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I can see ghosts.

You have probably heard this line many times before, especially in horror movies. A kid, usually, tells this to an older figure who might believe them or not and then the scary events unfold.

But my version of the story is different.

It didn't start with me hearing noises, or seeing zooming shadows passing by in the hallways. There were no missing items, or moving dolls, or doors slamming and re-opening. There were no monsters under my bed, either.

Instead they were at the end of my bed, staring at me, unmoving and expressionless.

And I did not see them as a confused, wide-eyed child; I saw them as a fully grown adult who has committed his first murder.

Karen was the first one. A sweet girl with blonde locks, caramel eyes and ruby lips. I had prepared myself for a long time before killing her; I owed it to her beauty to do it professionally. I was not going to kill her sloppily like all first murders, I did everything so well that the police never found her body and to this day, she remains a missing person.

Returning to bed that night, I found her at the end of my bed as I went to sleep. She was just staring at me, this time her eyes were dull and her lips were pale, but she looked overall the same. I thought it was my imagination, or my conscience acting up, buy after many days ending with the same scenario, I realized that she was real – as real as ghosts can be – and that it was another gift I was blessed with.

And as any gifted person should, I tried to make the most out of my gift by adding up to my ghost collection. The second time it was Maria, a girl I met online, and she was to be my first public victim. And sure enough, at night, she was another visitor waiting by my bed.

Victim after victim, visitor after visitor. They were all unmoving as statues, and I figured they wanted to unsettle me and perhaps make me feel the guilt or drive me to kill myself, but I liked their presence – in a way they were like personal trophies on a shelf, a constant reminder of my various works.

When you succeed at something, many others try to copy you. And that is what Jeff did, except he was not half as smart as I was. Jeff had an obsession with me, and all his victims were relatives of mine, all butchered in the same way. With some devoted time and observation on my part, I was able to track him down and meet him. He shook my hand with excitement, and his eyes were glinting with happiness. He said he wanted to work with me, I told him I wanted to keep him by my side forever. He agreed happily.

And I kept him, in the way I kept my trophies.

But he was the only exception to my collection.

He didn't stare at me, for his eyes were gouged out repeatedly every day. He couldn't scream for long, for they cut his tongue off. And I couldn't admire my handiwork on him, for he had been tortured beyond recognition.

I felt the guilt for the first time, only after hearing his screams every night, and seeing him suffer in a way that made my own skin crawl.

And that's when I understood why they were all here. They weren't here for me to admire or to make me feel the weight of my actions. They were only waiting for me to come to the other side, where I would be at their mercy as they were at mine.

I did everything possible. I begged for forgiveness. I cried. I prayed. I repented and even stopped killing but there was no use. All of them begged and cried and prayed as well in their last moments yet I didn't change my mind so why would they?

I guess you can say that was my downfall. I made mistakes and I ended up behind bars, cuffed by the baboons who never would have caught me. I was put on trial and sentenced to death as it was expected. My visitors didn't leave me, and my cell is cramped up with their presence. The guards laugh at me when I scream in agony, for I know exactly what my fate will be after my death.

I can see ghosts. I see them right now.

And they are smiling.