Because of the fresh snowfall, it was a long exhausting drive up from the city to her family’s secluded cabin high into the foothills
of the Cascade Mountains. Finally arriving at the cabin, Brooke opened a bottle of her favorite vintage and lit the fireplace in the
cabin’s den before going upstairs to unpack and take a quick shower. Several hours and a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir later, Brooke
stood by the den’s broad windows staring out at the magnificent snow-covered mountains lost in thought.
I’d been doing research on serial killers for my next horror novel when a friend suggested I pay a visit to some of the darker online fetish web discussion groups. A quick search of these sites for the term “Serial Killer,” turned-up dozens of discussion groups dedicated to the serial killer fetish, with titles like “Serial Killers,” “Serial Killer and Rapist Roleplay,” “Kinksters into Serial Killers,” “Sex and Horror,” and her personal favorite “Serial Killers, Gore, and Cannibals” to name just a few. Intrigued by what I’d found, I joined several of the discussion groups on one of the more popular websites and late last night posted the question, “How would I arrange to meet with an actual Serial Killer?” Early this morning I had my response from one of the discussion group moderators, “You may not realize it, but I think it’s likely you just did.”
Taking another sip of wine, Brooke smiled as she watched the windblown snow glittering as it passed through the light from the den’s windows. Here she was safe. Few outside her family even knew of this remote cabin's existence, yet alone possessed a four-wheel drive capable of traversing the two mile long, snow cover driveway from the nearest paved road. It wasn’t until she turned back to bask in the warmth from the fire that she was shocked to see him standing there in the shadows.
“Good evening Brooke or perhaps you’d prefer I use your discussion group handle, ‘Snuff Toy’?”
Struggling to control the sensation of abject horror threatening to overwhelm her senses at the sight of that razor-sharp machete her ominously, metal masked intruder was holding, Brooke felt a sudden unexpected sensation of erotic anticipation, “Please, call me Brooke, and how should I refer to you?”
She could sense the amusement in her masked intruder’s voice, “You may call me Ghost.”
Brooke felt a sudden cold terror grip her heart in its icy embrace as she realized why his name sounded so familiar, “You’re the Ghost? Apparently, if all the rumors are true, you’re a legend among the serial killer groupies. They say that you’ve killed hundreds, if not thousands, of women, often turning their brutally torturous deaths into expensive and highly sought-after underground snuff films.”
Slowly regaining her composure while trying to keep her growing sexual arousal in check, Brooke continued, “You’re not a myth, you actually do exist. So, if you don’t mind my asking, exactly how many women have you murdered?”
“Well, as of last week seven hundred and forty eight. Of course, only a small percentage of my victims actually end up starring in one of my highly profitable snuff films.”
Staring in disbelief, “You’ve murdered seven hundred and forty eight women? That would make you the greatest serial killer in history. And seriously, you’re still just a myth? How is that even possible?”
Smiling behind his concealing mask, “Actually Brooke, when it comes to victims, I suspect I’m still a distant fourth when it comes to career body count and, as for being considered a myth, it’s a feature. There are two kinds of serial killers, the ones who happily remain a myth and the ones desperately seeking their fifteen minutes of fame. The latter, you read about in the media. They leave a bloody wake of mutilated corpses scattered behind them. They’re careless and with every victim, they leave clues until eventually the authorities apprehend them. The former, you almost never read about. Their victims usually disappear under mysterious circumstances and while the authorities often suspect foul play, there’s rarely any physical evidence to support their suspicions. It’s tough to prove murder, when there’s not obvious motive, no dead body and no forensic evidence.”
Pausing to consider her next words, and already suspecting her life depended upon it, Brooke took a sip of wine before she asked, “No motive, no dead body and no forensic evidence, so, just hypothetically, if I was your next victim, how would you avoid leaving incriminating evidence for the authorizes to find?”
Surprisingly, Brooke’s masked intruder didn’t hesitate to respond, “First, even though the sky tonight is giving us a seductively picturesque view of the stars, in just a few hours a powerful winter storm is going to dump almost another two feet of heavy wet snow across this area. That, and when the plowing service comes, they’ll erase any evidence that I drove up your driveway.” Second, thanks in part to the heavy snowfall and aided by the simple fact that the ridge to the west hides this cabin from the valley below, no one will notice the flames as it burns to the ground. And finally, after you’re dead, I’ll bag and remove your corpse for disposal later, so no motive, no dead body and no forensic evidence, so no murder, hypothetically speaking of course.”
With a seductive grin on her lovely face, Brooke slipped the slender straps of her already revealing white camisole bodysuit slowly off her shoulders as she inquired, “Hmm, so hypothetically speaking, of course, what would it take for you to set aside that machete, remove that terrifying metal mask, and join me for a glass of wine?”
It was after midnight, the first snowflakes of what would, in the coming hours, become a blizzard were just starting to fall. Sexually exhausted Brooke watched, from the coach in front of the fireplace, as Ghost finished getting dressed. Setting aside her wine glass, she walked over to embrace him one last time before he once again donned his face concealing metal mask. Placing her arms around his neck, she drew him toward her until their lips met in a passionate lingering kiss that seemed to go on forever. Finally coming up for air she rested her head against his muscular chest, the scent of his skin delightfully filling her senses, “Ghost, thank you for an incredible evening, the sex was incredible, your insights into the mind of an actual serial killer incredible. And did I mention the incredible sex, I don’t think, actually I know, that I’ve never had that many orgasms in a single evening before, you’re utterly amazing, thank you.”
Ghost reveled in the moment, the sensuous warmth of Brooke’s nude body pressing firmly against his chest, “Actually Brooke. It's I who should be thanking you, for your company, for the sophisticated conversation and especially for that utterly delightful wine. You’re so unlike my usual victims, mostly terrified and gagged to stifle their desperate screams, or the groupies who actually think they want to be my next victim until they discover that the blood, the gore and the pain are all very real and not some Hollywood special effects.”
Pausing, he lifted her chin until their eyes met, “This has been an extraordinary evening, one that I’ll always cherish, thank you.”
Looking into Brooke’s lovely eyes, he felt her suddenly stiffen against his chest. That familiar look of pain and betrayal in her eyes as she felt the cold steel of his machete slip effortlessly through her guts as he ran her through with its blade.
Staring up into his eyes, Brooke finally accepted this was how this night was always destined to end. From the moment, she’d turned and saw him standing there holding that machete this night’s agonizingly deadly conclusion was inevitable. And, if she’d reacted like most of his victims, he’d have butchered her four hours ago. So, instead of screaming, she’d asked if he’d like a glass of wine as she seductively stripped for him. The following four hours were incredible. To have the opportunity to discuss the motivations and nuances with an actual serial killer, and of course, there was the sex. We made love three times that night, with more overwhelming orgasms then I’d ever imagined experiencing in one night. Even when he buried his cock balls deep in my tight little ass, I still managed to climax three times before he finally came.
Ghost noticed something he’d rarely seen, the sudden look of fatalistic acceptance in Brooke’s eyes as she came to terms with her fate, all lingering vestiges of fear slowly fading from her eyes, gradually replaced by something he’d never seen before, a profoundly disturbing look of almost eager anticipation. Releasing her chin, he slipped his arm around her upper back and held her close as he cruelly twisted the machete’s blade in Brooke’s guts before savagely slashing the blade across her belly to disembowel her. The slow trickle of blood escaping from around the machete’s blade suddenly becoming an obscene explosion of blood and guts that drenched his shirt and pants as Brooke slowly sank to her knees before collapsing onto the floor in a rapidly expanding pool of her own blood.
Watching as Brooke slowly bled out, Ghost picked up her revealing white bodysuit from the couch and casually used it to clean the blood off his razor-sharp machete. Glancing out the window at the snow falling he smiled, more than enough time to bag Brooke’s corpse and arrange a tragic furnace explosion and evidence erasing fire...