The killer

   No matter how loud she got, it wasn’t loud enough for anyone to hear her, after all, it was very late at night in a small city in which people always went to bed exactly a the same hour. And even if they didn’t fall asleep, they were inside their homes, unable to help anyone in need. Some said, days later, that they had heard a scream coming from somewhere that night. Psychologists said the people that swore by that were just guilty, saying things that didn’t happen.

 She yelled and screamed more than once. She fought her attacker with everything she had: her purse, her heels, but nothing worked. And least of all against his knife, which turned the street into a butcher’s shop. The police had a real problem when discovering the body because she hadn’t been murdered in alley or by a river. Veronica Slate had been assassinated two blocks away from her house, the night she was graduating from a business class.

 The killer’s face was known to no one and it was very possible that none of the town’s inhabitants had ever seen him. Mainly, because he had never been there before and would never come back. He had no need to and he was dedicated to what he did so he knew exactly how to do things, how not to be predictable and silly over such obvious things as location. People invented his face in their minds, bases on images of killers they had seen in movies. Of course, they were not accurate.

 He moved on to another town and stayed there for a week in a small hotel by the main square. He had no urge there, no need to make a move. He just walked around and chilled until he decided it had been enough. He took another bus and there was a second victim by the end of a very traumatic week because of the celebrations of the national day and a scandal involving a senator and his daughter.

 The body of Rosa Pérez was found in the middle of the most used avenue in that town. It was a place filled with people every single day but, somehow, no one had seen anything. It was a bigger town than the one before so they were sure a camera would have picked up something. But it didn’t. There was nothing they could use, no witnesses again. And they didn’t consider the cases linked but an isolated and strange attack.

 Rosa worked near by, in laundry place that worked all night. She had a bag filled with dirty clothes the night she was killed. The killer had used a gun with a silencer and many people linked her death to gang violence or some sort of vengeance killing. Her children had to bury their mother without a single shadow of understanding above her case. No one knew anything, again.

 That month, another two women were killed by the same man. One was choked with her own necklace and the other one was run over by a car at least twice. The scenes were always disgusting and it was difficult for every policeman to process those cases, as they hated to get their hands to close to such horrifying situations. The coroners were in charge of everything and they were the ones telling the people what had happened and why. Yet, they were still such random acts of violence that no one dared to link one thing to the other.

 As for the killer, he stopped altogether for several months. He was an unstable person that was obvious. But he was and amazing actor too. Not that it was his job, but he could anyone believe whatever he wanted them to believe. Most people loved to think they lived in a perfect world, filled with magic and love ant only beautiful things. And he benefited from that, from ignorance and their willingness to simply ignore that evil was out there, walking the streets.

 He had killed people for a long time now and kept a list of how many he had killed. It was very uncommon, but he knew that one day he would be the one to go to the police and tell them he had done all of those murders, all of those noted in that small notebook. He had dates and sometimes even names. He knew that there would come a time when he wouldn’t be able to do it as he did it now so he had plans to surrender himself.

 In his mind, he would win in that case. He already had won in any case, because no one knew who he was or that he was the same attacker of all those women. He had a clear advantage over anyone that might investigate a little bit too much. He also thought that a very good detective would actually see clues all over the place. But this was reality and there were no Sherlock Holmes’ roaming the streets solving crimes.

 So he stopped for a few months but began again some time in the winter. To him, it was fun to do it in different places, different seasons and to different kind of people. He had even killed a couple of men but it didn’t feel exactly the same. He preferred women although the urge might come he would like to overcome someone as strong as him and that could prove to be interesting.

 His strength and with were his weapons, his most important ones. It didn’t matter what he used to actually killed somehow. Murder weapons could be anything in the world. But his head, his brain, was a machine that planned everything to perfection and that was the real weapon to be protected against. And no one knew it existed.

 He always read in the papers, the rare times his crimes made it there, that killers always had issues with their parents and had problems during sexual intercourse. The truth was he had always had the best relationship with his parents. He had always loved them and they had loved them back. He had the best education and a happy childhood filled with almost everything a child would love to have, including the unconditional love only two really good parents could give.

 As for the sex thing, he never had intercourse with his victims. That could prove too obvious to link all crimes, more over if he had an accident and left his DNA inside the women. No, he wasn’t that stupid so when he needed to have sexual interaction with someone, he would call a friend or hire a call girl. And he treated them right, always. He wasn’t too rough or violent; he was just like any other man. Except he was a murderer.

 Sometimes, he loved to imagine them discovering who he was. He was thrilled by that, the moment someone would notice something like a blood stained shirt or something similar, not that he would be that careless. But he always had fun picturing those ridiculous scenes, created out of movie scenes that always portrayed people’s ingenuity to perfection. But no one ever asked him anything; no woman ever said a word to him before or after sex. Nothing.

 That winter, he killed at least five women. One of them was killed in the middle of a road, so she was found several months later, when the snow began to disappear. Of course, every town and family was destroyed but he was never there to see or hear anything about it. He tried to avoid that because he was simply not interested in the result of what he did. Maybe that was the only thing that made him a little obvious, at least in his personal concept.

 He would love to get away as soon as possible and analyze his urges in order to know if he wanted to do it again or if he went back to his place, to his normal life with a job and a pet and friends. That man was a monster, no doubt. But he was also a neighbor, a coworker, the man you see walking down the street with a cup of coffee, rushing to the subway or smiling at something funny.

 Killers are people, people that have been deformed by what’s inside of them which can have several forms and shapes and interpretations. And this particular beast was one no one ever saw because they didn’t want to. They had refused to believe someone like them could be capable of what he was capable. And he like that.

Lady of the night

Brutal, bloody, senseless. Few words to describe the kind of horrors we have been living in Paris the past few days.

It all started with a corpse, floating on the Seine. They had tried to fill his guts with stones but the cut opened and the dead man floated back up.

As a member of the police, I'm responsable for the people of this town. It's not an easy task: these streets are filled with every single element of society: whores and thieves, society ladies and dandies, politicians and bakers. Every one walks these streets.

This first year of the new century has been disastrous for the force. I sometimes think 1900 is going to be the year that tears us apart, when this country will finally fall to the hands of brigands and opium smokers.

The city is less dangerous than in the past, that may be true, but what about this murders? Five men have been found floating on the Seine, in different parts of the city, always with a mark carved behind their necks: a spiral.

No one knew what that meant but, as policemen, we knew dead men would continue to come up. They all had some stones inside and we dismissed the idea the killer wanted them to sink. It was something else.

I visited Doctor Marteau, an old men that had studied in London and knew all about the procedures and tests to be done to a corpse, in order to find more about the death. Well, he did his job just fine. He found out every single one of these men had been sodomized with an object. The doctor was sure of it.

On the job, I had been to every part of town and knew about every aberration that lived in the city. Men sodomizing each other? No news to me. So there was more to it than just raping men and killing them. Someone was throwing them to the water, making them visible for us to get them. And that person, or persons, were branding these men like cattle.

After days of stalling, I went to have a glass of wine, a few glasses actually, to an old place I loved in the artists district, not far from the Moulin Rouge and the Sacré Coeur. All the girls knew me well and also knew I would be good to them if they didn't get into trouble. They greeted me on the street and I slightly bowed: they were women all the same.

I finally got to my joint and drank and drank and enjoyed myself for the first time in months. I liked talking to Michel, the bartender. A bald men that had seen enough of Paris and now only worked and lived in the same neighborhood, never traveling anywhere nor wandering around. But, as I did, he knew people.

He told me he had heard about the dead men and even about the state of the bodies, something we hadn't released to the press. I was rather surprised. He said a guy from the morgue came in the place a few times a week to brag about the horrible things he saw, drank a few ones and then left with a different chick every time.

I left the place, a bit dizzy but sure enough I could get home all right. It wasn't very far and I hated trains or cars. Nothing like the good air of Paris in the spring. Even late at night, it comforts you.

I walked down a steep road and among various buildings. I stopped to pee on a garden or something and moved on. Wine out of the system, I felt less drunk and very hungry. I had walked a lot and suddenly found myself near Madeleine. I knew a place around there so I could have something to eat.

But I never got to that. A man was screaming his lungs out, mad to the core or scared. I approached the screams, as I tried to dissipate any dizziness of my mind. Apparently, I was on duty.

The man was on the ground, leaning on a building. His eyes looked troubled, big and red. His leg was cut deep and bled profusely on the ground. The sight was enough to make me sick. And having had nothing to eat, it was worse.

I calmed down the man, telling him to stop shouting and to talk to me. I took out my ID and presented myself as a policemen. He ceased with the screaming but still trembled uncontrollably, as if he had seen a monster.

I looked all over my coat and finally pulled out my whistle. I carried it for emergencies and this was one for sure. I used it many times and minutes later two fellow officers helped me get the sick man to an ambulance.

The next day, I tried to visit him but couldn't. He had been put on strong medication, in order to cure his leg and to help him deal with the pain. It wasn't the appropriate time to question him.

I came back after two days. I wasn't feeling very good: another body had been found on the night I found my screaming lunatic. I visited him because I needed to know he was fine, at the moment, I never imagined he would be a pivotal part of everything.

A nurse pulled a chair close for me and I sat beside his bed. To be honest, this young man was handsome, which led me to believe he came of a good family. His clothes were expensive, for what the talkative nurse told me, and he had money on himself so he wasn't mugged.

He turned to me and greeted me kindly, as if I was a old friend. He told me he remembered me from that night and thanked me for my help. I told him that, as a policemen, that was my duty. I proceeded to ask what had happened and then his kind smile disappeared. And he began telling me.

He had escaped his parents house. He was the son of a duchess and a politician that lived in Lyon. He had come with a friend to Paris and started enjoying the night of the city. He went to parties with artists and whores and enjoyed both flesh and drinking. He smoked opium and had sexual relations with everyone he met.

Then, he said, he met a woman when coming out of one of many parties. She was beautiful and willingly went with her to her home. But there was nothing there, no furniture, no clothes, nothing. Only empty space. She said she liked to bring boys there and then proceed to tie him to a post. Then pulled out a knife and cut herself and him, on the leg.

She started talking about the pleasure of carving human flesh, of feeling the guilt of men when she did so and how weak they all were and women had to deal with their stupid attitudes and ideas. She laughed at moments and said it was precious to see them cry in front of her, as he was doing.

Then, according to the young men, she got near but he managed to kick her and release himself. As he was, he fled the building, almost getting caught by the woman. She didn't follow him but he ran fast and far and finally caved to his leg.

I stood there, hearing his words. While he was talking about being forced to drink and smoke by her, I was thinking I was closer to my murderer than ever before. A lady of the night, nonetheless.

Mount Athos

My name is John Tiberius Johnson. I was born in Exeter (England) and from a young age, I've loved to explore: I had a tree house built by my own hands, I had small canoe in which I explore calm rivers and their banks and I always had the company of Akakios, my labrador.

Thanks to my parents and my persistence, I went on to study anthropology and archaeology. I love ancient civilizations as well as contemporary ones, just watching how people have had different solutions for the same problem and even the same solutions, being separated by thousands of kilometers.

Working for the British Museum, a dream of mine that was fulfilled by a "enlightened" thesis on the customs of the North American peoples, I got to travel a lot, all around the globe.
I saw the Great Wall of China, the pyramids in Egypt, the massive forests of Indonesia, the majestic Machu Picchu and so many more.

But this time I want to tell you about a small part of the world. Many, won't even know it exists. It is called Mount Athos.

Resting on one of the "fingers" of the Chakidiki peninsula, Mount Athos is a strange place. First of all, it's an autonomous region from the rest of Greece. They have a different way of doing things there.

Second, the place is filled with monasteries, all around the peninsula. Beautiful forests unite the sites.

Third, one must get a special permit to enter Mount Athos. It is called a diamonētērion. And, most curious, only men are allowed there.

Preparing for my journey, I travelled to Thessaloniki and applied for my permit, which would allow me to stay and the Megisti Lavra monastery for as a week.

I decided to walk all around the city, waiting for the permit. On one of those outings, around an open market, a strange gypsy woman almost threw herself and me and asked to read my hand. I refused but she insisted and I was bored so I complied. After paying her 5 euros, she grabbed my hand and told me I should avoid facing God soon, as death was near.

A bit annoyed, I went on with my walking. Coincidence or not, a old man looked at me with crazy eyes and spoke fast and loud in greek. Being rusty in the language I could only understand two words: "avoid" and "danger".

Looking to forget all about these weird encounters I went to my hotel and had a nice calm dinner.

After a week of my request, they called me to say the permit had been approved. So I went to pick up the strange sheet. There, I was told to travel to Ierissos, where I would board a ferry to Mount Athos.

I have to say the boat ride was even better than I imagined: the view was not to be missed. Mount Athos, the actual mountain, looked massive but calm and peaceful from the boat. I was traveling with two others: Alex, a photographer for National Geographic and Cedric, a french travel journalist.

When we got to the dock, a small wooden structure on a rocky beach, we were received by a lonely young monk who told us to follow him. It was short walk to Megisti Lavra, as the place rests just above a cliff overlooking the Aegean Sea.

We were shown our bedrooms and the bathroom we would share and told us we could only remain on the monastery or inside its boundaries. Alex then intervened, saying he had been authorized to go hiking, in order to take pictures from the mount. The young monk asked him for his permit, read it for himself in whole and then gave it back. He bowed and then left them in their rooms.

Day one, I went to the main temple and asked to see the manuscripts. They were held in a small library, feeling a bit uneasy as a monk was asked to guard my stay in the room.
I was baffled by the writings, and then by codices. They were a treasure I had wanted to see for long. I took notes for work as well as some photographies, although my guard didn't seem to like that.

Then, a scream. A truly awful, heartbreaking scream. I carefully put away the codex that I was making notes about and went out the main courtyard with my guard. He then indicated me to go to the monasteries main entrance. The place was beautiful, adorned with olive trees and small hedges.

Then, we saw: Alex was running towards the gate. The monks let him in and he fainted in front of me.
Hours later he woke up and told us he had seeing a body laying in the road to the mountain. A group of monks left to check it out. When they left he told me that the man he saw did not have a face, crushed by rocks or something. He was trembling so I accompanied him until Cedric came back from the a stroll down the shore.

Then the leader of the congregation came and asked us to remain in our chambers for the day as something had occurred. Then Alex asked for the body and the man told us that it appeared to be an assassination. They had even found a big rock tainted with blood.

During the next few days, I had to accompany Alex, with two monk guards, to take his pictures. We ascended part of Mount Athos and, although astonished by the beauty of the place, my mind was still wondering about the killing.

So it was a surprise when we came back to the monastery and they told us we were going to stay under lock and something had, once again, occurred. 

They had arranged a large room with three beds for all of us and the leader of the monks came again. It had happened they had found another body, this time on the water, just floating by the monastery. They had voted to enclose us for our safety and because we were considered suspects.

 - We were on the Mount!
 - Mr. Cedric wasn't...
 - I was walking with one of your guards!

But then the monk pulled out something from his pocket. Kept in a white cloth, he showed us an object and I recognized the knife immediately: it had been a gift by the director of a museum I had been to in China. A dagger made in times of the Tang dinasty. The only difference was that this dagger was tainted in blood.

And blood was the thing that drained out from my face, as I realized I was trapped here, no way to get out.