Psychopath’s Diary Vol. I

By Kirill Khrestinin

It was a cold, rainy night when I came home and found a package on my front porch. The sender’s name and address were missing from the label. I opened the package and discovered inside of it a manuscript titled “Psychopath’s Diary Vol. I” I was instantly pulled into the mind of a serial killer and introduced to a reality that far surpassed any definition of normal in today’s society. “Psychopath’s Diary Vol. I” is the essence of taboo. It can only be described as a poetry of violence. A symphony of torture. A tale of sexual deviance with a drop of incest and necrophilia. You want to stop reading, but you simply cannot. It is like taking a bite out of a forbidden fruit even if the taste of it spoils the sensitive stomach of our morality.
One question ran through my mind over and over, why me? Why did the killer send his confession of the crimes he had committed to me? I searched for an answer within the pages of the manuscript, but could not find one, not even a hint. There is something that has to link him and I, but what?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kirill Khrestinin
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005833633

Kirill Khrestinin

Psychopath’s Diary Vol. I is the first psychological thriller/horror book making its debut from author Kirill Khrestinin. Kirill began his career as a filmmaker. He wrote and produced several horror and crime films. He then turned his focus to writing books. He felt that writing would allow him to expand his creativity and vast imagination. He enjoys pushing the boundaries between right and wrong, good and evil. Kirill’s work often combines different genres such as horror and psychological thrillers.

Book preview

Psychopath’s Diary

Vol. I

By Kirill Khrestinin

Copyright © 2020 Kirill Khrestinin

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

FORWARD

I recall it was late one evening as I drove my car through the wet streets of Louisville, Kentucky. The heavy rain, mixed with the dirty film of the streets, splashed against my windshield, obscuring my vision. Although the wipers worked hard to give me some vision, I had no choice but to slow down from forty to almost twenty-five miles per hour. Darkness fell upon the city that still was in possession of its southern history. The wind blew along the streets in the country where people from all around the world come in search of freedom and a better life. As I peered attentively ahead, the high beams of my car sliced through the blackness of the sad rainy night. I turned the radio on. The country music burst out of the speakers, but I quickly turned it off again. I didn’t want to hear music, just the rain hitting my windshield, just a soothing hum of my old car, just a city corrupted by the darkness and moody with bad weather.

When I came to my house, I ran toward the front door hiding my head underneath my jacket. I saw a package lying on the front steps. A plain, ordinary package with no labels on it. I saw my address, but the name and address of the sender were missing. Intrigued, I opened the front door and went in. After taking a hot bath to warm my chilled body, I sat down to dinner and opened the mysterious package. Inside it were pages of a manuscript titled Psychopath’s Diary Vol. I.

The open bottle of beer hissed in my hand as I took a sip enjoying its cool bitterness. I began reading the manuscript sometime around 11:00 p.m. The time slipped away, turning seconds into hours like some invisible hand holding a magic remote, scrolling down my night. When my eyes rested on the end of the final page, it was 6:00 a.m. in the morning. I spent the entire night, page after page, hungrily consuming a story of violence, perversity, and anger. Contemplatively, I looked outside the window at the early morning street still clothed by darkness. So empty with its obscurity and so unwelcome with its early morning coldness. The rain long before stopped leaving its traces all over the city. So many puddles and so much dirt brought onto the surface of the city revealing what the sun all along hid from our eyes. A reflection of streetlights in wetness like some other duplicate city secreted somewhere underneath, casting itself slightly behind the finish of the real one.

The hidden city, swirling with the monsters we never want to face, contaminated with the wishes we are desperate to keep in secret; the real city, the darkest side of us we keep in the deepness of the black mirror, the mirror of our true self for our private use only.

I held several final pages of the manuscript in my slightly trembling hand having a feeling someone was spying on me. Jumping to my feet, I rushed toward the window closing the curtains. I tightly shut them without leaving the thin vertical line in between them to the world outside. I wanted to cut myself off from the city. I wanted to segregate myself from the reality that this manuscript was changing slowly in me. The night has changed me. The words of those pages imprinted a new existence upon my entity. The words of those pages created a film with a new vision over my eyes. I glanced again at the

final page where The End was written. Under The End was only two words:

"PUBLISH ME".

The next day I went to the police and showed them the manuscript. Skeptically, one of the detectives ruffled quickly through the manuscript finding nothing worth worrying about. He told me it was just a joke with no possible dangerous outcome. How can a book hurt? He chuckled whole heartedly, No one reads them any way nowadays. While I gathered the manuscript back into the folder that I brought it in, he gave me a slight slap on my shoulder and walked me out of his office. Since I was new in the country, I didn’t have any reason not to trust him, though his confidence was a little bit alarming. You can’t be too confident over something that you just learned about.

I had no idea what I supposed to do with that. Publish it? Someone asked me to publish it.

At first, I tried to locate a town by the name of Portlock on the Kentucky map. According to this book, all crimes had been committed in that town. The closest I could get was Lockport which wasn’t even a town just an incorporated community in Henry County. The name of the author as he introduced himself, Chester LaRue, was a fictitious name. I couldn’t find any record on him either. Though I found LaRue County which included the towns of Hodgenville, with a population of a little bit over three thousand, and Upton, with a population of only six hundred eighty-one. The crimes that had been depicted in this manuscript couldn’t possibly have been committed in these two small towns. Serial killers need bigger spaces, more population to blend into the crowd, and more strangers around who don’t know each other.

I made a decision to publish this manuscript with the intention that maybe someone, somewhere in this country, would recognize the crimes or the people and contact me with information while I am still in the beginning of my own research in my spare time.

I changed nothing in this book, you’ll read it the way it was written. How real is it? It is now for you to judge. My personal conviction is that it is real enough to shudder your peace and disturb your mind. Every time I read these pages, I catch myself thinking how peculiar a psychopath’s mind works. How smart, with almost impenetrable logic he justifies his crimes and choices. How brutally he normalizes rapes and tortures. The words he uses to describe his inner world in such

colorful details make one wonder if the man who wrote it is in an asylum yet.

For many nights after receiving this manuscript I lost sleep to the nightmares. I developed this strong conviction of someone watching me. From now on, my curtains are tightly shut, my doors are firmly bolted, and a couple of days ago I bought myself a gun.

What drives me crazy is why me? A couple of years ago I moved to this country from Moscow, Russia. I know no one in Kentucky. In Russia I used to make independent films. Here in America I am a small-time screenwriter with an ambition to move to Los Angeles in the near future and make a movie with A-list actors. Why me?

Every day I try to connect the dots, try to make invisible connections between the pages and reality, between the story and me. I talk to people, I collect information. I know this manuscript is only the beginning of the horror that fell so suddenly upon my shoulders and after it is published, there will be more from him. I just know it. And nothing can stop it, and could I refuse it?

Chester LaRue is a man with a name and no face. A man with the town you can’t find on a map. A man somehow connected to me. Somehow, I was chosen by him to tell his story

to the world, to be an intermediate between two entities, a psychotic killer and the people who read about his deeds.

Please, if something in this book sounds familiar enough to you such as the characters, places, or crimes contact me at (******@hotmail.com). Even minor details can lead to colossal answers. I don’t know if he’s in jail. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. Somehow, he found me, and I want to know why.

K.K.

CHAPTER I

Evolution...Natural selection...The strongest eats the weak and the weak eats the spineless and the spineless eats the coward and so on until there’s nothing left to eat, to kill, to torture, to rape, or to possess. Until the last drop of blood. Until the last breath of life. Until the last beat of a heart. Life is like a food chain for the dominated species to survive. We just can’t help it; we have to kill each other on a daily basis to satisfy the predatory instinct inside of us. To satisfy evolution itself through wars and crimes, through murders of everything alive. You can focus your eyes on every direction and everywhere you will see violence. Violence against women. Violence against children. Violence against men, animals, and the planet. Physical violence, verbal abuse, mental degradation.

Every one of us has a story to tell. Every one of us has a dark corner deep inside of their own closet packed with skeletons which no one else is welcome to see. No one has a chance to get a full glimpse of our true identity with no masks of normality over our faces that society forces us to put on. Everyone has a deranged secret behind many layers of civility. Everyone can share a wish of inflicting pain through the unhealthy desires of an unstable human mind. Everyone...

My name is Chester LaRue and I am a serial killer. I decided to keep a diary. To write. To analyze. To understand my inner self. As you know, I can’t go to a psychiatrist. I have a good reason; I don’t want to go to jail. I can’t share my inner thoughts with anyone, not even with my family. But then, again, what is family? A pack that helps you to survive when you’re in those tender ages with no meat on your bones and no muscle to strike back, with no sharp teeth to show your mean and mortal growl? Don’t get me wrong, I had a family once. I don’t have one now. Maybe I should write a little bit about it?

I had a family when I was sixteen years old. I had a mother, a father, and a cute little sister. They were my first victims. I didn’t hate them, I felt nothing for them. They were a bunch of obstacles in the way to my greatness. A bunch of objects which were blocking the sun, or more accurately, the blue moon in the night sky.

I was only sixteen. I had been planning my perfect crime for two years. Studying them like a naturalist studies bugs under the glass through a magnified lens. Nothing could escape my vigilantly watchful eye. It was a game of a hunter with his prey. The scent of blood and violence with their corruptive stink polluted the air of normality while I had been playing the role of a good son and a brother. Normality was fading away. I knew they felt something.

Naturally, my little six-year-old sister was crazy about me while I wanted to split her skull open with my father’s hammer. To hear the sound of cracking bone. To see the color of her blood. To see the light of her eyes

slowly dying away. To witness her last breath before she stepped beyond the eternity of death.

First, I planned to burn the house to the ground with my family in it. I changed my mind for one simple reason, I needed a place to live. I wasn’t sure if my beloved parents had house insurance. They were the kind of folks who relied on God more than themselves. My family’s house wasn’t the Trump Tower but was livable enough and was situated conveniently far away from other folks which suited me well. Eventually I settled on putting their bodies in my father’s truck to burn them inside of it on a particular road near a forest far away.

It should look as if they died in a fatal car accident. A slight whisper that I hear from time to time in the back of my head advised me. I was pleased with the idea, picked the date, and was overcome with anticipation.

It was a Saturday night. They were far away in their own la la land, not to be confused with Los Angeles. Here in Kentucky we have our own la la land trips like when you’re drunk, stoned on meth or drugged by a pervasive priest. A deadly tiredness dropped down heavily with its massive weights upon their eye lashes. I was hoping I didn’t overdo it with the sleeping powder in the iced tea. I wanted them to be aware of what was happening to them, who was going to be the one to take their lives, sending them to the place that highly promiscuous liars called the promised land.

After they drank the iced tea, they barely managed to get to their rooms. I was playing the role of a good son, volunteering to clean the table, and wash the dishes. Feeling the warm water over my hands and hearing their heavy footsteps on the second floor I felt a slight erection in my pants. I knew it was time for a great new experience in my life, to kill a human being.

First was my cute little sister. I grabbed a hammer and a big plastic bag. I went to her room where she was soundly sleeping like an angel, peacefully dreaming about something all cute American kids dream of. I carefully took her in my arms, placed her in the middle of the plastic bag that I spread all over the floor. I was standing and looking at her trying to understand my feelings. She was wearing blue pajamas with little yellow stars all over them. I didn’t know why I thought of Jews in concentration camps...

Yellow stars. Shaved heads. Exhausted bodies. Hopeless, faded eyes. Barbed wire. Barking dogs. Clicks of guns. Odor of burning flesh. They killed them all with no pleasure, cowardly with no sense. One mediocrity killed another following an order from the one who took the responsibility. Turn it all the way around and it would probably be the same. Different faces. Different religion. The same hate.

Her blond, slightly curly hair was in disarray enhancing her childish cuteness. She was the epitome of the perverse dreams of catholic priests. Her calm breathing. Her tender smooth skin with no wrinkles upon it. Innocent life full of wonders and hopes but in reality, not many choices. To be raped by religion. To be sodomized by a priest. To be painlessly killed by her own psychotic brother. No Santa Claus for her this Christmas. No first kiss on prom night. No first love, sex, motherhood and so on... No eventual disappointment from adulthood when you suddenly realize there’s nothing special to it. You’re the same. Just older and uglier. You still have your dreams, your desires, and no way to satisfy them because you’re just weaker with age, grayer and plainer in appearance.

Death was right around the corner waiting impatiently with deadly sharp claws to take this small innocent creature to a faraway land of oblivion, nothingness, and decomposition. And again, I tried to understand what I felt. I was trying so hard and then I realized that I didn’t feel anything. Nothing at all. Just an

empty spot inside of me throbbing with a desperate urge for bloodlust.

But what’s the point of her life anyway? She looks cute right now, maybe if she doesn’t get fat in her high school years she would probably have her first sexual encounter by force with some high school football player with shit for brains in the back of his father’s monster truck. He would tell her about love the way only he can, and she would figure out the rest on her own. He would steal his love words from a cheap popular song. She would pretend she believes him exaggerating his ability to love and care. He would lie to her about their future. She would pretend to believe his lies until she actually believed they were real...

Living in denial. Living in lies. Living in a rough vulgarity with your eyes closed imagining tender romanticism. It’s not sucking cocks, it’s kisses of love. It’s not fucking, it’s enjoying intimacy. It’s not his cum on your face, it’s a possible life that could’ve united you two together in the unbroken circle of family and trust.

He would have sex with her while filming it on his I-phone for his friends to see. It would increase his masculinity and gain him more respect among his buddies. He would upload the video on the Internet, maybe on Pornhub, for the entire world to see. My cute little sister would be discovered in the bathtub with her vein slit open. Her dead marble eyes observing eternity while the football player with shit for brains would successfully run for governor of the state he was born in, with his beautiful wife and kids beside him praising God, his family and this country.

Life is just a retarded repetition of the same misery from one generation to another. Killing her would be doing her a huge favor. There’s no happy life, there’s no happy ending, there’s just an ocean of hypocrites drowning in the mess of their own mental and physical vulgarity.

To be quite blunt, I caved her skull in with the hammer. She died easy, maybe too easy, but she was a child and all children of the world deserve an easy death, don’t you think? She was my first human victim. An interesting thing happened to me when I caved her head in. The moment when my ears heard the sound of her skull cracking, the second when her life seized and her heart stopped beating, the hour of her last breath when it came silently from her parted lips once sealed by a dream but sealed by death now, I experienced an orgasm. My whole body climaxed. A moan of satisfaction was about to escape my mouth, but I shut it tight with both of my hands.

It was like a dream that you wake up from bathed in sweat with the front of your shorts stained in sticky matter. The dream where you’re having sex colored with violence, screamed with possession and you can’t stop yourself from ejaculating inside of her, on her, on a woman you don’t know, on the woman that is so beautiful, so desirable, so sexually deviant. When you wake up in the middle of an ejaculation to find out that she was here in the moment and your climax crossed the border between dream and reality. You know you can’t stop it. You just let it go, feeling the elation of your mind and your body.

I smelled blood. I experienced the power of possession in the moment of the killing. Then I realized, this first murder, I mean a real murder of a human being, opened a hole of emptiness inside of me which must be fed with new victims over and over again, until I feel like I am alive and walking on this planet. I guess that was alright with me. I proved once again that I had found my destiny. I took the hammer and went to my parent’s master bedroom to feed my Frankenstein.

I stood in front of them holding the hammer, bathed in my sister’s blood. I was holding this bloody tool in my steady hand ready to use it again. They were sleeping. I hope they were dreaming of death because I would like them to die in perfect harmony with themselves when their dream finally comes true. A dim light of inevitability was creeping through a small crack in the slightly opened curtains. A dim light of the full moon. I looked at the moon and it seemed to be a color of blue. I smiled at the moon with a vacant dead smile. I gazed at the moon with vacant dead eyes. I knew I was dead long before I was born. The blue moon was on my side. The blue moon was begging me to kill them all. The blue moon itself was a killer.

I walked up close to my father and froze, hardly breathing, unable to hear my own thoughts in my blood intoxicated mind. I dropped the hammer on the floor. With a dull thump it collapsed on the carpet while I suddenly changed my mind. I wanted to strangle him to death using my bare hands so I could feel his rough skin under my palms. I wanted him to struggle for his life. I wanted to feel the moment when his life departed his body. I wanted to see the last gleam of his grey like autumn eyes. I wanted to challenge him. I wanted...more.

I wrapped my hands around his neck, gently at first. I felt him breathing. I squeezed it with all my might when the blue moon told me to. He began to choke as he opened his eyes. Our eyes met and locked on each other. His brain couldn’t process the reality. Until his last breath, I think he thought it was just a dream, a nightmare that crept up from the darkest corners of human fantasy and mixed somehow with reality. He didn’t resist, he just died. I was a little bit disappointed. I expected him to fight, to struggle. I knew if he tried, he would overpower me, he was a pretty big man with the strength of a bull. He didn’t fight back though, maybe a parental love or something of this kind. How should I know? I’m not a parent.

His tongue was sticking out of his mouth. His entire face had changed, its features somehow drooped down a little on the left side. His eyes were still open, a dull expression in them. His double chin got bigger. He looked disgusting. Death changes people. Some look good when they’re dead, others look utterly revolting. With some, you could have sex, make cold love of a threesome, you, the dead body, and death itself. But some you better burn, because some are so