Symposium #10 18+ Story Opening Poll

When I kill someone, I am always sure to make it fun. Take, for example, the mailman on Janus 3. He died via toothless alligator tank. Mrs. Welsh's magnate cousin? Asphyxiation brought on by uncontrollable laughter. My mother? Well, she's taking a bit longer to die. In fact, if I'm honest right now, her hands around my throat make me wonder if it's my time to die.

I'm not a witch. I don't worship Satan or slay babies by moonlight, and I don't have a canine constitution or the desire to consume human blood. Nobody knows I'm exceptional, a woman at fourteen, and able to utilise the inherent power I've never been without. Curious is the fantasy I have concerning my fellow man. I entertain this fantasy often. It comes with zest, blood splatters, and orgasmic resolutions. Granted, my true fellow man is not of earth, so I forgive myself the indiscretion -- bloodlust, whatever term describes my indifference. An impeccable master of disguise, I crave my evolution.

"School is out, no books today,
Boneyard's where the kids all play.

Marta's there and Peter, too,
Silent faces, cold and blue.

Shut the doors, lock them tight,
Ratman prowls the streets tonight."

The children's singing grew louder as they neared the mouth of the alley, the entrance to the killer's hunting ground.

Forbidden things drew children. The grittier and spookier the place, the bigger the thrill. So here they came, shoving each other closer and squealing in fearful delight.

I didn't understand what they found funny. Five children murdered -- eviscerated -- in the past three months. Nothing funny about that.

The residents had long forgotten the original name of their town. They just called it Slaughter. Nobody visited and none were allowed to leave. The community existed within itself, subsiding on their own. Every year, it became easier. The population couldn't grow as fast as the undead little girl took them.

Jensen Styles rocked back and forth on his knees, moaning and crying. The once-sweet orchard only emanated death, now. From the trees hung skeletons and rotting corpses. This was Murders graveyard. Today was a funeral, attended only by Jensen, for the still-decomposing body hanging before him was his wife, Lorna.

David Donovon gritted his teeth and thought about the shotgun locked in the cabinet. Both barrels would shut those blasted carolers up. Night after night, they'd been singing the shitty old carols at the park across the street.

"I need another dose. More this time." None of Sergei's bones were exposed, unlike the rotting masochists around him.

No, Sergei Gavril Antakov was not scrounging for Krokodil. Each sought pleasure from pain; not the escape from, not that orgasmic release from, but the journey into and through pain... Deified. Idolized. Worshipped. "Don't care if I live or die, I'll stick that needle in my eye. See me suffer, see me bleed, Krokodil is what I need," the newcomers would sing; then, unable with teeth whittled to nerve-endings and tongues bloated. They all looked alike: siblings in death.

The room emanated evil. It didn't smell, it reeked, the evil pouring from the room like a vapourous cloud attempting to take over the rest of the house.