Bonus Epilogue
Somewhere deep in Louisiana, USA.
The chapel was brimming with the voices of sinners, pleading with me as if I was powerful enough to lead them to salvation.
A guide to the eternal light.
An instructor reading from a manual written thousands of years ago.
They came to me with their secrets, the dirt they would never show anyone—the sins everyone was guilty of committing. I came here to understand humans—normal humans, at least. I’d hoped that, by now, I would’ve found someone like me.
Someone incapable of feeling.
Someone who craved things darker than the average churchgoer did.
Someone trying to avoid the blood lust that compelled their soul—or wondered if they even had one.
That was the ultimate question, after all.
Did I have a soul?
I wasn’t capable of empathy—of compassion.
I’d never felt the love the Holy Bible speaks of over and over.
With a sigh to drown out the small-town chatter echoing in the hall outside my office, I reached for the remote, turning on the TV.
Hopefully, that would drown out the noise for the next few minutes.
The national news flickered on, some blonde going on and on about inflation and the upcoming election while I opened the desk drawer, grabbing my cigarettes.
The chair groaned underneath my weight as I leaned back, lighting the end of my cigarette, holding it between my lips. I took a healthy, delicious drag as I propped my feet up on the desk, crumbs of dirt landing on the open bible at my feet.
I’d been working on sermon notes for the last hour, trying to come up with something that would make me feel. Every time I preached to the small mass of people who filled my pews every Sunday and Wednesday night, I witnessed many emotions.
Awe.
Sadness.
Love.
Happiness.
Guilt.
Anger.
None of which affected me.
“We have an important update from St. Louis, Missouri, where a serial killer has been identified,” the newscaster said.
My eyes snapped up to the screen mounted on the wall, my ears perking for the first time in over three months. The smoke from my cigarette drifted in front of my face as the screen switched to a live feed of a press conference. On the front of the podium was the FBI logo, and as a man with hair almost as dark as mine stepped up to the mic, my head tilted to the side.
I took another drag.
“Good morning, I’m Special Agent James Garner, and I’m here to announce that the St. Louis River Killer has been identified as Robert Hale.”
A picture of the man popped up beside the agent’s head, and my brows furrowed.
He looked…normal.
Like me.
“Robert Hale was murdered a few years ago, and though he isn’t here to pay for his crimes, we can give closure to the countless families he affected,” the agent said, his eyes cold, his jaw tight. “My team and I have uncovered his dump site where Mr. Hale buried his victims in shallow graves. Thus far, we have uncovered human remains indication over fifty individuals, and we are working around the clock to identify the victims and notify their families.”
Shallow graves?
A single dumping site?
“Why in the fuck wasn’t he discovered sooner?” I mused, exhaling a cloud of smoke, enjoying the burn in my lungs. The screen switched back to the normal broadcast, and sitting at the table with the blonde woman was a man I’d been following for the last two decades.
Dr. Marcus Webster.
“Here with me to analyze the St. Louis River Killer is Dr. Webster, the head psychologist at Berkley. Welcome to the show, doctor,” the blonde said.
“Thank you for having me,” Marcus replied with a smile as he adjusted his glasses.
“What’s your opinion on Robert Hale?” she asked, getting right to the fucking point.
I took another drag, waiting for him to call him mediocre, a loose cannon, or anything he’d referred to me as in the last ten years.
“Robert Hale is perhaps the most notorious serial killer of this age,” he said, his face serious. “He fixated on a certain class of victims, all with one characteristic in common. We see this in some of the most famous serial killers throughout history. However, what impressed me about Mr. Hale was the number of victims. For example, Ted Bundy only confessed to what we believe was only a third of his victims. Less than that, if we’re being honest.”
The blonde nodded. “So, what you’re saying is that Robert Hale is— was —worse than Ted Bundy?”
I stiffened, waiting as something in my chest shifted.
The doctor nodded. “I believe Robert Hale is perhaps the worst, most notorious serial killer this nation has ever seen. We’ve never seen anything like this.”
The sounds around me quieted, and the only thing I could hear was the beat of my own heart.
The worst, most notorious serial killer this nation has ever seen?
Slowly, I dropped my feet and rose from my chair to shut the TV off. Keeping my eyes on the black screen, seeing my reflection within it, I took a final drag before snuffing the cigarette in the ashtray on the corner of the desk.
Clearing my throat, I flipped the bible shut, my unfinished sermon notes inside, and picked it up. I stared at myself, tilting my head back and forth, rolling the tension out of my neck.
“Unfortunately, Dr. Webster,” I began, my voice smooth, “you are wrong. ”
I walked around my desk, bible in hand, moving closer to the TV. I could see my eyes now, glimmering with determination as I vowed, “I’m the worst, most notorious serial killer this nation has ever seen.”
And I was going to enjoy proving that to everyone.
I turned, humming today’s hymn as I headed to the door, leaving my smoke-filled office, ready to preach the good Lord’s word.
It was time to stop hiding and do what I did best.
A smile stretched across my face as I entered the chapel, the Louisiana humidity seeping in from the open windows, the fans slowly rotating above as I turned to the congregation. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” I drawled. “Who is ready to worship our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?”
The congregation clapped, dressed in their Sunday best, eager to hear my words. The sun was shining, the moss on the trees swaying as a light breeze drifted through the windows, cooling the sinners.
I smiled and set my bible on the podium before stepping around it and clasping my hands together. “I see we might have some new faces here today.”
My eyes scanned the crowd, stopping towards the back, locking on the cream button-down shirt and bright smile.
I tipped my head, my lips stretching, showing all my teeth.
“Welcome,” I greeted.
I’d found my next victim, and this time, I intended on leaving a fucking mess.
Hallelujah. Praise God.
To Be Continued…