Serial Killers: The Thrill of the Hunt (Part 1) by Villimey Mist
- Serial Killers: The Thrill of the Hunt (Part 1) by Villimey Mist
- Serial Killers: The Thrill of the Hunt (Part 2) by Villimey Mist
That supple skin.
I love how it feels against my big, callous fingers. How it tenses when I put more pressure.
Her eyes are widening. With shock. With fear.
Yes. Struggle more. Let me feel that despair.
Her nails don’t hurt me. They only spur me on, urging me to squeeze harder. Her feeble strength is nothing compared to mine.
Those short bursts of breath that escape her lips are like a sweet serenade to my ears.
When she lets go of her last breath, I moan with pleasure.
The ecstasy is always so short, though.
I hate that.
I look down at the body. It’s useless to me now. I need to feel the blood pumping into the veins as I squeeze the life out of her.
I drive to the nearest deserted highway and dump the body there. I don’t bother with laying it down gently. It’s just a heavy marionette. Absolutely useless.
Well, not quite. I have her necklace. It still feels warm to the touch.
It should quench my thirst for a couple of days.
The itch is back.
It’s time for another prowl in the night.
I take my car and cruise downtown Portland.
I can’t say there’s slim pickings in Old Town. It’s more like a smorgasbord, waiting for me to select the best of the best.
The women give me sensual looks, turning in circles to allow me to see the whole package.
None of them excite me, though.
I don’t feel that rush bubbling beneath the surface.
I’m about to turn the car around, irritated that I can’t scratch my itch tonight, when I spot her.
A bit younger than I usually pick. Sharp cheekbones, tanned skin, little braids on the side of her head, pulled into a thick ponytail. My fingers yearn to pull it.
She sees me. My heart gives a little jump.
Her eyes are big, almost doe-like.
I pull over next to her.
She gives me a coy smile while running her eyes up and down. Funny. It’s as if she’s appraising me.
“Good evening, stranger,” she says when I let the window slide down and she leans over it. “What brings you here?”
I lightly lick my lips with the tip of my tongue. Her voice is like honey. I bet her gasps are like Turkish delights.
“I was hoping for a good time with someone special.” I dip my chin down and give her my best, rehearsed smile.
She giggles. Her laugh is like a tinkling bell. “And I’m the lucky gal?”
I nod, gripping the steering wheel. “You bet. Hop in.”
A tremor of pleasure runs through me as she jumps into the car with a triumphant smile. She waves to her “coworkers” while I take us to a more secluded place.
What a Godsend.
“What’s your name?” I’ve never asked them their names. It never mattered to me, but I feel like I must burn that girl’s name to memory. She doesn’t seem to have anything on her that I can keep for later, anyway.
I glance from the road at her. She’s got her eyes straight on the asphalt, a stoic calm about her. Something tingles within me. I’ve never felt that before. I shake it off by chuckling. “That’s a pretty name.”
She shrugs. “It’s nothing special.”
“You’d prefer something different?”
“I’d prefer a name that goes places. That people will remember.”
Don’t worry, baby. I won’t forget yours. For some reason, I feel compelled to take her further up into the mountains, where I did my first kill. That girl had been unremarkable. I barely remember what she looked like, but she had satisfied my urges and that’s a good enough memory. The place I killed her is secluded and quiet. I doubt even the animals there will bother us.
“Are we going hiking?” Cynthia giggles.
“I like a little privacy.”
Cynthia’s eyes glint. “So do I.”
Once more, something creeps up at the back of my mind. It’s like a tick, biting into my skin. Never felt that way before. I shake my head. It’s probably nothing. It could be a new form of excitement. Besides, I have to be focused. My itch needs to be scratched.
The thought of running my fingers through that skin of hers is enough to make me hard.
Not long now.
“What are you expecting for tonight?” Cynthia asks as she twirls one of her tiny braids between her fingers.
I smirk. “Something of a thrill, perhaps?”
Cynthia nods, smiling. “I can give you that.”
A surge of excitement courses through me. I’ll bet you can. You’ll be my best kill yet.
The road has become dark, with the moon the only beacon of light above us. Fir trees as tall as skyscrapers flank the car as we climb higher up the mountain. I couldn’t be happier with the spot. I have to hurry. My hard-on is starting to hurt.
I park the car near a small rest area with a lonely bench almost shrouded by the trees. I better not dump the body there when I’m done. It’d be too easy to see.
“Well, we’re here.” I turn to Cynthia and graze her cheek with the back of my hand.
It’s so warm, as if the whole sun radiated from her. I can’t wait to squeeze it out of her, so nothing remains but the cold terror in her eyes.
“You really picked a great spot.” Cynthia purrs as she sidles closer to me. Her hand snakes towards my thigh and caresses it. A greedy gleam in her doe eyes.
Not as greedy as mine.
My fingers drift down from her cheek and I wrap them around her throat.
If she senses something, she’s being coy about it. From what I feel, she’s allowing me to take the reins.
The perfect victim.
- About the Author
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Stephanie Ellis writes dark speculative prose and poetry and has been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Her longer work includes the folk horror novels, The Five Turns of the Wheel, Reborn, and The Woodcutter, and the novellas, Bottled and Paused (all via Brigids Gate Press). Her dark poetry has been published in her collections Lilith Rising (co-authored with Shane Douglas Keene), Foundlings (co-authored with Cindy O’Quinn) and Metallurgy, as well as the HWA Poetry Showcase Volumes VI, VII, VIII, and IX and Black Spot Books Under Her Skin. She can be found supporting indie authors at HorrorTree.com via the weekly Indie Bookshelf Releases. She is an active member of the HWA and can be found at https://stephanieellis.org and on Blue Sky as stephellis.bsky.social.