The Demon Within Revisited

The Demon Within

I look up because I heard a noise. I guess my nerves are on edge. The killing is easy. It is the aftermath that always bothers me. Should I clean it up and leave a puzzle? Should I proclaim my guilt and let my peers decide my fate?

What I want you to understand is that I didn't ask for this. This compulsion I have to murder. To feed on terror. I have never in my life wanted to hurt anyone. Until now. Now I spend my days scheming on how I will kill at night.

I cannot help myself. I have always been a night person. But this disease, this affliction, has only enhanced that. Now morning light hurts my eyes. It is not true that we die in sunlight. It just makes us very uncomfortable.

I resisted the change. I did. Or tried to resist. But once bitten, you cannot escape the consequences.

I have read everything I could find about creatures like me. There is plenty of literature. It is hard to sort fact from fiction, but I suspect most of the fiction has a basis in truth. The stories are as old as civilization and as current as the internet. They say that we never die; we live on through our deeds. Some say a silver stake in the heart will kill us. I don't know. So I turn to the books and hope that someday, somewhere, I will find a cure. In the meantime, I can only lock myself in my home at night and try to do as little harm as possible.

But still, I have to feed.

I was a working guy once. Before this curse. But now I just can't do it. People look at me strangely. They whisper behind their hands and keep their children close. Maybe it is the way I watch them. Can they read my mind? I look at them and wonder how would they die. Would they scream? Would they fight back?

My next victim is a pretty young housewife. Two kids, a dog. A husband that works too much. She is lonely and I take advantage of that. I carefully plan her demise for maximum shock value. I live for that moment of horror. That moment of realization. There is no redemption, no rescue. If I do it right, she will never see it coming until it is too late. I am almost finished with her. Then next week, who knows? I'll wait for inspiration.

I must stop this, but I cannot. I need help. My mind races. My thoughts are crazy with the need to kill. I know there is no cure, but maybe, just maybe, there is a way to slow down. Maybe there is a support group for people like me. A place that serves coffee and assigns sponsors where I can tell my stories without fear of condemnation.

Hi, my name is Tom. I am a writer.