After his disappearance in 1992, the following journal entries were recovered from the scorched remains of 640 Lincoln Boulevard, home to Maxwell Marley, aka Old Man Marley, aka “the South Bend Slayer”. There is no record of Marley’s death, though it is believed by many that the extreme heat from the house fire effectively cremated his body.

November 15, 1957

I made my first mummy. The salt of my tin preserves the body, at least for now. The man was a thief. I saw him many days inside his home as I salted the sidewalks, coveting actors playing make believe heroes on the television. I do not want the neighbors to slip. These streets can be dangerous on foot. The man slipped.

Thieves are everywhere.

October 28, 1958

First snow of the year. It came early. It is now time to salt. I have 4 mummies now.

January 7, 1959

I erected the “For Sale” signs with my shovel. Six more mummies in my collection over 13 months. There is suspicion about me, even from my family. But the block is now pure. I have eradicated the thieves. I will continue to use my blade to tend the walks. Righteous men serve in more ways than one.

My first son was born today. I am done.

March 9, 1981

For over two decades I had been the still one. The neighborhood had wavered, but my restraint remained. I heard the call from my loved ones two decades ago. But new journalistic investigations sprang up. My story became a “Hard Copy”. My eldest son saw the program and asked me many questions. He believes I am the one. We spoke of it at dinner. His accusations were accurate, yet rang unknowing.

I said some things I didn’t mean. He said some things he didn’t mean. He will always be my son, but I am beside myself. How does he not understand my cause?

July 20, 1982

A family moved in across the road. The eldest child they call Buzz. There is a newborn. I looked into his eyes and felt fear. True fear. The kind you only feel in youth. I am an old man now. You can be afraid of a lot of things, but you’re never too old to be afraid. Nor to love.

April 5, 1988

I made one last mummy. His name is Murphy. I saw him in the window worshipping false idols — he cried out the name of Michael Jordan the basketball star as if he were God. He is not. There is only one God and He lives in the Church He built. You are always welcome there.

December 23, 1990

The family is gone, but the boy remains. He is hosting an event with many in attendance. He has an extraordinary guest. One I could not have predicted— basketball star Michael Jordan. He danced in the living room like a marionette. The boy has great strength. He is my son.

I fear the thieves have returned.

December 24, 1990

When I spoke to the child in church, he told me of his troubles and they are my own. Decades have passed since I made the most mummies. The loss of my son has haunted me most. But the boy gave me new light.

I traced him as he tortured the thieves, but he did not take them. I could not understand why. In the Murphy home, I aided him. My shovel dealt blows that rendered them asleep. And I said to him, “Bring them to the tomb.” He would not. I pleaded. I handed the boy the shovel and wept. He told me, “The cops will be here soon. Be gone, old man.”

He went back to his home and me to mine. As I write, I know not whether to be disappointed or inspired. I am the salt of the earth.

December 25, 1990

My birth son came home today. He showed me my granddaughter and we embraced. The boy stood in the window. He is my true son. Someday.

November 15, 1992

I took the eldest son Buzz. The family mourns. The boy did not notice. He has not paid me mind in months. The family has a “For Sale” sign in the yard now. Once again, the son is leaving, perhaps for good this time. How you feel about your family is a complicated thing.

I must sleep now. I believe the boy will take me in my rest. I, an angel with a filthy soul. In ashes.