The Beast

         I haven't a clue where this urge, this feeling, came from... I awoke three weeks ago with an odd nagging in the back of my mind. An unfamiliar nagging. A need to do something I'd only dreamt of, and even then, only in nightmares.

         For days I wrestled with this feeling. For days, I told it no. But it wouldn't leave. It just wouldn't leave. I would sit and try to drown out the constant desire with hobbies and crafts of all sorts, but it's voice was always louder. Maybe it's just who I am that finally awoke. After all, they say you can't run from yourself. And, try as I might, I can't escape this. Nor do I want to, now. I've come to accept what I must do.

         It is not, however, an action that one can carry out without thought. No, it's not like a smoking addiction, where one simply walks to the store and buys a cigarette. No, this is different. This takes planning. Careful, careful planning.

         Especially with it being my first time... The first time does always seem to be the best, and I wanted this to be special. I wanted in to be perfect.

         I studied and researched for weeks, until I knew nothing could go wrong. Then, I set my date. My time.

         May 14th, at midnight, exactly.

         And now, the time has arrived. It is May 14th. The time is 11:30 PM. I sit in my car, a sleek black sports vehicle. One you would kill to have, I'm sure. The convertible top was down, allowing the crisp spring air to dry the cold sweat upon my brow.

         My gaze lay intently upon the dark window of a nearby house, illuminated only by a flickering streetlight. All movement in the house had ceased a good hour ago, and this wait wasn't necessary. But I am a man of schedule. I said 12:00 Midnight. I meant it.

         So I sit, fidgeting in silent, anxious torment. The moon above me is a full. I promise I didn't plan it that way. How ironic, though... By legend, the night of the full moon is the night when the beast is unleashed. And unleashed it will be...

         11:45 PM. Ah, how the urge screams at me. It begs me! 'Now! Do it now!' It says... 'No.' I respond. 'Just a short time longer!'

         If you were to see me on an average day, I'm sure you'd walk by without a second glance. There is nothing too extraordinary. I'm just another man on the streets. You wouldn't suspect me as a victim of this desire. After all, I "have it all", as many of you would say. When I return home, after fulfilling my sick longing, I'll arrive at a three story building, all of which is fully in my possession. Well, that wouldn't be correct, not all is in my custody. It does, of course, partially belong to my beautiful and loving wife, Karen. A remarkable sight, she is. I love her, and she loves me.

         Which is why she will never know of this need of mine. Or rather, I hope I am thorough enough in which she won't. If all goes as I plan, not a soul will know. After all, it's not like I will continue to feed my selfish desires. No, no. Just enough to satisfy it once... To see what it does feel like to be a monster; to be a beast... To be feared.

         Tonight, I will be more than just another person on the street.

         11:55 PM. Clara Thompson is her name. She owns the house I gaze at; she dwells alone within the walls. As a secretary for a large printing company, she makes an honest living. At 32 years of age, she's never married. Didn't have too much of a social life either.

         Exactly why I chose her. She's an unknown. I saw her one day, walking along the sidewalk. "Just another person on the street", she was. But to me, there was something about her. She and I made eye contact, just briefly, as we passed on our way to work. That is when the urge first raised it's beautiful head. It's hideous head. It all depends on your perspective, really.

         It was in the way she looked at me. The way she walked. The way she held herself. I knew she was the one.

         12:00 Midnight. The time has come! My heart races and adrenaline pulses through my veins. With hands shaking and knees weak, I silently step out of my car onto the cool asphalt. It was so quiet... My echoing footsteps seemed to be the only sound, save for the hum of old streetlights, anywhere in the vicinity.

         The young Ms. Clara happened to move in to a neighborhood occupied by a vast amount of senior citizens. Early to bed, early to rise they say... That is good for me. That is very good for me. My eyes scan the surroundings and, to my satisfaction, note that not a single light is lit. Not even a small desk lamp for reading. The dark is intoxicating.

         Darkness is a curious thing... It's associated with evil, is it not? But what about the darkness is so malevolent? Now, the things within the darkness, such as I... That is a different story. The evil is within the darkness, not the darkness itself. So, when you say you're afraid of the dark... Are you? What about it is so bone-chilling? It's the unknown. Someone like me could be hiding in the shadows. Waiting. Watching.

         Another piece of knowledge I've picked up in my studies of Ms. Thompson... She's so trusting of the world. I've seen her leave her purse unattended countless times, even if only for a few seconds.. I've no need for more money nor the makeup she keeps stowed away in those pockets, but I couldn't help but feel compelled to take that overpriced piece of leather, just to teach her a lesson. I didn't, of course. That would shatter her trust, and I was relying on that tonight.

         Not only was she worry free when it came to her purse, but her well being too. Clara always left her front door unlocked. I noticed on some days, when she was in more of a hurry, she wouldn't even bother to close the door behind her. Now what human being in their right mind would do such a thing? An animal, perhaps. But animals don't need to feel as threatened. See, there is something that sets us apart from animals. No, not our thumbs. We are the only race that hunts each other. Granted, animals fight. But we humans, we hunt each other.

         I took advantage of the fact that the door was always unlocked numerous times as I planned this night. While she sat in her cubical answering the phone, I snooped around her living quarters. It always held a strange scent... Musty, I suppose, is a good word for it and the air was always so thick. The interior itself was quite bare, aside from the essential furniture strewn about. Boxes, however, littered the ground. Large boxes, containing many items. It was quite clear that my unwilling victim had just moved in. Well, Ms. Thompson, welcome to the neighborhood.

         As I suspected, the front door was unlocked, even at this time of night. Of course, I was careful not to leave prints as I silently turned the knob and pushed open the door. The thick air gave my lungs an unpleasant greeting, and I bit my lip to avoid a cough. It all looked so different in hours of darkness. The faint glow of the moon, combined with the faltering streetlight, caused the boxes to cast their long shadows across the wall, reaching out towards the heavens.

         My beautiful victim's sleeping quarters was on the second floor... It was the first room on the right. Now, one thing I'd noticed upon entering this house the first time: Much of it was refurnished and remodeled. The stairs, however, had been untouched. Each step gave off a different tune under pressure, and by the time one reached the top they'd heard an irritating orchestra of sound.

         However, my research had been well rounded. I hit every point and made sure I knew each and every detail. Each night for the past week I have snuck on to her front lawn at midnight. I proceeded to throw small rocks at, and around, her small bedroom window. Not once did she awake and look out onto her lawn, littered with weeds. Even if she had, I was concealed well. Either she was a very shy girl, or a heavy sleeper. Judging by some of the clothing she wore, I'd ruled out the 'shy' scenario.

         I am, by no means, overweight. However, upon placing my foot atop that first step, I was sure I'd just heard Mt. Everest erupt. I held my breath and strained my ears until I could hear was my own heartbeat thumping in my head. It appeared she'd slept through the eruption, and was about to be buried alive by the avalanche.

         After a irksome symphony of cracks and squeaks, my climb up Everest was complete, and I was met with a long, dark hallway. No light reached this windowless corridor, lined with three closed doors. Two of the wooden entryways led to empty rooms. But one... One led to my prize. To the water that would dose the internal fires of my desire.

         I placed my ear against the cool wood of the barrier that separated my body from the sleeping Clara. I could hear her breathes, quiet and shallow. She tossed in her sleep quite often, and mumbled inaudible words. I longed to know what she was dreaming about, to know her final thoughts.

         Now, many here would have second thoughts. Maybe they would even return to their cars, and drive home to their beautiful, sleeping wives. But not me. I didn't get to the top of my business my backing down when my heart started to race. No, I pushed forward. And so, I do the same now.

         Luckily for me, the door frame was built a good half inch or so from the carpet floor, allowing silent entry to the bedroom. I stepped in and immediately felt my heart skip leaps and bounds. There she was, lying atop her mattress on the floor. It was clear the bed itself was still in one of the many cardboard containers below.

         So helpless she looked, sprawled out like that. She was dressed in a white nightgown that didn't leave much to the imagination, though her bottom half was hidden beneath thick white sheets. Was I not completely satisfied with my wife, I'd probably have taken advantage of the sleeping girl that lay beneath me... I'd have given in to other desires. But that wasn't what I came here for. Oh, no. You may find it surprising that I have a sense of right and wrong but... Rape is wrong. Now, what I am about to do is quite wrong as well, and I don't encourage it in the least! However, as I stated in the start, I cannot run from who I am.

         I reach in to my back pocket and retrieve a knife with a blade about the size of an average hand. It glinted gently in the moon light, bringing about a sadistic smile upon my face. I took another step forward. And another. And another. Soon, I was standing no further than six inches from the mattress upon which Clara Thompson rested.

         I knelt and studied her complexion, my head cocked to one side. I noted her eyes moving rapidly under the closed lids, as if she were searching for a way out of her own darkness. Her skin, so soft and pale, seemed to glow in the light of the moon. Her mouth, slightly agape, revealed perfect teeth and a sour breath.

         With a shaking hand, covered by an awful smelling latex glove, I reached out and gently stroked one of her cheeks. She squirmed gently, turning her head away. Goosebumps arose across my skin at the touch, and a shiver trickled down my spine. I raised the knife with a cynical smile painted upon my lips.

         You may now ask... Why? What did the stunning Ms. Clara Thompson do to deserve this? And this answer is simple: Nothing. She was human. She sinned. I do not claim to carry God's judgment. However, I don't view a single person on this planet as innocent. One becomes corrupt the moment they are born in to this world. Of course, I could never kill an infant or a child, but my point remains valid. There is no such thing as innocence. The woman that will die tonight is not free of sin.

         The knife is held high in my steady hands, and my eyes stare inventively at her closed eye lids. Something, however, is not right. The urge within me tells me that the ritual is not yet complete. I need to see her, to see her horror.

         "Clara..." I whisper. She writhes slightly in her sleep.

         "Clara Thompson..." Her eye lids pull backwards, revealing her deep blue eyes, a beautiful contrast to her pale skin. Our eyes meet for the second time, and she opens her mouth to scream. I cover her mouth and muffled the scream, though only slightly. The sound, however, would need to travel quite a distance to awake any neighbors. I didn't give her a chance to struggle.

         I swiftly brought the knife down and felt it puncture the tender flesh of her belly. She let out another cry, though it was in vain. I'd planned. I knew I was safe.

         Blood spurted out as the knife exited the wound, covering not only the skin on my face, but staining the white shirt I'd bought just for this special occasion.

         I repeated the actions until the screaming stopped and the body was limp. It didn't take too long... After all, I never wanted to harm the poor girl. No... I just wanted to kill her. And, somehow, under a sheet of blood, Clara wasn't quite as attractive. I wiped a bit of the red liquid from my brow and stood, admiring my work.

         Only God can create. But I can destroy.

         I stared at what was once a live human being. The once silky blond hair was now a tangled mess. The expensive nightgown was ripped and stained, and the skin beneath it was punctured and bloody. I examined her eyes again, the eyes that were so full of life just hours ago. Now they stared ahead emptily, as if they were watching as the soul floated on to the afterlife.

         With a sigh that exhausted all the tension in my body, I turned from my work of art. I walked in to Ms. Thompson's bathroom and examined myself in the large mirror. There was quite a lot of blood, though none of it dripping. Good. Good for me. It'd gone as planned. Now, for the final steps of my beautiful plan.

         You see, it really is a shame Ms. Clara Thompson did not think things through more... Because, if she had, she'd surely have noticed the danger of leaving the cardboard boxes near the fireplace... Had she been more attentive, she wouldn't have gone off to bed and left the fireplace burning. Had she been more alert, she wouldn't have been swallowed alive in that horrible, horrible fire.

         There is, of course, a part of me that would like them to find the maimed body. I was proud of my work and I desired credit. But if I was caught, there would be no more works of art. My career as an artist would be cut short.



         Now, with my bloody clothes safely packed away in a suitcase, I begin my drive home. I can smell the blood... And I must admit, it's not on my list of favorite scents. I'll be requiring a long shower upon my arrival home.

         The urge hasn't left me. I realized midway through cutting up that poor girl that it never will. It begs for me.

         'Maybe another night', I tell it. Tonight, I am tired. Tonight, I miss my wife. Tonight, I will sleep.



         1:25 AM. I arrive home just before nodding off behind the wheel of the car. Doing what I've done, after all, is quite exhausting. Not only physically, but mentally. You may have expected me to feel at least a tinge of regret during the long drive home, but I assure you I was, and am, free from all guilt. My mind needed to be clear for the drive, anyway. Cars like mine were designed to last through trends, not through wrecks.

         I wearily sauntered into my expansive home. As I expected, and had counted on, Karen had long since gone to sleep. I'd told her not to wait up for me tonight and, luckily for me, she hadn't. The large rooms were dark and there was a feeling of disappointment as I walked in to 'my' house. I suppose there is just something about breaking into another's home. The rush of adrenaline. That is what I miss. I almost feel incomplete without it, now.

         I made my way up the steps, using the smooth wooden guardrail to balance my exhausted body. A silent staircase... What a concept! Upon reaching the top floor, I take a right and enter a large bathroom. Blood still stains my face, and I silently thank the Lord above that Karen had gone to sleep. I've a feeling that explaining the crimson smears would not have been an enjoyable experience. She wouldn't understand. No one could. Not even you, given this unique insight into my mind. Not a soul can understand the urge that drove me to commit that act. The urge that will more than likely drive me to commit future acts.

         I start up the shower and strip out of my clothing. Steam quickly fills the room, and I step in to the warm cascade. The water washes away the stress, tension and unease in my body, allowing a relaxation I haven't been allowed since the urge first revealed itself.

         After a few moments of relishing in the heat, I step out of the shower and change into my night clothing. I can't help but chuckle, walking down the hall towards my wife and I's room, thinking that Clara must have been doing the same just before she fell asleep.

         Quietly, as to not awake my sleeping wife, I push the door open and walk into the room on the crown of my feet. My nose twitches as I grow close to our king bed. A familiar smell. My heart begins to race and I stumbled over to the wall, searching desperately for the lightswitch. Finally my fumbling hands found their target, and the room was illuminated in a blinding light.

         When I regained the ability to open my eyes, the sight I was left to see was gruesome indeed. Karen lay in a pool of blood, deep gashes revealing the inner workings of her stomach. I opened my mouth to cry out but instead I found my mouth curling into a sick smile as memories flooded my mind.

         'Practice', hissed a familiar voice within my mind, 'makes perfect.'