Crimson Shadows: The Tale of Gilles de Rais, Soldier and Serial Killer

I paused, my hands still marked by the remains of my heinous crimes. I was known to the world as Gilles de Rais, a nobleman of Breton ancestry and a courageous soldier who served with Joan of Arc. But I secretly possessed a dark passion that consumed me like a constant, insatiable hunger beneath the armor and the honors.

I indulged in my most sinister thoughts in the shadows of my opulent estate. The excitement of the chase and the heady aroma of fear that filled the air as I pursued my defenseless prey were the feelings that sparked something evil within of me. The innocence and fragility of children sparked my passion. Their shouts resounded in my head like a symphony of terror that only I could hear.

I enticed them with phony grins and sweet talk, taking them down the rabbit hole where my malice knew no bounds. Their faith in me was evident in their widening eyes as I deceived them. I savored the time when their hope changed to despair and their cries for compassion were met with indifference as I basked in the authority I wielded over them.

With each life I put out of its misery, the darkness within me intensified. Their mute screams fed the ugly impulses that seized my soul as I took pleasure in the macabre theater of their suffering. A pernicious cycle that spiraled out of control had me drowning in a sea of blood and remorseless joy as the more I used, the more I needed.

I created my chapel, a place polluted by my sins where I sought atonement through ceremonies as horrific as the crimes I did. The choir of boys served as a harsh irony, a mocking of the innocence I had stolen from countless others, their voices pure and unaffected by the tragedies of the world.

Rumors about the disappearances that defined my wake of horror swirled around me like vengeful spirits. However, I continued to hide behind the mask of grandeur, concealing the truth about who I really was. My delusion of invincibility and the conviction that I was above suspicion were fed by the terror in the eyes of those who had suspicions.

However, even monsters have a limited ability to escape fate. The day of reckoning arrived, leaving me with a sour taste of justice. The weight of my transgressions pressed down on me as I stood in front of my accusers, a crushing load that I was unable to escape. I confessed the truth, a confession extracted from the depths of my depravity, and I eagerly anticipated death's embrace.

I was ultimately nothing more than a monster dressed as a nobleman, a creature spawned from the lowest depths of humanity. The crimes I committed would eternally be a stain on the pages of history, one that no amount of regret could ever remove. Furthermore, as the flames kissed my flesh, I accepted the impending darkness as the rope around my neck tightened, knowing that my name would endure as a reminder of the horrifying lengths to which mankind was capable.

The flames flickered in front of my eyes, forming odd shadows on the walls of my cage. The chamber felt narrower and oppressive now, as if the stones themselves were closing in on me, condemning me for my awful deeds. The children's screams tormented mine every waking second, their accusatory glances carved into my head like a horrific mural of my sins.

The recollections of my acts tugged at my sanity while I awaited my fate. Innocent people's terrified expressions flashed before my eyes. Their happiness and hope were replaced by anguished calls for justice in my ears. I was a pain puppeteer, a misery maestro, conducting a symphony of misery that echoed through the very center of my existence.

Guilt gnawed at my soul like a festering wound. I attempted to grasp at the shards of humanity within me in order to comprehend how I had become this horrible freak. Was it the sense of power, the intoxicating high of having complete control over life and death? Or was I doomed from the start to succumb to the darkness that dwelled within?

I struggled with my demons in the stillness of my cell. The weight of my crimes pressed down on me, a vengeful court sentenced me to eternal damnation. I asked for atonement and pardon, but the sky remained silent, deaf to a tortured soul's cries.

The day of my execution loomed on the horizon, a foreboding phantom. The stench of sadness clung to me like a second skin, and the anticipation hung heavy in the air. I looked forward to the end, hoping that in death, I would discover the calm that had escaped me in life.

I reclined in my cold, stone bed the night before my execution, peering into the depths of my deeds. Sleep denied me, my mind occupied with images of the youngsters I had abducted, their faces distorted in agony. I wanted to reach out and ask their forgiveness, but their ghostly shapes were just out of reach.

A strange calm fell over me as morning broke. The executioner's footsteps echoed down the corridor, becoming louder with each passing second. The moment had arrived. My steps were heavy as I was carried to the gallows, my heart heavy with the weight of my sins.

The mob that had gathered to see my demise looked at me with a twisted interest and contempt. I looked them in the eyes, my eyes devoid of the lunacy that had engulfed me, replaced by a hollow emptiness. I deserved their scorn and loathing because I had robbed the world of innocence and tarnished the very fabric of humanity with my malice.

I closed my eyes as the noose tightened around my neck and the flames licked at my feet, ready to embrace the endless darkness. A peculiar sensation of tranquility washed over me in that final instant. Pain, remorse, and torture all melted away, replaced by a profound stillness.

In the end, I was only a footnote in history, a cautionary tale told to children to keep them safe from monsters like me. My actions, my existence, had become a twisted legend, a macabre tale of the depths to which a soul could go.

I welcomed the respite from my tormented existence as the flames enveloped me and the world blurred into oblivion. Perhaps it would be in death that I would find the atonement that had eluded me in life. Perhaps in the region beyond, I would be free of the shadows of my transgressions.

(Because record-keeping for child disappearances was not meticulous in the 15th century, pinpointing exact dates was difficult. Gilles de Rais is credited with the first child snatching in 1432, when a 12-year-old apprentice, son of Jean Jeudon, was stolen by Gilles de Sille, de Rais' cousin. The youngster, an apprentice to a furrier named Guillaume Hilairet, vanished while delivering a letter to Machecoul Castle. Gilles de Rais was not personally involved in the kidnapping, but during his trial, he was accused with the boy's death. According to Jean Benedetti's account, the abducted boy was pampered, given good clothes, and taken to a luxurious lunch. Later, he was presented with the dismal reality of his predicament, which apparently caused shock.)