Sent: Tuesday, November 24, 2015 at 7:09 PM
Subject: Fw: His fantasy… (serial killer, penny dreadful version
He had never admitted it but there was evidence all over London of his work. Bodies to be counted, gore to be cleaned off the streets with his name on. He was more prolific than that White Chapel killer they called Jack the Ripper. But there was enough difference in the laying out that no one knew it was one man. No one but her. His arch nemesis.
She only knew because she had known him for years, for most of his life in fact.
She had known his family and saw his scars whenever there was a party at their mansion. But there was nothing she could do. She was just a child herself, after all.
She knew all about the animals in their neighbourhood too. That’s how she had put together the base fantasy under the work of his human kills. That’s how she knew it was him.
She had managed to sneak into his room at a party and see the violent, bloody daguerreotypes under his bed. They were crusty and it was beyond disgusting to think of how often he used them as wank fodder to get that level of crust on them. Her hands were itching to be washed that night. They never felt clean again. No matter how often she washed them since.
She remembered all the mocking he had taken with red cheeks because he had wet the bed as a 15 year old at a sleep over.
And she remembered an awestruck look on his face whenever he looked at a fire or even a match struck near him. And it clicked into place for her. All those homeless people who were torched. All those prostitutes who were found with fire marks all over their bodies. The hours of pain they must have endured before their heart gave out in shock. Didn’t serial killers usually go after the disenfranchised first? She remembered hearing that somewhere…
And it gave her the creeps how often she felt eyes on her when she had to use the outhouse at their farm. But there comes a point when you can no longer wait. With all those hoops, bustles and skirts of slips and dress, how can you do anything at the end though but bare your bum and squat carefully? She had found the hole he watched through and told her mom. She had gotten her face slapped for even discussing such an indelicate subject. She should know better at her age, she was told. That sealed it for her. He was paying for this.
Even if she had to stoop to his level, just once.
So she plotted, she planned, she practiced controlling burns and fires. She snuck into his room once more to be sure she had the base fantasy just right. And finally she was ready. She worried if in this plot she was in fact becoming him. Did cops ever feel that way? In seeing into his evil had she become evil herself? But how else was he to be stopped? No one else knew it was him…
Finally she felt she had it right and approached him. Asked him for a walk when she next went to the farm. Just after she had been to the outhouse and knew he was still excited by her. She flirted with him and made him blush in his tongue lolling excitement.
He agreed and her face lit up. He smiled fondly at her.
When they were far enough away through the fields and woods that no one would see and she knew no one was following them, she stopped and kissed his hand. She said softly, " I know who and what you are". He looked at her in curiousity and a bit of fear. That look remained with her the rest of her life.
She squeezed out the flammable gel onto his shirt and lit the match before he knew what she meant to do. In the seconds it took for her to step away to safety he was aflame. Screaming and running from tree to tree. And she felt a frisson run up and down her spine.
When he finally collapsed, she covered him with the blanket he had suggested bringing thankfully and stomped out the fire bits outside of that. Then she posed him as he loved to do and left him there. Perhaps to be found later. Perhaps not.
She ran back toward the farmhouse, only stopping once, to vomit under a willow tree. Where no one would see or link it to her. Or his body.
Her first kill…but at least she knew hers were to bring down the rabid. That made it ok, didn’t it?
She joined the search and cried with his mother and sister. She did feel bad for their pain, but not at what she had done. It was necessary.
The family asked her to sing at the funeral and she did. It seemed like a kind thing to do for them. They had begged so prettily.