“Devil Inside Me”—Frank Carter & The Rattlesnakes
It’s the screaming that gets to me, tugging at the little bit of conscience I have left. Mind you, it’s just a sliver. Screams die out quickly with a pair of panties and duct tape though. And I do just that to the whore strapped to my table—much like one you’d find in a prison’s execution room. Perhaps you’d think the screams make me nervous. Maybe force me to abandon my sick plans. But you’d be wrong. My cabin in the hills of western North Carolina is completely isolated for ten miles in either direction. As the cold bite of fall makes its presence known, you’re more likely to see a goddamn Sasquatch out here than you are another human being. But I’m in luck. I brought this one with me.
And that’s not even getting to the true reason I don’t worry—the six-inch-thick soundproof panels lining every inch of this shed. Several hundred feet behind my cabin is the kill shed I built with my own hands four years ago. Back before I made it big. Back when this writing thing was just a hobby.
Do you think any of those fucking readers paid attention to my writing before I started killing people? Before I started getting the murders in my own novels as realistic as possible? You bet your goddamn ass they didn’t. They want the gore. They want the carnage. They want the mayhem. And goddamn it, I’m going to give it to them.
Eight New York Times best sellers so far in my short career. Million-dollar publishing and movie deals. More interview requests than my stomach can bear. At thirty-three years of age, I’d say I’m not doing too bad for myself. And of course, I turn down all those worthless interview requests. I’m not in this for the fame, nor have I ever been. I’m in this because people will hear me. They will listen to what I have to say. They will feel my words. To know that so many are reading and devouring my words, it’s fucking orgasmic. I get hard just thinking about it.
But believe me, none of this, not a single fucking book sale, could’ve been accomplished without this bloodshed. Without the death I’ve created in this room. Without witnessing firsthand what a human being looks like truly suffering. What it looks like when the life drains from their face and the thousand-yard death stare follows. All of it makes its way into my novels. And all of it is gobbled up by my readers like it’s fucking Thanksgiving dinner. You can blame me all you want for the deaths of these people, but it’s the readers who deserve the blame. They want this. They yearn for it. And by God, I’m going to be the one to fucking give it to them.
It’s not like I’m killing valuable, productive members of society here. These are fucking whores. Scum of the earth. How could someone sell their body for sex? What must have happened to a person in their life to lead them to that? And what easy pickings they make. If you trust a stranger and fuck a stranger, don’t complain when things come back to bite you in the ass. That’s just logic. If they can’t smell it coming, they belong on my table.
I’d be lying if I said they were the only ones though. But the others had it coming too. I’ve never murdered an innocent without being provoked. So in the end, they weren’t so innocent after all.
This one’s an ugly little thing. Barely five feet tall, she was one of my easiest catches to date. The trunk of the rental (always a rental) housed her unconscious body (thank you, chloroform) all the way from Charlotte this time. I change the city each time—Asheville one week, Winton-Salem the next. The rental keeps their DNA out of my vehicle, and the change in cities, well, you’re not that fucking stupid are you?
The hookers never hesitate to climb inside my car. I’m no fat old slob getting the only ass he can. I’m a good-looking guy. Still young enough to have a full head of brown hair, no grays, and I’ve been told by some that I’m Gavin Rossdale’s doppelgänger, which I’ll take, but fuck that pussy. No, they never hesitate to trust me. And those who were cautious were only that way because they thought I was a pig. But by then, it was already too late. Once you’re inside my car, not a soul on this planet can save you. Your life is mine to take.
Now I know you must be wondering… is he crazy? I can see how you could think that. But here’s the thing: aren’t we all a bit crazy in our own way? The fat fucking bastard ordering thirty tacos and a diet coke at Taco Bell—isn’t he fucking crazy? The pill-popping soccer mom with her mouth around the pool boy’s dick—isn’t she a bit crazy too? Fuck what you think of me anyways. I’m a product of my environment through and through.
Dad hightailed the fuck out of there before I could even walk. Mommy dearest had a penchant for heroin and the temper of a convict. You think I had a choice? You think I asked to be her whipping boy for eighteen years? You think I fucking asked to wear a dress? Fuck no. I’ve found my path to success, and the headcount is worth its weight in gold.
But here I am, sitting with a fresh victim minutes or hours, or maybe even days, from death, and I’m staring mindlessly at a blank screen. The goddamn curser’s flashing and flashing and flashing. The words are at the tip of my tongue but never quite make it to my fingertips. I want to slam the MacBook into her forehead until either the laptop or her skull breaks. I’d bet on the laptop, but I’ve learned, in this room, to never underestimate the strength of the most unorthodox murder weapons. I killed someone with a vacuum cleaner once. Just to see if I could do it.
I’ve had writer’s block before—but never anything like this. This is a fucking nightmare beyond nightmares. The reviews for my last novel were abysmal (though it was still a best seller), and I knew then what I needed to do. I scoured hundreds of negative reviews, most calling for me to soften it up. They loved the murder and mayhem, but my voice, they said, had “become too dominant, too aggressive.” They wanted me to become a woman. To pussify my writing.
That I cannot do. But what I can do is find a woman. The idea of co-writing makes me absolutely ill, but if I could find the right one… if I could find an innocent, easily manipulated little twat who will do my bidding then cease to exist, then I’ll have my masterpiece. Then they’ll have nothing to do but praise me for my work. They’ll worship me. I would have the best of both worlds.
Perhaps I would imprison her for a while. Feed her just enough to keep her alive and have her assist on future releases. Got to keep the gravy train rolling! I’ve thought about it, even planned it a little. But they’re just no fun when they’re alive that long. The screaming, the begging, the fear in their eyes. That fear feeds me for a bit. But days of it? It’s just a hassle. The longest I’ve kept one alive in my kill shed was a week. But that was because I was right at the climax of my story. I really needed to draw her out. To make her suffer until she just couldn’t suffer anymore. As it turned out, a week was her max.
Now, the tough question to answer is how. How do I find her?