Fiction, Mood piece: Sinister

(The following is an excerpt from a bit I did when I was trying my hand at writing a detective story. The villian - a narsicisstic serial murderer - is secretly the brother of the detective).


The black car had slipped quietly through the streets. The overhead glow of a streetlamp had lent the night a surreal aura; the trees borrowing strange shadows - dancing in the dark as they flew by. It felt like the kind of night where anything could happen - and if you were unlucky or unwatchful, it just might.

The October damp hung heavily against the Earth, clinging to the shadowy form on the sidewalk up ahead. Her faded black sneakers scuffed back and forth along the cracked cement, breaking dry leaves and grinding used cigarette butts into the gutter. The man could see her shivering - could almost taste her discomfort on the wind. He slowed to a stop and beckoned her over.

“Need a lift?”

“Oh, hey! It’s you,” she replied. “Nice wheels. When’d you get the convertible?”

“Pretty recently,” he said. “You heading back to your place?”

Smiling at him in the half-dark, she raised an eyebrow and asked, “could we make it yours?”

He smiled, and she got in. Without a word, he pressed on the gas. The tires squealed, spinning in the loose gravel at the side of the road, and kicking up a spray of grit. Gaining traction, the convertible lurched forward, and raced away. The car sped on through the night.

It was all so fast. So good. So right. He could barely remember arriving home, taking her inside, or their frenzied passion. There were brief flashes of a hand pressed into the small of her naked back, his breath hot on her neck, and her arching response. He could only just barely recall his hand sliding under the pillow, reaching for her gift. The only thing he could remember clearly was the beautiful widening of her eyes and sharp intake of breath as the blade of the knife slid silently between her ribs. She was terrified, gasping, and it was heady. Intoxicating. Beautiful.

As she struggled feebly under his weight, her blood slowly pooling under them, he knew that that night, it would finally be right. That night, it would feel right. And it did.

Thinking back to it, he shuddered in barely repressed pleasure, reliving every sensation. He could recall her beating uselessly against his back, her hoarse gasps growing hoarser and weaker, and the vibrancy of her green eyes growing dimmer and dimmer. Nothing had ever compared to the act of passion, the hurried intimacy of the affair, and the closeness that he could feel to them as they took him into them and gave him their last passion. He had to relish it. Live it. Savor it. It was special.

He couldn’t permit himself the luxury of such enjoyments very often. It interfered too strongly with his work… his project. It had been too long, though. He needed to share his gift. Was it time again to allow himself the experience? Slipping on his overcoat, he left his apartment and started walking down the street. In the growing gloom of dusk, nobody saw him go. He was just another anonymous face in a sea of humanity. It was a new city. New places to discover. New sights to see. New people to meet. New loves to be had.

In the distance, he could see a girl leaning against a lamppost. He paused under a tree, pretending to tie his shoelace. Glancing up, he watched her. Was she the one? As if in answer to his unspoken question, the chill breath of the Earth raced through her, slicing through her every defense, leaving her shivering. Exposed. Vulnerable. Alone.

From the shadows under the trees, he shivered with anticipation. She looked like she could use a friend.

It would be a good night.