A Scary Story for Writers

A real detective's work is never finished. In the same sense, neither is a writer's. Always a clue, a detail, or something left out that doesn't even catch the eye at first but is vital to the understanding. Much like a detective, a writer has to delve into the psyche of characters and for a time he/she loses himself/herself to better understand that which he/she seeks to reveal. The most difficult part of this task is finding the way back.

I was raised in a middle class family and in a middle class neighborhood with no true worries of money, but I did know the value of a dollar. I went to college and received my bachelors in creative writing from the local university. I worked as a novelist for In-fact Publishing. They often had me writing book after book of mindless drivel involving aliens, mad cow disease, or some sort of political scare tactic. That is until a new age came to writing. The new age was the pushing of the envelope of intensity and horror. What was too far? When does it just become sickening stomach churning gratuitous violence? Most of all, how well does one have to understand their characters in order to write them properly? Slasher movies adorned the big screens and the desire to be scared, the intensity of helplessness, and the addiction to fear grew.

I entered the office of my boss Miss Carrie and she greeted me with courtesy and great respect, for I have already given 21 years to the company.

"Hello there Mister Danes how have you been?" She said with a smile. "Just getting over a cold I'm afraid, but aside from that quite well I must say" I replied and returned the smile. "Well what can I do for you today? Did you finish that piece I wanted on cloning?" she inquired. I sighed and continued "Yes though it was quite tedious with all the research". "Well I have a new assignment for you that won't be so taxing" she assured me as she handed me a sealed envelope and we shook hands. "See you in 2 months and take care of yourself, and as always, if you need more time just let me know" I thanked her then stood, exited her office, and drove back home to begin my task.

I reclined with ease into my large comfortable chair perfect for napping, brain storming, or writing. I sighed in reflection as I so often did, thinking of what was and could have been in my youth. My prime has slowly slipped from my fingertips and recognized only through the memories I have of being within the minds of my characters. I treasured each and every one of them and held personal experience through their eyes that will live with me till my own eventual demise. They were my friends, my family, and they were me. All through pen and paper I was able to live and experience, but never truly live and experience.

With care and precision I opened the envelope and pulled out the paperwork explaining my next assignment. After reading through all of the text my eyes held fixed on the last page widened with shock. This was to be an assignment unlike any other I had ever undertaken. I was to write a depiction of the life of a serial killer and give an in depth portrait of the psyche of the killer. To top the gruesome task off, I was to write the entire story from a first person perspective.

I reached into my drawer and pulled from it an unopened bottle of 20 year old scotch and poured myself a small glass of the liquor and began to brain storm. I laid out a sheet of paper and started the difficult process of naming my character. With the skillful use of the internet I researched as best I could the characteristics of the average homicidal maniac. I searched everything from alcohol abuse, drug use, and the typical psychological irregularities. After a few hours of endless research, and not to mention all the research that was to come, I began developing my still nameless character.

The first week had passed and here I was, still in awe at the road I must travel to finish this mission. I debated heavily on calling the office and refusing to write the story, but I knew if I did I would risk my own lively-hood with so many other writers who would kill to have my place in the company. With great dread I placed my pen to the clean surface and began to paint with the English language. I wrote of this person I had never met though I had to know. He had no name yet I could now see him as clearly as I saw myself in the mirror. I described his home and his family. He was troubled and rebellious though intelligent and precise about all that he did. He was to be a meticulous and premeditated killer.

A second week passed and I had my troubled youth now in his 20's and beginning to bloom as a young man with the world at his finger tips. Though I was still not sure as to how I would get him to murder or why he would. The concept of why a person would take the life of another willfully was one I had battled with from the moment I took the assignment.

Later that night, I was suffering from an unusual case of insomnia. I had not had such trouble sleeping since my own youth. Visions... I could not stop them from materializing in my head and from behind my eye lids... I went downstairs and dimmed the lights in my study and gazed down at the stack of paper on the corner of the desk and the clean sheet sitting directly in front of me with pen in hand. I pressed the cold instrument to the paper and let glide from it the first act of true inhumane slaughter my character was to commit. I did not sleep that night, for all I could do is replay the scene in my head over and over again as if I myself had done it.

A writer has to put himself/herself in the minds of the characters to truly capture what they see and how they feel. I had to stray from my own content conservative lifestyle and writing in order to display the images of a truly disturbed individual, and worst of all, it was the vision of an individual I had to create as if it were I who was committing these acts. Many sleepless nights followed that first. Those nights which I did find rest held no true slumber, but a tormenting bloodbath behind my closed eyelids. When I slept it only made it worse for I could see and feel it in my own imaginative subconscious. I recall waking one night in a cold sweat with my arm raised in a clenched fist as if to strike an unseen villain. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I sat up in my large empty bed and breathed heavily.

I decided I needed a break from the novel and set it aside for the time being and went on a vacation of sorts to the city. I wandered down Main Street just for a casual stroll observing the natives. With satisfaction I strode, for I did not live in the bustle of the city, but I had my cozy nook out in the suburbs. I continued my stroll when suddenly a man pushed his way past me. We collided shoulder to shoulder and almost lost our footing. He stepped up towards me in an aggressive stance and in a hostile tone spouted, "Watch it! If I wasn't in the right mind I'd knock your teeth in". Any other time I would have regarded this man as rude and been about my business without a second thought, but at this moment something happened within me... a chain reaction... I felt my adrenaline pulse and my brow lower to a cast a glare at the young man and my lips curled as I almost snarled "I'd like to see you try". The young man disregarded me and went on just shrugging off my acceptance of his challenge as if I were not worth his time. As he walked off I shook my head and breathed in heavily. I have never had such a rush even in my adolescence and I had no idea why I reacted so. I decided then that it was time to go home and I have had enough city air.

I slept well that night though in an eerie doze for I dreamed of the situation with the young man and replayed it in my mind, but I was also adding to it. The dream re-occurred throughout the rest of the week, and by the end of the week it became a full all out brawl where I had actually ended up taking the life of the young man right there in public. The more I had the dream the less it bothered me. I couldn't imagine why I was so on edge since I started this novel. It was nothing more than writing a story... Just a simple depiction of a fictional character's life... No matter how horrific, none of it was real when it came down to it.

I sat up at my desk and glanced over at the quarter full bottle of scotch and with little thought I tilted the bottle and finished it to the last drop on one breath. I barely flinched as I exhaled, feeling the fire from my guts burn through my throat. Again I found myself figuring in the details of the horrendous acts of the young man I knew now as Victor. He was strong and witty yet still young and brash. He didn't take trash from anybody. He was almost my exact opposite, which would explain why I was having such trouble from the start writing through his eyes. As the days went by I felt myself becoming more in tune with who he was and how he thought, and it became easier and easier to describe his choice of recreation. I even started incorporating Victor's views on social and political issues into his rituals: how he would preach to his victims and explain to them the irony of their death and the poetry of how they would meet their end at his hand rather than natural causes.

I found myself needing to retreat to the city more often. The chaos of cars and bikes and people seemed less stressful. It almost felt serene as I made my way through its veins. I saw the neon signs of the gentlemen's clubs, the hip places to be, and the liquor stores and no longer looked in distaste. I would show up a spectator and leave a resident and feeling inspired with every visit. I could hardly wait to get back to my study and write out another chapter. These days became almost routine for some time and I recall making a certain phone call to Miss Carrie requiring more time. I could have sent in what I had right then and wiped my hands clean of the whole ordeal, but I found myself being drawn to write more and more and the ending was clear in my head. I just had to pave the road that seemed to grow longer and longer with each step I made.

The story was nearly finished and I decided to make a night of it. Only one chapter to go and my fable would be complete, and the arduous task would no longer be a task but a great achievement in my inner memoir. I treated myself to dinner this night at my favorite place of fine dining. It was a real classy place, four waiters per table; every customer was always the guest of honor. I entered the structure and was seated quickly as a respected visitor and a well known writer in the area. I sat and ordered a medium rare rib eye, red wine, and a salad in vinaigrette. As I waited for my food I caught sight of a young couple across the way. They were beautiful... young love... obviously new to this style of dining, or the guy was just out to impress the young maiden. She was a young lady of great beauty and obviously would have no taste for an older man such as myself. The young buck she was accompanied by had little knowledge of what wine to order with what food though in spite of his ignorance it was still amusing to see him try and figure out all of the forks. The young lady looked directly at me and if eyes could speak and act we would have just kissed on our first date. I blinked and then turned just in time to see the young male glaring at me in disgust. He did not even know me. Who was he to give me such a look? Had he more knowledge of what was sitting on the desk of my study at home, he might be more cautious.

My food arrived and the meal looked immaculate, but I could not shake the growing uneasiness. The gaze of pure detest I had received had nearly ruined my appreciation of the expensive meal before me. I could not get over the way that punk looked at me. I snapped at the waiter for not refilling my drink promptly in an effort to release some of my tension. I slid the knife through the meat and pulled the meat towards my lips and indulged my taste buds in the juices of the cooked flesh. My eyes coming unrolled from behind my eyelids gazed directly forward to see the young male from earlier still looking at me with his youthful arrogance. I took a few more bites as I watched the young man call over a waiter. My eyes widened as I saw him point in my direction and the two laughed as if at my expense. That was it, I was not about to have my night ruined by this person posing as someone of my own species. I could do it I thought. I have stood idly by long enough and was not going to leave this as simple paranoia or misunderstanding, and I stood and stepped towards him.

He looked up at me "Is there something I can help you with old timer?" he asked conceitedly. "Yes, I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at me." I said while looking down at him. "It's a free country and I can't help it if a dinosaur like yourself can't keep his eyes off of a girl who is clearly spoken for and out of your league" he replied as he smiled egotistically towards his female companion. "Who the hell are you to tell me what I can and can not do you little punk" I replied. The young man's brows crossed and his face grew tense. "Little punk? Is that what I am? Well I'll tell you this old man; I am someone who can tell that you're not going to do anything. You're just going to go back to your table. Sit down and eat your little dinner then go home, watch the late show, get into your little bed, and be all alone because your life is wasted, so why even bother coming out into public and lying to yourself. You should just stay at home and rot alone and spare the rest of us the risk of feeling sorry for you".

My veins bulged and my muscles tensed. I could not believe how rude this guy was being and I could not believe I was standing here in an actual dispute over absolutely nothing. The young buck then stood and as he stood his chest pushed against me. It was this push that crossed the line. I do not know if it was the line of my pride and self defense mechanisms or the line of sanity that I was slowly inching towards. I can not explain just why I did what happened next. All I can clearly remember was seeing the blade on the table, and next I was on the floor with the blade to the guy's throat and my other hand gripping his collar. I was yelling and spitting in his face, punching him with the hand that gripped the blade, and screaming at him in absolute hate.

The police report said I threatened the young man's life and was screaming propaganda in the guy's face. It was in court that the past couple of months were summed up. The police and detectives had done their jobs well. After reviewing my homestead, they had all the explanation needed for my actions. The prosecution showed photos of my home starting with the kitchen then my bedroom, bathroom, and ended with my study. In each photo was a clear pattern, there were empty packs adding up to several cartons of cigarettes adorned in each photo, but I did not smoke. A single empty bottle of scotch lay on its side in my study, but there was a small mountain of other empty bottles in the kitchen and broken glass in the bathroom and bedroom. The straw that broke the camel's back on my defense was my desk clean as orderly as it had always been, but the walls of my study and even the ceiling were patterned in an endless array of drawings all rendering the name of which every witness had quoted I claimed as my own repeatedly in their testimonies.

I was forced to plea insanity, otherwise I was to face a multitude of years in a state penitentiary. I was given a padded cell and a jacket of little breathing room though its job was not to keep me warm. It was weeks before I was able to see the doctor and he made his diagnosis of me and the whole of my imagination, my mind, my essence, my soul, and my psyche were all placed in a single folder of paperwork that I was not given permission to view.

The large men came to my room and picked me up from my corner. They took me to another room and sat me down and restrained me. I could not understand their fear of me, or why they were so cautious around me. I observed how others were treated and I definitely received special care and larger doses of medication as well. I sat in the restraints and stared up at the light when the doctor entered the room. He asked how I was doing and if I am being treated well. Standard chit chat they did to make tenants feel cared for and appreciated as if I had low self esteem or something, but it was what he did next that made it all make sense to me. He put a blank sheet of paper in front of me and placed down a crayon and the orderlies removed my restraints. The doctor sat back and asked me one question. "So Mister Danes... Who is Victor?"