The writer sat at his desk, typewriter in front of him and his best friend Jack Daniels at his side. For years, he had tried to write the perfect murder mystery. Something that no one would be able to solve before reading his concluding chapter. It drove him to the brink of madness.
His friends, his wife and even his children could take his obsession no more. He was consumed by the idea of writing the perfect novel and yet the words always eluded him. He studied every serial killer, every dictator and every murder mystery novel he could get his hands on. Day and night were spent reading till his eyes were red and sunken. And yet, he could never find the inspiration. None of them were good enough. He needed better. Someone that no one would ever suspect, a murderer so great that they would speak about his work for years to come. A murderer who would cause fear, confusion and unrest. One that would make his book truly unique.
One night, he sat in front of his typewriter and once more felt like he was being mocked by the lack of words. It was like the perfect story was inside him, he just could not quite reach it. Abruptly, he stood up and grabbed his coat. He stepped outside and took a deep breath, letting the cold winter air feel his lungs. He kept walking the empty streets, not many people were out this time of night in the snowy weather. As he continued to walk, in his sleepless and drunk state he heard someone call to him.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He turned around and saw the most beautiful pair of eyes looking at him.
“I believe you dropped this,” she continued, handing him a notebook.
He quickly took his notebook from her and shoved it in his pocket. She smiled and turned around, walking away from him. Before he knew what he was doing, his hands were on her neck. He kept pressing till he felt her go limp and the last breath left her body. For a few seconds, he just stood there in shock. His hands were shaking and his breathing was uneven but he felt a calm wash over him. He felt better than he had in years. Quickly, he almost ran back home and locked the door. For a month he stayed inside, wondering if anyone knew what he had done. Every morning he woke up in fear. Thinking the police were going to find out it was him. But it never happened.
Ending 1
He sat before his typewriter once more and couldn’t stop writing. Finally, he had found the words. The perfect murderer did exist after all and it had been inside him all along. He had actually gotten away with it.
If only he had not been so distracted by his own typing, he may have heard his window open and the quiet footsteps of the woman behind him with a knife in her hand. Not only had she survived his attack but had one of her own in mind. He was so preoccupied with himself and finding the perfect murderer that he hadn’t even realised he had already met one on the street that night. Never even questioned what a woman was doing all alone in the crime filled streets in one of the worst parts of town. Too self-absorbed to see the little specks of blood on her coat.
Although he never did finish his novel, he did have the pleasure of meeting the perfect murderer. In fact, she was so good at what she did that no one ever discovered a single body. She wasn’t mentioned in any history books, studied by psychology students or even talked about in the newspaper. Well, to be fair she was in the newspaper once. But that was only because she won that pie baking contest. Can you guess what her special ingredient was?
Alternate Ending:
They did mention something about her death in the papers and that it was being investigated but in a few weeks all was forgotten. His life went back to normal. Well, to an extent. He was no longer afraid of being caught. And no longer lived in fear.
He never did finish that book he had been working on. But he did discover the perfect murderer, who knew that it had been inside him all along? And just like that, one of the world’s most notorious serial killers was born. To this day, there has been no progress in discovering his identity. Even a century later, years after his death, his murders are studied by thousands of people each year and yet they are no closer to uncovering his true identity. They just call him The Midnight Strangler.
About “The Midnight Strangler”:
This is my response for Kevin’s NTT post this week. Shoutout to Kevin for hosting these weekly and inspiring so many bloggers to create awesome stories and poetry based on his images. Do check out his blog. I absolutely loved this image and knew I had to write something for it. Mostly because that’s exactly what I look like typing like a maniac in the middle of the night, working on my manuscript. Which also happens to be a murder mystery lol. Switch the typewriter with a laptop and change the dude to a 26 year old Indian woman and you’ve got an actual image of what my night looked like yesterday lol.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this story. It has some twists and turns which I had a lot of fun with. To be honest, I wasn’t concentrating on writing the perfect story but instead just had fun with it. For the ending, I came up with two endings because I didn’t know how to end the story. So, I added both endings and you can decide which one you like best. I prefer the first ending.
Which ending was your favourite? You know I love your feedback on my posts so do let me know what you thought of “The Midnight Strangler” in the comments below. Or simply stop by and say hi!
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