Secrets of a Serial Killer: An absolutely gripping serial killer thriller that will keep you up all night!

by Rosie Walker

  ‘Wanna go in?’ asks Maggie.

  He shakes his head. ‘No way. Not tonight.’

  She raises her eyebrows at him, like she’s daring him. ‘Maybe tomorrow then.’

  ‘Let’s find our new clubhouse and then we’ll have an exploring base.’

  ‘Clubhouse. I like that’ says Maggie. ‘I was calling it a den, but clubhouse is even better. We could be spies and that’s our hideout.’ She turns back to the forest, ready to find the caravan again.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Thomas, relieved that tonight they won’t be breaking and entering as well as trespassing. He loops the binoculars back around his neck.

  Maggie’s really adventurous because of her brothers: they throw her around and play rough, give her scary dares and fall out of trees. She’s brave and doesn’t think about danger. But Thomas isn’t like that; he doesn’t have brothers, and he likes being safe. Thomas has never broken a bone, whereas Maggie, Sandy, and Duncan seem to be always getting x-rays for stuff.

  Mum’s got enough to worry about without Thomas doing anything scary too. But now Dad’s gone, maybe Mum doesn’t have time to worry about Thomas. Maybe now’s the time to become more like Maggie and less like Scaredy-Cat Thomas.

  They turn back into the woods. It gets darker and darker the deeper they go into the forest. Big, gnarly trees covered in moss and thick bark which feels rough and scaly under his fingers as he brushes past, like stroking a crocodile or an alligator. He’s looking at a tree like that when Maggie shouts ‘There it is!’

  It’s a caravan in the middle of a small clearing, with a narrow track leading to it. Thomas has no idea how someone got it this deep into the wood, maybe years ago there was a lane and it got swallowed up by the trees.

  Moss and algae have stained the once-white caravan walls to leaf-green, and it sinks on one side where a tyre is gone from one wheel. There’s a window, but the glass is just as green as the rest of the outside. It doesn’t look like much light gets in. Thomas draws a deep, shaky breath.

  Maggie has paused too, to Thomas’s surprise. She’s staring at the caravan. Now that they found it, the reality is more daunting than exciting. It looks a bit too grubby and damp to be a great clubhouse for spies, that’s for sure.

  Next to the door, bright red graffiti makes shocking contrast with the green moss of the wall. ‘MINE!’ is scrawled in scarlet paint, which drips from the letters like something in ‘Goosebumps’.

  ‘Go on then,’ says Thomas. He needs Maggie to be the brave one and then he can follow.

  She takes a step forward, leaves rustling as she moves. Crows caw above their heads, and Thomas peers through the trees up to the grey sky peeking through the canopy.

  Maggie reaches for the caravan door, hooking her fingers behind the recessed handle. Thomas winces at what could lurk behind that door: germs, insects, slime … bad guys.

  She pulls and pushes at the door, tugging at the weak handle until finally she loosens it from the frame with a crunching noise. Even once the seal has broken, it’s not easy; the hinges are rusty and it’s almost like the door was never supposed to open at all.

  Thomas joins her and both of them lean back with all their weight, but it doesn’t budge.

  ‘Try pushing,’ he pants.

  After three sharp shoves there’s a cracking, splintering noise as the hinges come to life. A blast of damp air hits them in the face, filled with the stench of mould.

  They look at each other. Maggie’s eyes are wide and her half-smile tells Thomas that they’ve reached the limit of Maggie’s bravado.

  It’s dark inside the caravan. Thomas’s heart is beating hard and he’s having trouble getting enough air inside his lungs.

  ‘It’ll be fine. It’s not scary. It’s just an old caravan. Someone used to have holidays in here. Holidays are fun. Not scary at all.’ Maggie’s jabbering.

  He concentrates on breathing steadily so Maggie doesn’t hear that he’s scared, and he reaches into his pocket for the torch he took from home. ‘Here,’ he says, handing it to Maggie.

  She puts one foot up on the step into the caravan.

  ‘Wait!’ shouts Thomas, throwing his arm out in front of her. ‘Shine the light in first, look around a bit from out here. We need to make sure it’s safe.’

  She clicks on the torch and shines it into the darkness. Thomas crinkles his eyes up so they’re almost closed, ready to shut them immediately if there’s anything scary. He peers into the caravan through his eyelashes.

  Maggie raises her foot up on the step and leans right in, blocking Thomas’s view.

  ‘Hey, I can’t see!’ He nudges in beside her so they’re shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, following the torchlight.

  ‘Woah,’ whispers Maggie.

  Zoe

  There’s a sharp bite to the autumn air as Zoe and Dane cross the car park towards the Richard the Lionheart. It’s usually full of college kids, so it’s not an old man pub, but the decor is similar: scuffed leather bar stools, a quiz machine and that stale boozy smell that hovers over everything. The barman is youngish, about the same age as Dane, and the jukebox has all the right music on it. Zoe’s certain that Abbie would have arrived earlier than everyone else so she can pick the first five songs and look cool sitting there tapping her cigarette on the table as everyone arrives.

  Zoe hangs back and lets Dane go in first. She hates walking into a place first, likes to sidle in behind someone and make an entrance in her own time.

  Abbie’s a dancer, and even now she’s standing at the jukebox choosing songs, doing ballet-style leg stretches under the pretence of absent-mindedness. But actually she has a ferocious and constant awareness of how she looks to others. Her long red hair reaches down to her waist, and she’s constantly flipping it around or pulling it up into a ponytail only to take it down again a short while later.

  There’s a stranger standing close next to her, helping her select songs. He’s wearing a baseball cap and isn’t bad-looking, for an older guy. He’s not as old as Zoe’s Dad, but he’s definitely at least 10 years older than Dane. Maybe he’s Abbie’s type ‘on paper’: she’s dated older guys in the past, while her and Max were broken up. Abbie’s pointing at the song list, chatting with the guy when Zoe taps her on the shoulder.

  ‘Zoe! Dane! Darlings!’ Abbie runs over and throws her arms around Dane, kissing him on both cheeks, continental style. Yep, there’s an unlit cigarette between her fingers, Zoe notices. What a poser.

  Dane looks awkward, as if he’s not sure what to do with his hands, Zoe sees with a twitch of a smile. He does like Zoe best. He does. It’s her he’s going out with, not Abbie. And he could have gone out with Abbie, if he wanted to. He said to Zoe that Abbie is too immature, even though she’s six months older than Zoe. But to someone who’s twenty-four like Dane, they all must seem immature sometimes, even when they’re as mature as Zoe.

  ‘And Zoe, my fucking darlingest,’ Abbie turns her attention to Zoe and does the same two-cheek air kisses but doesn’t throw her arms around Zoe and pull her body close, like she did with Dane.

  ‘Fucking darlingest,’ Zoe repeats, her eyebrows raised. Abbie likes to shock people, and her newest approach is outrageous swearing. ‘Nice to see you too, Abs.’

  Abbie blows a kiss to jukebox guy, leading them to the table she’s occupied in the corner, as if she’s the host for the evening. Max is there, sitting next to their coats and looking a little gloomy.

  ‘Hey Maxie,’ says Zoe, sitting down next to him at the table. There’s a half-drunk pint of Guinness on the table in front of him, his hand wrapped around the glass.

  Abbie and Max are an odd pairing, Zoe has always thought. They’ve been together since they were about fourteen, which is practically forever compared to everyone else’s short-lived loves at this age.

  Max is quiet and gentle, with a curly mop of dark hair always falling over his eyes. He’s into geek stuff: graphic novels, Marvel, Star Wars, and Star Trek, all the stuff that doesn’t get you t
he girls usually, but it suits Max. He’s an amazing artist, and he’s always carrying a sketchbook where he’s drafting his own graphic novel, something about multiverses and a little boy who turns out to have superpowers. Zoe hasn’t read it, but she’s seen the drawings and they’re fantastic.

  ‘She’s going to break up with me again,’ says Max, quietly.

  When Abbie and Max first got together, Abbie was quieter and less arrogant. If they met now, Abbie wouldn’t look twice at Max because she’d think she was out of his league. That’s probably why they keep breaking up.

  But if Zoe had to choose, Max is a ten-out-of-ten person, whereas Abbie maybe gets a seven. And Abbie’s got some weird competitive thing with Zoe, where Abbie tries to charm and flirt with every boy that Zoe likes until the boy has a crush on Abbie instead. Dane is one of the only boys this hasn’t yet worked with, but Abbie’s still trying hard.

  ‘Surely not,’ she reassures Max. ‘She’d have told me if she was, and she hasn’t said anything.’ Zoe looks up at Abbie, who’s back pushing jukebox buttons with one hand and flicking her hair with the other. She knows she’s on show, and sure enough: jukebox guy is leaning against the bar, watching.

  Max shrugs. ‘You saw her flirting with that guy. There’s something going on with her. Probably for the best anyway, long term.’ He drains his Guinness just as Dane returns to the table carrying a taboo and lemonade for Zoe, a lager for himself.

  ‘Pint, mate?’ Dane says. ‘Didn’t realise you were running on empty.’ He nods at Max’s drained glass.

  ‘Please.’ Max smiles and nods, and Dane returns to the bar, sidestepping Abbie’s ballerina impression as he passes.

  ‘We were never going to last forever,’ shrugs Max.

  Zoe puts her head on his shoulder. ‘You’re better off with someone who treats you nicer anyway.’

  Abbie announces herself with a cough and throws herself into the chair next to Zoe, the one she’d wanted Dane to sit in so they could hold hands.

  When Dane gets back carrying Max’s pint, he has to sit on Abbie’s other side. Abbie can barely suppress a smile and Zoe thinks she sees her shuffle her chair slightly closer to Dane’s. Zoe takes a big gulp of her drink. Tonight’s going to be a long night if Abbie’s in this kind of mood.

  As soon as Dane sits down, Max leans forward in his seat, looking each of them in the eye in turn. ‘What did you guys think of the article I sent?’

  Abbie groans dramatically and covers her face. ‘Not this again. Get a life, Max.’

  Zoe shakes her head and pats Max on the arm. ‘It was really interesting. I had no idea about that guy.’

  Dane nods. ‘Me neither. Good article, mate.’

  ‘Do you guys know anything else about the history of the Lune Asylum?’ He points upwards, indicating the hill over the town where the old derelict hospital stands.

  Dane and Zoe shake their heads.

  Abbie slurps her drink and turns in her chair, gazing out across the bar as if looking for better company.

  Max blushes but carries on. ‘I found some stuff online about that old serial killer, McVitie, and kept looking into it. It’s how I ended up writing the article, there’s so much stuff because he was so prolific. So much writing. He was this insane creep, like totally psycho. It’s taken them years to catalogue everything at the library.’

  Abbie faffs with her hair and exhales loudly. ‘No one cares, Max.’

  Zoe flashes a look at Abbie. She’s creeped out by Max’s ghoulishness, but she doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. She opens her mouth to reassure him, but Dane’s faster: ‘This is fascinating stuff, mate.’

  ‘But there’s something else I found too. There was a serial killer they never caught; in Lancaster about 20 years after him too—’

  ‘They always say stuff like it’s a serial killer, Max. That’s how these newspapers get readers: by making shit up.’ Abbie folds her arms, a triumphant smile on her face.

  ‘That isn’t even the thing, though.’ Max’s eyes are wide, the pupils huge. He looks really intense. Although he’s into the true crime stuff, Zoe’s never seen him like this. Usually, Max talks in a tone that implies he can’t believe that these kinds of monsters exist. It’s like he wants to understand them, but can’t, no matter how much he learns about them. But tonight there’s an extra intensity and glee to him as he talks, his spine straight and body held unnaturally still. Zoe can’t look away. She doesn’t want to hear, but she feels compelled to listen.

  ‘The police never caught the one in the ‘80s. He got away with it. They called him Mr X.’ Max grins, leaning across the table. His eyes flick from Dane to Zoe and back again.

  ‘That’s a creepy name too.’ Zoe frowns. Something about this Mr X thing sounds familiar, like she’s heard about it before. But she can’t have: she’s never been interested in crime and would have shied away from any TV documentary or article. Must be a weird déjà vu.

  ‘How many victims do they think he killed?’ Dane’s leaning forward in his seat.

  ‘They have no idea. Maybe around 15, maybe twice that. It’s all pretty much undocumented by official sources, because he left so little evidence behind. The police tried to keep it quiet because they knew so little. But I follow some local crime forums and stuff—’

  ‘On the dark web.’ Abbie interrupts, in a voice similar to Christian Bale when he says ‘I’m Batman.’

  Max barely notices Abbie’s interruption. ‘Sometimes, yes, on the dark web.’

  Abbie lets out a ‘humph’ and turns back to stare out at the pub.

  ‘They’re amateurs, the other people on the crime forum, but they’re using FBI techniques. Like the Behavioural Science Unit: they look at the crimes and come to conclusions about the person who committed it. And link them together. And they think Mr X might have learned some techniques from McVitie – the lunatic guy I wrote my article about.’

  Dane nods, enthralled. ‘How is that possible? If McVitie was locked up?’

  Max shrugs. ‘That’s what I want to find out: what’s the connection? They can’t be the same age, because when Mr X was operating, McVitie would have been in his seventies. Too old for hauling bodies around.’ Max laughs.

  Zoe pulls a face at him. ‘Creep,’ she mouths.

  Dane nods. ‘So, we know that McVitie died in the asylum, but what happened to Mr X?’

  ‘Mr X is dead.’

  Zoe laughs. ‘You sound very sure about that.’

  ‘Yeah, how do you know? He could still be out there, is all I’m saying. Like the Original Night Stalker; just in retirement.’ Dane says.

  ‘If Mr X is still alive, where has he been? Why did he stop? People like that don’t just stop killing; something happens to stop them, forces them to stop.’

  Abbie groans again. ‘Come on, guys, I didn’t come here to play Detective. I came here to get drunk and have a laugh.’

  Zoe glances at Max. His cheeks are red; she can’t tell whether he’s embarrassed or angry. She tries to catch his eye and smile at him, but he doesn’t look up from his pint. Although she feels bad for him, she doesn’t want to talk about murdered girls, just as she doesn’t want to get his weird texts in the middle of the night.

  ‘Let’s play a game,’ says Abbie. She looks around at the rest of them with a glint in her eye. ‘Let’s play “I have never”.’

  Dane and Max groan in unison, probably for very different reasons.

  ‘Come on, Abbie,’ says Max. ‘I’ll summarise how that will go. I’ve done nothing, you’ve done everything, and Dane’s done some stuff Zoe would rather not know about yet.’

  Dane laughs loudly and Zoe forces herself to join in, slightly late.

  Abbie’s smile falters. ‘You don’t know everything about me. None of you do.’

  Zoe looks at her, an eyebrow raised. What’s that about? Abbie does thrive on secrets, but usually those belonging to other people, exchanged like currency.

  Abbie picks up her glass. ‘I have never …’ she run
s her eyes across each of them, probably assessing who she wants to fuck with tonight.

  ‘… picked up a stranger in a bar.’ She takes a gulp of her drink to indicate she actually has done that and looks around expectantly. ‘No one? You’re all liars. Dane, I bet you’ve picked up your fair share of pretty girls in bars?’

  Dane blushes and shakes his head. ‘I’m not telling.’

  ‘That’s not how you play the game! You have to be honest!’ Abbie’s starting to sound a bit whiney and Zoe feels a little sorry for her. She’s trying to liven up the night the only way she knows how.

  ‘How about we play a different game?’ suggests Zoe, trying to redirect Abbie away from whatever course she’s steering them on.

  Abbie shakes her head and ignores Zoe’s suggestion. Her eyes are glazed and Zoe realises that Abbie’s had a lot to drink already. When Abbie’s drunk it’s almost impossible to stop her trajectory into destruction, like a homing missile.

  Abbie stands up and smooths down her skirt. ‘Nope, I want to play this one.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asks Max, not raising his gaze from the table.

  Abbie ignores him and looks around the pub, until she seems to notice something by the bar and smiles. Zoe leans around Dane to see what Abbie’s looking at. It’s the jukebox guy from earlier; looking over at them, a faint smile on his lips.

  ‘Come on, Zo,’ Abbie reaches for Zoe’s hand.

  Zoe looks at Abbie, puzzled. ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘You didn’t drink. You’ve never picked up a stranger in a bar.’

  Max closes his eyes and groans quietly. Like Zoe, he knows Abbie well enough to understand that she’s on a chaos mission and nothing will divert her. She wants to turn everything upside down, manufacture drama and destroy anything that gets in her path.

  Abbie takes a few steps away from the table, walking towards the bar. She turns back to Zoe. ‘Bet you we can get his number.’ She holds up both hands, palm out like someone’s training a gun on her. ‘Just getting his number; nothing else!’