Born Evil - I Believe

The neighbors thought they knew poor, but they didn’t. Paul listened to Mrs. Walters complain about not having enough coffee to last until Friday, as she placed bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans next to the fried pork chops on the table. Freshly churned butter sat next to steaming loaves of freshly baked bread. Paul’s mouth watered as he waited for an invitation to dinner. Instead, Mrs. Walters impatiently helped him out the door. Angry, he shoved his hands inside the pockets of his thin coat. Frigid north wind, laced with sleet, stung his face as he picked his way across snow covered fields toward home. With each step, Paul’s anger began its metamorphosis into something much more menacing.

Paul Chapman knew poor. To the Chapman family poor meant waking up with snow filtering in through cracks in the roof. Poor meant a supper of gravy made with water, poured over a thin crust of bread. Poor meant going to bed hungry, waking up hungry, and knowing there wouldn’t be a hot breakfast to eat before donning hand-me-down coats to do chores in sub-zero temperatures. That night, Paul licked his plate to get every last drop of gruel, resenting those with full stomachs. He went to bed hungry, and his anger grew stronger.

Meals during the summer months were much tastier. There would be fresh fruits and vegetables to fill their empty stomachs, along with the promise of fried chicken on Sundays. Of course, before the chicken found its way to the skillet, someone had to wring its neck. Who would it be? Faye was too little, Jack too soft hearted, Marion hated chickens, but Paul, Paul seemed to enjoy the task. Some might say he enjoyed it a little too much. Perhaps it was the way everyone ran away screaming when the headless chicken took up the chase. Maybe that’s why Paul always volunteered.

Paul didn’t use a hatchet. He liked the feel of his fingers clamped around the chicken’s neck. He would squeeze enough for the bird to realize it couldn’t breathe, and then twist hard. The sound of bones breaking gave him a rush. He took pleasure from the sound of death. Once he separated the head from its body, he plopped the body on the ground, laughing with glee, as the headless chicken chased his siblings around the yard.

As Paul got older, he hunted farther from home. Neighbors noticed their chickens were missing, and then baby pigs, followed by calves. Paul was never a suspect. The sheriff thought tramps from the nearby railroad were stealing the animals for food. Yet someone knew Paul’s secret, but didn’t tell.

Twenty years later…

Faye Chapman closed the paper and handed it to her brother. Jack looked at the headline one more time, Serial Killer Apprehended in Sausalito.

“There must be some mistake. Paul isn’t capable of such horrific acts.”

“Yes he is,” Faye said softly.

“How can you think our brother is capable of killing innocent women?”

“Remember the Walters family from back home? Virginia Walters didn’t mysteriously disappear. Paul killed her.”

Jack stood, rolled his fists into balls, “Liar! Why would you say such a thing?”

“I saw him do it. She was walking into town, crossing the river bridge. Paul came up behind her, knocked her down, and strangled her.”

“Then why didn’t anyone ever find her body?”

Faye stared at the wall, remembering, “Paul shoved her into the river.”

“No, the river was too shallow. Someone would have found her.”

“The water level was abnormally high and the current strong. It was the year the river flooded Estherville. Remember?”

“What did he say when you confronted him?”

Faye looked into her brother’s eyes, “I didn’t. He had the same look on his face as when he strangled the chickens. I was afraid of him then, and I’m still afraid of him. If I hadn’t hid in the bushes, I think he would have killed me, too.”

“Why do you suppose he killed Mrs. Walters?”

“We’ll probably never know, but I believe it's because he was born evil.”

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