Harper's Confession

“I have killed many, many people.” His admission broke through the silence of the dark, musty room around them. A lone sliver of light escaped through the crack left in the doorway above, a million tiny dust particles hanging in the light. Outside, he could hear the pitter-patter of the rain against the side of the house and a thundering storm reported to be just a few miles away. When Charlotte didn’t respond, John continued speaking.

   “I feel guilty about it all the time. I know it’s not right. I know I should be thrown in prison for what I’ve done, or worse. The truth is I’ve tried stopping before, but nothing seems to work. Sooner or later I get the urge to do it all again.” He said the words calmly. He had learned to not sow his tone with regret. It did nothing to garner him the sympathy he desired, but speaking the words felt so good nonetheless. To come out and profess what he had done was like lifting the weight of all the people he had killed off of his chest. It was like breathing in a breath of fresh, delicious air. 

   He had spoken to many people over the years about his problem, but no one had moved to help him. Not one of them. Even though he invited them into the comfort of his own home, remarkably clean, organized and welcoming as it was, none of them were successful in stopping him from doing it again. It was a curse he felt could never be lifted.

   “It started with Barbara,” he recalled, leaning back in the cheap, stiff chair that was available to him. “I first saw her right here in Richmond, shopping by herself. Of course, I wasn’t on the ‘hunt’, as I call it now, but when I saw the opportunity, I wasn’t about to miss out on it. She was beautiful.” He paused for a moment to remember what she was wearing. A striped sweater of white and red, with nicely fitting jeans and a pair of tall, brown boots. Even now, he remembered. She had had chestnut hair, long and flowing like the gentle brook of a forgotten corner of the world.

   “To be honest it was never about the looks though. It was always about the feeling. The ‘urge’ is what I call it. Back then it was still just the feeling I got whenever I felt like I needed to—well, you know. I still can’t quite explain it. But anyways, the moment I saw Barbara I knew I was going to act. There was something so perfectly vulnerable about her. She was alone, so I suppose that contributed to it, but it was more the feeling of innocence that she gave me.”

   As he spoke, he could see the shock etched in Charlotte’s eyes. He reckoned she regretted very much having come down here to speak with him, especially alone, but he hoped to soothe any fears she may have through the calmness in his tone. She had nothing more to worry about.

   “Barbara was my first try. Getting her into my car without anyone noticing and tying her up so that she couldn’t escape didn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped, but I managed. I still think at least one or two people knew something wasn’t right. I mean, she was screaming all the way up until I put the gag in her mouth, and if that hadn’t been enough to peak anyone’s attention, I high-tailed out of that parking lot quicker than a cheetah on a gazelle’s ass.” John Harper laughed as he retold the story but stopped and held up a defending hand towards Charlotte. “But I never tormented the poor girl, nor did I carry on with the same mistakes next time.

   Hannah Osborne was the second. She put up, by far, the biggest fight I’ve encountered in all my years of hunting. Scratching and biting and yelling. All of it. I still have a scar on my arm here,” he said, holding his left arm out for her to see clearly, though the darkness of the room abnegated any possibility of that. “Anyways, I got her tied up and gagged just like I did Barbara, but this time I had ambushed her in her own home. After hunting her for a few days I found out that she was living alone, and so I picked a night and carried out my plan in her relatively isolated house. I won’t bother you with the finer details after that, but one important thing I took away from Hannah was how unequipped I was to break-in to another person’s home. There was too much risk, I decided, and so I chose to carry out any future urges where I knew I couldn’t be surprised.”

   John leaned forward once again in nervous anticipation, clasping his hands together and shooting her a small smile. “I reckon you can already guess where that might be? Yes, I started bringing them back here. Specifically, to my bedroom upstairs. Now I know it sounds bad, alright? Hell, I know it’s bad! That’s the whole point of having you here. I don’t know how to stop!”

   Excited, John stood up and turned away from Charlotte, one hand anchored on his hip and the other anxiously rubbing the back of his neck. He was a monster. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew it was true. He had to continue telling his story, however. She was here to help him, so he needed to let her do just that.

   “After Hannah, I started to really understand how to undergo the hunt. Whenever I identified a target, someone I truly had to hunt, I began increasing the time between when I first saw them and when I enacted my plan. I became more careful and considerate of the circumstances. I learned never to attack near public areas. Luring them away and then attacking became my specialty. Some of them even willingly came to my home. Those ones did half the job for me.

   With Sarah I only had to lure her with the promise of money. She was an addict who wandered Highland Springs, so not only was she in need of what I was offering but she too was vulnerable. It wasn’t difficult killing her at all.

   Nancy Baker was the oldest woman I’ve ever killed, and perhaps the most vulnerable of them all as well. She was eager for an affair to spite her ‘son-of-a-bitch’ husband. I think his name was John, too, funnily enough. Anyways, she came to me as willingly as a dog comes for a juicy steak. Almost zero effort on my behalf, and to be honest, that didn’t quite sit right for me. As cruel as it sounds, I rather preferred the struggle aspect of the killing.” He stopped again to turn towards her. She still stared back at him as though hanging onto his every word. The shock of his admissions and fear of what he could do was still present in her eyes, but she hadn’t moved.

   “Valerie Cox was after her, and I was very nearly discovered then. Some nosy prick down the road called in a noise complaint when he heard her screaming. It all ended up just fine and I managed to turn the cop away, but that was too close for comfort. Over the course of all of these women I was learning exactly what a healthy balance was between satisfying my urges and not ending up in prison.” Sitting back down, John took his hand off of his neck and sighed. “I suppose that’s partly why I have you here today. I’m still trying to find a way out of this that doesn’t end in me being locked up for the rest of my life. I need someone who can help me, rather than punish me, you know?”

   An eerie silence filled the dark, stuffy basement. The only sound to be heard was the dulcet harmony of the rain outside, ever-increasing with the encroachment of the storm. John dropped his gaze down to his feet and closed his eyes for a few moments. She was so silent, never having given even the slightest of twitches. He was sure she had never even blinked during his entire confession. They never do.

   Consoling himself that he had reached the end of his confession, he was ready to pledge that he would never kill again. If God was his witness, he refused to disappoint him. He had no other choice. He must end the killing here.

   Leaning down and off of his chair, John grabbed Charlotte by the back of her knees and the soft underside of her bloodstained neck. As he lifted her, he found that she seemed twice as heavy as she had earlier, as though all the stress he had just unpacked had transferred onto her. Without anymore hesitation he gently laid her lifeless form down into the hole he had dug there in the dirt floor of his basement. Taking care not to hit her head too hard, or bend her legs improperly, he secured the body in its final resting place. He moved her hands to her stomach, crossing them in the traditional way, and gently closed the lids over her eyes, still full of fear.

   Straightening up, John took the hilt of the shovel in his hands and started replacing the dirt over the top of Charlotte. He worked through tearful eyes as he buried her, regretting that it always came down to this part. It was the worst of his responsibilities, but the most important as well. If he didn’t lay them to rest, who would?

   When Charlotte’s pale, creamy skin disappeared beneath the shoveled dirt, John became satisfied once more. Gazing across the expanse of his small but spacious basement, recognizing the shallow disturbances not far away, he repeated the same words he had said many times before. “I promise, darling. You’ll be the last.”