Short Stories

Look Up

I hide in the closet of the upstairs bedroom, I know he'll be here soon. I shiver at the thought of it, I hear the front door open, but it doesn't close. He knows I'm here, I hear him slowly walking through the kitchen, a drawer open. Probably the knife drawer, it won't help him much. He heads towards the stairs, fear runs through me, but also excitement, adrenaline courses through my veins. I can just imagine in less than an hour the police will be here putting up crime scene tape. Examining the corpse and trying to find evidence. They won't though, they won't find the ''one who caused[a] this, too good for that. He's at the top of the stairs now, I hear him looking through the bedrooms trying to find me. That's why I hid in the last one, he'll have all that time to build up his fear. With every door I'm not behind it grows, till he finally will get to the end and I'll get to see his face. That's the best part, seeing their face at the end of it all, you get to see every element of that fear that was created by you through that amount of time. It's one of the very reasons I do this, sure their are others the publicity, getting to read it in the paper later and relive the whole event in words, watching the police struggle to find any lead so they don't have to do it again. But they will do it again, because I won't be caught easily. I plan all of this down to the smallest detail, it's a very intricate plan and takes a lot of time but it's worth it, being able to do it again. First I pick a place, any place, usually nothing special about them. Then I watch the people living there and pick my next victim, it could be because of their habits, what they do, the way they look, anything that makes that person stick out from the rest. I study every detail of them their lives, I learn everything about them including their weaknesses. Then when they're not home I go through their house and find the perfect hiding spot. After everything's worked out I execute my plan, one of the reasons they never find me is unlike most serial killers I'm not consistent, every time it changes, the weapon, the way they were killed, the location, and it's never someone I know. This man, it was the fact he lived alone in a huge house that made me choose him, to good to pass up. As for how I was going to do it, for a weapon I never use a gun, too quick you don't get to savor it. This time I decided on a knife, simple, easy and slow. I planned every detail down to where that knife would go, right below the ribs, between both halves of his rib cage, then I would carve a circle around his heart. Keep it as a souvenir, that was the only thing I kept consistent. But I didn't always take the heart, sometimes the brain, a lung, I even have a hand. That way I can always remember, cause each time is special, something makes it special, and I want to remember it all. Ooh he's here, he's in the room, through the crack in the closet door I can already see the fear I've built up in his face. He checks under the bed, his fear grows, behind the door, it grows, behind the drawers, it grows. He turns and looks to the closet, his eyes wide, heart pounding so I can hear it. He knows where I am, he slowly walks to the door knife in hand, I can see it shaking, I'm surprised he hasn't dropped it by now. He puts his hand on the knob, he doesn't want to open it but he knows he has to, this is the moment I've been waiting for. He opens the door and relief floods over his face as he sees the empty closet floor. Poor guy, he forgot to look up.