9

Monsters need time to mature. No one is born predisposed to be evil. To say otherwise would be to underestimate the depth of Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Beings spat out of the womb as the most harmless organism on the planet, only to become the supreme kings of the food pyramid, super-predators.

It is easy to say that serial killers are crazy and belong to the black sheep of the flock. The fucked up thing is to accept that they are like you and me, but marked by different experiences that triggered the horror. I think, even I, would have come out differently if Tiara had spent more time for me instead of spending all day working, or if she had sat down with me to ask me seriously if something was wrong, or if I felt in order inside me....

But the above is just a hypothesis impossible to test at this stage of the game.

To admit that monsters are built, would be to accept that everyone from the priest in a church, to the lady running the charity auction, can reach a level of cruelty that surpasses the instincts of wild creatures. No one wants to bear the responsibility for evil. The masks and costumes of monsters in movies are not to protect the killer, they serve to protect humanity, to make people believe that evil is inhuman, when there is nothing more human than evil.

Rest assured, you can't rape, or kill, or appear as the villain in a TV documentary... What a sweet lie.

They give psychopaths nicknames for a reason. They turn them into advertisements, two-dimensional monigots that plague the headlines of newspapers to entertain or scandalize. He is not Pedro Alonso Lopez, he is the monster of the Andes. He is not Jeffrey Dahmer, he is the Milwaukee burner. The media machine turns them into stories that sell well, as real as Michael Myers or Chucky. We can make movies, articles, songs, so much noise that the sound of flesh being cut and the screams of help are hardly distinguishable. A minute's silence for the deceased. A lifetime of uproar for the one who killed them.

Minor and major crimes. Minor injuries, major injuries. Serial killers, passion killers. Hundreds of qualifications to blur the human carnage. In a just world any evil would be paid with a shot in the head. Here everything is labeled and catalogued in an attempt at justice, giving the species a false veneer of righteousness.

When the skins are removed and beauty is destroyed, what is left underneath? A monster. We all are. But we have not yet had enough bleach thrown in our faces to reveal ourselves as such.

A face that in its monochrome carries more colors than anything else. A face that lacks the falseness of the modern world. He watches from the window, he will kill you, no matter how much you beg. Is there anything fairer and more equal than that?

Nina pointed me to the location of the grave. I lied and told her I was just going to look. It's 1 a.m, the mist is high and crickets are chirping in the distance. Daniel and me face the headstone, someone painted the word MURDERER over Jeff's name.

The afternoon drizzle softened the soil, making our work easier and leaving a pleasant scent of damp grass. We started digging, the shovels going deeper and deeper. Fifteen minutes later we stopped to return to the surface, and I looked down in disappointment at the dark, empty hole.

Katie Robinson is now 25 years old. She works as a nurse at The Sacred Heart Hospital, the same place where Jeff was supposedly treated. I don't know if this is a joke or a coincidence. I got her schedule and intercepted her on the way in. I told her my intentions about talking about Jeff the killer, she told me to get lost, but I changed her mind with about $20. We agreed to meet in the parking lot during her break.

These seven years were great for her. The obesity went away, leaving her with a mermaid waist and eye-catching fleshy thighs. She also dyed her hair and tanned her skin in an attempt to forget her former self. She takes a seat on the hood of a car, crosses her legs and for a few seconds I caught a glimpse of her pink panties.

"Aren't you too young to be a journalist?" she asks and lights a cigarette. Her nails are painted pastel blue.

"School news"

"How strange. When I was in high school the paper only published the lunch schedule and pretentious poems that no one read. Never dead people. No serial killers either"

"Well, I'm not a journalist, but that doesn't matter. I just want to know your version of events, the original"

Katie inhales the nicotine and spits out a puff of smoke. She tells me the same story from the newspapers. Without any difference, as if she had practiced each sentence over and over again.

"Is it the truth...?" I narrow my eyes.

Katie bursts out laughing.

"It isn't. The truth is much more simple and mundane, as always"

"Did you lie?"

"Yes and no. I started the game, then I played along, but eventually I got bored and moved on. The media never tired of it and kept releasing articles or documentaries about Jeff, until the story was no longer a novelty"

Katie drops her sandals and stretches her toes.

"You see, that night Dad and I fought. I was tense. My damn roommates stole my clothes while I was taking a shower and wrote Filthy Pig in lipstick on the mirror. I managed to get it back, but not without receiving a wave of taunts that made me want to slit my throat so badly. I wandered around town praying that an irate thief or rapist would do me the favor. I had no such luck. I got home very late. Dad was furious, never one for sympathy, not since my sister died. He yelled. I screamed. He slapped me. I exploded, reached for a knife and stuck it right in his arm"

With the cigarette she makes the stabbing gesture.

"I cried and threw up as soon as I realized what I'd done. Or did the vomit come first? Old Florek must have heard all the commotion and called the police. Dad's an idiot, but he loves me. He didn't want me to be sent to reform school or labeled violent. We were going to keep everything quiet, but then we heard the sirens"

"The articles say that Mr. Florek saw a suspicious man entering your room"

"Mr Florek was a decrepit old man. Do you know how old he was then? 72. Do you know how old he is now? Five years dead. Maybe he saw a cat, heard the screams, and mistook the whole thing for a robbery. He was also a fucking racist. His first statements were about A suspicious nigger coming into my room"

She pauses for a smoke.

"Dad broke the window. I opened the door for the police. I behaved hysterically so as not to give statements and shrieked until they let me go with him to this hospital. Yes, right where we are now. Actually, the injury wasn't that bad"

Katie reveals that they agreed on one version of events and told the police that a guy we couldn't see well because of the darkness tried to rob them. That kind of thing happens every day. The cops were not surprised and said they would do everything they could to catch the culprit.

But what about Jeff? Go to sleep? How did you come up with the story? Where did the horror come from...? Katie pushes my chest with her foot. I didn't realize I closed the distance. I apologized, and she resumed the story.

"In those years I started smoking. I was too fat, loathed my body, and would rather kill myself with nicotine than relapse into the tears of self-pity. Since Dad didn't know anything about the vice, and smoking is forbidden in the hospital, I came down here to let off steam. I had just finished my third cigarette when I noticed a little girl looking at me. Right over there"

Katie points to a concrete pillar in the background.

"She was so pale that I mistook her for a ghost, and out of fear I dropped the lighter. I bent down to pick it up and when I straightened up the little demon girl was now at your distance. I jumped, but up close she no longer looked like a ghost, and instead of running away I got angry. The girl was not frightened by my screams, she just stared at me"

"What was her name?"

"What do I know? She got on my nerves and I decided to leave. Then she grabbed my hand tightly, almost nailing my fingernails. The girl told me about his imaginary friend, a sort of prince with milk-white skin, an ever-attentive gaze, and a willingness to never stop smiling. Sound familiar? That's him. The girl said she met him in this hospital and he has never stopped taking care of her since. She also warned me that he would visit me that night"

"Sounds like a horror story"

"And not a good one... A couple of nurses came and dragged her away, with her kicking and laughing. I found out later that the little girl was schizophrenic. Explains a lot, but not everything. Her warning came true and that night I dreamed about him. He looked nothing like a prince, his intent gaze was bloodshot and his wonderful smile looked like something a madman would carve with a knife. He whispered to me in a horrible voice: Go to sleep"

The cigarette between Katie's fingers was nearly consumed, and a shiny layer of sweat formed on her forehead. For an instant, she looked as terrified as Natalie did the night she died.

"I woke up screaming... Dad came running in and hugged me to calm me down. For a while every time I closed my eyes I saw the face again, until it gradually blurred... During lunch I was calmer. A journalist approached me and handed me her card... I am sure the woman noticed my nerves, my anxiety about the nightmare. I told her the classic version, only this time I was really terrified.... Then I had an epiphany, or a hunch, call it what you will. Many victims profit from their tragedy, don't they? It occurred to me that I could too, and I had something terrifying at hand to color the plot. I added the monster from my dream, first with some hesitation as I didn't know if they would believe me, but the further I went the more attentive the journalist looked... I remember my hands were shaking... She also looked nervous. She asked me if my testimony was completely real. Then that demon in white appeared again in my mind, as if pushing me, and I burst into tears of fear"

Katie claps her hands and exclaims:

"Stop the presses! A monster is on the loose! Or a hideously deformed and hideous-looking deranged man, whatever. The news came out a few days later and attracted a lot of media attention, became popular and made me popular. It all gained further momentum when testimonies of the same apparition started appearing all over the county, people terrified by ghostly-faced stalkers. Most likely due to a case of mass hysteria. Real or true? It doesn't matter, the story sells! I appeared on television to tell the facts over and over again. I made good money, I was materially happy. But I didn't let myself get carried away... The role of the almost-victim is not something I wanted to play for the rest of my life, especially when the alleged identity of the culprit began to emerge. How was I to know that the imaginary friend of a deranged child, and the image of a nightmare, had a real person as the protagonist?"

"Jeffrey Allen Woods"

"Exactly! I did my homework, researched who he was. The poor kid got into a fight at a party, ended up bathed in alcohol and lye, and then burned alive"

"So that part of the story is true"

"Of course it is. They rushed him here, tried to save him. His injuries were so bad that no matter how much morphine they injected him with, he kept screaming and flailing around so much that he almost cut his tongue with his teeth. He finally gave up and died three days after his admission"

"He died three days after...?" I felt a strange pressure in my stomach, like a dagger pressing against my gut. I ignored the sensation and kept digging. "And the Jeff's body?"

"Horrible. I saw the pictures, they match the description of the girl's imaginary friend pretty well. I still don't understand how she ended up like that, it would have been more humane if she was toast. You know, Pompei style. I bet the brat saw her face somehow and was traumatized"

"Are you 100% sure he passed away...? Where was he buried?"

"The death papers are in order. I heard a rumor that the family cremated him, but it's hard to confirm because the Woods moved to who knows where after the incident"

"That explains the absence of the body" I said without thinking.

Katie nods. She gets out of the car, puts on her sandals, drops the cigarette and steps on it.

"Why didn't you inform the police?" I asked. "Don't you think the world needs to know the truth? For Jeff's spirit to rest in peace after so many years" Respect rest, a grave robber tells you, what a fucking joke.

"The one who should worry about that is his killer. Earning a reputation as a lying bitch won't revive him or help anyone but the press. Vampires fell short compared to those people, they suck the life out of you"

"I could tell them everything, maybe it's my chance to be popular"

"You won't" Katie says confidently. "I heard about the robberies in the cemetery, how did you find out there's no body under the tombstone...? I imagine you're the looter, or you know the looter, and you don't want to attract attention. Even if you were a saint, it would be of little use to say that it was all my invention... Jeff the killer existed, he killed people, and he was killed by our local police"

"You've got it all figured out" I smiled.

"I'm smart. When you're not pretty you have to be or the world will tear you to pieces. I'm pretty now, but I didn't stop thinking hard once"

"If Jeffrey was innocent, how do you explain the murders? Or the testimonies of people who found him?"

"Maybe a crazy person liked the story and wanted to replicate it. Maybe it inspired him. Many become desensitized and look for a silly excuse to take their miseries out on the world, as if everything wasn't screwed up enough already"

"But the police claimed that Jeffrey Allen Woods was to blame for the whole thing...."

"Jeff was innocent, few people know this. Jeff was guilty, many people know this. Maybe both are true"

"It doesn't make sense"

"It's not my job to give it to you either"

"An friend showed me a video of Jeff's room... She told me Jeff was discharged and killed his family"

"Hospital room?" Katie arched an eyebrow.

I nodded.

"Fake" she assures me. "Recording patients is illegal. Your friend tricked on you. Or maybe I tricked you. How can you be sure? Sometimes you have to put the pieces together and form with them the truth that seems truest to you, or the one that makes you the least uncomfortable. Pieces are always missing, or none are missing.... But we have them upside down and we don't even realize it"

"You're quite a chatterbox, you know that?"

The nurse gives a half-smile.

"Are you 18 years old, honey?" she asks. I said no. "Too bad... You're cute. And I have to work now. Goodbye"

Katie turns around to leave. I felt the impulse to hurry up and say:

"What if I killed someone because of that story?" I keep my hand in my anorak pocket, clenching the knife between my fingers, ready to jump for her jugular.

She startles, looks over her shoulder straight into my eyes trying to figure out if I'm joking. She understands I'm not and her expression turns sour.

"Since when do stories kill? Be a man and accept your responsibilities. If you graduated as an assassin it was by your own choice, no ghost or tulpa forced you" Katie says and squeezes the bridge of her nose, as if suffering from a sudden headache, then sighs. "I do believe that this world is full of mystical energies and elements beyond our comprehension. But I am not so immature and naive to blame them for the evil in people. As Dad used to say: If the devil is knocking on your door to buy your soul, you've probably been wanting a deal with him for a long time. Want some hypocritical advice? Turn yourself in to the cops"

"I can't do that..."

"Then don't get caught. Go before I memorize your face and you have to add me to your list of victims. Is it very long...?"

I shook my head. Katie leaves without adding more.

I leaned my back against the wall, slid down and sat on the floor. I waited for police sirens for fifteen minutes, but no one came to read me my rights. Blood drips from the ceiling, seeping down from several rooms above and forming a puddle in front of my feet.

A pair of white hands sprout from the scarlet stain, close around my calves. The touch is so icy it burns, and drags me into the puddle, where I sank like quicksand. When the blood was on my nose, I caught a glimpse of a smiling girl half hidden behind the concrete pillar.

Nina, motherfucker.