You will never read this, I’m going to delete it as soon as I finish writing it, but I want you to know why I’m going to kill you.
Although I guess maybe you do know. You’re a serial rapist. I’m a werewolf. And a woman, but that part’s secondary. I’m also a cop, but that part, that part’s way down on the list.
Jesus, I shouldn’t be trying to type this drunk. At least I have a firm grasp on where the delete button is.
How do I know who you are? I don’t. I know what you smell like though, so in a way . . . I do know you. You’re a white male, early thirties. You smoke, but not a lot. Maybe three cigarettes a day, Marlboros. (How cowboy of you.) Your deodorant is Axe Excite. You shower two to three times a day. You wax, upper and lower–I hope it fucking hurts, by the way. You’re a clean guy, very fastidious. Got a bit of an OCD thing going on? You don’t take any medications. You don’t drink before your assaults. You like to keep a clear head. I do too. I’ll lay off the Jack tonight.
Closing my eyes, I can almost see you, scents made flesh and blood. I see you with dark hair, cut short, clean-shaven. Brown eyes? Maybe. Or maybe it’s because there’s a glass of whiskey a few inches from my left hand and that color’s kinda on my mind.
You’ve been doing this for a while. You’ve never been caught. You guess you’re smart.
Ha, no, just lucky.
It’s a good plan, though, I’ll give you that, one predator to another, it’s very good.
Texas is huge. How many haunted houses with haunted forests are there every Halloween season? Shit, I can think of five right now, soused as I am, within fifty miles of my house.
They’re dark, they all have that one part where you leave the haunted house and enter the spooky trail that winds through the woods, the trail where teenagers wearing Michael Myers masks chase you with chain saws, sans the chains. And that’s where you are. You’re in costume, easier to blend in that way, and I smelled latex at your last scene. What do you dress up as? Please say a werewolf. That would tickle me to no end.
Shit I am drunk
So you’re in costume, you enter the haunted house area, and everyone thinks you’re one of the performers. You enter the trail and pick a spot and wait. The houses run people in groups, let everyone feed off everyone else’s fear. You shadow them along the trail. They hear you, maybe they see you, but you’re part of the show. You bide your time. You’re patient, you’ve probably left the trail and gone home unsatisfied more than a few times. I hope your balls turned Smurf blue, motherfucker.
Eventually, though, some unlucky female lags behind just enough. Or runs ahead of the group. And the real performers, they have marks, places they stay in. You time it right and get your victim in the gap between Leatherface losing the group and Freddy picking them up. You’re quick, strong. Any screams are mistaken for part of the show. You drag your victim away, and at first she probably thinks it’s part of the show, even though all the ones I’ve been to have no contact policies.
Then you rape her in the woods. You beat her before, during, and after. You wear protection. You take the condom with you.
You struck last year in Cut and Shoot, then a week later outside of Houston.
This year, just last week, you came to Plantersville. It’s out of Sawyer County, my jurisdiction, but the Renaissance Festival was going on there, and I had a ticket. You were a side trip. I heard what happened right before I left that morning, and it was spur of the moment. I figured, driving up there, that I’d flash my badge, check out what was left of your crime scene, and leave pissed off that your scent had been trampled by scores of others.
Wonder of wonders, though, when I reached the site, it was still fresh. This woman, you beat her into unconsciousness. By the time she came to, it was morning and her friends were gone. They thought she’d left without them, because she hadn’t really wanted to go and they’d kind of forced her into it. So no one reported her missing. She was there the entire night in the woods.
What happened this time? Did you lose control? I know what that’s like. It’s fun, isn’t it? Fun, then scary.
She was at the hospital by then, but like I said earlier, the scene was a lot fresher. And you tore off the hoody sweatshirt she’d been wearing. It had been sealed into an evidence bag, but some dumb fuckwit had left it on the hood of his patrol car, unsecured. I tore it open and sniffed it, got her scent, her friends, and yours.
How did I know it was yours? Easy. My nose is really, really good, and it’s only getting better. Last year, when I became a werewolf, I couldn’t smell half the things I can now. I can smell emotions, and I guess that has something to do with hormones, but I’ve never bothered to research it. I go by instinct a lot. I smell something, and I react to it, and my reaction tells me what I smelled. If I smell someone’s fear, I get anxious and ready for a fight.
I smelled your lust.
I’ll leave it at that. But let’s say that later that day, a guy in a barbarian costume got lucky behind an RV at the Renaissance Festival campgrounds.
Here I am, typing all this out and blasted out of my mind at two in the morning. It’s Friday, and at 9 pm, the Shriek Shack will open for business. I have no reason to believe you’ll be there, but the Shack was advertised at Plantersville, so what the hell. It’s right outside Conroe, about an hour and a half drive. I don’t know how you choose your spots, if you’re a truck driver and that’s how you find them, or if you deal with the haunted houses and sell them fake blood or some such shit. And it doesn’t matter, does it? You go, you rape, you go away.
But not this time. I could do the right thing, I guess, and arrest you, but I don’t see the point. You won’t be my first kill. I won’t lose any sleep over killing you, but I will lose sleep if you manage to get out and do it again.
Right now, I can’t decide how to kill you. I’m finding out that my inner beast has two sides: the swift, efficient predator who wants to tear out your throat, and the other one, the one that even I’m afraid of. That one wants to clamp a furry hand over your mouth and then disembowel you with the other hand. My claws aren’t especially sharp, but I’m strong, and digging the claws in and then ripping you open from belly button to the bottom of your ribcage won’t be a problem. That side of me wants to feel you scream against my palm. That side of me is wondering if it would be possible to strangle you with your own intestines.
And I’m sorry, but I don’t know which side is going to win out tonight.
I’m truly sorry.
Your friend, Elizabeth.