The Next Mourning

JAMES LOUDOUN

THE NEXT MOURNING
THE NEXT
MOURNING
James Loudoun

JAMES LOUDOUN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and
incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious
manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely
coincidental.
Views, thoughts, and opinions expressed by characters are fictitiously created from the
author's imagination and do not necessarily reflect those of the author or the publisher.
Similarly, the actions and conduct of characters are purely fictitious and not necessarily
condoned by the author or the publisher.
All information in this work of fiction is provided as is, with no guarantee of
completeness, accuracy, and timeliness, or of the results obtained from the use of this
information and without warranty of any kind, expressed or implied, including, but not
limited to, product warranties of performance, merchantability, and fitness for a
particular performance. The author and the publisher are not responsible for any errors,
omissions, or results obtained from the use or misuse of this information. Therefore,
neither the author nor the publisher will be held liable or responsible for any actual or
perceived loss or damage to any person or entity, caused or alleged to have been
caused, directly or indirectly, by anything in this publication.
COPYRIGHT © 2019 James Loudoun. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the
author.
Book cover designed by Ronald Schneller.
Edited by Michael Garrett.
Printed in Switzerland.
Batterieweg 6
4614 Hägendorf
Switzerland
www.schneller-publishing.com

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“In all of us, even in good men, there is a
lawless wild-beast nature, which peers out
in sleep.”
Socrates

JAMES LOUDOUN
Dedication
To my wife Karin, not just for the encouraging
words when I needed them the most and the long hours of
proofreading, in which we read aloud and critically dissected
each sentence; but also for all the times she saved the day by
helping me find that perfect word and for her help in adding
a new character to the manuscript.
To my son Thomas, a man of few words but many
brilliant ideas. One of them enhanced this book and others
will be included in the sequel and beyond.
To Michael Garrett, editor of Stephen King's first
novel and, I am proud to say, my first novel as well. His
detailed and brilliant analysis did so much more than
contribute to this manuscript. Without a doubt, he also
helped me become a much better writer.

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THE NEXT MOURNING

JAMES LOUDOUN

THE NEXT MOURNING
Chapter 6
My heart pounded faster as I walked back to my office alone
and in shock. The lilac bush Anne described was the only one
of its kind in our entire neighborhood. I knew exactly where it
stood. Its fragrance was what first caught my attention as I
drifted out of my sleepwalking episode on that fateful early
morning.
Thoughts of Sally's murder plagued me, and my
mind went numb with panic. What if I stumbled through the
area right when she was being killed? Did the murderer see
me? Did he know I was sleepwalking and couldn't identify
him? Did he follow me home? Does he know where I live,
where I work? Would he come after me, too? I was way over

JAMES LOUDOUN
my head. I needed help.
With trembling fingers, I quickly opened my laptop,
Googled, and clicked on the Toronto Yellow Pages directory.
I typed "Toronto Police Force Homicide Squad" into the
search field and clicked enter again. A new webpage opened
with a Toronto city map showing the location of the
Homicide Squad and beside it, a small yellow “call” field to
click on for dialing. Moving the cursor over the field, I
slowly added pressure to the left mouse button, but hesitated
at the last moment.
In panic, I exited the website with other disturbing
thoughts. What if I hadn't stumbled through the crime scene
during the murder but only after it happened? What if I
contaminated the crime scene with my footprints or left
something behind? The good news was, in that case, a
murderer probably wouldn’t be stalking me. The bad news
was the police had searched the area for evidence all day.
They may have already found clues pointing to me as the
suspect they were looking for.
Did I really want to give them a call and ask for
their help or try to explain anything? If I tried, would they
even believe me?
I felt alone. Trapped like a cornered animal. My

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heart pounded, and a primeval flight instinct, one void of any
conscious thought, urged me to run. To get away. To hide.
I left my office in a dismal mess, files all over my
desk, messages of unreturned calls stuck to the telephone, my
file cabinet unlocked and open. I left it all behind me, locked
my office door, and hurried toward the elevator.
Passing through the reception area at a controlled
run, I ignored Gertrude and concentrated on only one
objective—reaching the elevator door. Just then, it opened
abruptly. Too early for me to reach it in time, I thought.
"Larry. Larry," Gertrude called out in her annoying
Teutonic way. "Philip said I must tell you that—"
"Not now. Gotta run," I said, trying to catch my
breath, my eyes sharply focused on the open elevator that I
was fast approaching. I leapt inside as if my life depended on
it, almost colliding with an exiting client. I quickly pressed
"L" for lobby, and repeatedly jabbed the "close" button.
"But, Larry, Philip said—"
The elevator door slid shut, blocking out Gertrude's
voice and the utopian world of the Randell Corporation.
I'd soon be down in the lobby, then the parking
garage, and then . . .
Oh no. The parking garage, I thought, remembering

JAMES LOUDOUN
what Anne had said about weirdos lurking around. What if
Sally's murderer was already waiting for me down there?
I decided I had to take the risk. If things got much
worse and I needed to leave town, I'd need my car.
I got to the bottom of the parking garage stairwell
and peered carefully through the doorway. The parking level
appeared empty. I started cautiously toward my car and
scanned the dark corners of the garage like a bodyguard on
duty. With every step closer, my pace increased, eventually
becoming a jog by the time I reached my destination. I was
surprised, almost bewildered, to be still alive. While opening
the door, I dropped my guard a little and slowly began to
calm down. Perhaps I'm blowing this whole thing out of
proportion, I thought. Maybe this whole thing is nothing more
than a—
"You're dead meat, man!" roared a rough, male voice
from close behind me.
I froze for a second and couldn't breathe. Shit! It was
him! I knew it! I knew I should've left the damn car. Instead, I
was stupid enough to fall right into his trap. I quickly spun
around to face him, falling backwards against the car, my fists
shaking in front of me.
His appearance was threatening: a man in his mid-

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twenties, with a strong, yet wiry build. His unkempt facial
hair and long oily black ponytail partially concealed his lean
skeleton-like face. He wore an old baseball cap, a black T-
shirt, faded blue jeans, and worn running shoes. In his left
hand, he carried a baseball bat. In his right hand, he
brandished a black—a black cell phone?
He passed right by where I was standing and kept
walking, completely ignoring my petrified "I'm-prepared-todie"
stance. Instead, he continued his telephone conversation.
"Man, you guys are dead ducks. Is your team already
there? Okay, my guys will be at the ballpark in about fifteen
minutes, and the loser buys the beers."
For several seconds after he left, I remained
hopelessly frozen, leaning backwards against my car. My
chest felt tight, and I gasped for air. With a trembling hand, I
opened the door and collapsed into the driver's seat. Sitting
there for about a minute, I listened to my heart pound and
tried to learn how to breathe again. I had enough crap for one
day. I just wanted to go home.

JAMES LOUDOUN
Chapter 7
The evening edition of the Toronto Herald was already on the
veranda, leaning against the front door. I stooped over
anxiously and gathered it together. Scanning it quickly, I
wasn't surprised to see the murder was front-page material.
There was an old photo of Sally, along with a
lengthy article. She was murdered in the early morning hours.
The jogger who found her told reporters his account of what
happened.
Sally's pale face was contorted in a horrible grimace.
Her eyes were bulged out, and her mouth was wide open, as
though still trying to gasp for air. Around her neck was a
shallow, wide, purple-red imprint. There were also purple

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blotches on her neck, cheeks, and forehead. The jogger said it
looked as if she'd been beaten, then strangled.
The coroner commented that the actual cause of
death was "ligature strangulation" through the use of a broad,
scarf-like object. He claimed the bruising wasn't a result of a
beating injury. It was due to the inhibited blood flow caused
by strangulation, which commonly allowed pools of blood to
collect beneath the surface of the skin.
The last column of the article dealt with the police
investigation but didn't offer many details. Sally had been
found fully clothed, showing no signs of being raped. Her
corpse had been tossed onto its side and shoved under a large
bush—a lilac bush.
I let myself through the door, still glancing at the
newspaper, and contemplated my situation. Maybe I
should've called the police after all. Maybe I should've told
someone I walked right through the murder scene. I felt
something must be done. But what—and how?
Closing the door behind me, I heard faint voices and
the sound of crying coming from Mom's apartment across the
hall. Her door was partly open, so I peered in and tapped on
the door frame before entering. Mom was sitting on her sofa,
which should've been reupholstered years ago. She held a

JAMES LOUDOUN
handkerchief in her right hand, her eyes swollen and red.
Harold sat to her left with a sorrowful expression, his
comforting hand touching Mom's shoulder. Trish sat to her
right and stared at me indignantly, as if I were intruding.
"The one I feel most sorry for is poor Doreen," Mom
said as she lifted the handkerchief to her moist eyes, pushing
up her glasses in the process. "What that no-good daughter of
hers put that poor woman through. Trishy dear, did you
arrange for flowers?"
"No, Mom, not yet," Trish said, exhaling loudly.
"Poor Doreen, I just don't know how she'll be able to
cope with this," Mom said, her voice now reducing to a
whisper, as though she were about to tell a secret. "She'll
probably need to go back to, to you know where, you know,
to that place that she went before."
"The psychiatric ward?" I blurted out without
thinking.
Mom looked up at me in horror, as if I'd just used the
most repulsive of four-letter words. She turned to Trish and
completely ignored me. I'd said a stupid thing, and I was
already regretting it.
"What's the world coming to?" Mom continued with
Trish. "A hoodlum invades our quiet little community and

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murders someone."
"What makes you think he came from somewhere
else?" Trish said as she glanced in my direction and sneered.
"The creep who murdered Sally might even live around here."
"Nonsense. I know everyone in the neighborhood,
and there's no one capable of doing that around here!"
"No one?" Trish repeated, raising her eyebrow for
effect and glancing in my direction. "Let's just hope you're
right, then."
"Anyway, Trishy, dear, did you arrange for flowers
yet?"
"No, Mom, not yet," Trish said, exhaling even louder
this time, her eyes now contorted toward the ceiling.
"Anyway, please don't forget, dear, because I
wouldn't want the neighbors to talk. You know, especially
that Mrs. Hutchinson from down the road. She's always
gossiping about something or other. By the way, dear, please
don't forget about the flowers."
Trish hesitated for a moment. "Yes, Mom," she said
making eye contact with me again, this time with a wicked
smile. "I'll take care of everything. I promise you that."
"That's wonderful, dear," Mom said, again in her
own little world, "because, you know, I just wouldn't want the

JAMES LOUDOUN
neighbors to talk. Did I ever tell you about Mrs. Hutchinson
down the road? She's such a busybody. Just yesterday I
watched her for almost a whole hour as she was spying on the
other neighbors."
It was obvious by now that Mom still had a supply
of those pills the doctor prescribed for her when Dad died. I
guess she must've taken more than her daily dose when she
heard about Sally's murder.
I slid out of the room quietly, doubting that anyone
even realized I was gone, and ended up in my apartment.
Now sitting at a table in the privacy of my own kitchen, I
reread the newspaper article about Sally's death, and reflected
on what Trish had said. She seemed certain of herself, but
was she just out for attention as usual, or did she really know
more about Sally's murder than she was telling?
Anxiety gripped me, and my legs became restless. I
couldn't sit around any longer. I had to do something—
anything. Leaving the apartment in haste, I desperately
wanted to believe I had no particular destination in mind.
Just a stroll, I told myself calmly, a chance for fresh
air and to think things through.
Less than a half-hour later, I found myself standing
in front of the Martins' house, thinking about drawing nearer

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and making contact. My psyche had deceived me from the
very beginning. I now knew I needed to be here for a reason
and that there was a greater purpose to my walk than I'd
originally thought.