The Turin Shroud Secret

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There are many reasons why he kills. Why, right at this moment, he is about to kill again.

It is a need. A craving. An aching, gnawing compulsion. Like sex. When he’s not doing it, he’s thinking about it. Fantasising. Planning. Rehearsing. Killing to him is as necessary and inevitable as drawing breath. Only more pleasurable. Memorable.

This one is going to be easy. Perfect. The best yet. The unkilled always are. That’s what he calls them. Not the living. Not the next victim.

The unkilled.

A quiet neighbourhood. A woman living alone. One not even aware that while she busied herself in that pretty rear garden he slipped into her life and home.

He’s been lying in wait for hours, unnoticed like a dog in a favourite hiding place, his ears twitching as he follows her sounds around the darkening house, his furtive mind imagining her every movement.

There’s a thin clattering noise — she’s tidying up after her dinner for one.

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