Series Finale

You'd think dying would hurt more.

I'm sitting here now, watching my blood pool beneath the microphone stand, and all I can think about is how we were only twelve minutes into episode forty-seven. The red recording light still blinks on my laptop screen. Still capturing everything.

Let me back up. Tell you how it really happened.

We'd been doing the podcast for two years. True crime stuff. Real cases, real victims, real monsters. My co-host had called in sick that morning, so I decided to record a solo episode about the Riverside Strangler. Figured I'd edit his voice in later, make it sound like we'd done it together. Nobody would know.

The studio was just my converted garage. Soundproofed walls, decent equipment, nothing fancy. I'd done hundreds of recordings in there. Safe space. My space.

I was reading from my notes about the killer's third victim when I heard the side door creak open. The one that led from the garage to the backyard. I'd been meaning to fix that lock for months.

"Hello?" I called out, not stopping the recording. Maybe it was my neighbor. Maybe the wind.

Footsteps. Deliberate. Slow.

My throat went dry, but I kept talking into the microphone. Some stupid instinct told me to keep going, like nothing was happening. Like if I just continued with the episode, everything would stay normal.

"The victim was found bound with electrical tape," I read, my voice steady even as my hands started shaking. "Cause of death was strangulation."

The footsteps stopped somewhere behind me. I could feel someone there. Breathing. Waiting.

I should have run. Should have screamed. Instead, I kept reading those damn notes because my brain couldn't process what was happening. This wasn't real. This was just another story I was telling.

"The killer left no fingerprints at the scene."

A hand touched my shoulder.

I spun around in my chair and saw him. Average height, average build. Wearing a maintenance uniform, the kind you see a hundred times a day and never remember. But his eyes. Christ, his eyes were completely flat. Like looking into empty windows.

"Keep going," he said. His voice was soft, almost polite. "Don't stop the recording."

My mouth opened and closed. No sound came out.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of electrical tape. The same kind I'd just been reading about. My stomach dropped through the floor.

"You do such good work," he continued, walking around to face me. "All those stories about people like me. But you always get the details wrong."

I finally found my voice. "What do you want?"

"I want you to get it right this time." He smiled, and it was worse than if he'd been snarling. "I want you to tell them what it's really like."

He grabbed my wrists before I could react. The tape made that horrible ripping sound as he pulled it from the roll. My chair had arms, metal ones, and he wrapped the tape around and around until my hands were locked in place.

"Please," I whispered. "Please don't do this."

"Keep talking into the microphone," he said, taping my ankles to the chair legs. "Tell them what's happening. Make it educational."

I stared at the red recording light. Still blinking. Still capturing everything.

"I..." My voice cracked. "Someone's in my studio. He's tying me up with tape."

"Good. What else?"

He walked behind me again. I couldn't see what he was doing, but I heard him moving things around. Metal scraping against metal.

"He's..." I swallowed hard. "He's behind me now. I can't see what he's doing."

"The victims always wonder about this part," he said conversationally. "They want to know what's coming next. The anticipation is almost worse than the actual event."

Almost.

My whole body was shaking now. I could barely hold my head up to speak into the microphone.

"He's talking about other victims," I managed. "He's done this before."

"Seven times," he corrected. "Well, eight now. The police only found six bodies. They're not very good at their jobs."

Something cold touched the back of my neck. Metal. Sharp.

"What is that?" I gasped.

"Box cutter. Nothing fancy. I like simple tools."

The blade traced along my hairline. Not cutting yet. Just letting me feel it.

"Tell them about the fear," he whispered in my ear. "Tell them what it really feels like."

"I'm terrified," I said into the microphone. "I can't move. I can't get away. He has a knife."

"Box cutter," he corrected.

"Box cutter. He has a box cutter."

"Better. What else?"

"I think I'm going to die."

"You are going to die. But not yet. First, you're going to help me with something."

He walked around to face me again. The box cutter gleamed in the overhead light.

"All those episodes you recorded. All those cases you covered. You never talked about the real truth."

"What truth?"

"That we're not monsters. We're just people who found something we're good at."

The blade caught my cheek. Just a scratch, but deep enough to bleed. I felt it run down my face, warm and sticky.

"We don't do this because we're broken or sick or angry. We do it because it feels right. Natural. Like breathing."

Another cut, this one across my forehead. Blood dripped into my eyes.

"Tell them," he said. "Tell them what I just told you."

"He says..." I could barely speak. "He says he's not a monster. That killing feels natural to him."

"Good. What else should they know?"

"I don't know. I don't know what you want me to say."

"Tell them about the moment. The exact moment when you realize it's over."

The blade pressed against my throat. Light pressure, but I could feel how sharp it was.

"This is it," I whispered into the microphone. "This is the moment he was talking about. I can feel the blade. I know I'm going to die."

"How does it feel?"

"Like falling. Like everything is happening to someone else."

"That's better than most of them manage."

The pressure increased. I felt the skin part. Felt blood start to flow.

"Any last words for your audience?"

I looked at that red recording light one more time. Still blinking. Still capturing everything.

"Find him," I said. "Listen to this recording and find him. His voice is right here. Don't let him do this to anyone else."

He laughed. "They won't catch me. They never do."

The blade moved across my throat in one smooth motion.

You know what's funny? I was right about the pain. It didn't hurt as much as I expected. Just a burning sensation, then warmth spreading down my chest. Then cold. Then nothing.