Author's Note: I know this isn't my best work but I just felt in the mood to write. Please R&R.
It was a perfect night for a murder. Nothing could go wrong.
Doug Wilson had lived alone for most of his life; now he was in his early fifties and was not planning on changing his accommodation arrangements. He liked living alone. Nobody could bother him or dictate what he was allowed to do. He hadn't liked sharing his personal space with other people; that was why he had had to eradicate the only companion he'd ever had. Doug had been married when he was in his mid twenties but the hassle of having a wife had driven him mad. The little things always had seemed to cause the biggest rifts and arguments and in the end he'd just snapped.
He buried his wife's body in some nearby woods and hoped the incident would never return to haunt him.
However, after the first taste of slaughter, Doug wanted more. Over the past thirty years Doug had killed over one hundred women and girls; he kept a list. Like a chart, the list was set out in columns – date, place, name, age and the souvenir he stole from each victim. It was a very well hidden list.
Before his retirement Doug had been a respected business man and because of his profession nobody ever suspected him of being a sick, perverse murderer. The firm that he had worked for had moved him around the states a lot so his killings spanned over twenty five different places – not enough to attract too much unwanted attention from the police force. Nowadays, Doug liked to write. Ironically, mystery murder novels. He had a small study in his apartment and his desk had six drawers; in one of those drawers was an invisible, secret compartment.
That was where Doug's list was concealed and no one would ever be able to find it.
The victims that Doug chose ranged from seven to forty four years old and he would never kill more than four women in an area, otherwise it would look too suspicious. He would choose his victims in no particular way. He'd follow them, stalk them, for a few days then move in for the kidnap and kill.
He always stole a possession of his victims' after the murder, as a sort of relic or trophy. It didn't matter what the object was. From his youngest target, golden blond seven-year-old Sophie Galloway from Georgia, he had taken a small bead from the necklace she'd been wearing. It was about two centimeters long, oval shaped and blue with red stripes. It had matched the outfit she'd been wearing, on the day she died in August 1978, perfectly – denim shorts and a red t-shirt. Her blonde hair had been tied in pigtails and her knees were grubby. She'd been playing in the dirt at a deserted play park when Doug approached her. She unwittingly agreed to show her the way to the town's small convenience store and Doug had seized his chance, bundling her into the back of his van and driving away, tires screeching madly and Sophie's screams splitting only Doug's ears and no one else's.
Another one of Doug's kills was a nineteen year old girl named Evelyn Bronson. She was originally from Michigan but was living in New York; she was a freshman at New York University majoring in English Language and Creative Writing. She died in the winter of 1990, Doug's third and final victim of the year. He used to watch her in the coffee shops of Manhattan, drinking hot chocolate and writing poetry. The souvenir he got from Evelyn was a short poem she composed mere hours before her death. The poem now resides in Doug's scrapbook of twisted trophies, which also includes a silver coloured front door key from twenty-seven year old Hannah Kirk who was a dancer from Arizona and pack of cough drops which belonged to thirty-one year old mother-of-one Raquel Coombs who had lived in Seattle, Washington and who'd been sick with a cold when she was murdered in February 1993.
The most recent girl who'd been killed was Laura Holmes, slaughtered in Ohio the previous June, where Doug Wilson currently lived. She had been sixteen, in high school and from a well off family. Her disappearance had caused such a stir in the community that Doug had decided it was too risky to try anything else for a while, even though Laura's body hadn't been found.
The bodies were never found; Doug buried them in such remote locations that nobody would ever be able to come across them. Even by accident.
Doug sighed and suddenly rose from the chair where he'd been sitting in his living area. He strode to the study and skillfully opened the hidden compartment in the bottom drawer of his desk. He carefully removed the list and scrapbook from their hiding places and carried them back to the sitting room. He sat down, this time on the settee, and looked at the list. The period of dates spanned from March of 1975 to June 2004 – Laura's death – and the locations of the murders varied; altogether there were about 30 states listed, which were all the places Doug had lived.
He was getting restless and exhaled loudly to alleviate his frustration. He hadn't been able to kill any girls since Laura six months ago. She had caused too much suspicion and it was too chancy. But Doug needed to feel the thrill and power that murder brought. It had become an obsession. Some people got addicted to heroin or alcohol – for Doug, carnage was his drug.
He couldn't take it anymore. Doug grabbed his jacket and car keys and stepped outside his front door into the cool night air. It was just gone 11pm when Doug revved the engine of his SUV and set off to no particular place; he just needed to feel the familiar buzz. His mind was occupied with thoughts of finding the perfect victim; they had to be a disposable person, someone that no one would miss. Doug's mind was so busy thinking of that that he failed to notice the dazzling headlights of the vehicle coming straight at his car. The screech of colliding metal sounded and Doug died instantly in the crash.
When his body was identified police searched his apartment and found the list of Doug's unfortunate victims. The massacre was dubbed 'The Wilson Murders' and although all of Doug's mementos were found and recovered, the bodies of the hundred women and girls have never been discovered.
In heaven the girls had watched and waited, some for more than thirty years, and now finally they could rest knowing that although the Wilson Murders would never be completely solved, the sick, twisted killer had been discover and he had at last received his just desserts.