AN: This story is based on the Jeff The Killer creepypasta stories, which can be found by searching Google.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...
Her mother read was talking to one of their neighbors, a family friend that seemed to be there more than at her own house. They were in a not-quite-an-argument about football. It was a rather uninteresting conversation, really, over which team they wanted to win and why their own choice was better. It was odd, the young girl thought to herself, that they chose that particular topic. Why? What motivated them? They could be talking about the latest movie, the new Professor Layton game, any number of things they both were interested in. Why, out of all the subjects they shared in common, did they pick that?
Two young children, brother and sister, played with some toys on the floor. They giggled and rolled around with the energy only little kids had. Their actions were a little less confusing. They don't put thought behind the things they do, they just act. They had no rhyme or reason, like, like an animal. Give it a treat and it's happy. Swat at it and it's sad. Predictable. Boring.
Not that many things excited her, for obvious reasons.
She heard the birds chirp outside, the TV her father was watching upstairs. He liked it loud. It was some sort of action movie, from what she could tell, full of explosions and such. Another thing that tugged at her mind, if she let it. Why did they chose to have a happy ending to a story? A sad ending? What were they thinking? What were they...feeling?
A soft exhale of breath escaped her lungs as she turned the page of her book, the hero screaming as he watched a dear friend murdered in front of him. The words she read described fear, anger, sorrow, pain, and even hate. The man swore revenge, and she tilted her head a little, pausing to reread the scene. So many emotions from that single event.
A car passed them outside, the boy accidently pushed his little sister down, making her cry. The two women rushed to her to comfort her and scold him, the TV upstairs sounded the alarm of a police car.
And all the while, underneath the chaos, sounded the soft, organized, tick, tick, tick.
Everything, she was aware of every noise, every creek, every work spoken. The movie upstairs ended, and her father got up and opened the window. He was likely going to bed, so he could get up bright and early for work. Their neighbor took the children and left for her own house, and her mother drew close. The girl felt the older woman's eyes on the back of her head, though she did nothing. She waited, knowing that it was expected for her not to notice. Finally, after about fifty ticks, she put a hand on her shoulder, and only then did she respond.
"Oh, hi mom." she said as she looked up from the book, as if she had no idea that she'd been watched for almost a full minute, "Is it time for bed?"
"Yes honey. I'm going upstairs, so you can turn everything off down here, okay?"
"Yes, mom." she closed her book, not bothering to use her bookmark. There was no need. She knew the page number, the paragraph, the sentence she'd left off on. It was easy enough to find later, when it was time to read again.
She began to pick up the toys and put them away, in the box in the corner of the room. They didn't belong to anyone in the house, rather, they belonged to the two siblings that spent most of their waking time there. As she moved, she heard her mothers footsteps, the click of the closing door, the shifting of the floorboards. She turned the light off, waited patently for her eyes to adjust, and started down the hall.
She passed the stare case and entered the small, plain, neat bedroom. She undressed, and put her nightgown on. As she pulled the thin, off white material over her head...she saw something dart past her open window. That was odd. Her window faced the backyard, so even were it day there shouldn't be anyone out there. She pulled open the window and stuck her head out, the fact that she'd already been in the dark for several minutes made it much easier to see everything. Unkempt, invaded by weeds, but nothing out of the ordinary caught her eye. No strange movement or sound, nothing.
And then she heard the boards shift above her. Only then did she think to look up, at the tree that grew close to the house. If someone wanted to, they could have easily climbed up it into her parents room. No sooner had she thought that she heard a high pinched scream. Her mother. It started out sheer and fearful, before deepening in pain and ending in a gurgle. There was a dull thud, and then silence once more. Curiosity sparked in her mind, had someone broken in? Had an animal? Whatever it was had silenced the woman pretty quickly.
She left her room and started up the stares, well aware most people would be fearful by then. Normal people would call the police, panic, perhaps run out of the house. This course of action was far from normal, and quite possibly dangerous. Quite possibly deadly.
When she reached the top of the stare case, she opened the door without bothering to knock. Unsatisfied with the shadows in the room, she flicked on the light, willingly giving up her night vision.
Her father lay on the floor, still twitching, just barely alive, deep crimson blood coating his body, pooling on the floor. His throat had been cut open, the wound open and raw and deep. Her mother lay on the bed, her eyes wide and open, her stomach torn. The young woman drew closer to her, enough to see that several organs had been removed and lay next to her on the covers. She'd never seen anything like this, it was...fascinating. So this is what a person looked like from the inside. She glanced back at her father, his movement ceasing completely. He too was dead.
She leaned over the corpse of her mother, her hand reaching forward to lightly run over the edges of the gaping hole. Whoever did this was skilled, to do this much damage in such a short amount of time. It couldn't have been an animal, she decided. After a moment, she picked up one of the organs, distantly wondering what it was.
"Having fun?" asked a raspy voice behind her, causing her to drop the hunk of meat, turn and fold her hands neatly behind her back. They were dirty now, coated in red, and most people didn't want others to see them in any state that was less than their best, right? The man that stood there, looking at her, he was...well, horrifying would be a good description for it.
His skin was white, pure white, like freshly fallen snow. His cheeks had been cut open at some point, leaving behind scars that formed a twisted smile that would never go away. Darkness circled his eyes, bloodshot and dry, the orbs suffering from the absence of lids to keep them moist. They seemed infected, and she wondered just how well he could see at this point. Had the light she turned on caused him pain?
"Not fun, no." she answered, "I think the correct term would be...morbidly curious? I never knew the human body looked like this from the inside. Mother and father were always into action and sports, never had an interest in health shows. Ah, where are my manors? You're a guest here. Do you want anything to drink?"
His head tilted a little, and she let her gaze travel downwards, observing him. He wore a white hoodie, stained with blood. Well, since he didn't seem to mind much, she brought her hands back from behind her and folded them over her chest. In his right hand he held a knife, glistening in crimson. He spoke, and she refocused on his unblinking eyes, "No screaming? Fighting? You aren't even going to run?"
"Run?" she echoed, almost asking why, then remembering that this man was a murderer and was likely to come after her next, "I suppose I should. You defiantly aren't safe to be around. How would you kill me? Slice my throat? Disembodiment? I read a story once where a character had his heart ripped out and stuffed down his throat. Though, you'd have to be fast, to be able to finish before I die."
He laughed, the sound ragged, rough, and frightening too, she would think. "What?" she asked, confused.
"You're fucking screwing with me. Are you seriously giving me ideas on how to kill you?" he finally asked, slightly breathless.
"Fuck is an impolite word." she said automatically, and then understanding flared to life, "Ah...I see. You don't know. Of course you don't know. I'm sorry, how rude. Forgive me?" she pulled her mouth back, smiling. Another strange thing people did. Showing teeth, in most animals, was a sign of aggression. So why was it seen as a friendly gesture in humans?
This seemed to annoy him more than anything, "I don't know what?" he stepped forward, his knife raising a little. A threat to make her answer faster? Or simply an anger issue he could not control?
"When I was little I never cried." she explained quickly, "I never laughed, and only screamed once, when I broke my arm falling down the stares. Mother and father were used to it, I was always quiet as a baby. But after a few years, and still no...no anything of what a little girl should be, they took me to the hospital. Doctors did a scan of my brain, and something was wrong. The part that gives people emotion was never fully developed, so...I don't react to stimuli the way most people would. In fact..." she paused for a moment, thinking, then continued, "I should be afraid of you. I should be angry, and saddened about this. But I'm not, nor will I ever be."
She sighed, a hand going up to move some hair from her face, "I can only imagine the...ah, the disappointment they felt. Their only daughter can't even love them back. But it doesn't matter anymore, does it?" she smiled again, "So, my name's Abigail. Most call me Abby. What's your name?"
He just stared at her, silent for a long minute. She waited, patent, and gave herself a personal challenge to pass the time. Look into his eyes and see who breaks contact first. He couldn't close them, so he had the obvious advantage. Water started to gather, trying to ward away the dryness, before he answered.
"You can't feel anything?" again he stepped closer, something flashing in his gaze, "Hate? Fear? Doubt? Regret? Nothing?" his words grew harsher, almost growling the last one.
"Nothing." she said simply, "This upsets you. Why? Why do you kill? How does it make you feel?" she asked, taking a step toward him herself, truly interested. He was an interesting one, the first murderer she'd ever met. Likely the last.
"I'm not upset," he said, placing the knife at her throat, putting enough pressure on it to cause a little pain, "I'm just waiting for your little mask to slip."
"You don't believe me? How do you explain my lack of the fight or flight response?"
"Maybe you're just stupid."
"Maybe I'm telling the truth."
"Maybe-" he grew silent, and she listened quietly, trying to catch whatever it was he'd heard. Police sirens, far in the distance. Someone heard the scream, she guessed. He chuckled darkly, "Since you seem to like organs so much," he said slyly, "Why don't you let me show you something interesting?"