BTK? Dahmer? The Nightslasher? Ooo, they were so scary … but they didn’t compare to Sodomy Sam, The Fifty Shades Killer. No, he had fifteen Kansans to his name and more coming and all his murders mimicked scenes from that popular book. All those others killers were idiots. They didn’t think ahead, didn’t plan correctly and most importantly, they weren’t patient. Hell, it was like they wanted to get caught.
But Sodomy Sam, he wanted to make the history books as the most prolific serial killer of all time. He wanted to be the Jerry Rice of terror, the Wayne Gretsky of slaughter, the Eddie Gein of serial … wait, Ed Gein was a serial killer, or at least a murder. Anyway, the world would fear Sodomy Sam.
… And now he was about to get his most notorious kill to date; Ms. Kansas.
She was tall, blonde, famous. She was starting a singing career, maybe going to Hollywood. No, that’s what she thought she was going to be doing. What Ms. April Johansen was going to really be doing was bleeding quietly on her own bedroom floor.
Ducking slightly, Sam watched her small Honda pull into her driveway. She had been out with her friends and was probably their designated driver. She was so perfect. Patiently, because patience was important, he watched her climb out of her car, a dainty smile on her face.
Yes, she was perfect. She had been the prom queen, voted most likely to succeed, straight “A” student, captain of the volleyball team. Sam had done his homework, as was important for all serial killers.
He knew everything about her. That she took her morning shower at six-thirty, but not until she had a cup of herbal tea. That she slept with a teddy bear, the same one she had received as a present from her Gammy when she was born. He even knew when she started her cycle every month. Yes, patience and research. Sam was the greatest.
He watched her bounce out of her car and took a moment to admire her, like a sculptor admiring a fine piece of marble right before hacking it to pieces. He watched the way her breasts bounced under her sweater; she always wore sweaters. He watched her hair in the breeze.
He watched the way she popped her neck, rolling it awkwardly and at an unnatural angle?
Shaking his head, Sam slithered like an medieval ninja to her bedroom window and waited. At twelve thirty, she would turn out the light. On the weekends, she stayed up late; clear until twelve thirty. But week days, she needed her beauty sleep … and what a beauty she was.
Sitting under her window, Sam secretly wished he could keep part of her as a trophy. But no, that was a bad idea. That would get him caught. Ms. Kansas’ parts needed to stay in her house … just not all together.
With a tick, he heard her switch off her light. It was his time now. Time for glory, time for Ms. Kansas to die.
He quietly slipped his knife between the slats of her window. What a dumb blonde, she lived in an old house that was so easy to break into. Using the blade, he tap, tap, tapped the lock to the side. Then, sliding the blade to the side, tap, tap, tapped the board away that was acting like a second lock.
Didn’t she know that he would be able to … what was that noise? It was a wet, dripping sound, but thick and slow. A dog licking something?
Shaking it off, Sam slowly and quickly lifted the window. It moved like it was on oiled roller bearings, like it skated up the side of the window frame. Perfect.
Quickly, and without looking back, he ducked his head into the window … and ran into something solid. With a thud, he stopped short. There was something on the window something …
Sam sat back. There was an elaborate box around the window decorated to look like her dark room. There even appeared to be lighting around the edges, to make it look like her lights were coming on and going off. But … why?
Maybe she was pervert! Maybe she did things alone in there that he could expose! It was perfect! More perfect that just killing a pretty girl!
Feverishly, he went to work. His palms sweated and hands shook. There were some simple screws holding the blind in place. Blind. Blind.
As he popped the last screw loose and slid into the room, he realized … it really was a blind. A hunting blind. It was a covering to disguise what was happening in the house.
The walls were all painted red, but not with paint. Blood was splattered on the sheet rock as if something living had exploded inside the house. It ran down the already red walls in sheets. From the ceiling, rusted and blood soaked chains where hung and on their end were huge hooks, like those used to hang sides of beef in slaughter houses.
One after another, Sam saw various corpses in differing states of decay. All were stripped and all showed signs of being eaten. Some had been gnawed to the bones leaving little more than a few strips of flesh on the their skeletons, others were nearly fresh with only a few vicious bites.
In the corner, one chain rattled and a groan issued through the grisly buffet. Sam saw a beast gnawing at the thigh of a still-living man, a man who was barely conscious.
The creature was horrific, like something straight out of Hell itself. Its skin was pulled taught over its bones. Its canine jaws, devoid of flesh and jutting out of its skull, appeared to have burst violently through the skin. The beast wore rusted barbed wire like a ball gown that cut and tore its skin. Most frightening for Sam though was the cascade of long blonde hair that flowed over the twisted horns on its head.
With lightning speed, the creature turned and darted across the room, grabbing Sam by his arms, “Hello Sam,” it hissed.
The would-be serial killer could only stammer. The rancid iron in its breath was choking him.
“I’ve been waiting for you Sam,” she said. “I’ve waited oh so long for you.”
Sam tried to struggle, but the monster was insanely powerful. It held him like champion bodybuilder would hold a small child.
“Wha …” he tried to say as the deadly maw of the beast leaned toward his face.
“You did good work,” the creature hissed, “But now I need to eat you.”
With a grunt, it threw him onto the nearest hook, “But don’t worry,” it assured him, “I only eat the evil parts.”
All characters and events in this short story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. Seriously. Because if Ms. Kansas is a demon feeding on the rotting corpses of the evil, then we’ve all got way bigger problems.