Friendship

It’s been said that, while a friend will help you move, your best friend will help you move a body.

And he IS my best friend, I’ve known him years and trust him more than anyone else on earth, so here I am, helping dig.

And I’m doing it with a smile on my face. That’s what friendship is, after all, it’s the willingness to put yourself out there to help another person.

It’s just…

There’ve been an awful lot of bodies, of late, is all.

I mean, I love him like a brother, but still…

Friendship does have limits.

Suicide

If I were to commit suicide, and I can’t stress enough to you that I have no plans to commit suicide, if I were planning to actually commit suicide this would not in any way be a funny story, and I absolutely do understand that and want to take this moment to assure you, you will not hear about my suicide next week and think “Oh! I was just reading a piece on his blog about a suicide, and I laughed and laughed and laughed, oh my, but I’m a monster!” this will not happen and you do not have to worry about it, because I absolutely do promise not to commit suicide upon this night.

Although I don’t promise never to commit suicide. Options are always on the table after all, and while things are going okay with me right now I do have a history of both depression and crippling panic attacks that, while currently relatively mild and manageable, have been MUCH worse in my past and could for all I know overwhelm me in the future. There’s every chance that, when the end of my life comes, my cause of death does wind up being myself. It’s a possibility I’ve considered, and that I’m aware of, and that in some weird, small way, I’ve even managed to make my peace with.

But not today. And when it comes to suicidal depression, “Not today” really is the most empowering thing a person can say to himself, from a certain point of view.

So no, I have no plans to kill myself.

That said; IF I were to commit suicide, I do have a plan as to how I’d do it.

I’d get some cash together, probably via credit cards that I would never have to pay back, and count on the fact that the internet exists and that, in all likelihood, it wouldn’t be too hard to find a contract killer.

I’m pretty smart, after all, how hard could a contract killer be to find?

Once I found my killer, I’d stipulate the manner of my death in very specific language, and make it clear that unless my cause of death was to my liking my murderer would not get paid.

Because, in addition to a profound self-loathing, my character includes an equally profound narcissism, and I have an unhealthy need to be the center of attention at all times, as evidenced by the fact that here I am, discussing my own possible suicide in spite of the fact that I have no plans to commit such an act against myself any time soon.

So yes, I’d want my death to have maximum impact and, as I’d be paying a man to cause my death, I fortunately would have the opportunity to assure it was maximally impactful.

This is why if I were to commit suicide the method I would choose would be “Via Sniper.”

I’d be sure I didn’t know WHEN it was coming, only that it was, and how. This would cause me to seem suddenly unexplainably nervous and distracted whilst dealing with the people around me, perhaps leading them to wonder what I had going on that I wasn’t talking about.

If asked, I’d be evasive, claiming it was nothing, but not convincingly enough that anyone would believe me, just enough so that they’d let the matter drop, hoping I might bring it up on my own time at some future date.

Not knowing that no such future date, for me, would exist.

And when the time finally came, and my own sniper’s bullet ripped through my body, sharply, suddenly, killing me before I even hit the ground, before I was even aware of the people surrounding me, suddenly screaming in terror and scampering for cover, when the moment came I’d die knowing that, at the very least, I’d given the people in my world one last, surreal story to tell to one another at my wake.

“What the fuck was Munroe involved in, that they’d send a sniper after him?” My friends would ask, but they’d never know the answer because, of course, there wouldn’t be one. I wouldn’t be involved in much of anything, other than the hiring of a sniper off the internet.

And in that way my death would provide a little bit of mystery and magic to the world…

Now: Some of you might wonder if I would truly want my last act in this world to be a horrific act of violence against myself, for no reason other than to fuck with my friends one last time before I shuffled off this mortal coil.

And to those of you I say: Have you MET me?

...on Humanity

I’ll loan you my pen, if you need to borrow a pen, but you do have to give it back.

I’m not kidding around about that, if you try to steal my pen I will humanely end your life.

It’ll be completely painless, I’m not a monster. Lethal injection or some such, it’ll feel just like you’re going to sleep, you’ll barely know you’re dying. A warmth will come over you and you’ll settle back into it, comfortable as the end swallows your consciousness whole, allowing yourself to drift off into that eternal sleep that is the end point of every one of our journeys.

I don’t want you to suffer, after all, there’s no reason that I would want you to suffer. I consider us, if not friends, at least friendly acquaintances, as evidenced by my willingness to loan you the pen in the first place, and I’ll be genuinely saddened to see your life end, saddened further to know that I was the one to end it. But there will be nothing I can do about this, because much though I might regret your death, I will know that it is necessary.

I won’t cause you pain, because I don’t want for you to suffer, but I will end your life because, if you try to steal my pen, your life will need to end. It’ll end that I might send a message of warning to others and, more importantly, it’ll end in punishment for a minor crime that, repeated time and time again, ceaselessly, over the course of a lifetime, has worn down my patience to the point that its commission now drives me to murderous rage, fury that I can not manage but give into, and that I am no longer willing to even try to suppress.

So yes, painlessly; But death will come should you try to steal my pen.

And I suspect that, on some level, you understand why.

Because really, we’ve all had pens stolen and, really, we all know how fucking irritating it is…

Euphemism

Oh, you misunderstand. He’s not dead.

I apologize, English isn’t my first language. I flatter myself to think I speak it well, but I’ll occasionally misuse the specific idiom, not understanding what phrases are taken to mean other, unrelated phrases in the common tongue. I hope it didn’t cause any serious misunderstanding or stress.

He’s very much alive.

I simply refer to him as “The Late” because he’s constantly late, for everything.

A crime for which I intend to kill him. THEN he’ll be “The Late” in the way you’d taken me to mean, yes, but not one moment before…

Idea for a Murder - A Mental Note

I intend to kidnap a person, it doesn’t really matter who, and imprison him, stripped to the waist, hung upside down, tied to a cross, and cut open at the wrists.

Yes, I know. Again.

This time around, his restraints will act as makeshift tourniquets, slowing the bleeding during his imprisonment.

I intend to keep him completely motionless, powerless, head strapped back, eyes held open Clockwork Orange style, staring ever forward, unable to look away, unable even to blink as he stares.

And then, I will force him to watch the popular television series Hannibal, and as he watches over the course of hours I will, slowly, ever more slowly arrange that his restraints should be loosened, allowing him only slightly more freedom of movement should he choose but, the more he moves, the more he might cause his blood to flow...

He can, should he choose, attempt to free himself, but I suspect that he will remain where he is, both due to his fear at bleeding out and out of a desire to continue watching. Hannibal is, after all, a very good show.

If all goes according to plan, he’ll bleed out while watching the season finale, but before the big reveal.

In this way he’ll die fully invested in the program but never knowing how it ends, wondering as the life slips from him what he’s missing but never able to know for sure.

In this way the death he struggled so mightily to avoid will come, inescapable, his patience amounting in the end to nothing, his life amounting to the same, my victory over him, and the victory of quality television, in his death, finally complete…

This is my design.

Weekly Prompt Story: Mess

http://oneadayuntilthedayidie.com/?p=27020

Cleaning Up

By Christopher Munroe

…another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.

I suppose you expect me to bail you out ?

Fine. Bring the bone saw, fetch a rug. I’ll dismember the corpse and we can dispose of it at the quarry before coming back to scrub blood out of carpet and walls.

Make sure nobody sees you, there’s no reason for us to be here, so if no trace is found no one will suspect and in a few hours we’ll be home, enjoying a scotch.

But seriously, this is the last time I’m doing this.

I can’t clean up your messes forever…

My New Year's Resolutions

The time has come once more, ladies and gentlemen, in which a young man’s mind turns to self-improvement, and to that end toward the lofty goals that one might set oneself in the hopes that through such goals one might be made more perfect in this mortal life…

I am that one, my friends, I am that one indeed, and while I am no longer by anyone’s definition a “young” man, I have set myself such goals with just such hopes in mind. To that end, that you might hold me accountable for my own success over the course of the coming year, I should like to make my New Year’s Resolutions public, to bare them plain for the world to see.

I do hereby, in that spirit, resolve…

1) To solve more of my problems with the threat of physical violence.

I suspect that I do this to a certain degree already without even realizing that it’s happening. Let’s face it, and if you’ve ever seen me you’ll agree, I’m kind of built to solve my problems with the implied threat of physical violence.

I’m six foot three, two twenty pounds and change, and reasonably solidly built, there are likely confrontations I naturally avoid due to my size and stature without even noticing that it’s happening. Which is so great, I do my best to recognize and appreciate the instances in which my privilege smoothes the way for me, and this is certainly one such instance, but going forward I’m going to really concentrate on upping my game with regard to physically intimidating the people around me into giving me what I want without my having to earn it. After all, I can only be the truest version of myself, and the truest version of me is large, hulking, intimidating, and could stand to be much, much more of all three…

2) To deny science more aggressively.

Full disclosure, I haven’t yet decided if I’m going to go the “Climate Change Denial” route or the full Antivaxxer, but every time I meet somebody who can look at proven, established science and confidently assert, “Nuh-uh, is not!” I can’t help but feel an enormous respect for their commitment to what they believe.

Anyone can be confident in their beliefs if their beliefs happen to be true, after all, real courage is the courage to cling tenaciously so theories that are long since disproven and discredited, theories against which the vast majority of scientists have come together in opposition and mountains of contrary evidence exists.

I want to possess such courage, for courage is the path of the warrior, and in the New Year I will do my best to live up to the standards set by my antivaxxing, climate-change denying forbears…

3) To develop an opinion about Kim Kardashian.

I know, I know, I promise this every year. But this year I feel really good about it, Kim K is in the news now more than ever, and I’m pretty sure that if I hunker down and really start paying attention I can by the end of the year, when her name comes up, either love, hate, or in any event come up with some response to her mention other than a bored shrug and uninterested “meh.”

This time for sure!

4) To get way more serious about my Murder-Sculpture.

Okay, I’ll admit, this one may be the result of watching too much Hannibal. Still, some of the murder-sculpture on that show is amazing, and they really put the murder/performance art I’ve been doing here in town to shame. I know, I can’t expect to be working to the same level as the team on a major network television program, but come on! I’m a creative, talented sociopath, and I could be leaving corpses in MUCH more interesting predicaments in an attempt to taunt local law enforcement!

And that’s not even including the possibilities that open up to me once I start manipulating the people around me into their own murder sprees! Yes, if I play 2015 right Calgary could be an absolute bloodbath by the end of next year, and while it may have taken a television show to remind me of this fact, by Zod now that I do remember it I’ll do my best to live up to the example Hannibal’s set me!

5) To start a New Year’s Revolution!

Another holdover from last year, I did not lead the populace in open rebellion against an oppressive regime at any point during the past twelve months. Again, this is nobody’s fault but my own, things got on top of me and this promise I made to myself just sort of slipped my mind. Life gets in the way sometimes, you know how it is.

This year for sure, however! I will choose a small, oppressed nation, I will go there, I will lead its people and, on December 31st, we will together overthrow the previous regime! The headline writes itself, all we have to do is make the news, it will be magical!

Alternately, a late-December crime spree. “New Year’s Thieves” does have a lovely ring to it…

…so there we are! My goals for the New Year, achievable all and well worth pursuing each and every one, I think you will agree. I know these will not be easy to follow through on, resolutions worth their salt never are, but if I can make even one or two of these a reality, the benefit both to me and to the people around me will be undeniable. Looking forward to the year ahead, I see great things in my future, and I look forward to keeping you updated as to how my resolutions go!

Keep me honest, you guys! Especially with regard to the murder-sculpture!

Munsi

Weekly Prompt Story: Vice

http://oneadayuntilthedayidie.com/?p=26448

Vices

By Christopher Munroe

We all have vices.

The drink too many at the pub, the cigarette habit we can’t seem to overcome, an annual trip to Vegas that always winds up over its initial gambling budget…

…some, out of our mind on hallucinogens, might kill a stranger with our bare hands because it’s the only way we can achieve orgasm.

I, out of my mind on hallucinogens, kill strangers with my bare hands because it’s the only way I can achieve orgasm.

But that’s beside the point.

The point is, we all have vices.

So how can we judge the vices of others?

Weekly Prompt Story: Not Found

http://oneadayuntilthedayidie.com/?p=25243

The Body

By Christopher Munroe

The body was never found.

I know, because I still have it.

I keep it in my walk-in freezer, hanging from a meat hook. Nobody questioned me buying the meat hook, which is weird since I followed it up by not buying meat at any point.

Vegetarian, don’t you know.

You’d think that would be suspicious, wouldn’t you? Buying a walk-in freezer, a meat hook and zero meat? I’d find that suspicious…

But nobody else did, nobody came around to search my walk-in freezer, and thus the body was never found.

But I digress: You wanna buy a human corpse?

Policy Change

Upon our arrival at work, the front of house staff were handed small, silenced pistols and told that, going forward, we would be expected to, on occasion, execute our customers gangland style.

It was hoped that this would provide a simple, elegant solution to the guests who got too drunk, spoke too loudly, and generally disrupted their neighbors enjoyment of their meals. According to our new policy: At the request of a customer, we would drag the offending patron out into the parking lot, put a bullet in them, and toss their body into a specially marked biohazard dumpster located to the side of the building for later disposal before cleaning up any blood that might have spattered on us, hygene is important in food service, and returning to our duties, allowing other customers to enjoy their dinner in well deserved peace.

The restaurant’s lawyers, we were assured, had already worked out the various thorny legal details. There would be no consequences to us personally for the people we were asked to kill.

Nor should there be. It’s just a job after all, and minimum wage plus tips isn’t worth going to court over.

It seemed, we reflected, the sort of scheme that might actually work. After all, it’s only a few rowdy patrons who ruin the evening for everyone else. Nonetheless, we were naturally profoundly uncomfortable at the prospect.

Not uncomfortable that we’d be expected to commit murder, mind you, it’s the dream of every waiter to be allowed to kill the occasional guest. Rather, uncomfortable at how the decision as to who needed to die would be made.

We’re fine with killing customers.

We just don’t want YOU to choose who lives or dies…

Weekly Prompt Story: Stab

http://oneadayuntilthedayidie.com/?p=24755

A Pep Talk (part II)

By Christopher Munroe

Waiting tables isn’t tough, once you get the hang of it.

When things become stressful, just remember my simple, four-step process, and it will get you through.

See to your guest’s every need, want and desire.

Treat them like you’d want to be treated, were you in their place.

Anticipate requests, so you can give them what they want before they even know that they want it.

Be friendly. Above all else, be friendly.

In short: S.T.A.B. them.

S.T.A.B. the customers who sit in your section.

S.T.A.B. every single one of them.

And make it clear: “I will S.T.A.B. you.”

The Sanctity of Life

It seemed, at first, like the perfect crime.

The state had recently passed a personhood amendment granting single, fertilized eggs the same legal standing, rights and protection as fully-grown human beings.

Meaning that, due to this amendment, life would for all legal intents and purposes begin with that single cell and, whatever might happen to it from that moment on, it would be the same life it was at the moment of conception.

The legal ramifications were, indeed are, obvious.

Identical twins begin as a single cell, which then divides in two, both parts growing into what, previous to the passage of “Personhood”, was considered a separate individual human being. However, due to the deliberately indistinct wording of the amendment, from a legal perspective the single cell is now a complete legal entity in and of itself, and this doesn’t cease to be the case simply because that one entity happens to inhabit two physically distinct bodies.

So, when Michael contracted me to murder his twin, I knew there’d be no consequences to the crime. Murdering a twin, after all, was no longer murder. It was at best assault with the intent to cause grievous bodily harm, and unless Michael pressed charges (unlikely as a paper-trail existed connecting him to the act) there was no way that case would stand up in court. I’d be brought in, he’d testify on my behalf that I’d done him no lasting harm, and that would be the end of it.

Like I said, the perfect crime. He’d have done it himself if he hadn’t been so squeamish. Understandably so, whatever the legality the act killing a twin does still feel sort of like murder.

Still, that’s where men like me come in handy. I don’t get squeamish easily. So on the appointed day I walked into the office Michael’s “brother” worked in, went to his desk and put four bullets into his chest. I dropped the pistol, came out with my hands up, turned myself in and prepared myself for three or four days navigating the criminal justice system before my inevitable release and subsequent payday.

The best laid plans…

What I didn’t know was that Michael was hit by a bus on the morning I’d been scheduled to kill his twin, and as such by the time I shot him he was the only surviving brother. So here I sit in my little cell, awaiting arraignment on murder charges with a mountain of evidence piled up against me.

My lawyer thinks he can talk it down to criminal negligence, as my only real crime was failing to do my due diligence that morning, and I hope he’s right, but I have to admit, the chances don’t seem good.

The state also has the death penalty, and they’ve proven time and again how much they love to use it.

They’re very serious, in that regard, when it comes to protecting the sanctity of life…

Hitting the Road

Sometimes you’ve just got to get away.

It might be work, or just the grind of your daily routine, but some part of you needs to mix things up, get out of your life a bit, take a break from what you know, from yourself, and when those times come you’ve got to hit the road, and damn the consequences.

Life’s too short to deny yourself its fullness, after all. When you need to get away, don’t think.

Just go.

Or sometimes, you’ve killed somebody and you know your fingerprints are everywhere.

Those times you have to get away too…

The Danger of Mishearing

They sailed, in search of sirens.

They’d heard tales, you see, of women of impeachable beauty beneath the waves, and couldn’t help but set out, to see them and hear their songs.

They understood it was likely mere rumor, but to see such figures of myth with their own two eyes was a prospect too tempting to ignore.

So out they sailed.

The rumors? Nearly true. And in a way they found that which they sought.

Sadly, however, not one among them returned to tell the tale.

They weren’t mermaids, you see, they were murmaids.

And “Mur” stood for “Murder.”

Meanwhile, at my Realtor's office...

There are only so many places in a rented space to hide a body.

Apartments aren’t large, after all.

Buying allows for a lot more room.

Behind walls, an unfinished basement you can dig up, the yard, there are dozens of options for the discerning murderer looking to settle down.

And with the housing market how it is, there’s never been a better time to buy. In fact, I’d say any serial killer still renting would have to be out of his mind!

So: I have a few places in mind I’d love for you to see. How’s your Monday?

Weekly Prompt Story: RedRum

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/2012/09/09/weekly-challenge-333-red/

RedRum

By Christopher Munroe

I finally bought myself a bottle of RedRum.

I figured it’d provide material for stories, going forward. You know, unexpected deaths, scrambling to hide bodies, the whole thing. Something pun-based yet horrific.

Disappointing.

Nobody died, no horrifying revelations, overall it was an uneventful night, drinking Rum and struggling to write.

I may have overdone it. Rum’s never agreed with me, and putting down the whole bottle was probably unwise.

Now my head’s pounding, I’m queasy and I can’t focus my eyes. I’ve never had a hangover this bad in my life! It hurts like mur…

Oh! I just got it!

The Pod-o-Pod

In my defense, building the pod-o-pod seemed like a good idea at the time.

I mean, what could be better than a man-sized pod, where I could record podcasts whilst suspended in amniotic fluid? I’d get a better sound quality on my recordings, as the amniotic fluid would act as a soundproofing agent, AND I’d record in comfort and style unparalleled in the podcast world!

It was the wave of the future, for voice actors, podcastors and audiobook narrators alike!

Procuring the amniotic fluid wasn’t easy, I’ll give you that, and the methods I had to resort to included a number of broken laws and shady characters, but once I had it, it was smooth sailing. I was living the dream!

Or so I thought.

I don’t know if it was the fluid, the fact that I was suspending myself naked in it two or three times a week, the electronics so near the liquid, or some combination thereof but within two weeks I had a developing, vaguely humanoid mass trapped in the pod, growing and taking shape.

I watched it develop, over the course of the next several months, and as it did the truth of what it was becoming became harder and harder to deny.

It was me.

The pod was growing an exact duplicate of me, down to the finest detail, and I was watching, day in and day out, as my new, identical twin gradually took shape.

I was horrified, but too transfixed to look away.

Until it… he… I? Until the version of me inside the pod opened his eyes one Sunday, and stared right at me. Our eyes locked, and he/I put one hand to the inner glass wall of the pod. He/I seemed as fascinated with Me/He as I/He was with Him/Myself. I didn’t say a word, just stared at my new, perfect doppelganger for I don’t know how long.

And as I did, I wondered: Did he have my memories? Or was he merely a physical copy, with the intellect of a newborn? Or, perhaps worse, was some darker intellect lurking behind those eyes, eyes so like my own, an intellect plotting toward some nefarious purpose known only to my accidentally conceived twin?

I could have waited until He/I/It was born and asked, I suppose.

Instead, I went to Canadian Tire, to buy an axe.

Does that make me the evil twin? I can live with that.

Afterward, I dissolved the body in lye, as I’d seen done on a television show one time. I diluted the mixture when I was done and poured it down a sewer grate. I have no idea what that’ll do to Calgary’s sewer system, but I do know that that’s the city’s problem, not mine.

I’ll never be accused of any crime for the way I handled this, never suspected of anything untoward. The victim, after all, was me, and so far as anyone knows I’ve never been murdered. I’m still alive and walking around, the original Munsi.

I can’t stress enough to you that I am the original Munsi.

Still, in spite of the fact that there’s no chance of legal consequences, I can’t help thinking I may have acted hastily.

I mean, I didn’t KNOW the doppelganger meant me harm. I meant it harm, certainly, but it might have had a more gentle temperament than I. I’ll never know, I didn’t give it the chance to show me.

I was afraid to.

But I try not to worry about it too much. I did what I had to do, and I destroyed the pod-o-pod afterward, just to be on the safe side. Maybe my clone was harmless, but there was no way of knowing until it was potentially too late, and I couldn’t subject the world to that sort of risk.

I know what I did I did for the safety of humanity, and whenever guilt at the actions I was forced to rears it’s ugly head, that’s that fact which I focus on.

After all, I can live with the possibility that I ended an innocent life, but nobody would survive if the world was overrun by podcast people…

Mr. Jackson's Money

Look, you gotta calm down.

All Mr. Jackson wants is his money. That’s all he wants. We know you have it, you made the pickup just fine, there were plenty of witnesses who saw you do it.

You’re in trouble, you know that by now. If the fact that you’re tied to a chair in a room you don’t recognize didn’t tip you off I’m sure my knife did. But this doesn’t have to end all that badly for you.

You do still have an out.

I have to get the money, I have to bring it back. Mr. Jackson doesn’t like failure, any more than he likes weasely little fucks trying to steal from him, but there’s nothing in my instructions about what I gotta do with you once I have it.

So, I’ll tell you what, you tell me where the money is…

You will STOP fucking crying this FUCKING instant! I’m talking to you. You will shut up and listen when I’m talking to you!

As I was saying, you tell me where the money is, and once I have it you get out of town. Nobody here ever hears from you again. How does that sound?

I’m not joking. Stop crying.

I won’t tell you again.

Look, I know it’s not the future you’d hoped for, on the run from somebody with Mr. Jackson’s resources, but it’s the only end to this where you get out of this room still upright, so what do you say?

Wait.

Who’s phone is that? Oh, that’s me.

Sorry, I gotta take this.

Hello?

Yeah?

 Yeah, I’m talking to him now.

Don’t worry, I’ve fed him a line of bullshit about hope and survival and whatnot. If that doesn’t work, I’m gonna start with his teeth. Either way, I’ll get him to tell me where he stashed the cash, kill him, dump the body somewhere it’ll never be found, and head back.

Yeah. Absolutely. You too. I’ll see you then.

Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have let you overhear that. So: Where were we?

When David Henderson Wakes Up...

...he’ll find both himself and his bed drenched in blood. Were he to have the blood tested, he’d learn it was human.

I somehow doubt he’ll have it tested.

Instead, once he’s done screaming, he’ll probably shower, gather his bedclothes and dispose of them as best he knows how. He likely won’t dispose of them very well.

He didn’t plan to  need to, after all.

He’ll wonder what happened to him, what he did while he slept. He’ll wonder if he killed someone, and who, and if police are moments away from breaking down his apartment door.

He did, it was a homeless person nobody will ever miss, and no, in case you’re wondering.

He doesn’t need to worry. But he will.

He’ll worry more and more as the weeks go by, obsessing over the moments after he awoke, straining himself to remember what happened, what led to that one horrible morning. He’ll never remember a thing.

Maybe he’ll someday put the experience behind him and get on with his life, telling himself it was only a nightmare, a brief nervous breakdown and that it never really happened. Some people do.

Though they’re never the same afterward.

More likely he’ll never get over it. More likely the guilt and shame and sorrow, and the endless unanswerable questions, will haunt him until the end of his life.

Maybe he’ll end his own life. Many do.

Either way, he’ll never know for sure what happened while he slept, because he wasn’t in the driver’s seat.

I took him, you see, while he slept. I borrowed his body, since he wasn’t using it, and I hit the streets. I picked someone at random, I killed him with a butcher knife from David Henderson’s kitchen, and then I threw the knife into a nearby dumpster.

The police will never trace the knife back to David, because I washed the knife and I put gloves on him before picking it back up, but mostly they’ll never trace the knife back to him because they have no reason to suspect, even for a moment, that he might be a killer.

Because he’s not. And if you kill somebody, once, and you choose your victim at random, you can still get away with murder, even in this day and age.

A lesson I wish I’d learned in life, though I’m not sure I could have followed it. I was good at picking my victims at random, but I could never stop at just one.

That’s how they caught me.

David, on the other hand, will never be caught, because he will stop at one. One horrible night, one terrifying morning, and he’ll never have to help me this way again.

I know he’ll never be caught because none of the other people whose bodies I’ve borrowed ever have been. And there’s been a lot of them, I’ve been doing this since they executed me and nobody’s been caught yet. They’ve gone mad, on occasion, and they sometimes kill themselves, but they never, ever get caught. And neither will David.

And next week, when the urge builds within whatever astral thing I have instead of a living body, I’ll possess someone other than David Henderson to fulfill my mission. And while David loses his mind from fear, guilt and paranoia I’ll be merrily going about my business using new hands each time I kill.

I never possess the same person twice for my nightly excursions, you see. But I admit, I do try my best to keep track of what they do after I’m done with them, how they manage their guilt and pain or how they fall apart.

As the years go by, I’ve learned that that’s half the fun.

Sanitarium

There’s an abandoned sanitarium near my neighborhood. Not in my neighborhood, but near it. I go there to relax.

It isn’t haunted, possessed, or any of the outdated tropes you’d associate with such places, it’s just a building. Abandoned during the seventies, in remarkably good repair considering it’s age, and utterly forgotten by the people who live nearby.

It’s where I keep the people I take from the side of the highway. I visit them, for as long as they last, and when they’re done I find a place to bury them.

You’ll see for yourself, we’re almost there now…