Serial Killers: A Short Story

I had majored in criminology in hopes of truly understanding the minds of the most horrendous killers in known history. As I engaged in my studies in school I began to research infamous killers such as Charles Manson, H.H. Holmes, and many other insane minds. The more and more I read up on such characters the more invested I got in investigating their schemes. I spent my waking hours studying the horrors in which they committed. At one point in time I slowly allowed myself to be engulfed in their stories to the point where I would miss countless classes day after day cooped up in my room embracing my interest in the most dreadful aspects of humanity, killing. I soon found a hobby in constructing crime scenes in my dorm to better examine the

On the morning of March twenty-seventh I had received a call from the station asking me to come assess a crime scene in Whittier where a husband and his wife had been murdered. As I walked into the house I had noticed a variety of different pieces of evidence that were common in a murder mystery. When I entered the room in which both Vincent Zazzara and his wife Maxine had been killed I noticed something relatively odd, Maxine was missing her eyes when I examined her body. I searched the room and assessed every last physical piece of evidence that I could see in the room.

Suddenly I came across a jewelry box that had been soaked in blood. I carefully opened the box to be confronted by the eyes of Maxine which had been carved out of her skull and placed in the jewelry box. On that morning I was introduced to the insidious character that was Richard Ramirez. This constant exposure to murders made me question my own morality. Whilst families mourned the loss of their loved ones I was laboriously studying the commonly mutilated bodies that was left of the victims. I wasn’t bothered by this though, instead it had interested me and had me constantly consider the act of murder myself. After fifteen years spent as a criminal psychologist I decided

I couldn’t kill any of the residence in the town, the others would notice their absence and notify the authorities , I had constantly thought to myself. Yet there was something that struck me as plausible, the train station located on the outer rim of the town. I sat there in my chair for years day after day in hopes of an adventurous soul to step foot out of the comforts of their train. Twenty years had flown by and I had witnessed no life flow out of the train, until one day.

I heard the train racing down the track with urgency. I had not expected the train to stop at my station considering no one ever did. All of a sudden I heard the brakes scream as they hurried to slow the momentum of the train. The train came to a halt and

I watched as the doors opened hoping that maybe after twenty years I would see a fresh unexpecting face. I waited and I waited yet I saw no heads pass the windows nor any feet step on the stairs leading out of the train. Twenty long years waiting in hopes of fulfilling my desires. Sitting in my chair as the rays of sun bounced off of my already burnt face I lost interest in the life of the train, I came to accept that like every other day

I would not be able to feed my addiction. Suddenly I heard a surge of noise in front