Here, I, would like to showcase all you up and coming authors/authoress's by
allowing you to have your dark writings displayed here for all to read.
To have your own horror stories placed here, all you need to do is send me 
your story as well as your name and site address (if you have one). You will
then have your story placed upon it's own page, if you wish, you may also 
include a short biography to go at the base of your story. Needless to say 
your stories shall be credited to you. 

- Four Views From A Murder -

View One:The Hunted.

My killer was coming. I knew that there was nothing that I could do to stop it. 
I had no guns or other weapons to defend myself. A call to the police would be 
useless. They would never believe what I had to tell them. So I took the only 
precautions that made sense. I locked my windows and door and recharged the
batteries for my cell phone. As I understood what I had been told, if I were 
alive at dawn, the killer would pass me by. All during the day I kept to a
simple ritual. Twice an hour I rose from my chair and walked to the far side 
of the living room. Carefully moving the shade a bit from the window, I peered 
out. All day I did this. Not wanted to draw any attention, I looked only briefly. 
Carefully I studied the world outside of my ground level apartment. My actions 
helped to prove my sanity. A madman would not have the strength to look out 
only twice an hour. A paranoid mind would constantly be at the window. Any man 
with a demented brain could never, ever have the willpower to look out the window 
only twenty times in a ten hour period. Never was I so precise in my spying as 
to give away my true intentions. My ability to control every aspect of myself 
was the type of fortitude that all men either cherish or crave. Both heroes and 
cowards knew what I meant. After many hours the darkness came as it did soon 
after every sunset. I wondered if this darkness was dissimilar from all the others
that I have seen since my days of a young boy. Had the sun for me finally vanished? 
I ate very little. Breakfast consisted of cereal. Lunch was some crackers, sliced 
pepperoni and cheese. Dinner was a cheese sandwich and a bowl of beef soup. Anyone 
that knew me understood that this was not my normal eating habit. I did not wish 
to be lethargic from too full a belly when my killer finally arrived. Being 
completely about my wits was possibly my only chance of survival. Even tougher 
than avoiding too much food, I abstained from alcohol. Tobacco was another issue. 
My pipe was lit throughout the day. My greatest fear was the night. Not that I was 
afraid of the dark. I had proven that I could curb my appetite for food and drink. 
Sleep was another issue. Men could live for days, weeks, or even months without 
food. Many even went an entire lifetime without a drop of liquor. Even going a few 
days without sleep would not kill me. I knew that a lack of sleep could alter my 
capability to form lucid decisions. That would more then likely be my demise. 
Throughout the night I fought my inborn need for sleep. When would my killer finally
come?  
How far away was he?  
I wished that I had been given an exact time. Was the person who sent these mental 
messages to me wrong?  
I did not think so. The visions that I had been sent were much too strong and made 
too much sense. The night wore on. Had it passed?  
Was the prophecy inaccurate?  
After what seemed like my hundredth hasty check of the outside, I sat in my chair 
and stretched. My eyes closed briefly . . . 

View Two:The Searcher.

I knew the killer that I had been tracking had been in that apartment. His mark 
was everywhere. Blood was splattered high on the walls and even hit the ceiling. 
A series of "X's" was carved into the corpse. He had started doing this perverse 
form of body art about two years ago. I was never sure of the reason for that. 
His knives or razors or whatever he used were extremely sharpened for this kill. 
I had never met him, but knew he prided himself in his murderous work. Over the 
years he had changed tactics to try and throw me off his trail. When I had initially 
started tracking him, he used guns. Then he switched to drowning. That did not 
last too long. I could only confirm that two of his kills were in the water. I 
supposed that the thrill of violence, blood and the ultimate domination is somehow 
lost to him in drowning. After the drownings he turned to beating his victims 
to death. Crowbars and iron pipes became his tools. These assassinations were 
the worst. Many of the victim's bodies were covered completely with bruises. 
Broken bones often cut through the flesh. Only the blows to the head proved to 
be fatal. All of the others were designed solely to inflict pain. After he 
stopped bludgeoning his victims to death, I lost his track for the better part 
of a year. A few days ago the clairvoyant found him again. Once again I was on 
his trail. The clairvoyant sent me messages. Some made sense, others were no more 
than a mixture of scrambled sights and something that vaguely resembled sounds. 
In the early morning hours I found myself outside of an apartment complex in 
Cleveland. Today proved to be no different then all the others. Once again I was 
too late to prevent a violent murder. Today I was the closest that I have ever
been. I arrived on the scene even before the police. Quickly I made a search of 
the apartment. The killer had entered through the broken bathroom window. He must 
have caught his victim asleep. This kill was in the victim's home. This was 
extremely unusual. Most of the victims were killed in isolated areas. Was he now 
getting sloppy?  
Or was he trying to throw me off?  
Or was he now so confident in his abilities that he felt safe to kill in populated 
areas?
I slipped out of the apartment into the early morning darkness. Driving across 
town, I found a phone booth. Inside the booth I dialed the number to the person 
who provided both me and many of victims as much information as he could. He picked
up on the forth ring. 
"It's me." I said.
"What?" He replied with a sluggish voice.
"Another victim. You were right on target again."
"Dammit." His voice was tired and filled with the effects of heroin.
"He's still using knives? How bad was this one?"
I paused before answering. "Real bad."
"Why don't they listen to me? I tell them what will happen. Why can't they communicate
with me so that I know they have my information? Or at least ask me questions." 
His voice trembled with anger and fear. 
"We've been over this again and again. I don't feel like talking about it again."
"Whatever."
"Do you see anything now? Any idea where he is or what he's doing?"
There was a long pause before the clairvoyant answered. "No. Well . . .  nothing 
that makes any sense. It's that part that I don't understand. That something about 
him that I just can't figure out. Wait . . . It's something . . . Nothing that I 
can even . . .  I think he's moving, but not toward another kill. I'll send you 
a message when I see anything."
"Yea I know."
We hung up without saying goodbye. I dreaded the thought of receiving another of 
his mental message. They normally gave my mind such a jolt that I feared I would 
lose my sanity. The same question pierced deep into my brain. Why can't I catch 
him?

View Three:The Clairvoyant.

I could not fall back to sleep after his last phone call. Another person was dead. 
A man that I knew was going to die was dead. I hated feeling responsible for others 
deaths. Thankfully I never saw the death. The killer saw the death. The man who 
hunted the killer often saw the aftereffects. I only heard about them after the 
fact. I hated this. I hated how it all happened. From somewhere a vision came to
me. No, not a vision. It was never something that I could see. I could understand 
it. Well, I could, in some strange way, grasp its meaning. Then I would send a 
mental message to the guy that hunted for the killer. He would call me. I simply 
told him what I knew and he was on his way. I despised this so much. Why me?  
Why did I have the power to predict these deaths?  
Many might think that is a good thing. Oh, how many would pay dearly to have a 
power like this?  
They could change the world. Make it a better place. Save lives. I always let 
the victims know that a killer was coming for them. It never mattered. They all 
died anyway. I had to laugh at myself. To put it simply, I have not saved one life. 
The killer has taken each and every life that I have predicted that he would. For 
the past eight years the bodies have stacked up. This latest one might be the 
fiftieth. Two years ago I stopped counting. I was an accomplice in each and every 
one of these murders. It was time for me to ease my brain. Morning had not yet 
broken over the horizon. That was okay. I was alone and needed to crawl back into 
my sanctuary. I needed a drink. I badly needed a fix. 

View Four:The Killer

I listened to 'Slayer' as I drove slowly from my latest kill. 'Slayer' always seemed 
appropriate after taking a life. I have seen the band in concert about twenty times.  
No one comes close to 'Slayer' when it comes to an after-the-kill tune. The sun was 
coming up and I was feeling good. This murder was a first. I had killed a man in his 
own home. This one had a pretty good idea that I was coming. I wondered why he stayed 
home and waited for me. The poor guy had drifted off in his chair for only a moment.  
That was all I needed. I broke the bathroom window and slipped silently into his 
apartment. Breaking and entering was something new that I was becoming quite good 
at. Quietly I crept into his living room. The look on his face was unbelievable when
his eyes opened. Shock and fear and disbelief twisted the flesh on his face. What 
other response could he have? 
How would anyone else react upon waking from a short sleep and seeing me standing 
in front of them holding an opened straight razor?  
He tried to scream. I had my free hand over his mouth before even the smallest of 
peeps slipped free. Two slashes and the arteries in his neck were wide open. Two 
more and the blood from his wrists was free. Another two and his legs opened. His 
blood sprayed and spurted. The wall behind him was splattered. His freshly cleaned 
white rug was saturated from a brisk crimson tide. A few nice globs even found the 
ceiling. The man was dead in seconds. That was the worse part. Soon after he expired, 
the blood flow ceased. I knew I had a few minutes. So, I decided to have some fun.  
Using the razor I cut off his shirt and removed his pant legs. Then I began carving 
a series of "X's" into his dead flesh. I made all different sizes of my favorite 
letter in the man's body. It was the very same symbol that my idol, Charles Manson, 
carved into his own forehead. I covered the chest, the stomach, the neck, the arms 
and the legs. Rolling the man over, I did the same on his back. When I was done, I 
rolled him over so that I could look into his face one last time. I was so proud of
my work. I washed up and changed my clothes in his bathroom. The entire kill took 
only minutes. Before leaving I nodded my head, saluted the man, wished him a wonderful
trip to the beyond. Walking out of the apartment complex a notion came to me. 
Intellectuals called me Death. Madmen thought me a God. Who could ask for more?
Morning had come. The restaurants were open. I was starved. Parking my car outside 
of a small diner, I looked in the rear view mirror. There was no way that I could 
step out of the car before I fixed a few things. Reaching into the glove compartment, 
I pulled out two necessary items. First I brushed my long brunette hair. Then I 
reapplied my lipstick. Stepping out of the car I adjusted my skirt. A man with a 
newspaper walked passed me. Nodding his head, he spoke with a wide smile. 
"Nice day. Isn't it, miss?"
"Yes it is." I replied as I opened the restaurant's door.

- By Scal Williams -

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