The Killer
Inside the mind of a newly minted serial killer
This is a nasty little story with, I hope, an even nastier ending.
This work is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 (Attribution, Non-Commercial, No Derivatives).
The Killer
by Trevor Mendham
I never planned on becoming a serial killer.
No, really. It was never saw myself as that sort of guy. It wasn’t like I’d spent my whole life saying: “Wouldn’t it be cool to be a serial killer?” I just read a book and sort of got hooked.
Even reading the book was an accident. I thought I was downloading a thriller, something exciting with lots of action and blood and sexy women. In fact it was a history of some of the world’s greatest serial killers. I almost deleted it immediately — I normally only read fiction — but I was out of credit so I couldn’t get something else.
Turned out it was really interesting. These people were all nobodies but their murders had made them famous, even more famous than reality TV stars. They were going to live forever. It was as if the years they’d taken from their victims were added to theirs. OK, that last bit makes me sound like a wanky hipster but you know what I mean.
It was more than that though, it wasn’t just the thought of the fame. It was the idea of having that sort of power, the power to end someone’s life. Wow. And not just killing someone because you don’t like them, or for revenge. But killing someone for absolutely no reason, just because you can... Double wow!
I just knew I had to do it.
The big question was: who? Who would have the honour of being the first victim of the world’s newest serial killer? Part of me wanted to do something dangerous and dramatic, but that would be stupid. And I’m not stupid! The sensible thing was to start with an easy kill.
No contest: it had to be Mrs Jenkins. She lives — lived — just around the corner. Why her? Well, for one thing she was ancient, at least 70, so she wouldn’t fight back. And she lived alone. I’d been in her house socially on a number of occasions, so I wouldn’t have to worry too much about leaving fingerprints or DNA (told you I’m not stupid!).
Once I’d decided on her, the excitement started building. I was on such a buzz that it was hard to hold back from going over there immediately and just doing it. But somehow I managed to calm myself down and take things slowly. Prepare and plan, the motto of a good serial killer.
I had to wait about a week for a night where there was enough cloud to block out the moon. Then at three in the morning I dressed in full black, including a pair of gloves. I didn’t plan on making the first one look like murder, but I was being careful just in case. I sneaked carefully along to her house and round the back. I’d spent hours on the net studying videos of how to break into places — jemmying open locks and so on. Of course the people posting the videos always said they were simply to help anyone who’d locked themselves out of their own homes. Yeah, right!
As it happened I didn’t need to do any of that; the silly old bat had left a downstairs window open. Checking nobody else was around (not that I expected anyone to be in her back garden at that time of the morning!) I clambered through.
Now it was getting real. I was in her house and she didn’t know. Officially I was already a criminal, there was no turning back. Not that I wanted to.
I turned on the small penlight I’d brought with me and used my memory of the house layout to cross the room and carefully open the door to the hallway. Then it was up the stairs slowly, being double careful in case there were any squeaky boards.
I’d never been up to the top part of the house before, didn’t know which room was her bedroom. The first door I carefully opened led to a room full of cardboard boxes and junk. Not that one. On to the next door: win!
There she was, laying on her back on an old single bed. Carefully I inched towards her, ready to run like fuck if she showed any sign of waking. Eventually I reached her side. The room was filled with old-lady smells of outdated perfume and talc. Her face was really old and lined, framed by tatty grey hair. But just then she was the most beautiful thing in the world: my first victim.
What I really wanted to do was to slit her throat, to watch the blood spurting out, to see her eyes open and stare at me in terror for the last few seconds of her worthless life. I wanted to tell her how lucky she was to be my first victim. I wanted her to die knowing there was no reason for her death.
But I’m not stupid. No risks the first time, it was going look like an accident. So I carefully eased the pillow out from under her head then immediately shoved it down hard over her face. She woke and started to twitch then tried to push me away, but she was far too feeble to resist. It only took about thirty seconds before she went limp beneath me.
The best thirty seconds of my life.
I slipped the pillow back under her head and arranged things so it all looked natural. I was on such a buzz and breathing so fast. I wanted to jump up, punch the air and shout “Yes! I did it!”. But I forced myself to stay calm as I snuck back out of the house and headed home. Once back home it was different, I... well, let’s just say the excitement was as much sexual as anything. You know what I mean.
By the next morning the buzz had worn off and I was terrified. I almost threw up over my breakfast and spent the whole day expecting a hand to fall on my shoulder. But it didn’t and I slowly relaxed. It wasn’t until two days later that I even heard through the gossip grapevine that poor old Mrs Jenkins had died peacefully in her sleep. It was real hard to look sad when talking about it.
So it had worked! Now I was a successful killer. But that wasn’t enough, I wanted to be a serial killer. Which meant I needed to do it again. This time I wanted to do something more exciting, so I knew I needed to take my time planning. I spent my evenings wandering round town, eyeing up every location as a possible spot for my next kill. Eventually I decided on a particular alleyway. It ran away from the main road and there were no houses overlooking it. The one CCTV camera had been vandalised and clearly hadn’t worked for years. Not many people used the alley, which was what I wanted. It was a short cut to and from the train station so the occasional person hurried along. There was also a small wooden bench half way down.
Perfect.
By now it was about a month after my first kill and I couldn’t wait any longer. I went out at around eight on a weekday evening. This time I didn’t bother dressing in black, but I did still wore gloves to avoid leaving any traces. In one pocket of my jacket I had a paperback book, in the other I concealed a large, sharp knife.
Once I got to the lane I headed for the bench, sat down and took out the book. I sat there pretending to read, trying my hardest to look harmless. That’s why I didn’t wear black, it might have spooked people. Of course I didn’t actually read more than a few words of the book, I was far too excited. I just looked at the pages.
The first people along the lane were a middle aged couple, no use. Next was an elderly lady — easy, but I didn’t want to do the same thing again. Ten minutes later came a man. He was alone but he was taller than me and clearly a lot stronger. No chance. I had to wait over an hour for my perfect victim.
She was probably about 19, wearing a short skirt and tottering along on high heels in the direction of the station. Her tits were clearly outlined beneath her tight white top and it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra.
The perfect victim.
I kept staring at my book, pretending to ignore her, until she got close to the bench. Then I looked up and smiled. Putting down the book I stood and lifted my hand.
“Excuse me Miss,” I said in my politest voice. She stopped walking and I stepped closer. “I was wondering if you could tell me...” As I spoke I raised my left hand and pointed off at random. Her eyes followed automatically and whilst she was looking away I grabbed the knife from my right pocket. In a motion I’d practised a hundred times in front of the mirror I brought the blade up and stabbed it hard into her throat.
Her eyes widened and she brought her hands up to the wound to try and stop the blood that was now rushing out. A sound began to leave her mouth, the start of a gurgling scream, but I was ready for that. I clamped my left hand over her mouth whilst with my right I stabbed again and again and again at her throat, her eyes, her gorgeous chest.
It didn’t take long before she stopped moving and I let her lifeless body slip to the floor. God it felt so good, I was totally high on the feeling of power. I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to get down and lick the blood off her skin. I wanted to rub my face in her tits. I wanted to rip off her skirt and fuck her lifeless body.
But I resisted. Not only might someone have come along but I knew I couldn’t risk leaving something for the crime scene guys to find. So instead I snuck off through the bushes using the route I’d already scouted out. I wiped the blood off of me and headed home.
Oh man, was that a rush. I felt like I could fly, like I was God. My grin was so wide it almost met itself coming back. I wanted to run through the streets singing.
Instead I stayed outwardly calm. The few people I passed never suspected a thing. Nobody paid me any attention and nobody would even have been able to describe me the next day. You see, I’m good at this. I know how to avoid being caught. A lot of it’s common sense, but lots of it comes from that book I read. Why do so many of my friends think that reading’s boring? If only they knew!!!
It was all over the net the next day, especially social media. Everyone was saying how dreadful it was but at the same time hunting for pictures that showed all the gory details. Typical — they want all the fun with none of the work. There were a few fuzzy snaps doing the rounds but no pictures as good as the ones in my memory.
That was a week ago. I was going to leave it at least another month before doing it again but I can’t wait. I need the buzz. I’m already planning the next one, and the next, and the next...
I hope one day they’ll make a book of me, maybe even a movie. I’ll be in the serial killer Hall of Fame (is that a thing?). That’s why I’m writing this down. I’m not putting it in my phone or tablet, someone might hack it, hence the old fashioned dead-tree-diary.
I’ll write more about my plans next time. Its going to be awesome! But that will have to be all for tonight.
It’s getting late and I need to finish my homework for school tomorrow.
The End
Author’s Notes:
This story originally appeared in my self published collection Rest In Fear 2.
This was difficult to write; I don’t like being inside a head like that. I don’t usually do such vividly nasty stuff, however in this case it was necessary to make it as unpleasant as possible so that the final reveal would (hopefully) be all the more shocking.
I normally avoid using many exclamation marks, but here they were one of the clues as to the ending. If I got it right you’ll have realised the nature of the killer just slightly before the end.