My Last Time Around
I am a serial killer. The absolute worst that humanity has to offer, scraped from the underside of the bottom of the barrel of society. I prey upon the weak and vulnerable and feel no remorse for my actions. My current kill count is six, four of which have yet to be found. To be honest, I don’t think the authorities will ever catch me. No one would ever expect that someone like me, a tall, dark, and handsome, successful man, could do such a thing. I have to say, I do like the way the media portrays the sick and deranged as ugly, brutish people. It really sets people expectations and in turn helps me avoid detection. I doubt if they ever did link all my murders together as the work of one person, that they would ever suspect me. Whoever suspects that it’s a good looking, charming, dapper gent? Let alone one that works for one of the countries’ most lucrative investment firms. Hell, they could find all the bodies buried under my garden, and I feel like I would still escape conviction. I could easily talk my way out of it, by throwing somebody else, who was a more believable suspect, under the bus. It’s easy to get away when no one is looking at you. I live hidden in plain sight. If only they knew what lie underneath, if only they all knew what I was capable of. It was a normal Tuesday afternoon when I, on my lunch break from work, spotted him, my next victim. It had been a while since my last kill, and the urge was intensely coming back. As I panned across the park, I saw him. He was sat alone on a bench, just gazing at the ground, with a glum look on his face. He had a pasty white complexion, a shaved head, skinny nose, and beady, sunken in eyes. He looked downright depressed if I did say so myself. This guy looked absolutely pathetic. Taking him out might actually be doing him a favor, I laughed to myself. So, it was set. This poor sap would be my next target. I watched him from across the park for nearly 20 more minutes, when he finally got up, and left. I trailed him from a safe distance for a couple of blocks, before watching him enter a parking garage, and get into a car, a green Ford Escort to be exact, and drive away. I took note of the license plate, and I was all set. This was going to be fun. After that, I headed back to work, and finished out my workday. I could barely stay focused, knowing that my homicidal urges would soon be quelled. When I got home later that day, I started planning. What weapons to use, methods of disposal, that kind of thing. I settled on a clawhammer, and a hacksaw. Might even experiment with sulfuric acid this time, who knows? This one was going to get grisly. Next came the stalking part. The part where I would find out where this guy lived, worked, ate, all that kind of stuff, in an effort to figure out this guy’s normal routine. Every day for the ensuing couple of weeks, I would go to the parking garage where I had seen his car parked, in hopes of running into him again, but had no luck. I was starting to think that maybe he was just visiting from out of town, and that I may not see him again, thus having to give up. I hated having to do give up. That was until one day when I happened to see him. He was walking to his car, still sporting that same somber look on his face. He got in the car, turned it on, and began to drive away. Seeing this, I pulled out of the parking space I was in, put on my sunglasses, and began to follow him. I followed him the entire way home, always from a safe distance. He eventually turned down a street, and into a small neighborhood, full of small, single-floor, ranch-style homes. It looked as though it had been constructed in the 40s or 50s. After making a few turns, he eventually pulled into the driveway of a house. As he did, I just drove on by. I now knew where he lived. From the cursory glance I took, I can say that from the outside his house didn’t look particularly impressive. It was small like the rest of the houses in the neighborhood. It was made of brick and had a white front door. Just an average looking house, in a quiet, unassuming neighborhood. Over the span of the next month or so, almost every day after work, I would swing by his house, and stake out the place. He was a rather enigmatic fellow, to say the least. In that sometimes I wouldn’t see him for days. Sometimes his car would be parked in the driveway, other days he appeared to be gone. I suppose he could work night shifts, or something like that. One thing is for sure, though, is that he didn’t seem to have much in way of outside activities. In the time that I staked out his house, not once did I see him mow his lawn, water any plants, or even so much as sit on his porch, enjoying the day. The most I ever saw him do was carry a shovel to and from his garage and backyard. I guess he had some kind of project going on in his backyard, or something. I wouldn’t know since I couldn’t see all the way back there. Another confounding element of this whole thing is that for a guy who looked sad, and aloof all the time, he seemed to know quite a lot of people. In that month, I counted a total of 14 people having entered his residence. Not all at once, for like for a party or something, usually just one at a time, or sometimes they would arrive with him, but it was way more people than I would have thought. Some of the people I would see arrive with him were some beautiful women, and I mean stunningly gorgeous. This guy may not have looked like much, but he sure seemed to be a real player. I can respect that. Although, it looked as though his luck was just about to run out. The thing that confused me the most, however, was that he seemed to never turn the lights inside his house on. I figured maybe he just hadn’t paid his electric bill, that, or I was targeting the world’s most popular vampire. Either way, I figured that this guy, despite having a lot of friends, must live in the most depressing atmosphere. One day, while waiting for him to return, I noticed a mail carrier come by, and put some mail in his mailbox. I got out of my car, went over to his mailbox, and retrieved an envelope. That’s when I learned that his name was Anthony Barnwell. I finally had a name to put with his perpetually sad face. During my time following him, and staking out his house, when I wasn’t watching his house, I carried on with a pretty normal existence. I went to work, to the grocery store, the gym, went out to eat, all very normal things for me. I even went on a few dates. They were fun and all, but the main thing on my mind was quenching my bloodlust. It’s hard to explain how I felt about him, really. While I’ve never cared even one iota about any of my victims, I can safely say that in all my years of doing this that this guy was by far the oddest person I had ever targeted. It bothered me how hard he was to figure out. I couldn’t wait to get this one done and over with. Finally, the day arrived when I had planned my attack. I had familiarized myself with his schedule and knew that he wouldn’t be home until after 9:30, that particular Wednesday. I loaded up my car, put on some Joy Division, and headed out to the house at 4365 Brookings Way, that I had now become very familiar with. My plan was to break in, get the lay of the land, then find a good spot to lie in wait. Then, when he came home, I would launch a surprise attack with the clawhammer. He would never see it coming. It would be simple, brutal, and effective. I pulled up to his house around quarter to nine, got my crowbar out of the trunk, and proceeded up to his front door. When I was sure that no one was looking, I pried the door open, and made my way inside. It was pitch black, which I expected, but what really got to me was that there was a strange aroma filling the air. While there were nice floral hints, it mostly smelled of rot and decay. Great, I thought, this guy is probably a hoarder. I made my way further inside, all the while feeling along the wall for a light switch. Wasn’t sure if it would do me any good, but figured it was worth a shot. After a few more seconds of feeling around in the dark, my hand ran across what felt like a light switch, I flicked it on, illuminating the entire kitchen, and part of living room. I was not prepared for what I saw when the lights came on. For what my eyes beheld, left me in an utter state of shock. There were pelts of human skin on the kitchen table and hung from the windows, as well as many severed digits in the sink. I noticed the dead body of one of the women I remember seeing him bring home laid across the couch, among other corpses that littered his living room. There were dozens of air fresheners hung up all over the place. That, mixed with the putrescence surrounding me is what combined to make the strange odor that filled the house. I was absolutely stunned. I mean, this was ghastly, even by my standards. I was in the lair a twisted, sadistic killer, who was significantly more prolific than I ever could have dreamed of becoming. In addition to all the viscera that was strewn about, I noticed that he had many panels of sound-proofing foam on his walls. That certainly would explain why I never heard much coming from his house, either. In one sense I was impressed, but at the same time extremely disquieted, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I felt fear and panic. All I knew was that I needed to get out of there as soon as humanly possible. When after what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a minute or two, I heard something that sent chills up my spine. “What are you doing here?” A low, gravelly voice said from behind me. Credit: Steven Allen Facebook Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.