Horror Stories: 51 Sleepless Nights

by Wade, Tobias

  Confessions of a Serial Killer

  This letter is from a confessed serial killer to his thirteen year old daughter.

  Dear Samantha,

  I’m sorry I haven’t been around for a while, but you’re going to have to be strong, just like I’m trying to be strong for you. I don’t know how much your mother has told you, but sooner or later you’re going to hear about what Daddy did, and I want to tell you why I did it. They’re going to tell you I killed those 7 kids. That I tortured them first, chaining them in that shed in the woods. You remember the place – you used to build a fort there and play princess of the castle. You’ll always be my princess, even after everything that has happened there. You’re going to hear about how the victims were starved and forced to eat the one who came before them, and how they’d be chained up until the next one came ‘round to eat them up too.

  You’re going to see my name brought up on websites and social media. Photos of the murders are going to be uploaded, and you’re going to have to see those corpses stripped of flesh and put on display for the whole world to see. You’re going to hear priests condemning me to Hell, and news stations using my name as propaganda for whatever self-serving platform they can find. And worst of all, you’re going to be feared because of your association with me.

  But you have your whole life ahead of you, and no matter how bad it seems now, this is NOT your defining moment. These weeks or months until everyone forgets won’t last forever. These killings will not determine who you are. I won’t be coming home again, but someday after years have stretched this memory thin, it’s going to be like none of this has ever happened.

  That’s why I did it. That’s why I confessed, so you could move on and forget. That’s why I never told the police that you were the one who led them into the woods. That’s why I turned myself in as soon as I found the bodies. I don’t care how many of them you got, there’s only one person I care about protecting, and that’s you, my princess.

  If this is what you want, then you should have it. You deserve everything in this world. I know you told me that you weren’t going to stop leading people into the woods, but at least try to be more careful next time. Don’t take kids – don’t take anyone they’re going to look for. And when I’m gone, I hope you find someone who loves you as much as your Daddy does. I hope they love you so much, they confess for you and you can keep playing forever.

  Don’t ever stop playing, Princess. The world is yours.

  Love, Daddy

  – My name is Detective Mathews. I was lead on the “Killer Miller” serial murder case. This letter was confiscated after an inmate tried to smuggle it out of the visitation room. Samantha Miller is currently missing, last seen in Los Angeles County. The station is offering a reward to anyone who can provide information regarding her whereabouts. Samantha is considered to be a danger to herself and others. If you have any information, please call (323) ***-**** and ask for Mr. Mathews.

  The Final Question

  There are lots of stories about how people die. Death is very intriguing, because it is something everyone will experience, and yet no-one HAS ever experienced, because as soon as YOU have undergone death, there is no more YOU to have experiences at all. But this isn’t the story of just anyone’s death.

  This is the story of how you die. One of you will go like this, but it will be a similar story for the rest of you when your time has come. And there won’t be any bells or choirs, no light at the end of the tunnel. There won’t be any voice calling you home or crying ancestors welcoming you with open arms. I know because that’s not what happened when I died.

  Your death is going to go like this. A week after Valentine’s Day, you’re going to be killed when a drunk driver T-Bones your car at 65 miles per hour. You’ll know that’s how fast he was going, because you’ll hear the police reading his broken speedometer after they pronounced you dead. There will be a shard of glass that went straight through your right eye and out the back of your head. Contrary to most people’s opinion, discovering you are dead won’t be as traumatic as you might expect. It turns out being disconnected from endorphins and adrenalin and surging blood pressure and all that messy biological stuff makes everything quite calm.

  But you won’t FEEL dead. You’ll feel… hollow. It’s like you’re sitting alone in a dark theatre, watching a movie of your own death. And the more time that passes, the dimmer and quieter the movie will become. I don’t know if you will die right on impact, or whether this is the distorted senses of your oxygen deprived brain as you bleed out on the ground. I just know that pretty soon it will be dark and peaceful and quiet, and you’ll probably be okay if that was the end.

  But it won’t be the end, and you won’t be alone. When all the light is gone, there will be something moving in the darkness around you. You’ll have no body or voice to scream with. You’ll just be a single thought, being pressed in on all sides by the suffocating presence of something that’s been waiting for you your entire life.

  Oh and here’s a fun fact to look forward to. It turns out pain is more than a firing neuron – it’s an integral part of the conscious experience. And even when your body is gone, the consciousness that remains WILL still feel pain. The presence around you will crush you into oblivion until the pain becomes so intense you can’t even think. You’ll just have to wait for this part to be over.

  And you’re going to be waiting a long while, because the perception of time is something you’ll have left behind. This pain is all there is, all there ever was, and all there ever will be. Because somewhere in the beginning that which existed was separated from that which does not, and the void has never forgiven you for leaving it behind. But when it does end – and it will, because I’m here now – you’re going to be asked a question. And you better be ready for it, because if you don’t answer the eternity is going to begin again.

  Just one question that determines whether or not this will ever end.

  And if you answer right, you’ll get to go again. And you might even remember some of it like I did.

  And if you answer wrong, then nothing good you’ve ever done will spare you what’s coming.

  And the question is: “Will you bring more people to take your place?”

  And I said yes. And I have. And I’m not done yet.

  The Confession

  Forgive me father, for I have sinned. But even if He in all his glory finds the power to forgive me, how can I ever forgive myself?

  I’m often asked how I bear the burden of listening to confessions. People assume my conscience is haunted by the personal Demons each man and woman struggles against, but that is not the case.

  In truth, there is no thrill which compares to hearing a confession. The trust they are putting in me – the trust they are putting in God – is a beautiful moment to behold. They freely submit themselves to my power, begging for my absolution as though it were I who wielded God’s wisdom to judge or forgive.

  But when it comes time to confess my own sins, I found I lacked the courage of my flock. I am more than a man to them – I am a symbol of the Divine. To admit my own failings is to weaken their faith that the Lord may shelter them if their belief is true. Or perhaps that is just the excuse I give to protect my pride.

  All I know is that this Demon is too great for me to contain on my own, so I am writing this to beg the forgiveness of strangers in the hope I too may find peace again.

  “Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

  He came to me like all the others and sat down in the other side of box. His voice was strange to me, almost like a voicemail compared to a human speaking in person.

  “Speak and you will be forgiven, my son.”

  I usually go in expecting infidelity. That is the most common curse which gnaws at our hearts with guilty teeth.

  “I have killed a man. A good man. A man of God.”

  The thrill only increases with the magnitude of the sin. I do not know who he is, but he is already telling
me something which would allow me to destroy his entire life. I breathe slowly through my nose so as not to let the excitement enter my voice.

  “Why did you do such a thing?”

  “He was a murderer himself, and I was afraid he would kill again,” he replied.

  Disappointing. When they have a reasonable excuse for their sin, they do not feel the same desperate need for my approval. I would have preferred he killed someone innocent.

  “To take a life for any reason is a great crime against God,” I replied. That seemed like what I was expected to say. Confession is not the time to remind them how much blood God had demanded over the years. “It is not your place to judge them.”

  “And it is yours to judge me?” There was accusation in that voice. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Did I know this man?

  “Only God may pass judgment for such a sin.”

  “Then I won’t waste my time with you.” I heard his door open and then slam shut like a petulant child going to his room. What an unfulfilling sinner he was. The rush I usually felt was utterly absent.

  The next week, I heard the same voice on the other side of the box.

  “Forgive me father, for I have killed another man.”

  “Was he a murderer too?”

  “Not yet, but he could have become one,” the voice said. Infuriatingly familiar – perhaps he was a relative, or simply one of my regular congregation.

  “All men have the capacity for evil. Does that give you a right to kill anyone?” I asked. There was nothing as satisfying as leading them to condemn themselves. Finally I would hear the real confession I was waiting for.

  “Yes.”

  I could not have prepared myself for that answer.

  By the time I got home, I knew who he had killed. My father had been choked to death in his house last night. I still remember the first beating he gave me when I was four years old. The scars from the lashes on my back have never healed to this day.

  Lord knows I had thought about ending him myself a hundred times, but actually hearing the news was unimaginably painful. The guilt of my own evil thoughts against him was almost enough for me to seek confession myself, but there was no sense dirtying my image when I had resisted my evil temptations. If anything, I was thankful to my father. I never would have joined the Church if I wasn’t trying to get away with him. His cruelty had paved the way for my mercy.

  I didn’t anticipate the killer to ever return after how closely he struck me. He couldn’t have expected my forgiveness after so personal an attack.

  A month passed and I had come to terms with my father’s death when the voice spoke through the wooden grate again.

  “Forgive me father, for I have killed another man.”

  My breath caught short. My fists clenched. How dare he. He never received absolution for either of his previous visits. That’s when it occurred to me. He wasn’t here for absolution. He was here to taunt me. The death of my father – the manner he composed himself – the blasphemous disregard for my authority. This was all a personal attack.

  “Why did you do such a thing?” I forced one word to follow the other. I couldn’t slow my breathing this time. I couldn’t allow this monster to continue.

  “Because he made a fool out of everything I believe in.”

  That was exactly what HE was doing though. That was proof – he was only here to torment me. I don’t know what I have done to this man to deserve such abuse, but I am still a man with blood pounding in my veins. I was not going to idly take it any longer.

  “Get out of here,” I said. “Both this Church and Heaven will be barred to you forever.”

  “You’re a fraud,” the voice said. “You don’t speak for God – Hell, you probably don’t even believe in him. You just get off on the power you feel from pretending.”

  “I’m warning you –” I was shouting now.

  “Or what? You’ll send me to Hell? I thought only God could judge me.” I was shaking so bad I had to stand to expel some of the extra energy. “I killed your father with my bare hands, and all you can do about it is preach something you don’t even believe. You’re pathetic.”

  That was too far. I flung open my side of the confession booth and raced over to his. I threw the second door open with enough force to tear it off the hinges.

  As though his insults weren’t enough, the man was wearing a rubber mask of Jesus.

  “Take that damn mask off and leave,” I shouted. I didn’t give him time to respond though. I was already lunging at him, trying to pull the mask off. He fought back – his hands clasping around my throat.

  Those hands. The same hands which had choked the life out of my father. It was all a blur after that. I tried to pry them off, but the grip was too strong. It wasn’t until I got my own hands around his neck that he began to lose hold. The thrill of confession – the power I held over people – it was nothing like this.

  There is no power over someone like having their neck in your hands. I finally understood why my father beat me. I never felt closer to the divine than that moment when this Demon convulsed beneath my hands before finally falling limp.

  Finally. Now I could see who hated me so much that they would go to these extreme lengths to torment me. His cold dead hands – so alike my own – were helpless to prevent me pulling back his mask.

  I stared at my own dead face. Vomit coating the sides of my mask. My dead tongue lolling grotesquely from my mouth. That is how I came to terms with who I am.

  Forgive me father, for I have sinned.

  I have killed a man of God.

  I have killed my father.

  I have killed the man who made a fool of everything I believe in.

  And I have never felt more alive.

  Children Collector

  Do you know this game? It’s my favorite.

  All you have to do is lie very quietly – that’s it – just like you were made of stone.

  Don’t blink. Don’t even breathe. And whatever you do, don’t tell them you’re playing a game.

  They’ll want to play with you, but you mustn’t let them.

  Because when they join in, it won’t be a game anymore.

  Every year I visit my father’s grave in the veteran’s cemetery. He was a war hero – or so I was told. He died when I was five, so I hardly even remember him. I’m not even going for sentimental reasons – I just like having a quiet place away from the world where I can put everything in perspective.

  Last weekend I knelt to place flowers there and open my mind to the clear air. I was alone except for two young girls (couldn’t have been more than ten) visiting the adjacent grave. I heard them talking softly with some lady, but I didn’t really pay any attention. I was here for me.

  Yes dealing with car insurance or taxes is exhausting. But compared to him dying for our country, how could I allow myself to become frustrated with the minor annoyances of my daily life? I found resolve in the stillness of the dead air, and each time I left I would be ready to face each new challenge life had to offer.

  I didn’t notice until I started down the hill that the two children were leaving alone. Who could they have been talking to? I mean, it was an open grassy hill, it’s not like the lady with them could have just vanished. But then I heard the voice again – like a middle aged woman whispering from a long way away.

  I walked over to the grave they had been sitting by and felt the gusty rustle of the words through the grass around me. It was getting stronger, and I swear it was coming straight from the ground.

  Bring me my children. I miss my children.

  The gravestone said Dory Malthusa. I couldn’t tell you what else the voice said, because I got the Hell out of there. And yeah I laughed at myself for being freaked, but there wasn’t anyone else around to impress by acting brave. A girl has got to take care of herself, you know?

  Well maybe it was a trick, or my imagination, or the kids buried a walkie-talkie as a joke. I’d forgotten about it un
til that night when I turned on the evening news.

  Two girls, ages 9 and 11, were found dead in the same cemetery. Their throats were cut from the front. The police say it must have been from someone they know, because there were no signs of a struggle. Their names were Rachel and Elizabeth Malthusa.

  I’m going back to the cemetery this weekend. If the voice talks to me, I’m going to answer it this time. And if it doesn’t – if this is all just my mind playing tricks on me – then I could still use a little more tranquility after that unsettling experience.

  I returned to the grave of Dory Malthusa yesterday morning. Beats going at night at least, right? The freshly dug graves of her children were keeping her company now. It still seemed ludicrous that she somehow killed them, but I knew I would rest easier knowing they were at peace.

  “Hello Dory.” I felt like an idiot talking to a grave. And in the quiet of the cemetery, I felt even stupider expecting a response. This was all nonsense. I must have just been so emotional from sitting beside my father’s grave that I imagined her voice before.

  But I came all the way here, wasting my Sunday off when I could have been sleeping in or catching up on Game of Thrones, so here goes.

  “You need to let your regrets go, Dory. I’m sorry you miss your children, but you can’t force them to be with you. If you really loved them, you would want them to be at peace. There’s nothing left to keep you here, so it’s time for you and your children to rest.”

  I held my breath. The wind rushed through the grass on the hill like a crashing wave. It whistled between the bare headstones. I guess that was what peace was supposed to sound like. The wind died down as I stood to leave, but the sound of the whistling didn’t cease. I don’t know where it was coming from, but it almost sounded like a giggling child.

  But we don’t want to rest. We want to play. It was unmistakable this time. The voice of a little girl. I stood frozen in place. Playing sounded innocent enough, at least.