To my dismay, I came across a book in my office that I have long thought either discarded or destroyed. “Effigies of a Murderer,” by Eugene Pevancy. This book was an abomination when it was conceived and, after perusing the pages for nostalgia’s sake, an abomination now. It is not quality writing to collect the driveling stupidity of so many lovers of a serial murderer. Women, men, children, all writing to the Dispatch in St. Louis to shed fountains of tears over the death of a beloved minister Hardy. He was a pervert! Depraved man, and when I search for further records on his case, there have been a full total of 140 deaths at his very hands! All from the same church!

God is not righteous to let such a monster remain in such a position of communal authority!

As disturbing as the book is, it does not compare to the bookmark that I had between pages. A photograph of Hardy as a boy. It never dawned on me back then, but he bares a shocking resemblance to Her, and I am embarrassed to think that still attractive. I am still suffering shivers and have been forced to finish off a carafe of whiskey. I hope I can still read this in the morning.

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