A Killing Mind

By Doug Williams

A Killing Mind grabs your attention with the first sentence and won't let you go. You might as well stay up and read it. That way you can avoid the nightmares, at least for one more night.

If you want a cry baby, mamby pamby killer, don't read this book. But if you'd like to read a word craft of human horror, just buy the book. The only hard part is getting his thoughts out of your head once you've read A Killing Mind.

Mickey is your slightly above average guy. He owns his own small company and works hard. He's married to a beautiful girl who loves him, and they live together rather quietly in a nice house in a nice middle class community. The only difference between Mickey and some other guy is Mickey has special needs, the kind of needs that one does not discuss in polite company, or any other kind of company. No one should ever know of what Mickey needs or does, but you will.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781682139646

Doug Williams

Doug Williams is a freelance writer and former newspaper editor. This is his 11th book. He lives in San Diego, California, with his wife and enjoys hiking, traveling, reading, and spending time with his family. He especially loves watching baseball games and playing catch with his grandson, Blake.

Book preview

1.png

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright © 2015 Doug Williams

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2015

ISBN 978-1-68213-963-9 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-68213-964-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter One

R

Iwatched as she severed the hand from her body. I could have stopped her, but the greater pleasure came from watching her crawl across the sand, bleeding, begging for my help. When she had pulled the shredded skin of her wrist from the trap I saw the suffering in her eyes, and when she crawled to touch the top of my boot, I turned my head from her and then walked away.

Normally, I would have stayed to watch the suffering, but there was a tension within me that made me feel the excitement just wasn’t there. I walked back to my pickup truck as little puffs of dust kicked up in front of my boots from the wind blowing at my back. I believed I could smell her blood.

In the truck I glanced back. I didn’t see any movement. I figured the bitch wouldn’t make it, between the beating, the rape, the bear trap snapping off her hand. Not to mention the heat—it was at least a hundred and ten degrees. She’d be lucky to live for another hour. I turned on the ignition and drove away.

Some of my best thoughts came while driving alone on a deserted highway—knowing there was no one else there, knowing I had thoughts that no one else could have, knowing I had seen things that no one else had. I had the option to be the boss, the man in charge. The researcher watching the rat cowered as I smacked her. I knew I had to become calm to fit back into society. My hands sweated profusely.

I drove on, wondering if perhaps I had done the wrong thing. I knew I had. I had definitely done the wrong thing. As I drove my hands gripped the wheel so tightly my knuckles whitened. I thought I loved that bitch. I thought I loved that fucking whore. I only met her last night. How could I love such a slut? But I liked that in a woman. I never wanted nice women—they were all too good for me.

Would I need an alibi for my family? Supposedly I had been in Vegas that day, and I had definitely been in Vegas the night before. I’d told them I had to go on a business trip. For what? I knew I’d think of something—I always did. I drove on thinking what it must be like to be normal, to not want to beat the flesh that you loved, to not want to kill the women you wanted. Though I hadn’t killed my wife.

I drove on listening to music but turned it off when my thoughts got too loud. I was frightened. Not of what I had done, or might do, but of my own feelings. I was desperately afraid that people wouldn’t like me. That terrified me the most. I couldn’t think of any reason for them not to like me, but many people didn’t.

The passing landscape transformed into silhouettes and later all but disappeared into the darkness. She was definitely dead by now. In the night, the animals would start to invade and consume her corpse, and in a few days, most of the evidence would be gone and probably no one would ever figure out who she was. Not that it really mattered because they wouldn’t put the two of us together.

I drove on through the night, fading in and out of reality. The road rose up like an old picture screen where I was the star beating the woman. I could see me on the screen—tall, muscular, flexing like a raging bull beating her, but I knew it wasn’t me. I watched me, as an actor, beat the woman. Her body became limp. In a rage, I dragged her and lifted her up and smacked her again.

By the time the real me stepped in to save the girl, it was too late. She was a lifeless creature waiting to be totally consumed by death. The actor stared at the lifeless mass seemingly for hours, and in turn I watched myself and the lifeless mass, waiting for her to move. I had two visions of myself, two entirely different sets of thoughts. The actor, the procurer of death, stared at the body, studying it, feeling some sick, demented elation over the suffering of this innocent soul. The real me sat and watched the screen in horror, not understanding how it could be going on, how I could watch and not stop it? My body was as unresponsive as my victim’s. I shook my head severely. The screen disappeared, and the road took shape again.

My only thought was to head for the diner and have some coffee. I checked my watch. It was nearly seven in the morning. I watched for food signs on the road. I figured it had been almost seventeen hours since I’d left the girl in the desert. I saw the diner up ahead. I hadn’t stopped all night except once or twice to take a leak. I knew I was dirty and grungy looking, but I didn’t care. The place looked like the tobacco road diner, the ugly surroundings blacked out by the night while the building’s filth and disrepair were highlighted by the flashing sign spelling D_NER. I was still hours away from my house. I pulled in.

I went inside and looked around for a minute. The waitress, walking by with a pot of coffee, said Good morning. She didn’t even bother to look up.

She was just typical, the way the world is today. But when I was a kid, it was a nice place. I got me a booth, sat down, and ordered a cup of coffee and some toast. I didn’t feel particularly hungry even though I’d been up all night. The waitress set down the coffee.

Are you sure you don’t want some eggs with that toast? She pronounced eggs with a long drawl.

I mimicked her and said, "No I don’t want any eggs with the toast."

She said, Well, honey, you look like you could use some eggs.

And I said, Well, I’m not going to have any today anyway. I told her I had to drive all night long because I couldn’t wait to get back home to see my honey.

She laughed and walked away. A short time later, she came back and delivered the toast.

Here you are, hon.

I thought, Why do waitresses always call me hon? I wondered if they always called everyone else hon. And I thought, They just do it so that they can get a tip. She deserved a tip, she was nice, she brought the food, she did everything, she was a great person. However, I’m just here to get some toast. It’s really nice that she was pleasant to me. But it wasn’t sincere. I knew she was just doing it to get the fucking tip.

While I ate, I thought about moving on home, which road to take, which route to travel. I hadn’t been this way before, and I knew that going the same place over and over would create a pattern. I finished my toast and had another cup of coffee.

The waitress brought me my check for one dollar and twenty cents. Thanks, hon, she said, and tapped me on the shoulder. Have a nice day.

I said, You too, babe. I smiled at her while in my mind I thought, That fucking whore. She only touched me to get the extra money. I left two dollars on the table. Eighty cents was all that touch had been worth.

I arrived back in the neighborhood around one o’clock, driving by the ranch houses on both sides of the street, with their hundred-and-fifty-foot lots. Everybody had their own garage. Some had a two-car garage. It was basically a working-class neighborhood—certainly good enough for me.

As I pulled into the driveway, the thought flashed through my mind that I’d have to go in and act normal. But that was never a problem. I always became normal. I didn’t have to act that way. My hunger for sex and the macabre had been temporarily satisfied, so I was, in fact, normal.

When I went in, I didn’t expect Lois to be home because it was a workday for her. In the small foyer hung one of those cheap K-Mart mirrors with the gold background splotches around the edge. I paused to look at myself. My eyes glowed against my weathered, unshaven skin. I flipped through the stack of mail by the door. Almost all of it was junk mail and bills, except one envelope from my brother. The return address just had the street and Charleston, West Virginia. I thought, Charleston, West Virginia, home of the big asshole. Maybe I shouldn’t even bother to open it up. But I did. It was an invitation to the annual family reunion, get together, picnic, bullshit, camping trip. Maybe I should go this year—I interrupted my thought. I couldn’t possibly go to that. We never got along, and I knew that if I went, there’d be a big argument. They would pick some horrible place again. Was it possible that so much of my life could have been wasted growing up in that family? I didn’t understand why I even tried to get along with any of them anyway. I had gone back to a few of the reunions and never had a good time, never felt at home, never felt part of the family. I tossed the letter down with the other junk mail. Maybe I would think about it some other time.

I walked into the kitchen, and I felt a sort of sadness or sentimentality come over me. I didn’t know if it was because of my experience with the girl, or maybe it was my brother’s letter. Or maybe I was just tired. I was someone who really didn’t need much sleep. I couldn’t believe the last time I slept through the night. But I could go to sleep almost anytime, which a lot of people couldn’t do, and I valued that. I could’ve gone to sleep right then if I’d wanted to.

I looked for messages from Lois or telephone messages. There was a note to me that started off in big letters, Welcome Home, that had been crossed out. Underneath, Lois had written, You’re a day late, why didn’t you call.

She had ended the note with a period that punched right through the paper, so I knew she was angry. But it should have been a question mark, not a period. I decided I’d better give her a call at work, in the hopes it would give her a chance to cool down before she got home so I wouldn’t have to listen to her crap.

I walked to the phone and there were more messages for me—my friend Joe, Bob from the service station, and Sheriff Kabetsky. A small twinge of concern ran through me. I didn’t know any Sheriff Kabetsky.

Lois was a secretary at an insurance agency. A woman answered the phone.

Hi, is Lois there? This is Mickey.

Yeah, the woman said. Let me get her for you. They didn’t like me too much there, or at least they never acted like it over the phone.

When Lois picked up the phone, I said, Hi, honey, how you doing?

Why didn’t you call me? she replied.

I just got started on other stuff and I forgot, that’s all, it’s no big deal.

She, of course, thought differently. It is a big deal. There’s no reason why you can’t take five minutes to call me if you’re going to be late. Just call me anyway. Even if you aren’t going to be late, you should call me.

I know I should have. I tried, but I just get all wrapped up in what I’m doing and I just don’t pay any attention, you know that.

Well, she said, I don’t know why I put up with you, you’re so mean to me sometimes.

I tapped my fingers and stared up at the ceiling while she went on.

The way you treat me, you treat me like I’m your dog or something when you go away like this.

Maybe when I go away, but I’m home now, I said, so come on, let’s make up, let’s not have a bad time when you come home, let’s just make up. Okay? We’ll go out to a nice place for dinner or something. Okay?

She said, Well, all right, all right. But I wish you’d try to be a little bit more considerate in the future. Instead of thinking only of yourself, why don’t you try and think about how I feel?

Okay, I will, I promise I’m going to try.

Yeah, sure.

And I said, I will, I really will. I’m really going to try to call you, and the next trip that I have to take I’m going to try to call you and keep in touch. I’ll come home on time and the whole thing.

After a minute, she replied, Okay. I’ll be home about six thirty. And if it’s okay with you, I’d like to go down to Gophers and have a drink and dinner there. We can leave about seven, if that’s good with you.

Yeah, that’ll be fine. That sounds really good. I can’t wait to see you. I hung up the phone.

I really didn’t like