Confessions of a Time Traveling Serial Killer

            This image was created by D'Andre Clarke: artbydre@gmail.com

Greetings, mortals, and welcome to my humble abode. In this labyrinth of stories, I have found the perfect narrative to suit your darkest desires, The Confessions of a Time Traveling Serial Killer, written by... an unknown individual, my examinatory eyes of defiance have discovered this treasure among the wreckage of a lost age of legends. Please come and hear the tale of... Dave, as he faces his greatest foe, his dream. 

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I woke up to a knock at the door. Groggy and irritated from late night writing, I sat up, glancing over at my phone, the bright light of the screen blinding to my eyes. After blinking for a moment, I could see an email from the publishing company:

 

From: Inksblot Publishing

Subject: Update on submission request

Status: Rejected

 

Sighing, I tossed the phone aside, another rejection, another failure.

 

The knocking returned, assaulting my ears. Gritting my teeth, I threw the sheets off, hobbling to the door to see a box on the ground. It was covered in industrial tape and on the address, I glanced at my name, David... Picking it up I thought, Why would the Fed Ex guy knock on the door if he is just going to leave the package on the ground? 

 

Throwing the box on the couch, I returned to bed to finish my sleep. 

 

After lying down for another hour, I finally got up of my volition. 

 

After getting dressed, I walked to the box to see the full name, David Samuel Robertson? The writer?

 

I opened the box, my curiosity getting the better of me. It was a book manuscript, not very long from the looks of it. I also found a watch, the clock and calendar glowed. The book was only about seven chapters, and the title was interesting, Confessions of a Time Traveling Serial Killer. And because of that title, I read the book. The author David S. Robertson had been my favorite writer since I was a kid and I would read his novels over the summer to win the summer reading program, I even got into writing myself because I wanted to be just like him. So, I began to write stories that...never...worked out...wait a minute. 

 

Holding the manuscript close, I saw...my name, Dave John Keller! Reading further, I saw the prologue which detailed my day up to this point, from the email rejection to opening the manuscript to the shadowy figure standing behind me, Behind me!?

 

Spinning around, I saw... him. “This must be some joke!?”

 

“This is no joke, Dave, you are the champion... of my murder story...” 

 

Eyes wide, I stood from my chair, “Who are you!?”

 

The man chuckled, “You might know me as the Author of this book, the man, the writer you’ve always wanted to emulate...”

 

“David... Samuel... Robertson...” My eyes scanned the man before me, he was much younger than the Author I had idolized, in fact, he slightly resembled me... No, that’s impossible. Chuckling to myself, “What’s this supposed to be?”

 

The writer beamed, “You’ve read my works, you know my...mystery style is a little unorthodox.”

 

“You tell your murder mysteries, from the perspective of the killers who commit the crimes, and is this how you do it, send the manuscript before killing your victims?” 

 

“Oh...no... Dave, I’m allowing the champion to have the script to his first bestseller. Once you and I have our... little adventure, you will publish the novel under your own name, of course.” 

 

Gritting my teeth, I punched the table beside him, “I’m not playing your sick game!”

“You will...because it is my game to play, the players choose their pieces, as writers choose their characters. You cannot resist David, the dice have been rolled, and the bell cannot be unrung. The path is mine to walk, so take it and RUN!” The writer leaped on me out of nowhere clasping his hands around my throat, locking his hands as David laughed maniacally.

 

Fighting back, I punched the man’s face, as I struggled to breathe, everything was blurry, and my vision went dark. 

 

Then there was light and a not-so-light slap on my cheek. Reluctantly I opened my eyes to see a beautiful blonde woman, Samantha. She was crouched over me cradling my head, “Davey, are you okay...”

 

Sitting up my head pounded, like it was stomped on by and elephant, “I-Grunt-I’ll be okay...”

 

Rubbing my temples, I remembered the manuscript. Looking up I saw two police officers going through my stuff, and Robert was with them. What’s Robert doing here? I stood to my feet as Samantha cradled my arm helping me up. Robert rushed over, “You good bro?”

 

The police think it’s a break-in.

 

Eyes widening, “The manuscript!” Frantically I rushed to the table and began looking through papers an old manuscripts.

 

“What is it,” Samantha asked.

 

“The Manuscript...is...missing...” I said, looking through papers, before switching to the counter and being stopped by one of the cops.

 

“Son, are you looking for this?” The officer said in a heavy southern accent held up a stack of papers.

 

Grabbing the manuscript, I yanked the paper out of the cop’s hand, “Thank you, sir!” Sounding a little too sharp there.

 

Robert put his hand on my shoulder, “Sam found you on the ground and she called the cops, I came over when I heard the sirens next door, are you doing okay.”

 

I need to get through this. “Uhhhh... I fell, nobody broke in officer....” I grit my teeth, crap.

 

“Son, nobody mentioned a break-in.” The officer said bluntly

 

“Right! well, I’m fine.” My voice cracked momentarily.

 

The officer grunted and left my home. After Robert let the officers out, thanking them for their time, he turned, “Alright, what the heck is going on, Dave?”

 

I shrugged my shoulders, “Nothing is going on!”

 

Robert persisted, “Nuh uh, you’re gonna do something stupid, now tell me what’s going on.”

 

With a heavy sigh, I told them the truth, “This morning, I got this manuscript in the mail, and I saw my...well... our names in this book as if we were characters in the story, and you’ll never guess who wrote it...”

 

Samantha stepped forward, “Who?”

 

“David Sam Robertson.” I said bluntly.

 

Robert blinked, and ran to his apartment next door, running back with a newspaper, “Look!”

 

The front page of the newspaper said that David S Robertson had just committed suicide this morning. This is getting spooky.

Beep.

Samantha took the manuscript from me, “Confessions of a Time Traveling Serial Killer, What kind of a title is that?”

Beep.

“He...kind of...said...he’s...a time traveling...serial killer.” Biting my tongue as I realize how that sounds.”

Beep.

Robert smacked Samantha’s arm in excitement, “I freaking knew it!”

BEEP!

Then the watch started blinking and then beeping. Samantha looked back at the beeping watch, “Is that supposed to be doing that?”

 

Before anyone could answer, a massive white hole tore open in the air, its unnatural force yanking all three of us in. The manuscript slipped from my grip as we spiraled into the void. A tunnel of swirling space engulfed us, the pages of the manuscript floating just beyond my reach. I stretched for it, fingers grasping at nothing. As we floated through this tunnel, visions flashed before my eyes, I saw the face, his face, David Samuel Robertson, but he had a top hat on, and a monocle over his eye besides the outdated clothing he looked younger and almost like me, then a voice said, You cannot escape your destiny, David... The voice echoed all around me, “WHO ARE YOU!!”

 

Robert put his hand on my shoulder, pulling himself over to me, “Dave, who are you talking to?”

 

Samantha reached for my hand trying to comfort me, she knows how I get sometimes, but I pushed off her and Robert’s shoulders, launching myself toward the manuscript. My fingers closed around it just as we were spit out of the tunnel.

 

...And crashed on a wooden crate with a painful thud!

 

Samantha landed on the cobblestone next to me with a groan. Robert landed on something softer... A DEAD PROSTITUTE!

 

Robert scrambled off of her gagging. I peeled a broken eggshell off the manuscript’s cover, smearing yolk as I tried to wipe it clean. The woman’s dress was disheveled, as if she’d been dragged from a window and stabbed repeatedly in the chest. Robert frantically wiped at the blood on his shirt, looking like he might be sick.

 

Samantha slow turned as she looked up, taking in the cobblestone streets, the gas lamps, and the carved stone adorning the buildings, “Guys... this is the Victorian era.”

 

Robert blinked at her, “How do you know?”

 

She shot him with an exasperated look, gesturing at the world around us. “Because I studied history in college instead of goofing off like you two.”

I ignored the jab and flipped through the egg stained pages of the manuscript. My stomach caved. “Guys... this is Chapter One.”

 

I gulped, “A Framed Ripper...”

 

There was a shadow down the way, that’s got to be him, “David Robertson.” I yelled as I ran after him, “Get back here!”

 

David turned a corner into the shadows as I ran in, facing the darkness. Sneaking through the dark, I could see nothing. Spinning I saw David, a bit younger, with the same top hat and monocle over his right eye, he wore a trench coat and walked with a cane, Just like my vision... “Dave Keller, I see you accepted my invitation.”

 

“I’m not accepting crap, your stupid watch glitched, and now I’m stuck here, you’re gonna tell me how I’m getting home.” I said yelling at the man, who I once idolized and now is my demise.

 

David chuckled, “You thought that you could run from the plot?” He chuckled, “Instead you shall be the Champion of this novel, I shall write.” 

 

“You already wrote the thing, I have it right here,” I said, holding up the manuscript.

 

“Don’t spoil the ending, I haven’t written it yet.” The Writer said.

 

If I beat him at his game now, I can stop all this from happening.

 

“You can’t stop the events from transpiring, David, and do you know why?” He said response to my thoughts.

 

“And why is that?” I asked, humoring the psycho.

 

The cloaked man raised his eyebrow, “You never wondered why I sent the manuscript to you?”

 

Scoffing, I replied, “I just figured you’re a psychopath, and you picked out a victim at random, maybe you wanted to torment one of your fans for some sick reason.”

 

The writer leaned forward as if sharing an amazing secret, “David, I picked you for a purpose, for a reason, because the champion must become the challenger.”

 

I stepped back, now uncomfortable, “What are you saying?” You cannot escape your destiny, David…

 

“I, young David, am you in the future, and you are me in my past.” His grin was now full, ear to ear, as the truth set in.

 

“No, No, No, there’s no way, I would never...” I stepped back, unable to accept what he said.

 

“The potter does his best to shape the clay...” He said, or... I guess the other me said, “But the devil... Oh, he knows how to whisper...”

 

Leaning forward, I grabbed him, or myself, by his collar, “I won’t become you, I believe that I will change my destiny, even if you are right, I will not become you.”

 

David shook his head, “Oh my boy, I said the same thing when I was you, but then... David...Samantha...Robert... I became me...” he said as he looked up with a knowing smirk.

 

“Are you threatening my friends?” I ball my fists ready to throw the first punch.

 

“No...but there is one more clue you are missing for your destiny.” David said as the gaslight flickered and his grin now full, a gust of wind tore through the alley way his trench coat flowed in the wind, paper flew across my face and as I brushed it away... He was gone.

 

There is no way that this killer is me…
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And so dear readers if you ever receive a manuscript in the mail think twice before reading... or writing...