To Catch a Killer

By R. F. Gammon

It’s the same every night.

I wake up in a house not my own, in a dark bedroom, and through a doorway, I hear the sound of someone screaming.

Then there’s always silence.

The first couple of nights, I chalked it up to a recurring nightmare of some kind, especially because once I closed my eyes, I woke up back in my own bed. I suppose it could still be a recurring nightmare, but that has seemed less likely since the night the voices started. Have you dealt with that before, Doc? Actually, don’t tell me. I’ll finish first.

“Adele,” the voices said. My name. Which would have been less terrifying if I hadn’t followed them. I don’t know how to describe what I found in the other room when I opened that doorway and went in. But… oh, that’s how I know it can’t be a recurring nightmare. Not even the subconscious could spin something that horrid out of nothing.

There was a woman… dead on the kitchen floor, a lake of blood all around her. And that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was the man sitting next to her on the floor—he’d stabbed her, I think. Or shot her. I don’t really want to think about that part. He was stripping her jewelry. She was wearing a diamond necklace, and he was taking it off.

I panicked. What was I supposed to do? That was the first time it happened, and I just turned around and ran. I’ve been scared of the dark since I was a little girl, but that night it felt like the shadows were going to come alive and eat me.

When I got back into the other room, though, it wasn’t a bedroom anymore. It was a living room. Completely unfamiliar, just a sofa and a TV and some lamps. Ordinary living room furniture, except I didn’t recognize any of it. I wasn’t in my house, and like I said, I know I wasn’t dreaming.

Then there were these footsteps. That man, coming from the kitchen—coming for me. I ran, but my legs were shaking, slowing me down, and I knew I was doomed.

Then I blinked, and I was back in my own living room.

It’s still happening every night, a different house and a different woman each time. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know what to do. Just… all these women are dying, and every time it happens, I see that same man’s form, and he’s always chasing me.

But last night, something changed. Last night, I went into the kitchen and found the woman’s body and all the blood and the man sitting there and… there was a gun at my feet. And I felt this itch. You know when you want to do something you shouldn’t—like when you’re standing by the railing of a boat and you get the sudden urge to jump into the water? That’s what it was like. I felt like I’d never wanted anything in my life as much as to pick up that gun and blow the man’s brains out.

Naturally, I ran. I got out of there as fast as I could. But I can’t forget that itch. And I feel like this is going to end up being one of those sick horror stories—where I’m hallucinating things, and I’ll find out in the end that I’m the murderer, and I’m under some kind of mind control.

Help me, Doc. I don’t know… I don’t know what’s happening. The voice always calls out my name before I go into that room. Like it’s summoning me. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel like Adele anymore. I don’t feel like anything.

As I finish, I glance across the table at Doctor Perkins. I came to him because he’s the best psychiatrist in the region, and I don’t know where else to go. My hands shake in my lap. His forehead puckers, and my heart sinks.

Doctor Perkins takes a sip of his black coffee as he considers. “I hear all sorts of things, Adele. No two patients’ stories are alike. But that’s the interesting thing here.” He meets my eyes, and I draw in a tight breath. “I’ve heard your story before.”

It’s a full blow to my chest. I struggle for air, trying to keep my eyes on his. My mind fights a silent battle to keep from slipping back into the darkness of those nightmares-that-aren’t.

“The last time was three years ago. I met a girl named Maria Bentley. She hallucinated murders, and then…” He removes his glasses. “She turned up dead herself.”

I choke. I can’t breathe.

“Every couple of years, something turns up. Before you, I thought Maria was the last. But now, here you are. You’ve been given a call. You have the ability to track a killer, one the newspapers haven’t even picked up on yet. I’m not sure where the gift comes from, but you need to know what’s coming.”

He waits, like he expects me to answer now. But I’m still struggling. I can’t think or breathe or anything. I’m supposed to track a murderer?

“I can’t,” I whisper.

He just smiles gently. “I am so very sorry, Adele.”

I get up and leave, thoughts rushing through my mind. If I have a gift, I have to do something. But what?

Doc, I waited last night, and I saw his face, and the pure evil in it. I don’t know how, but I do know that I have to do something about it.

If I see him tonight… I’m not going to run.

I’m going to stop him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R. F. Gammon is a high school student currently residing in the wilds of Maine with her family. She has written a number of novels, but Havok is her first publication. If she isn’t writing, she’s listening to Fall Out Boy, petting her cats, or playing Chopin. Most importantly, she’s a daughter of the One True King.

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