Born Monster

By Rachel Elon Howard

Growing up, Lily lived alone with her serial killer father who taught her how to prey on her own victims. At the age of eighteen, Lily lost her father to the court system. To honor his legacy, she decides to continue the massacring of dozens of citizens. To ensure her safety, Lily's father asks Caleb, a family friend to keep an eye on her. Instead, he loses his daughter to an inner monster no one ever knew was there

When Caleb shows up in Lily's life, Lily instantly falls in love. It starts with a serial killing partnership. The love and romance mixed with the adrenaline of killing innocent people are intoxicating. However, as her craving grows out of control, Lily's father catches wind of it and sets out to end her spree by hiring an outside hitman.

On the run, Lily and Caleb have to work as a team to make it out alive. The only problem is that once the main hunter is dealt with, Lily becomes the huntress. The monster inside of her overpowers any emotions she has ever felt. Lily loses all connection to humanity and becomes something that even serial killers are afraid of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachel Elon Howard
• Release date: May 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386628439

Book preview

I didn’t need makeup.

My mask was the human face.

It hid the monster inside of me.

Goodnight, Amber Lee

BLOOD SPLASHED ALL over the walls as I brought the ax down on poor Amber Lee’s head, punctuating the hours of torture that she had endured. This was not a simple murder for money or reputation. This was personal, full of jealousy and raging hate. This was me showing Miss Amber Lee that despite everything she had in life-she was not better than me. Even with my shabby beater with the paint peeling off it and my one-bedroom apartment with stains devouring the carpets, I ran this show.

None of her riches mattered anymore. She couldn’t buy any more coats made of real pig leather. She could no longer go out for steak and potatoes with her drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend. The end had even come to her fancy little wine tasting parties in her five-bedroom mini-mansion. Her pristine life was over. All that was left was brain matter on the floor and blood on the walls that I would have to clean up before the stains set in. While I am not exactly a clean freak, which was obvious after one look at my shitty apartment, I did like to keep my workspace neat. This allowed for my next victim to wonder about the events that laid ahead.

Anytime I entered my abandoned warehouse hangout on the outskirts of Amarillo, Texas with a hot, young, rich female, I wanted her to wonder what’s going to happen next? If I already have blood and brains on the floor when she came into the building, murder was going to be on her mind from the start. I have learned from growing up and watching my father work that the worst torture is not always physical; it can also be mental. The lack of control in a time of danger was easily an example of a delightful torture worse than any physical pain. The pain was only an answer. It was the answer to what I am going to do, what is coming next, and what more I could do to you. Pain, pain, pain. All of it leading to the ultimate answer, death. The end.

I'm Not Crazy

WHEN MY FATHER WAS arrested, people called him terrible things. Names such as monster, psycho and sick fuck still rang in my head. I lived with my father from birth until the time that the FBI put cuffs on him and escorted him to the local jail where he would wait to be transferred to the state prison at the age of 18. I thought no such terrible things. He was a loyal, honest, and loving father to me. I lived a normal life just as any other child. I watched cartoons, went to school, and even came home and asked my father for help with my math homework. It was the balancing of equations that really tripped me up.

He never complained about raising me alone. He told me that it only made it easier to mold me into a smart, desirable young woman that could stand on her own. There was no other parent on the side to corrupt my mind. Aside from math, my father taught my other things as well. I learned to cook, change the oil in my own car, write checks, and even kill my own victims without becoming complacent.

The term victims, however, was not exactly accurate. That term made these people sound like innocent bystanders that were only trying to enjoy their little lives. That was very untrue as my father and I would never harm a single mother trying to raise her child or an old woman hobbling across the street. We prayed on the real assholes of the world. Those that made us feel like victims. Those that made us feel like we were tiny, insignificant creatures, nothing more than scum on a sidewalk. We craved the rich, those with more money than we could ever dream of. Those that looked gorgeous despite their born image because they had the money to make themselves gorgeous. We wanted everyone who made us look like and feel impoverished vermin, dead.

Despite my unorthodox way of life, I still did not find myself to be sick and I certainly did not believe there is anything wrong with my father. We simply viewed and handled our worlds differently than others. However, just like any other human, we were just trying to survive and live life the best that we knew how. Unfortunately, this did come with taking the lives of others. The Undeserving. I could not live a life knowing that I was surrounded by people thinking that they rule my world. I sought to put an end to it. This is not only for my benefit but for the benefit other young, struggling women that were constantly pushed down by these arrogant, rich bigots.

While I learned everything about killing from my father, there was still one thing that set us very much apart from each other. He never felt pushed down by a woman and therefore never killed one. Instead, he was into the middle-aged, white-collar men that drove sexy cars and had affairs with sexy women. He felt the jealousy and the hatred that I did, but for the men that he wanted to be but could never become. I felt it for the women that didn’t appreciate their perfect lives that I actually deserved and so longed to have.

To put it simply, I killed the competition in hopes that one day I may rise to the top. If that meant other women like me that had also been on the bottom for years rising up with me, then so be it. At least the new rich generation of women running the city together would have some idea of what it was like to have nothing. To look in the mirror every day and hate yourself because you couldn’t see how gorgeous you are. All you could see was how the fancy, rich bitches are so much more gorgeous than you with their big hair, fake boobs, and tiny waists. Their end was coming. My wrath would make sure of it.

On my own

THE NIGHT I KILLED Amber Lee was significant to me because it was the first murder that my father allowed me to conduct on my own. He knew that he wouldn’t be around forever and that I would need to continue his legacy myself. However, if I didn’t have the necessary training and practice, I would quickly become complacent and get caught, resulting in a lot of wasted time and effort. I felt so proud that night because he finally put his full trust in me. I was about to be a one-man show and I was going to make him proud. There was nothing better than that gleam that burst into my father’s eyes every time I exceeded his expectations. But the night I executed Amber Lee, he did more than gleam. He picked me up and kissed me and told me that I was the best thing he ever created.

The night I murdered Betty Walker was also a significant night for me, but for a different reason. It was the murder that marked the start of me picking back up on my father’s work that he had to give up when he was arrested. It had only been three days since his arrest and I was still going through an emotional meltdown. But regardless, there was work to do and I could not let my emotions get in the way of it. That would only be a let down to my father and he was the last person I wanted to disappoint. Aside from making my father proud, I also needed to go in for a fresh kill as my funds were starting to diminish. In the past, we had never taken money from our victims. It was against the moral good that we were doing and only degraded ourselves, making us look like thugs.

This time, though, I had to do it because my father was no longer able to fund my existence and the food was getting low. The rent was coming due in a week, which was also a stressor. I didn’t mind being homeless much, especially knowing I had my abandoned warehouse to sleep in, but the last thing I wanted was for my father to find a way out of his jail cell and come home to nothing. He had always