In my dreams I am a killer in different life times.

I stalk them.  A new one each night, and it all starts the same way.

I’m standing in shadows.  My whole body is cold and goose-bumped.

           My hands are slick and shaking slightly, and with the shaking, there’s that thing always in my hands, sometimes looking a little different depending on the country I’m in but always there.  I know it sounds crazy, but let me explain.  In an old Indian village the blade curves back slightly and the handle is carved ivory.  It’s beautiful.  It had been in my family for generations.  Don’t ask me how I know that.

            Somewhere in Western Europe, it’s much longer, more for hacking than slicing.  Made of iron with a chipped wooden handle, a utilitarian design.  In England it’s very small, and obviously made for stabbing.  It’s black iron as well, with white string wrapped around the handle hundreds of times and tied through a small hole at the bottom.

            Different countries, each with their own century.  In India, cars come and go along the dirt roads, while only horses pass in London’s streets.  But the women.  They are always there, and they always excite me.  I don’t have these dreams every night, but when I do dream of them, the scenes are vivid and their faces stay with me.  I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve almost put off sleeping entirely because of it.  I’ve had this dream maybe ten times within the last two months, each time it’s another woman in another place and time.

            Three nights ago I had the worst one yet.

            I stood on a cobbled stone path between two houses and watched her.  It was maybe late December, early January.  Holding my cape around me with the left hand and grasping the blade’s handle tightly with my right.  My hands were red; the veins were blue tunnels running through them.  My nose and cheeks reddening as well.  My eyes fixed on her; the erection growing out of anticipation and in spite of the cold.

            She wore a white shawl, her pale skin only visible around her neck and freckled face.  She had red hair, dark red.  She walked along the cobbled stone quickly, without much trouble from the high heels of her boots.  Holding the train of her dress in one gloved hand, she moved lightly across the street, narrowly avoiding a carriage.  Her bodice and dress were both a deep green.  The lace around her neck was white to match her gloves.  I slipped from the shadows, giving chase.

            She was on her way home.  I must have followed her there before.  As she passed beneath a small stone bridge I called to her,

“Oy, Miss!”

            “Sir?”

“Yo’ change wallet.  You drop it back ‘ere.”  I came jogging at her waving a wallet I had pulled from my pocket.

            She opened her purse and glanced down into it, finding her wallet right where she had put it.  I was now running, I had dropped the wallet and now held the knife straight out in front, the point reflecting a street lamp’s light.

“I’m afraid it’s not…”

            I rammed her with my left shoulder, and she flew back, her feet out from under her and her skull hitting the stone path with a loud smack.  In another instant I was on top of her, piercing her abdomen with the blade repeatedly while my other hand closed tight around her lips, muffling the screams of shock and then sharp pain.

            Her pale, freckled face was scrunched in an unflattering way, her eyes wide and blazing green and I didn’t see anger in them, or sadness, only a look of dumb surprise.  As I ripped into her, she just looked up at me the way a dog does when it’s about to be beaten.  And it’s always that same look, on every one of their faces.  In every dream, that’s the way they look at me, and I stare right into them and they disgust me.  As the knife slices into her throat my eyes fly open.  I’m in bed, sweating, with a hard on.

            I’m afraid to sleep now, afraid that the next time will be even more real to me and of the way that the dreams make me feel sometimes, but what really scares me is the way that they come back to me when I’m awake. 

 

It had been an unusually frigid November afternoon when young Elena had come to her father’s study in desperation.  She sighed deeply after grasping the large ornamental door handle with her small hands.  The door was very tall and made of heavy oak and it took all her might to create a crack large enough for her to slip through, but after several tugs, there became enough space for little Elena to squeeze in.

Once inside, she began the walk down between two long rows of book shelves, all the while listening for his familiar sounds; the turning of a page or the soft squeak his red leather chair made whenever he changed posture, and though she strained to hear with all of her being, none of his familiar sounds came to her.  Instead, all around her and forcing its way into her ears was the sound of the wild gusts of wind set loose from the mountains into the naked valley where their home had been built.

“Elena?” Her father called out to from somewhere inside the study.  His voice was friendly and that made Elena’s heart race a little less, “Is that you scurrying around in here?”

Before he could call to her again, she poked her head out from one of the rows and smiled uneasily.  Her father laughed and jumped up from his chair quickly as if she had actually frightened him and Elena instantly lost the tenseness in her muscles and she smiled wide and began giggling as her father came towards her.

“Uh-oh! Is that a mouse…” he continued incredulously, “ ..in my house?  After all I’ve spent on mouse traps I still find these little rodents!”  At that exclamation, Elena let out an excited gasp and darted back down between the rows of books with her father giving chase.  He quickly began to chant, as he had done many times before,

“There’s a mouse in my house and it won’t go away!

There’s a mouse in my house and it won’t go away!”

His chanting echoed as Elena raced down one row and back another, all the while giggling madly.

“There’s a mouse in my house and it won’t go away!”

Elena stood at the end of one row, her cheeks rosy pink, her eyes darting from side to side, and catching her breath before noticing that the chanting had ceased entirely.  She focused on the sounds of the room but again only found the wind.  Her father was still after her and was probably getting closer every second, but she was frozen in place for now, terrified that he was right behind her.  Before she could form any kind of plan or muster the courage to run for it, he had swept her up and the tickling began.

“Go away mouse! Go away!”  He shouted as his fingers worked her armpits, causing her to kick and squirm and laugh uncontrollably like some little lunatic in pink pajamas.

He grinned down at her as he mercilessly continued his tickle assault.

“Stop, please stop!” She cried out.

“Alright, I’ll stop tickling you, but you have to tell me how I can get rid of all you mice once and for all!” 

As he said this, he lowered her back down to the cold, hardwood floor.  Elena was still giggling and gasping for air, but she managed to offer a solution to his mouse problem,

“Give us your cheese!”