Most horror stories start off with a cliché line, like, for example, 'It was a dark and stormy night'. I, your narrator for this journey, am here to tell you, the reader, this: The most terrifying, gut-wrenching, horrifying crimes do not take place in such perfect conditions. On the contrary, they take place in the most ordinary of places, with the most ordinary of victims, with the most-seemingly- ordinary of perpetrators, only with the most unordinary of motives. With this series of short stories, you'll be able to look straight into the minds of these criminals, commonly known as serial killers. Just remember, nothing is as it seems…
2p France
"I have loved to the point of madness; That which is called madness, That which to me, is the only sensible way to love." -Françoise Sagan
His life ended the day she died. He had loved her so much. When she left him, he didn't know what to do.
A year ago, things had been so different. They were going to be married in the fall on the next year. They were so excited; a young couple deep in love. Then, three weeks later, they diagnosed her. Stage three breast cancer. They started treatment right away, but everyone knew there was no chance. At most, she had six months. He tried to stay strong for her, but his heart had been shattered like a piece of fragile glass.
She passed four and a half months later, in his arms one night. He couldn't accept the fact that she was gone. He stayed there, holding her corpse, until the smell was so bad that the neighbors called the police to complain.
At first, it was like he was sleep walking. He soon woke, however. The tiniest things reminded him of her. He quit his job. He started smoking again, a habit he had stopped because she hated it. He stopped going to Mass, because seeing the crucifixes reminded him of how religious she was. He used to tease her that she loved God more than she loved him. He stopped going into the kitchen, because seeing the knives made him think about how much she obsessed over swords and stories about medieval knights. Eventually, he even stopped going outside, because he thought every woman he saw with short blonde hair was her. And then, closed off to the world like a misanthrope, was he content. He had burned the sheets and replaced them. Nothing in his room smelled like her. Not one hint that she ever existed.
One evening, someone knocked at the door. He decided, on a whim, to answer it. Upon opening the door, all he could do was gape in shock. There she was, alive and well, standing on his doorstep. She smiled at him, looked at him with those great blue eyes. Her wavy honey blonde hair was cut short, as it always was. He ushered her inside. She said something, but all he could do was stare at her beautiful face. She had returned to him. She wasn't going to leave him alone again.
He grabbed her by the arm, dragging her through the house. Why was she protesting? Didn't she know that he was only keeping her from going away? He led her down to the basement, unused for many months. She had used it for studio space, for anything she needed. It was undisturbed. He placed his beloved in the room. She was screaming now. He was only doing this because he loved her. He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He could hear faint sobbing sounds. Why didn't she understand? Did she not love him anymore? That unwanted thought angered him. He pushed it out of his mind. No, no, no. That can't be right. After all, she returned to him. She had to still love him. Now that she was back, he could finally cook a proper meal for them. He tossed the pack of cigarettes into the garbage. There was no need for suck useless things anymore. And plus, she would not like to have known that he had been smoking. He stepped into the kitchen and started making one of her favorite dishes; filet mignón and potato-celery root mash. Originating from France, he knew how to cook gourmet foods from scratch. Once he was done, he plated the food and walked down to the basement. He opened the door. She looked up at him with a look he did not expect from her. It was one of both fear and loathing. Her eyes were red from constant crying. The placed the plate in from of her. She did not break her gaze to glance down at the food. They sat there in silence as he ate his meal and she glared at him with antipathy. After he had finished, he picked up the plates, his empty, hers untouched. He left as suddenly as he appeared.
That night was the first night in months that he slept peacefully.
Every day he would go visit her for each meal. Every day, she denied the food. Every day, she refused to talk to him. And every day, she looked more gaunt and wan. Half a week if this went by, until one day, he entered the basement to find her on the floor, the contents of what little she has in her stomach beside her. No. This couldn't be happening. He had tried so hard. He ran to her side. Cold. Hard. She had left him again. He quickly undid her shirt for a vain attempt to reciprocate her. But staring at her in this vulnerable state did unmentionable things to him. He recalled the long nights of passionate love-making that they shared together, embraced in each other's arms. Gulping, he slowly undressed her body. She was still so perfect. Her long legs, smooth belly, and firm breasts. He freed himself from his tight confines and entered her. She still felt so good. He replayed the many episodes of their nights together, replicating what she liked, what she responded the most to. And with one long moan, he finished inside of her.
When he came down from his high, he realized what he had done. He needed to get rid of the corpse. Once it was pitch black, he wrapped her cleaned body in fresh sheets and dumped her in a creek a few miles from his home. Three days later, the authorities found a body floating in a ravine in his town. They said on the news that they would catch this ruthless murderer, and that the FBI would get involved if he did it again. Who could have killed a woman so lovely? He didn't understand.
A week later, he went to the store to buy some food supplies. And there she was. She had come back to him. And this time, she wasn't going to go away.
"Hello again, Joan."