Serial Killers

Introduction

Introduction

Alan Gravestone worked tirelessly, assembling everything he needed to execute his plan. A bag of cyanide pills rested in his blazer pocket. His chosen instrument for murder. The plan was simple: walk into a nightclub, blend in, poison a drink, and leave before anyone notices.

It was a grim ambition, but to Alan, it felt like purpose. Life had drained him. He was tired of being invisible, tired of failure. So he decided, if he couldn’t be successful in life, he’d be brilliant at death.

Inside the club, the lights pulsed to the beat of music he couldn’t enjoy. He laughed when expected, danced a little, but the weight of what he came to do hung over him like a storm cloud. Eventually, he spotted a group of girls drinking near the bar—laughing, drunk, and unaware.

He waited until the bartender was distracted, then moved in. Just another guy in the crowd. Smoothly, silently, he dropped the pill into one of the girls’ drinks. No one saw. No one would remember him.

But just as he turned to leave, one of the women reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

“You look cute. Are you single?”

His breath caught. “Uh, n-no! No,” he stammered, yanking his arm away.

“Nervous much?” she teased behind him.

Panic surged. Social interaction was already a struggle for him—he could kill a Passionate conversation just by showing up. But this wasn’t just awkwardness. What if she remembered his face? What if she connected him to her friend’s death?

He tried to calm himself with the thought that she was far too drunk to recall much of anything. Still shaking, he slid into his car and slammed the door shut. He sat in the silence for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.

“I did everything perfectly,” he whispered.

“You’re not smart enough to do anything right,” the voice in his head replied.

“SHUT UP!” he screamed, pounding his fists against the wheel.

That voice, sarcastic, cruel, relentless, was all he had left. College had crushed his dreams, and his parents’ deaths had left him utterly alone. The voice lived inside his thoughts, wearing his tone, but speaking like a stranger. A tormentor.

Back at home, Alan tried to sleep, but couldn’t. Eventually, he rose at 6:30 like always. Shower. Hygiene. Breakfast. Routine was the only control he had over normal life.

Still anxious, he flipped on the morning news.

“A young blonde woman, Amelia Hills, was found dead last night in a local nightclub,” the anchor announced solemnly.

Alan froze.

The screen cut to Amelia’s grieving parents. Her mother’s voice cracked through tears: “I hope whoever did this gets caught and dies a slow painful death. Who would do such a thing to take a daughter from their mother?”

Back to the anchor: “Due to how precisely the murder was carried out, detectives report that they have no clear leads at this time.”

Relief washed over Alan like a drug. A mix of disbelief and euphoria spread through his chest.

“I actually got away with it,” he thought, stunned.

“Yes… You must be quite the genius,” the voice chimed in again.

Alan waited for the usual cruel follow-up, but none came.

“You’ve proven you’re smart,” it said instead. “But be careful. If you plan to keep doing this, you’ll need to refine your methods and adapt.”

Alan sat down on the couch, a small, satisfied smile curling on his lips.

He didn’t plan to stop anytime soon.
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