Kill, My Darlings
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Kill, My Darlings is a collection of short stories exploring many possible outlets and styles from horror and diving into a varying amounts of subjects, from monsters and demons to cannibalism and psychological terrors. From erotica to flash fiction, Aldridge explores multiple sub-genres and subjects within the 13 stories published in this collection.
From a twisted, female serial killer with The Mistress. . .
To a demonic playground for the lustful in Insatiable . . .
Follow Aldridge as she takes you through clowns, boogeymen, talking radios, and infomercials in this collection of horror.
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Kill, My Darlings - Christy Aldridge
CHRISTY ALDRIDGE
ALSO BY Christy Aldridge
Weeping Willow
Writing Away Tragedies
The Mistress
Rogues
Dead Inside
Six Months
Kill,
My Darlings
_______________
Christy
Aldridge
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places or events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Artwork by Christy Aldridge
Copyright © 2019 Christy Aldridge
First Edition
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 9781794249264
ISBN-10: 1794249264
DEDICATION
For Cody.
But mostly for Billy.
Because a boy’s best friend is his hand.
CONTENTS
Author note
William Faulkner wrote, In writing, you must kill all your darlings.
When I began to write Weeping Willow, my first novel, fear plagued me about writing it the way I wanted, writing it the right way. I think all of us find moments in each story where we wonder if we should write something that will please our future audience or write what the characters ask us to. Either way, you run the risk of making someone upset, but in my experience, it’s better to make the reader upset than the characters.
I honestly don’t know which way Faulkner meant, but that quote provided me with the idea. I went on to write a book that often gets overlooked in my collection of works, but when read, is always met with pain, anger, and sadness, and because of Willow, I’m glad.
It wasn’t long after I finished Weeping Willow that I knew I wanted to eventually write a short story collection. Unlike my usual routine, I also knew without a doubt that I wanted to title it, ‘Kill, My Darlings’. I didn’t know what type of short stories I wanted to be in these pages, but I’d say I’m very satisfied with what ended up here. Each story goes back to that quote to me.
The stories inside did not come easily, no matter how quickly the concept of this book did.
I think short stories are a bit of a lost art, except within the horror community. Over here with the freaks and weirdos, it seems to me that short stories have become more common than they used to be, but that doesn’t mean they’re any easier to write than a novel. I suffer from a condition that we in the writing world call ‘BLOAT’. Ask anyone that has ever read a first draft of mine and they’ll tell you. I also suffer from a condition we writer’s call ‘PROCRASTINATION’, but sometimes, we get real fancy and just call it ‘WRITER’S BLOCK’ because that sounds better.
For the most part, this book only exists because of a good bout of ‘PROCRASTINATION’ and a quote.
The procrastination came from one of the worst writing years of my life. I started a novel at the beginning of the year and abandoned it. I began another novel, abandoned it as well. Then, I stopped writing. I think there’s a fear in each of us that plagues us at these vulnerable moments where we have to ask ourselves if we even possess the ability to still write.
A part of me thought that maybe I had just lost that ability. Maybe the Writing Well dries up after a while and you simply stop. It seemed very early for that to happen, but that was what it felt like. I kept rolling my bucket up and finding nothing inside. No ideas. No water. Bone dry and empty.
But someone set me straight and offered the idea of switching from a novel mindset for a while. I had been writing novels for years. Often, when I finish one, I immediately begin to work on the next. They suggested that maybe the rut I was in was a sign that my mind needed a break. I needed to switch things up and try something smaller, something I could finish.
I thought they were asking me to dive headfirst into a wall. They obviously wanted me to fail.
I’m sorry for ever doubting you.
It was exactly what I needed. And the story of how that first story came to be is included at the end of this book, along with every other silly story about how each of these stories came to exist.
After that, nine more stories were written or almost completely rewritten. Most of this was done in the span of two months, and each story seems to be completely different than another. There’s even an erotic horror story within these pages, conveniently placed as the last story. Each its own brand or style, all because of my intense love for horror.
Because I think that was what I missed the most that novels don’t always allow. Sometimes, those of us in the horror genre exchange a story for gore or vice versa. I’m definitely a culprit of the latter. It’s no secret that I tend to prefer a subtle storyline without too much gore or blood, or even events that will terrify, than one that allows me to just be scary. I often find myself more drawn to the horrors of the mind than I am the actual events.
But with these short stories, I found out I didn’t have to lose either one.
These stories reminded me that I could still have fun and that I could still kill.
And that I enjoyed the kill.
Anyway. . .
William Faulkner once said, In writing, you must kill all your darlings.
So that’s what I did.
He didn’t say how. He didn’t say they all needed to die by stabbing them repeatedly or choking them. I think Faulkner would agree that sometimes, the cruelest way to kill someone is by killing their dreams, their hopes, and maybe even killing their souls and letting them live.
So, my Darlings, I leave this book in your hands. Here it lies, pages waiting to be read, blood waiting to be spilled, and me.
Here I sit.
Here I wait.
Go ahead, my Darlings.
Christy
KILL, MY DARLINGS
The Mistress
A Warning
THIS VIDEOTAPE WAS found amongst Detective Oliver Bryson's personal things. It was the last recorded words of serial killer Cindy Horne and given to Detective Bryson a week after her death, as recorded by Officer Carl Lambert, being the officer who delivered said tape. It is now available for public view, based on Detective Bryson's request as stated in his Last Will and Testament. It is also requested that this message from Detective Bryson be included as well:
"Cindy Horne told me that if I ever wrote a book based on her, the opening paragraph should say, 'You would never believe that the face of evil could also be one of beauty, but history has often taught us differently, beginning with Lucifer. Much like Satan himself, the Mistress was beautiful, but by the time it came for her to pay for her crimes, she was just as ugly as the monster they professed her to be.'
"This was not true, as you'll see when you watch this tape. Down to her last day, and even unto her death, Cindy Horne was a beautiful creature plagued with an ugly disease that eventually led to her capture and death.
"Cindy was charming, as you'll see. She may elicit sympathy, pain, and there will be times where you see her as a human being. If you know anything about The Mistress, you know that her crimes were acts of pure violence, and you may say to yourself that you are prepared to look into the face of such a monstrosity and come out knowing that monsters do, in fact, exist. You may think you won't feel an ounce of pity for someone who could murder sixteen individuals, but you would be wrong.
"I beg you that if you are unable to realize that evil often comes with a human face, you turn away from viewing this. If you cannot accept that she was human on some mundane level, do not continue watching.
"I watched this tape repetitively in the weeks after receiving it. I listened to her story to the point that I could nearly recite every word. Cindy's case, in general, had been one to plague my career, and as she points out, one that also defined it.
"The urge to burn it came across my mind, but the truth of the matter is that this is as much my history as it was hers, and once you reach my age, deleting your history becomes nearly impossible for you to do.
"The only reason this is now in your hands is that I knew, after my death, someone would come across this video and discover it's worth. Society is obsessed with the nature of serial killers. The full story from one would be priceless. To control that, I have made it clear that this tape plays with this message from me. It is also separated by the order in which she told it, so you, as the viewer, will know the sequence of the words she will say to you.
"Cindy Horne was beautiful and charismatic, as you'll see, but she was also a monster. I urge you to take heed to my words, but also to hers. I fully believe that as demented and twisted as I believed Cindy Horne to be, she was also perceptive. She was able to see the world in a different light than us, and though most of it is jaded, there are glimpses of truth amidst her words. I would expect this from anyone because as much as she was a monster, she was also a human being. Most monsters are humans. I urge you to remember that as you watch this tape.
I urge you not to forget who she is or what she has done, but I also urge you to listen. Just because she is not of sound mind does not mean she didn't know what she meant. You may find out more about yourself than you knew before, as I certainly did. Regrettably."
It is also urged by Detective Bryson that you do not attempt to contact or search for the victims mentioned in this video, as you can be prosecuted for harassing the families of the victims. It was Detective Bryson's, and Cindy's, belief that they were the real victims.
The End
SOMEONE FAMOUS ONCE said that stories always had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and not necessarily in that order. I am inclined to believe this person because here I am, at the end, yet beginning my story for you. We have no secrets between us. There's no use in me dabbling into the past of my childhood for you for now. You sought those secrets out a long time ago, didn't you, my dear?
We all know how this ends. You told them I was evil with a beautiful face. I take the compliment highly. It feels like you're the only person alive (oh, the humor) who could really see who I was, or more importantly, what I am.
I wish you were here to listen to my story, but they tell me they'll give this to you. I had thought about writing it down, but I'm not a writer.
Besides, I'd rather you hear my voice. I'd rather you see my face, person to person, but we can't always have everything we want, now can we?
I'm sure that was always my problem. Women are designed to want everything their way, it seems to me. If not, then why would Eve risk everything for fruit? I think she was bored, and I think she wanted things her way. God said no, Eve challenged that. The first of the 'independent' women, I tell you. The biggest idiot, if you ask me, but most people are.
I'd say we all are, but that's another topic entirely. We both already know how I feel. You were sure to use every chance you got in court to point out that I had issues with control and what I perceived as stupidity. As I said before, I do believe you are the only person to ever come close to having me pegged.
Someone else once said life ends in death. There are no exceptions. Eventually, we all give up the ghost and die. I never toyed with the thought of being immortal, mostly because mortality intrigues me so, and I have no qualms with dying. In twenty-three hours, eleven minutes, and approximately seventeen seconds from now, I'll know the most there is to know about death.
There's a girlish sort of giddiness that infects me with the thought of what comes next. People spend their entire lives arguing over death. Ironic, isn't it? People living to die as the ultimate finger in the face. Ha! I was right!
Only to find yourself in your own version of Hell.
I don't claim to know much about religion, but I think anyone who believes we don't go to a bad place if we're bad and vice versa, is an idiot. In life, they are the ones to point and laugh at those who do because the thought is naive, but it's kind of stupid for me to think that we wouldn't be punished for our wrongs.
I read somewhere that one serial killer, Dahmer, I believe, said that there was no point in morals if you didn't believe in Someone to hold you accountable. I think Dahmer is both smart and stupid. A rare combination, let me assure you.
I do believe in a higher power. I do think there are two sides to our life, and then an entire gray area that totters on the edge. There is good in the world and there is bad. The gray area, the one that you are in, Detective Bryson, will always stay on the edge of evil.
I know which side I'm on. I have never lied to anyone about this. I have never pretended to be something I'm not, unlike those of you in the gray. A hilarious thing about gray people is your ability to convince yourself that you aren't like me. It remains in your words every time you've spoken to me in the past, but your eyes tell a different story.
I have a theory about this. I've heard that when people lie, they look to the right or can't look directly at you. This is why poker players wear sunglasses when they play, right? My theory is that our eyes are incapable of concealing lies because they are, in fact, windows to our soul. Like I said before, I don't know much about religion, but I do believe our souls can't lie. I know they can be corrupted, but they themselves cannot lie about what they are or what they have done.
Your eyes tell me that you know you are just like every other gray person and you enjoy dancing with the black. You'd rather be tasted by the darkness than blinded by the light.
There was this guy, but it seems that being this close to death, names escape me, had a famous quote about staring into the abyss and finding it staring into you as well. I like that. I know he said it in some poetic way that I don't know, but you get my point. You've stared into the darkness so long, you can't hide that you know it's staring back at you. One day, the abyss will swallow you.
Oh! Friedrich Nietzsche said it! 'He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.' Another smart idiot, like Dahmer, only Nietzsche still believed in morality. Kind of dumb to believe in morals if you don't believe in God or the Devil if you ask me, but I'm sure someone will come up with some reason of why Nietzsche is a genius and Dahmer is an idiot.
There is a God. I truly believe that, and it was always Him I was fighting against, Bryson, not you. There is a Devil. Lucifer, the most beautiful angel that was the first to fight against all that was Holy. If you don't understand why you in the gray area crave beauty and are naturally proud creatures, you are the real fools.
That's the beauty of the dark side. You don't honestly think it would ever use all that is dark and ugly in the world to lure you in? Only idiots can be influenced by that. We lust after beauty, over riches, successes, just as I'm sure you wear that badge with pride. One day, you'll probably write a book about me. It'll be your crowning glory; the one thing Oliver Bryson is remembered for. My name will make your name famous. In a world so twisted in all that is of the Devil, it will make both of us immortal. At least, until this world is done with and all things of it are gone. That day when you gray people join us and can no longer lie to yourselves or pretend you don't see the evil that has wrapped its arms around you so tightly.
Ed and Lorraine Warren once said that the fairy tale is true. The devil exists. God exists. And for us, as people, our destiny hinges upon which one we elect to follow. Trying to say one exists without the other is stupidity. Trying to convince yourself that neither exists is even more idiotic.
Guess what road you're driving on, Detective Bryson?
I guess this is kind of my warning to you. Like me, there was one thing you wanted, and I wouldn't give it to you. I understand your pride, though, and I know the sick beauty you find in my existence, which is why I'm going to tell my story to you. One day, you'll write that book. One day, you'll sit at a table and sign your name to copies of it with your face covering the entire back like the proud, egocentric monster you'll never admit to being, and it'll hit you. It will slap you right in the face that you are no better than me.
I guess that's why I'm okay with starting my story from the end rather than the beginning. If you don't stop looking into the abyss, Detective Bryson, this will be your ending, too.
The Middle
I GUESS SOME PEOPLE could say that my first kill is technically a beginning, but not really. As I said, you know all about my childhood years. People profiled me. They believe our pasts are indicators of how and why we do what we do. I don't believe that any more than I believe Dahmer about not having morals. People believe in theories and ideas of having no choice in our decisions and circumstances in order to explain away the truly sick individuals and so that they can convince themselves that they could never become what we are if they do all that is right. They try to say that I am the way I am because of my childhood and that is simply not true. I am this way because I chose to be. We all have that freedom to choose unless you're stupid and believe people are born one way or the other. We're all born evil. We choose later to either be good, bad, or in between.
I'm getting off topic, though. I guess there are just so many things I want to say without forgetting.
Anyway, unlike the first time I had sex, the first time I killed someone was satisfying. Killing Mr. Duggar was both thrilling and erotic. I would be lying if I said that, while I was stabbing him, I didn't get turned on. It was such a rush, and it was over so quickly.
As fast as it happened, as fast as he had insulted my thesis to the point that I used that paperweight to bash him over the skull one time, that was how fast it ended.
I honestly can't remember getting the knife. There was such an adrenaline rush that flooded through my veins that I believe it took the events that didn't require thought so that I could vividly remember the details that mattered. The way his eyes had bulged when I stabbed him once, just when he had begun to regain consciousness. I waited, too. I waited for him to come around before I stabbed him because I wanted to see that moment of surprise.
There is humor in it, Oliver. I can call you that, right? It seems silly for me to continue on calling you Detective Bryson. That makes you a title rather than a human being. Kind of like how you never called me by that silly name the media gave me. You never called me The Mistress. It was always Ms. Horne or Cindy. I personally preferred Cindy. There was something sensual about it, but I couldn't tell you why.
I'm going to call you Oliver. It's not like you can tell me not to. By the time you get this, I'll be dead. Tragic, isn't it?
Before I got off topic again, there is humor in watching someone come from that place between being conscious and being comatose, only to have that first stab bring them completely to their senses. If I could have killed them and then brought them back, just to have them come back from the dead, only to feel that threat of dying again wash over them, I would have.
That's what I realized once I was unable to do anything. Being unable to kill, I had time to think. I didn't do much of that while I was killing. I didn't really sit around and plan out my murders or think about the next one.
Crimes of opportunity were more my style. I always thought of it as an addiction. I was okay, as okay as an addict can be when I didn't kill, but there was always a trigger. It was the way he looked at me or the way they smiled when I walked past. Something in my mind that suddenly took over like a drug. I'd keep picking at it, and a few times, I did try to talk myself out of it, back in the beginning, but it would always take over eventually. Most addictions do.
There was high: murdering them. There was low: everything after I took a breath. The only difference was guilt. I never felt much of that. Like I said, maybe Mr. Duggar, but none of the others. If guilt had come up, I might have had a chance at normalcy.
I think that is the key to what people find so intriguing about serial killers. Thinking there might be emotion behind those gazes, but as I told you earlier, our eyes can't hide what our souls really are. Too many people are so happy to stare into the abyss, Oliver. So many people enjoy hanging off the edge, never realizing how close they are to falling over. You have to have a good grip or a backup plan, and sadly, not many people do.
Do you, Oliver?
You might want to think about that one.
See? This is why I told you that I could never be a writer. My mind moves to too many topics in order to simply focus on one. I'm going to try to remain on Mr. Duggar for now. He was the most important of all my kills.
A lady never forgets her first.
Mr. Duggar didn't really have much significance in my life. I know it was told at trial about the 'affair' we had, but I don't think you could really call it by such a titillating word.
Yes, his murder was one of passion, but not because I was bitter at him wanting to end our sexual relationship. I was angry, 'passionately angry', because he was still going to fail my thesis, even after all of the sick things I had let him do to me.
That is my problem with men. Women want everything their way, yes, but men want you for only one thing. Men are like bratty children, throwing temper tantrums and screaming at the top of their lungs until mommy buys them what they ask for, only to get it, love it for a day, and then find something new and flashier. Men want things and objects. Women want perfection and pride. We're all a little mad here, Oliver. Every single one of us.
Mr. Duggar was nice enough. He didn't hit on me until I came to him with that first question. We were reading Dante's Divine Tragedy. I came to him because I wanted to question him about a few points of the book, to be sure I was understanding what I was reading.
I think, honestly, he was just happy to have attention. You saw Mr. Duggar. He was pushing forty, not exactly the most handsome of men, but he wasn't horrible to look at. He had hit that slump where he was unsure of how to act like an adult. Some people move gracefully from being a child to adulthood, some cling to being a child at heart, and then some wander aimlessly because they have no idea how to do either. That was Mr. Duggar.
He was just stuck. I think realizing he had a student that wanted to learn and trusted his mind was kind of a turn on for him. He often said I reminded him of himself when he was a student. There was a spark of life in him when we were alone. A