Horror Writing Prompts

It’s the middle of November and I'm trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don't just bury themselves.

It's why I'm a seasonal serial killer.

So is my friend--a serial killer, that is to say. Not seasonal. Definitely not seasonal. Because while I'm haunting homesteads and butchering blocks in the idyllic eighty-degree Springfield summer, Jack is an emotional, impulse-driven moron who kills when he feels like it, come wind or rain or seven fucking inches of snow. And because we'd made a promise all the way back then, when murder was an accident and not a treat, I’m out here with numb fingers and stinging cheeks to help him hide the body.

"What I don't understand," I say with a grunt, "is why you couldn't have picked someone less big-boned." And that's putting it nicely. My back is to Jack as he makes a path through the woods, tossing aside snow with a shovel to make my dragging of the corpse easier. I'm not sure it's doing much, to be honest, and the dead man is easily two hundred, two fifty pounds.

I can almost hear Jack shrug. "He was talking shit," he said.

"Oh? Like what, Jack? 'What are you doing in my house?' Or, 'I'm calling the cops, please don't hurt me or my family.'" I drop my voice as I speak, mimicking the dead guy's voice. Not that I knew what he sounded like. Jack did the killing, then called me to come and help with the aftermath.

"The former," Jack says dryly. "He was alone. You know I don't hunt families."

I sigh. "What a fucking saint you are."

We trudge on, the snow crunching underfoot. Neither of us said another word. I don't even need to ask him where we're taking the corpse, for the answer is obvious:

With the rest of the bodies.

The wind blows my hair. I’m standing on the edge again, my torn, off-white dress billowing out around me. A tunnel of blinding, bright light shines before me, beckoning me like a lullaby, and I swear I would cry if I still could. Legs straining, teeth clenched, I try to fight the heavy gusts, to reach out and touch that sweet sunlight, behind which I know paradise waits.

I am so close. I can hear the nightingales lilting, the people laughing. Feel the soft grass beneath my burning skin. The pounding pain in my head almost begins to ease, and my mind screams relief at the thought of rest. Reaching out, I see flashes of a new life race through my mind and for a split, blissful second, I actually think I’ve made it.

Then the corners of my vision go blurry. My joints buckle. Coarse wind slams into me, pushing me away from the light. Just like every other time I’ve tried to cross over for the past thirteen years.

“WHY?” My yell is muffled, as if my mouth were covered in dirt. Screaming and sobbing, clawing at the ground, I watch the glowing spirit of an old man climb effortlessly toward glory, his stance unwavering and triumphant. My own hands are dim, dusty, and pathetic in comparison.

The wind is still blowing as I walk the misty streets of my hometown, after the sun has gone to bed. Sometimes another figure will pass by—a jogger with a pickle green jacket and a dog, a grandparent with a stroller full of kids in princess dresses—and I will smile, only to remember I am completely invisible to them. And then I weep tears that aren’t really there and never will be. One would think I’d be accustomed to being dead by now, but not a day goes by that I don’t wonder. How long do I have until I fade away completely, until I am no longer a ghost, or even a distant memory? How long until I am simply an impression of energy, lost to the crying wind?

He should have been told I wasn’t human. That was the worst part. But the crew found amusement in watching the fresh ones get all worked up over me.

The boy, whom I’d heard called Harrison or maybe Harold, was waxing the deck, his large eyes flitting over to me and then hastily back to the floor. I continued my song, closing my eyes to listen to it roll out over the waves, placating my kin who swam far below so our ship would sail to shore untouched.

When I concluded with one last lilting note, I turned to the captain, a greyed man with leathery skin from many a year aboard.

“The wind tells me a storm will stand between us tonight. I must rest my voice whilst we sail in sunlight.”

He only nodded. The captain, in his age, was superstitious against my kind. Remembered the days he and his men feared the song that now keeps them safe. Smart man.

I made my way down to the deck, where the foolish boy was daring to openly stare. He gripped his mop tightly, repeatedly swallowing as he seemed to be working up the nerve to speak. Thankfully, he was unsuccessful, and I made my way belowdecks in peace.

In the tiny mess hall, Kielman and O’Connell were playing some game of stabbing a knife between their fingers. They looked up at the clatter as I cracked open the saltwater barrel with my rations.

“Kid speak up yet? I got money on him screwin’ up the courage before the end of the voyage, you know.” said Kielman with a chuckle.

Even with our differences, most of the crewman weren’t so bad. Their humor was crude and they stunk like tobacco and alcohol, but as long as they had the good sense to mind their gazes and hands, we got along well enough.

“I would know, as my bet lays with yours. I predict he will become emboldened enough before nightfall.”

The door bangs open for none other than the foolish boy to stride in, face reddened and breathless. Kielman and O’Connell halt their knife game, stiffling their conversation at once.

“Uh. Um. Hello there. What’re you doing down here?” He sputters, then grimaces at his tactlessness.

I fix him with a sultry look, still standing over the open saltwater barrel. “I am fetching something to eat.“

“Of course, yeah. I, uh. I wanted to tell you something. If that’s alright.” He rubs the nape of his neck.

I wait, staring unblinkingly as he had earlier.

“I just, uh. I wanna tell you that I think you’re real pretty, and that I’d like to treat you to dinner or somethin’ next we dock.” His words come out in a single exhale, running together clumsily.

I sigh, turning my attention back to the saltwater barrel. I plunge my arms in, stirring the kelp as my clawed fingers search for slimy, tough skin.

“What’re you…”

With a splash, I pull a small squid from the forest of loose kelp, the thing still writhing in my grasp. Keeping my eyes locked with his, which now are filled with strained confusion instead of shy apprehension, I bite viscously into the head of it, its juices spurting out over my hands as it goes still.

“What do they call you, boy?” I say, licking the blue blood off my fingers one by one.

“Harrington.” He sqeaks.

“Do you know what I am now, Harrington?”

“You’re a siren.” His voice descends into a miserable whisper.

“That’s right, boy. Now, run along, back above deck, and ask those so-called friends of yours why they let you make such an ass of yourself these last few weeks.”

He turns and dashes right back out the door without another word while Kielman and O’Connell explode with laughter.

If you are to read this poem, know this.

The words I’m about to write are intended to slay your bliss.

I hope you’re sitting uncomfortably.

I hope you can’t reach that itch.

Your skin is beginning to prickle, whilst you’re reading this.

Your scalp is screaming “dig your nails into me?”

Picture images of lice, mice, and fleas.

In the corner of your eye, just out of reach, in the contours of your room, hides a beast.

It watches you at night, while your tucked up and asleep.

It runs its fingers down your spine and listens as you breathe.

You’re now aware of every sense of which you possess.

This poem is intended to indeed cause you stress.

Don’t blame me for these uncomfortable words.

I did not come up with this prompt.

But a challenge I must meet, and if it’s uncanny that you seek I hope that you find it here.

What’s that crawling within your ear?

Can you feel its legs inside the drum?

Scuttling, scurrying, rum-tum-tum.

Illusions can be cruel, they can make you feel things that aren’t there.

Remember again the itch within your hair.

Your tired eye is beginning to twitch, you must give in, itch itch itch.

Your nose is tingling, are you needing to sneeze. Itch that nose as if you have fleas.

Your skin is infested, bugs under your skin.

Itch your wrist, rub your eyes, scratch under your chin.

I’m sorry for these words, for these uncomfortable sensations, but if it brings you some solace I would just like to mention; I myself am experiencing these nasty interactions to my own twisted words I am giving a reaction.

I am just as uncomfortable perhaps more so than you, let’s say take comfort in the knowledge it’s just a mind’s trick or two.

Jordan had always hated the flickering streetlight outside their house. It buzzed like a dying insect, and its erratic blinking cast unsettling shadows in their living room. Night after night, the light would stutter, as though it were gasping for attention, and night after night, Jordan cursed it under their breath.

One particularly sleepless evening, armed with a mug of cooling coffee and too much frustration, Jordan found themselves staring at the offending lamp through their window. They noticed something unusual—the blinks weren’t random. There was a rhythm to them. A long flash, then two short ones. Another long. Three more short. It clicked in Jordan’s mind: Morse code.

Jordan sat up straighter, their annoyance morphing into curiosity. They grabbed a notebook and a pen, their fingers trembling slightly as they began to write down the sequence of long and short blinks.

“Okay,” they muttered, pulling up a Morse code chart on their phone. “Let’s see what you’ve got to say.”

The translation was slow work, and the message made no sense at first. T-H-E-R-E-.-I-S-.-S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G-.-I-N-.-T-H-E-.-B-A-S-E-M-E-N-T.

Jordan blinked, the words sinking in. They lived alone.

“Nope,” they said aloud, their voice wobbling. “This is ridiculous. Just a prank.”

But their basement door creaked faintly at that exact moment, as though stirred by an unseen draft.

The notebook fell from their hands. Their gut told them to leave, but their legs carried them to the basement door instead. The light in the hallway buzzed in sympathy with the flickering streetlamp.

Gripping the doorknob, Jordan hesitated. The streetlight blinked furiously outside, its message repeating. T-H-E-R-E-.-I-S-.-S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G-.-I-N-.-T-H-E-.-B-A-S-E-M-E-N-T.

Against their better judgment, Jordan pushed the door open. The basement stairs loomed below, shrouded in darkness. They fumbled for the light switch, but nothing happened. The streetlight’s frantic flashing filtered through a small window at the top of the stairs, illuminating the gloom just enough to guide their steps.

At the bottom, the air was damp and heavy, smelling of mildew and something faintly metallic. Jordan scanned the basement. It was empty.

Relief washed over them—until their foot brushed against something soft. Looking down, they saw the corner of a large tarp, slightly dislodged. Swallowing hard, Jordan pulled it back.

Beneath the tarp was an old chest, its metal surface riddled with scratches. Carved into the lid, in jagged letters, was a single word: HELP.

Jordan’s breath hitched. The streetlight outside went dark for the first time in years.

And then, the chest began to rattle.

Jordan stumbled back, their heart pounding. The chest rattled violently now, the sound echoing off the basement walls like a trapped animal fighting to escape. They wanted to run, to leave the basement and never return, but something rooted them in place—curiosity, terror, or maybe the desperate plea etched into the chest itself: HELP.

The rattling stopped. Silence pressed in, heavy and oppressive.

Jordan’s trembling hand reached out, almost as if guided by an unseen force. Their fingertips brushed the cold metal of the chest. The moment they touched it, the streetlight outside flickered back to life, its glow casting faint patterns through the basement window.

Jordan pressed the latch. It gave way with an eerie, almost reluctant creak.

Inside was a pile of old photographs. Dozens of them, yellowed and curling at the edges, all showing the same thing: a small child standing in front of a familiar house—their house. The child’s face was smudged and distorted in every photo, as though it had been erased or blurred out deliberately.

Jordan’s hands shook as they flipped through the stack. On the back of each photo, written in spidery handwriting, was the same message: DO NOT FORGET ME.

At the bottom of the chest lay a folded piece of paper. Jordan unfolded it carefully, revealing a crude map of their neighborhood, with a single red X marked over the streetlight in front of their house. Next to the X were three words: DIG. FIND ME.

A cold sweat broke out on Jordan’s forehead. They rushed back upstairs, grabbing a flashlight and a shovel from the closet. Against every instinct screaming at them to stop, they stepped outside into the chilly night.

The streetlight flickered, slow and steady, almost like a heartbeat, as Jordan began to dig.

The shovel struck something hard. Jordan knelt down, brushing the loose dirt away with their hands, and uncovered a small wooden box, weathered and cracked with age. They hesitated, their breath clouding in the cold air, before prying it open.

Inside was a tiny, leather-bound diary. The first page was dated December 8, 1974, the handwriting messy and uneven:

“My name is Emily. If you’ve found this, please help me. He locked me in the basement. No one hears me. No one looks for me. Please don’t forget me like everyone else did.”

The streetlight blinked one last time and went out. Behind Jordan, the basement door creaked open.

And from the darkness came a voice, faint and broken, but unmistakably a child’s:

“You found me.”

Jordan froze, the soft, trembling voice sending chills down their spine. Slowly, they turned toward the house. The basement door was ajar, a faint glow emanating from the darkness beyond it. The night felt unnaturally quiet, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

“Emily?” Jordan whispered, clutching the tiny diary tightly to their chest.

The voice came again, this time clearer, closer. “You found me… but I can’t leave.”

Jordan’s heart hammered as they stepped toward the house. “What do you mean? How can I help you?”

The glow from the basement grew brighter as they approached. The air grew colder, heavy with the weight of something unseen. Jordan descended the stairs once more, flashlight trembling in their hand.

At the bottom, the chest was open again, but this time, it was empty. The photographs, the map, everything was gone. Instead, standing in the middle of the room was a figure. A girl, no older than eight, her translucent form flickering like the streetlight outside. Her dress was torn and faded, her eyes wide and sad.

“You’re… Emily,” Jordan said, their voice barely above a whisper.

Emily nodded. “He buried me here. No one came to find me.”

Jordan’s breath caught. They looked down at the floor where the chest had been. The dirt beneath it seemed disturbed, loose and uneven.

“I’ll—I’ll call someone,” Jordan stammered. “The police, an investigator—someone who can—”

“No!” Emily’s voice cracked, sharp and desperate. “They can’t help me. Only you can. You’ve seen the signs. You’re the only one who listened.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Emily pointed toward the far corner of the basement. Jordan followed her gaze to see a patch of bricks along the wall that didn’t quite match the rest.

“Behind there,” she said softly. “That’s where he put me.”

Jordan’s stomach churned, but they nodded, adrenaline pushing them forward. Grabbing a crowbar from a nearby shelf, they chipped away at the bricks, the sound echoing in the small space. Each brick revealed more of a small, dark cavity behind the wall.

Finally, Jordan uncovered a bundle wrapped in tattered cloth. They froze, their hands trembling.

“Open it,” Emily urged, her voice both pleading and firm.

Jordan unwrapped the cloth, revealing the brittle remains of a small skeleton. A sob caught in their throat as they realized the truth. Emily had been here, forgotten, for decades.

Tears streamed down Jordan’s face. “I’m so sorry,” they whispered.

Emily knelt beside her remains, her translucent form flickering more violently now. “It’s not your fault. You’ve done more than anyone else ever did.”

The glow around her grew brighter, warmer, as though she were finally at peace. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice fading. “I can rest now.”

The streetlight outside flared to life one last time, its steady beam cutting through the night. Jordan felt a wave of calm wash over them as Emily’s spirit dissolved into the light, leaving behind only the faint scent of lilies.

The basement grew quiet. The oppressive cold lifted. Jordan stood there for a long moment, staring at the small remains.

The next morning, they called the authorities. Emily’s story made the news, her remains finally laid to rest in the town’s cemetery.

And for the first time in years, the streetlight outside Jordan’s house shone steadily, casting a warm and unwavering glow.

I squirm in my maroon gown, scratchy and too tight in all the wrong places.

Something is wrong. I know it. I just can’t place my finger on it.

I try to catch my sisters eye from across the expansive table. Around piles upon piles of rich pastries and piping hot tea.

It’s no use. Her eyes crinkle with laughter behind her feathery scarlet hair. She is completely at ease. Not a care in the world. Flirtatiously batting her eyelashes at the boy in the ugly striped sweater.

But somehow I know something is wrong. Terribly terribly wrong.

The old woman with the kind eyes and teal hair keeps offering me food. I keep refusing. As food precariously balances on the plates around me, my section of table remains empty.

The food may look delicious, but to me it smells of sulfur. I can’t bring myself force it down.

A crash abruptly interrupts the buzzing chatter. It’s quiet as the dead. Nobody speaks. They just stare at the pretty raven haired girl to my right. Her glassy eyes dart to the shattered china on her lap, and she opens her mouth. I assume to apologize for breaking the cup, but I’ll never know for sure. She doesn’t get a chance.

A deafening pop erupts leaving my ears ringing. I am showered in warm crimson rain. It matches my dress.

Horrified I look up at the others. They have resumed their chatter.

The teal haired woman smiles up at me and offers me a teacake.

I take it.

“Everything I do… I do it for YOU!”

“Please, Adrian… Please, just- just put the knife down!”

Every time she took a step back, he took one step forward.

“But I love you, Cammy… I love you, why won’t you believe me?” His tone was calm, but his eyes were crazy, and the sweat that had been gathering at his hairline was beginning to slowly trickle down his face. It was getting dark outside, but the sliver of moonlight that peaked through the kitchen window reflected off the knife in his hand. A quick glance at her full knife block told her everything. He had brought it with him…

… He had planned this.

“I-I believe you, Adrian, I do. I believe you-“

“THEN WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?!” The sudden shift in his demeanour caused her to jump, and she instinctively held her arms up in surrender, tears tickling the corners of her eyes. She answered back meekly, barely above a whisper;

“I’m s-sorry… I’m sorry, Adrian…” she didn’t dare look at him. She kept her head down, willing the tears back into her head and praying to whatever deities she could think of that he would come to his senses. He hadn’t always been like this.

When they first met, he was as kind as a kitten and wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on her, but something changed… One day, as if possessed by some unholy entity, he had snapped. He was a different person. He was cold.

He was distant…

He wasn’t the person she had fallen in love with… Not anymore.

“I can’t live without you, my love… I won’t.”

Suddenly, her back was up against the wall. She grasped blindly at the table beside her, hoping to grab something, anything, to defend herself. Her eyes squeezed shut tightly, she could hear his slow footsteps closing in on her.

“You’re all I want… you’re all I need.”

Unable to reach anything, she braced herself, one hand on the table, the other against the wall, and waited. He was so close now, she could feel his sweat dripping onto her head, she could smell his breath. She could hear his heart racing, or maybe it was her own…

“I’ll love you for a thousand years, and a thousand more…”

“Please, don’t…” was all she could muster up the courage to utter before a sharp pain radiated through her entire body. Her legs buckled underneath her and she collapsed to the floor. Her vision was hazy, but through the searing agony and blurry vision, she could see him crouch down beside her, the knife, now dripping crimson, still in his hand. He spoke, his tone now hushed and deranged;

“I’m sorry, Cammy, but if I can’t have you… no one can,”

She tried to speak, but no words would come out. As her eyes drifted shut, she heard him speak one last time;

“Oh Camilla… why couldn’t you see…”

“… you belong with me.”

There’s four song lyrics in this short story, can you guess them all? 
Thanks for reading! ❤️😊

No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her.

Her dark beauty renders the lifeless living and relentless in their worship with a warm kiss to their cheek, a whisper to their ear, and a breath to their lips. 'Twas my fate to her.

The earth was freshly turned my barrow over when she glided in through the churchyard, her draping muslin and vines befalling grave between grave. Her hands of life gripped my soul, and I was alive from my bones, my dust. Free, I thought, and free she told me. But I was not free at all.

While she had brought me to life and she had seemed radiant and good, the notion of the reanimation felt anything but holy. I could think of nothing else as my heavy limbs tried to lumber home, only _her. _Her eyes, the sparkling vacuums of night; the curve of her devil lips; her flood of raven hair against the pale of her skin; the irresistible down of her nape; the soft of her hip. My mind was insatiable.

I even wished to be dead once more, to liberate myself of the lustful torment, but no matter what fate I sought out, I couldn't seem to die. I was destined to be her lover, her devotee, her acolyte. Who was this siren? How had she bewitched me so?

One night, I trudged ten miles, then ten more, then ten more, to her gates. Broken-bodied, crypt-breath whistling through unbeating ribs - the very skin rotted off my sinews, my muscle. The only thing as strong as adoring her was fearing her disgusted of me. But when she saw me, o, those dark and wild eyes, her black pearls, her black sea hair, she was exultant.

My eyes slowly fluttered awake and I looked up at the wood ceiling. Wait. I jolted up in my bed and froze. How could I have fallen asleep?! I stayed a statue, waiting for the thunderous march of armed footsteps, for the sirens, the shouting, the gunshots, the explosions of bombs, the smell of smoke and fear and blood. I strained my ears, but surprisingly heard…birds chirping. I couldn’t help but wonder at the sound. Birds! I hadn’t heard their songs for months. Since the revolution started. I pulled my blanket off me and stepped off my bed. Wait. Bed? I whirled around and stared at the comfort I had just been sitting on, and slowly turned to see my room, neat and as if untouched. My room…that had been destroyed in the bombings. What was happening? Last night I had been curled up on the cold stone floor of a bombing shelter. How did I get here? To a place that doesn’t even exist anymore? I slowly crossed to my window and pulled the curtain open a crack, waiting for the dream to end, for the screams to begin. But they didn’t.

Outside, the smoke-scarred sky and burning fires was gone. In its place, the neighborhood gleamed up at me, as if repainted with bright new colors. The sun’s bright rays of light grinned down at me and washed the street in vibrant rays. I stared as a little boy, his clothes fresh and new, skipped across the driveway with a basketball in hand without a care in the world.

What was going on? I carefully made my way downstairs and out the front door, still hestitant. Still waiting for the bombs to come destroy my home. Again.

“Howdy, neighbor!” I jumped at the sound and turned to see a woman waving at me. A smile, taking up almost her whole face was plastered on as she held a hose over plants so green they looked fake.

I stared at her for a second. I recognized her.

“Lidia?” I took a step closer. Yes, I did. I imagined her face covered in ashes, the grin she now held replaced with sobs that racked her whole body. Her clothes bare rags against the cold stone floor of the shelters.

“Lidia, do you know how-what-whats happening? How are we here?! Last night, remember, we were in the bombing shelter. How did we get here? This place was destroyed!”

She tilted her head and her brows furrowed slightly, but her grin stayed bright.

“Bombing shelter?” She asked. “My dear, what are you talking about?”

“The shelter we were in just yesterday! To hide! To hide from the bombs they sent that blew up this whole neighborhood! And killed your brother!” I flailed my arms around me at the perfect haven surrounding us.

“Now, who ever would do such a horrible thing?” She said, clicking off her hose.

I gaped at her. “Who-who-what-? You don’t…remember?” I was at a loss for words. “The government!” I screamed, my voice pericing the calm surrounding us. Out of place.

“The government that tried to kill us! The ones who declared war on us after we started to think for ourselves, the ones who vowed to protect us then murdered thousands of innocents!”

“Oh, no, my dear. The government protects us,” Lidia said and, if it was possible, her smile widened. “They build us this sanctuary.” She opened her arms and the houses around us. I shook my head in disbelief, my legs carrying me back, away. I whirled around, looking for something-anything to bring me out of this dream. I stumbled across the street and made my way to another neighbor’s house.

“Howdy, neighbor!” Lidia said. I froze and turned to see her smiling up at me again, the hose pouring over her plants.

I banged on the door and a man opened it. I recognized him too. He was there, during the war, we were running for our lives together.

“Hi there,” he said to me, a grin breaking his face in half. The conversation went the same way. I slammed my fists on the other neighbor’s door.

“Howdy, neighbor!” I heard from behind me. A young girl opened the door for me. The conversation went the same. And again. And again. And again. “Howdy, neighbor!”

I slumped against a wall and stared out. No one remembered the very houses we sat in being obliterated by the government. No one remembered…well, anything. The war we fought so hard to end was simply…erased. I closed my eyes, my mind emptying itself of any reasoning. Of any simple explanations.

“Howdy, neighbor!”

I shoved my eyes closed.

I tested the waters with smaller shadows, So I could see how they looked in the light. But once other people were aware of them, It tainted their perception of me. The darkness was all they could see.

So I hid the rest. The much deeper, darker, dirty little secrets, Confined to the shadows once more. And I put on a face of bravery and joy when I was around other people, While all my tormentations waited quietly in my room.

I took the weight off of other people, Because them knowing would put a greater weight on me. When I’m around them I’m not myself, But I think I get closer to happy.

I lay on the table. Anguish, it is all I have ever known. My eyes fixate at the creature in the mirror.

Its body is pale, sutured and stitched together like a torn apart doll from childhood. I remember those days, childhood. I remember the ponds in Říčany, wading in the water.

Its arms are no longer flesh, its mechanical and eldritch limbs reach for things that arent there. I remember climbing the tall oaks, carving my name in the soft inner bark of the tree.

Its face is contorted, demon like. The biomechanical implants make it seem like a Likho my matka always warned of.

What have I become?

I miss my home. My family.

“Pane, pomoz mi...prosím...trpím...”

I close my eyes, letting the sedatives bring me back into the grasp of unconsciousness. The cold void is far more forgiving than this hellscape.

The day of my 13th kill, a special number for obvious reasons. Years ago, I couldn’t have fathomed that I would be amongst the likes of the famed Zodiac killer for my cryptic messages. Walking the streets like BTK, unknown and not cared about. The old bookstore was my dominion. I didn’t even know the owner and he saw me as just another patron, but after each kill I came here and placed a new journal entry, sheathed in a leather carrier until I took it out, on a shelf in a new section. The journal, documenting my most recent kill with unclear details that the police had a field day with, would usually be found by a patron within 24 hours, and the hunt would begin again. Would they get me on camera this time? Did anyone see what I looked like? No, not at all. Because I switched outfits - and not just that, but hair, beard, style … after each kill.

Magical! The store was mostly empty, but the owner was chatting with someone checking out at the counter and they nodded at me. I nodded back and smiled. What section would I place my journal in today? Crime? Already did that … Fantasy? Saving that for a special one … New Age? Too expected. I placed it in the finance section and turned to leave, ensuring nobody was around. I had always been careful about those things.

I browsed for a bit. The store was awfully dead tonight. When I made my way to leave, I found the front door locked - from the outside. Strange … I had never thought about if stores could do that or not. The clerk wasn’t at the counter, but a sturdy man in uniform met my stare.

“Sir? Sir, you’re under arrest.”

My heart at my feet, I began to weep. And that’s what the media would remember me as - not as the Dark Journaler, but the Weeper. That’s my biggest regret.