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For 2 years I have been stalked by the serial killer that mutilated me
For 2 years I have been stalked by the serial killer that mutilated me and I don't know if I can take this anymore.
Back when I still worked as a PI and was hired by a family to find their missing daughter, all the clues led me to find a reclusive male in his forties that seemed just a bit too cautious and paranoid. Anytime he would leave his home, he would always be looking around in a suspicious manner to make extra sure he wasn't being watched, though he didn't know I had been from the front seat of my car parked several houses down the street, or so I thought.
I watched him for weeks, growing more and more sure in my mind that he was the man I was looking for but having no actual evidence to provide the police with something to obtain a warrant, just my gut feeling and instincts screaming at me that he was the man.
During one stake out, as he left his home for the day, I snuck onto his property and attempted to peek inside the house to find any signs or clues that the girl may be inside, looking into the windows and checking for an unlocked door.
After discovering nothing and worried that he may return at any moment, I decided to pick the lock to the side yard door leading into his house, and upon stepping cautiously inside, I immediately stepped on a trip wire and was met with noxious gas being sprayed into my face, and within seconds I dropped to the floor unconscious.
When I awoke, I was sitting in the driver's seat of my old beat up sedan parked in an abandoned parking lot in the middle of nowhere late at night, rain drizzling upon the black pavement all around me. Instinctively reaching up to my head that ached worst then ever before in my life in a dazed confusion I realized that my pinky finger and ring finger on my left hand had been cut off, leaving behind just small stumps that had been sewn up to prevent me from bleeding out while unconscious.
Then, in a daze, I reflexively checked my genitals, my broken mind immediately beginning to worry that I had been castrated, thankful to find that at least had not been done to me.
I spat and gagged, feeling that I needed to vomit, spitting out what I thought had been my swollen tongue within my mouth out onto my lap.
Reaching down with my remaining fingers, picking up the offending item, and gazing upon it with my swollen right eye, I realized it was my removed left eye that had been placed inside my mouth and that my tongue had also been severed and sewn up.
Then I did vomit, dropping my eye as I began to cry and panic.
Suddenly, a phone began ringing within my car and I turned to find a burner flip phone laying in the passenger seat beside me.
I hesitantly picked it up, flipping open the phone as I continued to gag, cry, and hyperventilate, tentatively placing it up to my ear.
"You should have ate the little treat I left for you in your mouth," The voice said calmly on the other side of the line.
I immediately snapped my head around, looking for the man that was clearly watching me from somewhere hidden in the dark but finding him nowhere. I was all alone in the abandoned parking lot with only a single street lamp above to light up my car.
I dared not exit the car, sure that a rifle scope was trained upon me at this very moment.
"This whole time you've been watching me, not knowing that I've been watching you," The man continued.
I screamed wordlessly into the phone, no longer able to even speak now that my tongue had been removed.
"You self righteous fool, daring to hunt me, thinking yourself to be better than I. You and I are the same, and deep down you know it, and I'm going to prove it to you. Our game has just begun," Then the phone call was hung up.
I immediately went to dial 911, but found that the phone's service had been cut off.
Then, in a rage, I did exit the car, screaming in a furious gargle as I looked in every which direction for my mutilator and still finding no sight of him. The rain began picking up, running down the caked up and dried blood covering my short blonde hair and beard, running blood now mixing in with my tears and entering the several deep gashes across my face where I had been permanently scarred and disfigured.
I had never felt so alone and in need of help in my life.
I had no choice but to get in the car and use the key left for me in the ignition to drive away, desperately searching for help as I continuously slipped in and out of consciousness.
Although I don't remember anything after that until waking up in the hospital a few days later, I had apparently passed out and my car slowly rolled into the side of a roadside diner, and upon coming out to check on me, a waitress had called the police.
After becoming more lucid due to the medical intervention, I had no option but to write down everything I knew onto a notepad to communicate with the police as I could no longer speak.
I was in the hospital for a few weeks while I recovered from all my wounds the best that I could and then upon being discharged, refused to go back to my apartment, knowing the probable traps that awaited me there and instead staying in a motel until I found a new apartment to rent and move into.
The police raided the serial killer's home, finding various traps and parts of dead and missing little girls but he was no where to be found, and no further clues were discovered on his possible current whereabouts.
After about a week of living in my new apartment, I received my first package.
Inside was a picture of a tied up and crying little girl, a piece of paper with coordinates written out upon it, and a copy of an old military action report, detailing when I had no choice but to shoot a 14 year old boy during my military service in Afghanistan after he had just shot my buddy in the face and was about to shoot me as well.
I immediately text 911 as I could not speak, grabbed my firearm, and began heading to the coordinates.
Upon arriving, the police were already swarming the abandoned compound there, finding a dead little girl but no killer.
Weeks of paranoia and trauma induced hallucinations passed as my tortured mind refused to heal from what had happened before I received my next package.
This new package included a picture of a two tied up crying girls, coordinates, and now a copy of a report from the Kansas city police department I used to work for before leaving to become a PI that detailed a lawful firearm use where I had no choice but to shoot and kill a man high on meth that was attempting to stab his wife to death with a knife.
Again upon arriving at the scene, both I and the police were too late, the girls were dead, and the killer was nowhere to be found.
Months then passed of sleepless nights gulping down straight bourbon, constantly peeking out windows, and placing the barrel of my firearm to the side of my head, attempting to build up the courage to commit suicide before I received the next package.
This time, the package contained a picture of three tied up girls, coordinates, and a police report detailing the events of when I had no choice but to discharge my firearm upon a convicted pedophile while working a case who had abducted a poor little girl to save her life and killing him and how no charges were being filed against me for the lawful use of my firearm. Also written under the note with the coordinates this time were the words 'Three kills makes a serial killer'.
I have moved several times over the course of the last year and a half but always every few months he manages to find me and sends me a new package, though now I never go to the coordinates, instead just reporting them to the police like always and giving them my statement when they show up to collect the evidence that was sent to me.
I am very much descending into madness and have no idea what to do or how to move forward with my life. What remains of my tongue can't even taste the bourbon I force down anymore, I must arch my head in an uncomfortable manner to see the screen properly with my one remaining eye, my two stumped fingers ache and move as ghosts while I type this, and when I shut off the laptop after use, my own reflection that stares back at me from the dark screen of my disfigured and scarred face haunts me. I feel like he's won, will never face justice, and like my life is over. I don't know how much longer I can take this...
#entertainment
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For 2 years I have been stalked by the serial killer that mutilated me and I don't know if I can take this anymore.
Back when I still worked as a PI and was hired by a family to find their missing daughter, all the clues led me to find a reclusive male in his forties that seemed just a bit too cautious and paranoid. Anytime he would leave his home, he would always be looking around in a suspicious manner to make extra sure he wasn't being watched, though he didn't know I had been from the front seat of my car parked several houses down the street, or so I thought.
I watched him for weeks, growing more and more sure in my mind that he was the man I was looking for but having no actual evidence to provide the police with something to obtain a warrant, just my gut feeling and instincts screaming at me that he was the man.
During one stake out, as he left his home for the day, I snuck onto his property and attempted to peek inside the house to find any signs or clues that the girl may be inside, looking into the windows and checking for an unlocked door.
After discovering nothing and worried that he may return at any moment, I decided to pick the lock to the side yard door leading into his house, and upon stepping cautiously inside, I immediately stepped on a trip wire and was met with noxious gas being sprayed into my face, and within seconds I dropped to the floor unconscious.
When I awoke, I was sitting in the driver's seat of my old beat up sedan parked in an abandoned parking lot in the middle of nowhere late at night, rain drizzling upon the black pavement all around me. Instinctively reaching up to my head that ached worst then ever before in my life in a dazed confusion I realized that my pinky finger and ring finger on my left hand had been cut off, leaving behind just small stumps that had been sewn up to prevent me from bleeding out while unconscious.
Then, in a daze, I reflexively checked my genitals, my broken mind immediately beginning to worry that I had been castrated, thankful to find that at least had not been done to me.
I spat and gagged, feeling that I needed to vomit, spitting out what I thought had been my swollen tongue within my mouth out onto my lap.
Reaching down with my remaining fingers, picking up the offending item, and gazing upon it with my swollen right eye, I realized it was my removed left eye that had been placed inside my mouth and that my tongue had also been severed and sewn up.
Then I did vomit, dropping my eye as I began to cry and panic.
Suddenly, a phone began ringing within my car and I turned to find a burner flip phone laying in the passenger seat beside me.
I hesitantly picked it up, flipping open the phone as I continued to gag, cry, and hyperventilate, tentatively placing it up to my ear.
"You should have ate the little treat I left for you in your mouth," The voice said calmly on the other side of the line.
I immediately snapped my head around, looking for the man that was clearly watching me from somewhere hidden in the dark but finding him nowhere. I was all alone in the abandoned parking lot with only a single street lamp above to light up my car.
I dared not exit the car, sure that a rifle scope was trained upon me at this very moment.
"This whole time you've been watching me, not knowing that I've been watching you," The man continued.
I screamed wordlessly into the phone, no longer able to even speak now that my tongue had been removed.
"You self righteous fool, daring to hunt me, thinking yourself to be better than I. You and I are the same, and deep down you know it, and I'm going to prove it to you. Our game has just begun," Then the phone call was hung up.
I immediately went to dial 911, but found that the phone's service had been cut off.
Then, in a rage, I did exit the car, screaming in a furious gargle as I looked in every which direction for my mutilator and still finding no sight of him. The rain began picking up, running down the caked up and dried blood covering my short blonde hair and beard, running blood now mixing in with my tears and entering the several deep gashes across my face where I had been permanently scarred and disfigured.
I had never felt so alone and in need of help in my life.
I had no choice but to get in the car and use the key left for me in the ignition to drive away, desperately searching for help as I continuously slipped in and out of consciousness.
Although I don't remember anything after that until waking up in the hospital a few days later, I had apparently passed out and my car slowly rolled into the side of a roadside diner, and upon coming out to check on me, a waitress had called the police.
After becoming more lucid due to the medical intervention, I had no option but to write down everything I knew onto a notepad to communicate with the police as I could no longer speak.
I was in the hospital for a few weeks while I recovered from all my wounds the best that I could and then upon being discharged, refused to go back to my apartment, knowing the probable traps that awaited me there and instead staying in a motel until I found a new apartment to rent and move into.
The police raided the serial killer's home, finding various traps and parts of dead and missing little girls but he was no where to be found, and no further clues were discovered on his possible current whereabouts.
After about a week of living in my new apartment, I received my first package.
Inside was a picture of a tied up and crying little girl, a piece of paper with coordinates written out upon it, and a copy of an old military action report, detailing when I had no choice but to shoot a 14 year old boy during my military service in Afghanistan after he had just shot my buddy in the face and was about to shoot me as well.
I immediately text 911 as I could not speak, grabbed my firearm, and began heading to the coordinates.
Upon arriving, the police were already swarming the abandoned compound there, finding a dead little girl but no killer.
Weeks of paranoia and trauma induced hallucinations passed as my tortured mind refused to heal from what had happened before I received my next package.
This new package included a picture of a two tied up crying girls, coordinates, and now a copy of a report from the Kansas city police department I used to work for before leaving to become a PI that detailed a lawful firearm use where I had no choice but to shoot and kill a man high on meth that was attempting to stab his wife to death with a knife.
Again upon arriving at the scene, both I and the police were too late, the girls were dead, and the killer was nowhere to be found.
Months then passed of sleepless nights gulping down straight bourbon, constantly peeking out windows, and placing the barrel of my firearm to the side of my head, attempting to build up the courage to commit suicide before I received the next package.
This time, the package contained a picture of three tied up girls, coordinates, and a police report detailing the events of when I had no choice but to discharge my firearm upon a convicted pedophile while working a case who had abducted a poor little girl to save her life and killing him and how no charges were being filed against me for the lawful use of my firearm. Also written under the note with the coordinates this time were the words 'Three kills makes a serial killer'.
I have moved several times over the course of the last year and a half but always every few months he manages to find me and sends me a new package, though now I never go to the coordinates, instead just reporting them to the police like always and giving them my statement when they show up to collect the evidence that was sent to me.
I am very much descending into madness and have no idea what to do or how to move forward with my life. What remains of my tongue can't even taste the bourbon I force down anymore, I must arch my head in an uncomfortable manner to see the screen properly with my one remaining eye, my two stumped fingers ache and move as ghosts while I type this, and when I shut off the laptop after use, my own reflection that stares back at me from the dark screen of my disfigured and scarred face haunts me. I feel like he's won, will never face justice, and like my life is over. I don't know how much longer I can take this...
#entertainment
source
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