3.
I 've been trying to run away from death for as long as I can remember, and just when I thought I'd put the blood and killing behind me, here she comes digging all my skeletons back up.
I'm standing outside the library, the night air thick with tension, shadows wrapping around me like a familiar cloak. The dimly lit windows at the back reveal a quiet interior, rows of bookshelves looming like sentinels. The place is utterly deserted, not a soul in sight. No one is here to see me, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve always known how to blend into the darkness, how to become part of the night.
For years, I’ve hidden an evil part of myself, buried it deep beneath layers of normalcy. I thought I was done with that side of me, thought I could leave it behind, but here I am, staring into the very place that threatens to unravel everything. My pulse quickens as I think about little Starla. Who does she think she is, digging into my past? She was supposed to be nothing more than a fleeting curiosity. But now, she’s become a problem—a thorn in my side, and I can’t let that happen.
The library is eerily quiet, the stillness almost suffocating. The smell of old paper and dust hangs in the air, mixed with the chill of the night seeping through the cracks of the building. I let my gaze drift over the empty shelves, their spines like watchful eyes, and I feel a surge of frustration. She’s na?ve, thinking she can uncover the truth. Does she not realize the danger she’s inviting by poking around in a ghost’s history?
I step closer to the window, the glass cool against my fingertips. I can almost picture her sitting there, lost in the reports, oblivious to the storm brewing just outside. The flickering light from the microfilm machine casts shadows that dance across the vacant room, making the emptiness feel even more pronounced. It infuriates me. She doesn’t understand the weight of what she’s playing with.
A wave of anger crashes over me as I think about the life I tried to leave behind. I can’t believe it’s coming back to haunt me, that it’s this little girl who’s stirring up the past. She’s curious, inquisitive, and it makes me sick. What gives her the right to dig into my history? To shine a light on the darkness I’ve tucked away?
I grip the edge of the windowsill, my knuckles whitening. The library, with its quaint charm and wooden accents, is a fortress of memories I thought I could escape. But here I am, staring into the heart of it, feeling the old impulses whispering to me, urging me to reclaim what I thought was lost.
A low growl of frustration escapes my lips as I pull away from the window, pacing in the shadows. The emptiness of the library amplifies my agitation, each echoing step a reminder of my solitude. I can't let her expose me. I won’t allow it. I thought I was done with that part of my life, but maybe it’s time to remind her—and everyone else—why the date night killer became a ghost in the first place.
Getting closer to the window I peer inside at the work that she's already done.
There's a map and still images.
My cock gets hard when I see a photo of the location of my second kill. I hate that my body reacts this way. Hate that just thinking about what I did to those women is enough to get me hot and ready to fuck. But then again, there's something broken inside of me. Something that's not like the rest of the people around me.
When I'm out in the public no one notices the difference but I can tell. I feel like a mime, just looking on at life as it passes me by. Sure I laugh and talk with people but in my mind I'm thinking about how they would react if they knew what I really wanted to do to them.
I want to be normal.
For the last ten years I've been working at doing just that. I even started therapy. Of course even my therapist didn't know the extent of my depravity, I didn't want to scare the lad off or wind up in prison, but it was nice to get some of my intrusive thoughts out.
This was all supposed to be in my rearview mirror, but here I am staring at it coming steaming straight for me again.
With a deep growl I bend down and pick up the first thing my hand comes across.
It feels like everything I've worked so hard for is going up in flames, and starts with Starla and this fucking documentary. The rock in my hand isn't heavy enough, but it's going to have to do.
Pulling it back and releasing it with all the pent up frustration that I feel, I shatter one of the panels off the window.
It's only then that I took into consideration just how much noise that would make. The last thing I need right now is to get picked up for something as ridiculous as destruction of property.
Just like all the times in the past I force down my emotions and plaster the sweet innocent look on my face. The one every thinks is welcoming. The mask that hides the cracked devious sadistic killer underneath.
One way or another I'm going to have to put a stop to this I just hope sweet Starla knows what she's gotten herself into.