Without even realizing it, he finds his way back to her parking lot.

Corbin turns the engine off, leaving the keys in the ignition. His mind begins to wander as he sits there, thinking about what she’s doing inside of her apartment. More than a moment passes. Jolted by the sound of another car in the lot, Corbin becomes alert again to the world around him. How long have I been parked for? Corbin’s mind falters. Each thought more disjointed and fragmented than the last. Each more disturbing. Forearms crossed on the dash, he chides himself. What to do?

*     *     *

The girl has no idea it is waiting for her.

It risks peering up from the confluence of shadows and quickly darts to a different corner of the apartment. It sticks to the periphery of the room so that candlelight can’t expose its presence. There is safety in what others fear. It may look human, but it surely isn’t. Cloaked, it maneuvers closer so that it can listen without interruption to the muted sounds of falling rain from the showerhead, and the soft voice of the young woman humming to herself as she lathers.

For me, It thinks with a sudden burst of euphoria. She is preparing herself for me. That thought sends a shiver of anticipation up its spine and it grins crookedly. It won’t be long now. It has watched her often enough to know her ways. It knows the routine all too well. They already share this connection.

It will be one step ahead of her. I am always one step ahead.

The shower door opens. The water stops. It listens attentively and can hear the bending of the towel as it wraps around her damp head. It moves closer to the bathroom to breathe in the mist seeping out from the shower. It retires to a dark corner just as the bathroom door opens. It listens to footfalls in the kitchen, followed by the pouring of a glass of wine; it can even hear the sloshing as she tips it to her lips. Dear God: if only sounds had their own smells. It would do anything to smell her right now, but it is too far away. A waft of freshly argan-oil shampooed hair. The smell of coconut oil on her skin. He will know it all tonight. Tonight, they will consummate their relationship.

It slips soundlessly into the bedroom, fluid, agile, and wraithlike. It will lie in wait. It has prepared well. Now the waiting is almost at an end.

Sierra feels another cold chill go through her and looks toward the balcony. A midsummer breeze causes the curtains to billow and disturb the silvery moonlight that breaks through the clouds. So ethereal and pretty. She thinks to herself. It touches her soul. Nights like these make her feel alive; like a promise of many more nights to come.

Sierra closes and locks the balcony door after pausing for a moment to feel the stillness. As she turns to blow out a candle, she catches her reflection in a mirror and startles herself. A sudden apprehension steels through her. She steadies the hand that holds her glass of wine. That would have been tragic. She thinks to herself, as she drinks the last of the fluid swishing about in the bottom of her glass.

Setting the glass on the table, she heads for the bedroom. In her own space, away from the rest of the world, Sierra slips out of her robe and into her nightgown, then swings her legs up to wrap herself in her fuzzy comforter. She stares out her window as the moonlight continues to break through tufts of cloud and permeate her room.

She grabs her pen off a nightstand and starts writing in her dream journal. Her thoughts come in jumbles, too many to capture in her tired, inebriated state. Before she knows it, she has written three pages. How nice it would be, She writes, To gaze at the moon and the clouds forever. But at some point, one has to blink.

Before long, sleep comes quickly. She begins to drift on the edge, her pen dragging across the lined paper in a diagonal fashion as she nods off. The top of the page reads: SUMMER 1977…

Sound asleep, she does not stir, but ominously the shadows do. A sepulchral silhouette rises up from beneath Sierra’s bed like the deepest recesses of a child’s imagination. A night terror. Feral, beady eyes reflect the moonlight. Motionless, it stays like that. Unblinking. Hours pass as it watches her body twist and turn in whatever dreamlike state she is immersed in. She is perfect. It thinks to itself. It could make her ageless forever, and in this way, it feels as if it is doing her a favour.

The shadow remains certain in its convictions. She is the epitome of womanhood. The way her hair falls across her face. Her mouth, open just enough to breathe… If only it could leave. If only it could just watch her sleep and make its exit, satisfied in just watching. The shadow begins to reminisce of an earlier time. Before, all it would do is watch, constraining itself to the darkness. But that isn’t enough anymore. It knows now that it can push itself to greater exhilaration, extending the boundaries of its limitations. Deeper vices that had risen within and now the cravings need to be fed.

Every time it communes with ageless beauty it feels like it gets a taste of eternity.

The prowler bends down and speaks softly: You’re waiting to pass through to the other side, It hisses, And I will give you redemption. Caressing her soft cheeks, it moves its hands to clamp tightly around her neck.

The sensation of fingers across her throat allow it to experience the rhythm of her beating heart; each beat taking its exultation to the next level. It can feel her body struggling. It can hear its rhythm fading already.

It closes its eyes, to savor the zoetic moment. No one must ever see me, except you, It whispers. Your last moment is to be shared only with me.

Sierra… A whisper brings her out of her slumber.

Her eyes slowly roll open. Trying to think her way through her confusion, Sierra swallows hard against the tightening in her throat. Her eyes open wide. Her surroundings look grey and abysmal. Searching, she spots a blunt face shrouded amidst darkness. Its black eyes shift quickly to meet her own, and a fear, hot and electric, shoots up her spine. The hate in those eyes is so cold and calculating, it freezes her for a single, terrible instant. Sierra feels her blood turn cold and her mind wails in anguish. She rages at how helpless she feels. Oxygen deprived, she lasts for only a moment longer and then, inexplicably, she feels as light as air. Her body and mind are no longer connected. The struggle becomes a transitive peace.

With a final shudder, all movement subsides and Sierra’s body lies stone cold. The prowler looks down at its strangled victim, peaceful in her sleepless slumber. Now she is part of its dream world. It looks over at the clock. 1:30AM. There is time; lots of time to reset the room.

But first it will hold her until her soul is free; until all the warmth leaves her corporeal form. It will hold onto this liberation as one does to those they truly love. Excited, it crawls into bed and wraps one arm around her. It brushes her hair out of her face now that her struggle is done. If one could call it a struggle. It snickers inwardly. There, there, It says aloud. Don’t worry, my dear. I will fix you right up. The mess of her belongings simultaneously disgusts and arouses it.

It tucks the sheets beneath her feet, as if it truly matters that her feet might get cold. What it did in these instances is not always rational. It was born of darkest desire and whim. It searches her drawers, tries on her clothes. She won’t mind. It thinks. She doesn’t even stir. It delights in rummaging through her small, inviting world; searching for trophies and the unexpected. After all, who did they belong to now, if not me? She is his. Her things are his.

Truth be told, it never wanted to leave this place.

*     *     *

Suddenly, a light shines through the darkness, brighter than the moon, and Sierra is afraid. To add to her confusion, faces appear out of a mist. Instinctively, Sierra knows she has to be in a dream. But this is unlike any dream she has ever experienced.

Inexplicably, her body starts to rise, her spirit captured by the moonlight. Looking down, the ghost-like form that is her spirit can see her corporeal body on the bed. She can also see the prowler that has taken her life, moving throughout her room. She cannot form any thoughts or feelings on the matter, only recognize facts for what they are. It is as if her soul needs a body in order to make sense of information.

Her spirit begins rising ever higher. Through the floors above her apartment, it finds itself floating eighteen stories in the air. As the ghost slips away towards the window, the spirit whispers its final words, gaining a peaceful state of rest:

Let me live,

So that I can love;

Let that within him die,

So that he can live.

After hours of lying in bed with her lifeless body, the prowler looks about the apartment and finds the necessary items it needs to finish the job. It sanitizes everything. It sweeps. It mops. It scrubs, as if only by this level of sterilization can it purge all evidence of its presence. When it is done, the apartment looks like it has never been lived in at all.

Then, like a bat, it swoops out of the apartment; as it had done dozens of times before. All planned out to perfection. Unearthly.

Sierra’s bra sits on the back of the chair, as if she had placed it there herself. It was the only item in the entire apartment not put away.

The remains of a candle smolder as sunlight appears through the balcony door. A once bright burning flame extinguished, leaving only diaphanous snippets of ghostly smoke rising into the ether.

Chapter 2

RESISTANCE

The sun rises sharply to chase the morning gloom. The smell of dew is thick everywhere, however it does little to lift the detective’s mood. Detective Williams is not accustomed to rising up early to investigate crime scenes. His salt and pepper hair, which had been a defining characteristic in his forties, is now completely white. The patches of grey that had once made him look distinguished, now make him look and feel old. Rarely had he needed to be at work before nine. But these are special circumstances.

He allows himself to consider what is waiting for him up in that apartment. The thought sends a chill through him, immediately followed by a pang of regret. He has failed. Again. He knows it with utter certainty. I should never have allowed my uncertainty to cloud my judgment. I should have listened to my intuition.

He adjusts his plain clothes jacket to protect his neck from the morning chill and clambers awkwardly out of his vehicle. It always feels weird putting his less dominant foot first. Detective Williams walks through caution tape protecting the building entrance and uses the elevator to go up to the fifteenth floor. The elevator reaches the final floor, and the detective gets out to a hall with other uniforms. The unit to the apartment in question is open.

Detective Williams enters and heads towards the central crime scene. He takes one look into the bedroom and lowers his head resolutely. It’s him, He acknowledges to the others nearby, with a note of disdain. The other detectives glance between themselves disbelievingly.

How can you be sure? One of them asks.

Williams has been the lead detective on investigations like this for a while.

Smell that? Williams inquires as he comes closer to the bed. The other detectives make sour faces.

I don’t smell anything, one states flatly.

Pine perhaps? Another offers.

Williams gazes at the woman sleeping peacefully on her comforter.

Williams nods. The room has been scoured.

One of the tall, lanky detectives looks dubious and shakes his head. Maybe she liked her dorm this way?

Another chimes in, So, what you’re saying is, your ghost killer wants us to believe that she died in her sleep? Is that it?

Williams levels the man with a stare. The one who hadn’t spoken yet sides with the other two. It’s an awful lot of work to throw us off.

We don’t know what this girl’s apartment looked like before. How can we be so sure she wasn’t just a really clean person?

He doesn’t care what we think, Williams declares in a voice louder than he intended. That’s not why he does it, He says, his voice lowering to a more professional tone.

Williams is certain. He has seen many case files just like this. All of them are the same. Women in their twenties dying in their sleep of supposed natural causes. It is almost laughable when he thinks about it; but the alternative is equally implausible. There have been cases that came before whereby a roommate had been away, their friend had passed away in their sleep, but the apartment they came back to is in such a magically pristine-like state, they adamantly know their dead friend didn’t tidy it themselves.

Why does he do it? One of the other detectives asks, curious.

The only thing in this room amiss is her bra, Williams says, producing a pen from his pocket to point at it. It isn’t the type of bra a woman would wear on a date. Its purpose is for comfort, Williams even notes the strange shade. It isn’t purple. Not quite violet or lilac. It is mauveine; something worn once upon a time a century before.

This isn’t what she was wearing last night, He states flatly. He would have taken the one she was wearing as a trophy, He says. The thought doesn’t sit well with him and he does his best to ignore it.

I agree! A voice calls out.

Williams failed to hear Lieutenant Jenkins enter the room. Her free spirit would be a welcome relief to augment the antagonistic cloud that hangs thick in the room. She is thirty years his junior, but he already has more respect for her than most on the force. Her dedication is impressive. She has managed to obtain a level of experience that took decades for Williams to achieve. But no amount of experience will help here. This is unprecedented, a breed of something entirely new. A killing machine. To match it, they will have to leave behind past prejudices and evolve their thinking. Jenkins will be up for the challenge. The others will probably just get in the way. Williams is so thankful there is at least one younger detective on the force to keep doing the work he has been doing for decades.

We can’t keep writing these off as women dying in their sleep, Williams says, waiting until he has the attention of all eyes in the room. There’s evidence here. Find it.

One of the detectives lowers his eyes to the floor. And if we don’t?

Jenkins stares hard at the man. Then we find it outside this room. Similar cases. If ours have gone under the radar for this long, it could have happened elsewhere. Not just the larger cities. We have to check rural as well,

One of the detectives scoffs at her. "And who do you expect us to