“The Macabre Figure”

Story written by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me

          I was a poor man that lived off of the bare minimum. Everything from my food to my apartment was plain and minimal. My day jobs could never give me the luxurious life I had always envisioned. I was an artist, too and I stole paper and pens and whatever else from whomever I could—all for the sake of fulfilling my passion. I lived like this for a long time, until Nameless came along.
          Nameless was the name I bestowed upon my favorite caricature. I drew him into everything I created; he was my muse. His design was very distinct: he was skinny with long appendages and his eyes were glossy and pale and empty. His eyes were only features on his face, everything else was blank. He was the noseless, mouthless, earless Nameless. 
          I don’t really recall when I first drew him—he just showed up one day at the corner of my sketchbook. Days after days passed and I saw him repeatedly appear in the corner of everything. So I started drawing him in the very center of the page. He’d do so many things there; he’d read, write, cry, laugh and wish upon shooting stars. I grew very fond of him quickly and couldn’t contain the joy I felt when I carried him from my mind, out my pen and onto my canvas. Nameless was the center point in which I revolved my life around.
          Our bond, though, grew stronger and I couldn’t stop drawing him. I wouldn’t eat or sleep until a perfect portrait of him was created. It had to be perfect, from the shading to the line work to the watercolor backgrounds. I worked for long, strenuous days, sometimes breaking down and crying over simple mistakes. This overwhelming desire would eat at me and I’d hallucinate phantasms that’d crawl across the walls. The pressure and stress would weigh down on me and, for many moments, I couldn’t breathe or move or think. But, somehow, I managed to carry on.
          After weeks of starvation and sleep deprivation, I finished Nameless’ perfect portrait. To celebrate, I ate four meals in one sitting and slept for a whole day straight. When I was fully rested and fed, I went back to my masterpiece; I wanted to see it’s brilliance with fresh eyes; I wanted it to take my breath away—and that it did.
          It was ugly. It was lopsided and contorted. The colors didn’t mix well, everything was a washed-out faded grey and Nameless sat at the center of a disaster. I remember screaming at it. I remember tears flooding my eyes as I smashed whatever furniture I had. I threw things, I spat, and I grabbed hold of the canvas, ripped the portrait apart and burned it. And after I burned the portrait, I burned the apartment and after I burned the apartment, I burned myself.
          The whole place was up in a crimson flame and I laid on the floor and breathed in all of the toxins; I was ready to leave this foul earth. But someone saved me; some hero-in-the-making broke in and dragged me outside and resuscitated me. I was in a black tunnel and the light at the end of it faded away as I burst back into reality.
          I was alive; I drank the air as if I had never felt it before; I devoured the smell of freshly lain dew; I listened wholeheartedly to the sound of chattering birds; I was alive. The gloom of Nameless was gone and I could feel a new chapter of my life opening up. Thoughts rushed through my head as I headed through the town. I thought of all the artwork I could make; I could create beautiful landscapes and remind the whole world about the wonders of living. In the moment, my heart was filling up with joy—fattening up and readying itself to burst.
          A hand snatched me from the streets and pulled me into the darkness. I struggled and saw a masked man with a sharp barb between his fingers. I tried to fight back but all was futile in the end. My eyes were fixed onto the moon as his blade gouged into my ears, plucking the sound out of this world. Then all the smells vanished and then the taste of the night disappeared. Pain pulsated through me and gushed out my ears and nose and mouth, decorating the streets in blood. The shadow of the man left me on the stone pathway and I laid there, suffocating in sanguine, until falling back into darkness.
          Thrice I had been engulfed in darkness and thrice I had awoken to light. The world was a blurry hum; it was scentless and tasteless, too. I had awoken into a hospital dressed in a plain patient gown and had tubes emitting from my anorexic arms. I saw people around me, moving their lips and looking at me from time to time—I only saw them, no other sensation was present. They handed me a paper explaining that the assailant had robbed me of sound, taste and scent. I felt the inside of my mouth and my tongue was missing, I felt my nose but it was missing and my ears felt empty. Everything was stitched up with a tight bow.
          They eventually let me leave and I left as a silent shadow of the man I was before. I walked through crowds of people and saw all of the forbidden senses I was deprived of. I dragged myself to a small park in the center of the town and picked a patch of grass to lie on. I gazed up at the stars then gazed back at some passing vehicles. Tears flooded out of me as I shrieked silently. I was now nothing but a being of sight; noseless, mouthless, earless, scentless, soundless, tasteless, nameless.

“The Contemplation of Homicide”

Story written by Franklin Rayeski – Please do not use without crediting me

Warning: Contains Graphic Content (gore)

          I don’t want revenge and I don’t have a sick pleasure in watching people suffer. I have no racist, sexist or xenophobic ideals that would fuel my deed, nor do I want to make any statements to the public. I am not trying to get famous; I am not mentally disturbed. All I want to do is to perform murder just to see how it feels. I want to know what it feels like to take the life out of another human being and master the delicate art of no one finding out.
          So, I have to figure out the best way to do it. There are some key elements I need to take into consideration: when, where, how and who. I also need to figure out how I will gain the information of what to do after, as well as, gaining the information on properly committing the act. I need to thoroughly examine each aspect and figure out the best way to minimize any and all evidence leading to me on the off chance I were to get found and arrested.
          All different aspects to consider are equally important, but I will start with when. I plan on finding the perfect girl and starting a family at some point in time. I am currently out of college with a Bachelor’s degree and am working in a lowly office job. I am still in my twenties, so, the time to kill would be in the near future. That, of course, gets me a little excited.
          The next conundrum is where. I live in an apartment and, even if I wasn’t, committing murder in my own home is completely off the table. Although I wouldn’t have to worry about getting my fingerprints anywhere and would have a lot of manipulation in my environment, all evidence of the murder would be here and I cannot risk that. So, whenever I find a victim, their home would be an option. As I will eventually mention in what kind of victim I am looking for, I am not planning on this person to be living with anyone. To commit murder in their home, I would either have to break in or befriend this person and gain entry. If I break in, it is very possible things can go south (i.e. I get caught by a neighbor or alarms go off) and I could risk the victim being more agile and hostile, making the murder itself more difficult. If I gain entry by befriending the victim, not only do records of myself conversing with this individual appear, but I would have to be very cautious not to get my fingerprints anywhere. So, the victim’s house is too complicated to do. So, now my options are limited to somewhere outdoors, in a populated area or unpopulated. In an unpopulated area, I could hide the body, but I’d have to get the body to that location in the first place which could lead to complications. Therefore, the best spot to commit murder is in a populated area. That way, my existence—footprints—could easily become muddled and unidentifiable. Of course, depending on the method I choose, it may not be directly in a populated area, but perhaps off to the side in a portable toilet or down some alleyway.
          This leads to my next concern: how. Poisoning, shooting, bludgeoning, stabbing and strangling are all options. I do not wish to poison people because I don’t just want to kill someone, I want to kill them; I want to have that rush of performing an action that directly takes another person’s life. However, poisoning may be used to weaken the victim. Guns are noisy—quick, but noisy—and leave a lot of evidence. This would be used as a last resort. Stabbing involves a lot of blood being spilt and getting everywhere. However, choosing an alleyway works perfectly; if it’s cold outside—which it is that time of the year—I could simply throw on a trench coat to cover my bloody clothes and just walk away and then later washing them at a far off Laundromat. In order to bludgeon someone, a heavy and big object is required and I don’t have the strength or stamina to carry it to and from the crime scene. Strangulation involves a lot of strength too and requires a lot of room for struggle, but in an alleyway, it might become very noticeable for two humans flailing all over the place. In conclusion, stabbing is my best method. I would sneak up from behind, slit their throat so they don’t scream and then stab them a few more times as I stare into their eyes and watch them die. However, I must retain myself and force some sort of will power over me because getting too into it creates a sloppier murder; and sloppy murderers get caught.
          Next: who; any acquaintance or enemy is immediately off the table—the lesser the connection to me, the better. So, it will be a stranger. I do not wish to kill any children and taking the life of an elderly man or woman seems too easy, so I can assume my target would a middle-aged man or woman—or a young adult if my options are limited. I will consider the idea of either getting to know my target beforehand by researching them or if I will go in blind. On the plus side of going in blind, there would be no evidence of me being anywhere near them, however, not knowing my enemy would make me highly susceptible to failure, so finding a target and researching them is my best option. Aside from age, I will be targeting a single persona that lives alone and has a low social life—though if I ever do decide to come into contact with my prey, that limited friend’s list will backfire on me. There is also figuring out how I will find them. The internet is undoubtedly the best way. I can find people that live far away from me, find them, stalk them and then go in for the kill. Accessing the internet and stalking some fellow using my own computer would be detrimental if any police officer found out, so, my alternative is only researching things using the local library’s computer. Computers at work are also an option but libraries are much less conspicuous. Conclusively: I will, using the local library’s computers, research my subject online that is single, lives alone, doesn’t live in the same town as me and is middle aged.
          Finally, I need to address any other information I have not considered. One thing is that if my relationship with my victim is only anonymous, how will I get them into the alleyway—or wherever I plan on killing them? I could lure them into places, but who knows if that will work exclusively on them and won’t attract anyone else? In these cases, I may briefly interact with the victim—perhaps while following them around to get an idea of their schedule—this way, none of his close friends would recognize me and I can be someone that my victim sees as a familiar face requesting a random favor in an alleyway. Besides that, there’s also ensuring I get away with the murder. All I’d have to do is follow all the steps I have already gone over and make sure no evidence is left behind that could connect me to the murder. I could also create fake leads which can be done by, perhaps, killing a black man which would insinuate that the murderer is a racist or killing a Muslim which would mislead some to believe that the murder was committed out of religious hate. Messages or ciphers could be left behind to make some believe that there is a bigger purpose and that I will continue killing. All of these ideas will be considered.
          Now that everything is planned on what I will do, I now need to make preparations in order for the murder to take place. Although I do plan on doing it within the next few years, the more planning and information I acquire now, the better. I first go down to the local library and do some research. I first start off on their computers with vague searches. I look up serial killer statistics; I look up different killers to generate a list of do’s and don’ts, as well as figuring out the physical capabilities to actually kill someone. I first feared there’d be some onlookers that would be concerned about what I was researching, but to be frank, if anyone saw me looking at these things, no one would think it strange. In America, murder is normality; serial killers are so prevalent in news, books, movies, songs, games and much more—so much so, you’d be given strange looks if you weren’t fascinated in that kind of stuff.
          After looking online, I seek out books on murder trials and manifestos—none of these books I will ever check out of course. I spend hours and hours reading and flipping through these books to further understand what I should do or shouldn’t do. Since I’ve began lingering around the library a lot, and looking at same types of books without checking any of them out—I might’ve alarmed some. I know that I might look suspicious, so I go to the receptionist desk and I check out one book—a lengthy book full of modern infamous murder trials that I couldn’t read in one sitting—and then proceed to strike a conversation with the lady. No one is in line besides me, so I’m able to have a lengthy conversation. I explain to her that I’ve been watching a new crime drama that’s on television and it has a lot of facts on serial killers; I tell her the topic fascinates me and I just want to learn more. She gives me suggestions on some novels and becomes ecstatic and starts going off about her obsession with murder mysteries. I take away my suspicion and allow this woman to be my scapegoat when coming to research my murders.
          I learn a lot of information. The first one being that slitting someone’s throat will cause them to not scream, but gargling and gasping will ensue. Also, the trachea has no major veins or arties, so in order to kill them: one would have to cut beside the collarbone or below the jaw-line to hit the carotid artery. Either way, hitting an artery would cause a massive amount of blood loss that would be quite a mess to clean up. I could get blood all over me. One way to combat this is to bring along a backpack full of spare clothes to clean myself and change into. I must look up effective ways on how to get rid of blood stains before I make my debut.
          I then go out and shop. I go to a party store and buy an orange wig. After working on the perfect technique of making it look real, I go off and buy other items. Separately and in different intervals, I buy the gloves I want and I buy a nice kitchen knife—at different stores and with other items as to not look suspicious. I start to grow out my facial hair. I go to a thrift-store and buy a black trench coat—this one, luckily, is water resistant. I buy cheap rubber boots and a tan jacket. I buy a backpack and buy the supplies I need to get blood stains out. Now that I have all the items I need, it’s time to hunt for prey.
          There are thousands of people to choose from, but I just need one. I could scroll through social media profiles or I could go to another town and pick a random man or woman out from the streets. Both of these methods, of course, are very ineffective, I need to carefully pick a victim. One day, I got a brilliant idea—one that goes along with my “leading the police astray” tactic—I go onto a dating site, find someone and then look them up online. This way, I can make sure they are living alone, I can gain access to personal information and I can use this against my victim. So, I proceed with my plan. I make an account on a gay dating website—I give a fake name and don’t fill anything out since I’m not planning on speaking with anyone—and continue to skim through hundreds of accounts.
          I go to accounts,  I find where they live, look at their job, look them up online to see if they’re really who they say they are and then develop a list of prey. I’m able to get a list of 10 people within five hours. I won’t go on about who was what or how I narrowed down the list, but I finally pick the man I think was best. The person that I’m going to murder is a boy named “John Schmid,” he is not only black and gay, but he lives alone and the fool had posted his address and workplace for the world to see.
          I go into work afterwards and request for all my vacation days to be used on the following week—that week was the week I plan on stalking—and maybe, if I was lucky—going to murder him. Of course, killing him during my break would be too coincidental, so I decided it would be used solely for gaining information on this man and his daily routines. Maybe his weekly schedule changed all the time, but, after looking at his work, he seems to be stuck in a mundane day-to-day work place. The best part about all of this is that I, during this time, would be able to plan a point in his schedule that would be perfect for murder.
          On the following Monday, I drive down to his apartment complex. I wait early in the morning with my eyes glued onto the lobby doors with Mr. Schmid’s face in my mind waiting for him to leave for work. Finally, at seven-thirty—four hours after I arrived—John Schmid emerges. He walks down the block and I wait a few moments before starting up my car and tailing him. I do it as covertly as possible. He stops inside a coffee place and I park my car and follow. I time it so that as I walk in, he’s just leaving. I on purposely trip over myself and make him spill his coffee. I frantically apologize and offer—beg—to either give him money or to straight out buy him another cup. He was frustrated at first, of course, but he’s too humble to let me pay him. He tells me he understands it was an accident and that it’s okay; “maybe next time you can buy me a drink,” he jokes and our eyes lock together. I just stare at him with a grin, trying to contain my laughter. I’m staring into the eyes of the man I’m going to slaughter and I feel a surge run through me that thrills me. He just looks at me strangely, smiles and then walks out the door.
          I stay inside of a few moments, browse and then leave. He saw me and my vibrant hair, so—back in my car—I take off the wig and wrap a big scarf around me to cover my mouth. I then continue to follow him from across the street. I follow him to his workplace and then camp out at a restaurant across the street. He doesn’t leave for a lunch break so I had to leave the restaurant; I don’t want to stay in there all day. I walk around the different buildings and meander until about three when he leaves work. He walks the same route home and stays there for the rest of the night.
          I continue stalking him throughout the rest of the week, and, for the most part, his schedule stays the same: he leaves his home at seven thirty, gets coffee, goes to work until three and then returns home. On Tuesday, John goes on a lunch break with two co-workers to a small restaurant down the street. On Wednesday and Friday, after work, John walks to a pub across town and then takes a cab home. Over the weekend, John mostly stays home, but, on Saturday, goes back to that pub and walks home afterwards later in the evening. During the weekdays, I constantly, at different points, run into John—mostly in the coffee shops—and, once or twice, we have a little small talk. I do my best to keep my cool, but my intrusive thoughts just keep screaming in my head as I talk to him.
          After my vacation, I follow him around for three more weekends and finally conclude that the fourth Saturday from when I first stalked him is the day I plan to commit my murder. If he follows the same routine—which there should be no doubt that he would—I hope to kill him on his way home from the pub. I drive down the path he walks to and from the pub and pick out a few alleyways that I think would be the perfect spot. I go down to each one and inspect the area and make sure the spot I need is vacant, concealed and closed off. I find three alleyways—one I prefer but two more just in case it isn’t vacant when I need it to be. As Saturday approaches, I could feel the excitement surge through me. I carefully take the knife out of its package with gloves—as to ensure no fingerprints get on the weapon—then put on my wig and finally pack my things into a backpack: my trench coat, spare clothes and my cleaning supplies. I put the cleaning supplies in the car and I get myself mentally prepared for what I’m about to do.
          On Saturday, at six forty-five in the afternoon, John Schmid leaves his home and walks to the pub. I follow him in my car the whole walk there. I watch him go into the pub and I go and park next to the murder spot. I get out and look around the spot and it’s empty. I stand out there for hours. The weather gets more and more bitter as the sky grows darker. I don’t know when John is leaving the pub—he usually leaves around eight—and it’s currently seven fifty. I wait and constantly check the sidewalk to see him. The streets are busy but not too busy. My bones are shaking in anticipation.
          Finally I see him cross the horizon and head towards me. Snow starts to fall. I keep my hand firmly placed around the knife in my coat pocket. The wind gets colder. I’m afraid I’ll get too excited and kill him as soon as he gets close. I have to contain myself. He gets closer. A few cars roll by. The smile on my face widens. The air gets denser. He keeps coming closer and closer and he’s so unaware that it makes me want to laugh. It’s nearly freezing outside. He approaches.
          “Hey John!”
          “Hey.”
          “Can you come over here for a moment?”
          “Sure? What’s up?”
          “It’s back here. I don’t know, I just thought you’d want to see this.”
          “What is it?”
          “You’ll see it when we get there.”
          “Y’know, you seem like a nice guy; we should hang out more than just in coffee shops.”
          “Yeah.”
          “What’s your name again?”
          “Charles Robinson.”
          “There’s nothing back here.”
          “Look harder.”
          “Is this a joke? I really don’t see anything. Hello? Are you even listening to me?” I gouge my knife into his throat and guide it across his neck. Blood pours out of him and he falls onto his knees and gags. He starts to crawl away but I grab onto him and turn him towards me. I get on top of him and pierce my knife back into him and break his major arteries. A blood geyser erupts and spatters against my skin. It hits my neck and drools down underneath my shirt. I put my face inches away from his and start stabbing his stomach while staring into his crying eyes. Vomit, pus and blood spew from different orifices and I get covered in the guck. But I continue. I watch the life drain from his eyes as he weakly struggles for freedom. My body is shaking violently in happiness and each thrust of the wrist fills me with delight. Even after his body goes limp and his eyes extinguish, I keep stabbing for several minutes until I run out of energy. I love the sound of my blade cutting into his flesh. My hands, body, feet and face are all wet with blood. And, after I sit up and stop stabbing him, I finally do it; I finally release that horrible laugh I was keeping in.
          Snow lightly layers over me and the corpse as I unzip my backpack and wrap my red body in my trench coat. A feeling of victory is flooding over me. I feel drained, but in a good way; like an orgasm. I stay there for a few moments reveling in this great feeling before coming to and thinking about what to do next. I examine his body. I take my knife out and draw a cross on his forehead—the police will think this was a religious hate crime or something. I pocket my bloody knife.
          I stand up, exhausted and dizzy, and leave the alleyway with a trail of bloody footprints behind me. My car isn’t far from the alleyway entrance and so I walk there, get in and drive off. I find a secluded spot to park where I get out, change out of my bloody clothes, wipe myself with a rag and then change into clean clothes. I then drive to another town, find a Laundromat and then bleach and wash my bloody clothes and backpack, then go to a gas station and clean the car of the scent and blood stains from the backpack and then spray off the blood from the rubber boots.
          I go home and, with gloves, I rip apart my clothes and backpack and boots and wig, throw them into a garbage can and burn them—forcing myself to deal with the horrible smell. I clean the knife hundreds of times and gently set it down in the kitchen. I take a shower and then lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling with a permanent smirk plastered on my face. I’ve actually done it; I have set out a goal and achieved it; there is no greater feeling.
          The smirk suddenly fades at the thought of what next: continuing a bland life of day-to-day routines; I almost vomit at the thought of meeting a pretty lady and having a child and living out a perfect, happy life. I go back to thinking about John and how his pupils twitched as he died and I smile again. I don’t want to feel any other feeling anymore; I need to keep feeling this ecstasy. If it ever runs out, I know what to do because if I can get away with murder once, I can always get away with it again.

In Memoriam

Please do not use without crediting me!

DSC01569
Two tall headstones.
DSC01589
Headstone sitting before the sky and trees.
DSC01557
Bug on mourning statue.
DSC01501
A child’s grave.
DSC01507
Another child’s grave.
DSC00346
Snowy graveyard.
dsc01520
American flag amongst the graves.
dsc01532
Faded and obscured tomb.
dsc02110
Angel statue with spider