When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad, and that is my religion.
- Abraham Lincoln
PROLOGUE
Night had fallen heavily on the little town of Forks, and with the darkness came something murderous.
The still-wet ground gave way to heavy black boots that strode towards an almost-empty house on the hill. The building was old and had been built in a time when the town was young, barely a town at all. When neighbours lived many miles away and travel took some hours for a visit, or for help. And nothing had changed.
It was Perfect.
The only occupant was watching yet another inane show on the television set. It was loud, with a woman screeching at the top of her voice, but not loud enough to mask the sharp sound of scratching that came from the back door. An investigation was warranted.
A sigh was followed by complaining springs of an old, threadbare couch and the shuffling of feet towards the door in question. Turning the handle, opening the door, looking into the darkness. Outside, a slight breeze made the indistinct silhouettes of trees murmur and the shadows stir. Nothing to see. But Something was felt. A shiver, not from the cold. Bed, and its inherent comfort, suddenly seemed welcome.
Shutting the wooden door with more force than necessary, the shuffling of feet turned into a hasty dash. The television was switched off and a muffled thud, thud across thin carpet marked the hurried ascent of the stairs to the bedroom. The door was opened with a sweaty hand and shut with a satisfying click!
A forehead leaned against the cold door in relief. Safe now from whatever it was that caused icy cold water to trickle down the spine. The door would shut anything bad out.
Turned, suddenly came face to face with the bad that was shut in. It didn't even look Bad. If passed in the street, it could have been mistaken for Not Threatening, or even Nice. But the eyes, somehow gleaming in the un-lit room, made it bad. Very Bad.
::+::+::+::+::
Screams went unheard in the lonely house on the hill that night and the tasteful beige walls were splattered with the Red from overly vigorous arterial slashing. The sudden and violent change from life to death caused the carpet to be stained as well. It squelched under the weight of the heavy black boots, causing blood to collect in shoe-shaped pools for a little while before disappearing, like seawater in the wet sand of a beach.
The ritual was like many that had come to pass before it; all were the same, and yet, all were unique. No two felt alike. That was what kept the Killer killing: having a new experience with an old custom. It was exhilarating and safe at the same time. And the Killer lived for routines and rituals.
An inspection was made. Assessment concluded that it was a good job. The Urge, the monster inside the Monster, was quelled for the time being. And until the Urge rose again, stifling the Bad Thing into submission, the Bad Thing would be the Good Person Who Was Just Like Anyone Else.
After all, only the best predators act like their prey, and this one in particular was the best (or worst) of them all.
A/N: There you go, folks. That's your first taste of my first fic. I hope I didn't scare you too much and that it wasn't too weird. I have been known to be both things on many occasions.