From “The Watcher”
She is number eleven, bound and gagged like the last ten, and her peaches and cream cheeks are turning a deep shade of indigo. I release the string and switch it out for a knife. I press the blade and plunge it into her neck, and bask in relief as I let the blood seep onto my freezing hands.
I shove the shoestring back into the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, and crawl in quick, jerky movements on my knees to her feet. Her shoes are dirty, but her laces–a dazzling white. With a panicked haste, I run to my truck and rummage in the backseat for a rag and a jug of water. I couldn’t bear it if those beautiful laces got one drop of her blood on them. My hand is on the jug’s handle when I feel someone’s eyes on me. A quiet gasp shoots up into my nostrils, but I stay focused on my task. Still, I can’t pretend to not be delighted that someone has taken an interest in my work. Someone knows my secret and someone wants to be body number twelve.
Thank you for reading this excerpt from “The Watcher”, from the “Compulse” short story anthology, available here.