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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CIAHerpes on 2023-07-01 23:09:36+00:00.
I was born to kill. Even as a child, a little boy no more than seven, I strangled my neighbor’s cat and then burned their house down. I left the body of their beloved pet strung over their mailbox. The police never figured out that I did it, a mere child next door.
But like many things in life, my addiction spiraled out of control. Just killing animals or starting fires would not make the nut. I wanted something more hands-on, more personal, and most of all, I wanted people. I hated humanity, every single disgusting person on this planet- except for myself, of course, because I was different from all the weak, babbling masses. I know myself to be superior, the Overman predicted by Nietzsche.
I killed my first homeless man when I was sixteen. I stabbed him. He screamed, flailing, trying to get up and stumble down the dark alleyway, but I ran quickly behind him, stabbing him in the back a few more times. He fell down, gasping and pleading, and I flipped the bastard over with my shoe and knelt down to finish the job.
I wrapped my gloved hands around his throat, tightening and tightening. I felt his thready, rapid pulse beating, beating so fast it seemed like his heart must explode. And then it started to slow, then stopped. I felt the life go out of him, the last heartbeat, the last dying gasp after I had taken my hands away. His lips had turned blue and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. It felt sublime, absolutely pure power and control, an almost sexual rush that made all the colors in the world seem bright again.
But after a couple days, the colors faded back to their dull, monotonous tones, the sounds grew distant again, the good feelings faded away like puddles under the summer sun. And I began to think about the next one, plan the next one. I began to think about the future.
My IQ tested in the genius range multiple times. When I took the SATs, I scored nearly a 2200 out of 2400- which put me in the top 1% of the US population. In hindsight, I wish I could have done things differently. I wish I could have used that intelligence to get a good job, lots of money, a mansion, maybe some power over the disgusting masses of humanity that swarmed all over the world. But instead, I followed my dreams. I followed the dark path that inevitably led to where I am now.
It all started last night, at about 11 PM. I had strangled a prostitute to death and thrown the body in my trunk. Then, whistling to myself, I went through my music collection and found what I was looking for- Norwegian Black Metal, a band named Burzum. The shrieking and fast guitars always got my blood up. Blaring “Beholding the Daughters of the Firmament” on repeat, I lit up a cigarette, starting my car and pulling out of the graveyard where I had taken the young hooker, under the pretense of paying her for sex. I had no real interest in sex, however. It always seemed extremely dirty and disgusting, and who could possibly be worthy of someone like me?
So instead, I had asked her to get out of the car, to go to a nearby stone slab where one could lay down flat. When she sat down on it, asking me what I wanted to do, I pulled out a hammer I had tucked into the back of my pants, hidden under my loose button-down shirt. I smashed it into her head with a satisfying crack. I heard the bone fracture as the metal of the hammer made a slight ringing sound. She had gone flying backwards off the stone slab, losing consciousness for a few moments. But by the time I had walked over to her, her eyes had opened once again. The eyelids fluttered, her stare flicking to the left and right rapidly, as if searching for help that would never come. I knelt down and finished her disgusting life. Her deep, brown eyes keep meeting mine, as if asking, “Why?” As if I needed a reason.
I knew of a nature reserve nearby with a dirt road leading into it. It sometimes had a chain lock on it at night, but I always kept a pair of bolt cutters, and then I’d drape the chain back over the gate, so that any passing travelers would think the lock intact.
The nature reserve looked so beautiful in the day, but at night, it looked eerie. The crooked branches of the trees reached into the narrow dirt road, scraping at my car and windows with a slight screeching noise. A foot trail to the left led to the top of a small mountain where people went to admire the view of the surrounding hills and forests. But I went straight, deeper into the forests. Eventually the dirt road ended, and I got out, grabbing my flashlight and shovel from the trunk. I gave the dead body of the hooker, now wrapped in a white sheet, a disparaging look before turning away and slamming the trunk closed again.
I walked out a couple hundred feet from the road, not on any human or deer trail but randomly crashing through brush and prickers and spiderwebs. I never buried bodies anywhere near a trail. I dug a fairly shallow grave, maybe four feet deep. It still took me quite a while, and by the time I felt confident the hole looked deep enough, I found myself covered in sweat, my shirt sticking to my skin. Sighing, I walked back the way I had come, opened up the trunk, and slung the body of the dead woman over my shoulder.
She couldn’t have weighed more than 120 pounds, while I weighed nearly 200, but getting that awkward, unwieldy 120 pounds through pricker-bushes and past thick brush proved very difficult. After I got a little way into the woods, I started just dragging her by her feet, unsnagging all the thorns that kept threatening to rip the sheet into shreds. By the time I got back to the hole, the sheet had slashes and rips all through it. I was breathing heavily, totally exhausted and grateful to be done with the hard part. I threw the body down the hole and turned to grab my shovel to fill it back in.
And yet, when I looked behind me, the shovel had disappeared. I hadn’t seen so much as an animal this whole time, so I looked around frantically. I had to be alone out here, at 3 in the morning in a nature reserve many miles long. I felt someone grab my arm, and I screamed.
Spinning around, I saw the body of the dead prostitute. The shredded remnants of the white sheet lay in the hole still, but she had crawled out. One of her eyes was swollen shut, purple and black. She had clear dark handprints around her throat, and crusted blood covered the area on the side of her head where I had hit her with the hammer. And yet she somehow stood here in front of me.
“Come, come,” she said in a hissing voice, “don’t be afraid, Leon. I’m not your plaything. I’m just using her body so we can have a little chat.”
“Where’s my shovel?!” I asked frantically. I know, in hindsight, what a stupid question it was, but my brain had shut down from surprise and overload by this point. The dead girl just ignored my outburst and kept on talking.
“My name is Foras. My master has been impressed by your work. He would like to see you, in fact.” The dead girl grinned, her blood-stained teeth flashing under the bright LED of my flashlight. The grin looked like something sick, something evil and twisted. Then the dead girl grabbed my arm again, the freezing cold skin on her hands pressing against my arm, and I felt myself falling.
I closed my eyes, but I think I somehow fell right through solid ground. A few seconds later, I felt it stop, the butterflies in my stomach still fluttering. I opened my eyes slowly and found myself in a deep underground cavern with torches along the walls and blazing fires scattered throughout. I looked over and saw a bloodless, sheet-white man now had held my arm in the same way the dead girl had. Blood-red irises surrounded his pupils, and his limbs looked twisted and inhuman, his fingers unnaturally long and pointed.
“You have done very well,” Foras said. “No reason to be afraid. My master just wants to make you an offer.”
“An offer?” I asked.
“Yes, you’ll see.” He let go of my arm. I felt the blood rushing back into it. Then he started walking forwards, towards a blazing inferno a few hundred feet away. Black smoke billowed out of it, going up through the many holes in the ceiling to whatever world lay above. As I neared it, though, I realized I could see eyes in that fire. They looked like black holes in the middle of all that heat and light, two floating black eyes staring directly at me. I stopped in my tracks. Foras turned around, snarling.
“Go forward!” he screamed, and I did. When I got within a couple dozen feet of the eyes, I heard a new voice.
“Ah, Leon. Leon Arora. I have watched your work with interest,” the voice said, booming from everywhere and nowhere around me.
“What work?” I asked, though I knew. The eyes seemed to smile, and I heard an insane laughter echoing all around me.
“Well, let’s go over it, shall we?” the voice asked. “I am not omnipotent, but I know many things. Far more than anyone knows.
“First murder: you stabbed and then strangled a homeless man to death in Hartford. You left his body in the alleyway. Unsolved. Police have no leads.
“Second murder: you kidnapped a prostitute from Boston and then burned her alive deep in the forests of the Berkshires. Unsolved. Police have no leads.
“Third and fourth murders: you waited for two hikers on the Appalachian Trail. When they walked by, you shot both of them to death and left their bodies sprawled on the path. Unsolved. Police have no leads.
“Fifth, sixth and seventh murders: you found a rural home in the middle of Maine, took a drill and screwed all the door...
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