Page 1 of Unlikable

His shoes leave bloody stains on the room’s worn wooden floor, but he does not care. The floor is often covered in liquids, though. Some of them have been there for so long that cleaning is pointless. He has tried; he really has. The stench has disappeared, in as far as it can, but the stains are no longer brushing away.

Yet he does not worry about it. Not anymore, at least. When he had settled here in the beginning, he had still stared fearfully out of the window, sure that a cop would walk in at any moment. That didn’t happen. Still doesn’t. No one would ever look here, look for him. Not consciously, at least.

Outside, he hears the rain falling on the roof. Quickly, erratically. It is severe weather. Perfect. This is simply excellent. It makes the whole atmosphere.

Excited, he walks over to the sideboard, which, like the floor, is smeared with dark substances. The surface is still damp, but that, too, is part of it. This is art. This is pure pleasure.

Enthusiastically, he pulls open the top drawer, the bottles in the drawer rattling against each other because of the force with which he does so. He grabs a needle and the first bottle his eyes fall on, smoothing the label to read his elegant handwriting.

Unlikable.

Outside, a deafening bang is heard and a silvery light shoots between the cracks of the door and windows. Lightning. Even better. The darker the atmosphere, the more he will enjoy this.

Hastily, he walks to the other side of the room, where there is a seat. Just a seat, on which rests his favourite book: Frankenstein . He will make sure he will be ready when the one he expects at any moment enters the room.

He grabs the book from the seat, places it on his lap and sits.

And waits.

There is no clock in the room. He does not wear a pocket watch. Intuitively, he senses what time it is. For a moment he closes his eyes to listen to the rain, to enjoy the lightning, the thunderstorm. The fingers of his free hand hypnotically stroke the cover of the book he has read dozens of times, its contents stored forever in his brain.

Then…the welcoming sound of horse hooves and the wooden wheels of a cart.

She is there.

Opening his eyes, he elegantly crosses his legs, smoothing down his blood- and sweat-stained shirt in the process. It doesn’t get any better, but it’s all about the idea. He readies himself. When that door opens, he must look like a king. His fingers clench a little more tightly around the vial and the book.

Come, girl, come quickly , he sings in his mind—the song his teacher used to sing while working on his brilliant experiments. You know you want to; you know you have to.

Another thunderclap.

Come on, girl, quick and fast.

Footsteps approach. There is a knock at the door. The knocking sounds desperate. There is no need for it because the door is not locked. After all, no one in their right mind would ever go looking here. Only the victims he wants them to find come here.

His visitor stops knocking. For a moment, everything falls silent. Even the rain seems to hold back.

He is starting to get a little impatient. Bored, his left foot taps up and down on the creaking floor.

Come, girl, ’tis not long. Now come quick, quick and quick .

With a loud creak and on another clap of thunder, the door swings open, banging against the wall and almost shooting out of its hinges. A hideous creature appears in the opening. She stands crookedly, lumbers forward and cannot stop crying.

“What have you done to me?!”

He tilts his head and grins triumphantly.

Because in the end, you will come back anyway .