The Secret

Halloween, October 31^st

The room was dark, vacant of sound apart from my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my ears. There was a presence in the room with me. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. A surge of adrenaline flowed through me like lightening with the thud of each approaching footstep. The killer’s movement was slow and calculated.

I hid behind a red velvet chair, in the corner of my living room. Through a window overhead, a beam of moonlight illuminated the space in front of me. Just over the arm of the chair I could see a reflection of light against the steel on an eight-inch razor sharp blade. A surgical amputation knife. The same weapon that was used to kill ten other women, their blood wiped clean, polished away. Now he meant to use it on me.

I tried not to picture the blade piercing my skin, sinking into my neck. I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks, I attempted to control my breath so he wouldn’t hear me. I could only see blood in my thoughts, I could only hear the women he killed screaming in my ears, the last thing they saw was his smile. My head was spinning, I felt like I was going to faint and throw up at the same time.

I had to pull myself together. I can get out of this I told myself, there has to be a way out of this. I needed to run, but first I had to get the letters out of my nightstand drawer. They were the only evidence this killer had left behind. This all started with those bloody Goddamn letters.

Five Weeks Earlier



The first letter arrived Friday, September 23^rd I had just returned home from my job at the University. I found a copy of the Seattle Times on my porch with a plain white envelope taped to the front of it. It held a sheet of paper with a note in Times New Roman font, it read:

Hi Anne,

I am writing you because I need someone to talk to. Can you guess who this is? I know who you are. I know you better than you think. I have a secret. I can’t tell anyone but I’m going to tell you. Soon.

Yours Truly,

L.K.

I did not have a subscription to the Seattle Times. The newspaper and letter must have been hand delivered. The front page of the paper reported ‘Woman Brutally Murdered’ the title was circled in black marker with a smiley face drawn next to it, a little creepy if I was honest.

I sat my purse down on the kitchen table and read the article which reported “A third victim has been identified in a string of gruesome murders. Forty-year-old LeAnne Smith was found with her throat slit in her home. Police suspect this could be the work of a serial killer.” The murdered woman’s home was not far from mine. A serial killer was shocking news in the suburbs.

My first thought was to rationalize this letter as a sick joke, perhaps at the hand of one of my students. Although none of them had the initials L.K. The sentence “I know you better than you think” played with my mind, but I was really tired and wanted to shrug the incident off.

I put the letter and newspaper in my nightstand next to my bed. In the history of all the decisions I had ever made this would go down as one of my worst and I was accruing quite a list. Most of it riddled with men’s names.

I poured a glass of Scotch and spent the rest of my evening in an alcohol induced haze with my dog, a ferocious German Shepherd named Rex. Rex would flop over sideways at the sight of any human, hungry for belly scratches. He made me feel safe though, at a svelte 140 pounds.

I found it difficult to sleep that night. This could have been anxiety over the weird letter on my porch, or because I let Rex sleep with me. He took up most of the bed pushing me down in the crack between the mattress and the wall.

After a few days, life returned to normal. I almost forgot about the letter completely, until the following Friday. I returned home from work with a jolt of uneasiness. A copy of the Seattle Times was on my porch with a blank white envelope taped to the front of it. The letter inside read:

Hi Anne,

I see you got my last letter. Remember the secret I have for you? Do you have any idea what it is? Here’s a clue: look at the front page of today’s paper.

I really want to tell you my secret, but I think it would be more fun if you guessed.

You and I have known each other for a long time, but you don’t know me as well as you think. Sometimes I wonder if you’re paying attention to me at all. I’m paying attention to you.

Tomorrow you should wear that black pencil skirt to work. It suits you. I have to say I don’t prefer the blue pants suit on you at all.

Yours Truly,

L.K.

On the front page of the paper, it said: ‘Fourth Victim in Series of Vicious Murders’. Another woman was found with her throat slit, in her suburbia home a mile away. Admittedly this letter was more alarming than the one before. The writer listed clothing that hung in my closet. Items that I actually wore, which was disturbing, and the sentence “you don’t know me as well as you think” played with my mind.

I thought about taking the letters to the police, but I didn’t know who was behind this. If it was a friend, playing a bad joke on me I would be furious and embarrassed. I wouldn’t want them handed in to the police over it though.

I poured a glass of wine and tried to distract myself with some TV. I couldn’t coax my mind away from the idea that I received this creepy communication from someone who claims to know me. What was this secret the writer kept referencing and giving me clues to? Both papers left on my porch reported the same streak of serial murders.

Then I let my brain harbor an alarming theory that made my blood go cold. What if the writer of these letters was actually the killer in the newspaper? What if that was the secret? The thought was running circles in my head like a hamster on a wheel.

The writer said that we have “known each other for a long time”. If that was true along with the fact that the writer knows where I live and what clothes I own, that could mean the writer is someone within my close personal circle. Was someone that I know and interact with everyday a serial killer? That was a terrifying thought. I had to prove myself wrong. I pulled out a piece of paper and started a list. Who did I know that could be capable of murder?

Rachael was my best friend since elementary school, there was no way it could be her. Norma worked at the University with me. We hung out often. I mean yeah, she owned a lot of cats which was a little weird, but she was not serial killer material.

I thought about David, we’d dated on and off for years. We were mostly ‘off’ when we were supposed to be on, then we really got it ‘on’ when we said we were off. He was a quiet, passive-aggressive Pacific Northwesterner. At his angriest he would be in turmoil writing a well-worded letter to someone.

My brother Mike was a screw up for sure, no job, no girlfriend, he volunteered at the soup kitchen every weekend. I honestly believed it was to meet girls. I don’t think he even cared which side of the soup line they were on, that wasn’t the calling card of a heartless murderer. I couldn’t think of one person I knew who might be a psychotic killer in disguise, which left me both relieved and confused.

The letters had been arriving on Fridays and the following Friday was approaching quickly. I invited Rachael and David over. I needed to talk to someone about the letters and they were the two I trusted most.

I arrived home Friday in a full state of panic. There on the porch was a third letter attached to a newspaper, this time the Seattle Sun. The letter read:

Hi Anne,

Did you miss me this week? You don’t have to. I’m never very far away. Have you guessed my secret yet? You’re a professor, a smart lady, you must be getting an idea. I have another clue for you. Look inside the newspaper.

I hope you like it. Oh, and Anne, I’ll be seeing you, real soon.

Yours Truly,

L.K.

I was trembling as I opened the newspaper. Inside was a delicate ivory silk scarf. I had lost one just like it more than a year ago. This couldn’t possibly be my lost scarf, I thought. My scarf had a small pink stain in the corner, barely noticeable from a brush against my lipstick.

I turned the scarf over and there it was. A small pink stain in the corner. A chill ran through me. Whoever is delivering these letters has had access to my belongings for at least a year, or maybe longer….

“Anne!” Rachael walked up behind me. I jumped inhaling deeply.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” She said.

Rachel was taller than me at 5’7, beautiful blonde hair. She was a black belt in Tai Kwon Do and a medical intern. All the things my mother wished I was. Mother had never been happy with anything I did, but she loved Rachael. She compared me to her constantly, I never held that against Rachael.

“No, it’s okay, it’s just been a bizarre few weeks. I’m so glad you’re here.” I said hugging her.

“David’s right behind me. Where’s the wine? I need a drink.” Rachael said.

We entered my two bedroom newly remodeled Victorian house, with David running down the path to catch up. We sat and talked. David got better looking with each drink of wine that I took. I was finally loosened up enough to tell them about the letters just as David took the conversation in a rather concerning direction.

“Have you heard about all those murders? Some guy is running around killing women with a knife. Not far from here either.” David said.

“Yeah. I heard.” I said.

“Crazy. I’m benefitting from it though.” He said, pushing his wavy brown hair away from his forehead.

“How’s that?” Rachael asked.

“I have to make sure my female co-workers get home safely. Chivalry is not dead -aaaand I’m gonna end up getting laid because of it.” He smiled showing off perfect white teeth.

“Guys, I really don’t think we should be joking about this. Someone is out there killing women. Those women are someone’s mother or sister or daughter.” I said.

“Come on Anne, I wasn’t making light of it.” David said, “I just think -while I personally could never kill anyone, it’s fascinating. This guy is smart. I talked to the D.A., and he told me the police don’t have any leads. They think the women are being killed with a surgical knife, based on the wounds but that’s all they have.” David was a defense attorney at a very large very successful firm.

“Are you impressed because the killer would be easy to represent if he gets caught?” Rachael asked.

“I wouldn’t say ‘impressed’” David said, “but I do spend a lot of time trying to create a defense for people who do the most asinine things.”

“At least you don’t have to go to work and deal with a guy who ‘accidentally’ got something stuck up his butt.” Rachael said, “That doesn’t happen by accident! Poor choices!”

“Wow.” David said raising his eyebrows, “It is true I never had to represent someone who had something stuck up their butt. I’ve had to defend some extremely shortsighted people though, and this killer seems to cover his tracks. I mean they can’t even find any DNA at any of the crime scenes.”

“I think you’ve been around criminals too long if the ‘smart’ ones are getting kudos from you.” I said.

“I’m impressed too,” Rachael said, “I mean if the killer is using a surgical knife they must have some skill.”

“Okay Dr. Kimball, that seems a little patronizing.” David said.

I found it unsettling that David was talking about this killer like he was starstruck. I also realized of all the people who I knew Rachael was the only one with access to a surgical knife, which the killer was reported to be using. I was growing suspicious of everyone around me.

“Okay we need to change the subject. I’ll go get the cards out. Playing a game might lighten the conversation.” I said.

“And I need another drink.” Rachael said

I didn’t bring up the letters. I didn’t think I could have a conversation about the letters with them, ever. My gut feeling wouldn’t let me. Ultimately, I wasn’t sure how much I trusted either of them.

The rest of the evening my mind was stuck on the secret the writer was taunting me with, and the clue of my lost scarf. What could it all mean? I didn’t realize how soon I was going to find out.

A week later it was Halloween, Friday, October 31^st. I took the day off work. My house was dark from the fall overcast sky. Dusk was approaching. Trick-or-treaters never stopped by, living at the end of a paved road off a cul-de-sac, most people didn’t even know there was a house down there.

Rex needed outside so I opened the back door and let him out into the fenced in yard. I walked inside the house putting on a record and poured a glass of wine, swaying to the music. My mind was free of worry. Until I heard a floorboard creek. Then the electricity went out.

I set my glass of wine down on the countertop, the breaker box was in the basement. I had to go outside to access it. I had a case of nerves. I would take Rex with me to check it out. I opened the back door and called Rex’s name. He didn’t come running as usual. I squinted to see around the yard, it was so dark, Rex wasn’t there. He would be in the front. I retraced my steps back inside the house.

I was walking through the kitchen when I heard a loud BANG!

The door down the hall behind me, that I had just come through and closed, slammed shut. But I had already closed it, how had it opened again? Goosebumps were rising on my arms. I felt something in the air, it was ominous, scary. I was standing in the dark when I heard the first footstep, then another, deliberate and precise. I ran to the living room and hid behind the red velvet chair in the corner.

Someone was in the house with me. So many thoughts going through my mind. Then the moonlight shone in through the window and I saw the gleaming blade of a surgical knife.

Across the room there was a full-length Cheval mirror. I looked into it trying to see the killer. I squinted, through the dark, with just enough moonlight and I saw….

I saw myself crouched down behind the red velvet chair, holding a shiny steel surgical blade in my hand. I couldn’t understand-what was happening, I stood up. The electricity came back on. The blade I saw while I was hiding was a reflection of the knife I held in my own hand. There was no one in the room but me. Had I imagined the footsteps?

I walked over to the mirror staring in disbelief at my reflection. How did I get this knife? My thoughts started to jumble.

When I was crouched behind the red chair, I was upset, I saw blood in my mind, I heard the women screaming in my mind, wait…no. I remembered seeing the blood, I remembered hearing the women screaming.

I walked quietly, purposefully into my bedroom. Under my bed there was a 1940’s steamer trunk, I pulled it out and opened it. Inside were black gloves, a ski mask and the tokens from ten different women, jewelry and photos.

There was a plain white envelope on top marked ‘For Anne’. My hands shaking, I opened the letter and read:

Hi Anne,

Now you know my secret, or should I say, ‘our secret’. The secret is I am you and you are me. I like to be called ‘John’ when I am present by the way.

You and I like killing women. If you search deep down this won’t come as a shock to you. After dealing with mother all those years. I wish you could come to more peace over our fun. I thought this little game would help.

We’re getting quite a lot of press coverage. Exhilarating. I thought the newspapers would stir something inside you. And the scarf is the one you were wearing on the day we made our first kill.

I know you remember the kills, Anne. Afterall, you knew there were ten dead already when the newspapers have only reported four. You feel as thrilled as I do when we kill. Tonight, I think it’s your turn.



Now, let’s go find Rachael.

Yours Truly,

Lady Killer