The spirits guide to murder.

Red. 

Her eyes were red, I could almost see the anger smoking out of them. I knew this would be my last warning as I heard the “click click click” of her pen, giving me that all so familiar smile that told I needed to be quiet. I look around me, a sense of relief falling over my thoughts when I see all of the brightly colored books stacked neatly on the tall shelves around me. But still, there was that sense of discomfort just lingering around me and I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. 

I feel panic as my notebook drops down onto the floor beside me, bringing my arms tightly around my waist waiting for the “click click click” but it never came, she wasn’t there. The chair that I have never seen unoccupied was no longer filled with the small sack of flesh I know to be the librarian. I quickly picked up the fallen notebook, making sure nothing had tumbled out before pushing it roughly into my backpack. Normally I would worry, anyone could see what I write, anyone could see what I think, but there is no one around me. There is no one yet to judge me. 

I run my fingers across the desk below me, the splintered wood piercing my fingers, causing me to quietly wince, as though she will still hear me. But I know she can't. I know that the sound beneath me isn't from her but from the others. I know that she can’t hear anything at all, that the shelves above her are silencing any noise, I know that her screams will drown out any of my movement, and I no longer have to worry. 

I smile to myself, having one less person to drown out my happiness all thanks to the one beside me, my only friend, and my only source of love. "It" grabs onto my hand once it is finished, squeezing slightly, and I close my eyes as it's pressure is removed as it fades into the background.

You may think of it as harsh but i’ve killed for less. Constantly motivated by jealousy or anger, snapping your life force before you can take your next step. They never see it coming, They don’t notice the hours of meticulous planning, following closely behind them. I love the rush, and the build up of anticipation of a fresh kill filling my conscience my adrenaline suddenly the strongest sense imaginable. 

Quickly I ran behind one of the shelves making sure to keep out of the camera's sight. No one would ever know I was here, smiling to myself I managed to slip out of the heavy door, holding the handle so that it closed quietly behind me. I feel dizzy, but this isn’t uncommon after a kill, the excitement often causes nausea and tiredness. I note the slow motions of my body as a cue to go to bed as soon as I walk into my small apartment. I don’t bother pulling down the cover, instead just pulling my sleeves farther down my hands so that they fall past my fingers. My eyes close without effort, a feeling of gratitude from my body to my brain, thanking it for the rest. 

I dream of the librarian, imagining her frail hands banging against the floorboards below me, scratchy screams from years of smoke earlier inhaled. The number 47 etched into my mind, as I unconsciously counted the number of my victims. 47.47.47.

As soon as I wake up I pull out my notebook from my bag, pulling it onto my lap along with my favorite pen, a sharp tip and smooth black ink. Quickly re-calling last night's events and scribbling them down onto the page, putting a bold emphasis on the words “Click, Click, Click” one of the tiny momentos, that I keep from each kill.

It’s been 3 days. 

Three days since I murdered the librarian. 

I grow anxious wanting to feel the same rush that I felt that day, the memories of it now slowly fading out of my system, the last of my excitement now draining out. I can no longer hear her screaming, her soul is gone. It’s slightly disappointing, I thought that she would’ve lasted longer. I shake my head and sit up on my bed, bringing my knees up to my chest hugging them tightly. Then that’s when it happens, I hear it. “Click click click, click click click” I can hear her pen again, warmth once again filling my brain, goosebumps traveling up my arms, I gasp as I feel weight on my shoulders, like hands pressing down onto my skin. I look backwards expecting to see the small women, wrists as big as three of my fingers but instead I see a large black figure. Eyes as wide as can be but darker than you could ever imagine, yet still I feel like I could be impaled with it’s stare. It’s pointer finger digs lightly into my shoulder, and I smile to myself knowing that there is going to be a small slit where it’s nail once was. I look into its eyes, pulling it’s hand off of my shoulder and bringing it up to my face so that it cups my cheek. 

It doesn’t speak but I know exactly what it’s telling me, exactly what I need to do. My next kill, I nod to it turning my head to kiss it’s palm softly before it vanishes again, leaving me with the sense of emptiness as though it will never come back. It pulls it’s hand from my face and it’s color begins to fade out of my view, coaxing me back to sleep as I dream about the day to come, the sounds of screams that would tear apart a mothers ears, and begging that you would think was only said on your knees. 

It’s time now, I got permission from it and now I get to kill. I seek them out, looking through the large room, my hands shoved into my pockets. The hair on the back of my neck stands, I have found them.

My next victim. 

“Imagine that.” 

My next momento. 

“Imagine that.”

Trust me, I imagine your screams.