Grim Notions

He administered the coup de grâce with his knife across the woman's throat with as much emotion as cutting a chicken up for dinner. He finished his sexual attack as he watched her eyes grow slowly dull and lifeless and the ground turning crimson with her warm blood. When he'd pulled his sweatpants up, he pulled a single red long stemmed rose from the bag he carried and lay it on the still, lifeless body and hurried out of the alley back on to the street, just another nameless face walking the early morning streets of Old Town. He hadn't been told why to leave the rose or why this woman was chosen, but he was just following instructions.

Ron was in desperate need of a good killing. It had been too long since his last and he felt that old familiar hunger that called to him like an elusive lover in a dream. They say that truth is stranger than fiction and that was exactly what he was counting on. He knew just where to go to find what he needed. He opened the browser on his computer and typed "gruesome bloody murder" in the Google search box and clicked the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button on the page, and chuckled to himself at the irony. Within a few seconds he was rewarded with the news-article account of the murder of a Portland City Council-woman that had been missing since she went jogging the day prior. The murder had the hallmark of a serial killer's work, a throat slit from ear to ear and evidence that the victim had been raped. This would make the perfect fodder for his next book, which he hoped would be different than the last, published.

The modern fluorescent fixture bathed the undersized kitchen in a cool illumination but looked oddly out of place in contrast to the old wooden cabinets wearing several decade's worth of paint, the current color a pale yellow. Sitting at an old kitchen table with curved chrome legs, he read the account several times slipping into the mind of the killer. He imagined the euphoric power one must feel as they slit the throat of another and watched the life drain out of them. The motivations for these types of crimes was clear; it was the ultimate feeling of superiority to take the life of another human being. Once they drank from this fountain, they'd be back. Ron thought about the research he'd done on the subject, sitting there with the smoke rising in a curl from the cigarette in his stained hand. They were often abused as kids but grew up to appear normal from outward appearances, no different than any ordinary member of society. But eventually something inside them finally snapped. After the first time they allowed this hidden monster out into the day-light, it could be years but eventually they'd crave that feeling of power and strike again.

After getting in the zone, he began to write. He would write in fits of productivity that lasted for hours on end losing himself in his work to anything that might happen around him. Evening had turned into night which in turn gave way to morning. Thrusting beams of sunlight burst through the kitchen window making it hard to see the screen of his computer. His gray tabby cat, Isis, meowed at him telling him that her food dish was empty. The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts and there was a stack of Pepsi cans on the table as well. Ron realized suddenly that he could hardly keep his eyes opened and wanted to go to bed, but he had to be at work in an hour. He ran his fingers through his long mop of black hair and yawned.

He got the bag of Kenyan coffee beans from the freezer and filled the grinder. As the grinder whined, Isis was doing calf dives and meowing to remind him of her empty bowl. The coffee maker was now starting it's magical gurgling sending the heavenly aroma through the kitchen as he turned to his cat's needs. Filling the bowl with Friskies Tuna flavored kibbles he told Isis breakfast was served. She sniffed at the bowl of kibbles and looked up to him questioningly and meowed, then began crunching away.

More than anything, Ron wanted to become a successful writer. His definition of successful meant it was his main source of income. He hated working at that bookstore surrounded by thousands of books by other authors who had been published, many of which he couldn't understand why. He knew his work was good and he just needed to get his first work published to get the ball rolling, but he feared he was going to waste the rest of his life working in the run-down little bookstore instead, just another unpublished writer.

Saturdays at the small bookstore were usually busy and this one was no exception. It was located in a trendy bohemian district called Hawthorne in Portland, Oregon where people hung out and sipped lattes or micro-brews while discussing poetry or the latest band of favor. Naturally there was an espresso shop next door and Ron was pumping in the caffeine in regular intervals while helping customers who were looking for something in particular or wanted to discuss some obscure author. The stale smell of old books permeated the air and jazz music wafted through the isles defined by tall oak bookshelves. When his girlfriend arrived around noon with a couple of sandwiches Ron was wired and famished as he only had eaten a muffin from the espresso shop for breakfast. Nikki met him every Saturday for lunch, always bringing something they'd eat at a nearby park.

"You look tired," Nikki said and took a bite of her sandwich.

"I didn't go to bed last night, I worked on my new book all night," Ron answered as he chewed a bite of his own turkey sandwich.

"Do you think this one will actually get published?" Nikki asked.

"Lets just say I found some inspiration, I think this one will be a best seller," Ron said trying to ignore her sardonic question.

"Ron, I hate to tell you this, but you aren't getting any younger. Have you considered that at 33 years old it might be time to get a real job and quit playing starving artist?"

"At least I haven't sold my dreams to work at some lame corporate job I hate," Ron said. He got up from the park bench and left to go back to work. He wondered why he stayed with Nikki when she could be so acidic with her comments. She would have him working at a job he hated in the name of stability if he let her have her way. After meeting her at a local writer's workshop they'd hit it off right from the start. They had started seeing each other and he learned more about her. She had gone to school and pursued a safe curriculum that led to a successful career, at least a definition of success accepted by her family, she had told him. He knew she was with him because deep-down she envied his single-minded dedication to what he loved. She had tried writing off and on, but there was always something else that took precedence in her life. Now it seemed that she wanted him to give up his dream too perhaps out of envy.

Even though Ron was thoroughly exhausted his sleep was restless as he dreamed of the woman being attacked by the serial killer. He kept seeing her being raped by a faceless attacker that killed her over and over in his dream. Deciding that he was going to get no rest he got out of bed at 2:14 a.m. and went to work on the story that had tormented his sleep. It was coming together fast and he was getting a lot accomplished, perhaps his brain had been trying to tell him that he should be working on the book instead of sleeping. He wrote continuously for several hours then feeling satisfied with what he'd accomplished, he headed back for bed and slept peacefully until about 10:30 when Isis laying on his full bladder prompted him to rise.

He lit a cigarette and flipped the television on as he began grinding the beans for his coffee. As the grinder spun down he heard the newscaster talking about the city council woman he'd read about Friday.

"This morning City Council-woman Schmidt's body was found in Forest Park where she regularly went jogging in the afternoons. Police believe the murder was committed by the same serial killer that has been attacking women in the Portland area for the last six months and Council-woman Schmidt was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. When she failed to return home Saturday evening her life-partner Rene Thompson called police..."

Ron had stopped listening to the words and was trying to figure out if he'd become so exhausted that he'd lost track of a day. He could have sworn he read that story on Friday night yet the television had just said she hadn't even been missing until Saturday evening. Coffee would probably make this all become clearer and he proceeded to pour a cup.

Sipping a mug of hot, black coffee he launched the browser on his computer and found the bookmark of the story that had proved such an inspiration to him. When the page came up it had a new story on it with a familiar theme, the serial killer had struck again. Ron sat back in the kitchen chair and wrapped both hands around his mug as he looked out the window at the drizzle that painted the cars and street with a glossy sheen. Why hadn't the news reported this murder too? Re-reading the article on the screen he noticed something very strange about the articles on this site, there were no dates listed in the reporting and nothing noting the date of the article either. His eyes were drawn to the article which he quickly read several times over and immediately started working on his story again. This article, like the last, opened the door which Ron could not help stepping through to a place where his imagination took over and he could barely type fast enough to keep up with it.

The ringing of the phone caused Ron to jump so violently he wondered if his heart would cease beating. He'd been working all day and forgotten all about dinner with Nikki. Of course Nikki was accustomed to this kind of behavior from Ron and had called him to remind him she'd be over to pick him up in hour.

Nikki was used to managing things, as a buyer for Nordstrom's department store it was part of her job to manage suppliers to ensure shipments arrived on time and in the necessary quantities. Her business suits were accented by her perfectly styled, short, blond hair. She was a take-charge woman who rarely failed to win a power struggle. Most women wouldn't put up with a man like Ron, he was never on time for anything and could barely remember to show up for his job let alone a birthday or anniversary. But for a reason that eluded Ron, she had continued to see him. He had a sneaking suspicion that is was because she had seen him as a challenge, a kind of project.

After Nikki arrived, they decided to just walk over to nearby cafe for dinner. They walked in silence to the cafe and after they had been seated Nikki broke the silence.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, its just this website I found, it has news stories before they happen," Ron said taking a drink of his water.

"Come on. Maybe they scooped the story and had it first but they couldn't have had it before it happened," Nikki said dismissing his answer.

"When was that Schmidt woman from the council reported missing?"

"Yesterday afternoon, according to channel 2."

"Right. I read about it Friday night on this website, it's what inspired me to get started on this book," Ron stated. "And, there's another murder listed on there now by the same serial killer."

"Show me the site when we get back."

"Website Cannot be Found" the browser reported. Ron clicked the refresh button a couple times but got the same message.

"Maybe the connection is down," Ron thought aloud as he tried another website.

Every other website came up quickly and with each successful page load he'd try his bookmark again with the same results, that annoying message, "Website Cannot be Found". It was a Sunday night, maybe they were down for maintenance, Ron thought.

"Looks like your mysterious website is down," Nikki said.

"Well, maybe you can see it tomorrow," Ron conceded.

"I will be in New York this week, email me the link," Nikki replied. "Speaking of which, I need to get going, I still need to pack tonight and I have an early flight."

With that she kissed him and put her rain jacket on and grabbed her purse.

"Be careful," he said mechanically as she opened the door.

"I will. See you Friday." She blew him a kiss and was gone.

Ron clicked the saved bookmark one more time and the page instantly displayed. He noticed at the top of the page a message of the day, "Success cannot be withheld from those who persevere and work in discretion," it read like a high-tech fortune cookie. He sat and looked at the screen for a minute contemplating the message.

The next week's news brought confirmation of another kill by the Rose City Killer, as the media had begun calling him. Ron couldn't understand what was going on and several attempts to show the website to others were unsuccessful as the first. He decided that whatever was feeding him this information wasn't for him to know, but meant for him to simply use, which he did.

That week with Nikki out of town, Ron worked on his book when he wasn't working at the bookstore which he regarded as a major inconvenience. But a quiet voice in his head was growing louder and harder to ignore. It told him this was all wrong. He should be doing something about these murders not merely using the information for what he hoped would be the next best seller. These thoughts were beginning to crowd his mind and made it difficult to work on the project, but he was not a detective and he knew trying to show this website to the authorities not only wouldn't work, they'd likely lock him up in a rubber room.

When Nikki returned they met at The Barley Mill for a micro-brew. It was a typical gray afternoon in the northwest and the frequent showers ruled out the sidewalk tables. The inside was dimly lit but behind glass walls the brewing operation was well lit for all to see. The booth they sat at had a distressed wooden table with thick varnish over the honey-gold wooden planks and matched the uncomfortable unpadded benches.

"I never could get that website to load," Nikki said sipping from the amber colored liquid in her glass.

"I couldn't load it again either," Ron lied. He wanted to tell her about the fact that it always foretold the next victim's death and about the personal messages that could be for no one else but him, but there was no way to show it to her, it would be his word against the common sense of what she could see. He began to wonder if he'd ever really seen it himself or was it all in his imagination.

"Earth to Ron, Earth to Ron, come in please," Nikki teased. He'd been so deep in thought he hadn't heard a word she'd said.

"Sorry, I was thinking about my book," Ron replied and tried to focus on the conversation at hand, whatever that might be.

"Your book is probably infinitely more interesting than meetings with a supplier anyway. How's it coming along?" She asked obliquely.

"Actually, quite well. I think another couple weeks and I will have the first draft finished."

"I look forward to reading it," Nikki lied as the waiter approached.

Ron wasn't sleeping much these days and what sleep he did manage was haunted by the faceless killer that drove his story. In his dreams he saw a dark figure working at a computer producing a website just for Ron's own research. At the end of the dream the face would always come into focus and it would be his own. In wakeful hours he would write for a while then go to his personal online oracle and drink from the well of darkness. He found new links that contained background information on the killer and sidelines on the victims which now numbered 12 confirmed cases. At times there were links to peripheral stories that reported detailed information about the victim's and the killer's lives suggesting sub-stories to intertwine with the main story.

The website had become like a drug addiction, he knew there was an evilness that pervaded this site, the fore-knowledge of the killings, the personal information that was for Ron Serling's eyes alone, yet it was impossible to stay away. He had vowed once to never open the site again and had shown remarkable discipline for several days until his abeyance was abruptly ended when the site appeared as a pop-up window when he was visiting a legitimate news site. The message of the day now read, "Moderation is for the weak."

The website always seemed to be able to give explicit details of the murders before they actually happened. Ron sat at the kitchen table his gaze out the window seeing nothing. Isis slept curled in a ball next to the monitor. "These murders never actually happen until I write them in to my story," Ron said to no one. "What if I were to write in someone else as the victim?" Ron pondered this thought over a can of Pepsi for a few minutes.

He began writing and the story flowed from him as fast as he could move his fingers. This time the victim of the Rose City Killer was a bookstore owner. A bookstore owner that Ron decidedly disliked. He recalled his first day on the job.

"So you're a writer, huh? This's probably just a temporary job until you start gettin' your work published I bet." The old woman said to Ron.

"That's right. I am a writer, but so far I haven't found an agent," Ron replied indifferently.

"Well, Mr. Writer, why don't you see if you can go put this cart of published books on the shelves while you are waitin'," she said laughing. The old woman shook her head and walked toward the back room.

In his story she was killed like the rest, a single incision across the neck and a rose laying on her chest. But she wasn't laying in some alley or park, this hateful old woman was lying on a pile of books, blood flowing out over the pile like lava running down some macabre volcano with her lifeless body a sacrifice at the top. He even included her being raped although the thought truly disgusted him. No sense in having the Rose City Killer change his M.O. now.

Out of curiosity to his new revelation, Ron opened a browser window and clicked the bookmark to the website that had empowered him. It now had a story of the bookstore owner and described the details just as Ron had written them in his story. His heart raced as he read the article over several times in disbelief. He wondered what the chances of such a coincidence were and quickly dismissed the idea as improbable. A list of names started popping into his mind even though he tried to stop them. Kelsey Graham, Rob Haskins, Wendy Gardner, Kim Stroup... kids from school who had been mean to him or rejected his adolescent romantic advances. This must be what it feels like to be a god!

The old woman may not have been dead yet, but if she showed up on the Grim Notions website, she may as well have been. It had never been wrong. It was a death sentence sure as swollen glands during the black plague. He felt a giddy anticipation at seeing this one on the news.

"What do think, Isis? Who should the next victim of the Rose City Killer be?"

She just stretched her front paws out impossibly far and yawned widely showing her sharp teeth and curled tongue textured like the bottom surface of a cross-country ski. After looking at him for a moment she curled back into a ball and resumed her nap.

Ron reluctantly got ready for work after another restless night. The hollow look in his eyes told of the sleepless nights he'd endured and the ever-present Pepsi or a cup of coffee in his hands. He was running on caffeine and nicotine, but also slightly high on the power he was starting to feel. As he approached the bookstore there was a crowd of people rubber-necking from behind a police crime scene tape line put up around the entrance.

He moved through the crowd toward the entrance and when he reached a crime scene tape was stopped by a police officer.

"Stay back, Sir, this is an official crime scene investigation."

"I work here," Ron protested.

"I'm afraid this business won't be open today," the officer said, regarding the Birkenstock sandals and tunic Ron wore.

"What happened?"

"There's been a murder, that's all I can tell you at this time," he said looking around to ensure there was no one else trying to violate the sacred tape line.

Ron could see some people inside standing around looking at a blanket covered body on a pile of books. His palms felt sweaty as he thought about how easy that was. He knew he could write anyone into the story and have them end up dead just like his ex-boss. It was an intoxicating thought and people's names started flooding his mind again. The fact that he was now unemployed replaced those thoughts as he ordered a latte from the espresso stand that was doing an above average business this morning. He was going to have to have do something about money or he was going to end up on the street or begging Nikki to take him in. She probably would take him in, but she would insist that he got another job and probably want to change the way he dressed. The all-night writing sessions would probably be out of the question too. Hell, she'd probably expect him to get rid of Isis too, and that was out of the question. He would get rid of Nikki before he got rid of Isis.

Then a dark thought crept into his mind and wouldn't leave him alone. If he could get life insurance on Nikki, he could just write her out of the picture and have enough money to last him until he could get this current project published. He tried to push the thought out of his head, but it wouldn't leave. A plan started forming before he could stop it, it was like he was merely a bystander watching someone else at work. The voice in his head started to speak up again telling him this evil perversion was now taking over his entire life, but it was over-ruled by the voice reveling in the power he'd discovered.

Ron had some money tucked away in a roll-over IRA from when he tried a lame corporate job and found out first hand that it wasn't for him. It wasn't a lot of money, but it should be enough. He pulled up the website, logged in and requested his account be closed and the funds be deposited in his checking account. There was disclaimer about the penalty he had to acknowledge about withdrawing funds prematurely from a retirement account, but he proceeded. This was everything he had, hopefully this was going to work.

"I've been thinking about what you said. I think it's time for some changes. I am going to get a real job," Ron announced.

"Really? That's wonderful! It's terrible what happened to your boss, but maybe some good will come from it," Nikki said taking a bite of spaghetti.

"I took a long, hard look at where I am. I have been wasting my life, convincing myself that I am going to be a successful writer one day, but the reality of the situation is that there are so many people wanting to write, chances are pretty slim that it will ever happen," Ron said, taking a drink of his water. He was so smooth, he almost believed himself.

"I also have been thinking about us. We have been dating for over a year now, why don't you move in with me?" Ron tried.

"Ron, we've talked about that before. Some things would have to change."

"I'm really willing to change. I'll quit smoking, maybe not all at once, but I won't smoke in the house anymore. And I promise I'll go to bed at night and keep normal hours. I'll have to when I get a job, anyway," Ron said.

Nikki stopped eating and took Ron by the hands looking him in the eyes over the small table. "You would do all that for me?" She said.

"Yes... yes I would! I love you and want to be with you." Ron had almost convinced himself and wondered what he might be getting himself in to. But she did look very pretty in the soft lighting of the restaurant, it might not be so bad to have her around for a while.

"I love you too," she said with tears welling in her blue eyes. "Let's give it a try, I would love to move in with you. And I can talk to my friend Norma in personnel, maybe they will have something in accounting for you."

Ron hated accounting. He had a bachelor degree in it and worked for a big company right out of college for five years before he quit to pursue writing. The politics of the corporate world were something he didn't like and wasn't good at. He ended up not getting promoted and getting the projects no one else wanted. When the boss gave him yet another unrealistic deadline, he packed his desk up and left his boss an email saying that he could give the project to one of his buddies that normally got the easy high-visibility projects.

Within a couple of weeks it was an all new Ron. He had a new wardrobe of clothes and limited his smoking to the patio. He had purposefully blown the interview Nikki had arranged, but he told her he had started a job somewhere else. He hadn't. He was using his money from the IRA to pay his bills and buy groceries. When he came home with a solitaire engagement ring Nikki was ecstatic. She loved the new Ron and immediately said yes. The date would be picked out later, but Ron suggested that they ought to do the responsible thing and start thinking about things like life insurance, which she agreed they should and was even more impressed with how responsible her future husband had become. It was all coming together exactly how he had planned it.

Over the next couple weeks, Ron mixed creating his own killings with some he found on the Grim Notions website. The beatings he'd received as a child back on the farm in Myrtle Point made his father an easy choice. It was a ways out of town for a serial killer to stray, but not that long of a drive. Maybe the killer liked to hunt deer too. Everyone needs a break from their job now and then.

As Ron wrote the scene of Nikki being murdered by the Rose City Killer, he felt the blackness of guilt overshadow him. He quickly reasoned it away, he was only writing a story. The thoughts of all the snide comments that Nikki had made about his writing came to mind and swept the last tinges of guilt away. It wasn't like he was a murderer, he wasn't slitting the throat of this innocent woman, and yet it was almost exciting as if he was. Even with all the changes he'd made she still nit-picked him about everything from how he left dirty dishes in the sink to how he put the empty milk carton back in the frig. He was better off without her.

After writing the scene he was about to click the Save icon but that voice of conscious kept nagging at him. It was the continuous buzz of a pesky fly just out of reach.

"It's past bed time and I can't go to sleep with you out there pecking at that computer," Nikki called to him.

He clicked Save then shut down the computer and headed for the bathroom to brush his teeth. He went to sleep easily that night and in his dreams he had an agent that auctioned off his manuscript for a handsome amount. It was the first account of the Rose City Killer's bloody rampage and included more detail than even the police detectives had discovered after apprehending the killer.

He awoke feeling more alive than he could recall. He spent the day writing the last chapter of his book. No guilt was left in him. Writing people out of the scene was heroin and he was addicted. He knew the Rose City Killer was going to be caught soon, he read it on Grim Notions and had written it in his book. He was confident that there would be another along to take his place. There was always someone out there that hungered for the taste of blood; some to read about it and others to draw it. And there was the website, always ready to offer a little inspiration if he was drawing a blank.

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