Page 6 of Date Night

For years, I’ve hidden an evil part of myself, buried it deep beneath layers of normalcy. I thought I was done with that side of me, thought I could leave it behind, but here I am, staring into the very place that threatens to unravel everything. My pulse quickens as I think about little Starla. Who does she think she is, digging into my past? She was supposed to be nothing more than a fleeting curiosity. But now, she’s become a problem—a thorn in my side, and I can’t let that happen.

The library is eerily quiet, the stillness almost suffocating. The smell of old paper and dust hangs in the air, mixed with thechill of the night seeping through the cracks of the building. I let my gaze drift over the empty shelves, their spines like watchful eyes, and I feel a surge of frustration. She’s naïve, thinking she can uncover the truth. Does she not realize the danger she’s inviting by poking around in a ghost’s history?

I step closer to the window, the glass cool against my fingertips. I can almost picture her sitting there, lost in the reports, oblivious to the storm brewing just outside. The flickering light from the microfilm machine casts shadows that dance across the vacant room, making the emptiness feel even more pronounced. It infuriates me. She doesn’t understand the weight of what she’s playing with.

A wave of anger crashes over me as I think about the life I tried to leave behind. I can’t believe it’s coming back to haunt me, that it’s this little girl who’s stirring up the past. She’s curious, inquisitive, and it makes me sick. What gives her the right to dig into my history? To shine a light on the darkness I’ve tucked away?

I grip the edge of the windowsill, my knuckles whitening. The library, with its quaint charm and wooden accents, is a fortress of memories I thought I could escape. But here I am, staring into the heart of it, feeling the old impulses whispering to me, urging me to reclaim what I thought was lost.

A low growl of frustration escapes my lips as I pull away from the window, pacing in the shadows. The emptiness of the library amplifies my agitation, each echoing step a reminder of my solitude. I can't let her expose me. I won’t allow it. I thought I was done with that part of my life, but maybe it’s time to remind her—and everyone else—why the date night killer became a ghost in the first place.

Getting closer to the window I peer inside at the work that she's already done.

There's a map and still images.

My cock gets hard when I see a photo of the location of my second kill. I hate that my body reacts this way. Hate that just thinking about what I did to those women is enough to get me hot and ready to fuck. But then again, there's something broken inside of me. Something that's not like the rest of the people around me.

When I'm out in the public no one notices the difference but I can tell. I feel like a mime, just looking on at life as it passes me by. Sure I laugh and talk with people but in my mind I'm thinking about how they would react if they knew what I really wanted to do to them.

I want to be normal.

For the last ten years I've been working at doing just that. I even started therapy. Of course even my therapist didn't know the extent of my depravity, I didn't want to scare the lad off or wind up in prison, but it was nice to get some of my intrusive thoughts out.

This was all supposed to be in my rearview mirror, but here I am staring at it coming steaming straight for me again.

With a deep growl I bend down and pick up the first thing my hand comes across.

It feels like everything I've worked so hard for is going up in flames, and starts with Starla and this fucking documentary. The rock in my hand isn't heavy enough, but it's going to have to do.

Pulling it back and releasing it with all the pent up frustration that I feel, I shatter one of the panels off the window.

It's only then that I took into consideration just how much noise that would make. The last thing I need right now is to get picked up for something as ridiculous as destruction of property.

Just like all the times in the past I force down my emotions and plaster the sweet innocent look on my face. The one every thinks is welcoming. The mask that hides the cracked devious sadistic killer underneath.

One way or another I'm going to have to put a stop to this I just hope sweet Starla knows what she's gotten herself into.

Chapter 4

Starla

My dreams did nothing to soothe my mind.

All last night I tossed and turned trying to find a way to get comfortable in the foreign house. Nothing I did was enough to slow the steam engine that was constantly blowing all the doubts around in my head. Finally, about four this morning in pure exhaustion I passed out.

By eight am, I was up again and making my way to the library.

To my surprise I'm not the first one there. In fact, I'm the last one.

As I step into the library, the familiar scent of old paper and polished wood envelops me like a warm embrace. "Good morning, everyone!" I call out, my voice echoing softly in the quiet space. The volunteers look up from their workstations, smiles spreading across their faces, and I feel a swell of gratitude. Despite the chaos of last night’s demonstration, they seem undeterred, their enthusiasm for the project shining through.

I make my way to the back room, where the microfilm machine awaits, a bridge to the past that always brings me a sense of calm. The weight of the world feels lighter here,surrounded by the whispers of forgotten stories and the aged spines of countless books. Each step brings me deeper into a sanctuary of knowledge, and I can’t help but smile at the thought of unraveling the mysteries hidden within these dusty pages.

As I settle into my spot by the microfilm machine, I glance back at the volunteers. Their laughter and chatter fill the air with a warmth that reassures me I made the right choice in continuing this documentary. If they can face the hostility from the townsfolk, so can I. I take a deep breath, letting the serenity of the library wash over me.

Just then, a cool breeze brushes against my skin, a refreshing contrast to the stillness around me. I shiver slightly, the sensation pulling my focus. I turn toward the source and notice one of the back windows is broken, the jagged edges glinting ominously in the soft light. My heart sinks as I realize the implications.

The librarian hasn’t mentioned it, and I can’t bring myself to say anything. The last thing I want is to risk being banned from the only place willing to let us work in peace. This library is our refuge, a safe haven amidst the storm brewing outside. I walk closer to the window, peering through the shards of glass that have been left behind, my mind racing with thoughts of what could happen if word got out.

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