Dear Future Mr. Croswell

“What are you writing in that book of yours?” I stop scribbling in my journal to look up at my father, he looks more concerned than curious. Minutes earlier he was watching the news of the infamous Falkirk Serial Killer of Iowa. I believe that the moment they had a drawing that was almost perfect to my face on the news, he knew that it was his one and only son causing the trauma of the small, forgotten town. 

“Nothing you need to be concerned with.” I lick my lips and wipe the sweat off of my forehead before grabbing my notebook and charging towards my bedroom. I pull the curtains to a close and sit down at my desk one final time. 

Dear Future Mr. Croswell, 

The year is currently 1987 and I fear that I am nearing the end of this chapter. Therefore, I am writing this letter to you, my future self, to read in case I have forgotten my many sins. Based on today’s major news story on “NewsTV”, they’ve cracked the code. The very code that I believed impossible to crack. Silly me, for believing that I could get away with my crimes and live a calm and peaceful life thereafter. I would assume that the clues I placed at every crime scene were far too easy, I do recommend that if you decide to indulge in these acts once again that you develop more grueling ones. 

Consequently, Mr. Croswell, I can only assume that you are reading this letter that your past self has written to you because you cannot bear in mind the reason as to why you are in prison (assuming that is where you are, of course). Continue reading if you would like to be reminded of the peril you caused in the small town of Falkirk… but before you begin, you must understand something. Mr. Croswell of ‘87 does not regret his actions, rather, I have a sense of deep pleasure that continues to grow with every vile deed I check off my ungodly bucket list. The moment I plucked my mother from the tainted soil of the earth, my heart grew small and my immoral desires grew stronger. From there on, did I discover, that murder is an art that must be practiced. 

Mr. Croswell, do you remember when you kidnapped that young child outside of the Falkirk fair? Do you remember the joy you felt as you watched her mother search high and low for her precious daughter? Future Mr. Croswell, I pray you do not forget that feeling, that high feeling of power you felt for knowing exactly where the child was. You were the author of her story, you controlled whether or not sweet, sweet Charlotte would be returning home. Spoiler alert: she didn’t, to this day they haven’t found her frail body. I do expect that they still haven't found her by the time you are reading this, I wouldn’t anticipate them to haphazardly begin tearing up the Ricardo’s Grocery Shop parking lot, for that is the only way they will find her. 

In spite of the absolute fulfillment that Charlotte provided, she was not your most prized bucket list item. For it was the absolute gratification you felt when you murdered your wife, Vivienne. I am not quite sure what you remember about Vivienne, but she was absolutely stunning. No woman was better than her and she was well aware of that. Unfortunately, for Vivienne, this was the reason for her demise. While she was nearly a goddess that walked the earth, she could also be a repugnant snake. She wanted to be the only woman in your life, but if you remember, you had quite the sort of pleasing females that made Vivienne hurl. I was only bored of her, but she didn’t quite understand that. Maybe this is why we were married for so long, but Vivienne did murder every single mistress you had. The tall ones, the ugly ones, the fat ones… every single one. Thus, Vivienne had to go. It was once she murdered the fourth mistress did I realize she was dangerous for me, so I had to give her a taste of her own medicine. I do still love her, however, I wouldn’t mind much if she rotted in hell. If you ever would like to go searching for her body, stop immediately. She has no remains left, to my knowledge, grinding her up and feeding her to Mrs. Ullom's pigs was the most brilliant idea, by the way/

Mr. Croswell, do understand that there are many more pieces I could share with you, but many I request they remain a secret. Therefore, if you do happen to remember the thirty-four other women and children that you added to your bucket list, keep that knowledge to yourself. Sometimes secrets that only you hold offer great satisfaction to take to your grave. Keep the public guessing, better yet, keep them wondering if they even persecuted the correct man. 

Perhaps, if they did not deny my application to be the full-time Art Instructor at the schoolhouse, I would not have grown weary and bored, I would not be writing to my future self about our life as the Falkirk Serial Killer. Yet, perhaps if they had not denied me, I would not have realized who I was truly meant to be. While I do not resonate with Christian's and their belief in God as much… well if he is real, he did put me in this place for a reason. Maybe to assist in wiping out the greater population of useless offspring and females that plague the earth. Or perhaps to enact the concept of fear in the people, surely they have grown too confident. Either way, Mr. Croswell, wherever you are in the moment that you are reading this, please understand that no matter what, I take great pride in who you are in that moment, for I created this future for you. 

Kindest Regards, 

Mr. William Croswell, also known as, The Falkirk Serial Killer

I write my final words just as I hear the sirens in the distance. I was a fool to think that my father would not call law enforcement the second he suspected it was me. Yet, I sit here, still without a single regret. I have lived my life in the light that I wanted it to be, not many can vouch for that.