It was so familiar – the man felt the same chills running down his spine, thought they weren’t caused by the sinister act he was about to perform. Darkness lurked behind each wall of the extravagant mansion, and murder hung in the air like a thick fog, creeping through the city of London until it finally engulfed it completely. The man, dressed in the black cloak he wore for each pernicious occasion, knew the act of murder well, along with the thrilling chills it brought with it.
He pulled the long, narrow red dagger from the concealed pocket of his cloak as he looked down upon his sleeping victim. In the bed lay a young woman of profound beauty, her nightgown of high quality and expense, with gems sparkling on the thin silk cloth. The intruder smiled behind his mask, knowing it would be a moment before the perfectly sharpened blade of his knife would strike her skull, tear through her flesh, and stab one of the most vital organs in the body. The act would leave no time to wake nor scream. His lips curled into a sneer again, thought this time, at the thought of soaking her pretty little nightgown in a pool of dark red blood, the soft white silk being smeared with the thick fluid.
The killer’s hands shook with excitement as he raised the dagger, his expression that similar of a madman’s. His eyes stared at his peaceful victim – he watched all of their deaths. Each murder he committed, his eyes watched every second of their deaths, savouring the moments until their last breaths. The masked killer never failed to finish his job, thought, by ensuring that each person was dead before fleeing.
Taking a long, deep breath, the killer’s eyes narrowed in on the woman behind his black mask. His muscles tensing. His heart racing. He swung his arm down, dagger in hand, and watched as it sliced into her skull. The blood pouring almost instantly from the gash. Immediately, the woman’s eyes opened, but the killer continued thrusting the pointed knife into her head. A faraway look formed in her eyes, the man didn’t stop. He continued violently and angrily stabbing at the dead body, watching as the blood flowed heavily from her wounds. His insanity was evident and he knew it, but that simple fact was nothing to his need for killing.
The bed sheets were drenched, along with the woman’s nightgown. This brought the intruder satisfaction. Blood dripped from the bed onto the wood floor surrounding the killer’s shoes. He paid no attention to mess, for he didn’t care. He was staring at the once beautiful body that was now mangled and bloody. The sight would be stomach-churning and disturbing to some, the killer knew.
But not to him.
He wished he could stay with the body, look at it – but he couldn’t – for it was only midnight and he had other places to be, other people to see…
I awoke the next morning with a bad feeling. Something was going to happen. I quickly turned on the news to find that 2 women had been found dead in 2 different locations. I dropped the remote. Shook and horror filled my body. I knew one of them…
Violet Baudelaire – she used to be my best friend before she got adopted. Her parents died in a fire which destroyed their beloved home. That’s how we met. We were in the same care home until she left. We sent post cards and letters every now and then but we’ve lost touch recently.
This must have been the bad thing.
I grabbed my laptop and went on the local news. ‘2 WOMEN DEAD, KILLER AT LARGE!’ I read the article carefully. ‘One of the women had been found with multiple inflicted head wounds which we believe to be the primary cause of death. We are waiting for further evidence of cause of death for the other victims. We are urging anyone who knows anything to step forward.’
My heart sank.
All the memories I have of her rushed back. I immediately hurried to the scene of the crime of my friend. Police tape surrounding the whole house and the road outside. I quickly show my badge to detectives and step inside. They led me upstairs to the bedroom to find her lying in a silk nightgown stained with a dark red substance. She lay peacefully on the blood red sheets drenched in a pool of her own blood.
