I wasn’t always like this. I can’t even recall how it all began. It was supposed to be just a one-time thing, but six years later, a new side of me had developed. I didn’t know what it was, but it helped me keep the fog in my head at bay.
It wasn’t medication or weekly doctor visits. No. It was a sharp ax, six bodies, and talk of a serial killer spreading around town.
I think I felt pity for the people, but it was more shallow than I expected. Different from how people have described guilt. After the deed was done, the bloodlust would disappear, like it was never there. But it never lasted. It always came back stronger, quicker, and each time more painful than before.
It was the beginning of summer. That was my sixth year of being The Axman, as the townsfolk have so delightfully in my opinion named me. If I played my cards right, I’d go on to seventh. Ready to proceed, I dressed my best. I donned a black suit and a heavy coat of the same color. After slipping on some gloves, I grabbed the largest knife that I could find in my kitchen cabinet. I ran my finger along the edges, silently admiring it. It will be oh so unfortunate to use something that didn’t fit the title I was bestowed, but if it wasn’t for my sloppiness, I wouldn’t have left my ax at the scene of my last killing. Oh well, can’t cry over spilled milk. I slipped the knife into my coat and left for the night.
My first target was interesting. Unplanned, but too close to my trail. It would be convenient to dispose of him now.
Franklin Moore, the town’s police captain. For the past few weeks, he’d been coming to me with questions and concerns about the murders. I supposed he saw me as a “friend” and I of course didn’t mind being updated on where the police investigation was going. But he was getting too close to the truth. Maybe it was just paranoia, but I had to get rid of him. My image was to be preserved at all times at any cost and if that cost was killing someone so dear to this town, then so be it.
I decided to make the trip on foot, as he didn’t live more than three blocks down. When I reached the house, I spotted a light on upstairs and a silhouette moving behind the curtains. Franklin was awake. I’d have to find a way in, quietly. I crept over to a window and peeked through a small gap in the curtains. Despite being friends, I had yet to ever step foot in his house. Maybe due to his embarrassment - the living room looked outdated by fifty years, with furniture decorated with colorful patterns and wallpaper desperate for a replacement. Perhaps the next tenants could do some renovations.
I crouched in the bushes and steadily made my way around to the side of the house. Frank didn’t have a dog or any sort of security at all. Sneaking in would be an easy task. I moved until I found myself under a window. It was unlocked and luckily didn’t make a sound as I opened it. I climbed through and found myself in a dark hallway, illuminated slightly by the moonlight.
I crept throughout the house, avoiding making too much noise. The search didn’t last long; upstairs, I heard a shower running. I found the stairs and the sound of running water led me to a door left slightly ajar.
Ever so slowly, I snuck up to the crack in the doorway. There, Franklin stood in a bathrobe, brushing his teeth. The sink faced away from the door and Franklin was blocking the view of the mirror. I assumed he wouldn’t see me if I was quiet. Franklin bent down to spit and I took that as my cue to step inside. I slowly cracked the door enough to step inside. I drew the knife from my coat and started my descent on Franklin. I was a hunter with his prey, poised to strike.
But, I probably wasn’t that good at being quiet, as Franklin turned around to face me. At first, there was a look of surprise but as he took in my appearance it morphed into terror.
“You,” he said. “It’s you.”
Franklin tried to back away, but it was pointless. The bathroom was small and there was no way he could get around me.
“I knew it. They said I was crazy, but I knew. I knew!” Franklin sputtered.
He put his hands out to me. For mercy? Defense? It didn’t matter. Flesh and blood wouldn’t stop my wrath.
I raised the knife above my head, and as Franklin screamed, I drove the knife into him. A gurgling came out of him, the sharp metal piercing his stomach. My first attempt wasn’t the best, and Franklin used the time my mistake had given him to grab my wrist and fight back. This caught me off guard, but his attempts ended in vain. I pulled the knife out and jammed it in with more force this time. In and out. In and out, I repeated, until my glove began to feel wet. Only then did I finally look down, watching the bloodstain creep across the white bathrobe.
Franklin struggled to maintain his balance, crashing forward into me and lodging the knife deeper in his chest.
“Why?” Franklin pleaded, struggling to breathe.
I was stone-faced, as I watched the life of my dear friend drain away.
“Congratulations,” I whispered, “You just made it onto tomorrow’s headlines.”
I took a step back, watching the blood droll from Franklin’s mouth. He fell to his knees and hit the floor with a thud. He lay there, coughing up blood, fingers gripping the floor in a desperate attempt to grasp onto something. I stood there, observing quietly. Then, he stopped gripping. He stopped coughing. And I reached down to feel his face. Even though my glove, his cheek was as cold as ice. As I was about to exit, I heard a wet sound as I stepped into something. I looked down to notice a puddle of crimson had spread from the body to my shoes. A stain of red probed beneath the dark leather.
I kneeled to dip my fingers in the dark puddle. In all my time of taking lives, this was the first time I acknowledged it properly. It felt warm through my glove and smelled metallic as I sniffed it.
I watched it drip downwards into my palm, drenching my glove even more. Dipping my hand fully into the puddle, I inscribe a message on the wall. The letters dripped now, but would soon dry into a beautiful masterpiece for all to see.
I stepped over the body and went back downstairs, deciding to leave the knife as a gift to whoever would find the scene. A smile spread across my face as I pondered the town’s reaction to the police captain’s murder. Or better yet, when they found out it was done by The Axman.
Walking into the backyard an old, unlocked shed drew my eye. I opened the door to find a complete mess inside. Tools and clutter lying about and a strong scent of oil lingering in the air. And then I saw it hanging on the wall. A huge, metal ax. It even looked similar to my previous one: a long wooden handle with a blade sharp enough to cut through bone.
“Yes,” I spoke aloud, “that’ll do perfectly.”
And with that, it was time for The Axeman to visit Shadow Shore once more.