Until our paths cross again ......

Hidden under the bush, Dexter silently watches in rage at what unfolds before him. He angrily hisses in utter disgust, his fur standing on end as he watches his chosen master betray him and the Devil for these snivelling, pathetic bitches.

"What a weak woman you are Evelyn," he silently curses, "to turn your back on immortality and power."

He quietly slinks unseen out of the garden to retreat to the dark alley for shelter, the place he has spent many nights watching over this house and its occupants. Hidden safety away in the darkness amongst the trash and decay.

Disheartened but not prepared to give up, he would watch and wait until further instructions. He would wait patiently until the dark lord rose again, to seek his revenge on those retched whores.

This isn't done, this is not over.

When he does come back, the Devil will see Dexter's unwavering loyalty and he will be repaid by getting his pound of flesh from Phoenix, she will rue the day she crossed him and ended his life.

Dexter knew in his blacken, shrunken dark heart that Evelyn was not the only one to work for the Devil - she was but only one of many put on this earth to do his biddings. He trusted that a new master would soon be sent his way for him to follow. He knew the Devil always had something up his sleeve.

Until then he will patiently wait and watch amongst the shadows, hidden away with all the other monsters and beasts of the night.

                      The end......for now

...............................................

1995 - The Devils delinquent Delilah, her early days of  training and Dexters future master.........

A whoosh of euphoria crashes through my veins, for the first time in months, I can breathe.

My thoughts are clear and the mist that usually clouds my mind is gone- there is nothing but beautiful clarity.

The beautiful silence surrounds me like a gentle hug as I watch a tear of blood trickle down his face, from the perfectly sharpened pencil I'd just jammed into his once piercing blue eye, which is now bright crimson as the blood fills up in the eye socket, I think to myself how that pencil has probably penetrated his brain and relish how excruciating that must have been.

His large droopy mouth is hung low, where he attempted to scream before he slipped into the darkness of death. His head unceremoniously tilted backwards. I hold in a naughty little chuckle to myself as I consider how much he looks like a Muppet, that's about to burst into song.

I know the cleaners have already done their rounds, the school is empty as he knew it would be, after all, that is why he invited me back; so no one would witness his deplorable behaviour to a minor.

I'm not the first girl to be cornered by this rank coffee breathed, balding, pot-bellied sad pathetic excuse for a human but I will certainly be the last.

They do say bad habits will be the death of you and this is very true in his case- murdered by a 15yr old girl, he shouldn't have been addicted to abusing minors.

As long as I can remember there had always been whispers in the girl's toilets about the fear of detention with him, these hushed discussions were commonplace, some girls had turned to adults to express their concerns or purge what he'd did to them but it always fell on deaf ears.

It is Friday so here he will stay all weekend until he's discovered early Monday morning; slumped dead in his chair, trousers around his ankles with his lifeless shrivelled (very underwhelming) penis, on display for all to see.

He will be trapped in this classroom, just as we were with him every single day.

In the movies you see panic and chaos consume the person after such a thing has taken place but that's not the case. Why would I react that way unless I had done something wrong and I hadn't, I'd simply removed one more pervert from society.

I'm by no means a vigilante, as my Grandmother says "Do in life what you are good at and you will never fail" and I'm very good at this.

I tiptoe around the desk and whisper into his ear "Does this mean Monday geography test is cancelled?" before I roughly grab the pencil lodged in his eye socket, give it a hard twist then yank it from his skull, blood splattering all over his desk and into his stained coffee mug but always mindful and careful not to get a drop on myself.

I pop my pencil back into the side pocket of my rucksack into a sandwich bag. I wouldn't want to leave any evidence and I'm particularly fond of my pencil; it's part of a set my Grandmother brought me.

I have no worries about fingerprints, hundreds of children have been in and out of this classroom, the cleaners are known to be lacklustre on the best of days and should my fingerprints come up, I can explain it away by the fact that I had my last lesson with him.

I take one last glance at my handy work and soak in a job well done then I leave.

Goodbye Mr Sanderson, I'll never forget you - after all, you was my first.

As I wander through the empty ghost-like school corridors I ponder to myself; Do you know which serial killers are the best? The ones that you've never heard of because they are smart enough never to get caught.

They are the ones that hide in plain sight. The ones that have learnt to blend in.

The public is only subjected to idiots that are nothing more than attention-seeking whores.They want to be caught and they are.

This works fine for me, while the light is shined on these morons and they are grabbing headlines, no one will think to look beneath the surface and see me.

I'd left the window in the girls bathroom open, so I can make my escape, once out the window I'm in the courtyard then I slink through the hole in the fence (frequented by every truant trying to get off school grounds quicksmart or underage smoker for a sly cigarette break). The hole leads you straight into a neighbouring wooded area, not quite dense enough to be classed as woods but still excellent cover for when you need to go unseen. Every time I walk through here I always marvel at these mighty strong trees, that surround the school grounds like silent protectors, keeping all evils out... But today they failed.

Smugness overwhelms me, it really was to easy I think to myself as I mentally pat myself on the back until I hear her softly spoken voice that brakes my chain of thoughts.

"Did you do it?".

I wipe the arogance away from my face, she wouldn't approve of such a thing and I slowly nod acknowledging her words.

She leans down low, right in, so her face is all I can see, then whispers "You know the rules, did you follow them".

"Yes, grandmother".

"He was a monster" her justification for my actions is more for her conscience than mine, she needs to believe what I did was for the greater good, so I let her.

She wipes a stray hair away from my face "Lets hope that keeps your urges away for awhile, no more wolfs at the door". I see the flicker of blind naive hope in her eyes, that today would be enough to settle me but what she doesn't realise is, the wolf at the door was always me.

My grandmother has and will always blame my broken brain (her words not mine) on my father. Her unique way of processing things never ceases to amaze me.

She is very adamant I'm not evil (apparently I have to much of my mother in me to be evil) I'm simply wired differently like him. But where he had an evil rot that had tainted his soul, I was in her eyes, just simply a casualty (one of many) from the "Monster" that was my father.

Not an easy thing for a mother to admit about her own son that she lovingly carried and nurtured in her womb but over the years she had seen the pain he'd inflicted on so many, she had suffered repeatedly because of his choices, cleaned up his messes and eventually burdened with raising his orphaned child. Not that she ever treated me like a burden but I knew the toll it had taken on her.

Even simply mentioning his name resulted in my grandmother spitting and cursing quietly under her breath as if she was trying to keep his demented ghost at bay.

For me, I carry no such hatred for him but nor do I carry a heartful of love for my mother either because I can't remember either of them. They are like fairy tales my grandmother would tell me at bedtime; my mother the beautiful princess who needed saving from my father - the brutish beast that had captured her and kept her hidden from the light of the world.

They are strangers to me and I cannot relate to either, but for the sake of my grandmother's grieving heart, I'd quietly listen because it brought her comfort. I know my mother meant so much to her, I think for a while she hoped she would be the one to show him the errors of his ways, maybe save his soul - instead, she ended up tethered to a man that dragged her down to his depths of despair, where he ultimately destroyed them both.

The darkness that was born deep within my soul was simply part of me, unlike others that fear that part of them self - I embraced it, I welcomed it with open arms.

I have no firm memories of my biological parents, just flashes of images that are ingrained in my brain like a blurry photograph but as far as my memory goes back ... "HE" was always there. At first he silently watched me, observing my true nature grow, I felt his dark presence like a chill in the air. Within time his voice called to me in the dead of night, Luring me out of my slumber so I could listen to words he wished to impart with me.

In the darkness night after night, he hid in the shadows never revealing his true form, he would talk to me until the first crack of silent light.

"He" told me he knew what I was, he could see into my mind and soul and I was the same as him. We was not put here on this earth to obey mindless orders, blindly following like sheep like the everyone else - we was here to lead, to be followed.

We are different. We are strong and we bow to know one. They bow to us or we make them.

Over the years I'd head every different version through idle gossip or from my grandmother of what happened to my parents that fateful night they lost their lives.

My father had attacked my mother in a blind rage as he had done many times before, he waited until she'd fallen sleep from nursing me and while I laid in her arms on her chest he beat her to death with hammer, 13 times they say he struck her until she bleed out there in their bed they shared then he took the same hammer and repeatedly bashed his own skull in whilst standing over his dying wife's corpse.

But the one thing the police couldn't understand after this brutal massacre and my fathers frenzied attack, how I survived without a single scratch on me.

When my grandmother came over the next day and walked into the bloodbath created by her only son - she swears I was still nestled into her chest, asleep in my dead's mothers arms, covered in her dried splattered blood from head to toe, but not a scratch on me.

She tells herself that he (her only so) killed himself because he couldn't live with what he'd done to my mother.

She tells herself that he (her only son) was a monster who was riddled with demons but he still loved me, that why my tiny little soft baby skull wasn't smashed to pulp and I was spared - he just couldn't do that.

But I know better.....

I know it was "HE" who stopped him from ending my life before it had begun, it's was him who took that bloodied hammer and brought my pathetic father to his knees as he rained blows down on to him, until his brains flowed out on the carpet and his dying body twitched with his last breaths.

I know this because he told me.

He didn't save me because of any silly sentimental emotion but simply because he saw potential in this tiny soul that others didn't. He saw my true nature before it had even revealed itself.

I knew I owed him a debt of saving my life that in the future he would come to collect but I'd gladly repay.

So from the shadows in the middle of the night he taught me how to embrace who I was always destined to be. Goading me forward with unwavering belief. Edging me in the direction of unbridled chaos, mayhem and ultimate power.

But there was rules, I would need to live by.

Rule 1- Leave no evidence, this seems obvious but too often forgotten. Think always before you act, every action planned, consider any possible DNA evidence you could leave behind and clean up after yourself.

Rule 2- Never kill in the same way twice or have a type of victim, patterns can be followed and linked. Be creative with every kill after all you will only get this kill once.

Rule 3-Never kill in temper, emotions can lead to errors. Always have complete control over every situation; for example, killers who murder for sexual gratification always get caught, they leave to much evidence and are often to swept away by sexual needs - they are embarrassingly pathetic.

Rule 4- Never keep trophies as tempting as they may be; its evidence. Evidence will get you CAUGHT.

Rule 5- Do research know your victims, their patterns, habits and lifestyle. The simplest of errors will get you caught, know this person life as if it is your own.

Rule 6- Blend in, never stand out. In a crowd, you must always be invisible.

Rule 7- Never become attached or let anyone become attached to you, they will get in the way and bring unnecessary chaos into your life; always keep routine and order.

Rule 8 - Never Question him or forget I owed him a great debt.

This rules are ingrained into my brain night after night as he effortlessly moulds my mind. His words I thirsty drink up, build anticipation for when I will be ready and unleashed upon the world.

But my true nature did not go completely unnoticed by my silly old grandmother, she saw the growing darkness within me grow stronger each day and cursed her son for the sins he'd cast upon me.

At first she tried desperately to release me from the demons she believed was burdening my soul. But after she watched me bury our neighbours dog that barked repeatedly every night until I slit its throat or when she found the knives I'd hidden in my bed she had no choice but to reside herself to what I was.

But even in that desperate moment she hoped I'd use my ability for good, only eradicating evil people, so in some funny way doing Gods work, only killing the bad and the perverse - So I let her believe this is how it would be, I would have outlet for the urge that burned inside my gut whilst contributing to the world like a murderous superhero.

This gave her peace and aided me so the only adult I had in my life didn't turn against me, after all I needed her, whether I liked it or not.

This is how we lived until last night, when "He" voice washed in through the open window l, calling my name to wake me - then he said the words I'd been waiting to hear.

"Tomorrow will be the day Delilah, the day you kill Mr Sanderson - he will be your first".

I spring from my bed like a child on her Christmas Day, giddy with excitement.

"Tomorrow will be your first", His words hung in the air.
"Remember the rules, remember what you've learnt my little Delilah and most off all .... Saviour every last moment, this is the first step to your endless possibility".

I look into the shadows, where his whispery voice flows to me and I nod obediently.

He never told me his name because he never needed to but I knew in that moment I'd just made a deal with the devil.

To be continued in the sequel ..............