The Shadow Of Hands.

My brain is bursting with voices and words, and I can feel the blood- curdling in my fingers. My spine aches, and my feet feel like a million pins are being stabbed into them. Words appear on a wall in front of me,

"You must kill him, now."

I'm not ready yet, as there is much to be told.

A shadow of two hands covered in blood appears above my head. One is holding an axe. The hand slashes the other hand and the piercing sound of a murder fills the room.

Still, the words must flow, like the flow of red wine flowing from the hand. I open the door to my bedroom, allowing the shadow of hands to roam the other room where the peaceful stranger sleeps.

I imagine him being hacked to bits by the shadow of hands. the shadow reads my mind, and my head delights in the sick screams coming from that room. Nothing but body parts lay strewn across the floor.

I feel adrenaline. The excitement, the thrill, and the sweet smell of blood fill my nose.

I relish it.

I breathe in the sweet and salty smell of blood, and I indulge in the stench of decaying bones. It excites me and provokes me to write more.

'The shadow of hands moves through every room in the house, killing everyone living in it. I do not move; after all, I invented the shadow to be a murderer, and I must allow it to continue its mission or my story will remain blank."

I smile as I listen to the sharp, steel sound of the axe slashing at flesh and bone. Every sound fills my senses, and every scream of terror leaves me begging for more.

I take the story outdoors.

"The shadow of hands moves like lightning through the streets though remains invisible to the eye. I hear the millions of screams and screeches in the night. I do not see the horror on the victim's faces, but I can imagine their terror as they lay there, helpless and wide-eyed, with flesh, bone, and guts hanging from their bodies.

I feed on this, I need this, I want more!"

Make no mistake, dear reader as you read this. This is no ordinary writer who writes ordinary fiction. This is the fiction of a true-life slasher who invents spirits who slash people, turning them into lifeless souls, so that I can feed my imagination and create these stories.

I invented the shadow of hands to creep into your peaceful sleep, and dreams. I infused it with the evil of a dark spirit to fulfill my need.

My need to write my horror fiction is based on my real-life slasher experience.

An experience that goes way beyond your comprehension, though you'll read it; never knowing that the person who wrote this is a real-life serial killer.

Who knows?

You might dare to sleep with your window open tonight, and as you sleep peacefully, I might creep inside your room just to steal your body for my next piece of work.

"The shadow of hands is real, yet soulless. The hand is my hand, but they will never know. I invented it from the depths of evil from my own murdering hands. Every lifeless body bathed by the steel, yet dripping in the red blood from my pen, I will take to feed my delight. I will make my pens from the flesh and bone taken from the people my honorable shadow kills, and I will fill it with the red wine that drips from their veins."

"I will write my stories in their blood!"

Will this ever end?

Remember, as you read this story; it might only be fiction, but you could be the next victim who paints my words in red.