Secrets of a Serial Killer: An absolutely gripping serial killer thriller that will keep you up all night!

by Rosie Walker

  ‘“Some guy” isn’t good enough.’

  He looks down at the carpet. ‘I know.’

  Tony claps his hands. ‘You’d better start thinking, wrack those brains of yours. First they’ll look at you, they always look at the boyfriend first. Also, you were there that night. You’re suspect number one.’

  Dane looks even paler. ‘I love Zoe. I’ll do anything to see her safe.’

  Tony ignores him. ‘Next they look at the family, Helen. Me and you and Melanie. Our brothers, too; Zoe’s uncles. Then they widen the circle: friends, friends-of-friends. That’s it. There’s no one else to look at.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Dane. ‘The guy, the guy from the bar—’

  Tony shakes his head, holding up a hand to interrupt. ‘Outside of those circles, they rarely find the perpetrator. It’s very unlikely. The trail goes cold. If we don’t already have eyes on the person who took her, we’ll never find them.’

  ‘We don’t know what’s happened to her yet. We don’t know she’s definitely been taken by someone.’ Dane’s eyes are shining with tears.

  Helen puts her hand on Tony again. ‘The police will have lots of questions. They might be able to draw more out of him. We shouldn’t push too hard before they get here.’

  ‘I’m asking the same questions they will,’ says Tony.

  Helen shakes her head. ‘You’re retired, a civilian now. And anyway, in this context, you could never be involved like that. It’s not your case, you’re the family of a potential—’ she stops. She doesn’t want to say it. Just like she didn’t want to say the word ‘kidnapped’ on the phone to the 999 operators.

  ‘A potential victim,’ Tony finishes for her.

  She shakes her head. Saying it out loud makes it real. And if she doesn’t say it, she can still maintain that small kernel of hope that it’s all just been a big misunderstanding and Zoe is absolutely fine and will show up at the door any moment with no idea what chaos she has caused. That little wisp of hope keeps floating past Helen’s peripheral vision like the first snowdrops at the promise of spring. Please make it all okay, somehow.

  They’re all quiet for a moment, as they try to understand that this is their reality now. But it doesn’t feel real yet for Helen, it’s like a horrendous nightmare from which she still believes she’ll eventually wake. Surely she must. It can’t be true, it just can’t. Zoe should walk through that front door at any moment, and it’ll all have been a crazy, unlikely misunderstanding caused by over-paranoid parents.

  But what, really, could explain this absence? Helen looks at the clock. Twenty-two hours with no contact. There’s nothing that could explain this except something awful. Something beyond imagining; something that even Helen’s overactive mind couldn’t think up right now because it’s too unbearable.

  ‘Abbie said she thought Zoe got in a taxi,’ Dane says, looking worried. ‘But obviously, now we know what’s happened … she thinks the guy put her in his car.’

  He clearly feels a huge amount of responsibility for this – and so he should, Helen thinks to herself, trying to suppress a flash of unhelpful rage. Zoe is younger than Dane, more vulnerable, under the legal drinking age and in Dane’s care. He was supposed to drop her home at the end of the night and he just … didn’t. How is that even possible? Who does that?

  The real answer, Helen knows, is ‘anyone’ – any irresponsible young person who’s had a couple of drinks and was in a new relationship, who doesn’t know their girlfriend all that well and maybe had a bit of an argument or something – you’d just wander home and plan to talk with them in the morning, not thinking that ‘talking with them in the morning’ might not be an option because you’d left them. She shakes her head hard to clear the thoughts.

  The doorbell rings. ‘That’ll be the police,’ says Tony, standing up to answer the door as if it’s still his house.

  Helen stays on the sofa, watching Dane for any sign that he knows more than he’s letting on.

  Thomas

  Nothing bad happened last time. Maybe nothing bad will happen this time either. Every time he does something brave, he’ll be less scared until he’s courageous about everything.

  It’s darker tonight because clouds are covering the moon. The wind catches through the trees, rustling and shrieking as branches rub against each other above their heads. Thomas flinches at every movement, all senses on alert. He scans from left to right and back, looking for creatures hiding in the darkness, searching for the glint of eyes watching them.

  Maggie doesn’t even notice. She shines the torch under her chin, lighting up her face. The light bounces as they retrace their route from last night. ‘Alright. This is a true story, Duncan told me. A ghost story.’

  Thomas tries to swallow his fear and focus on what Maggie’s saying. ‘Duncan and Sandy must be awesome older brothers.’

  Maggie groans. ‘Whatever.’

  He’s pretty jealous of Maggie growing up with them. They give her their hand-me-down band t-shirts and share hand-me-down secrets with her, like the caravan.

  Their footsteps echo through the darkness along the lane towards the wood as Maggie starts her story. ‘A boy called Alan used to play poker with them in the old caravan. Our clubhouse now. He was friends with Duncan, Sandy and all their mates.’

  Thomas nods.

  ‘One day, Alan was exploring on his own when he met the ghost of a patient who never left when they shut down the asylum.’

  Thomas smiles. He’s not scared yet. ‘This is silly.’

  Maggie ignores him, continuing with the story. ‘The ghost didn’t like children playing inside the building because it was her home, so to teach Alan a lesson, she trapped him in a padded cell up on the third floor.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Thomas. The hairs on his arms are standing on end, and he remembers the windows, their weird glow as he watched them through the binoculars yesterday.

  Maggie grins and continues with her story. ‘The padded cells were where they kept all the really mad people, and they’re padded so the crazies don’t hurt themselves when they’re bashing all over and running into stuff. And Alan was so scared when he got locked in. None of his friends knew he was there so no one knew to call for help or the police. Alan screamed and screamed for days but no one came to save him. He died of fright. Or went mad with it, one or the other – I can’t remember what Duncan said.’

  ‘Well, if no one came to save him and then he died, how would anyone know what happened?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t die at that point. Maybe he died later.’

  Thomas is quiet, listening to their footsteps and the crunch of leaves as they walk. A massive gust of wind pokes through the wool of his jumper and he tries not to shiver. ‘What? When?’

  ‘Don’t know. Anyway. The end of the story is that now Alan’s ghost haunts the asylum, crying and yelling for someone to let him out.’

  Thomas’s mouth opens. ‘Maybe that was what we heard last night.’ The spiked roof of the asylum’s tower pokes through a gap in the trees. ‘Creepy story.’

  Maggie shrugs. ‘We could go inside and find the padded cells, see if it’s true. There might be scratch marks on the walls where he tried to claw his way out.’

  Thomas shudders and shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘That story’s not true. Duncan made it up to scare you, stupid. Ghosts don’t even exist.’

  ‘Yes, they do. My mum’s seen one.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Maggie turns to face Thomas. ‘Prove they don’t exist then.’

  He laughs. ‘Yeah, right. How?’

  ‘We could go up there after we get the knife. Nothing will happen, right? We’ll explore a bit and then come home. You’ve already agreed to go inside. We made a deal. So, while we’re there we’ll go up to the third floor, do a ghost hunt for Alan.’

  Thomas shakes his head. ‘Mum would kill us.’

  ‘She’s already asleep. She’ll never know.’

  ‘No way.’


  ‘You’re scared,’ she says.

  ‘No, I’m not. But I think it’s a stupid idea. We should get the knife from the caravan and then come home.’

  ‘Scaredy cat.’ Maggie pokes Thomas in the side until he wriggles. ‘Anyway, it’s what we talked about yesterday. Our first proper mission.’

  The numbers on his watch are blurry, so he grabs his glasses from his pocket, puts them on. The lenses are smudged with fingerprints, but he can see that it’s nearly ten o’clock. Mum thinks they’re asleep, and they set up pillows under their covers to look like they’re in bed.

  ‘You’re stalling,’ says Maggie in a sing-song voice. ‘Don’t wimp out on me. Family stick together.’

  Thomas takes off his glasses again and wipes them on his t-shirt. Maggie is getting annoying; he just wants her to shut up about it.

  ‘If you come with me tonight, I’ll implement Mission Two as soon as Mum comes home from holiday.’

  ‘Mission Two?’ He frowns.

  ‘Operation: Thomas’s Dad. Listen, clearly the grown-ups know more than they’re saying about where he is. Even Duncan and Sandy. They’re all hinting and no one’s telling us anything. And if we can just find out where your dad is, we could maybe get a bus to go and see him.’

  That’s all he needs. He’ll give Dad a hug and ask him to come home. ‘Surely Dad would come home if I ask him. If he knows how much we miss him.’

  Maggie nods. ‘Yeah, exactly. If he’s allowed. And I’ll help you find him.’

  He shrugs, trying to ignore his fear. ‘Alright. We’ll go inside after we get your knife. See how brave you are then.’

  Maggie claps her hands. ‘Brilliant! I’m braver than you. You’ll be running home and crying for your mummy.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Thomas switches off the torch.

  They push through the trees, walking along the same path they followed last time, and eventually the trees thin out and they’re in the clearing with the caravan.

  As they approach the lopsided caravan, Thomas throws out a hand and stops Maggie. ‘Wait,’ he whispers, and they both stop, listening quietly.

  ‘What?’ asks Maggie.

  ‘Being brave doesn’t mean we should be stupid. We need to check,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t be a wimp.’ Maggie whispers, and he can see her grinning at him, her teeth glowing white against the darkness of the rest of her face, like the Cheshire cat in the Alice in Wonderland cartoon.

  He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to look like a wimp in front of Maggie, but the memory of last night’s scream is still fresh. It was terrifying. ‘We still don’t know who screamed.’

  ‘It was probably a fox,’ she says, trying to sound like she knows best. ‘Have you heard them? They sound like human screams. I looked it up on YouTube last night. It was the same noise.’ She steps forward, quicker than Thomas would like.

  He’s happy to stand there for a minute or two longer, being careful. Sure, it could have been a fox. But better safe than sorry. He hesitates for a moment, and then runs to catch up with Maggie, who’s already pulling the caravan door open.

  They stand at the doorway, peering into the blackness. Something’s different.

  Thomas frowns and waits for his eyes to adjust.

  ‘Smells funny,’ says Maggie, stepping up into the caravan.

  She’s right. It’s that smell from hospitals and vet surgeries: the unhappy smell which you can’t place but creates a fizz-pop reaction in your brain like a match just struck.

  ‘Wait,’ says Thomas, and Maggie stops. He shines his torch inside, and both of them gasp at the sight.

  The oven looks wonky, and the table is folded away; he’s sure they left it out from where he was sitting on it. There’s a glove lying in the corner that he doesn’t remember being there yesterday.

  ‘Someone’s been here,’ whispers Maggie. Her voice trembles, like she’s a bit scared. Thomas is relieved that it’s not just him, and Maggie being scared makes him feel a bit braver. If Maggie’s scared, then it’s his job to look after them both and make everything safe.

  He shines the torch around the caravan. What is that smell? It’s weird, a bit like toilets, and it makes him feel nervous, like something’s wrong.

  ‘No one’s here. I think it’s safe,’ she says.

  Thomas pushes down his fear, and both of them step into the caravan. He tugs on the handle; the locked door is still locked.

  They both get on their hands and knees, crawling around on the damp floor and checking underneath everything.

  ‘There’s something here!’ calls Maggie, her face pressed against the lino as she peers under the sofa.

  Thomas skids across the caravan on his knees and shines the torch around. Something glints on the floor, near the back, but it’s too dark to see what it is.

  Maggie stands up and tries to shift the sofa, but even with both of them and all their strength, still it won’t move. They manage to lift it a few millimetres, and then Maggie gets back on the floor to peer underneath again.

  ‘I think that’s it!’ says Maggie, reaching her arm under the sofa. ‘Damn, too narrow. It’s right at the back. Can you lift it any higher and I’ll slide underneath?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Thomas. ‘I’m pretty strong, but it’s, like, attached to the wall or something.’

  ‘Duncan’s gonna kill me if we lose the knife,’ whines Maggie.

  ‘Maybe he won’t notice if you don’t say anything,’ suggests Thomas. ‘Just keep quiet and he might forget about it.’

  ‘Just think of something, dummy.’ Maggie looks grumpy. She sits back, folding her arms, and leans against the sofa with a big sigh.

  ‘Fine,’ says Thomas. ‘Go and get a stick from outside.’

  Maggie grins and rushes outside, returning in moments with a skinny branch. She lies flat on the floor again, ready to slide the stick underneath.

  ‘One, two, three,’ counts Thomas, and gets his fingers underneath the sofa and bends his knees like they were taught with lifting things in PE class. The sofa is really heavy, like it’s full of a million rocks. He lifts it as much as he can – a centimetre, maybe more – and holds it still even though his arms are shaking.

  Maggie flicks the stick underneath, and Thomas manages to hold it until she hooks the knife out.

  ‘Got it!’ she says, grinning her massive smile and holding the huge knife up next to her face. She looks like a crazy person and Thomas starts to laugh.

  ‘You’re a psycho,’ he says, giggling at her.

  ‘Yeah, I am! Now come exploring with me or I’ll stab you in the foot.’ She points the knife at the ground and laughs too.

  They’re both short of breath, like they’ve been running for miles and won a race. They leap from the caravan into the trees, inhaling the fresh air of the forest. This is a fun adventure; it’s not scary any more, and there’s no one else in the woods making scary screams. Must have been a fox, like Maggie said.

  Now that he’s proved how strong he is, Thomas wants to do more, to flex his exploring muscles as well as his arm ones. ‘Come on then, let’s go find the padded cells. We’ve got more exploring to do tonight!’

  Him

  His approach is as tight as the skin of a drum, learned from the very best. One particularly smug freak commented online that it sounded as if he imitated Robert Berdella, the Collector. They said the boning knife was Berdella’s weapon of choice, and that his own methods of kidnap and dismemberment copied Berdella. There might be similarities, but he would never emulate such a clumsy oaf in his methods. Berdella practically laid a trail for the police right to his own front door.

  The room is pitch dark except for the light from his head torch. Its narrow beam follows his gaze, slashing through the darkness and throwing shadows around the room.

  He itches to act; to get started. He’s waited long enough, followed the rules for too long.

  He reaches into the tool bag and draws out the ivory-handled boning knife, and watches it gli
nt in the light from the torch. The angled blade is smooth and clean. Beautiful. It’s as sharp as possible due to his skills with a knife sharpener, honed over years of practice and his constant habits of preparation. It was once part of a set gifted to his maternal grandparents on their wedding day, and has their initials carved into the handle, textured under his thumb but illegible in this light.

  He hears a squeak from the girl. Even with tape over her mouth, the little bitch will not shut up.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to be quiet? Didn’t I?’ he strides towards the girl.

  She screws up her face, turning her head away. She smells pungent, of stale sweat and urine and fear. ‘Look at me. Fucking look at me.’

  Her eyes are still squeezed shut and she won’t listen. He slaps her once, twice, but she won’t open her eyes. Her head is turned away from him, cheek pressed against the wall.

  ‘You won’t get away with that for long,’ he warns her, but she doesn’t listen. He’ll have to make her look at him.

  ‘You need to watch me.’

  He prises her eyelids open, pressing his fingers into her eyeballs. Her eyes roll upwards, away from him. She knows what he wants and she’s refusing, looking anywhere but at him.

  ‘LOOK AT ME,’ he screams in her face.

  He lets go of her eyelids and she squeezes her lids shut again, twitching and scrunched.

  ‘The worst is still yet to come, don’t you understand? This part is a fucking walk in the park compared to later.’

  He raises the sharp, pointed end of the knife to her left eyelid, pushing the point between the top of her eye socket and her eyeball. ‘This is what will happen if you don’t do as you’re told.’

  She’s shaking, her breath coming faster and faster through her nose. Holding her jaw with one hand, pressing her head back to the wall, he pushes lightly with the knife, but doesn’t break the skin.

  Not yet. Anticipation is all part of the fun, and damaging her at this stage isn’t in the plan.

  ‘If you’re not going to look at me, I’m going to make you,’ he whispers.

  He grabs more duct tape from the tool bag and rips a one-inch length from the roll. Using his left thumb to hold open one eyelid after another, he sticks open her eyes with sticky tape.