The Murderer Among Us

‘Why hadn’t I started this paper earlier? ‘

A great question, one I’d been asking myself for the last few hours.

 I am sitting at a wooden desk in the slowly darkening library, trying to focus on the bright computer screen in front of me. But my head pounds and the tiny black print on the computer screen swims in front of me. I groan, rubbing my eyes. 

It had been a warm, sunny week and I’d spent it outside kicking around a ball and walking the pier with my friends. College so far had been fun-packed, but I was still getting the hang of the learning part. 

I lose focus again and the computer, tired of waiting for me, powers down. I flick my eyes to the note the librarian gave me, a list of books and articles relating to serial killers. The list is for my psychology of crime class; a paper I’m writing on serial killers. Not exactly the funnest topic. Some of my classmates find it morbidly fascinating, like the girl who sits next to me, eyes wide as our professor explained the thrill that could come from killing. I shiver. Creepy stuff. 

I grab the sticky note. 

A majority of the books are on the lower floors of the library, so I leave my windowed alcove to peruse the bookshelves. The library is mostly empty and quiet, the only sound my footsteps on the wood floor. 

It turns out most of the books she suggested are fiction, horror books about murderers, nothing based on fact. I scan the list again and look this time at the article suggestions. Any scholarly articles are in the basement. An inky note of fear creeps into my stomach. I’d been down there once before, during the day, and with a group of people. The sliding stacks were tall and metal. The walls windowless, bookshelves winding into a maze of old brown covers and dusty manuscripts. We hadn’t stayed down there long. 

I puff out a breath. I need to write this paper. And what did I have to be afraid of? I’m a big guy, 5’11, (6 foot if asked), and in pretty good shape. If there is someone in the basement, it would be another student. I head for the stairs, and think instead of my date with the cute guy from the coffee shop…. 

The librarian had specified what aisle the articles would be in, and I could find the crime section without too much trouble. I heave the metal stacks apart with a decent amount of effort and inch down the narrow space. I scan the little boxes containing newspapers, articles, books, and magazines. I pick a few at random, and head for a table. Sitting down, I put in my headphones, the loud music filling the silence. I pick up the first article, and open it up, starting to read. 

          Through the Eyes of Serial Killers: Interviews with Seven Murderers

While many people commit relatively minor violations of the law, most of us do not spend our waking hours plotting crimes that harm others. And yet, on a daily basis, we may come into contact with criminals, even very violent ones. Hidden in the darker recesses of our social fabric are those who live double lives: rapists, child molesters, pedophiles, stalkers, and serial killers. They may seem impossible to understand because they-“ 

I yank out my earbuds. I’d heard something. Squinting around me, the aisles between shelves inky pools of blackness, I listen to the buzz of… well, nothing. It had sounded like a door, so maybe just someone leaving upstairs. Cautiously putting my earbuds back in, I look back down at the paper, glancing up now and then, searching the darker corners. 

I fight to keep my eyes open, the hours ticking by. Shadows play tricks on me as they twist in my peripherals, my pulse jumping in my neck every time I think I see something.  

Serial killers stand out not only because they murder the innocent, but also because of the manner in which they kill. Some serial killers take great satisfaction, even sexual gratification, in making their victims suffer. Others prefer to kill their victims quickly to have their bodes for later mutilation and sexual pleasure.

This time I’d definitely heard something. Earbuds dangling from my hand, now completely awake I stare at the room in front of me. From what I can tell nobody is there. But maybe I’d dozed off and someone had snuck past? Or they could be hiding in the dark maw of the basement, pressing ominously against the small circle of white light I sat in. 

I shiver. I wish I could see into those dark shadows. Determined to get through this article and then back to my dorm as quickly as possible, I bend my head once more over the paper. This time I leave my headphones out, ears straining for the tiniest of sounds. 

 About 2 percent of serial killers are psychotic, meaning that they suffer from hallucinations, hear voices, and experience significant cognitive impairments, but the vast majority of serial killers are psychopaths. 

I shoot up to my feet, heart pounding and hands shaking. A book had fallen from one of the shelves and lay on the floor. I stare at it, fear paralyzing me. I’d never believed in ghosts, but something about the way the book had just slid from the shelf screams abnormal. Gulping, I inch around the table, eyes on the red volume. 

Shoveling everything on the table into my backpack without taking my eyes off of the book, I speed walk to the stairs. I let out a slight sigh of relief as I reach the main floor, a safe warmth being cast by glowing orange lamps. I would just have to plead with my professor for forgiveness, one paper wouldn’t sink me. I reach the doors and give them a mighty tug. They’re locked. I look dumbly at the door, and give the long silver handle a couple more yanks. Nothing. Looking outside the campus is pitch black, night having long since fallen. The occasional lamp post illuminating the empty concrete paths. There was nobody out.  

What time was it? 

I turn back and pull out my phone. It’s nearly 1 in the morning. 

What time did the library close?

How did I lose track of time?

 I head for the front desk, but it stands empty. Crap. Now panic is starting to take over. The pounding in my head increases and I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans. 

Okay, think logically. I’ll text Bryan, and tell him I’m locked in the library. Pulling out my phone again, and praying my roommate is awake I click the power button. Nothing happens. I press it again. Just like the doors, nothing happens. 

I look back up at the empty library, and down again at my phone. Then back up at the library. The stacks of books seem to bare their teeth at me, the library a toothy mouth which had swallowed me whole, refusing to open up. Then I see it. 

Right across from me, at the top of the stairs to the basement glowed a red ‘EXIT’ sign. My stomach curls into a knot. I’d rather sleep up here in one of the cubby's than go back down there. Steeling myself, I walk back across the room and push open the doors to the basement. It’s pitch black. Of course, the sensor lights had turned off. I pause for a few seconds, genuinely considering breaking a window, then give in, taking the first few steps slowly. And to my relief, the motion sensor lights flick on. 

The stairs are a stark white, and I jog down them to the door that leads back into the basement. I wince as my footsteps echo around me. Surely if there were someone else in the library they would hear me. 

Strangely that thought did anything but comfort me. 

Once again I face the long, silent basement. Some primal sense tells me to stay silent, and breathing shallowly I walk across towards the darker recesses of the room, staying as far away from the shelves as I can. I find myself anxiously peering around each corner, heart beating frantically within my chest until I see each aisle is empty. 

I slow down as I approach the aisle I’d been digging through just hours before, the crime aisle. Peering around the corner, my heart skips a beat. The book is gone. 

 I stumble backward, eyes fixed on the empty aisle. I knew it had been this one. The table I’d been seated at is directly across from this aisle; where the book had dropped. I remember the bright red cover, spiky black lettering embossed on the spine… 

My frantic eyes catch hold of one of the books. There it is. Not able to help myself I inch closer until the spidery title comes into focus. 

The Murderer Among Us

I let out a noise similar to a wet cat. Why couldn’t it have been ‘Dr. Seuss?’ Or ‘Kitten playtime?’ Anything less ominous. A soft noise splits the air. 

I’ve heard the saying ‘you could hear a pin drop.’ But that's exactly what I heard, a soft ‘pitter,’ as if someone had dropped a pencil. I didn’t move. Too afraid even to turn my head or to blink, I fix my eyes on the red book, hands clenched into fists as fear freezes me. 

Click… click…  

They sound like footsteps. As if someone is creeping through the library as softly as possible, their intention not to be heard- 

I unlock my limbs and press myself up against the bookshelf, wishing I could climb into it and hide among the novels. At the end of the aisle, a slight shadow slowly detaches itself from the long dark one cast by the bookshelf. 

The air is sucked from my lungs as I watch the growing shape. Whoever is out there is so abnormally-shaped I can’t make out who- or what it is. The stark ceiling light gives it shape. 

Its head is narrow, long spidery fingers delicately waving in front of it. It seemed almost to drag itself from the shadows, not far behind the twisting limbs a huge mass. Risking movement, I press my hand over my mouth, biting my fingers, my sweat salty in my mouth as I hold back a whimper. 

Its huge swollen body defies physics as it perches atop its long fingers, almost comical in its shape. Its long face twists away from me, rotating slowly as it scans the room. 

Inching backward I start to shake. I move as quickly as I can without making a sound. 

Its head slowly twists towards my hiding space, in a way no human spine could. 

Reaching the end of the shelf I throw myself around it, pressing against the wooden backboard, warm tears rolling down my cheeks. Silent prayers fill my head. I taste blood as I sink my teeth into my hand to keep from screaming. 

Click… click…. click… 

I screw my eyes shut. 

Click… click… click… 

I know now that the sound I hear is its long fingers as they delicately support the mound of flesh. In my mind, I can see the head and its endless twisting…. 

I turn, counting to three… and slowly opening my eyes- 

“NOOOOOOOO!” 

“Sam, SAM!” I jerk upright, shaking and covered in a cold sweat.

“Bro chill out!” I can feel the cold metal fingers still sinking into my neck and fight off the wave of nausea that rocks me 

“Sam it’s me, just chill out.” I turn, expecting to see the lamp-like eyes boring into my own. 

But it’s Bryan, eyes a normal grey, looking concerned. 

I stop struggling and look around blearily, my heart slowing its frantic pattering.

 I am sitting in the window seat of the library, the sun still high in the sky outside, Bryan glaring at me. 

I look down, at the books scattered across the desk in front of us; ‘Through the Eyes of Serial Killers: Interviews with Seven Murderers,’ ‘The Murderer Among Us,’ ‘Inside the Mind of a Killer.’ Still confused, I shake my head and look around the bright and somewhat crowded room. People are glancing up at me, and I flush with embarrassment. 

“Bro you passed out and then started screaming, I thought you were having a seizure or something.” Bryan hisses at me. I duck my head, still trying to get my bearings. 

“You alright?”  

“Let’s get out of here,” I mumble. I grip the back of my neck, wincing as I remember the sharp stabbing pain of needles digging into my skin… 

“Don’t have to tell me twice!” Bryan grabs his bag and together we head for the front of the library. But I can’t help glancing back, eyes landing on the stairs to the basement, above which glows a red exit sign. I shiver. I am never going down there again.