I read it, and I'm frightened! I didn't have to fix anything! That must be proof of a psycho!
If you would like to email the author, you may write to me and I will forward it. I won't read it if you put "Night Stalker" in the subject heading. -Ed
I am one of them.
They stalked me once. I was staggering along with death on my mind. I smelled them coming. But to me, the smell was pleasant. The smell meant death, my death. I welcomed them to me. To end my suffering. Something was wrong, though: I had been standing there longer than the stories had said I should have been able to. Perhaps they sensed something in me. Maybe they found me interesting.
They left me alone that night.
A few nights later, as I was taking my first life, they were there. Watching. I couldn't smell them, but I knew they were there. I sensed them. Something about me must have interested them. Perhaps the fact that I just couldn't stop plunging the blade into her. Maybe they knew how I felt.
Maybe they were taking notes.
Since then, they have always been there, watching my brutality. Even though I never know when I'm going to do it, they are always there. Eventually, one joined me, relishing the blood. Relishing the gore. Basking in the glory of death and my hate. The revenge-the sweet revenge for everything those I killed had done to me. Another one of them joined me in my dance of death, and another, and another. Just as I stop to run away from it all, they are gone, disappearing back into the night and the safety of darkness.
I stopped sleeping at night. Sometimes I pass out on the cold rocks and wake up at dusk. There they are. Looking at me. Eyes glowing, expectant. We run and run and run. Through the fields and cities and between buildings. We are everywhere. Then we descend on someone who didn't know they had it coming to them. I hate them, they never run like the others do. I hate them for their innocence, their beauty during the sunlight hours. Then I stop hating them. I have ended them.
They ended me.
--Anonymous, 2/6/99