by Rosie Walker
Destroy all the evidence
If there’s no body to find, there’s no murder investigation. After death, a body is a big sack of meat between 5 and 6 feet long, and it is difficult to transport. Transport to the kill site while still alive. After death, chop it up into small pieces. Do that naked if you can: clothing fibres get everywhere. Work fast before it starts to smell.
Don’t get caught
The most admirable hunters were never caught: Zodiac, Jack the Ripper, Gilgo Beach Killer. But even better are the ones we don’t know about: who covered their tracks so well that no one realises there’s a serial killer at work. In my town, there’s no police investigation. No missing persons posters. No one looks for my victims, because no one knows they’re even missing. Clean up your mess and leave no trace.
A clean getaway
Be ready to abandon your life as soon as your crimes are discovered. Waste no time. If you have followed my instructions then you, too, can flee without repercussions.
Comments:
1488-HH: LOL avoid the fatties. That’s some advice everyone should take in all situations
OGmagus: This is DARK. Has anyone called the police on this guy?
DDT: This is disgusting and should be taken down immediately. I used to come to this site for the interesting snippets of ‘little-known’ Lancashire history, but this post proves that this site has gone to the dogs. You’re going to lose a lot of readers over this.
Phoneguy: I have several books on hiding evidence. While all of them have useful ideas, guidance on outdoor, structural, and away-from-home hiding places is always the most useful. You simply must have some carpentry experience and a lot of patience.
Rogersmith52: I suspect you’re talking about publications from Paladin Press? Interesting yes, but not well written. In many cases they’ve deliberately withheld information to prevent being liable for readers’ crimes. Defeats the purpose, surely?
420blaze: So how do you get rid of a body though? Like … meat grinder? Wood chipper? It’s all very well telling us to get rid of it, but I need some concrete tips here. And wait though, if you do it naked doesn’t that mean you leave skin flakes and pubes and stuff?
Urbandarkreporter: The police may not be looking for you, but we are.
Combaticus: Unsubscribed. This website needs to be shut down.
Zoe
‘Mum’ll say I need to know where you’re going tonight and who with,’ says Dad.
Zoe’s phone vibrates in her jeans pocket, but she can’t check it easily, not without Dad getting pissed off. She glances at the clock on the wall above the oven, a giant train-station-style clock that she knows Melanie probably bought in TK Maxx thinking it looked real classy. Wrong.
‘You can call her Helen, Dad. I’ll know who you’re talking about.’
It’s nearly seven, and Dane said he’d pick her up about ten-past. Maybe that’s why her phone is buzzing; maybe he’s outside, waiting for her. She jiggles her leg under the table, jiggle jiggle jiggle. It gets some nervous energy out, but also she read in a magazine that it helps you lose weight if you’re always fidgeting. Maybe if she jiggles her leg enough she can burn off the milkshake she had with Abbie today when they should have been in IT class. Abbie had wanted to talk to her about something, but they got distracted by a comment from Abbie’s most recent Instagram stalker.
Melanie sees her looking at the clock and smiles at her. Zoe doesn’t smile back. Mel doesn’t notice, she’s already too busy trying to get Bennie to eat a chicken nugget. He won’t open his mouth and keeps turning his head away and shouting ‘noooo’. It’s quite funny to watch.
Dad cuts a piece of chicken nugget and offers it to Lucy, who opens her mouth straight away because she’s never said ‘no’ to a morsel of food in all three years of her life. Bennie wriggles off his chair, trying to climb down. ‘No, baby. It’s dinner time,’ Melanie begs her son. ‘You still need to eat. Just one nuggie.’
Zoe winces at ‘nuggie’.
‘So?’ says Dad.
‘Oh, the pub. With some friends.’
‘And Dane?’
She nods.
‘How old is he again?’
‘Fifty-seven.’
Melanie looks up at Zoe, eyes wide, and then quickly gives Tony a sharp look as if to say ‘and you’re alright with this?’
Zoe suppresses a grin.
Tony shakes his head and pats Melanie’s free hand. ‘And how old is he really?’ he says in a calm voice.
Zoe laughs. ‘Twenty-four. Same age gap as you and Mum had. And you guys were really happy for years.’ She sneaks a glance across the table, but Melanie doesn’t react.
He nods. ‘Which pub?’
‘None of the bad ones,’ says Zoe. Having a former police officer for a Dad has some advantages and some disadvantages. She knows which rough places to avoid, but she also knows he hates her going out drinking when she’s still underage. Him and Mum did it when they were the same age though, so he can’t say much.
‘Don’t go to the Phoenix. There’s some really rough types drink in there.’
‘Ew, that’s a smelly old man pub anyway.’
‘Be back by ten.’
Zoe opens her mouth wide in shock. She’s gutted. She needs to stay out as late as Abbie, otherwise she’ll have to leave Abbie and Dane alone in the pub. ‘Abbie gets to stay out as late as she likes.’
‘You’re not Abbie.’
Even though Abbie insists she doesn’t fancy Dane and is back with Max, she probably wouldn’t say no if she got the chance. Abbie’s the kind of best friend that’s really fun, but you wouldn’t pick her as your first choice for help in a life-or-death situation. Or go to her for advice. She’d ditch you in a second. Only a good friend for a fun situation.
Zoe can feel her face getting hot. She jiggles her leg some more and the table wobbles. ‘Come on, Dad. This isn’t fair. It’s better if we stay in a group instead of all separating anyway.’ She’s quite proud of that point.
‘Okay, half ten, then. You’ve got college tomorrow, mate.’
‘Not your mate.’ Zoe’s phone vibrates again in her pocket. There’s a text from Dane, from ten minutes ago: ‘I’m outside’, and another from just now: ‘You coming? Or shall I go without you?’
Her heart sinks. She shoves down the last couple of mouthfuls of food, grabs her handbag and rushes out of the door, calling ‘bye’ over her shoulder.
The air smells of bonfires. A sudden gust of wind grabs at a kite caught in their silver birch, the kite’s white tails flapping against the greying sky like they’re begging for rescue.
Dane’s waiting on the drive in his old Mercedes, playing weird jazz music on the stereo that she has to pretend she likes so he thinks she’s cool.
‘Took you long enough,’ he says as she gets into the car, slamming the door hard behind her.
Zoe ignores him and slides into the bucket seat. Dane inherited the old car from his Grandpa, and he’s absurdly proud of it. He waxes and polishes it once a week, and watches loads of YouTube videos about car maintenance. To Zoe it’s just an old car with a funny smell inside and a tendency to struggle climbing steep hills without a jerky gear change halfway up.
She leans across and kisses Dane on the mouth, but he doesn’t respond straight away. She pulls back, stung. ‘Fine,’ she says, folding her arms.
‘I’ve been waiting for ages,’ he says.
‘You were early.’ She shrugs. Tonight isn’t starting off well. ‘Sorry, okay? I can’t help it if I have to justify all my actions to my Dad before I go anywhere. He even made me get changed.’ She points at her jeans. ‘I’m lucky to get out at all, really.’
‘I nearly left without you.’
‘Why are you so desperate to get to the pub anyway? It’s only Abbie and that lot.’ She watches his face carefully when she says her friend’s name, but he doesn’t react.
Dane sighs. ‘I don’t like waiting around. And I’m not used to parents like yours anymore
: it’s been a while since my mum cared about stuff like that.’
‘Coz you’re old,’ Zoe jokes.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ He starts the car and checks his mirrors. ‘It’s nice that your mum and dad worry about you.’
She kisses him on the cheek and he smiles as he pulls into the road.
She wants tonight to be fun, for her friends to be at their best, and for Dane to see her surrounded by people who like her and think she’s cool.
‘Who else is going?’ asks Dane, his tone friendlier now he’s made it clear he was irritated. He’s kind really, and a sulk never lasts long.
Zoe looks out of the window, watching the dark outline of hedges pass by the car as they whiz through the countryside into town.
‘Who’s going … erm. Well, Abbie and Max—’
‘Back together?’
‘Yep, for now.’ She puts on a light-hearted voice. ‘Oh and watch out for Abbie; she likes older men. Like you.’ She laughs and gives him a playful poke, hoping he’ll tell her that she has nothing to worry about, that Abbie’s dull, that Zoe’s perfect.
Dane doesn’t respond to the bait. He’s met Abbie before, but not Abbie’s long-suffering boyfriend Max. Dane actually met Abbie before he met Zoe; Abbie was the one who introduced them to each other. Abbie likes to joke that she would have got together with Dane first if she hadn’t been back together with Max in an ‘on again’ section of their ‘on again, off again’ relationship. Zoe doesn’t think that’s a funny joke.
‘And we invited Phil and Freya, but I don’t know if they’re coming. If Phil’s there then Freya probably will be, too.’
‘Which pub are we going to?’ asks Dane.
Lancaster is small for a city, but there are a lot of pubs. Some good, some bad. There are some cool student bars but they are the ones most likely to ask for ID, and it’s another few months until Zoe turns 18. Most are ‘old man pubs’ with sticky patterned carpets and a betting machine in the corner flashing its lights. Some are rough like the Phoenix, with frequent fights and a bouncer on the door even on a Tuesday night. Zoe’s friends don’t go to those pubs; they go to the pubs that don’t check your age, the ones which accept the fake IDs Max buys on the dark web for a tenner.
‘We’re meeting at Richard the Lionheart, but we might go somewhere else once everyone’s there. Max likes their pool tables.’
Dane nods. Zoe thinks he’ll get on well with Max. She hopes so: if the two guys become friends, then Dane won’t flirt back if Abbie tries anything. Not that she would in front of Max. Zoe hopes.
She reaches out to hold Dane’s hand, but he only gives her fingers a squeeze and then lets go, resting his hand back on the gearstick. Zoe puts her hand back on her lap and looks out of the window.
Dane slows the car as they pass some children walking down the lane.
‘Stupid kids,’ he mumbles, skirting the dark silhouettes walking along the verge. ‘What are they doing out here in the middle of nowhere?’
Zoe leans forward, peering into the dusk. It’s a boy and a girl, about 10 or 11, wandering along the road in the dark. ‘I can barely see them. They should have a torch or something.’
Dane passes them and speeds up again once they’re clear. Zoe turns in her seat to look back at them, watching them grow smaller in the back window until the car drops into a dip and they disappear out of sight. Where are they going, she wonders? There’s nothing along this road – no houses. And no pavement. She shakes her head slightly and turns back to face forward.
‘They’re gonna get killed.’
Thomas
As the sun sets beneath the horizon, the air turns chilly and a breeze picks up, bringing with it the scent of burning from the allotments alongside the train tracks. About a mile along the road, Thomas and Maggie reach a narrow lane that branches off, away from streetlights and into the darkness. Tall hedges line both sides, so big and wild that they look like they’re reaching into the air to break free and turn into trees.
The lane stretches ahead into the distance before it disappears over the crest of the hill. Over the hedge to their left, thick trees grow tall and close together, all different types.
They wander along the hedge, looking for a gap they can squeeze through and into the woods. Finally, Maggie stops and peers into the tangle of hawthorns and some other hedge plants Thomas doesn’t know the names of yet, even though he got a Collins Gem book of plants from Grandma last birthday.
‘Here!’ she says, and drops down to her hands and knees, head and shoulders disappearing into the bushes. She struggles and squeezes and there’s lots of rustling, and then she pulls back and looks up at Thomas, her brow furrowed with irritation. Her cheek is scratched, and her hair is everywhere, with leaves and sticks caught in her curls.
Then her face breaks into a grin. ‘I’ll have to use the penknife!’ She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out her brother’s stolen knife.
Thomas opens his mouth in surprise. It isn’t a little Swiss Army knife like he expected, but a huge flip-knife, the blade at least 5 inches long when she opens it. Thomas’s eyes widen and he freezes.
‘Woah, that’s massive, Maggie. That’s not a penknife.’
‘Isn’t it? Oh.’ Maggie plunges back into the bush, her hand ahead of her with the knife ready to chop through the hedge. After a minute or two, she inches forward and disappears into the darkness.
‘It’s like a fish knife or something. My dad has one for cutting the guts out of fish he catches.’ Thomas gets down onto his hands and knees and follows her through the small gap, eyes tight shut so he doesn’t get poked in the eye.
It’s a tight squeeze, and twigs catch in his hair and on his duffle coat. He shoves the binoculars into his coat so the lenses don’t get scratched. The ground under his knees is muddy and damp. Soil oozes between his fingers and under his nails. The earth smells fresh and good, though, and this is an adventure, even if they’re trying to find an old caravan that’s probably full of drug addicts, and even if Maggie has a scary knife in her pocket.
In the woods it’s darker than it was out on the road, and it’s hard to tell whether the sun is fully set yet or not. They’ll have to keep an eye on Maggie’s posh watch to make sure they don’t stay out too late.
‘It’s seven-oh-three,’ says Maggie when he asks her for the third time.
‘OK. Tell me when it’s eight-oh-three, okay?’
Maggie claps her hands. ‘Auntie Janet won’t notice if we’re a bit late back. She’s busy working. Or she’s fallen asleep on the sofa. Either way …’ Maggie holds out her hands palm-up and shrugs, looking like Bart Simpson about to do something naughty.
They pick their way through the trees, their footsteps thumping on the pine needles and rotten leaves carpeting the forest. The ground feels springy under Thomas’s feet, as if he could bounce up and down on it like a bed.
‘Do you know which way we’re going?’ Thomas asks.
She shakes her head. ‘Just gonna wander around until we find it. If not tonight, we can always come back another day and keep looking. It’s not going anywhere.’
They walk in a straight line from the hedge, and Thomas pays attention to trees they pass, noting any distinctive markings in the hope they can find their way back to the gap in the bushes.
The forest light brightens as they emerge from the trees into a large expanse of waist-height grass, like a meadow. Saplings pop up here and there, tendrils reaching for the sky and blowing about in the wind. And there in the distance is the old asylum, silhouetted against the dark sky, with empty window frames, dark stone and roof spikes.
Thomas draws in his breath. Maggie stops walking.
‘Wow. It looks like Wayne Manor in Batman!’
Thomas nods.
‘Pass me your binoculars, will you?’ Maggie holds out her hand.
Thomas unloops them from around his neck and hands them over, grateful to get rid of their weight. He wonders if he can persuade Maggie to carry them for a bit.
She holds them up to her face, peers at the building, her only movement the tip of her finger as it twiddles the focus to get it just right. ‘It’s blurry, I can’t …’ Her words trail off.
‘You can’t what?’
‘It’s okay, I can see now. I can see—’ she stops talking. She still doesn’t move, the binoculars held firm to her eyes.
‘What, Maggie? What can you see?’ He tries to grab the binoculars but she wrenches them away, focused back on the derelict building.
‘Get off,’ she hisses. ‘Shut up for a sec.’
Thomas folds his arms. ‘I carried them all the way here and they’re mine. Give me a go. What are you even looking at?’ He looks up at the building, which seems to glare right back at him. He shivers. ‘Come on, Maggie.’
She lowers the binoculars and Thomas reaches for them, forgetting his plan to get her to carry them home. This time, she hands them over quickly.
‘What did you see?’ Thomas holds them up and looks through them, but all he can see is the building, bigger this time, and he can’t get the lenses to line up with his eyes properly. And everything’s blurry.
‘I thought I saw something in a window up at the top. A face.’ Maggie says quietly.
Thomas lowers the binoculars and stares at Maggie. His skin prickles with goosebumps, the hair standing on end. ‘What? Really?’ He shivers.
Maggie’s eyes are wide, the pupils enormous. Her cheeks are pale, her skin the sickly white of milk. But she’s smiling. ‘Really. But then I looked and looked, and I think it was a trick of the light or something.’
Thomas takes a big breath and lets it out slowly. He can’t work out if she’s kidding or not. There’s a part of him – now that he knows Dad’s been to the caravan too – that wonders if he’s been here recently. Maybe he’s here now, somewhere in the woods. Dad likes going for walks at night, says the air smells fresher when it’s dark. Thomas scans the windows, but each frame is blank and empty; nothing moves in the asylum.
