The pounding in my head wasn't some dream. It was real, this dull throb that kept pulling me out of sleep. I cracked my eyes open and saw that stupid red clock glaring 3:00 AM at me. Ugh. My throat felt like sandpaper, so I groaned and dragged myself out of bed, leaving the warm blankets behind.
The floorboards creaked under my feet like they always do. Kind of comforting, actually, in that creepy quiet before dawn. Made my way to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and just stood there letting the water run down my throat. Heaven. For a second anyway.
Then I headed back and froze.
Moonlight was cutting through the living room doorway and there—just lying there on my floor—was a woman. Naked. Her skin looked almost glowing in that pale light, dark hair spread out around her head like some kind of dark halo. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. Just stood there like an idiot with my heart trying to explode out of my chest.
This isn't real, I told myself. Had to be a nightmare. Had to be.
But the fear twisting in my stomach felt pretty damn real.
I couldn't move. Couldn't do anything except stare, waiting for my brain to catch up with what my eyes were seeing. And then, as my vision adjusted, I noticed something worse. No blood. No struggle marks. She just lay there looking almost peaceful, which somehow made everything ten times more terrifying.
This wasn't a bad dream. This was real. And real was so much worse.
The quiet after is always the hardest part. That twisted feeling of—I don't know, closeness, possession, whatever you want to call it—it always fades, and I'm left with nothing but silence and this hollow ache inside. Different woman every night. Pick them carefully. Beautiful strangers whose laughter I'll never have to hear again.
Tonight was a redhead. Fiery hair, probably a fiery personality too. Now nothing.
Dawn started creeping through the blinds and suddenly I couldn't breathe right. Here I was again. Same scene. Same me. And then it hit me like a truck—this wasn't some recurring nightmare I'd wake up from.
This was my life now.
Panic crawled up my throat. That rush I get from it? It's nothing. A lie. But still, every night, I end up back at the club, watching, waiting, picking another one. Their faces all blur together after a while—hopeful eyes, easy smiles, all ending up the same way.
What if someone notices? What if they figure out the women I leave with never come back? The thought of getting caught, of someone finding out—it cuts through everything else. The hunt, the thrill, none of it matters compared to that fear.
The club used to feel like escape. Now it's just my hunting ground. The silence used to feel satisfying. Now it screams at me. I dragged her body toward the bathroom and tasted something metallic in my mouth—fear, not blood this time. The terror doesn't fade with sunrise anymore. It just sits there waiting, telling me the worst is probably still coming.
Look, I'll be honest—disposing of bodies is just routine now. Every sunrise brings that sick dread, sure. But the real terror? It's not about getting caught anymore. It's realizing I get nothing from them while they're alive.
There's something about that first moment, you know? A woman asleep next to me, so vulnerable. Feels almost like intimacy, like if I just hold onto that hard enough it might fill whatever's broken in me. But it never does. Living warmth does nothing for me. It's only after—in that cold stillness—that something finally clicks.
The guilt eats at me constantly. These women had lives, dreams, people who loved them. None of it mattered. I took it all anyway. Am I a monster? I ask myself that every day. Every night. No answer comes.
But I still go back to the club. Every single night. Hoping somehow it'll be different. That this time, warmth will actually mean something. But it never is different. It never will be.
Round and round it goes. The hunt, the death, the guilt when morning comes. I know I need help. This darkness is swallowing me whole and I can't tell anymore where the fantasy ends and reality begins.
But telling someone? Admitting what I am? I can't. I can't see that look in their eyes. So I stay trapped in my own head, in my own house, in my own nightmare.
It's not even about necrophilia anymore. It's about something darker growing inside me. A hunger for control. For power over life and death. And staring at that empty pill bottle just now, I realized something that really scared me: the bodies aren't even the worst part. The worst part is wondering if I'll ever escape the person I've become.
Okay, thinking about it won't help. The evidence is right there, screaming at me in the pre-dawn light. Panic wants to take over, but the routine takes over instead—this grim little dance that follows every time.
Gloves on. Thin rubber between me and death. Cleaning supplies from the back of the closet—bleach, trash bags, wipes. All of it coming out to play their part in erasing the night.
Bathroom first. Scrub until it gleams. That metallic blood smell gets replaced by disinfectant until I can almost pretend. Almost. Every creak of the floor makes me jump.
Wrap her up. Heavy-duty bags like she's just trash, not a person who laughed and loved and breathed. Then the walk to the basement, to the hidden hatch, to the crawl space underneath. Every step feels like walking a tightrope over exposure.
The crawl space is dark and tight and smells like dirt and decay. I leave her there under that single bare bulb casting crazy shadows everywhere. My stomach heaves but I force it down.
Slam the hatch. Climb back out. The house feels thick with what I've done, that bleach smell following me everywhere. I collapse on the couch fully dressed, exhausted down to my bones.
The evidence is gone. But the real nightmare—the one living inside my head—that's not going anywhere. Tonight I'll be back at the club. Tonight the whole thing starts again. And every time it gets harder to tell where the fantasy stops and my real life begins.
I just keep wondering... will there ever be a way out of this? Or am I already too far gone?