Death Lurked like an Assassin in the Shadows
51 women dead and gone. 51 dead and gone. He would murder one woman a week for the entire year. It was a serial killer's dream, and he was a serial killer. Number 52 was elusive, but if he tried and tried, over and over again, he would finally succeed.
Janet Crespo was walking home late from work. She was the closing shift manager at White's diner over on Boston Avenue. It was too late to catch the bus and taxi cabs were too expensive, so she did the next best thing, walk.
For a moment, he thought he was going to quickly win his final triumph for the year. There she was, number 52, waiting to be served. The street lights above the street were busted and some were just flickering on and off most of the way as she was being watched coming in and out of the darkness.
The taste for death really filled his soul. That made the desire to kill grow stronger. His mind started to burn and his eyes glared. He could almost taste death as he stalked.
The shadows were beginning to chase the moonlight away from the sides of the buildings giving him the cover he needed. The growl of truck engines could be heard coming from the highway's overpass. Number 52 would be a story book murder, and he would make it memorable.
A small light blue pick up truck pulled along side of Janet Crespo, and he didn't even hear it coming.
“Don't bother her,” he whispered. “Don't bother her.”
He used every ounce of his will, but he could not control that pick up truck. He'd have to wait until she rejected him, and he knew she would.
“Hurry up,” he growled.
He had to kill, his mind had grown strong with the act of violence and he wanted to exercise that act. He wanted so bad for the evil within to triumph. He stepped back into the shadows and waited for the rejection.
“Mind over matter,” he whispered. “Mind over matter.”
In order to keep the killing juices running through his veins, he had to play out the murder in his head. She would be lying on her back in the alley, head toward the fire escapes, feet toward the street. He would start the knife attack directly from above while sitting on her waist, straddling her like a horse. His wayward thrusts damaging her pink skin. He would strike her face so hard that the blade from the kitchen knife would shatter as it hit the asphalt coming through her skull. The splintering and mutilation of the muscles and skull would send him to an evil ecstasy.
When they find her body, the medical examiners would notice the series of vertical and jagged scratches, fresh damage that would have been consistent with the downward thrusts of a sharp kitchen knife.
From nearby, the first moment of the attack, he knew he was going to hear spirits scream. The dark sky was overcast, and there was a bone chilling wind that blew relentlessly. The night sky was angry because it knew what was coming.
Death looked like an assassin in the shadows.
“Yeah it is cold,” Janet said to the driver.
She got into the small pick up truck and they drove away.
A ghost pushes his face closer to the serial killer's ear and drops his voice to a little more than a whisper. “Not this time you motherfucker.......”
© 2015 Frank Atanacio
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