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Another killer was on the loose, and it was their job to catch him.
CHAPTER THREE
The room was dark, blanketing the killer in shadow. In his hand was a piece of rope, which he tied over and over again, doing and undoing the knots, feeling the rope tighten in his fingers.
He felt alive at the thought of wrapping it around someone’s throat and strangling them to death.
A thick sheet lay over the window, blocking any invasive light. He had shut himself momentarily away from the world.
There was a comfort in this to him. He tried to think about why that was. Was it the safety of the womb? Or was it a reminder of those countless, safer days spent locked away for having a psychiatric illness?
He did not know.
All he could say to himself was that the darkened room felt like a sanctuary.
The rope tightened in his hand. It made a sound familiar to him, like the sound of someone hanging in an old horror movie.
He had killed more than once. Taking the life from another human being was entirely cathartic. He had power over those he perceived as weak.
The weak were unable to live full lives. They couldn’t perceive things the way they should. The lacked intellect. They lacked the courage to do what needed to be done.
They lacked the ability to turn inward.
But the killer felt differently. He believed in introspection. There was much to learn about himself, and he could use that to perfect his murderous intentions.
Why did he do what he did?
What was it about throttling the life from a human that aroused and compelled him?
He breathed slowly in the room, taking the dark air in and out of his lungs. Thinking back, he pondered his most recent kill.
He thought of the tightened cotton coil of the bed sheets around the neck, wrapped with pleasure and strength around his last victim’s throat. He pulled the rope tightly in his hands as the images ran through his mind.
He really loved the pulling of the bed sheets. The crushing of the neck by simply twisting the coil tighter.
But thinking of it would not be enough. It was never enough. Only the real thing would do. This he had gleaned from his most introspective moments.
He would have to do it again.
And again.
And again.
There would be no end to it. Of this, he was sure. There would be no way to sate his desires.
He was fine with that. He believed he should be able to move with impunity through the world of weaker, less talented people.
But the world had rules. False laws made by those weaklings. Laws made to impinge on the God given right of the strong to do as they please.
Yes, he would kill, but he would have to be strategic about it.
The longer things went on, the harder it would be to remain undetected.
But he was confident and smart. He felt he could outrun the kills. He could outthink the police and the FBI.
He smiled in the darkness of the room and squeezed the rope in his hands.
He would always be able to kill. And there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.